by David Nobbs
Liz felt it safer to make no reply. She rattled the door frantically, but it was locked.
‘Don’t agree with me what?’ said Betty.
‘I think Liz genuinely loves him.’
‘Rodney!’
‘No. Please. It’s got to be said. I do. I don’t think she’s calculated the whole caboosh down to the last thingummy.’
Monsieur Albert hurried into the restaurant, wreathed in Gallic charm. Liz asked him if he could order a taxi. He understood that this was not a theoretical question about his competence, but a concrete request. He intimated that he would comply with it, and asked why they didn’t wait for it in the restaurant. Neville answered with a discreet movement of his head towards the Sillitoes, and Monsieur Albert drove a tank through his discretion by saying, ‘Ah! Of course, sir!’ The Sillitoes gave each other meaningful looks, Monsieur Albert executed a few swift, flamboyant, continental gestures, and what had been locked was open.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Betty to Liz, as she lurched through the door.
‘Well, you shouldn’t have said it,’ said Rodney. ‘But then you’re drunk.’
‘I know,’ said Betty. ‘So am I.’
They snaked across Moor Street, which was one-way westwards, and stood in the sunshine, waiting for the taxi. The sunshine was painfully bright after the gloom of the north-facing restaurant. The Sillitoes blinked like owls caught in a car’s headlights. Wayne Oldroyd, Nigel Thick’s pasty-faced replacement at Marwoods, watched them with amusement. He would never change his name or become famous. A badly maintained bright yellow corporation bus howled smokily up the gentle hill that led from the Flannerly Roundabout and the placid autumnal Gadd towards the abbey church. The owner of the Chinese takeaway took himself away to the betting shop, and a young despatch rider overtook the bus, thus taking the lead, in the seething excitement of his mind, in the Isle of Man TT. Neville Badger shook his head slowly, as if amazed that life outside Chez Albert was continuing at all.
At last the taxi came. Neville and Liz breathed a sigh of relief as it sped the big wheel and his overdressed wife off towards Cock-A-Doodle Chickens.
‘She was drunk,’ said Neville.
Liz felt that it would have been better if he’d said nothing.
The party broke up, stretched their legs, formed little groups. Andrew Denton took the opportunity to approach Simon Rodenhurst. ‘Excuse me?’ he said.
‘Why, what have you done?’ asked Simon, who was slightly drunk. ‘Joke.’
‘Are you the Mr Rodenhurst of whom my wife speaks so warmly?’ said Andrew Denton.
Simon suddenly felt slightly sober. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.
‘Are you Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Simon cautiously.
‘You showed my wife Judy round a house in Swaledale Crescent the other week. She said you were most obliging.’
‘Well, I … tried.’
‘And succeeded, from the sound of it! Though I’m afraid the time you spent with her was utterly wasted.’
‘Not at all, I do assure you. I mean … it happens in business. You’ve found somewhere else, have you?’
‘We’ve decided to stay in Otley. We like the schools, you see.’
‘Ah!’
‘That’s why she can’t be here today. She’s having a bad day. After many years of trying, we’re expecting a happy event.’
‘Oh! Well … congratulations.’
‘Thank you. It’s a great relief for me, as the doctors suspected I might be sterile.’
‘Well … what do doctors know?’ Simon sat down abruptly.
‘Absolutely. You’re right there. Are you feeling all right?’
‘Fine,’ said Simon. ‘Yes, I … I just feel a little sick.’
‘You’ll make a fortune if you’re pregnant,’ said Andrew Denton. ‘Joke.’
Andrew Denton moved off. Slowly, Simon dared to hope that his comments had been innocent, and he didn’t suspect.
Elvis Simcock approached. He looked concerned.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘I wish I’d never met you,’ said Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch.
The Geordie Monsieur Albert asked Ted to enter his little office. It was covered in bills and paper. It had a roll-top desk and a table with a green leather top. On the wall there was a calendar from Frodshams the Friendly Frozen Food Folk. It had a picture of a nude young lady. On the desk there was a calendar from the Gadd Valley Garage. It had a picture of the Gadd Valley Garage.
‘I’ve been watching you, Ted,’ said Monsieur Albert. ‘You’ve coped well under great personal pressure. Just as, when we’re busy, you’ve coped well under great professional pressure. Are you happy in your work?’
‘Well, I can’t exactly say being a head waiter was my burning ambition. Especially when I’ve only got one waitress under me.’
Ted thought about Sandra under him. Increasingly, as he grew older, his moments of greatest sexual feeling were ill timed. He felt a sharp spasm of desire for her. He longed to take a walk through the black forest of his beloved gâteau. Oh God! No more cake imagery, please! Oh God, he’d missed what Monsieur Albert was saying.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I missed that.’
‘I said, you have an impressive capacity for shutting out personal considerations and concentrating on your work,’ said the Geordie Monsieur Albert.
‘Ah.’
‘How would you like to go into partnership?’
Ted gawped.
‘I need a partner,’ said Monsieur Albert. ‘I want to expand. I’ve already found a site for Chez Edouard.’
‘Chez Edouard! I’m not a restauranteur, Monsieur Albert. I don’t want to open a restaurant called Chez Edouard. I want to be a freelance designer of toasting forks, fire irons and assorted useful household objects of similar ilk.’
‘Going well, is it?’
Ted didn’t reply. Monsieur Albert smiled and offered him a large cigar. He took it. Monsieur Albert lit it with a flourish. Ted coughed.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, between splutters.
‘I’m adequately funded.’
Ted had often wondered how Monsieur Albert had got his capital. He couldn’t miss this cue. ‘How did you manage to become “adequately funded”?’ he asked.
‘Simple. With tips. Tips from generous customers. Tips from financiers about where to invest those tips.’ Ted gawped. He couldn’t believe you could build a fortune out of tips. ‘I worked for eleven years in a fashionable Italian restaurant in London,’ explained Monsieur Albert. ‘Full of famous people. Terry Wogan. Des O’Connor. Dame Peggy Ashcroft. Ian Botham. Professor A. J. Ayer. General Dayan. Michael Heseltine. Frank Carson. Joan Sutherland. Good tippers. It’s surprising how much you can make if you aren’t strictly honest about sharing out. Why this imitation of a mentally retarded newt?’
‘Those photos in the Angel …’ Ted began.
‘The owner died. The restaurant was closed. Nobody seemed to want them. I got a very good price from the Angel.’
Cigar smoke eddied around the little office. Ted coughed. Monsieur Albert also coughed, but his was a social cough, a prelude to the broaching of a delicate subject.
‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘Sandra.’
‘Sandra?’
‘Sandra. Are you … er …?’
‘That’s my business, isn’t it?’
‘Not if you join my business.’
‘Ah!’
‘Precisely. So … I repeat … are you … er …?’
‘Yes. We are … er …’
‘One thing we will be, Ted, is classy. We may not be good, that isn’t important, people are pig-ignorant about food, but we will be classy. Therefore, I’m afraid, if you’re my partner, no Sandra.’
Ted felt angry and insulted. He disliked Monsieur Albert intensely, both in his Geordie and his Gallic guise. He felt angry for Sandra, too
. Damn it, she was human. Flesh and blood. A little too much flesh but, if she could be weaned off the cake, who knew? But he also felt cautious enough not to show that he was feeling angry and insulted. And he felt ashamed of himself for feeling cautious. And he felt that he was feeling too much. It was getting stifling in the little office. He was sweating. He found himself looking at the nude girl in the Frodshams the Friendly Frozen Food Folk calendar. Cigar smoke wisped around her pubic hair. He turned hurriedly to the Gadd Valley Garage.
Monsieur Albert was smiling. ‘Think about it,’ he said.
It didn’t take Rita long, after the happy couple had returned, to negotiate a little private chat with Liz.
‘I’m sorry for what I said,’ she said. ‘I bear no grudge any more.’
‘Thank you, Rita,’ said Liz. ‘I hope you and Gerry’ll be very happy.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘You’re wondering if I mean that.’
They were standing beside the remains of the meal. Sandra Pickersgill was clearing away. Twice, Rita threw her thoughtful glances. Sandra felt that Rita knew.
‘These things are hard to tell,’ said Rita. ‘I think I choose to believe that you mean it.’
‘Oh good,’ said Liz. ‘You don’t think I’m a total bitch, then?’
‘That’s a very strong word, Liz. Total.’
Liz gave Rita a long, cool look, then laughed.
‘Your friend Betty thinks I’ve planned it all,’ she said.
‘What do you think?’ said Rita.
‘I think … you’re absolutely right, I don’t think I really know … can one know about oneself, do you think, let alone about other people? … I think maybe I did plan it without really knowing. I do think I love Neville, though. People think we should have waited longer, but our hearts couldn’t wait. Nothing could bring Laurence back, and I find that I don’t believe he’s there, watching, anywhere. So, why pretend? I feel we’re getting too old for pretence.’
‘I feel that too.’
‘And the sooner we got married, we felt, the better for little Joscelyn. The young are more important than the dead.’
‘How is he?’
‘Blooming. Neville’s as proud of him as if he was his own.’
‘He … er … he doesn’t … er …?’
‘Oh, come on, Rita. No more pretence. No more evasion. Say what I know you’re thinking.’
Simon was approaching, desperate to latch onto somebody’s conversation and avoid the risk of another confrontation with Andrew Denton.
‘He doesn’t look like Ted, does he?’ said Rita.
‘Oh dear,’ said Liz. ‘I’m very much afraid he does. A tiny, pink, dribbling, almost bald Ted.’
‘The mind boggles,’ said Rita.
Simon turned away, and had to sit down again. His mind was boggling, too. Supposing, one day, Arthur Denton noticed that his baby was a miniature, bald, dribbling version of the estate agent he had met at Liz and Neville’s wedding.
Elvis and Paul were bearing down on Rita. ‘My God!’ she said. ‘This looks like a deputation.’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Liz, and she moved off to see if Simon was all right.
‘Mum?’ said Elvis. ‘Can we have a word?’
‘You think I’m making a fool of myself with Gerry.’
‘Well … we’ve nothing against him as a person,’ conceded Elvis.
‘Which he is,’ said Rita. ‘As you’d know. Being a philosopher.’
‘He seems quite nice, as far as that goes,’ said Paul. ‘But … he’s so young, Mum. We’re thinking of you.’
‘Because we love you,’ said Elvis.
‘He is young,’ said their mother. ‘And I’m so old.’
‘No! Of course not,’ said Elvis. ‘You aren’t old. But … I mean … he is young … isn’t he?’
‘Oh yes. Terribly. He’s so young and Harvey’s so old.’
‘All we mean is, Mum,’ said Paul, ‘it’s all very well now, but will he still love you when you’re …’
‘… old and wrinkled?’
‘No!’
‘Oh dear,’ said Rita. ‘I wonder what reason you’d find to disapprove if I was marrying somebody of exactly my own age.’
‘Mum!’ said Paul.
‘Marrying???’ said Elvis.
‘You’ve talked me into it,’ said Rita. ‘I’m marrying Gerry. He doesn’t know yet.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she shouted.
Silence fell quite rapidly. Rita stood with her back to the table where they had eaten. The others gathered round. Simon still looked pale, and took care not to be too near Andrew Denton.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Rita. ‘I think we’d all like to thank Neville and Liz for inviting us to this very enjoyable wedding, and for giving us such a lovely do, we all like a bit of a do, and this was no exception, and I’m sure we’d all like to wish them every possible happiness.’
‘Hear hear,’ said Gerry Lansdown, and there was warm applause.
Monsieur Albert scurried in, sensing an approaching compliment. Ted and Sandra followed more slowly.
‘I think we ought to thank Monsieur Albert and his staff for the excellent meal and service,’ said Rita.
‘Hear hear,’ said Gerry, and there was warm applause.
Monsieur Albert beamed. Sandra tried to put her arm round Ted, and he fended it off angrily.
‘You sound as if you’re in the House of Commons already, Gerry,’ said Rita. ‘I wonder how I’ll enjoy being an MP’s wife.’
‘Rita!’ said Gerry.
‘Yes,’ said Rita. ‘As soon as my divorce comes through, ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to marry Gerry.’
There were murmurs of surprise and delight. Nobody looked more surprised, and also more delighted, than Gerry Lansdown. Paul and Elvis looked chagrined. Jenny seemed thrilled. Ted looked astounded, and definitely not delighted. Sandra gave him a look that was as dry as a rock cake, and he rapidly managed to look fairly delighted.
The little gathering broke up again, and congratulations were offered to the happy couple. Paul went through to the bar and examined the little stone town above the Dordogne, where the white-haired old man was still crossing the road.
He was damned if he’d approach Jenny again, and risk another snub. Ever. Oh God! What right had that old man to cross that road so happily? What right had the mellow, arcaded town to be so beautiful? What was the point of love, if it made you hate?
‘Paul?’
She had come to him. He almost stopped breathing. He turned slowly, trying to look calm and aloof, trying to hide his thumping heart.
‘I’m glad for your mother,’ she said.
‘Oh yes. So am I.’ Once he had promised never to lie. What had life done to him? What had he done to himself?
‘And Carol’s marrying Elvis. It’s all a bit overwhelming.’
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ His heart was racing. What could these overtures mean? ‘I’m glad.’ That at least wasn’t a lie. But that was the one she doubted.
‘Are you?’ she said.
‘Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be? Carol never meant anything to me.’
‘Ah!’
‘I mean, in that way. I mean, I like her as a person. As Elvis’s fiancée. But not in … you know … that way.’
‘Ah.’
The silence between them was probably quite brief. To Paul it seemed endless.
‘Quite a day all round,’ he said feebly, at last.
‘Yes.’
‘A brief escape from the world’s problems.’
More silent seconds slipped slowly by. They stood as motionless as the white-haired old man. Was Jenny waiting for him to say something, something which he might never be able to say, if he didn’t say it now. He hesitated, preparing his approach. It was important that he should be at his most seductive. His whole life might depend on it. ‘I mean,’ he began at last, ‘in the context of religious wars, terrorism, im
prisonment without trial, deeply divisive and unjust social and financial policies, famine, racial oppression, the destruction of the environment, the increasing gap between rich and poor, the imminence of the nuclear holocaust, and the ruthless, violent and totally unjustified suppression by both superpowers of the freedom of political choice in Afghanistan and Nicaragua …’ She was nodding her agreement. He felt that he’d done it. ‘… in the context of all that, one silly one-night fling doesn’t seem that important, does it?’ he said. ‘I mean, Amnesty International wouldn’t bother with it.’
‘Perhaps with the world like it is, it’s all the more important not to do these things,’ said Jenny.
He swallowed, hoped she couldn’t see his leaping Adam’s apple. ‘I’d never do anything like that again,’ he said.
‘Yes, but don’t you see?’ wailed Jenny angrily. ‘I’d never ever be sure ever again, would I?’
‘I’d make you sure. I’d never leave your side ever again. I’d be a perfect husband.’
The seconds dragged by. He longed to be able to see into her brain. Looking at a person, standing there, it was impossible to understand how things could go on, at all, in brains.
‘We may as well give it a try, then,’ she said.
The beribboned limousine stood waiting. Neville and Liz Badger emerged into the afternoon shade, followed by Rita, Gerry Lansdown, Simon, Paul, Jenny, Elvis, Carol Fordingbridge, Andrew Denton, Arthur Badger and Monsieur Albert.
Jenny kissed Liz and Neville. Paul kissed Liz. Rita kissed Liz and Neville. Simon kissed Liz. Liz and Neville got into the car. Paul kissed Jenny. Rita kissed Gerry.
‘No point in being left out,’ said Elvis gruffly, and he kissed Carol.
The car drove off, unencumbered by old tins. The guests and Monsieur Albert waved.
Arthur Badger turned to Monsieur Albert, and thanked him with a prolonged volley of almost immaculate French. ‘Merci, monsieur,’ said Monsieur Albert, trying to look as if he’d understood.
‘Goodbye,’ said Andrew Denton to Simon. ‘Don’t show my wife round any more houses.’