Fair Do's (29 page)

‘Ted! Our son, the …' Rita hesitated as two councillors' wives walked past. One of them gave her a frosty smile which contained bottomless hostility towards women who didn't know their place.

‘Fruit of our loins?' said Ted.

‘Well, yes. Though it sounds right silly saying that now … locked up, because he couldn't control his warm heart. Are you ashamed of him? Don't you love him?'

‘ 'Course I do, Rita. ‘Course I love him. I mean … I do. But.'

‘But what?'

‘It's not very nice, is it? Your name plastered all over the papers.'

‘It wasn't your name. It was mine.'

‘I know. And how do you think I felt about that? No mention of ex-foundry owner's son. No mention of ex-toasting fork magnate's son. I don't exist any more, Rita. I'm a nothing.' A drop of rainwater slid off his hair onto his nose. He brushed it off hurriedly, in case Rita might mistake it for a tear of self-pity.

‘Is that what worries you most, today of all days?' said Rita.

‘Rita! 'Course it isn't. Our Paul worries me. But it isn't very nice walking in here, being a nobody. It isn't, Rita.'

‘So why have you come?'

‘You call yourselves the user friendly council. I'm a user. I came to be friendly.'

‘What's your real reason?'

‘I'm interested. I'm a responsible citizen, deeply concerned about town planning.' Rita looked sceptical. Ted tried to stare her out. ‘I am. And I thought, I must come, even on such a foul night.'

It was indeed a foul night. Later, the Meteorological Office would announce that it had been the wettest August day since 1809, in the wettest August since 1792. That month, in fact, Otley had more rain than Tierra del Fuego.

‘What's your real reason?' repeated Rita.

‘Because, Rita, I've no alternative. What do I do? Slip down back alleys every time I see old friends? Drink in the public bar because folk who once queued to buy my quality door knockers are supping in the lounge? I'm not going to run, Rita. There's nowhere to run to. I'm not going to hide, Rita. There's nothing I need hide from.'

Sandra approached with a plate of quartered sausage rolls.

‘Well, almost nothing.'

He fled.

‘Sausage roll, madam?' said the cake-loving Sandra Pickersgill.

‘I'm a vegetarian,' said Rita.

‘These are from the Vale of York Bakery,' said Sandra. ‘I know how little meat goes in them.'

Sandra bore her gastronomical delights onwards. Rita was astounded to see Liz and Neville arrive.

‘Good Lord!' she said. ‘I didn't expect you here.'

‘In my time …' began the immaculate Neville Badger.

‘Don't answer her, Neville,' commanded his ravishing wife.

‘Sorry, Rita,' said Neville.

‘Don't apologise to her, Neville,' commanded Liz.

‘Sorry, darling.'

‘Oh, Neville, don't apologise to me either.'

‘Sorry,' said Neville, apologising for apologising. ‘Sorry,' he added, apologising for saying sorry.

‘Oh, Neville!'

Liz marched on, as though she were still dressed as Queen Elizabeth. In fact she was wearing black silk trousers and a silk
camisole top, with a pink, blue and black cummerbund, a petrol blue silk jacket, large black and gold earrings and a gold neck chain; yet, to many women's chagrin, she managed not to look ostentatious.

Neville caught up with her by the model of the route of the outer inner relief ring road.

‘No, but, Liz, please, listen,' he said. ‘I must speak to you.'

‘Neville! Are you being masterful?'

‘Yes. Sorry. I mean … yes! I understand your reasons for refusing to talk to Rita, but please, Liz, today Rita is a mother in torment.'

‘Do you think I'm not? My daughter's road sweeper husband is in prison. My daughter's name is being dragged through the mud.' Liz bent down to examine the model. ‘And what is she doing, my daughter? Carrying on in public with her husband's brother, who, from which I suppose I should glean a tiny crumb of comfort, is not a road sweeper. My association with the Simcock family has been a total and unmitigated … Neville! Look!'

‘What?'

‘That's our house.' Liz pointed at the tiny cube which represented their marital home. ‘Look at our garden.'

Neville peered at the model.

‘I can't see our garden,' he said.

‘Precisely.'

‘What?'

‘It isn't there. It's gone.'

‘Gone? Gone where?'

‘Are you being deliberately obtuse? It's gone into the ring road. We're not losing twenty yards of garden. We're losing all our garden. This is what the woman you used to take to dinner and can't stop apologising to has done.'

Neville took another close look at the model, as if he hoped that this time the evidence would be different. He faced the same stark picture: their home. On three sides, greenery. On the fourth, touching their home, the silver snake that represented the outer inner relief ring road.

‘The model may not be accurate,' he said, straightening up with some difficulty.

‘Well go and ask her.'

‘You now want me to speak to Rita?'

‘Yes.'

‘Right.'

‘Forcefully.'

‘Right.'

‘Coldly but politely, with icy dignity.'

‘Right.'

‘Without the remotest hint of apology.'

‘Right.'

‘Well go on.'

‘Right.'

Neville set off reluctantly, and returned instantly.

‘You don't think there's a risk that in having refused to talk to Rita, and then talking to her two minutes later, I'll make myself look rather … er … indecisive … er … a bit of a dog's-body doing your dirty work, enabling you to maintain your uncompromising position of total isolation while I make myself look a … slight … total idiot?'

‘No.'

‘Right.'

Neville set off again on his reluctant mission. Jenny approached Liz, who was staring at the model as if she could shame it into changing its route.

‘Hello, Mum,' said Jenny, smiling.

Liz didn't speak or move a muscle.

‘Mum! Aren't you speaking to me?' Jenny's frail smile ended its mayfly life.

Liz didn't speak or move a muscle.

‘Oh Mum!'

Liz turned on her daughter. Jenny flinched as if she'd been hit.

‘You have allied yourself totally with the Simcocks,' said Liz with cold fury. ‘And not even the same one all the time.'

‘Mum!' said Jenny, quivering on the verge of tears.

Neville's journey towards Rita was proving a social minefield. He found himself forced into polite small talk with Alderman Spigot, the small corpulent Mayor, his sister Netta Ponsonby, the large corpulent Mayoress, Craig Welting, the Australian managing
director of Radio Gadd – who believed that everybody, including his wife, regarded him as the poor man's Rupert Murdoch – and Dr Andrew Millard, the anaesthetist, who had just told a story which appeared to have reduced Alderman Spigot, Netta Ponsonby and Craig Welting to anaesthesia. Welcomed as a distraction, Neville had to stay for a few moments. Yes, what an awful summer. It's the holiday makers I'm sorry for. No, can't stand caravans, I like my creature comforts. Have you heard the new scare? Brown bread. Gall stones. Well, we wouldn't eat anything, would we? And all the time, boring into his bored back, Liz's eyes, accusing him of deliberate delaying tactics.

At last he reached Rita, who was chatting with Councillor Wendy Bullock, a left-winger of passion and integrity who had unreservedly welcomed the arrival of this new sister among the brothers.

Rita excused herself with a raised eyebrow that said, ‘Sorry. Neurotic male on the horizon.'

‘A word, Rita,' said Neville.

‘Neville!'

‘Yes, I know. I'm speaking to you. But … er …' Neville became masterful. ‘Now the thing is …' His masterfulness proved short-lived. ‘Incidentally, the reason we're invited is because I've done a bit of legal work for the council.'

‘Yes, I realised after I'd asked.'

‘Now this plan for the outer inner relief ring road …' again, Neville's masterfulness proved short-lived, ‘… incidentally, I'm so sorry about Paul. It's all very well having scapegoats in theory, but it seems very unfair when one actually knows the goat that's being scaped.'

‘Thank you, Neville.'

‘Now on this plan, I have to tell you, Rita …' It didn't prove third time lucky, so far as Neville's masterfulness was concerned. ‘I mean I imagine there's a perfectly good explanation, but there's no sign of our garden at all. Liz is worried we're going to lose it all. And so am I.'

‘Oh, Neville! We can't show every blade of grass. Of course you're not going to lose your whole garden.'

‘Do I have your unequivocal assurance? Nothing less will do … or some kind of assurance. I can't go back empty-handed.'

‘You have my unequivocal assurance.'

‘Thank you, Rita. And I
am
sorry about Paul.'

‘Get off with you before I cry.'

‘Right.'

Neville managed to return to Liz without serious social mishap.

‘We're not going to lose the whole garden,' he said. ‘I wormed an assurance out of her.'

‘“Wormed an assurance”! You apologised for not talking to her.'

‘I did not. Well, only a bit.'

‘You said you were sorry about Paul.'

‘How do you know what I said? You couldn't hear me.'

‘I saw you. I know your body language. I saw those shoulders saying you were sorry.'

‘Well I may have done a bit.'

‘You're still attracted to her a bit.'

‘No. Of course not.'

‘Two can play at that game.'

‘Liz!'

The lighting was just too dim, on that gloomy August evening, for the exhibits to be clearly seen without peering. The room was just too large for the number of people who had braved the elements. The Conservatives had criticised the holding of this public consultation exercise in August, when so many of the public were away. The Socialists had retorted that the Conservatives wouldn't have consulted the public at all, and suggested that more Socialists than Conservatives took holidays in August, since the privileged could choose off-peak times. The truth was that no politicians really wanted to consult the public, because the public weren't experts, so how could they know best? And it seems that the public agreed, since barely half those invited had turned up.

The joint big wheels behind Sillitoe's crossed the uncrowded room purposefully. They had something to say to the one uninvited guest who had turned up.

‘Ted!' said Betty. ‘Bra … well, not brave of you …'

‘Betty means it's good to see you,' said Rodney.

‘Absolutely. How's things, Ted?'

‘Very good. Fine. On me own, me own master again. Eat
what I want when I want, pop down the pub, no rush home. I'm loving it.'

‘Good,' said Rodney. ‘Any … er … plans?'

‘Plans?'

‘Occupational prospects,' said Betty.

‘Ah. Jobs. Well, there are irons in fires. Feelers in the right places.'

‘What sort of irons and feelers, Ted?' asked Betty.

‘Ah well. Discretion, eh?' Ted tapped his nose. ‘Folk are sounding me out. I have to weigh up the pros and cons. Early days. No rush.'

‘So, there wouldn't be any point in my … ‘ Rodney caught Betty's look, ‘… in
our
sounding you out, then?'

‘What for?'

Betty grew rather coy. ‘A certain something that might have cropped up that we might think you might feel might suit you.'

‘Well … one more iron, one more feeler.… You have somebody in mind, some business contact who's told you he's looking for a man of my calibre?'

‘No!' said Betty. ‘It's us, Ted.'

‘You! Me, work for you?'

‘I know I've …
we've
asked you before, but circumstances have changed. Why not, Ted?'

‘Why not? Because you've become crackpot lunatic fringe animal rights trendy health food freaky nut nuts, and even if I did swallow me pride and me nut cutlets and work for you there'd be no point, you'll be bankrupt by Christmas. This is Yorkshire, not Shangri sodding La. That's why not.'