by David Nobbs
‘You came!’ he said. ‘Get yourselves a … oh you have.’
‘Hello, Our Dad,’ said Elvis with rather forced brightness. ‘Hello, Our Mum. Hello … er …’ He looked at Sandra in amazement, as if realising for the first time what their relationship now was. ‘Mum?’
He laughed, uneasily. Sandra laughed nervously and tried to look at him maternally. There was some rather forced laughter all round.
The new arrivals raised their glasses and said, ‘Cheers.’ The others responded. They drank in silence. The silence continued for too long.
‘When you came in,’ said Geoffrey, ‘Ted was bursting with eagerness to tell us about his and Sandra’s plans. Weren’t you, Ted?’
‘Well, yes. Yes, I …’
‘What’s all this, then, Dad?’
‘Yes, well … er … we’re opening a …’ Everyone in the enlarged circle was willing Ted to finish his sentence. ‘A … er … catering outlet.’
‘A restaurant, you mean?’ said Rita.
‘Yes. Yes. Well, in a … well, no. Not really.’
‘I thought you didn’t care what folk thought any more,’ said Sandra.
‘I won’t over there, love, but I know this crabby lot. They’ll laugh.’
‘“Over there”?’ said Betty.
‘Over where?’ said Rodney.
‘The A64,’ said Sandra.
‘The A64?’ said Jenny.
‘Go on, Ted,’ said Sandra. ‘Tell ’em. It’s your idea.’
‘It’s … er … it’s not exactly a restaurant exactly. It’s more … a mobile caravanette borrowed off Sandra’s brother Dean. We’re going to sell snacks from a lay-by on the A64.’
The whole circle stared at the former toasting fork tycoon in amazement.
Sandra began, with uncomplicated enthusiasm, to list the cornucopia of provender that they would offer. ‘We’ll sell teas, coffees, hot chocolate, Bovril, soup, soft drinks, fizzy and still, home-made cakes and scones …’
‘Sandra’s province,’ said Ted proudly.
‘Crisps, buns, sandwiches. What else?’
‘We’ll be happy.’
‘Oh yeah. That too. It’ll be called Ted’s Snax.’
‘Spelt with an X.’
It seemed that they were having to fight not to reveal that they saw something irresistibly comic in this business venture of Ted’s.
‘Well … tremendous,’ said Rita, stifling a laugh. She raised her glass. ‘To Ted’s Snax, spelt with an X.’
‘To Ted’s Snax, spelt with an X,’ they all said, raising their glasses.
‘You think it’s so funny, don’t you?’ said Ted. ‘Well, we’ll make a success of it, don’t you worry. The local farmer’s given us permission to put up two gi-normous great signs, fixed to a horse chestnut westwards and a beech tree eastwards, saying “Ted’s Snax. 800 yards. Don’t miss it!” And folk won’t. They’ll pour in. It’ll be a licence to print money. Rita, I’m surprised at you. Smirking. Liz, yes; she’s a snob.’
‘Ted! Not today!’ pleaded Sandra.
Sandra might as well have asked night not to fall as attempt to stop Ted in mid-grievance. ‘Rodney and Betty, yes, they’re probably half cut,’ he continued.
‘Ted!’ said Rodney and Betty.
‘Elvis, fair enough, cynical little sod. All the youngsters, mock mock, ’cos it’s easier than thinking. But you, Rita! I never thought you’d go all high and mighty on me. And Geoffrey! Renouncing your double-barrel. Calling yourself Spragg. You don’t fool me.’
‘Ted!’ said his bride of almost two hours. ‘I thought you didn’t have a chip any more.’
‘More like a jacket potato.’
‘Thank you, Elvis. We can do without your helpful comments, thank you very much,’ said Rita tartly. She turned to Ted. ‘I’m sorry, Ted,’ she said. ‘It’s not funny. It’s nice. It’s just … you … Rotarian … ex-foundry owner … I just … sorry.’
‘I no longer hanker after worldly honours, Rita,’ said Ted with dignity. ‘Status. Prestige. Stuff ’em. If they offered me lifelong honorary presidency of the Crown and Walnut Angling Club, I’d tell them where they could stick it. I would. I just want to be happy … and have Sandra’s kids. Well, she have mine.’
‘Kids?’ Betty realised that her astonishment might be somewhat hurtful. ‘Sorry.’
All around the suddenly silent circle there was noise and laughter.
‘They’re stunned,’ said Ted.
‘Very touching, Ted,’ said Liz.
‘No. It is touching,’ said Rodney. His ruddy face grew strangely gentle. ‘We could never have them, you know. That’s why we love other people’s so much.’
Betty squeezed his hand consolingly. ‘Never mind. We’re not going to let an inadequate sperm count spoil a moment of our lives,’ said her eloquent squeeze.
‘Well if it’s what Sandra wants,’ said Jenny uncertainly, thinking of Sandra coping with teenagers when Ted was seventy.
‘It is,’ said Sandra.
‘If you’re sure …’ said Carol.
‘I’m not a women’s libber, I’m afraid,’ said Sandra. ‘I want to be dominated by a masterful older man.’
‘And I want to dominate a younger woman who wants to be dominated by a masterful older man.’
‘Ted!’ Rita sounded for a moment as if she was still his wife.
And there, in the Geoffrey Boycott. Room of the Angel Hotel, on her wedding day, resplendent in her ivory gown, the cake-loving Sandra Pickersgill made, with grave intensity and admirable brevity, the first political statement of her life.
‘What you women want, don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great,’ she said. ‘Women should have the right. But it shouldn’t be compulsory. There’s no cause, no cause in the whole world, more important than the freedom to choose what suits you – if it’s legal. That’s what I reckon, anyroad.’
Ted put his arm round his young wife, proudly.
‘Darling!’ said Lucinda Snellmarsh, of Peacock, Tester and Devine. She was simply but elegantly dressed in a blue and cream chiffon top and skirt, with a single row of pearls.
‘Darling! You’ve come!’ Simon was too overjoyed to hide his relief.
Eric hovered tactfully, pretending not to listen.
‘Well, of course I have, my darling.’ She kissed him briskly. ‘You didn’t doubt me, did you, my darling?’
‘ ’Course not, my darling.’
‘You weren’t worried I wouldn’t stand by you, were you, my darling?’
‘ ’Course I wasn’t, my darling.’
Eric moved smoothly forward. ‘Champagne, my darli … madam? Touch of the ’82?’
‘M’m. Please.’
‘There you go, madam. Tickety-boo.’ The dapper, ageless Eric Siddall departed, giving Simon a dirty look and no chance to take one of the other glasses on the tray.
‘You’re awfully late, though,’ said Simon.
‘I know. Some urgent business cropped up, and it involved you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. It’s incredibly exciting, but I can’t tell you in front of every … where is everybody?’
In his fog of anxiety, Simon hadn’t noticed that there were only fifteen guests, mainly somewhat bewildered relatives of Rita, still there.
‘Yes, where is everybody?’ he said.
It was elbow to elbow in the Geoffrey Boycott Room. Barriers were breaking down. Councillors were rubbing shoulders, sometimes literally, with Sandra’s friends and relations. The Sillitoes were joking with Sandra’s nan. The beer and the asti spumante were flowing freely, and everybody except Liz was having a wonderful time.
Eric Siddall, eager to find someone to serve, rushed up to Rita and Geoffrey and Liz the moment they returned, even though this meant that he would also have to serve the Sillitoes, who had returned with them.
‘Sir, madam, madam, madam, sir? Champagne?’ he said.
‘Ah. The real stuff,’ said Liz. ‘Thank you, Eric. Well, if you’ll excuse
me, I have to …’
‘Get away from us? Of course you do,’ said Rodney.
‘Rodney!’ said Betty.
Rita also walked away, abruptly. The Sillitoes exchanged raised eyebrows. Geoffrey wasn’t sure whether to follow her or leave her alone.
All the function rooms in the town held painful memories for Rita. In choosing the Angel for their reception, they’d been swayed by the fact that the sparkling Sir Leonard Hutton Room looked so different from the old ballroom, whose walls had bubbled with nicotine stains.
Yet now, with no Dale Monsal Quartet, a carpet covering the dance floor, and a shaft of golden October sunshine showing how much dust churns in the air we breathe, Rita was back in the smoky, noisy dentists’ dinner dance, where her father had dropped dead during the last waltz.
She didn’t believe in a life after death, yet she sometimes imagined her parents looking down, watching her. She looked up at the ceiling now, and imagined her father looking down, and craved his posthumous forgiveness, his approval of what she had become, his approval of Geoffrey, his approval of their decision to adopt that flat cap of a name, Spragg.
She realised that Geoffrey was speaking to her.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘What was that?’
‘I said, I feel incredibly close to you,’ said Geoffrey.
Liz became another in the long line of people who, that afternoon, said, ‘You came!’ to somebody who couldn’t have failed to be aware of the fact.
‘Surely you didn’t doubt your future daughter-in-law?’ said Lucinda, with a faint smugness that grated on Liz’s nerves.
‘No,’ said Liz. ‘No! Though why you should think him worth standing by under the circumstances amazes me.’
‘Ah, but the circumstances have changed, Mother,’ said Simon, oozing brightly onto the scene. His smugness was a Matterhorn compared to Lucinda’s Mendip. To Lucinda he said, ‘Just phoned him. Seeing him tomorrow, sweetyplum.’ He saw Elvis watching him, and called out, with frightful cheeriness, ‘Elvis! Pax!’
Elvis joined them reluctantly.
‘You what?’ he said.
‘Thanks, old chum,’ said Simon. Seeing Elvis’s puzzlement, he added, ‘For what you did.’
‘“Old chum”?’ said Elvis.
Simon turned to Lucinda. ‘It’s in the bag,’ he said.
‘Thought it would be!’ Lucinda’s smugness level rose from Mendip to Brecon Beacon.
‘Children, please,’ said Liz, almost screaming with irritation. ‘What’s in what bag?’
‘I’ve been offered a job by a very large, go-ahead firm,.’ purred Simon.
‘What?’ Elvis couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Why?’
‘They seem impressed by what I did at Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch.’
‘They admire his go-ahead qualities,’ said Lucinda.
‘You mean his dishonesty,’ said Elvis.
‘They call it my initiative,’ said Simon.
‘They would,’ said Elvis. ‘Who are this firm?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say yet.’
‘Well what sort of firm are they?’ asked Liz. ‘What do they make?’ She sounded as if she feared that it was something she wouldn’t be able to reveal to her friends, like refuse sacks or toilet rolls or condoms.
‘They don’t make anything,’ said Lucinda. ‘They own things.’
‘That figures,’ said Elvis, with the savagery of a young man whose cynicism has lain fallow too long.
‘So, Elvis,’ said Simon, who seemed to have become a born-again capitalist, unrecognisable as the almost likeable depressive that he had been half an hour ago, ‘thank you for making my career, not breaking it.’
‘Yes, thank you, Elvis,’ said Lucinda. She kissed him softly, demurely, on the cheek, and then peered at him through her thick but not unstylish glasses. ‘I’ve never really seen you properly before. You aren’t irredeemably horrendous, are you?’ She turned towards her future mother-in-law. ‘Isn’t it amazing? Simon thought I’d ditched him. And there I was, digging up a new career for him, supporting him morally and practically so that he’ll be able to support me in the manner to which I could rapidly become accustomed. Oh ye of little faith.’
Lucinda strode off. Simon hurried after her, then returned.
‘I’m only just beginning to realise what a strong personality Lucinda is,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it terrific?’
He beamed.
‘Terrific,’ said Liz drily.
Alone with Liz, Elvis had no idea what to say. She did.
‘Thank you. All obstacles to a beautiful friendship are now removed.’
‘But … I didn’t want to …’
‘You really don’t like him, do you?’
‘No, I suppose I don’t, but it isn’t that. Is he the sort of person that gets on in our society?’
‘You’ll have to answer that. You’re the investigative journalist. Come to dinner on Saturday. I’d like to celebrate Simon’s job. I’d like to thank you for making him available to take it.’
Elvis shuddered. ‘I don’t think I could face them so soon.’
‘Oh Simon and Lucinda won’t be there,’ said Liz airily. ‘No one else’ll be there.’
Elvis did an impression of a catatonic sardine.
‘We’ll dine alone. We may find no spark. We may become friends, even perhaps … don’t look so shocked.’
‘But you’re …’
‘So much older than you.’ Liz smiled sweetly. ‘Congratulations. You’ve inherited your father’s tact. Look at the age difference between Ted and Sandra.’
‘That’s different. He’s a man.’
‘Oh, Elvis! How provincial you are.’ Liz stood very close to him, gazing into his eyes. ‘You and I are unattached. We’re nothing to anyone. We’re free to … explore the possibilities at whatever pace we choose. What do you say?’
‘Oh heck.’
‘You know I was rather afraid you would.’
She kissed him on the lips. He stood rigid. His belief that it wasn’t his day so far as women were concerned was reinforced when, the moment Liz had gone, Carol bore down on him.
‘I meant everything I said earlier, Elvis,’ she said. ‘The answer’s still no. But I also meant it when I said I want to be friends with everybody. So I feel no bitterness.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘But there it is.’
Elvis hadn’t so much as twitched an eyelid, but Carol had been so intent on what she was saying that she hadn’t noticed anything unusual.
Betty noticed immediately.
‘What on earth’s wrong with you?’ she said.
‘What? Nothing. Just that … women keep kissing me. Lucinda. Liz. Carol. Masses of kisses, and all for the wrong reasons.’
‘Poor Elvis. You look as sad and clapped-out as an old teddy bear that doesn’t squeak any more. Aaaah!’
She kissed him, and moved on.
Eric approached with champagne, and noticed Elvis’s sour look.
‘Oh dear!’ he said. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, sir?’
‘If you kiss me, I’ll clock you one,’ said Elvis.
‘Well!’ said Eric Siddall, barman supreme. ‘Young people today! I don’t know!’
The Sir Leonard Hutton Room was filling up steadily, as people returned after drinking the health of Ted and Sandra. Now Ted and Sandra themselves arrived, accompanied by several of Sandra’s friends and relations, including her three burly brothers and her tiny, exuberant nan.
‘Oh Lord,’ said Liz, who was watching with Rita and the Sillitoes.
‘You were right,’ said Rita. ‘They’re not your sort of people. They’re friendly to everyone. You’re only friendly to “your sort of people”.’ She hurried over to them. ‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Welcome! It’s really good of you to come.’
‘Exaggeratedly effusive to show me up and make me angry,’ said Liz. ‘Well, I won’t rise to it.’
‘Very wise,’ said Betty. ‘Never give people the satisfaction of knowi
ng they’ve succeeded in annoying you, that’s what I always say.’
‘Do you really?’ said Liz. ‘How very boring of you.’
Liz slipped off to a far corner of the room, well out of range of the new arrivals. She was circulating thoroughly, but more because there were so many people to get away from than because there were so many to meet.
‘I’d like to hit that woman,’ said Betty.
‘Don’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that she’s succeeded in annoying you,’ said Rodney, slurring his words somewhat.
‘Are you drunk?’ said Betty.
‘Oh yes.’
‘Oh Rodney! But you don’t need to get drunk any more because you used to get drunk because you had a guilty conscience about your chickens and you don’t have a guilty conscience any more because you don’t have any chickens any more.’
‘Yes, I do. A guilty conscience, I mean, not chickens. I don’t have any chickens. I do have a guilty conscience. But I told you … at that thing with those roads. I’m a sham.’
‘Your love for me isn’t a sham.’
‘Oh no, no. That isn’t. But how do we know spinach doesn’t suffer?’
‘You what? Of course it doesn’t. It has no nervous central system.’
‘Nervous spinach. Neurotic leeks. Paranoid parsnips. Because, if they do, why bother not eating meat?’
‘Oh Rodney?’
Betty swayed slightly and clutched him for support.
‘Are you drunk?’ he asked.
‘As a rat. But that’s all right because I get drunk because I’m happy because of my larger than love of life and today I have been to …’ she counted carefully, ‘… four wedding receptions, but you get drunk because you’re sad and that makes me sad because I love you and because I love you I don’t want you to be sad …’ Betty was getting extremely sad, ‘… because when you’re sad you get all miserable, and that makes me miserable, and being miserable makes me sad.’ By this time, she was crying, and her voice was little more than a whisper.
‘Oh Betty!’ said Rodney.
They embraced, and shook together with gentle sobs.
‘Well, it’s goodbye, Rita.’