Fair Do's (26 page)

‘Simon may be thick,' persisted the cynical Elvis Simcock, ‘Lucinda may be wet, but between them they ought to be able to find a really nice house to be thick and wet in.'

‘Elvis! Don't be stupid,' said Jenny.

‘But he
is
stupid,' said her brother ferociously.

Gentle applause filtered in from the function room.

‘Well at least I'm clever enough not to come in fancy dress,' said Elvis. ‘A Noël Coward who can't be witty, a Mae West who can't be sexy, a Marie Lloyd who can't sing.' He shook his head, sadly, regretting the infinite folly of the rest of humankind.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' said Dale Monsal, with the animation of a constipated walrus, ‘a lovely young lady, Miss Carol Fordingbridge, alias the legendary Miss Marie Lloyd, will now transport you back, across the great prairies of time, to the vintage years of the music hall.'

The long-haired Marie Lloyd flounced prettily onto the stage, just as her ex-fiancé entered from the bar with his lover.

There was warm applause. Carol began with a pretty little bustle-bouncing dance. Elvis's half opened mouth looked a quarter cynical, a quarter astonished, and half baked.

All eyes were on Carol as she began to sing.

‘I'm very fond of ruins, ruins I love to scan.'

Her voice was confident and charming, if not expert.

‘You'd say I'm very fond of ruins if you saw my old man.'

Her cockney accent was quite adequate. Ted watched her wistfully.

‘I went out in the country for a stroll the other day.'

She was capturing the style and spirit of Marie Lloyd. The invisible man nodded his bandaged head in time with the music. Elvis gawped. Jenny, seeing Elvis gawping, frowned.

‘I love to study history and the pubs along the way.'

Jenny linked arms with Elvis.

‘I came across an abbey that was crumbling all to bits.'

‘You do still love me, don't you?' asked Jenny.

‘Fool,' said Elvis.

Alec Skiddaw was surprised to see Ted Simcock enter the bar at that magical moment, when all his guests were held in a time warp by Carol Fordingbridge.

‘Pint of Guinness, please,' said Ted flatly.

‘My ex-brother-in-law – well, he's my brother-in-law again now – he likes his Guinness,' said Alec Skiddaw as he poured Ted's pint. ‘His first wife, my sister, who's now his third wife, she drinks Courvoisier.' He handed Ted the dark bitter brew with its milk-white top.

Ted held his pint up and stared at it. ‘That's better,' he said. ‘As black as my mood.'

‘I beg your pardon, sir?' said Alec Skiddaw.

‘I was watching that girl. Carol. Pretty, Lively. Bright.' Carol's lively, bright voice floated prettily in from the function room. ‘Life ahead of her. And I was thinking of my life, behind me. A mess, Alec.'

‘A mess, sir? You? I find that hard to believe. You're a man of substance.' There was an indignant edge to Alec Skiddaw's voice, as if his own life was so much worse that Ted had no right to complain.

‘An utter and total mess, Alec.'

Ted spoke so darkly, so intensely, that all the wind was knocked out of Alec Skiddaw's sails. He searched hard for a suitable reply.

‘That was what broke their marriage up, first time round,' he said. ‘She poured her Courvoisier in his Guinness, and he poured it all over her new perm.'

Carol was thundering towards the end of her song.

‘Outside the Oliver Cromwell last Saturday night.'

Ted slid back in with his Guinness, and stood at the back of the crowd.

‘I was one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit.'

There was warm applause. Elvis clapped as in a dream. Carol took a brief curtsey. Neville whispered to Dale Monsal. Dale Monsal nodded gravely.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, as if announcing the outbreak
of war. ‘It's time to silence the strings and put the lid on the ivories for a few moments. Mr Neville Badger would like to address a few words to your host.'

Rita shivered. ‘Oh dear,' she said.

Neville climbed onto the platform, and Elvis's bleeper went.

‘News desk!' he said excitedly.

‘Not now!' said Jenny, but already Elvis was gone.

‘Hello, hello, hello,' began Neville. He produced a police whistle and blew it enthusiastically. ‘It's a fair cop.'

‘Oh, Neville,' said Liz to herself.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, penguins, peppers and polar bears,' continued her husband. ‘This is a sad day.'

‘You can say that again,' thought Ted.

‘A sad day,' said Neville again. ‘Ted Simcock is leaving us. Nairobi's gain is our loss. Many of us here today, and not gone tomorrow, though he will be, may never see that loved and trusted face again.'

‘Don't overdo it,' thought Rita.

‘Tonight, Ted has laid on a fabulous do. The champagne has flowed. The caviare has gone down like …' Neville searched for a suitable simile.

‘A lead balloon,' suggested Rodney to himself.

Neville found his simile. ‘Like caviare. We've had music.'

‘Almost,' thought Betty.

‘We've had dancing. Sadly, one important person has missed our junketings. Her name is Corinna Price-Rodgerson.'

‘Oh no it isn't,' thought Rita.

‘Why is she not here?' asked Neville rhetorically.

‘Should I tell them?' thought Ted.

‘Because she is indisposed. Never mind. I don't mean, never mind that she's indisposed; we all mind.'

‘Oh, Neville,' groaned Liz silently.

‘I mean, we will continue to enjoy ourselves.'

‘Speak for yourself,' thought Simon.

‘We will enjoy ourselves, despite her sad absence, which makes the heart grow fonder, and so say all of us. This isn't the time for speeches.'

‘Well shut up, then,' implored Geoffrey secretly.

‘So I want to end …'

‘Hooray,' thought Jenny.

‘… by asking you all …' Neville beamed with the innocence of a man who has never raised a truncheon in anger, ‘… to join me …'

‘Oh no!' thought Rita.

‘… in singing …'

‘Oh Lord!' thought Liz.

‘… “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow”.'

‘Oh heck!' thought Ted.

Neville led the singing. All Ted's guests joined in. Witch and vampire, polar bear and nun, yellow pepper and Noël Coward, all sang enthusiastically.

Ted stepped onto the platform. He faced his guests and adjusted his hat. His complexion was pale.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he said. ‘I …' his voice was shaky, ‘I'm overcome. I am. I'm overcome. The way you sang that song. The revelation of how you feel about me. It was … a revelation. Ladies and gentlemen, don't regard this as “goodbye” – more
“au revoir”.
I will probably see you all again sooner than you think.'

‘Hooray!' cried Neville.

‘Shut up!' hissed Liz.

‘So … no sadness, eh?' But Ted's voice was breaking. ‘Oh Lord. What a sentimental old fool I am. Thank you.'

Ted hurried off the platform. There was loud applause.

As Ted blundered blindly through the gathered guests towards the exit, Elvis rushed in, his media-hound face weighty with exciting news.

Jenny and Rita scurried over to hear it.

‘It's our Paul,' said Elvis. ‘He's been arrested.'

‘Arrested? What for?' said Ted, just as Neville reached them, his face alive with concern.

‘There's been a big demonstration. He threw an egg at the Prime Minister.'

‘Did it hit?' asked Rita.

‘Was it free range?' asked Jenny.

‘Was it infected with salmonella?' asked Neville.

‘Belt up!' screamed Ted. ‘Belt up, the lot of you.'

It was a long time since any cord had been wained in Cord-wainer's Road. One side of the street was occupied by the back of
the crisis-torn Whincliff Centre, that rusting off-white elephant, that stained concrete cathedral of consumerism, through whose bright nave unholy music tinkled. On the other side stood a building site, where two sandwich bars and a pub had been. A huge sign announced that the Probert McEwan Group regretted any inconvenience, as if the building site was an accident they hadn't been able to avoid. Beyond the construction site stood the police station, three-storied, modern, flat-roofed, with three rows of straight, disciplined windows; a dull, obedient building, unprovocative but unavoidable.

The summer wind complained bitterly as it attempted to destroy the Whincliff Centre. It tore a poster of a wanted man from the front of the police station. Empty chip bags bowled along the pavement beside the scurrying feet of Queen Elizabeth the First and Sir Walter Raleigh.

Napoleon was already in the police station, standing in the reception area at a long window of double thickness. Behind the window there stood a police sergeant, who had raised one eyebrow a quarter of a millimetre at the sight of the angry old Corsican.

The small reception area was bleak enough to be inhospitable without seeming so unwelcoming as to arouse hostility. Along both walls were uninviting benches. There were two pairs of cheap hard chairs at either side of the entrance.

‘Do you realise who I am?' said Ted. ‘Ted Simcock,' he added hastily, in case the sergeant was thinking of saying Napoleon.

The sergeant looked blank.

‘One time owner of the Jupiter Foundry.'

The sergeant continued to look blank.

‘Latterly
chef de cuisine
at the Restaurant Chez Albert.'

The sergeant discovered new depths of blankness.

‘I have friends who are masons,' said Ted. ‘If you don't let me in there, you're on your way out, matey.'

Rita and Geoffrey entered. The sergeant raised half of one eyebrow at their costumes.

Ted clanked over to Rita with un-Napoleonic haste.

‘That puffed-up petty Hitler behind his reinforced glass won't let us see our son,' he said.

‘You've put his back up, haven't you?' said Rita. ‘You've got to treat people right.'

Geoffrey took in the details of this unfamiliar room with quiet astonishment, as if witnessing a tribal rite of which he had no knowledge.

Rita walked quietly, unthreateningly towards the sergeant. He awaited her without expression. She turned on a smile that made her feel vaguely uneasy: a winning smile, a politician's smile, a smile with which one might kiss a baby before reintroducing hanging.

‘Good evening, officer,' she said.

The sergeant smiled minimally.

‘My name's Rita Simcock. Councillor Rita Simcock. I know this is an extremely busy time for you, a weekend evening, but I'm very concerned about my son, and I would very much appreciate it if I could possibly see him for just a few moments.'

The sergeant smiled. ‘No,' he said.

Ted almost laughed. Geoffrey squeezed Rita's arm.

‘I'm very sorry, madam,' said the sergeant, ‘but at present we have nobody to supervise a visit. We have this student demonstration, two road accidents, one armed robbery and the usual tribal warfare between lager louts.'

‘Interesting,' said Geoffrey. ‘I must study that.'

‘I'll wait,' said Rita.

‘By all means, madam, but I can make no guarantees,' said the sergeant.

Liz swept in, with Neville following as if attached to her by an invisible tow-rope.

The sergeant raised half an eyebrow at Liz's costume and a whole one at Neville's.

‘We were at a fancy dress party,' said Rita.

‘I'd guessed,' said the sergeant drily. ‘The level of intelligence in the force isn't quite as low as it's sometimes painted.' He didn't even deign to raise half an eyebrow at the entry of Elvis and his green pepper.

Rita and Geoffrey waited beneath a hideous identikit picture of a wanted man. On the opposite bench, defiantly alone, beneath a warning against drinking and driving, sat Ted. Neville and Liz stood. Elvis and Jenny sat on the chairs to the right of the doorway.

‘What's the point of your seeing him?' said Elvis.

‘He needs me.'

‘Jenny!'

‘Not in that way. Trust me. But he is still the father of my children. And he needs our support. Including yours. And I feel ashamed of how wrong I was. I thought after we'd split up he'd end up as the great wet slob he was before we met.'

‘You approve of what he's done, don't you?' Elvis spoke very quietly, trying not to look as if they were having an argument.