Fair Do’s. David Nobbs
life,’ said Betty. ‘Where your foundry used to be.’
‘Oh!’ said Ted. ‘No. No.’
‘Can we let bygones be bygones?’ said Rodney. ‘Will you work for me … us?’
‘But I don’t have a great big hole,’ said Ted. ‘Monsieur Albert’s installing me as manager of his sister restaurant to Chez Albert. It’s called …’ He had the grace to hesitate. ‘Chez Edouard.’
‘Oh Ted!’ said Betty.
‘So, what’s this business of yours?’ said Ted.
There was a fractional pause, as though neither Sillitoe wanted to be the first to speak.
‘We’re opening a health food complex,’ said Rodney.
‘With wholefood vegetarian restaurant,’ said Betty.
Ted laughed, an honest snort of a laugh.
‘Yes, well,’ said Betty, ‘isn’t it lucky you have Chez Edouard and don’t need to join our rib-tickling, side-splitting venture?’
Betty and Rodney swept onwards, on a tide of injured pride, through the increasingly animated gathering.
‘Here’s somebody who won’t find it funny, anyroad,’ said Rodney. ‘Hello, Jenny love.’
Jenny accepted Rodney’s semi-avuncular kiss without enthusiasm. ‘It’s great,’ she said. ‘I can kiss you without feeling hypocritical, now you’ve given up battery chicken farming.’
‘The perfect cue!’ exclaimed Betty.
‘Betty and I are opening a health food complex,’ said Rodney proudly.
‘With wholefood vegetarian restaurant,’ enthused Betty.
And Jenny laughed. She shook with laughter. The baby in her womb shook with her. Several llamas shook with her. Then she saw the Sillitoes’ hurt faces, and a guilty hand flew to her mouth.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. That’s terrific. Oh, well done!’
‘So, why the mirth?’ said Rodney.
‘Well, not because of the business,’ said Jenny. ‘Because … it’s you! Sorry.’
She laughed again. Rodney and Betty joined in, but not with much conviction.
Gerry Lansdown, standing with the Badgers, said grimly, ‘What a lot of laughter this gathering is causing.’
‘It’s nerves, Gerry,’ said Liz. ‘People are finding this difficult.’
‘Me too, funnily enough,’ said Gerry.
‘Marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Gerry,’ said Neville. His remark cut through the discussion like a rifle shot.
‘What?’ said Liz.
‘I was married for many years, Gerry. My wife died. Did I move quietly into the peaceful backwaters of bachelordom? No! Dived head first into the chill, choppy waters.’
‘Neville!’ Liz stormed off.
‘Oh Lord!’ said Neville. ‘Sorry, Gerry.’
Neville hurried off in pursuit of Liz, who had ceased storming a few yards away, in order to wait for him.
‘Liz!’ he said. ‘Don’t be a fool. I was only cheering him up.’
‘But how could you say such things?’
‘Because I didn’t mean them. I was just trying to get him to look on the bright side.’
‘You’re in danger of cheering up the whole world except me, Neville,’ said his bride of four months.
Outside in the ornamental pond, as the afternoon sagged, the carp swam round and round, unseen.
Inside, in the Garden Room of the Clissold Lodge Hotel, it seemed that social tension sharpened the appetite. A plague of locusts could not have made a more thorough job of the buffet. Just one lone langoustine languished on a vast plate. No one would have the cheek to eat it now.
Amid the debris, the cake remained conspicuously uncut. It would never wing its way, in tiny slabs, to expatriate nephews and trail-blazing uncles, who were assumed to be still alive, since no news of their death had been received. It would be sent, complete in, its magnificence, to Sutton House, a home for mentally handicapped children, where a beautiful girl of seventeen with a mental age of six would burst into tears because she would believe that it was her wedding cake.
And in the foyer of the Clissold Lodge Hotel, on that darkening brideless afternoon, a budding radio reporter who had suddenly remembered that he was a budding radio reporter put his duty to his chosen profession above his duty to a family that he had been given no opportunity to choose, and rang the newsroom of Radio Gadd.
‘Elvis Simcock here,’ he announced urgently, while the receptionist fed guests’ mini-bar purchases into the computer, and pretended not to listen. ‘The old abbey church has seen some sensational scenes, but it’s seen few scenes more sensational than the sensational scenes it’s seen today. The glittering wedding of popular local personality, Rita Simcock, ex-wife of prominent local ex-foundry owner, Ted Simcock, to Godalming micro-chip magnate Gerald Lansdown, a rising star in the Social Liberal Democratic firmament, was called off today when the bride failed to turn up, but the reception in the Garden Room of the famous old Clissold Lodge –’
He broke off as Rita entered through the swing doors. She stopped by the door to the Garden Room and turned towards Elvis. She raised a finger to her mouth, pleading for silence. Then she drew a deep breath and entered her reception.
‘Cancel all that,’ barked Radio Gadd’s ace reporter. ‘Cancel all that, urgent. The bride has just swept in, in a sensational scene. Await further news. This is Clissold Lodge … this is Elvis Simcock, the Garden Room, the Clissold Lodge Hotel.’
He banged the telephone into its cradle and hurried after his mother.
Heads turned to look at Rita. Other heads turned to see what it was that the heads were staring at. Silence draped the room like a hollow fog. Cousins and uncles and aunts shivered. Leaders of moderate opinion in Hindhead felt cold tingles down their spines. A description of a memorable meal in Esher was cut off in mid-timbale.
Rita stood in the double doorways of the function room and smiled, a brittle smile. She was wearing an inappropriately virginal white satin embroidered three piece suit, with a small flowered headband. She was clutching a small posy of freesias, which she hadn’t had the heart to dump in a rubbish bin.
‘Hello,’ she said brightly.
She walked towards Gerry. The guests parted before her as if she were a line of police horses.
Gerry Lansdown, white-faced, grim-lipped, tried on several expressions without success. Anger. Self-pity. Stoic resignation. Manly dignity. All failed him. He ended up smiling stiffly, sardonically, with eyes that hid everything.
‘Oh, Gerry,’ said Rita. ‘I think this is the worst moment of my life.’
‘I’m not enjoying myself as much as I’d expected, either.’ Gerry whipped her with sarcasm. ‘I can’t quite work out why. Can’t seem to put my finger on it.’
‘Oh, Gerry.’
‘Am I to get some more eloquent explanation of your incredible behaviour?’ asked her jilted fiancé coldly. ‘Or am I to have to make do with “Oh, Gerry”?’
‘Oh, Gerry.’
Janet Hicks, the red-headed waitress, remembered that Rita had smiled at her at the wedding of Jenny and Paul. She hurried up now, to reward that smile with a glass of champagne. Rita nodded her thanks. Janet,