Authors: David Nobbs
‘Betty!’ said Laurence.
Betty, who was over-rouged as usual, cut him dead, and he reproached himself for having given her the opportunity.
‘She says she’s going to sue,’ said Liz.
‘That’ll be fun for you,’ said Laurence.
Ted reached them at last. On his long voyage across the room, clutching his trophy, he’d been forced to discuss the fracas at Wisbech, his long-overdue triumph, how big a refund would be given in view of the absence of the entertainment, and Trevor Barnwell’s treachery – nobody had ever really liked him. He had just heard for the fifth time that night about the Irishman who was buried at sea and the eighteen men who tried to dig the grave. He had laughed each time. All jokes made by members were fresh and funny when you were club chairman.
He flopped into a seat.
‘Well done, Ted,’ said Laurence. ‘You must feel very …’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Ted.
‘Seeing you there, smiling shyly, acknowledging the storms of applause, it suddenly occurred to me … you still haven’t come
for your final scaling and cleaning.’
‘I won’t be coming any more, Laurence.’
‘That’s rather an extreme course, isn’t it? Surely we’re sophisticated enough to separate our professional from our private lives?’
‘Maybe your reputation is crumbling, Laurence,’ said Liz. ‘Maybe the saga of Betty’s bridge will destroy you. Maybe they’ll film it. “The Dentist’s Downfall” or “A Bridge Too Far”.’
‘Liz!’ said Ted.
‘Or maybe Ted doesn’t trust you not to go berserk when you’ve got him there helpless with his mouth open. He knows what a passionate nature you have.’
Liz swept across the bar to rescue Neville Badger, who was being told by the abstemious Pilbeams and Hortons that angling was the only true antidote to the agonies of widowerhood.
‘Ouch!’ said Laurence.
‘Absolutely,’ said Ted. ‘I don’t want to hurt you any more than I …’
He couldn’t finish the sentence. Laurence did it for him.
‘… have already?’
‘Exactly. Sorry.’
Ted carne face to face with Elvis in the passage outside the bars. It was a bleak, draughty comer, unfurnished except for a fire extinguisher, with six doors, one to each bar, one to each toilet, one marked ‘Private’, and one leading to the arctic car park. Ted was on his way out to put his undeserved prize in the boot of the car, far from the ironic eyes of Kevin Loudwater, and Elvis was on his way back from performing one of those natural functions which are necessary even for philosophers. They looked at each other uneasily, father and son.
‘Elvis!’ said Ted. ‘Look … I mean … I know you don’t like … you know … what’s happened … Liz and me. I understand. I mean … I do … really … I do. I wouldn’t if I was in your shoes. But.’
‘But what?’
‘It’s happened. It’s a fact. Try and accept it.’
‘Dad!’
‘Oh, incidentally. You’re going to have a little brother. That’ll be fun, won’t it?’
Elvis stared at Ted in horror. ‘Oh my God … you mean …? oh my God.’
‘Elvis? Everything that’s happened. I … I mean …’
Elvis held out his hand. ‘Congratulations, Dad,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ said Ted, trying not to sound too surprised. ‘Of course, it could be a sister.’
‘Not that! On winning the Arthur Tong Cup. You beat me fair and square.’
Elvis went into the lounge bar.
Did he know?
Ted hurried out to his car, and put his trophy in the boot.
He heard crying, over by the rustic tables. It was Paul and Jenny. He went over to them. They were shivering and shuddering in each other’s arms.
‘We’re all right now,’ said Paul. ‘We’ve just had our first real row. It’s done us good. We’ve got things into perspective.’
Suddenly, Rodney Sillitoe made up his mind. He approached Elvis Simcock.
‘What a fiasco,’ said Elvis. ‘I told them Barbra Streisand wouldn’t turn up.’
‘How would you like to work in the frozen chicken industry, Elvis?’ said Rodney.
‘What? Well … I mean … it’s never exactly been my burning ambition.’
‘I’ve been thinking. You’re right. If we can’t employ fellows like you, the blokes with the brains … we’re expanding next year, I hope. Think about it.’
‘Well. I mean … what as?’
‘On the management side. I wouldn’t expect a philosophy graduate to be knee-deep in chicken shit. Think about it. No hurry. If you … er … you know … give my Miss Wainscot a tinkle.’
‘Well, thank you, Rodney. I … er … I will think about it. And if I … er … you know … I will give your Miss Wainscot a tinkle.’
‘Good. Good. Now I must make sure the old girl doesn’t drink too much, bless her.’
‘I’m finding it difficult to make myself understood,’ mumbled Betty Sillitoe through lips that barely moved.
‘Sorry?’ said the immaculate Neville Badger.
‘I said, I’m finding it difficult to make myself understood.’
‘Nonsense. You’re as plain as a pikestaff. Your speech, I mean, of course, not your …’
‘It’s undermining my self-confidence and ruining my social life,’ said Betty. ‘What do you think our chances are?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, It’s undermining my …’
‘No, no, no. I
heard.
I didn’t understand. Chances?’
‘Sorry. I find it difficult discussing business when I have to mumble and you’re Henry the Eighth.’
‘Business? I didn’t know we were discussing business.’
‘Well, of course! I’m suing Laurence for defamation of appearance and character change. I want you to represent me.’
‘Ah! I don’t know, Betty. Laurence is an old friend.’
‘I see. Old pals stick together. Friendship is more important than justice. Fine. Just as long as we know where we stand.’ Betty was finding it difficult to get up a real head of anger while mumbling. Her indignation subsided. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I must go and make sure the old fool doesn’t drink too much, bless him.’
‘Tell Liz about the time you went to Paris to see the rugby, and ended up inside,’ said Ted.
They were parked on bar stools, talking to their lugubrious host, Lester Griddle. Ted had promised her that Lester was a barrel of laughs when you got to know him, and she’d said, ‘Oh Lord. Is he? How awful!’
‘We did,’ said the barrel of laughs. ‘We went to Paris to see the rugby, and ended up inside.’
‘Those were the days,’ said Ted.
‘Aye, and you know why? ‘Cos there was no V A bloody T, excuse my French,’ said Lester Griddle lugubriously.
‘There was Lester and Archie Wainwright and these three French polishers from Sunderland,’ said Ted. ‘Between them they polished off thirteen bottles of French champagne.’
‘Inland Revenue, fair enough, give and take, swings and
roundabouts, we understand each other,’ quipped Lester Griddle. ‘VATman, no chance. He’s got you by the short and curlies.’
‘Are you going to come and serve or do I have to do it all myself, Lester Griddle?’ said Mavis Griddle. Had she always been as sour as a bad pint, or had Lester Griddle slowly curdled her?
Lester Griddle raised long-suffering eyebrows and moved off.
‘He’s a character,’ said Ted. ‘Oh God!’
Kevin Loudwater was standing beside them.
‘He deserved that trophy,’ said the sensual pork butcher to Liz. ‘He worked hard at Wisbech.’
‘Kev!’
‘I know. I saw him. I know what determination he showed.’
‘Kev!’
‘Well, aren’t you going to introduce us?’ asked Kevin.
‘Oh … yes … of course. Liz Rodenhurst, Kevin Loudwater. Kevin has the pork butcher’s in Newbaldgate, between the unisex hairdresser’s and the organic food shop.’
‘Hello, Kevin.’
‘Hello, Liz. By heck, you’re a cracker.’
‘Well … thank you very much. So, you were upset that they chose fish and chips!’
‘You what?’ said Kevin, puzzled.
‘Being a pork butcher, Kev,’ said Ted hastily. ‘That’s what we were talking about outside, remember?’
‘Oh! Right. Right. It does rile me, Liz. It does. Well, I’ve no time for fish, me. Never have had. I’ll catch ’em, but I won’t eat ’em, no thank you! You must come and visit me one day, Liz,’ he said, as he strode off with his pint. ‘It’ll be right snug when the roof’s repaired.’
‘I want to go home,’ whispered Liz.
‘Liz! You don’t mean … back to …?’
‘No! How can you say that? I want to go and make love.’
‘Oh! Right! Well … right! So do I. But.’
‘Oh dear. Another thundering great “but”. Well, come on. But what?’
Ted stared at her as if it was obvious.
‘I’m chairman.’
‘Is your passion cooling? Is your ardour on the wane?’
‘’Course it isn’t. But.’ He continued hurriedly, before she could
wax sarcastic about his ‘but’. ‘I mean … Liz! This do is the final responsibility of my term of office.’
‘I see. Well, I’m flattered that you’re so keen.’
‘I am keen! Madly! Deliriously! But! Oh God, Liz! Does a judge say, “Right. I’m feeling randy. Court adjourned”? Does the Archbishop of Canterbury break off after the first hymn and say, “That’s all for now, folks. I’m going home for a bit of hankypanky. Same time next Sunday.”? Well … it’s the same difference with angling club chairman.’
The jackpot paid out noisily on the new fruit machine in the public bar.
‘Would you say you were a popular man?’ said Liz.
‘Well … yes … I mean … rather than no. Yes. Reasonably popular. Well liked. Widely respected. Why?’
‘I thought your reception was distinctly lukewarm. I felt angry.’
‘Well … a lot of them knew Rita. They liked her, though she never believed it.’
‘You talk about her as if she’s dead.’
‘She is for me.’
‘Will I be dead for you, one day?’
‘’Course you won’t! Love! How can you even say that? Really! I mean … you mean more to me than anything in the world. You are my world.’ He kissed her. ‘Now go and talk to the Pilbeams while I sort out the entertainment.’
Rodney and Betty Sillitoe bore down on Jenny and Paul at their corner table like two sailing dinghies beating into a safe harbour. Was there a slight wobble in their wakes, or was this just imagination?
‘May we join you?’ Rodney asked. ‘Only Betty’s embarrassed to show her teeth, and with you you’ll understand and she needn’t talk.’
‘Of course,’ said Jenny.
Rodney and Betty sat down. The big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens raised his glass to the youngsters. He looked embarrassed, uncertain, almost as if he were quite a small wheel.
‘Betty tells me I may have been a little rude to you at the Dentists’ Dinner Dance, Jenny,’ he said.
‘Well … a bit, perhaps, but I didn’t mind,’ said Jenny. ‘I was
fascinated to find out how guilty you feel about the way you treat your chickens.’
Betty was searching in her handbag, and Paul showed his moral support for Jenny over the chicken question by clasping her hand.
‘Did I say that?’ said Rodney. ‘I think I may have had a little too much.’
‘Have you thought seriously about umbrellas?’ Jenny asked.
Rodney stared at her. Beside him there was a ledge crammed with Scandinavian matchboxes, including, did he but know it, one specially produced for a bar in Trondheim, and featuring a photograph of that cosy refuge from the arctic night. Above the ledge there was an aerial photograph of
this
cosy refuge. More than half the photograph consisted of car park.
‘Umbrellas?’ he said at last.
‘You said you’d switch production to umbrellas.’
‘Oh Lord. I
was
drunk!’
‘It’s not a bad idea, though, is it?’
‘You can’t do things like that, Jenny. I sell to butchers. Supermarkets. Hotel chains. I can’t suddenly say, “Sorry. No chickens this week. How would you like some umbrellas?”’
‘No, but in time you’d find new outlets,’ said Paul, removing his hand, as if speaking and clasping Jenny’s hand were alternative expressions of support, and to give both at the same time would be excessive.
‘I’d love to make umbrellas,’ said Rodney. ‘But they’re dodgy in this climate. Get a wet summer, and you can’t satisfy demand. Get a fine summer and you’re knackered.’
Betty had produced a notepad from her bag and was writing a note. There was a painting of a sheaf of wheat on each sheet of paper.
‘It doesn’t have to be umbrellas,’ said Jenny, and Paul squeezed her hand. ‘It could be … oh …’
‘… socks,’ said Paul, letting go of her hand.
‘I don’t know about socks,’ said Rodney. ‘I don’t know about umbrellas. I know about chickens. It’s a boom industry in which British technology leads the world. Our product is cheap, standardized and almost totally tasteless. Other countries can’t manage that.’
‘I should have helped you set your chickens free,’ said Jenny,
‘but I couldn’t.’