by David Nobbs
Harvey Wedgewood gave a good-natured grimace in recognition of Graham’s recommendation of the goulash. There was a gratifying amount of largely female laughter, suggesting that the women were looking at his velvet, grey-haired elegance, rather than at old pot-bellied baldy Wintergreen ha ha! Be careful not to look complacent, Harvey, modest acknowledgement of the laughter, almost hear the purr of matronly sexuality, good God, what’s this, old Baldy looks as if he’s about to break bad news or wind or both.
‘There is also …’ said Graham Wintergreen, as if announcing the death of someone whom nobody had liked. ‘There is also a vegetarian casserole, as I understand there are some vegetarians here tonight.’
Paul squeezed Jenny’s hand.
‘Now we are very honoured to have with us a very popular actor,’ said Graham Wintergreen. ‘He starred in the very first production at the Royal, and he certainly seemed more like a literary lion than a lamb being led to the slaughter.’ There was almost no laughter at this beautifully turned epigram, which combined praise of Harvey Wedgewood with a subtle reference to the history of the theatre’s site. Graham Wintergreen felt a spasm of hatred for Harvey Wedgewood, who got laughs just by raising his carefully manicured eyebrows. He had thought he liked the man, in gratitude for his being a boozy womanizer with a fondness for fivers in the back pocket, and not a homosexual vegetarian revolutionary Marxist intellectual. Now he wasn’t so sure. But he was careful to keep all this out of his voice. ‘I refer of course to Harvey Wedgewood. Harvey has come all the way from Princes Risborough to support our cause. So let’s have a big welcome for Harvey Wedgewood.’
There was a storm of applause. Some of the women applauded so generously that their husbands looked at them, so they stopped applauding rather more quickly than Harvey Wedgewood expected.
‘Good evening,’ he said, in a Christmas cake of a voice – rich, fruity, and soaked in brandy. ‘I must say my mouth waters at the thought of Brenda’s goulash.’ There was laughter, although Graham Wintergreen could see nothing amusing in the remark. ‘I am not the point of this Eisteddfod of culture.’ He looked briefly round the hundred and fifty people crowded all around him, and all the women except Liz and Rita thought the gesture was for them alone. ‘The fact that I’ve made seventy-seven films and been nominated for an Oscar three times is of no account tonight. What matters is you … and your theatre, which I had the honour of opening. I thought I was rather a good Hercule Poirot, incidentally. But enough of that. Go to it. Enjoy yourselves. I hope to meet each one of you in the course of the evening, especially all you lovely ladies. If you wish to purchase an autographed copy of With A Hey Nonny No, my slim little memoirs, please don’t feel shy. I shan’t be cross. Copies will be available at the table to the left of the exit. Thank you.’
There was applause, eighty per cent of which was from women. Graham Wintergreen applauded rather too fervently for fear that people would realize that he was jealous.
The moment the applause had died down, Rita and Liz came to life again.
‘“Entirely your fault”?’ said Rita, as if the speeches hadn’t happened. ‘How dare you insult me by suggesting I’d spend twenty-five years with a man so pathetic that he can’t be held responsible for his actions? But I suppose you could never admit to anything as common as being seduced.’
‘Let’s not argue in public, Rita,’ said Liz. ‘We’re supposed to be supporting the drama, not making it.’
‘All rather bad form, would you say?’
‘Well yes, I would.’
‘What will people think?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘I’ve worried about that all my life. Now I hardly seem to give a damn.’
Liz stared after the retreating Rita.
The moment Liz and Rita were separated, Paul and Jenny steamed in.
Paul tackled Rita.
‘Mum?’ he said. ‘Aren’t you and Dad going to talk to each other at all?’
‘I think that’s rather up to him, isn’t it?’ said Rita. ‘I’m not going to humiliate myself by making the first move.’
‘Oh. No. No. I wouldn’t expect you to. But I think he’s a little worried that if he approaches you, you’ll snub him.’
‘Of course I won’t.’
‘Can I tell him that officially?’
‘Yes. I don’t guarantee that the conversation will be entirely pleasant, but yes – it’s official – I won’t snub him.’
Paul had an uneasy feeling that his mother was making fun of him. Could such a thing be?
Jenny tackled Liz. Her task was much more quickly done.
‘Will you talk to Dad?’ she said.
‘Of course I will,’ said Liz.
Jenny led her over to Laurence, who was standing in the queue for the tote with a faint air of embarrassment.
‘Mum,’ said Jenny self-consciously. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Dad. Dad, this is Mum.’
Jenny moved off, well satisfied with the role that she had played.
‘Hello, Laurence,’ said Liz.
‘What a memory you have for names!’ said Laurence.
Betting for the first race was in full swing, and Paul didn’t get a chance to talk to his father.
Ted plumped for number three, because it was his lucky number. Rodney Sillitoe plumped for number five, because it was his unlucky number. The screen was set up on the side of the false chimney breast, facing the restaurant area. The projector was on one of the tables.
Harvey Wedgewood stood by the bar and tried to look loftily detached. The dapper, ageless Eric Siddall was drying glasses with studious intensity, ignoring all life beyond the bridge of his ship. Rita sat with Neville Badger. Liz was with Paul and Jenny. When they left their seats to watch the race. Liz stayed where she was, until she saw that Laurence, who had joined suave Doctor Spreckley and his nervous wife, was also staying where he was, so that as the crowd cheered and yelled with excitement, she and Laurence would be alone in amused detachment behind the chimney breast, and might even have to speak to each other. So she joined the throng, and pretended to be excited by these animals thundering half a mile over some tinder-dry American racecourse with hard-bitten dried-up little men on their backs wearing ludicrously complicated and clashing colours on their quartered caps and shirts.
As the race proceeded, Betty Sillitoe and Ted got quite excited. They both had a chance of winning. Rita jumped up and down, and Neville Badger gave her an astonished look. Harvey Wedgewood, the actor, had become Harvey Wedgewood, the punter. He was staring fixedly at the screen, and his knuckles were white. It was an exciting finish. The cheering rose to a crescendo. Rodney’s horse won, and he looked sheepish.
‘Well done, love,’ said Betty.
‘Excuse me,’ said Ted, and he set off abruptly across the room.
Rodney gave Betty a meaningful stare. It was quicker than explaining, and he was anxious to pursue Ted. Unfortunately the meaning of his meaningful stare escaped her, and he had to stay to explain.
‘I’m trying not to win,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to rub it in with Ted. So don’t say “Well done”.’
Ted was already halfway across the room. Rodney caught up with him as he struggled through the queue of successful punters, who were already waiting at the tote, even though they were all disclaiming that they had any interest in winning.
‘Ted! Don’t go!’ said Rodney.
‘I must, Rodney.’
‘Ted! People aren’t gloating. They’re thinking, “there but for the grace of God.” I know I am.’
‘I’m only going to the gents,’ said Ted.
‘Ah. That’s a relief.’
‘It will be, if you’ll let me go.’
‘I’d like a word with you, in private.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll be in the locker room.’
‘Oh. Right,’ said Ted, puzzled.
‘One fruit of the grape, on the dry side, you’re a person of taste, madam, an excellent choice, c
an do, no delays anticipated, here we go.’
‘And one for yourself, Alec.’
‘Eric. Oh thank you very much, madam. Much appreciated. I’ll have twenty penn’orth with you. Why not? Just the ticket. They can’t touch you for it.’
‘Eric? If you … er … if you think Rodney’s had a bit too much … let’s face it, it has been known, bless him … will you give me a signal?’
For once Eric Siddall, barman supreme, was almost lost for words.
‘It’s … er … it’s a bit awkward, Mrs Sillitoe,’ he said eventually.
‘Nonsense. Just … oh … raise your right arm with a glass in it.’
‘Oh dear. No can do, I’m afraid. It’ll have to be the left arm.’
‘Why?’
‘Er … I’ve put me shoulder out.’
‘Hello, Elvis,’ said Simon Rodenhurst of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, as the cynical Elvis Simcock strolled casually to the back of the pay-out queue, as if collecting his winnings was seventy-fifth on his list of priorities and he was only actually collecting them at all for administrative convenience. ‘How’s our great philosopher enjoying life among the frozen poultry?’
‘If you weren’t my brother’s wife’s brother I’d make my highly desirable manual extremity extremely convenient for your spacious breathing and blowing organ.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’d punch you on the nose. I was using estate agent-ese.’
They shuffled slowly forward beside the chimney breast, past a print of an Edwardian golfer bending to pick up his ball on a shingle beach and getting a view right up the blowing voluminous skirts of two buxom matrons. The caption read, ‘Out of bounds!’
Simon Rodenhurst looked pained. ‘This is a false image of our profession, Elvis,’ he said.
‘Oh yes? We’ve got to move from our flat. I went to look at that place in Power Station one yesterday. You said, “Plenty of scope for improvement.” You meant, “It’s falling down.” You said, “Totally secluded garden.” You meant, “The cooling towers block off the sun completely.” Lies, Simon.’
‘Not lies, Elvis. Sensible rearrangement of the truth.’
‘I’m not thrilled that the only job I can get is with Rodney’s battery chickens,’ said Elvis Simcock, ‘but I work hard and accept that there are people all over the world far worse off than me, and if you continue to make fun of me, you supercilious, snobbish, dark-suited, light-minded, overprivileged, undereducated, overpaid underling, I’ll make a sensible rearrangement of your face.’
Paul gave them a cheery wave as he passed by on his way back from checking on Thomas, who was asleep. ‘Building the family friendship? Great,’ he said. He moved on, barely noticing the sickly looks they gave him. He was wearing a much sicklier look, which was surprising, in view of the fact that an attractive, long-haired, full-breasted young lady with a creamy complexion was approaching him with a broad smile.
‘Paul!’ said Carol Fordingbridge.
‘Oh heck!’ said Paul, turning the colour of putty. ‘We can’t talk here, Carol. Meet me in the men’s locker room in a couple of minutes.’
Faint echoes of a thousand battles between sweat and deodorant eddied feebly around the cold, dank locker room. Beneath the rows of pegs there were long benches, and at the far end, through a wide arch, was the shower room. Rodney Sillitoe wondered if open champions entered places like this immediately after they had been cheered in the crowded amphitheatre of the eighteenth green.
‘What’s all this about?’ said Ted.
‘I’d like to give you my winnings. If you’re a bit short. So you’ve something to bet on. I didn’t want folk to see.’
He held out thirty pounds. Ted’s face went red. ‘I don’t want charity,’ he said. ‘I’m a Yorkshireman.’
‘It isn’t charity, Ted. It’s lifelong friendship. Look, it’s no use pretending you haven’t gone bankrupt.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Ted. ‘I’ve gone into voluntary liquidation. It isn’t bankruptcy, isn’t voluntary liquidation. I mean … it isn’t. I’m moving sideways into design.’
‘Design? What of?’
‘Fire irons. Toasting forks. Door knockers. The things I know.’
‘All right, but …’
‘I should have gone into voluntary liquidation long ago, instead of waiting till I was forced to,’ said Ted, sinking onto a bench.
‘You’ve got cash problems as of now, though, haven’t you?’ said Rodney, sitting beside him. ‘In that you’re skint. And I know you’d help me if I ever went ba … into voluntary liquidation.’
‘Of course. But you haven’t, have you?’
‘Do you resent my success, such as it is?’ said Rodney. ‘It’s a poor sort of friendship if you do.’
‘No! ‘Course I don’t! What do you mean, “such as it is”?’
Rodney’s hand moved towards Ted’s shoulder, then seemed to think better of the physical contact, hovered there for a moment, and drew away. Ted didn’t appear to have noticed. It was very quiet in the locker room. If a drip had fallen from one of the showers, they would have jumped.
‘I’m on the horns of the same knife edge as you were, Ted. And I can’t move sideways into design. “Hello, Mr Ponsonby. I’ve come up with a rather novel three-legged chicken that I think might be a winner.” It’s not on.’
‘You’re taking on staff. You took on our Elvis.’
‘And you weren’t too pleased either.’
‘Well … I mean … it rubbed it in a bit that I couldn’t. I mean … didn’t it? My boys have asked me for jobs several times. I couldn’t take them on, knowing how things were. It wouldn’t have been fair to keep them from other jobs, would it?’
‘Well, there you are. So you should be glad Elvis has got a job. Which I didn’t give him to rub anything in. I gave it out of family friendship.’
‘Are you saying you’ll soon be going … into voluntary liquidation?’
Ted picked up a sock, covered in dust, then dropped it hurriedly when he realized what it was.
‘I’m not saying I will,’ said Rodney. ‘I’m saying I could.’
‘Bit irresponsible to take our Elvis on then, wasn’t it?’
‘I have to take staff on to create the confidence to avert the crisis that might cause me to have to sack them if I hadn’t taken them on.’
‘How could you sack them if you hadn’t taken them on?’
‘Look, let’s not argue,’ said Rodney. ‘I mean, I’m being friendly.’
‘I can’t take your money if things are that bad.’
‘a) it isn’t my money. It’s only my winnings. b) You said you’d help me if I ever got into trouble. So, I’m just paying you back for your kindness. Tit for tat. Only I’m doing it in advance. Sort of …’
‘… tat for tit.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well … all right,’ said Ted grudgingly. He realized how ungracious he sounded, and added, ‘Thanks,’ much more warmly.
Just as Rodney was handing Ted the money, Carol Fording-bridge entered. She had nice legs and a good figure, but it was her magnificent long hair that men noticed first. Ted and Rodney sprang apart instinctively, and Ted stuffed the money untidily into his back pocket. Grown men don’t like to be witnessed either offering or receiving charity. But by the time they were standing several feet away from each other, they both realized that this must look infinitely worse. Ted must look like a council official, accepting a bribe for overlooking planning regulations, or a petty crook accepting his share of the sale of a stolen video recorder, or a homosexual prostitute receiving his payment for giving Rodney a happy half hour in the shower room. So they hurried back towards each other, and smiled horrible, falsely innocent smiles, which made them look guilty of all these things, and more besides.
Carol Fordingbridge stared at these two middle-aged men as they lurched back and forth across the locker room.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Am I interrupting something?’
&n
bsp; ‘No. Nothing. Absolutely nothing,’ said Rodney Sillitoe. ‘We were just … er …’
‘… leaving,’ said Ted. ‘We were just leaving.’
‘That’s right,’ said Rodney. ‘We were just leaving.’
‘I’m just … you know … waiting for somebody,’ said Carol Fordingbridge. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she added, as Paul entered.
‘Paul!’ said Ted.
‘Ah, there you are, Dad,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I’ve spoken to Mum, and she’s authorized me to guarantee that she won’t snub you.’
This was a rare piece of quick thinking on Paul’s part. It deserved a better fate than to make his meeting with Carol seem even more clandestine than it was.
‘Thanks,’ said Liz, as Neville Badger handed her her drink at the crowded bar. ‘So you at least are still prepared to talk to me.’
‘My dear Liz!’ said Neville.
‘I’m not wildly popular just now. The same people who were furious with me for going to live with Ted are even more furious with me for leaving him.’
Neville shook his head slowly several times in sorrowful amazement at the pettiness of humankind.
‘My dear Liz!’ he repeated. ‘It’s always a joy to talk to you. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must take Rita her drink.’
‘You seem to be being very attentive to her.’ Liz tried to sound casual.
‘I’ve had her on my conscience.’
‘What?’
‘It’s awfully embarrassing. She keeps trying to cheer me up. Tells me I’ll get over it. Time is a great healer. All that rot. She doesn’t seem to realize that I don’t want to get over it. I want to hang onto my grief, Liz. It’s all of Jane I have left. I’ve been inexcusably rude to Rita several times. Jane was very upset.’