by David Nobbs
‘Rita!’
‘Don’t sound so shocked. I’m not a nun. My God, I must have led a dim sort of life. You all seem to think I’m about as emotional as a pumice stone. Be honest with me, Betty. Does a relationship between me and Neville strike you as totally impossible?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I’ve seen the most unlikely and unsuitable liaisons.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Oh, Rita!’ Betty Sillitoe reached out and touched Rita’s arm. ‘All this change! What’ll happen to our friendship?’
‘It’ll survive, if it means anything.’ Rita turned to look Betty straight in the eyes, and Betty flinched, as if Rita were a peashooter. ‘If it doesn’t, why should it survive? You two don’t need me. You have so much affection for each other.’
‘That’s true.’ Betty sighed. ‘Oh God. I feel sick with nerves for him. I just hope he doesn’t get drunk.’
‘He oughtn’t to,’ said Rita. ‘According to my calculations, it’s your turn.’
Betty gawped. ‘What on earth do you mean?’ she said.
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you suggesting Rodney and I take it in turns to get drunk?’
‘Well … it does tend to happen like that.’
‘I see!’ Betty stood up abruptly. ‘Well … we do learn about the value of our friendships.’
‘Betty! It’s one of the many things we love and adore about you.’
But Betty Sillitoe had swept off towards the bar. Rita watched her stop abruptly as she realized that she might look as if she were about to fulfil Rita’s prediction. She turned, gave Rita a defiant glare, and swept out towards the toilets, for want of anywhere better to go.
‘Comment on it and I’ll belt you one,’ said the cynical Elvis Simcock.
‘Comment on what?’ said Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch.
‘My name tag. Elvis Simcock. My shame revealed for all the world to see.’
‘Why are you wearing it?’
‘Because I’m a masochist.’
‘What?’
‘Because I have to, you twit. Philosophy graduate learns hard lesson about nature of freedom.’
‘I presume you know that I don’t like being called a twit,’ said Simon Rodenhurst.
‘Of course. That’s why I call you a twit, you twit.’
‘Do you know why I don’t like being called a twit?’
‘Because it offends your inflated ego.’
‘Utterly wrong! It’s because I know I’m a twit, you twit.’
‘What?’
‘Do you think I chose to be a twit?’
Elvis was appalled. ‘Simon! Please!’ he said. ‘This is terrible. We’ll end up as friends if you go on like this.’
Jenny and Paul entered nonchalantly. They approached Simon and Elvis nonchalantly. ‘Hello,’ they said nonchalantly.
‘What have you two been up to?’ said Elvis.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Have we, Jenny?’ said Paul nonchalantly.
‘No. Nothing,’ said Jenny nonchalantly. ‘Why?’
‘You look too nonchalant to be true,’ said Elvis.
‘I think some swift naughties have been going on,’ said Simon.
‘Oh belt up, you twit,’ said Paul.
On their way to the bar, Paul and Jenny met Rodney Sillitoe. He greeted them with a warmth that made them feel dreadfully guilty. Jenny blushed as he kissed her.
‘No need to blush,’ he said. ‘You’re forgiven for not helping me let my chickens out. I’m glad you didn’t.’ And Jenny blushed all the more. Rodney pushed on towards the bar. Jenny called after him, ‘You didn’t forget the two vegetarian meals, did you?’ and Ted, approaching to greet them now that Rodney had gone, stopped dead in his tracks.
‘Two?’ he said. ‘You’ve not turned vegetarian as well, Paul?’
‘Yes.’
‘I credited you with a mind of your own, but your mother was right.’ Ted closed his eyes, as if wishing to erase his mention of Paul’s mother.
‘I do have a mind of my own,’ said Paul. ‘It so happens that when I use my mind of my own I find that my mind of my own finds that most of what Jenny thinks with her mind of her own is right.’
‘Paul doesn’t have any false machismo hang-ups which force him to argue just to assert his independence,’ explained Jenny.
‘Oh good, I am glad,’ said Ted, and he stomped off sourly.
‘Did I ever tell you about my ex-brother-in-law from Falkirk, who was an income tax inspector and an amateur ventriloquist, and his first wife did these amazing dog impressions,’ said the dark, intense Alec Skiddaw, as he served Rodney his large drink.
‘You certainly did, Eric,’ said Rodney. ‘A fascinating tale.’
‘Alec! Well, the most amazing thing has happened.’
‘Has it really? How amazing! Excuse me. I have to pop out for a moment.’
‘It won’t take a minute,’ said Alec Skiddaw intensely as he gave Rodney his change. ‘He was in this motel with his second wife, who came from Nailsworth …’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Rodney. ‘I really do have to go. You see, in past years the girls have paraded after dinner in their swimsuits, then there’s been entertainment while they’ve changed into their sophisticated evening wear, and there’s still been the five finalists to interview after that, and the judging hasn’t ended till nearly midnight, and people have lost interest.’
In the face of this conversational onslaught, Alec Skiddaw darkly fingered what he suspected to be the beginnings of the first boil he’d had since he’d joined Grand Universal. He’d begun to think that the boost to his morale had transported him into a happier, boil-free existence.
‘Plus which,’ continued the big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens remorselessly, ‘last year’s comedian managed to offend the Irish, the Welsh, the Jews, the Mayor of Dumfries and our guest colleagues from the tandoori chicken industry, who walked out. So this year we’ve dispensed with the entertainment, which will be a big improvement, and they’re parading in their swimsuits before dinner and changing into their sophisticated evening wear during dinner. I’ve got to go and make sure they’ve grasped all that. They aren’t all Einsteins.’
‘I could have told you the whole story twice by now,’ said Alec Skiddaw.
Rodney Sillitoe moved off, taking his drink with him. He intended to keep himself nicely topped up until his duties were over.
Jenny had waited reasonably patiently through all this, and wasn’t too upset when Alec Skiddaw served the bluff Graham Wintergreen, of the golf club, next. But when he began to tell Graham Wintergreen the tale of his ex-brother-in-law, she snapped.
‘Excuse me,’ she called out. ‘Are we going to have to wait all night while you read “A Book At Bedtime”?’
‘I do apologize for being a human being, madam,’ said Alec Skiddaw.
‘I’m going to complain to the manager about your attitude,’ said Jenny.
‘Jenny!’ said Paul, trying to keep up with her as she made her way to the door. ‘You aren’t one of those trendy upper-middle-class socialists who treat real working people like dirt.’
‘Oh!’ said Jenny.
‘We laugh at people like that, Jenny! That trendy couple who went to that play about the evils of apartheid and were rude to the coloured girl in the box office. That left-wing playwright who had that play about the horrors of elitism on at the technical college, and it was so obscure that nobody could understand it except other left-wing playwrights.’
Jenny gasped, and ran from the room.
Paul hurried after her, and came face to face with Rodney Sillitoe.
‘Ah! Paul! The very man,’ said Rodney.
‘I can’t stop,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve got to talk to Jenny.’
‘You’ve got to talk to Carol Fordingbridge and all. She says it’s urgent.’
Rita watched Neville Badger stand up and walk away from Laurence. Her heart missed a beat. Her legs refu
sed to move. By the time she had got herself to her feet, she had already realized that Neville was on his way to greet Liz, who had just entered, nine months pregnant and still alluring.
She sat down again, and watched.
‘Hello, Liz, you look …!’ said Neville. Liz hoped that if he had finished the sentence he’d have said ‘beautiful’ and not ‘enormous’. Thank goodness the human eye couldn’t detect the thumping of hearts. ‘Come and meet my other guest.’
‘Other guest?’ She tried valiantly to hide her disappointment.
‘Laurence.’
Liz tried valiantly to hide her horror. The object of her hidden horror and disappointment approached across the vastness of the angular room, concealing … what?
‘Hello, Liz,’ he quipped.
‘Hello, Laurence,’ was her sparkling rejoinder.
The trio were an islet of silence, in a rippling river of talk.
‘Oh dear,’ said the immaculate Neville Badger. ‘I feel rather like the Secretary General of the United Nations.’
The long-haired Carol Fordingbridge stood in front of the mirror in room 205 in her bright golden swimsuit, and tried to see what the judges would see. They would certainly see her magnificent long hair, but was length of hair an important factor? Her breasts didn’t seem quite large enough, her waist quite slim enough, her hips quite rounded enough. Her calves were fractionally muscular. She told herself that she felt happy with her body, that men liked it, that she was incredibly lucky, that the contest was all nonsense anyway, that it really didn’t matter whether she won or not.
It was no use. It was the most important day of her life. Winning could change her life.
She tried several poses, hoping to make her breasts look larger.
Her sophisticated evening wear was lying on the mauve coverlet of the bed, with clean undies beside it.
She jumped when the knock on the door carne, even though she was expecting it.
‘Come in,’ she said. Too late, she thought of hiding the undies.
Paul carne in. He too was nervous. ‘What is this?’ he said. ‘Good God!’ he added, as he saw her swimsuit.
‘I’ve aimed to be stunning but tasteful. Do you like it?’
‘Oh. Yes.’ He looked round the impersonal, fawn-and-mauve bedroom. Anywhere rather than at her stomach. He examined the etching which hung above the bed. It showed the North Bridge in olden days. The Gadd was lined with half-timbered hostelries leaning tipsily towards each other, where now there stood the massive DIY Centre. Oh God, let her not be pregnant. He ventured a quick, nervous look at her stomach. It looked reassuringly flat. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. Perhaps she’d sent for him so that he could take her, there and then. She looked tense and tension sometimes made people very sexy. If she did want him to take her, would he be a) thrilled b) appalled c) both d) indifferent? ‘Very much. Lovely.’ He couldn’t. Not with Jenny outside. Not with Uncle Rodney knowing where he was. ‘Very much. As you say, stunning but tasteful.’ He felt relieved at discovering that he knew that he wouldn’t take her, and then he felt disappointed at discovering that he felt relieved. He felt a wave of desire. He felt that he would take her. The fear switched his desire off. ‘I like it a lot. I … er … what do you want, Carol?’
‘Sit down.’
Carol Fordingbridge sat in the armchair. Paul removed a sash which was lying on the upright chair by the writing desk. It read ‘Miss Cock-A-Doodle Chickens.’
‘Good God,’ he said, and sat down.
‘When you had your one-night stand with me, you never dreamt you were having the future winner of the in-house beauty contest and second favourite for Miss Frozen Chicken (UK), did you?’ she said.
‘Oh God,’ he said.
‘I’m 9–2 at Ladbrokes and 6–1 at William Hill’s.’
‘Carol? Why have you dragged me here?’
‘I saw you and Jenny opening that door. Why?’
His first reaction was of relief. She wasn’t pregnant. She didn’t want him to take her there and then. But the relief didn’t last long. He was in trouble.
‘We like fresh air,’ he said, flinching at the lameness of his reply.
‘Paul! I know Jenny. What are you two up to?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
He held his hands clasped together, for fear one of them would find its way onto one of Carol’s magnificent knees.
‘Do you want me to tell Jenny about us?’ she demanded. ‘“Hello, Jenny. Your heroic, caring, feminist husband had it off with me the night after his son was born.”’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Wouldn’t I? This is my big night.’
There was silence. Paul knew that he would have to be the one to break it. He let it go on a little longer, to preserve his dignity. He was surprised to find that he could be as calculating as that.
‘We’re letting in a group of protestors against exploitation of women … and chickens. They’re going to disrupt the judging.’
‘Get it called off or I’ll tell Jenny.’
‘You don’t need to tell her. Why don’t you just tell the authorities what’s going to happen? You needn’t tell them how you found out or about us being involved.’
‘I can’t. I’ve a good chance of winning.’
‘Well, that would improve it. You’d be a heroine.’
‘Exactly. So if they gave me the title then, it’d look as if that was why they were giving it, so they wouldn’t give it. So you get it called off or I’ll tell Jenny.’
‘But Carol! We have to do it. Exploiting female flesh is wrong, and fatally inhibits the establishment of female equality through all aspects of human endeavour. Can’t you see that? There’ll never be an equal number of women MPs and women judges while women agree to be assessed on beauty rather than brains.’
‘It isn’t just beauty. There’s personality and deportment. That’s the next best thing to brains.’
‘Personality and deportment! It’s an insult.’
He loved Jenny so much. He was full of indignation on her behalf. He hated his own sexuality, which had made him behave so out of character. There were two Pauls – sensitive man and selfish animal. He looked at Carol Fordingbridge’s flesh, so near to him, and was pleased to find that it no longer held any appeal for him: it was utterly theoretical in its attractions.
‘This beauty contest can open avenues for me that I never dreamt of,’ Carol was saying. ‘Miss Frozen Chicken (UK) 1981 went on to be Miss Kidderminster, Miss West Mercia and Miss European Processed Meat Products (Category Two). It’s my chance to escape from the “Take a letter, Miss Fordingbridge” syndrome, which is female exploitation.’
‘I can see that from your point of view,’ he said, ‘but from the point of view of women as a whole …’
‘From the point of view of women as a whole, why don’t you protest about my sister?’ She leapt up, towered over him, paced the little bedroom like a tigress. She was magnificent. He adored her. He had to fight the tiger in him. ‘She works on the supermarket check-out. Hour after hour taking dog food and baked beans and Hungarian courgettes and frozen bubble-and-squeak out of wire baskets and having to ring for Miss Priddle because there’s no price on them, and Miss Priddle acting as if it’s her fault. Hour after hour with hardly a word of human contact, till her head buzzes and aches and her brain dries up and she comes home pale and knackered, just because she doesn’t happen to be as attractive as me. That’s exploitation of women. This is fun.’
There were times when Paul wished he’d never developed a moral conscience at all. Moral issues were so complicated.
‘I agree maybe we should go down there as well,’ he said, feeling like a candidate who is failing to convince on the doorstep at the end of a very long day, ‘but that doesn’t make this right.’
There was a knock on the door. ‘Two minutes, Miss Fordingbridge.’
‘Right.’
‘How can I call it off, anyway?’ he said, with a last flicker of doomed def
iance. ‘What’ll I tell Jenny?’
‘That’s your problem.’
‘Oh heck.’
When Jenny returned to the Royalty Suite, her first thought was to apologize to Alec Skiddaw. The piped music still tinkled, and there was a harsh, grating, unlovely sound as a group of middle-aged men laughed at a dirty joke told by Mr Gilbert Pilgrim, the manager, who had been invited as a guest at this, the first major function in his hotel. Despite his efforts to be one of the lads, Mr Gilbert Pilgrim remained a man whom one could never think of as mere Gilbert Pilgrim, without the ‘Mr’. He was short and darkhaired, with a bulbous nose.
Alec Skiddaw was talking to the classless Nigel Thick, who was recording the evening for posterity. Nigel Thick was saying ‘terrific’ and ‘amazing’ at suspiciously regular intervals.
Jenny waited patiently. At last Alec Skiddaw saw her and broke off. ‘Yes, madam?’ he said, so coldly that she almost didn’t apologize after all.
‘I want to apologize for my behaviour just now,’ she said. ‘It was inexcusable.’
‘Thank you very much indeed, madam,’ said the dark, intense Alec Skiddaw, looking somewhat embarrassed.
Jenny moved on, her good deed done. She approached Rodney Sillitoe, who had just finished his rounds of the contestants.
‘Where’s Paul?’ she asked.
‘He was taken short,’ whispered Rodney. Inspired lies had never been his forte.
Neville Badger had left Laurence and Liz on their own, in the increasingly faint hope that this would force them to talk to each other. Indecision swept over Rita. Should she approach him? Would he approach her? He didn’t approach her. She must approach him. He seemed quite happy to be approached. She hoped he couldn’t see how flustered she was.