A Bit of a Do (19 page)

‘You chickened out!’ said Rodney.

‘There’s nothing funny in discovering what a coward you are,’ said Jenny, and she burst into tears and hurried out to the toilets.

‘I always seem to end up making your wife cry,’ said Rodney.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Paul. ‘She cries a lot,’ he added proudly.

‘Doesn’t it worry you?’

‘The kind of world we live in, it’ll worry me when she doesn’t cry.’

‘Shouldn’t you go to her?’

‘No. There are moments when a woman needs to be alone.’

Betty handed Rodney the note she had been writing, and he read it aloud before she had a chance to warn him not to.

‘“It must be tough on the dole, whatever some people say,”’ he read. ‘“Buy them large drinks without looking as if you’re patronizing them. And get me one while you’re at it. You’ve had enough.” Betty!’

The abstemious Pilbeams were saying good right to Leslie and Patricia Horton, who hated to be called Les and Pat. Ted could wait no longer, if his evening was to be saved from collapsing around his ears.

He leapt onto the little platform by the curtained bay window.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he cried. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’

The noise, never terrific, soon died down. A gust rattled the windows, and Lester Griddle almost smiled. He’d made sure that all the windows rattled. There was nothing better than rattling windows for emphasizing the cosiness of the pink-and-red womb over which he presided.

‘Thank you!’ said Ted. ‘Thank you! Unfortunately, through no fault of ours, we have been badly let down by our entertainment. Never mind. I mean … so what, eh?’

Jenny returned, and tiptoed to her seat. When she saw Ted addressing the assembly, she wished she could leave again.

‘So come on. Let’s prove to our visitors that we have unexpected talents in our midst,’ said Ted. ‘We’ll make our own entertainment.’ The Pilbeams were edging their way towards the door. ‘George? Sybil? Not going, are you? Come come. The fun’s just beginning.’

The Pilbeams gave each other looks, and everyone turned to look at them, and they went very red and returned to their seats in much confusion and mortification.

‘I’m very glad to be able to tell you,’ said Ted, ‘that Norman Penfold will do some amazing things on his instrument.’

The bachelors and those who hadn’t brought their wives jeered, whistled and made cat calls and suggestive cries. So did some of the wives. The Pilbeams and the Hortons smiled bravely. Liz, sitting between Laurence and Henry the Eighth, tried to look loftily detached. Laurence smiled his supercilious smile. Neville Badger looked puzzled, a king unused to the amusements of his subjects.

‘Now come on,’ said Ted. ‘That’s not the spirit. I mean … is it? Is-it the spirit? It isn’t, is it? Right. So … let’s hear it for Norman Penfold and his squeeze-box.’

A tiny, wizened, elderly man stepped onto the platform with his accordion. The audience applauded and cheered.

‘Thank you,’ said Ted. ‘That’s better. And to set the ball rolling, I’m going to start things off myself.’

There was a mixture of cheers and jeers. Liz looked mortified. Ted avoided looking at her. He wished he didn’t have to do this but, if he didn’t, history would record that his year’s tenure of office had ended in fiasco.

‘After me, you’ll all sound good,’ he said. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a witty little ditty from the days of the music hall, entittled “The Tuner’s Oppor – ‘tuner’ – ty”.’ Surely even Liz would find mild vulgarity acceptable if it was historical?

Norman Penfold played with more enthusiasm than skill. Ted sang as one would expect of a man whose more usual audience consisted of toothbrushes, sponges and face-flannels.

Miss Crotchety Quaver was sweet seventeen,
And a player of exceptional skill.

She would play all the day, all ev’ning as well,
Making all the neighbourhood ill.

And to keep her piano in tune she would have
A good tuner constantly there.

And he’d pull up the instrument three times a week
Just to keep it in proper repair.

Even before he flung himself upon the first chorus, Ted’s hopes that Liz would find it amusing were fading fast. In private she might be extremely sexy, but in public … he caught a glimpse of her embarrassed face, and of Laurence looking amused at her discomfiture.

He launched into the chorus, and he was very nearly in tune with Norman Penfold. Every now and then the wizened old musician sensed that he was falling behind his own rhythms, and produced a sequence of very fast notes, like an overexcited and slightly asthmatic blackbird, until he was satisfied that he’d caught up with himself.

And first he’d tune it gently, then he’d tune it strong, sang Ted.

Then he’d touch a short note, then he’d run along.

Then he’d go with vengeance enough to break the key.

At last he tuned whene’er he got the oppor – ‘tuner’ – ty.

Paul and Jenny were also embarrassed. They raised their glasses to Rodney Sillitoe, thanking him for their unpatronizing large drinks, and settled to listen to the second verse with fixed smiles.

He came there so often I thought I’d complain
That in March, April, May and in June
That tuner had been there once ev’ry day,
To keep her piano in tune.

I said, ‘He’s too often here, hanging about,
And he’s costing you no end of pelf,
If your instrument wants such a lot of repairs,
I’ll attend to the business myself.’

Towards the end of the verse, Liz walked out. Ted wavered, longed to follow her, couldn’t follow her, didn’t follow her. Instead, he launched rather viciously into the second chorus, somewhat behind the accordion. Norman Penfold played excitedly, breathlessly, jerkily and, just occasionally, squeakily. Ted signalled to the audience to join in, and here and there somebody did remember the odd word, and some of the words they remembered were very odd indeed.

By the end of the chorus, Ted had just caught up with Norman Penfold. He began the third verse.

But vainly I spoke to Miss Crotchety Q. –
She said, ‘Fred, I’ll do just as I please.’

And the very next time I called I saw
That tuner still fingering the keys.

I said ‘Get out.’ They said ‘Get out yourself.’

And they meant it – for out of the place
I went with a foot (his or hers) in my back,
And the door, it was slammed in my face.

Again, Ted signalled to the audience to join in the chorus. This time Norman Penfold was careful to wait for Ted, and Ted leapt in as fast as he could, so it was Norman Penfold who was behind throughout and only caught up at the end of the last line.

And at that moment of rare synchronization between singer and musician, Rita walked in. She was wearing a bottle-green outfit that was deeply unflattering.

Ted looked thunderstruck, and Norman Penfold’s accordion gave out a surprised, excited squeak.

‘Rita!’ muttered Ted under his breath.

There was a pause, then Ted signalled to Norman, and they began again.

I got over my folly, I courted again
A bewitching but sensible maid.

Rita gave Ted a challenging look, then searched the bar for Liz.

But I went in for tuning, and in less than a month
I was quite an adept at my trade.

Rita gazed in amazement at Henry the Eighth, alias Neville Badger.

Now we’re married, and all my doubts and fears
Are for evermore laid on the shelf.

‘But are they?’ thought Rita, as she met the astonished eyes of Paul and Jenny. ‘Where’s Liz?’

For if ever her instrument gets out of tune,
I am able to tune it myself.

Rita caught Elvis’s more detachedly surprised expression. Her elder son joined in the last chorus defiantly, making up the words that he couldn’t remember.

And first I’d tune it gently, then I’d tune it strong, roared Ted.

Then I’d touch a short note, then I’d run along.

Then I’d go with vengeance enough to break the key.

Ted signalled to them all to make one last effort, and they thundered out, with a fair degree of gusto:

At last he tuned whene’er he got an oppor – ‘tuner’ – ty.

There was a fair round of applause. Ted acknowledged the applause briefly, then rushed out, straight past Rita.

‘It was just a song, Liz. Just a bit of fun.’

‘I hated seeing you making such an exhibition of yourself.’

They were sitting in Ted’s Cavalier 2000 GL. He had had GB plates and Townsend Thoresen stickers put on even though the car had never been abroad, but it wasn’t really cheating because he had been abroad, in Rodney’s car.

The engine was running. Ted wasn’t sure whether he’d started it to work the heater or because they were going home. He hoped they weren’t going home. He had to speak to Rita. He had to see his year of office through to the bitter end. It was impossible to go home.

Nevertheless, he felt that if he didn’t handle the conversation very carefully, they would be going home.

‘I went to a wedding on Clydeside once,’ he said, though this wasn’t at all what he’d planned to say. ‘Everybody did a turn. Everybody. Nobody minded. And because nobody minded, everybody was good. I mean … really … everybody. You lot, you’re so … not cold, because you aren’t, well
you
aren’t … so knotted up … private … snobbish.’

‘You were making a fool of yourself.’

‘No, because I didn’t mind making a fool of myself. Don’t you realize? You can only make a fool of yourself if you mind.’

A car pulled into the car park, briefly floodlighting them.

‘It doesn’t matter with these people,’ said Ted. They were in darkness again. He put his hand on Liz’s knee, and she didn’t remove it. ‘These people are my people.’

‘Nonsense. You’re managing director of your own factory.’

‘I haven’t forgotten my roots.’

‘Asparagus has roots, but one keeps them well hidden.’

‘Liz! Love! Asparagus is asparagus. People are people. I mean … we use asparagus and chuck it out when it’s exhausted. We don’t treat people like that.’

‘Don’t we?’

‘Exactly! But we shouldn’t.’

The car shuddered as a particularly violent gust swept over the car park. A white fish and chip bag soared over the roof of the Crown and Walnut like a joyful barn owl.

Ted was in a quandary. After a few minutes you feel self-conscious about resting your hand on somebody’s knee. He couldn’t slide it up Liz’s leg. You didn’t do things like that to Rodenhursts in pub car parks. He felt that he had no alternative but to remove it, and rely entirely on the persuasive qualities of his voice.

‘So … ’ he said. ‘Come back in. Show them you like them. Show them you care about them.’

‘I don’t like them. I don’t care about them.’

‘Liz! Oh heck! Love! These people are the salt of the earth.’

‘Were they the salt of the earth at Wisbech?’

‘Liz! It wasn’t typical, wasn’t Wisbech. I mean … they’re Yorkshiremen. When they’re outside the county boundary, well, it’s a bit like being abroad. It’s a bit like being on a cross-channel ferry. I mean … they’re liable to go a bit berserk.’

‘They didn’t just go a bit berserk. It sounds as though some of them went thoroughly nasty.’

‘All right. All right. I’m not saying they’re any better than anybody else. I’m just saying they’re no worse. Look … I mean … I’m chairman. I must go back. Come with me. Please.’

‘What’s the point?’

It was time to play his joker. Ted knew that it would decide the issue one way or the other, but he didn’t know enough about women to be absolutely sure of the outcome.

‘Rita’s turned up,’ he said.

‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ said Liz.

The tiny, wizened Norman Penfold was playing ‘Send In The Clowns’ and losing to it narrowly. Ellen Ferris, self-appointed contralto and burly wife of Pete Ferris, the self-appointed doorman, was belting out the words and only just failing to reach the top notes.

Laurence felt that if Ted and Liz were talking together, he ought to talk to Rita, out of respect for symmetry if nothing else. So he bought her a drink. They installed themselves in an alcove, beneath a shelf devoted to matchboxes of the subcontinent, including a rare family-size box with a joke on the back in Gujerati.

Laurence saw Betty Sillitoe go to the bar, and said, ‘I wonder whether Betty or Rodney will win the race to get drunk tonight.’ Rita didn’t reply, and he wondered if she was offended. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to be rude to your friends.’

‘They’re Ted’s friends really,’ said Rita, and instantly regretted this small betrayal. ‘Though I like them,’ she added. ‘I think they’ve taken our side.’

‘I should hope so,’ said Laurence. ‘We’re the wronged parties.’ He gave Rita a sharp but not hostile look. ‘With respect, Rita,’ he said, ‘I’m astounded you’ve found the courage to come.’

‘So am I,’ said Rita. ‘You don’t know what you can do till you try, do you? I think, to be honest, it was anger that gave me the strength.’

‘You’re fed up with giving them a clear field?’