Authors: David Nobbs
Slowly they edged through into the main room, like sand through an egg timer. The room was brilliantly lit, and filled with tables. At one end there was a stage, with a prettily curved
stairway at each end. Rodney made his way onto the stage, while the guests hunted for their places. Some of the tables were laid for four, others for six. The elegant cutlery was the admired product of Danish craftsmen, while the artisans of the five towns need have felt no less proud of the china. The lime-green napkins had been most elegantly arranged. Each place setting had a red, white and blue name card, stuck in the turbot mousse or, in the case of the cards that read ‘Mr P. Simcock’ and ‘Mrs J. Simcock’, the carrot mousse. The mousses looked like tiny sandcastles, topped by Union Jacks.
Simon Rodenhurst, although invited by Rodney in return for services rendered in the purchase of the Jupiter Foundry, was sitting with his parents and Neville, to make up a four. Paul and Jenny, should they both be present, would make up a six with the Sillitoes and Ted and Rita.
Immediately below the stage, there was a table with six pencils and six notepads in addition to the table settings. This was the judges’ table. The judges were, in descending order of age, Mr Edgar Hamilton (69), president of the Food Additives Consultancy Council; Alderman George Cornwallis (64), monumental mason and mayor; Mr Jimmy Parsons (58), manager of the United, formerly a star with Tottenham Hotspur, Middlesbrough, Fulham, Hereford, Halifax, Crewe, Barnet, Kettering, Northwich Victoria and Burton Albion, known as ‘Lino’ because he was so often on the floor; Miss Ginny Fenwick (55), fashion editor of the
Argus,
who was also Marjorie Boon, cookery editor of the
Argus,
Gloria Honeycake, agony aunt of the
Argus,
Auntie Daphne, compiler of Kiddies’ Korner for the
Argus,
and Mr Binoculars, tipster for the
Argus;
Craig Welting (50), managing director of Radio Gadd, formerly Dutch correspondent of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, and author of one play, a brilliantly inventive farce about a Dutch correspondent of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, which had never been performed because its title No
Litter, Please, We’re Dutch
reminded everybody of another, only marginally less inventive farce; and the baby of the bunch, Miss Amaryllis Thrupp (22), real name Lesley Brown (30), whose recent Juliet had led even hardened aficionados of the Theatre Royal Repertory Company to declare that they had never seen anything of quite that standard in
their lives.
The lights dimmed. Rodney Sillitoe stood in a spotlight at the microphone. Betty Sillitoe, who was overanxious as usual, clutched at Rita in panic. Nigel Thick was poised, classlessly, for action. Laurence looked as if rigor mortis had set in. The long process of finding this year’s Miss Frozen Chicken (UK) was about to begin.
Silence fell. For a dreadful moment Betty thought that Rodney was suffering some kind of nervous paralysis. Then he spoke, and his voice, though tense and nervous, was strong and clear.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I’m delighted to inform you that we aren’t having chicken tonight.’
There was laughter and applause. Betty had never felt prouder of Rodney than at that moment. Eat your heart out, Terry Wogan.
‘So now, without further ado,’ thundered Rodney, ‘let’s meet, in a veritable cornucopia of beauty and charm, the twenty young lovelies who have been selected by the regions of our great boom industry. Don’t forget. The judges …’ He inclined his head slightly, in the direction of those worthies. ‘… are looking not only for beauty and physical attributes, but also for style, elegance, charm, personality, intelligence, honesty and moral fibre.’
Unseen by each other in the dim light, Laurence and Elvis each raised an eyebrow, briefly uniting their divided families in a gesture of cynicism.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, meet beauty number one, Hannah Macpherson, of Border Frozen Produce Ltd,’ said Rodney.
There was a fanfare. Hannah Macpherson entered stage left, in her swimsuit. A spotlight picked her out as she walked slowly across the stage, turning round as she did so, so that the judges and the diners could admire every curve and bulge of her breasts, waist, hips, thighs, style, elegance, charm, personality, intelligence, honesty and moral fibre.
There was loud applause. The judges made notes, shielding their notepads from each other.
‘Hannah hails from Motherwell,’ said Rodney. ‘She’s nineteen, she’s a chicken trusser, she has chestnut hair, hazel eyes, she’s five foot seven and her vital statistics are 35–25–34.’
Hannah Macpherson made her exit stage left, and Paul hurried into the multi-purpose function room. He looked round for Jenny,
but couldn’t see her in the dim light.
‘Our second charmer is Denise Saltmarsh, of Choice Chicky Chunks Ltd.’
There was another fanfare. Paul and Jenny both recognized Denise Saltmarsh. She was the rather thin girl they had seen in the corridor.
Edgar Hamilton, Alderman George Cornwallis, Jimmy ‘Lino’ Parsons and Craig Welting also recognized Denise Saltmarsh, and made doodles which would have been an open book to even a moderately competent psychiatrist and, if they hadn’t hidden them hurriedly, to Ginny Fenwick who, as Doctor Ernst Hochbender, made occasional contributions to the
Argus
on medical matters.
Denise Saltmarsh walked and revolved self-consciously, a little awkwardly, but with a hint of infuriating self-confidence.
The audience applauded. Rodney held his hand up for silence. Jenny saw Paul and waved.
‘Denise, the reigning Miss West Midland Oven-Ready Poultry, is a native of Halesowen,’ said Rodney. ‘She’s a promotional assistant, she has blonde hair, grey-green eyes, she’s five foot six, and her statistics are 33–22–33.’
At last Paul saw Jenny waving. He hurried over to her.
‘Our third Aphrodite is Beverley Roberts of Happy Valley Poultry.’
Beverley Roberts’s magnificent, long, black legs glistened as she walked. Her movements were both graceful and awkward. She looked like a fast bowler with breasts, and moved like an immature gazelle. When the audience saw that she was black they made it clear that this was of no account to them by giving her twice as much applause as the others. Beverley Roberts grinned spontaneously, and won everybody’s hearts. Truly, there wasn’t a person in all that gathering who wouldn’t have forgiven her anything, except perhaps buying the house next door.
‘Where have you been?’ whispered Jenny.
‘Can I have a word?’ whispered Paul.
‘What?’ whispered Jenny.
‘Beverley resides in Basildon,’ thundered Rodney.
‘In private,’ whispered Paul. ‘A word.’
‘She’s twenty years of age,’ thundered Rodney. ‘She has black
hair, dark brown eyes, she’s five foot ten, her statistics are 37–26–36, and she works as a chicken stripper.’
‘What about?’ whispered Jenny, before the applause resumed.
‘If you come, I’ll tell you.’
Beverley Roberts made her exit to loud applause. Paul practically yanked Jenny to her feet.
‘Our next Venus is Bernadette O’Riordan, of the Ulster Poultry Marketing Board.’
The applause for the representative of that unhappy country was as great as the applause for Beverley Roberts. It was heartwarming to know that a young woman could survive the troubles and enjoy a moment of glory such as this.
‘Bernadette’s place of domicile is Antrim. She’s twenty-one years of age, an assistant feed processor, with red hair, blue eyes, she’s five foot five, and her statistics are 36–26–36.’
The applause rang out again. Then Paul shut the door behind them, and they were in the almost total silence of the bar. You had to hand it to the Grand Universal Hotel. Its soundproofing was magnificent.
‘What’s going on, Paul?’
The curtains were not yet drawn, but neither of them availed themselves of the view over the sodden ring road.
‘Nothing.’
The dark, intense Alec Skiddaw and his two assistants were clearing up the debris from a hard hour’s drinking.
‘What have you dragged me in here for, then?’
‘It’s nothing, really. Nothing important.’
Alec Skiddaw approached. He was feeling gloomy. It
was
a boil.
‘Can I get you anything?’ he said.
‘No, thanks,’ said Paul. ‘We’re just … er … you know … thanks.’
‘I must apologize again for being so rude earlier,’ said Jenny, to let Paul know that she had apologized.
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Alec Skiddaw. ‘I shouldn’t have been telling stories when I was busy. Only I was that full of it, I had to. You see, my ex-brother-in-law from Falkirk …’
‘Look!’ snapped Paul. ‘We are trying to have a vital conversation on which the future of our marriage may depend, so just sod
off and leave us alone, will you?’
‘I do apologize for breathing,’ said Alec Skiddaw, with a depth of hurt dignity which would have been beyond the range of Harvey Wedgewood.’
‘A vital conversation on which the future of our marriage may depend?’ said Jenny, as soon as Alec Skiddaw was out of earshot. ‘I thought you said it wasn’t important.’
‘It isn’t,’ said Paul. ‘I just said it to get rid of him.’
‘My God, you’re a hypocrite! You’re furious with me when I’m rude, and then you’re even ruder. Well, I apologized. So should you.’
‘Oh heck. Listen, Jenny …’
‘I’ll listen when you’ve apologized. You said it wasn’t important, so it can wait.’
‘Bloody hell!’
Paul made the long trek to the bar. He felt very small. Alec Skiddaw was washing glasses, and pretended not to see him. Paul coughed. Alec Skiddaw looked up.
‘Sir?’ he said, implying, with a subtlety again beyond Harvey Wedgewood’s capabilities, that he really meant, ‘What is it now, you spoilt and arrogant young hypocritical pipsqueak?’ Had fate willed otherwise, he might have enjoyed a glittering career on the boards, given average luck and relative freedom from boils.
‘Look,’ said Paul. ‘Sorry. Nothing would please me more normally than to hear about your ex-brother-in-law from Selkirk …’
‘Falkirk!’
‘Falkirk! Selkirk! What does it bloody …?’ Paul recovered his self-control desperately. ‘I’m sorry! I came over to apologize and now I’ve … look, normally I’d love to hear about your friends and relations from Falkirk, Selkirk, Thurso, Alloa, Brechin, Forfar, anywhere, but Jenny and I are having, though she doesn’t know it yet, the most serious crisis that has ever blighted our comparatively privileged young lives, so I honestly can’t listen now.’
‘I’d be finished by now if you’d let me go on.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. Look, we’re a bit on edge tonight, but I’d like to assure you that we regard you as our complete social equal.’
‘Thank you very much indeed, sir,’ said Alec Skiddaw drily.
Paul had felt small as he walked away from Jenny towards Alec Skiddaw. He felt even smaller as he walked away from Alec Skiddaw towards Jenny.
‘What’s going on?’ she said. It took his brain a fraction of a second to instruct his vocal powers to say ‘Nothing’. During that fraction of a second, Jenny spoke. ‘And if you say “nothing”, I’ll hit you.’
‘Carol saw us opening that door. She wants us to call off the protest.’
‘Well … she would.’
‘I know, but it’s her big night. Her chance to escape from a life of drudgery.’
‘At what a cost to her sex!’
‘I know. I know. But Carol thinks … and she’s got a point … Carol thinks we’d be better off protesting down the supermarket about the way her sister on the check-out is treated like a machine and Miss Griddle blames her for there being no price on things, which isn’t her fault.’
Jenny gave Paul a look. He didn’t like the look of it. It said, ‘What’s behind all this?’ But what she said was, ‘Why are you taking her side like this?’
‘It isn’t just beauty. It’s character and deportment. They’re looking for an honest girl of high moral calibre.’
‘Is sleeping with your uncle and having an abortion when you’re sixteen honest and of high moral calibre?’
Paul’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Did Carol do that?’
‘It was ages ago. It’s irrelevant.’
‘The judges might not think so.’
‘They’re hardly likely to find out.’
‘True.’ He doubled up, and clutched his stomach. ‘Oh God!!’
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, gasping. ‘I think it must be something I ate.’
‘You haven’t eaten anything.’
‘That’s it! It’s something I didn’t eat.’
He rushed out. Jenny stared at his departing back with puzzlement. And anger. And fear.
Carol Fordingbridge was in her undies. She was eating a packet of plain crisps.
‘I’ve … er … I’ve had a word with Jenny,’ said Paul, perching nervously on the upright chair.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘Carol? Did you … er … did you … er …?’ He couldn’t look at her. Poor girl. To have this raked up! But he had to. ‘Did you … er … have relations with … with a relation … and an … er … when you were sixteen?’
‘You sod!’
‘I could tell the judges that, couldn’t I? If you can tell Jenny about us.’