Читать книгу A Bit of a Do - David Nobbs - Страница 9

Laurence Rodenhurst felt that it was rather vulgar of a three-star hotel to decorate the walls of its bars with signed photographs of celebrities. He appeared to be looking with extreme disfavour on the smiling face of Terry Wogan, who had signed his picture with the message ‘Super nosh. Pity about the flab. Love – Tel’. But Laurence’s expression might equally have been because he was talking to Larry Benson, of fitted kitchen fame.

The Angel Hotel stood in Westgate, which sloped gently away from the abbey church towards the westerly loop of the Gadd. Seven building societies, four shoe shops and the great concrete frontage of the Whincliff Shopping Centre had replaced its old town houses. Only the Angel’s long, peeling facade remained to recall the street’s Georgian heyday.

The Angel’s yellowish Georgian facade concealed a crumbling, rambling, heavily altered medieval interior. The Gaiety Bar, whose beamed roof was concealed by plaster except for one small hole, was situated next to the ballroom and was used as a private bar for functions held there. It was just too small to be impressive. The green-and-white striped wallpaper bore the stains of a decade, and there were large damp patches not quite hidden by furniture and radiators. The tables were extremely low, and customers reclined so steeply in the armchairs that their knees were level with the table tops. It was rumoured that the chairs had been designed by the brother of an unscrupulous osteopath. Bar snacks were served in the Gaiety Bar at lunchtimes, although the furniture made it almost impossible to eat them; but perhaps this was the aim, since they were almost inedible. The brown leather upholstery was beginning to burst. Everyone said that the Angel had known better days, though nobody could actually remember them. But it had one great advantage for events such as the Dentists’ Dinner Dance. There was still nowhere else in the town with a function room of the size required, at least not until the Grand Universal opened.

The standing room around the bar was slowly filling up with dentists and their guests. The men wore lounge suits, the women short dresses. Liz Rodenhurst’s black dress was restrained and bold, simple and revealing, elegant and sexy. Her back and shoulders and, almost certainly, her breasts were tanned.

Laurence had invited his son Simon, Jenny and Paul, Ted and Rita Simcock, and Neville Badger. None of them had yet arrived.

‘In Peru they drink a thing called pisco sour,’ Laurence was telling Larry Benson, of fitted kitchen fame. Larry Benson was looking everywhere but at Liz’s cleavage.

‘Laurence!’ said Liz. ‘Don’t bore Larry to death over Peru. He hasn’t paid you for his gold bridge yet.’

She moved off energetically.

‘Your wife is stunning,’ said Larry Benson, trying to breathe in her lingering aroma without being seen to do so. He ran a small firm called Kitchen Wonderland. His wonderland was situated between two Indian restaurants, at the wrong end of Commercial Street.

‘Yes,’ said Laurence, whose chosen apéritif that night was gin and tonic. ‘It’s local brandy mixed with lemon juice and beaten white of egg. Surprisingly enough, it’s very good.’

‘She must have been quite a sensation in Peru,’ said Larry Benson, whose tipple was whisky.

‘Yes. Though why I say “surprisingly” I don’t know. They wouldn’t drink it if it wasn’t. Peruvians aren’t daft. Oh Lord, here are Paul’s parents.’

Ted and Rita Simcock approached bravely. They were already aware that they were the only people in the room in evening dress.

‘Oh God, they’re in evening dress!’ said Laurence. He turned towards them, putting on a smooth, false smile.

‘Ted! Rita! Good to see you.’

He introduced them to Larry Benson.

‘I’m sorry, Laurence,’ said Rita, pink spots showing on her cheeks. ‘I feel mortified. Ted said it was evening dress.’

‘Never mind,’ said Laurence. ‘It sometimes is. It’s up to the incumbent dentist. In my presidential year, it was evening dress.’ It would have been, thought Ted. ‘Anyway, you both look terribly distinguished.’

Laurence Rodenhurst was lying. Ted always looked like a head waiter in evening dress, and Rita’s long, heavy, dark blue gown hung around her in folds that made her look more curtained than dressed.

‘What did his wife see in him?’ said Larry Benson, the moment Laurence had gone to buy them drinks. ‘She could have had anybody. She’s an amazingly lovely woman.’

‘Is she? I hadn’t really … er …’ For an awful moment Ted thought he was going to blush. He looked round and saw Liz, chatting to Timothy Fincham, president of the area dental association for the year. Helen Fincham was at his side, as always. Ted’s eyes practically popped out of his head at the sight of Liz’s stunning outfit. ‘Yes … I … er … I suppose she … er … are you a dentist, Barry?’

‘Larry. No, I’m in kitchens.’

‘So am I, most of the time,’ said Rita. ‘Perhaps that’s why I’m not amazingly lovely.’

There was a pause. Larry Benson, of fitted kitchen fame, sensed that perhaps he had not been entirely tactful. Ted spent longer studying a smiling photograph of Ian Botham than its message, ‘A smashing evening. Cheers. Ian’, could possibly justify. Rita looked round the room, seeking escape, finding none. Larry Benson seemed on the verge of one or two remarks, only to abandon them. Would it be fanciful to imagine that one of the abandoned remarks had been, ‘But you are amazingly lovely, Mrs Simcock’?

At last he hit upon a gem that satisfied him. ‘Are you a dentist, Fred?’ he said.

‘Ted. Oh no, no. I run a little foundry, forge type of effort. You’ve probably heard of us. The Jupiter Foundry.’

‘No,’ said Larry Benson. After another brief pause he added, ‘Well, excuse I. Must go and rescue my lady wife.’

‘Rita!’ said Ted, when Larry Benson had gone.

‘Well! People!’

‘I agree, but … I mean … Rita!’

‘I want to go home.’

‘Rita!!’

‘Is this some memory training like the Americans? Do you keep repeating my name for fear you’ll forget it?’

‘Rita!’

‘Well, you’ve no interest in me.’

‘Rubbish.’ He looked round, and met Liz’s eyes. She winked. He looked away hastily. ‘Absolute rubbish. You’re my wife, Rita.’

‘Precisely. What on earth gave you the idea he’d said evening dress? I feel awful.’

‘Rita! Love! Brazen it out. Show a bit of style.’

‘I haven’t got any style. I don’t like style. I don’t trust style.’

Laurence returned with a whisky and American for Ted, and a gin and tonic for Rita. They raised their glasses in acknowledgement of his generosity, and Ted found his head swivelling in Liz’s direction. It seemed to have developed a life of its own, his head.

Liz blew him a kiss, a very brief kiss, so discreet that he could hardly believe that he hadn’t imagined it, but still a kiss from a dentist’s wife in a bar that contained her husband, his wife, several dentists, and guests from all walks of the town’s professional life. He turned away rapidly, and found Rita looking straight at him. He went cold all over. How much did she know?

‘How’s business, Ted?’ enquired Laurence with no overwhelming curiosity.

‘Oh, absolutely! Absolutely! What? Ah! Oh, it’s beginning to move again. I’m pinning great hopes on our new novelty boot scrapers with the faces of famous prime ministers.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Laurence. ‘That sounds … that is new.’

‘I’ve got some in the car, if you’d like to see them.’

‘Well, I’d … but I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘No trouble. I’d like to see what you think.’

Ted rushed out before anybody could dissuade him.

There was a brief, awkward pause.

‘How’s Mother?’ asked Laurence.

‘The doctors seem quite pleased with her,’ said Rita.

‘Jolly good. I was sorry to hear about it.’ There was another pause, mocked by the apparently easy chatter that was welling up all around them. ‘How was the South of France?’

‘Very nice, considering. We only had rain once, but he came out in this terrible prickly heat.’

‘Oh dear! Where?’

‘Well …’ Rita dropped her voice, to make sure that no more dentists would hear her than was absolutely unavoidable. ‘In a rather awkward place.’

‘I meant … in what town?’ Laurence’s face wore a look of faint amusement at the absurdity of all the world except himself.

‘Oh! Avignon. He had to give the bridge a miss.’

There was another pause, in that early evening of pauses.

‘The weather in Peru is usually very predictable,’ said Laurence. ‘It’s dry in the dry season and wet in the wet season.’

‘Well, I suppose it would be.’

‘But, funnily enough, it wasn’t when we were there. It had all gone topsy-turvy.’

‘It’s all these satellites.’

Rita wished she could lose her talent for producing conversation stoppers.

Ted removed his sample case from the boot of his Cavalier 2000 GL, looked round the dark, oily, glassed-in car park of the old coaching inn, and went through the narrow passage that linked it with the. outside world. He stood on the pavement of Westgate, gulping in the comparatively fresh air, less polluted these days – partly because of genuine environmental progress, partly because the bulk of the county’s pollution was exported on the prevailing winds to the lakes and forests of Sweden, and partly because so many of the factories were shut down.

Dusk had descended on Dolcis, and Lotus, and Saxone, and Freeman, Hardy and Willis, and on the marbled facades of the Halifax, Abbey National, Leeds, Harrogate and Wakefield Building Societies, and on the grimy concrete mass of the Whincliff Shopping Centre, and on the offices of the Argus, which had been painted off-white and were now off-off-white, and on all the other buildings of the sloping, curving, once-lovely street.

Three young welders on a pub crawl were hunched against the rising wind as they struggled from The Blue Posts to The Three Tuns, and a coachload of laughing women descended from a blue village bus and made their way arthritically down West Riding Passage to the bingo in the old Regal in Slaughterhouse Lane.

Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, drove his red MGB into the car park of the Angel Hotel, and didn’t see Ted.

How Ted wished he was spending this evening somewhere unpretentious, like the dear old Crown and Walnut.

He sighed, and returned to the Gaiety Bar.

Perhaps it was because of the extreme discomfort of the chairs, or perhaps it was because of the natural herd instincts of the English, but the gathering throng of dentists and their guests were standing shoulder to shoulder around the bar, as if penned there by an invisible sheepdog.

‘This time last year she would have danced till dawn. She had more energy than anybody.’ The immaculate Neville Badger’s voice cracked. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Neville!’ said Liz.

‘Embarrassing, isn’t it? The man keeps breaking down in public. And him a past captain of the rugby club. Funny how you can never tell the ones with no moral fibre.’

‘Neville! Don’t be absurd.’ Liz kissed him. ‘Dear Neville!’

What on earth was Ted showing her husband, with Rita such an aghast spectator?

‘Other people’s tragedies are so desperately boring, aren’t they?’ said Neville Badger.

‘What? Oh, Neville, no! You could never bore me. No, I was just intrigued to know what Ted’s showing Laurence.’

Ted was showing Laurence a boot scraper. There were rungs for scraping boots, and beside them, at one end, the upturned face of Clement Attlee, moulded in lead and ridged for the reception of mud.

‘Clement Attlee,’ said Ted.

‘Amazing,’ said Laurence.

‘Thank you for a great evening – Des,’ said a smiling photograph of Des O’Connor. Nobody could remember ever seeing him in the Angel Hotel, but he must have visited it when appearing at the theatre.

‘You’ve got to have them these days, gimmicks,’ said Ted. ‘I mean … who could resist grinding his boots on the face that nationalized the railways?’

He produced a similar object, with the face of Sir Winston Churchill complete with lead cigar. Laurence frowned his disap proval of this liberty, but Ted said, ‘It’s got to be bipartisan, has business.’

‘Do you … er … do you have any of the present incumbent?’ asked Laurence.

‘No,’ said Ted. ‘I tried, but the mould cracked.’

Jenny entered. She was wearing a patterned south Indian dress which prettily solved the problem of not outraging the conventions while not conforming to them. She was beginning to show distinct signs of pregnancy, if you looked hard enough, and since she was attractive, people often did. Only that week the manager of Beacock and Larkin’s, gents’ outfitters but a ladies’ man, had placed a hand on her stomach ‘to see if I can feel it moving’, and that hadn’t fooled her, and she had taken her custom elsewhere – to Leonard’s, of Bridge Street, if the truth be known. The custom in question had consisted of a tie for Paul to wear tonight, his only tie having been chewed by the unruly mongrel of some visiting anarchists. And then, after all that, Paul had refused to wear a tie. All in all, the purchase couldn’t be said to have been one of Jenny’s most conspicuous successes.

‘Dad?’ she said, approaching them just as Ted snapped his sample case shut. ‘They won’t let Paul in without a tie.’

‘Oh, the silly boy,’ said Rita.

‘Do you know how many wars there have been in the world since the Second World War?’ said Jenny.

‘What?’ said Laurence.

‘I’ll tell you. Fourteen. That’s just major international wars. It doesn’t include civil wars or border skirmishes. Well, in the context of all that misery, does it honestly matter whether Paul wears a tie?’

‘Of course not,’ said Laurence. ‘So why is he making such a fuss?’

‘He isn’t. Society is. He isn’t saying people can’t wear ties. Society is saying they must.’

Dame Peggy Ashcroft looked as if she had heard this sort of thing many times before. None of the regulars could remember seeing her in the Angel Hotel, but she must have been there more than once if her message, ‘Excellent as always – Peggy’, was anything to go by.

‘I mean,’ said Jenny, ‘what difference does his wearing a tie make to his worth as a human being?’

‘Not a lot,’ said Ted. ‘But it makes a hell of a difference to his getting any dinner.’

‘You all enjoy laughing at us, don’t you?’ said Jenny. ‘Well, maybe we are naive, but it’s better than dying of terminal smugness.’

‘I’ve got a dental association tie in my car,’ said Laurence with suppressed anger. ‘If he has no rooted objection to maroon.’

‘The nastier the better,’ said Jenny. ‘He won’t care if it’s got four crossed molars on a ruptured abscess.’

Laurence stalked out past the inseparable Finchams at a pace his pregnant daughter couldn’t match.

Rita wasted no time in asking Ted, ‘Why on earth did you show him your boot scrapers?’

‘Because.’

‘Because what? What do you mean – “Because”?’

‘Because there’s no room for shrinking violets in the world of the small foundry.’

‘Shrinking violets! I don’t know. Between you and Paul, I’ll have a nervous breakdown. I will. Ask Doctor Gillespie.’

‘Be fair to the lad, Rita. He’s got principles.’

‘Yes, and we all know where he got them from. Before he met her, he lay in bed till twelve and wandered around picking his nose and listening to rubbishy music like any other normal, healthy boy.’

Ted had an uneasy feeling that Dame Peggy Ashcroft had winked at him.

‘I’ll put me prime ministers in the boot,’ he said.

‘Don’t leave me,’ begged Rita, but he was on his way.

As he approached the door, Liz intercepted him and made it look accidental.

‘Liz!’ he said. ‘Don’t keep winking and blowing kisses. She’ll see.’

‘I must see you outside,’ said Liz.

‘Liz! We were dead lucky at the wedding. I mean … aren’t they enough for you, our Tuesdays?’

‘No, actually they aren’t.’

‘Oh heck.’ Ted raised his eyes imploringly to a photograph of General Dayan. There was no help from that quarter. The face was stern. The message, ‘Good food. Good service. General Dayan’, was of no practical value. ‘Liz?’ he said. ‘Are you kinky about this? Does it turn you on, doing it in the middle of dos? It’s probably got a medical name. Functionomania. Do-itis.’

‘All right. We can do it in here if we’re careful.’

‘Liz!’

‘Talk! I’m talking about talking, Ted. I have to talk to you.’

‘Liz! She’s watching.’

‘It’d be unnatural if we never talked. I mean, we do have a young married couple in common. Just make sure you take it calmly. Pretend to show me those things you were showing Laurence.’

‘Oh heck.’

Ted opened his case, and got out a boot scraper with the face of Neville Chamberlain. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back. He had an uneasy feeling that the three eyes of Rita and General Dayan were fixed upon him.

‘Make sure I take what calmly?’ he said.

‘What on earth is that?’ Liz was gawping in astonishment at the boot scraper, and Ted realized that he had never seen her gawp in astonishment before, not even at the magnificence of his naked body on their Tuesdays, when she was ostensibly at her aerobics and he was supposedly at work.

‘Don’t bother about it,’ he said. ‘I’m only pretending to show you them.’

‘It’s not the kind of thing you can ignore.’

‘Good. If that’s a harbinger of the trade’s reaction, it bodes well. They’re boot scrapers with the faces of famous prime ministers. That’s Neville Chamberlain. You’re impressed, I can see.’

‘Ted, listen, I’m …’ Jenny and Paul approached with Laurence, who was still simmering. ‘… doomed never to tell you.’

Paul’s suit looked a worse fit than ever now that he seemed to be developing the symptoms of a sympathetic pregnancy, and the maroon tie clashed horribly with his green shirt.

Neville Badger wandered slowly round the edges, of the bar, pretending to be interested in the photographs, reading the messages as if he expected to find the meaning of life in them, thinking about last year’s dance, thinking about Jane. The inseparable Finchams veered away to avoid him, but Rita made a beeline for him.

‘Hello,’ she began.

He looked at her blankly.

‘Sorry?’ he said.

You feel rather a fool when asked to repeat a sparkling gem like ‘hello’.

‘Hello,’ she said again.

‘Ah. Yes. Rather,’ said the immaculate Neville Badger. ‘Hello. Absolutely.’

‘Would it help to talk about her?’

‘What?’

‘Your wife. You were thinking about her, weren’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I was. How on earth did you …? I was thinking of this same evening last year. She said, “We’ve been happy, haven’t we?” It’s true. We were. I mean, we wanted children, we couldn’t have any, but … that’s life, you can’t choose. But, we were happy. I was wondering, Rita, remembering her saying that, it suddenly struck me. Last year. Did she know? Did she suspect? I’m sorry. I’m boring you.’

‘No! Please! I don’t mind. I mean, not that you are, but even if you were I wouldn’t mind, because I like listening. It saves me from having to think of anything to say. I mean, not that that’s the only reason why I enjoy hearing about Jane. I’m very interested.’

Part of Rita was outside herself, listening to herself wittering on, thinking, ‘How embarrassing!’ Yet she didn’t feel embarrassed. And it was a lot better than thinking about her suspicions.

The object of those suspicions was standing with Liz and her pregnant daughter. Laurence and Paul were getting the drinks.

‘I’m starving,’ Jenny was saying. ‘I could eat a horse, except I never could.’

‘It’s chicken tonight,’ said Ted.

‘I hope it’s free-range,’ said Jenny. ‘I won’t eat it if it isn’t.’

‘Good for you,’ said her mother.

‘You think you’ll annoy me by not disagreeing with me, don’t you?’ said Jenny.

‘I just have,’ said Liz. Ted wanted to bury his head in those smooth, tanned shoulders. He wished she wasn’t showing so much to all these people. He wanted it for himself. She was speaking to him. He hadn’t been listening.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Rita’s rather trapped with poor Neville. A rescue might be diplomatic.’

‘Every morning I stretch out my hands to caress her … er …’ Delicacy prevented Neville from continuing, but his hands stroked an exquisite pair of invisible buttocks. ‘Every morning it’s a shock to find she isn’t there. The mornings don’t get any better, Rita.’

‘They will.’

‘Yes, but, you see, I don’t think I want them to. That would seem like a betrayal. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to burden you with my grief.’

‘Oh, please do. I don’t mean burden me. It doesn’t. I’m glad. I don’t mean glad about your grief. I mean, I’m glad to listen to the grief I wish you hadn’t got, but since you have got it, I’m happy to listen to it.’

Ted arrived. ‘Rita, love, could I have a word?’ he said, and to Neville he added, ‘Sorry, Neville.’

‘No! Please!’ said Neville.

Ted led Rita away.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. I was rescuing you.’

‘It’s years since I enjoyed a conversation as much as I was enjoying that one with Neville.’

‘So how are you feeling?’ asked Liz. In the months to come her relationship with her daughter was going to be put under a great strain. She wanted a nice, cosy chat before that happened.

‘Fine. It’s going to be a girl, incidentally.’

‘You’ve had it tested?’

‘I didn’t need to. I know.’

‘Oh. Are you pleased?’

‘I don’t mind. I think it’s selfish of parents to saddle their children with burdens of expectation.’

‘Is that a dig at me or mere disinterested trendy priggishness?’

Oh dear. The nice, cosy chat was going wrong.

‘It’s a dig at you,’ said Jenny. ‘Well, you never left me in any doubt that you preferred Simon.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes. I mean, I’m not resentful. Not now. Not really.’

It was no wonder if her parents did prefer Simon, thought Jenny. He’d always been the perfect son. Never a hint of rebellion. It was entirely typical of him that he should walk past at this very moment, right on cue.

‘Oh, hello, Mother,’ he said. ‘Hello, Jenny. You look nice!’

‘There’s no need to sound so surprised.’

‘Well … you’re my sister.’

‘I mean not that I want gracious compliments, anyway. They’re so sexist.’

‘Simon?’ said Liz. ‘Would you say I favoured you as a child, at Jenny’s expense?’

‘Good Lord, no! You were absolutely fair.’

‘You see!’ said Jenny triumphantly, when Simon had moved on.

‘What?’

‘If Simon thinks you were fair, you must have been favouring him outrageously. Which isn’t surprising, really.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Well … you’ve always been a man’s woman, haven’t you?’

Jenny had never seen the blood rush to her mother’s cheeks before.

‘You bitch!’ said Liz.

‘Mum!’ said Jenny, as Liz stormed off. ‘I didn’t mean … I only … Oh!’

Paul and Laurence returned with Ted’s scotch, Rita’s gin and tonic, dry white wine for Liz and Jenny, and a pint of bitter for Paul – a pint of bitter as an apéritif at a dinner dance! Were these Simcocks deliberately uncouth or merely ignorant?

‘Where’s your mother?’ said Laurence, and Jenny burst into tears and ran from the room.

‘She does that a lot,’ said Paul proudly, and he set off to follow her.

‘Paul!’ said Laurence. ‘Sometimes, a woman needs to be alone.’

‘Not Jenny,’ said Paul. ‘Our marriage is a totality of shared experience.’

‘Berk,’ said Laurence softly to Paul’s back, and then Rodney and Betty Sillitoe were bearing down on him. Rodney looked as if he’d slept in his suit for a week. Betty was wearing a mauve dress and a string of real pearls.

‘Rodney and Betty Sillitoe,’. said Rodney. ‘Ted and Rita’s friends. We met at the wedding.’

‘I do remember,’ said Laurence drily. ‘What a pleasant surprise! What brings you to these festivities?’

‘Timothy Fincham invited us,’ said Rodney Sillitoe, and felt obliged to add, ‘He isn’t our dentist.’

‘Rodney’s provided the chickens,’ said Betty Sillitoe, who was over-powdered as usual.

‘Funnily enough,’ said Laurence, ‘I was listening to Radio Gadd this morning … for the news, I can’t stand their … well, you can’t call it music … and I heard an advert for your Cock-A-Doodle Chickens.’

‘“Which chickens give the best value? Cock-A-Doodle Do.”’

‘That was it. I suppose it must be a bit of a problem finding decent copy writers for local radio.’

‘I wrote that myself,’ said Rodney Sillitoe.

‘I must go and check the seating arrangements,’ said Laurence Rodenhurst.

‘Where’s my pint?’ said Paul, when they returned after Jenny had washed the tears away, and they had kissed passionately in the corridor.

‘You’re not going to forget to check that the chickens are free-range, are you?’ said Jenny.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Paul. ‘Do you want me to die of thirst?’

He went off, with slightly bad grace.

‘I didn’t mean straightaway,’ Jenny called out, but it was too late.

As Paul reached the door, he met Percy Spragg hobbling painfully in.

‘Hello, Grandad,’ said Paul, surprised. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Mr Mercer invited me. He’s not my dentist, but he’s a friend.’

‘How’s Grandma? I’m coming to see her tomorrow.’

‘The doctors say she’s satisfactory. It seems a strange description to me.’

The bow-legged Percy Spragg moved on, seemingly unabashed by the great crush of dentists and their guests. You might have thought he went to dinner dances every night.

He came face to face with Rita.

‘Dad!’ said Rita. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I’m glad you’re so pleased to see me,’ said Percy. ‘Mr Mercer invited me. He drinks at my pub. He drives me to the football.’

‘He invited you here? Why?’

‘Incredible though this may seem, Rita, he likes me. He thought I might be lonely, with our Clarrie in the General. Unlike some people, he seems to think I know how to behave in public. Des O’Connor! What’s he got to look so pleased about?’

‘What do you mean – “unlike some people”?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, don’t let him down. Don’t drink too much.’

‘I’ll try not to fart too often an’ all.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Paul. ‘They’re free-range.’

‘Amazing,’ said Jenny. ‘I mean, I could just have had the veg, but …’

Rodney and Betty Sillitoe bore down on them. The big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens gazed with frank admiration at Jenny’s legs. He kissed her enthusiastically and said, ‘Mmm! Pregnancy suits you!’ Jenny recognized the disinterested quality of his admiration and kissed him back, warmly. Betty Sillitoe beamed. Paul spotted his pint. Everybody was happy. Rodney Sillitoe said, ‘Well, the moment of truth approaches.’ Betty said, ‘It’s the first time he’s been to a do where they’re using his chickens. He’s like a cat in a hot tinned soup.’ Jenny said, ‘I didn’t realize you did free-range chickens.’ Rodney said, ‘I don’t.’ Paul, about to take his first sip, froze.

‘Paul!’ said Jenny. ‘You lied to me.’ And she rushed off again.

‘Jenny!’ said Paul. ‘Oh heck!’ He put his pint down sadly. ‘I haven’t even had a drink yet.’

Jenny, halfway to the door, swung round. ‘I’m really learning about your priorities tonight,’ she said. ‘First, drink. Second, me,’ and she picked up Paul’s pint and poured it over his head.

There was a momentary faltering in the buzz of conversation, and then it burst forth with renewed, excited vigour.

Paul rushed out in pursuit of his weeping wife.

Ted, who was trapped with Larry Benson, of fitted kitchen fame, and his lady wife, who was actually no lady, had watched this scene with some alarm. But at least it gave him an excuse to escape from the Bensons. He stepped forward to intercept the youngsters, but they were gone before he could reach them.

Now he found Liz at his side. ‘Don’t worry about them,’ she said. ‘A good row will do them good. We can have that talk on the dance floor later.’

‘Are you mad?’ said Ted. ‘We can’t be seen dancing together.’

‘We’re related by marriage. It’ll look very suspicious if we don’t dance together.’

They were facing a smiling photo of Frank Carson and a pile of prawns. His message read, ‘It’s the way I shell ’em’.

‘You were quite impressed with my boot scrapers, weren’t you?’ said Ted.

‘Don’t get excited if I tell you what I have to say,’ said Liz.

‘I thought you were impressed.’

‘I’m pregnant. You’re the father.’

‘You didn’t think I had it in me, did you? You’re what??? I’m what???’

‘S’ssh! Be calm. Be casual. Rather awful, isn’t it? The baby was actually conceived during our children’s wedding reception.’

The double doors to the ballroom opened, and there appeared a man who looked almost as much like a head waiter as Ted.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served,’ he announced.

‘Oh my God,’ said Ted, half to himself, still digesting Liz’s news. Rodney Sillitoe, arriving at his elbow as the hungry throng surged forward, said, ‘You see! Even my best friend’s dreading my chickens.’

The ballroom of the Angel Hotel was just too small to be impressive. It was also slightly too long for its width. The walls were the colour of smokers’ fingers. The outside wall, opposite the double doors to the Gaiety Bar, was curtained for most of its length. The curtains had also seen better days. In those better days they had been dark red. Now they were just dark. Ted noticed none of this.

At one end of the room, on a raised platform, the Dale Monsal Quartet had already set up their instruments. On the big drum, in large letters, were the words, ‘Dale Monsal Quartet’. Ted noticed none of this.

At the other end of the room, separated from the platform by the dance floor, there were eighteen round tables, where nineteen dentists and their hundred and twenty-three guests were tucking into prawn cocktails. There were only two empty places. Laurence endeavoured to compensate for the absence of Jenny and Paul by being unwontedly free with his claret.

The prawn cocktails were at least reasonably generous. The diners had been consuming rubbery frozen prawns for quite a while before they found that all they had left in their cut-glass bowls was a pile of soggy lettuce in Marie Rose sauce. As far as Ted was concerned, he might have been eating braised toenail clippings in porcupine blood. How like Liz to give him this earth-shattering news seconds before they were to sit at the same table, for a three-course meal, in company with her husband and his wife.

Rita was too preoccupied to notice how preoccupied Ted was. What had happened to Paul and Jenny? And then suddenly she was too preoccupied even to worry about Paul and Jenny. Elvis had entered, also in evening dress, carrying a pile of plates. She almost stopped breathing. The humiliation of it! Her own son, Elvis Simcock, philosophy graduate, the first graduate in the family, working here, tonight, in front of all the Rodenhursts, as a waiter!

Timothy and Helen Fincham’s table got their main course first. The Mercers’ table had to wait longer, and Percy Spragg entertained them with reminiscences about the golden age of dung. By the time the Rodenhursts got theirs, the chicken was already congealing. And Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, had called out excitedly, ‘Good Lord! There’s Elvis! He’s one of the waiters!’ and Rita had closed her eyes and felt herself sinking.

Some said the chicken was tasteless. Others were not so complimentary. Fish meal was the main flavour detected. The chicken was burnt on the outside, but almost raw along the bones. No playwright on the first and only night of a West End flop suffered more than Rodney Sillitoe during that meal. Only Timothy Fincham’s Bulgarian burgundy kept him going.

With each portion of chicken there was a rock-hard rasher of bacon. The stuffing was from a packet. The service was strained. The frozen beans weren’t. The pale green water in which they had been cooked mingled with the anaemic gravy. Thin green streams trickled round the natural dams provided by tinned carrots and greasy roast potatoes. It reminded Simon Rodenhurst of seaside holidays, of building dams to trap the streams emerging from tidal pools, of untroubled youth, before he had realized what a very ordinary, plodding brain he had.

Between the main course and the ersatz meringue, the Dale Monsal Quartet began to play. It comprised piano, drums, saxophone and clarinet. Dale Monsal himself was on sax, a dry, rather sad, withdrawn man, with receding hair. The pianist was black, wiry, all smiles and ivory teeth. The drummer was white, huge and fierce. The clarinetist was middle-aged, with her greying hair done in a severe bun, which contrasted dramatically with the very low cut of her long evening gown. She simpered, smiled and ogled, constantly attempting to impose her personality on the gathering.

After the first, somewhat uninspiring number, Dale Monsal spoke through a microphone held too close to his mouth. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and dentists,’ he said in a slow Yorkshire voice, as flat as a fen. ‘My name is Dale Monsal and this is my quartet. Our aim tonight is enjoyment. Your enjoyment. We aim to provide music loud enough to make you want to get up and dance, but not so loud that you can’t talk if you want to. Thank you. And now, without further ado, take it away, maestros.’

Dale Monsal and his three maestros took it away. Muddy coffee was served. Rita gave Ted an urgent look and, when he ignored it, she kicked him and he said, ‘Ow! You kicked me, Rita!’ and she glared at him, and performed a brief and surprisingly competent mime, suggesting that she could have had quite a career in street theatre, if fate had willed her life otherwise; and at last the penny dropped, and Ted bought a round of drinks.

At first nobody danced, and it looked as if the event would be a monumental flop. People began to stretch their legs and wander about. Simon Rodenhurst moved off to join some of the younger people, and the immaculate Neville Badger went on a slow though restless wander.

The conversation turned inexorably to Peru.

‘It’s a fascinating country,’ said Laurence, after giving a not notably brief resumé of their holiday, ‘but it is very poor. It makes one ashamed of one’s greed and over-consumption.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Ted.

‘Same again?’ said Laurence.

‘Why not?’ said Ted.

Laurence moved off, and Ted got a look from Rita.

‘Well, if I don’t have another whisky, it’ll not get transported to the shanty towns of Lima,’ he said. ‘I mean … it won’t. It’ll just help put some poor sod in Western Scotland out of work.’

Rita sighed. ‘I do hope they’re all right,’ she said fervently.

‘Well, a lot of distilleries have closed,’ said Ted, ‘but …’

‘I think Rita meant Paul and Jenny,’ said Liz.

‘Oh, don’t worry about them,’ said Ted. ‘It’s just a tiff.’

‘They have such high expectations from marriage,’ said Liz.

‘They’ll learn,’ said Rita.

There was a pregnant pause.

‘Do you think that was what novelists mean by a pregnant pause?’ said Liz.

‘Liz!!’ said Ted, and immediately realized that he’d sounded much too horrified, since nobody else knew that Liz was pregnant. ‘I mean it’s not exactly tactful, is it?’ he went on, struggling to justify his interjection. ‘I mean … mentioning pregnancy in public. When our son got your daughter pregnant before they were married. I mean … is it?’

Neville Badger returned from his wanderings, and asked Liz to dance.

‘Come on, Ted,’ said Rita.

‘Rita! The floor’s not crowded enough for me yet.’

‘I find talking a strain. I hardly drink. The food’s never any good. The only thing I enjoy’s the dancing. So come on.’ And she yanked Ted to his feet. Her new-found ruthlessness and strength astounded and worried him. How much did she know?

As they made their way between the tables to the dance floor, Ted felt very conspicuous in his evening dress.

Elvis, conspicuous in his evening dress, was passing by with a tray of empties.

‘Elvis!’ said Ted. ‘I mean …’

‘What?’

‘Working here!’

‘It’s a job. You were scornful enough when I was on the dole.’

‘You might have told us,’ said Rita.

‘You’d have tried to stop me working tonight,’ said Elvis, who never told them anything now that he was sharing a flat with friends.

‘I would,’ said Ted. ‘You’ve embarrassed your mother.’

‘But not you?’

‘Well … I can’t say it exactly thrills me. I mean … it’s not exactly conducive, is it?’

‘You should have given me a job in the foundry.’

Elvis moved on, and Simon Rodenhurst called, ‘Waiter!’ Elvis turned, and found himself facing a table of rather drunk young men who looked slightly too anaemic to be described as ‘young bloods’.

‘Elvis!’ said Simon with mock surprise. ‘Good Lord!’ To his friends he explained, ‘This is my sister’s husband’s brother.’ To Elvis he said, ‘I hope this isn’t embarrassing you.’

‘Not at all,’ said the cynical Elvis Simcock. ‘Though you might try something a little politer than yelling “Waiter!”’

Simon’s companions raised their eyebrows.

‘What’s rude about that?’ asked Simon, and the eyebrows were raised even higher when Elvis replied, ‘Well, how would you like it if I popped into your office and yelled “Estate agent!”?’

‘That’s rather different,’ said Simon.

‘Yes,’ said Elvis. ‘You’re a member of a profession, and I’m “only a waiter”.’

Simon’s companions gave little cries of derisive surprise at Elvis’s insolence. This was rather fun.

‘I think you’re rather forgetting your position, aren’t you?’ said Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch.

‘I was speaking as your sister’s husband’s brother.’ said the philosophy graduate from Keele University. ‘Speaking as a waiter …’ He became insultingly obsequious. ‘… what can I get you, “gentlemen”?’

The Gaiety Bar was almost deserted as Laurence bought his round of drinks from the dark, intense Alec Skiddaw, the thirty-five-year-old barman with the boils.

‘This is my strategic defensive position,’ explained Betty Sillitoe from a bar stool. ‘Here I can keep an eye on Rodney’s drinking.’

‘Absolutely! Good plan!’ said Laurence.

Betty Sillitoe gave a gasp of pain.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Would you believe, toothache? No need to ask if there’s a dentist in the house.’

‘We had a heart attack last year at the Doctors’ Dinner Dance,’ said the dark, intense Alec Skiddaw. ‘That was a full dress do.’

‘It’s ironical,’ said Betty, who was over-rouged as usual. ‘Rodney chipped a tooth at the wedding. There was an imitation pearl in the cake. He’s had no pain, and I’ve had toothache ever since.’

‘I’m sorry about the cake,’ said Laurence. ‘That makes four. Some distant cousin wrote from Durban to ask if it was a good luck charm. I’ve complained to the Vale of York Bakery in no uncertain terms.’

‘It was the woman what did them keep fit classes on Radio Gadd,’ said Alec Skiddaw.

‘My dentist can’t find anything wrong,’ said Betty Sillitoe, with another gasp of pain.

‘Who is your dentist?’

‘Mr Young.’

‘Ah! Sorry, that was unethical. Young Mr Young or old Mr Young?’

‘I think it must be old Mr Young. He’s as bald as a coot.’

‘That’s young Mr Young.’

‘She’s made a complete recovery,’ said Alec Skiddaw.

‘If you want a change, I can thoroughly recommend Mercer,’ said Laurence. ‘Odd chap, but a good dentist.’

‘She’s very attractive. Wasted on radio,’ said Alec Skiddaw. ‘There were seven doctors fighting to give her the kiss of life.’

‘Odd?’ said Betty, taking a large sip of gin to ease the pain.

‘He’s a socialist,’ explained Laurence. ‘Believes in the National Health Service. Likes football. Supports the United. Must be a masochist.’

‘Doctor Spreckley won,’ said Alec Skiddaw. ‘His wife didn’t half give him what for afterwards. I was amazed she knew such words, but apparently she’s a regular theatre-goer.’

‘Or,’ said Laurence, ‘and I wouldn’t like to put any pressure on you, I could fit you in as a private patient on Monday morning.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Betty Sillitoe. ‘I’d like to have the job done properly.’

As Laurence took his tray of drinks into the ballroom, he met Percy Spragg hobbling in the opposite direction.

‘Hello!’said Laurence. ‘How’s Mr Sprigg enjoying himself?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Percy Spragg.

‘What?’ said Laurence.

‘My name’s Spragg,’ said Percy. ‘I’m having a grand time, and this is the first time I’ve had to go all night.’

The dance floor was beginning to fill up. The Dale Monsal Quartet were playing ‘Send In The Clowns’.

Rita danced well, if tautly. Ted was clumsy and self-conscious, resentful of every second spent away from his drink.

Neville Badger was leading Liz towards them. They passed quite close. Ted and Liz exchanged brief looks.

Rita’s tongue slid out and moistened her lips as she summoned up her courage.

‘Ted?’ she said. ‘Is there something between you and Liz?’

‘What? Between me and Liz? Rita! What on earth gave you that idea?’

‘I keep seeing you exchanging looks.’

‘Ah.’ Ted swung her round just in time to avoid colliding with Rodney Sillitoe, who had miraculously managed to separate the Finchams, and was pushing Helen round the floor. ‘Yes. Well … the fact is, Rita … to be absolutely honest … I don’t like her. In fact, I can’t stand her. So that’s what I’m doing, you see. Overcompensating. For the sake of harmony between our two families.’

Ted found himself steering straight for Liz and Neville again, as if they were on the dodgems. Neville steered Liz out of danger. He danced beautifully, immaculately, in an absent-minded, melancholy way.

Ted met Liz’s eyes again, and flashed her a warning.

‘You are going to dance with her, aren’t you?’ said Rita.

‘What?’

‘People’ll talk if you don’t.’

‘What a convoluted mind you’ve got. All right. I’ll dance with her if you insist, but don’t you trust me?’

‘Trust you? After Ingeborg!’

‘Rita! For God’s sake! It was exceptional circumstances. I mean … love … she’d just placed an order for two thousand toasting forks! I mean … Rita … be fair … one isolated lapse, bitterly regretted.’

They swung round beside the Dale Monsal Quartet.

‘What about Big Bertha from Nuremberg?’

Ted stared at the musicians, in order to avoid thinking about Big Bertha from Nuremberg. He found himself gazing at the lady clarinetist’s slightly blotchy shoulders, which rose to an almost Amazonian bos …

‘What about Big Bertha from Nuremberg?’ repeated this new, remorseless Rita.

‘All right,’ Ted admitted. ‘Two isolated lapses, bitterly regretted.’

He felt his eyes searching out Liz. He yanked them back to the Dale Monsal Quartet. He felt that the lady clarinetist was willing him to meet her eyes. He did so. She dropped her eyes coyly, as if directing him down past her busy blowing mouth to her slightly blotchy shoulders, which rose to an almost Amazonian bos …

‘What about Doreen from the Frimley Building Society?’

‘All right! Three isolated lapses, bitterly regretted!’

‘That was carrying “Everyone’s friendly at the Frimley” too far.’

‘Well exactly, Rita. This is it, love. I was seduced by the power of advertising.’

‘You were seduced by Doreen Timperley. And I was impressed by how regularly you were paying in.’

‘Rita! Three peccadilloes in twenty-four years of marital bliss. I mean … be fair … that’s one lapse every eight years.’

‘It’s eight years since Ingeborg.’ Rita turned to flash a beaming, insincere smile at Liz. ‘I’ll be very suspicious if you don’t dance with her,’ she said.

‘I’ve said … I’ll dance with her.’

‘Don’t hold her too close, or I’ll know something’s up.’

‘Bloody hell, Rita!’

‘Don’t hold her too far away either, as if she’s a piece of Dresden china. That’ll make me really suspicious.’

‘Bloody hell, Rita. Have you brought your tape measure?’

The waltz ended. There was modest applause, as befitted the performance.

The cynical Elvis Simcock approached Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, on the tide of that modest applause. He bore a tray of exotic drinks.

‘So, Elvis,’ said Simon. ‘Are you finding your three years as a philosophy graduate helpful in your job?’

‘Incredibly.’

‘Oh good. That is a relief. You don’t feel the taxpayers’ money has been poured down the drain, then?’

‘Money! Money! Money!’ said Elvis. ‘I hear the heart of an estate agent beating like a till. No. In my brief spell as a waiter, Simon, I’ve found the answer to a question that has exercised philosophers down the ages.’

‘What question?’

‘Is the external world real, or is it just a figment of my imagination? Does this room exist? Does this tray exist? Does your large pernod and blackcurrant exist? Do you exist outside my mind? I know now that you do.’

‘How?’

‘Because I wouldn’t waste time by inventing anybody as futile as you.’

Simon’s companions felt that this waiter had gone too far. They glared at him, and waited for Simon to deliver a suitably cutting retort. They weren’t sure if Simon rose to the occasion. ‘Same to you, with knobs on,’ he said.

‘Precisely!’ said Elvis Simcock. ‘Case proved.’ He put on his obsequious waiter voice, dripping with respect. ‘That’ll be nine pounds thirty-six, sir. Call it ten pounds for cash.’

‘My ex-brother-in-law from Falkirk, he’s an income tax inspector. and an amateur ventriloquist. Though when I say amateur, I’m not saying he doesn’t accept a bit in the back pocket. Well, they know the dodges, don’t they? They’re forced to.’

It was very quiet in the Gaiety Bar. Trade was slack, and the Dale Monsal Sound barely penetrated. The dark, intense Alec Skiddaw was taking the opportunity to regale Betty Sillitoe with tales of his family life.

‘Amazing,’ said Betty, feeling that some comment was called for. She had just ordered another drink. It would have looked odd if she’d spent so much time in the bar and never ordered anything.

‘His first wife came from Lowestoft. I’ve never known a woman that could do dog impressions like she could when she’d had a few.’

Neville Badger entered from the ballroom, with Liz.

‘A dry vermouth and a dry white wine, please. Betty, what will you …?’ Liz shook her head urgently. ‘Ah! Yes!’ said Neville. ‘That’s all, thank you.’

‘They took this self-catering holiday in Llandudno,’ said Alec Skiddaw, to the considerable surprise of Neville Badger and Liz as he served their drinks. ‘Well, you’re free to eat what you want when you want, aren’t you?’

Paul and Jenny returned, more than somewhat sheepishly.

‘Jenny and I have survived our first row,’ said Paul.

‘Congratulations,’ said Neville.

‘We’ve decided that, if the correct lessons are learnt, my lie can cement our relationship,’ said Paul.