Authors: David Nobbs
‘Home.’
‘Rita!’
‘Shouldn’t you be with her?’
‘Yes, but … I wanted to say I’m very sorry for what’s happened.’
They had turned left along the Knapperley Road, towards the canal bridge. Rita was walking more slowly, and Ted stopped, in the hope that she would stop too, in order to continue their conversation.
The ruse was a success!
‘What’s brought this on?’ she said.
‘You sang well. I was amazed.’
‘Thank you!’
‘Rita! Not that you sang well! That you sang. In public. I mean … it’s not like you.’
‘Ah, but who am I? I saw Mrs … whose husband used to work
at that special school before he collapsed … in Tesco’s yesterday. Harrington. I heard her whispering to her friend, “You know who that used to be. That used to be Rita Simcock.”’
Rita set off again. Ted hurried after her.
‘Rita!’
‘Lately, it’s seemed as if you think everything would be made right by constantly repeating my name. It’s not enough!’
‘Rita!’
The last bus from Bradeley Bottom was approaching, with only three people on board. Rita held out her hand. Ted pulled her hand down, but the driver was already stopping.
‘Sorry,’ said Ted to the conductor. ‘Mistake.’
The conductor scratched his turban in mystification, and the bus growled angrily on its way, groaning as it mounted the steep, hump-backed bridge over the Rundle and Gadd Navigation.
‘I want to talk, now you’ve come!’ said Ted.
‘Why?’
‘I care what happens to you.’
‘In case I do something dreadful and it’s in the papers, and brings disgrace on you and your precious foundry.’
‘No! Rita! That’s very unfair. I mean … love … I care about you. I do. That’s why I’ve come outside, in the cold, without my coat, to say, I’m sorry.’
‘Well, you’ve said it now. Twice.’
They were on the canal bridge now. An oval blue plate announced that it was bridge number 163, although they couldn’t see this. It was the last bridge on the canal’s tortuous, heavily silted, unromantic, forty-three mile journey north-east from Thurmarsh, where it began its course. Two hundred yards to the east, invisible on this cloudy starless night, was Gadd Stop Lock, where the navigation fell all of two inches into the navigable lower reaches of the only marginally more romantic Gadd, haven of herons, gulls and old prams.
A sports car roared up much too fast. Ted held Rita tightly in to the side of the bridge, in case she should do anything stupid. The car roared on. ‘Maniac!’ yelled Ted uselessly.
He could have continued to hold onto Rita. He could have run his hands over her not uncurvaceous body. He could have smothered her with hot, frenzied kisses. He didn’t. He let her go,
sighed, and said, ‘At least come back and get your coat, or you’ll die of pneumonia.’
‘That
would
be embarrassing,’ said Rita. ‘Foundry owner’s wife dies of exposure on scantily clad mystery walk while he boozes with “other woman” in angling club Christmas orgy.’
‘Rita!’ said Ted. ‘Come on! Love!’
He began to walk back towards the welcome pool of light around the whitewashed pub. To his relief, Rita followed.
‘I didn’t want all this to happen, you know,’ he said.
‘You’re just putty in her hands.’
‘No! I mean … what I mean is … obviously I want to be with her, or I wouldn’t be … but I don’t positively want not to be with you. I mean … I just have to be not with you because I’m with her … that’s all, love.’
‘You’re splitting hairs as well as families now.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Three times!’
The first spears of rain were coming in almost horizontally on the gale.
‘Look, you were great in there,’ said Ted. ‘Fantastic. I was proud of you.’
Rita stopped dead. ‘Proud?’ she said angrily. ‘Proud? What have you got to be proud of? Do you think I’m your creation or something?’
‘Rita! Look! All I’m saying is … you did well. Don’t spoil it by running away. Look. I’ve got to go in now.’ After a brief pause, he added, ‘I have! I really have. I mean … I’m chairman,’ as if Rita had said, ‘Why have you got to go back in?’ although she had said nothing. ‘I mean … all I’m saying is … come back in, now that you’ve come in the first place, or it’ll look like a victory for her.’
‘They
have
been gone a long time,’ said Laurence.
‘What?’ said Liz, trying not to look in the direction of the door.
‘You’re wondering if, under the influence of song, they are being reunited with each other and their God.’
‘I’m not. Ted wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It’s inconceivable.’
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’
The door opened, and Liz couldn’t help looking. It was only Neville Badger returning from the gents, where he had
experienced slight difficulties with his costume. Laurence smiled.
Ted and Rita entered. Liz tried to hide her relief. Laurence tried to hide his disappointment.
Paul and Jenny approached Ted and Rita.
‘You were marvellous,’ said Jenny, kissing Rita warmly.
‘Not bad, Mum,’ said Paul, kissing her shyly.
‘I saw you trying to hide your head in your hands, before you realized you didn’t need to,’ said Rita.
‘Er … excuse me,’ said Ted.
‘Please! Don’t let me keep you from her!’ said Rita, whose teeth were chattering.
‘Rita!’ said Ted.
‘Dad!’ said Paul.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ted.
‘Stop saying that,’ said Rita.
‘I’m sorry. Oh heck,’ said Ted. He went over to join Liz and Laurence at their beaten copper table. ‘I’m sorry,’ he began. ‘But I had to speak to her. I can’t be completely callous. Well, can I?’
‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ said Laurence.
‘Don’t feel you have to go, Laurence,’ said Ted.
‘Oh, I don’t. I want to go, believe me,’ said Laurence.
‘I love you!’ said Ted, when Laurence had gone. ‘I do. Utterly.’ He saw that the Hortons were leaving. ‘Les! Pat! Not going, are you? There’s an extension.’
‘It’s past our bedtime,’ said Leslie Horton, organist and water bailiff, who hated missing his bedtime almost as much as he hated being called Les.
‘You care more about them than about me,’ said Liz.
‘No, love,’ said Ted. ‘I don’t. Of course I don’t. But! … I mean … it’s down to my responsibility, the conduct of the function. I said I’d be chairman for a year, not till such time as I wanted to go home and have it off with my lover. I mean … be fair … I’m committed morally.’
Pete Ferris, the self-appointed doorman, approached.
‘Ted?’ he said. ‘Can I have a word?’
‘No, Pete,’ said Ted. ‘I’m afraid you can’t. I’m otherwise engaged.’
‘It’s about what Kev said in the car park.’
‘Oh heck. Sorry, Liz.’
Ted left behind a Liz Rodenhurst who was not only angry, but puzzled.
‘Bloody hell, Pete. It’s raining,’ said Ted.
‘Did Kev blackmail you in this car park, Ted?’ asked Pete Ferris.
‘Why on earth should you think that?’ said Ted.
‘I don’t know,’ said Pete Ferris, and proceeded to tell him why. ‘The way you looked at Kev. The way Kev looked at you. Rumours. Things people have said. Summat Trevor Barnwell said. Things I’ve heard about Kev when he was in Heckmondwyke. We can’t afford to have rotten apples in the angling club, Ted. Can we?’
‘Oh, all right. Yes, he did blackmail me.’
‘Why?’
‘What?’
‘Why did he blackmail you?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Is it?’ said Pete Ferris, self-appointed keeper of the angling club’s conscience. ‘If we get Kev expelled for blackmailing you, people may just ask what hold he had over you.’
‘Is this blackmail, Pete?’
‘Ted! ‘Course it isn’t. I’ve given my whole life to this club. It is my life. Naturally, therefore, I don’t want rotten apples contaminating the whole barrel.’
Ted sighed wearily. People who gave their whole lives to things were always a menace.
‘When you say rotten apples, who are you referring to?’ he asked. ‘Kev or me?’
‘You tell me, Ted. It goes without saying that whatever can be done discreetly will be done discreetly. But we must scotch the rumours. Because if I’ve learnt anything about angling clubs in my lifetime of service to this club, it’s this. Mud sticks. Mud bloody sticks, Ted.’
‘Oh to hell with it,’ said Ted. ‘To bloody hell with it.’
And he stomped off to his car. Already, puddles were forming on the raddled, pock-marked face of the car park.
In the cosy, dry, smoky, roseate warmth, Rita approached Neville Badger, who was making a slightly unsteady return after yet
another visit to the toilets. It was beginning to look as though Henry the Eighth had prostate problems as well as syphilis. Rita tried to make it look as if the encounter were casual.
‘Being a king suits you,’ she said.
‘Oh. Thank you very much,’ said the immaculate Henry the Eighth.
‘You’d look good as George the Sixth.’
‘Oh. Thank you very much.’
‘If you’d like to come over at all at Christmas, Neville …’
‘Oh. Thank you very much. I’d have loved to, but … thank you, no.’
‘You can’t make the world into a shrine for her, Neville.’
‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’ said the senior partner in Badger, Badger, Fox and Badger.
Rita turned away, flabbergasted. The pink spots on the cheeks made a reappearance, and she was shocked to find that she was face to face with Liz.
‘Oh!’ she gasped.
‘I must say, Rita,’ said Liz. ‘It wasn’t exactly tactful to come tonight.’
‘That’s why I came,’ said Rita.
‘How nasty!’
‘I wouldn’t exactly describe it as nice to steal my husband and have his baby.’
‘I wouldn’t exactly describe taking things that turn up on one’s doorstep as stealing,’ said Liz.
‘I feel that events have forced us to become enemies,’ said Rita. ‘What a pity we couldn’t have got to know each other under happier circumstances. Then we could have been enemies of our own free will.’ And off she rode on the tide of her exit line.
Liz Rodenhurst, née Ellsworth-Smythe, had not often looked flabbergasted during the first forty-eight years of her life. She did now.
Laurence approached, eager not to miss such a rare moment entirely. It occurred to Liz with a swift return of her normal spirit that he had never looked more like a rat
joining
a sinking ship. But before either of them could speak, attention was stolen by Ted, returning with the Arthur Tong Cup. He strode onto the platform, just as Norman Penfold finished a solo to modest applause
from the somewhat diminished gathering. The abstemious Pilbeams had managed to make their exit at last.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Ted. He held his hand up for silence. It fell swiftly. Everyone gathered round, sensing that something was afoot. Rita found herself back at Liz’s side. ‘Thank you. I have to announce a change in the result of the winner of the Arthur Tong Cup. This is no longer me. I am also resigning as of now my chairmanship. I have besmirched this high office. During the … er … the fracas at Wisbech, I … I took two roach and a bream from Trevor Barnwell’s keep-net. The new winner is my son Elvis. A well-deserved winner, too, in every sense. Let’s hear it for Elvis Simcock.’
There was a bewildered round of applause, led by Ted.
‘Well, come on, Elvis,’ said Ted.
Elvis came forward reluctantly.
‘Well done, son,’ said Ted, not meeting Elvis’s eyes.
‘Dad!’ said Elvis.
Ted handed Elvis his silver trophy.
‘Play something, Norman, for God’s sake,’ he said.
Laurence, Liz and Rita stared at each other. There was a moment, in the stunned silence, when any of them could have said something, but none of them did. Then there was a buzz of conversation throughout the bar. Never mind the absence of the entertainment. Rarely, if ever, had there been such a dramatic event in the history of the angling club. Chairman resigns after admitting shameful petty crime, hands trophy to son in presence of wife, mistress, mistress’ husband and Henry the Eighth. Several people volunteered to telephone the Pilbeams and the Hortons the next day to tell them how much they had missed by leaving early. And then the wizened old maestro of the squeeze-box also burst into noise, as he accompanied himself on one of his many railroad numbers.
Elvis had to pass Laurence, Liz and his mother. He spoke quickly, irrelevantly, to forestall any possible comment about his trophy.
‘I wish there were more British railroad songs,’ he said. ‘Last train to Tulse Hill. The Chatham New Cross Choo Choo. There ought to be a British equivalent of Boxcar Willie.’
‘We have him here,’ said Liz. ‘Guardsvan Norm.’
The cynical Elvis Simcock moved on, having given them back their tongues.