A Bit of a Do (9 page)

‘Dad?’ she said, approaching them just as Ted snapped his sample case shut. ‘They won’t let Paul in without a tie.’

‘Oh, the silly boy,’ said Rita.

‘Do you know how many wars there have been in the world since the Second World War?’ said Jenny.

‘What?’ said Laurence.

‘I’ll tell you. Fourteen. That’s just major international wars. It doesn’t include civil wars or border skirmishes. Well, in the context of all that misery, does it honestly matter whether Paul wears a tie?’

‘Of course not,’ said Laurence. ‘So why is he making such a fuss?’

‘He isn’t. Society is. He isn’t saying people can’t wear ties. Society is saying they must.’

Dame Peggy Ashcroft looked as if she had heard this sort of thing many times before. None of the regulars could remember seeing her in the Angel Hotel, but she must have been there more than once if her message, ‘Excellent as always – Peggy’, was anything to go by.

‘I mean,’ said Jenny, ‘what difference does his wearing a tie make to his worth as a human being?’

‘Not a lot,’ said Ted. ‘But it makes a hell of a difference to his getting any dinner.’

‘You all enjoy laughing at us, don’t you?’ said Jenny. ‘Well, maybe we are naive, but it’s better than dying of terminal smugness.’

‘I’ve got a dental association tie in my car,’ said Laurence with suppressed anger. ‘If he has no rooted objection to maroon.’

‘The nastier the better,’ said Jenny. ‘He won’t care if it’s got four crossed molars on a ruptured abscess.’

Laurence stalked out past the inseparable Finchams at a pace his pregnant daughter couldn’t match.

Rita wasted no time in asking Ted, ‘Why on earth did you show him your boot scrapers?’

‘Because.’

‘Because what? What do you mean – “Because”?’

‘Because there’s no room for shrinking violets in the world of the small foundry.’

‘Shrinking violets! I don’t know. Between you and Paul, I’ll have a nervous breakdown. I will. Ask Doctor Gillespie.’

‘Be fair to the lad, Rita. He’s got principles.’

‘Yes, and we all know where he got them from. Before he met her, he lay in bed till twelve and wandered around picking his nose and listening to rubbishy music like any other normal, healthy boy.’

Ted had an uneasy feeling that Dame Peggy Ashcroft had winked at him.

‘I’ll put me prime ministers in the boot,’ he said.

‘Don’t leave me,’ begged Rita, but he was on his way.

As he approached the door, Liz intercepted him and made it look accidental.

‘Liz!’ he said. ‘Don’t keep winking and blowing kisses. She’ll see.’

‘I must see you outside,’ said Liz.

‘Liz! We were dead lucky at the wedding. I mean … aren’t they enough for you, our Tuesdays?’

‘No, actually they aren’t.’

‘Oh heck.’ Ted raised his eyes imploringly to a photograph of
General Dayan. There was no help from that quarter. The face was stern. The message, ‘Good food. Good service. General Dayan’, was of no practical value. ‘Liz?’ he said. ‘Are you kinky about this? Does it turn you on, doing it in the middle of dos? It’s probably got a medical name. Functionomania. Do-itis.’

‘All right. We can do it in here if we’re careful.’

‘Liz!’

‘Talk! I’m talking about talking, Ted. I have to talk to you.’

‘Liz! She’s watching.’

‘It’d be unnatural if we never talked. I mean, we do have a young married couple in common. Just make sure you take it calmly. Pretend to show me those things you were showing Laurence.’

‘Oh heck.’

Ted opened his case, and got out a boot scraper with the face of Neville Chamberlain. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back. He had an uneasy feeling that the three eyes of Rita and General Dayan were fixed upon him.

‘Make sure I take what calmly?’ he said.

‘What on earth is that?’ Liz was gawping in astonishment at the boot scraper, and Ted realized that he had never seen her gawp in astonishment before, not even at the magnificence of his naked body on their Tuesdays, when she was ostensibly at her aerobics and he was supposedly at work.

‘Don’t bother about it,’ he said. ‘I’m only pretending to show you them.’

‘It’s not the kind of thing you can ignore.’

‘Good. If that’s a harbinger of the trade’s reaction, it bodes well. They’re boot scrapers with the faces of famous prime ministers. That’s Neville Chamberlain. You’re impressed, I can see.’

‘Ted, listen, I’m …’ Jenny and Paul approached with Laurence, who was still simmering. ‘… doomed never to tell you.’

Paul’s suit looked a worse fit than ever now that he seemed to be developing the symptoms of a sympathetic pregnancy, and the maroon tie clashed horribly with his green shirt.

Neville Badger wandered slowly round the edges, of the bar, pretending to be interested in the photographs, reading the
messages as if he expected to find the meaning of life in them, thinking about last year’s dance, thinking about Jane. The inseparable Finchams veered away to avoid him, but Rita made a beeline for him.

‘Hello,’ she began.

He looked at her blankly.

‘Sorry?’ he said.

You feel rather a fool when asked to repeat a sparkling gem like ‘hello’.

‘Hello,’ she said again.

‘Ah. Yes. Rather,’ said the immaculate Neville Badger. ‘Hello. Absolutely.’

‘Would it help to talk about her?’

‘What?’

‘Your wife. You
were
thinking about her, weren’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I was. How on earth did you …? I was thinking of this same evening last year. She said, “We’ve been happy, haven’t we?” It’s true. We were. I mean, we wanted children, we couldn’t have any, but … that’s life, you can’t choose. But, we
were
happy. I was wondering, Rita, remembering her saying that, it suddenly struck me. Last year. Did she know? Did she suspect? I’m sorry. I’m boring you.’

‘No! Please! I don’t mind. I mean, not that you are, but even if you were I wouldn’t mind, because I like listening. It saves me from having to think of anything to say. I mean, not that that’s the only reason why I enjoy hearing about Jane. I’m very interested.’

Part of Rita was outside herself, listening to herself wittering on, thinking, ‘How embarrassing!’ Yet she didn’t feel embarrassed. And it was a lot better than thinking about her suspicions.

The object of those suspicions was standing with Liz and her pregnant daughter. Laurence and Paul were getting the drinks.

‘I’m starving,’ Jenny was saying. ‘I could eat a horse, except I never could.’

‘It’s chicken tonight,’ said Ted.

‘I hope it’s free-range,’ said Jenny. ‘I won’t eat it if it isn’t.’

‘Good for you,’ said her mother.

‘You think you’ll annoy me by not disagreeing with me, don’t you?’ said Jenny.

‘I just have,’ said Liz. Ted wanted to bury his head in those smooth, tanned shoulders. He wished she wasn’t showing so much to all these people. He wanted it for himself. She was speaking to him. He hadn’t been listening.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Rita’s rather trapped with poor Neville. A rescue might be diplomatic.’

‘Every morning I stretch out my hands to caress her … er …’ Delicacy prevented Neville from continuing, but his hands stroked an exquisite pair of invisible buttocks. ‘Every morning it’s a shock to find she isn’t there. The mornings don’t get any better, Rita.’

‘They will.’

‘Yes, but, you see, I don’t think I want them to. That would seem like a betrayal. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to burden you with my grief.’

‘Oh, please do. I don’t mean burden me. It doesn’t. I’m glad. I don’t mean glad about your grief. I mean, I’m glad to listen to the grief I wish you hadn’t got, but since you have got it, I’m happy to listen to it.’

Ted arrived. ‘Rita, love, could I have a word?’ he said, and to Neville he added, ‘Sorry, Neville.’

‘No! Please!’ said Neville.

Ted led Rita away.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. I was rescuing you.’

‘It’s years since I enjoyed a conversation as much as I was enjoying that one with Neville.’

‘So how are you feeling?’ asked Liz. In the months to come her relationship with her daughter was going to be put under a great strain. She wanted a nice, cosy chat before that happened.

‘Fine. It’s going to be a girl, incidentally.’

‘You’ve had it tested?’

‘I didn’t need to. I know.’

‘Oh. Are you pleased?’

‘I don’t mind. I think it’s selfish of parents to saddle their children with burdens of expectation.’

‘Is that a dig at me or mere disinterested trendy priggishness?’

Oh dear. The nice, cosy chat was going wrong.

‘It’s a dig at you,’ said Jenny. ‘Well, you never left me in any doubt that you preferred Simon.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes. I mean, I’m not resentful. Not now. Not really.’

It was no wonder if her parents did prefer Simon, thought Jenny. He’d always been the perfect son. Never a hint of rebellion. It was entirely typical of him that he should walk past at this very moment, right on cue.

‘Oh, hello, Mother,’ he said. ‘Hello, Jenny. You look nice!’

‘There’s no need to sound so surprised.’

‘Well … you’re my sister.’

‘I mean not that I want gracious compliments, anyway. They’re so sexist.’

‘Simon?’ said Liz. ‘Would you say I favoured you as a child, at Jenny’s expense?’

‘Good Lord, no! You were absolutely fair.’

‘You see!’ said Jenny triumphantly, when Simon had moved on.

‘What?’

‘If Simon thinks you were fair, you must have been favouring him outrageously. Which isn’t surprising, really.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Well … you’ve always been a man’s woman, haven’t you?’

Jenny had never seen the blood rush to her mother’s cheeks before.

‘You bitch!’ said Liz.

‘Mum!’ said Jenny, as Liz stormed off. ‘I didn’t mean … I only … Oh!’

Paul and Laurence returned with Ted’s scotch, Rita’s gin and tonic, dry white wine for Liz and Jenny, and a pint of bitter for Paul – a pint of bitter as an apéritif at a dinner dance! Were these Simcocks deliberately uncouth or merely ignorant?

‘Where’s your mother?’ said Laurence, and Jenny burst into tears and ran from the room.

‘She does that a lot,’ said Paul proudly, and he set off to follow her.

‘Paul!’ said Laurence. ‘Sometimes, a woman needs to be alone.’

‘Not Jenny,’ said Paul. ‘Our marriage is a totality of shared experience.’

‘Berk,’ said Laurence softly to Paul’s back, and then Rodney and Betty Sillitoe were bearing down on him. Rodney looked as if he’d slept in his suit for a week. Betty was wearing a mauve dress and a string of real pearls.

‘Rodney and Betty Sillitoe,’. said Rodney. ‘Ted and Rita’s friends. We met at the wedding.’

‘I
do
remember,’ said Laurence drily. ‘What a pleasant surprise! What brings you to these festivities?’

‘Timothy Fincham invited us,’ said Rodney Sillitoe, and felt obliged to add, ‘He isn’t our dentist.’

‘Rodney’s provided the chickens,’ said Betty Sillitoe, who was over-powdered as usual.

‘Funnily enough,’ said Laurence, ‘I was listening to Radio Gadd this morning … for the news, I can’t stand their … well, you can’t call it music … and I heard an advert for your Cock-A-Doodle Chickens.’

‘“Which chickens give the best value? Cock-A-Doodle Do.”’

‘That was it. I suppose it must be a bit of a problem finding decent copy writers for local radio.’

‘I wrote that myself,’ said Rodney Sillitoe.

‘I must go and check the seating arrangements,’ said Laurence Rodenhurst.

‘Where’s my pint?’ said Paul, when they returned after Jenny had washed the tears away, and they had kissed passionately in the corridor.

‘You’re not going to forget to check that the chickens are free-range, are you?’ said Jenny.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Paul. ‘Do you want me to die of thirst?’

He went off, with slightly bad grace.

‘I didn’t mean straightaway,’ Jenny called out, but it was too late.

As Paul reached the door, he met Percy Spragg hobbling painfully in.

‘Hello, Grandad,’ said Paul, surprised. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Mr Mercer invited me. He’s not my dentist, but he’s a friend.’

‘How’s Grandma? I’m coming to see her tomorrow.’

‘The doctors say she’s satisfactory. It seems a strange description to me.’

The bow-legged Percy Spragg moved on, seemingly unabashed by the great crush of dentists and their guests. You might have thought he went to dinner dances every night.

He came face to face with Rita.