A Bit of a Do (11 page)

‘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.

‘Oh good. I’m so glad,’ said Liz.

‘Well, the man in the next chalet, because that’s what it boiled down to, chalets, never mind what it said in the brochure,’ said Alec Skiddaw, but Betty Sillitoe wasn’t listening, and he abandoned his tale with a sigh and reverted to the more modest pleasure of fingering the boil on the back of his neck.

‘Mum?’ said Jenny. ‘I’m sorry if I was a bit rude earlier.’

‘I understand,’ said Liz. ‘The nerves and emotions sometimes go a bit haywire during pregnancy.’

‘So what’s your excuse?’

‘What?’

‘Well, you called me a bitch, and I hardly imagine you’re pregnant.’

‘Hardly.’

Liz laughed, and Neville and Betty joined in. Even the dark, intense Alec Skiddaw smiled.

‘I must apologize for the meal tonight,’ said Laurence Rodenhurst to Ted and Rita Simcock at Laurence’s otherwise deserted table. Rita was still slightly flushed after her exertions on the dance floor. ‘The chicken was a disaster. Oh sorry. I forgot your friend provided it.’

‘Oh no! We’re enjoying ourselves,’ said Ted. ‘I mean, let’s face it, it isn’t everything, food, not by a long chalk.’

They watched the dancers for a moment. The Finchams were together again. How smugly they danced!

‘Talking of food not being everything,’ said Ted, ‘you must be my guests at my angling club Christmas party, Laurence.’

Rita glared at Ted.

‘Lovely,’ said Laurence without enthusiasm.

‘It’s in the lounge bar of the Crown and Walnut, closed for the occasion.’ Laurence was failing.to hide his dismay. Ted couldn’t resist turning the screw. ‘Of course it won’t be a classy do like this,’ he went on. ‘It’s only a little back street boozer, but they’re a friendly crowd.’

Rita’s glare became almost frantic when Ted called it a ‘boozer’.

‘It sounds delightful,’ said the appalled Laurence.

Jenny and Paul entered, with Neville Badger and Liz.

‘Well well,’ said Laurence.

‘Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick,’ said Rita.

‘Sorry,’ said Jenny. ‘I think I over-reacted.’

She plonked herself thankfully into a chair.

‘You didn’t,’ said Paul. ‘Little lies lead to bigger lies, a resultant fatal lack of trust, and the ultimate destruction of the relationship.’

‘How true,’ said Rita, giving Ted a look.

There was an uneasy pause. Dale Monsal hit a spectacular wrong note right in the middle of it.

‘Another pregnant pause,’ said Liz. ‘The evening seems pregnant with pregnant pauses.’

The music ceased. They all applauded, for want of anything better to do.

‘And now, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Dale Monsal, as flat as a cap, ‘we’ll pay a brief visit to the exotic rhythms of Latin America. Yes, it’s carnival time in Rio.’

Rodney Sillitoe came over and asked Jenny to dance.

‘Will you be all right?’ said Paul.

‘Yes!’ said Jenny. ‘Modest exercise is good for you.’ Bred into her, and still there despite her politics, was a confident assumption that people of her background didn’t have things like miscarriages. (This is not an intimation of impending disaster, dear reader. Jenny will have a fine, healthy baby. There’s enough tension in the world without my adding to it.)

Paul raised his eyebrows in exasperation. He’d only been trying to give her an excuse in case she didn’t want to dance with the big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens, but he couldn’t say that.

Rita gave Ted a look, indicating that he was to ask Liz to dance. He gave her a look which said, ‘All right! I’m just going to,’ and Liz gave him a look, indicating that he was to ask her to dance, so he repeated his look which said, ‘All right! I’m just going to,’ and while they were all giving each other looks, Laurence asked Liz to dance.

‘Rita?’ said Neville Badger.

‘Oh! Mr Badger! Why not?’ fluttered Rita, hating herself for fluttering.

Liz returned.

‘Ted?’ she said. ‘It might be a good idea to prise Betty away from the bar.’

Carnival time began in the ballroom of the Angel Hotel.

In the Gaiety Bar it wasn’t carnival time. It was Alec Skiddaw resumption of family reminiscence time.

‘Well, the man in the next chalet,’ he was saying to Betty Sillitoe, ‘he complained of a dog howling at three am, never dreaming it was my ex-brother-in-law’s first wife who’d had one too many on a mystery tour of Rhyl night-spots. Well …’