Authors: David Nobbs
‘You don’t have to have lost me, my love,’ said Ted.
‘I’ve lost you whether you come back or not,’ said Rita. ‘I’ve
changed. I’ve gained confidence.’
‘What? You mean … on your own … without me?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘I just don’t understand it.’
‘It’s simple. When you step out of the shadows you feel the sunshine.’
‘Rita! I know it seems as if I’ve failed. I know it looks as if I’m a flop. But …’
It didn’t sound like one of Ted’s old, confident, infuriatingly final ‘buts’. It practically begged her to say ‘But what?’ Rita had no intention of being deliberately cruel to Ted. It was impossible to feel much hostility for him now. ‘But what?’ she said.
‘But I haven’t. Failed. I haven’t. I’m moving laterally into design, that’s all.’
‘I’m not not having you back because you’re a failure.’
‘Rita! Are you saying you’d rather be on your own without me?’
Rita tried hard to admit no element of coyness or smugness into her voice as she said, ‘Those aren’t the only alternatives.’ She wasn’t entirely successful.
Ted’s mouth dropped open. ‘Oh, come on, Rita,’ he said. ‘I mean … Rita! Who’d …? He stopped.
‘… look at me? Is that what you were going to say?’
‘No! Of course not! Love! Really! But.’
This was more like a ‘but’ of the old school. It hung there, infuriatingly, in the silence. She couldn’t let him get away with it.
‘But what?’
‘Well! … I mean … you aren’t young any more.’
And she’d been on the verge of sympathizing with him!
‘I mean … Rita! … you aren’t! Are you? So … I mean … not being rude … but! … who’d have you that’s worth having?’
‘Neville. And now I’m going to get some of Brenda’s goulash.’
‘You know the younger of the Kirkstall girls?’ said Laurence. ‘The one we sometimes think isn’t quite right. Her mother rang me on Saturday afternoon. Saturday afternoon! She’d had an abscess for eight days, and nobody’d done a thing. Eight days, and then they ring me on Saturday afternoon.’
There was a pause, during which Liz slowly realized that the story was over.
‘Much as I admire your gift for story-telling, Laurence,’ she said, ‘can I go and get my fork supper?’
‘No! Please! I was just making small talk to … er … well, it’s my halting, clumsy way of saying what for some reason I find very difficult to say. I’m … er … I’m prepared to forgive and forget.’
‘I believe you could forgive too!’ said Liz, patting his hand. ‘I don’t deserve it. But
forget?
How could you? There’s the baby.’
‘It’ll bring us together again. It’ll breathe new life into our marriage.’
‘But it isn’t yours.’
‘We’re talking about a human being. The idea of possessing it seems terribly wrong to me.’
‘All right, but not only is it not yours, but you know whose it is.’
‘That’s a bit more serious, I admit, but …’
‘You hate Ted. You drove all the way to the municipal dump to throw away his companion set.’
‘Because it was falling to bits, not because it was his!’
‘You’d never even been to the dump before. You pretend decay doesn’t exist except in teeth, where it’s profitable.’
‘I went because the tongs were bent, the brush-head came off, the poker kept unscrewing, and the shovel buckled if you put a piece of coal larger than a plover’s egg on it. Every time I looked at it, it reminded me that I’d wasted thirty-six pounds ninety-nine pee. If that’s a sample of his product, I’m not surprised he went into voluntary liquidation!’
‘Bankrupt! And you hate him. Supposing our child’s a boy and looks like him. Supposing it’s a
girl
and looks like him!’
‘It’ll be a challenge. I need a challenge, Liz. In the current jargon, I need to be stretched as a human being.’
‘Laurence!’
There was a slight kerfuffle as Colonel Partridge discovered that he had taken the vegetarian casserole by mistake. The gauche Davina blushed scarlet and said she would have it. One day she would pluck up her courage and tell him that she disapproved of hunting. Liz and Laurence, oblivious to anything except each other, would never know of this.
‘Please!’ pleaded Laurence. ‘I’m serious! I don’t think I can stand living in that empty great house alone.’
‘Oh, Laurence! It’s not really any wonder I went off, is it?’ said
Liz. ‘That cry came from the heart, and there wasn’t a mention of me in it. Move from that empty great house to a little service flat. Join clubs. Go to lounge bars. Expand your practice. Play golf. Play bridge. Be happy. Without me.’
‘Liz!’
‘You’re a natural bachelor. Accept it at last. It’s better for both of us.’
‘You mean … this is final?’
‘I’m afraid so. There’s somebody else.’
‘Already?’
Liz gave him a sharp look, searching for sarcasm. His face showed no emotion whatsoever.
‘There’s no reason why you should believe me,’ said Liz. ‘But this is serious. It’s the real thing.’
‘Who is this somebody else, who’s serious and the real thing?’
‘Neville. And now I’m going to get some of that fork supper.’
Rodney Sillitoe bought the drinks, while Betty fetched the goulash. Rodney reminded the dapper, ageless Eric Siddall that he had agreed to signal, should Betty overindulge, and Eric assured him, ‘
No
problem, sir. Leave it with me. All under control. It shall be done, sir. If it’s needed, sir. Which we hope it won’t be, sir. A tenner, sir? Can do.
No
panic.’
The goulash came up to expectations, although the vegetable casserole lacked conviction. The fourth race proved as exciting as the first three. Paul was among the winners, and went to the bar to buy drinks for himself and Jenny. He found his brother and Simon Rodenhurst there, and bought them drinks too.
‘Congratulations, Paul,’ said Simon Rodenhurst.
‘What on?’ said Paul.
‘Everything,’ said Simon. ‘Winning. Marvellous. The baby. Terrific. And I hear you’ve landed a job.’
‘Yes. He’s a municipal highways operative,’ said Elvis.
‘Ah! Really!’ said Simon. ‘Jolly good. Well done. Er … what exactly is a municipal highways operative?’
‘It’s estate agent-ese for road sweeper,’ said Elvis.
‘Still prepared to be seen talking to me, Simon?’ said Paul.
Simon ignored this. ‘Why does everyone think we’re purveyors
of untruths?’ he said.
‘That’s estate agent-ese for liars,’ said Elvis.
‘I know you all think I’m an upper middle-class twit,’ said Simon.
‘No,’ said Elvis. ‘We don’t, Simon. Honestly. We think you’re a middle-class twit.’
‘Well, I’d just like to say one thing,’ said Simon, with a burst of anger. ‘I love my little sister.’
‘Well … good,’ said Paul.
‘But, you see, your cosy flat …’
‘Our tiny flat.’
‘Your compact, easily maintained flat is one of the many places to which I’ve never been invited.’
‘Paul!’ said Elvis, stiff with mock outrage. ‘I thought you always did your bit for the world’s underprivileged.’
‘Oh, shut up, Elvis,’ said Paul. ‘I’m sorry, Simon. We will invite you … soon … I promise.’
He felt dreadful. He wondered what Jenny would have thought of him if she’d seen him taking part in baiting Simon. He wondered what Simon would have thought if Simon knew what he had done on the night Jenny became a mother.
He hurried off to give Jenny her drink. He longed to be with her. He loved her more deeply than he had ever realized.
His father intercepted him. ‘Paul?’ he said. ‘Who was that girl in the locker room?’
‘Nobody, Dad. I mean … it’s nothing important. What were you and Mum talking about just now?’
‘Never mind that. What were you and that girl talking about?’
‘It’s nothing serious, Dad.’ He was blushing. Oh God!
‘I hope not,’ said his father. ‘I mean … really … Paul!’
‘Yes … well … you’re hardly in a position to give me moral advice, are you?’
‘I’m not giving moral advice. I’m giving practical advice. They’re bad news, women. They’re fickle.’
‘And we’re as solid as rocks, are we?’
‘Paul! We’re different. Men are different. They are!’
‘When women play around, they’re fickle bitches and nymphomaniacs. When men play around, they’re men of the world. That really is rock bottom old-fashioned clapped-out male chauvinist
hypocrisy, Dad.’
‘Whose side are you on?’
‘Women’s. Jenny’s.’
‘You’ve got a bloody funny way of showing it.’
Ted was shouting. People were looking round.
‘Don’t you think I don’t know that, Dad?’ said Paul. ‘I just hope she never finds out.’
‘I thought there were going to be no secrets in your marriage.’ Ted couldn’t help looking smug as he made his thrust.
‘I was very young,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve found out since that it’s possible to be too idealistic.’
‘Well, anyway, you haven’t done anything serious,’ said Ted. ‘I’m glad to hear it. You won’t be too worried that that girl’s talking to Jenny then.’
‘What??’ Paul followed Ted’s eyes, and his blood ran cold as he saw Jenny talking to Carol Fordingbridge, over by the entrance to the kitchens, by the piled remains of the fork supper. ‘Oh my God!’
Carol hadn’t actually promised not to tell. He rushed off, then realized that he ought to look calm, and did the last few feet extremely casually. He handed Jenny her drink and made no comment to Carol.
‘Paul! This is Carol Fordingbridge,’ said Jenny. ‘She used to be receptionist at the surgery. Carol, this is my husband Paul.’
Paul realized that Carol was as surprised at discovering that Jenny was his wife as he was at discovering that Carol had been Laurence’s receptionist. All was not yet lost.
‘Hello, Paul,’ said Carol.
‘Hello, Carol.’
They shook hands demurely.
‘You look as lovely as ever, Carol,’ said Jenny.
‘Absolutely,’ said Paul. ‘I mean, not that I know how lovely she looked before. But I mean, put it this way, if she’s gone off significantly she must have been absolutely unbelievably fantastic before, so, yes, I would say on balance that I’d assume that she must be as lovely as ever, as you so rightly say.’
Jenny and Carol both showed a certain amount of surprise at this speech.
‘Well … thanks,’ said Carol. ‘Hey, I hear you’ve got a little boy.’
‘How did you hear that?’ said Jenny.
‘Oh … you know how news gets around in this town. If you burp in the Highcliff Road flats, you’ve got a duodenal ulcer on the Wartley Industrial Estate by morning.’
Paul felt that he was going to faint. He murmured an apology to some people at a nearby table as he sat down beside them. He heard the two women’s voices as if from a long way off.
‘What are you doing these days, Carol?’
‘I’m the distribution manager’s secretary at Cock-A-Doodle Chickens.’
‘Are you all right, Paul?’
Paul! That was his name! That must have been for him. He would have to reply.
‘Marvellous,’ he said with a sickly smile. ‘Terrific.’
Then he passed out.
Ted’s opportunity carne when Rodney Sillitoe went off to place the bets, including one for Ted.
Betty Sillitoe had stationed herself at the bar, just in case Rodney decided to drink all the profits from the fourth race after he had placed their bets for the fifth race.
Ted just hoped she was still sober.
‘Not a bad evening,’ she said. She sounded sober enough. ‘Not bad food.’
‘I’ve never rated goulash, me,’ he said. ‘In my book it’s just foreign stew.’ He lowered his voice so dramatically that several people turned to listen. ‘I need your advice, Betty.’ He mouthed the final words. ‘About Rita. A woman’s advice.’
He led Betty away from the bar. Rita was sitting with Jenny and Paul, who was recovering from his fainting fit. Ted took Betty right to the far comer of the restaurant area, where they could talk inconspicuously. Several people watched them and wondered why they had suddenly gone to talk together in the far comer of the restaurant area.
‘I … er … I was talking to Rita earlier,’ began Ted.
‘I saw you.’
‘Yes … well … she says there’s another man.’
‘What?’
‘I know. I know. But … that’s what she says. She says … she
says it’s Neville.’
‘What???’
‘I know. I know. But … I mean … she did come with him. Didn’t she? And I mean … I thought … being a woman … well, couldn’t you? Find out? If you could. I mean … if there’s anything in it. I mean … not that there can be. I mean … it’s impossible. It’s ludicrous. It’s ridiculous. But.’
Ted stood by the restaurant stairs and watched. He saw Rita leave Paul and Jenny and walk across the room, without any apparent purpose. And there … oh God … was the immaculate Neville Badger moving towards her, an elegant figure, always so gentlemanly, but bent on seduction. Good old Betty! She managed to get to Rita before Neville. She put a friendly arm round Rita and led her away from the danger area. Now there
was
a friend. Not many left. Friends. Less than ever now.