Fair Do's (13 page)

Jenny switched on the baby link.

‘Today is a happy day,' said Neville. ‘Before we come to the cutting of the cake, I have an announcement. Will you please drink a toast to Ted Simcock and Corinna Price-Rodgerson, who have announced their engagement.'

Sandra dropped a pile of plates. They crashed spectacularly to the floor. None of them would carry cake that day or any other day.

‘Oh hell,' she said.

She ran from the room.

‘Oh Neville,' said Liz.

‘Oh Lord,' said Neville.

‘Oh heck,' said Ted.

He rushed out after Sandra.

As a badger to the sett, as a fox to the earth, as a catatonic to the womb, so Sandra made for the kitchen. There, dwarfed
by the blackened ovens and the huge pots and pans, she turned and faced her foe.

Her foe entered breathlessly. It was a long while since Ted Simcock had run anywhere. He advanced diffidently, and stopped beside the ovens, as if frightened that his cornered ex-lover would tear him to pieces if he came too close.

‘Sandra!' he said. ‘Love!'

‘So!' Sandra spat her words out. ‘You're going to marry your tarty piece.'

‘I came out here to … er … mend a few bridges, if I could. To build a few fences, to try to … I don't know.' Ted's words sounded hollow in the emptiness of the cold, lifeless kitchen. ‘But, Sandra! Don't call her a tarty piece. Her father's a bishop.'

‘He may be a bishop. She may be double-barrelled. Deep down, in her heart, where it matters, she's a tarty piece.'

‘You never could judge character, could you?' said Ted sadly.

‘No,' barked Sandra. ‘I loved you.'

‘Ouch!' Ted winced. ‘Sandra! Love!'

‘Why do you call me “love”? You don't love me.'

‘No, I don't. And you don't love me.'

‘No. Not now.'

‘Love! You never did. We never did. Did we, love? We didn't. It was affection. Friendship. Desire. Lust. It was never love, love.'

‘It was. Love curdles.' Sandra's tears began to flow again. Silent, reproachful tears. ‘Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. That's what I reckon, anyroad. And I hate you.'

The empty kitchen of a great restaurant is a sad place. There is desolation in its temporary calm. In the calm of the kitchen of the Clissold Lodge Hotel there was no desolation. Emptiness seemed its natural state. Sandra's intensity rang strangely through this calm, cool place.

Still Ted found himself unable to move closer to this young animal that had been ripped open by life.

‘I wanted to say … why I came out here was to say … you're a grand girl,' he said. ‘A right smashing lass.'

‘You must be an idiot to give me up, then.'

‘Maybe I am, Sandra. Maybe I am. I didn't intend to,
love. I didn't want to, love. Then it burst upon me. Love, love.'

‘You love her?' Sandra sounded incredulous.

‘Oh yes.'

‘She loves you?' Sandra sounded even more incredulous.

‘Oh yes. I wanted to come in here … embarrassing though it is …'

‘Big of you!' There wasn't a knife in the kitchen that could have cut as sharply as Sandra's scornful sarcasm.

Ted winced, but carried on. ‘To say, I'll never forget you. You gave me something wonderful at a time of low ebb.'

‘I warmed you up for her. 'Cos I haven't got a double-barrelled name and money and I keep dropping things,
which
I only do when you're around.'

Sandra began to sob again. Ted at last found the courage to move towards her, uttering the inappropriate words, ‘Well, there you are, you see. We're best apart.'

A slightly-built, shinily-suited, middle-aged man entered. He had a toothbrush moustache and shiny black hair that had long ago been combed into submission. Had he been found with a speck of dust on his waistcoat, he wouldn't have slept for shame. He was Mr O'Mara, the duty manager.

Ted and Sandra hurriedly decided that they would indeed be best apart. They leapt apart.

‘What's going on?' asked Mr O'Mara. Despite his name, there was no trace of Irish in his voice, which was slightly fruity, and just too large for him, like his suit.

Ted thought swiftly.

‘I expressed a desire to see the kitchens of a great hotel,' he said. ‘Your excellent, efficient, helpful waitress kindly obliged.'

‘Yes.' Sandra was trying hard to hold back her tears. ‘This is Ted Simcock, Mr O'Mara. Mr O'Mara, the duty manager.'

Ted and Mr O'Mara shook hands. Mr O'Mara's handshake was weary. He'd been shaking hands for seventeen years.

Sandra turned to Ted. ‘These are the main ovens,' she sobbed. ‘They can cook enough roasts to serve two hundred and fifty portions of meat at a sitting, which we often do, being known for our functions.'

‘Yes,' said Ted with feeling. ‘I know.'

‘Why the tears?' said Mr O'Mara.

It was Sandra's turn to think quickly.

‘I'm that proud, Mr O'Mara,' she said.

‘What?'

‘Of the kitchens. Of the hotel. It's that clean, that gleaming, that well-kept.' She struggled unavailingly against the flow of tears. ‘I thought of when it's full and smoky and all the orders and all the cooking and all the satisfied customers and how we cope and I felt … right proud, Mr O'Mara.'

‘That's wonderful, Sandra,' said the duty manager. He turned to Ted. ‘Seventeen years in hotels, Mr Simcock. Given my life to the group.' Ted nodded numbly. ‘Passed over for assistant manager five times.' Ted shook his head at the injustice of life. Mr O'Mara gave a tiny, bitter twitch. ‘Outsiders brought in over my head.' Ted nodded his sad agreement at the ways of this harsh old world. ‘Wondering, am I wasting my time? Here's my answer.' There was a tiny sob in Mr O'Mara's voice. He looked down at his shiny shoes, then straight into Ted's face. ‘This is what makes it all worth while.' Ted nodded. Mr O'Mara turned to Sandra. ‘Thank you, Sandra,' he sobbed. ‘Oh Lord, I …' He took out a tiny handkerchief and blew his shiny nose.

‘Thank you, Mr O'Mara.' Sandra resumed her tear-ducted tour of the kitchen. ‘This is the toast-making machine.'

The emotion was too much for Mr O'Mara. He fled, clutching his handkerchief. As he shut the door, Sandra's words rang in his ears.

‘At peak breakfast times this can handle four hundred slices an hour.'

‘Oh, Sandra.' There was a distinct tremor in Ted's voice. ‘That was brilliant. Very clever. You're smashing. Oh, Sandra, I'm sorry.'

Ted also began to sob. The proud face that had launched a thousand boot scrapers crumpled with sorrow and shame.

The steady hum of conversation in the bright, busy Brontë Suite contrasted so startlingly with the echoing emptiness of the kitchen that Ted almost flinched. He had washed his face, and, because there were no towels, had bent down to dry it under the hand-dryer. This lack of dignity had pleased him, for he was honest enough to feel that he deserved it. He had stood on the steps in front of the hotel, and had felt only the clammy
handshake of that foetid day. His poise had only been partially restored. He glanced uneasily towards his fiancée, wondering how she had taken his abrupt pursuit of Sandra. Before he could find out, he was accosted by his son.

‘So, how are you feeling now you're engaged, Dad?'

‘Very happy. Delighted.'

‘And how do you feel about … about Mum?'

‘What is this?
Panorama
?'

Elvis sounded hurt. ‘It's your son showing an interest in his father, Dad. Do you regret what happened with Liz?'

‘ 'Course I do, son. And I regret it didn't work out with your mother. Bitterly. I mean … course I do. And now I must go to Corinna. She'll be upset.'

‘She doesn't look upset.'

‘Elvis! You know nothing about women.'

Ted grabbed a glass of champagne and drank without tasting it. He smiled at the bluff, egg-shaped Graham Wintergreen, but hardly saw him. He approached Corinna. She looked as calm as she was orange.

‘Sorry about that,' he said, trying to sound as if it hadn't been important. ‘Are you upset, my petal?'

‘Of course not,' she said calmly. ‘It's perfectly understandable. You wanted to try to help her retain some shreds of dignity.'

‘You're an amazingly understanding woman.'

‘My father's a bishop.'

Charlotte Ratchett was the first to see Sandra return. She carried a tray on which there were just two glasses of champagne. Charlotte Ratchett, whose tastes were as expensive as her furniture, tried to catch her eye, but Sandra had eyes only for Ted and Corinna. She thrust the tray under their noses, giving them a fixed, bright, dreadful smile.

‘Champagne, sir? Madam? To celebrate your engagement?'

‘Oh, thank you, Sandra,' said Ted. ‘That's very … that's extremely … thank you.' He drained his glass rapidly, grimaced, put the empty glass on Sandra's tray, took the nearest full glass, realised that he hadn't shown good manners, and looked sheepish as Corinna took the remaining glass.

Sandra moved off, still smiling.

Ted raised his glass to Corinna, drank, and grimaced again.

‘I don't like this very much,' he said.

‘Oh!' said Corinna. ‘I love it.'

‘You're amazing,' said Ted. ‘You don't seem jealous of Sandra at all.'

‘Why should I be?' Corinna seemed astonished by the thought. ‘It's over. I can tell that from the way you constantly cosset me. I might feel very much less secure if you stopped cosseting me.'

‘We'll leave soon,' said Ted. ‘I'm going to take you home and cosset you like the clappers.'

He took another hefty sip, and grimaced.

The immaculate Neville Badger took a delicate, immaculate sip, and beamed anxiously as he surveyed the progress of the party. At his side, seemingly inseparable from him as she had never been from Laurence, Liz watched with more acerbic, astringent eyes. She was a proud cockerel, and he the mother hen.

‘Everybody's happy,' said Neville. ‘Isn't it wonderful?'

‘Jenny's very upset about Paul,' said Liz. ‘Carol's very upset about Elvis, Ted's very upset about Sandra, Sandra's very upset about Corinna, Rodney and Betty are rather shocked to find their health food complex is next door to Chez Edouard, Simon is dreadfully scared about something, and I'm very upset that Rita's election will push through the outer inner relief ring road. Apart from that … as far as I know … people are ecstatic.'

Neville looked shattered.

‘Will you speak to Rita, Neville?'

He leapt hurriedly into life. ‘Of course,' he said decisively. ‘Leave it to me.' Then he thought. ‘What about?'

‘The outer inner relief ring road.'

‘Well, what can I …? Yes, all right. I'll have a word with her some time.'

‘Now.'

‘Now?'

‘Now.'

‘Now.'

‘Jenny?' said the former big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens to the young lady with whom he had so often argued over the ethics of battery chicken farming. ‘Would you at some time – after you've had your … er … of course – consider working for me?'

‘For us!' Betty Sillitoe's indignation was marinaded in affection.

‘Absolutely,' agreed Rodney hastily. ‘Slip of the tongue. Old habits die hard. Us.'

‘Well, I'd love to,' said Jenny, without enthusiasm. ‘Thanks. Terrific.'

‘Rita'll be working for us.' Betty could hardly contain her excitement at the prospect.

‘Terrific,' said Jenny listlessly. ‘It's all very exciting,' she added flatly. ‘I feel … very excited.'

She drifted off. Rodney and Betty watched her with concern.

Neville was not approaching Rita with quite the dispatch that might have been expected. He stopped, with unprecedented eagerness, to listen to a golfing joke from Graham Wintergreen, to ask Mrs Wadebridge whether she'd had enough to eat, to begin to apologise to Mrs Wadebridge in case she construed his remark as a comment on her amplitude, and to stop in mid-apology in case the apology made matters worse. He exchanged polite nothings with Morris Wigmore with an intensity that suggested that a smile from Neville might ease the painful memory of his son's sticky end in Brisbane.

But all too soon he found himself confronting Rita. She was staring out of the window at her life.

He coughed. She jumped.

‘I … hello, Rita,' he said. ‘Liz is a little … not worried … a little concerned … and she's asked me to … to ask you … so here I am. If this isn't a good time, please forget it.'