David Nobbs - The Fall and Rise of Gordon Coppinger

Oh, Joanna, the day you were born … our hopes.

‘So, darling, how are you?’

‘Oh, you know, Dad. So-so.’

Never ill. Never well.

‘Well, it’s the time of year.’

Gordon, you can do better than that.

‘Yes, I hate this time of year.’

You hate every time of year. Too hot. Too cold. Too wet. Too dry. Too average.

‘Looking forward to Christmas?’

Oh, come on, Gordon, sparkle. It’s Guy Fawkes Night.

‘Not really, Dad. I don’t much like Christmas actually.’

Not even positive enough to hate it.

‘And it all starts ridiculously early these days.’

I entirely agree, in fact I’d go further, it’s ludicrous, it’s greedy, it’s self-destructive, but can’t we try to be positive tonight? It is a party. Abandon Christmas. Change the subject.

‘How’s the job?’

‘Oh, you know.’

‘Well, you could have worked for me.’

‘Oh, Dad, don’t. You know I don’t want favours. You know I want to make my own way in the world.’

But you haven’t.

‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I haven’t made much of a way, but it’s my way.’

And you can’t sing like Frank Sinatra either.

Suddenly, the banging of a gong broke through the rising chatter. More bangs, cries of ‘Shh’, and silence fell in the great triple-glazed, triple-gabled house specially designed for a soap magnate who needed two swimming pools and so amusingly called his mansion a cottage, ha, ha.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ intoned Farringdon. ‘Your host, Sir Gordon Coppinger, wishes to say a few words. If you would make your way, as many of you as can squeeze in, to the drawing room.’

Sir Gordon hurried through to get to the front while he still could. Farringdon passed the microphone over to him. He tried not to look at the throng. He didn’t want to see the sheikh, the nun or the archbishop. They sounded like a bad joke, but in fact their presence alarmed him. He didn’t want to see his frightened dad, his listless daughter, his inept son, his insincere wife. He wanted to forget his unhappy life. What?? Unhappy?? No!!

He’d paused too long. He must begin. But to have had these thoughts at this very moment … how could he cope?

Of course he could cope. He was a great man, wasn’t he?

Wasn’t he?

He coped.

‘Ladies and gentlemen …’ he began. ‘Ladies and gentlemen … I’m not going to make a speech. Too many people make too many speeches. I’m going to say just a few words. As you may know, my brother Hugo and I host a Guy Fawkes party in alternate years, and this year it’s my turn, so … welcome. Welcome, each and every one of you. Guy Fawkes Night. We celebrate a failure. How very British. Well, I don’t much like failure. In fact, I think I can say that I’m a stranger to it. So, my simple message is this. Don’t talk Britain down. Don’t even contemplate failure. Cut the word “crisis” from your vocabulary. Let’s start tonight. Let’s make this night a huge success. Ladies and gentlemen, you will find tables laden with food in the dining room, in both the conservatories, and in the far kitchen. Don’t rush, there’s plenty for everybody. Enjoy.’

The minute he had finished speaking he felt as if his words had been utterly hollow. He stood there in his crowded home, and felt utterly alone.

People began to queue for food. Many rushed. Others didn’t rush because they were genuinely too polite. Some didn’t rush because they didn’t want to be seen to rush. A few didn’t rush because they were cool. Luke didn’t rush because he had to be seen to be cool. Christina didn’t rush because she was the hostess. Joanna didn’t rush because she didn’t much like food. His dad didn’t rush because the nun had abandoned him and he was utterly confused.

Sir Gordon walked up the side staircase, unseen, upstaged by hunger. His purpose was to telephone Siobhan from the phone in the master bedroom. He had to know whether she had invited the sheikh, the archbishop and the nun. If she hadn’t, why were they there? Was there a plot to kill him? On Guy Fawkes Night? He wasn’t a wimp, but he was frightened. Of course he was frightened. Very few people want to die.

And yet … didn’t he court danger? Didn’t he need it to spice up his unvarying diet of success? Yes, but danger was one thing, death another. He wasn’t ready to die.

Danger. He longed for a sudden little bit of it. Perhaps he was a danger addict, not a sex addict. Perhaps he was a danger addict and a sex addict.

And here was the perfect way of having danger and sex.

He would make love to the nun in the bed he shared with his wife in the middle of his Bonfire Night party.

Gordon, this is madness. You are not a rapist. You are not an evil man. How will you persuade a nun into your bed?

With your famous charm.

But, Gordon, you are beginning to wonder about your charm.

It was a mad moment. It was over. The desire for sex and danger left him, the tide receded and he was a whale stranded on a beach.

He picked up the phone. Siobhan’s mobile was switched off. It would be, you weren’t allowed to have them switched on in the wards.

He hesitated. Even he, so used to having his own way, thought twice about ringing a children’s hospital at a quarter to nine on Guy Fawkes Night.

He must find out.

He dialled.

‘Hello. My name is Sir Gordon Coppinger.’

‘ The Sir Gordon Coppinger?’

‘That’s right. I want to speak to a lady called Siobhan McEnery. Her baby son Ryan is seriously ill in the hospital.’

‘Is it important, Sir Gordon?’

‘It’s important or I wouldn’t be ringing at this time but no, it isn’t a matter of life and death and I will understand if she can’t speak to me or doesn’t feel able to.’

‘I’ll do my best, Sir Gordon.’

‘Thank you. I really appreciate that.’

He waited, waited, waited. His heart was racing.

‘Hello.’

Siobhan. He almost fainted.

‘Siobhan, it’s Sir Gordon here. I have to know. How’s Ryan? How’s the wee mite?’

‘Oh, Sir Gordon, thank you so much for asking. He’s very ill but he’s holding his own.’

‘Oh, thank you, Siobhan. Thank you. I’m so relieved. Get back to him, Siobhan.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He put the phone down and walked slowly away. He caught sight of himself in a long mirror. He stared with astonishment at the sight of himself staring at himself with astonishment.

He walked slowly down the stairs, out of silence into bedlam.

Almost without knowing that he was doing it, he took a plate and piled it with food. Almost without knowing how he had got there, he found himself back in the immense drawing room.

‘Dad! Over here.’

Almost without making a decision he obeyed Luke and made his way over to the corner of the room, where there was a spare seat. Nobody, it seemed, had been that eager to sit with Luke and Emma, who had created a little artistic enclave by sitting with Peregrine Thoresby and his partner David Emsley.

‘I love your Pissarros,’ said Peregrine Thoresby, who was at his most effete and wouldn’t be everybody’s cup of mint tea in this gathering.

Sir Gordon finished his mouthful of smoked duck before replying. He needed the time. He was having trouble getting back into the social whirl after his experience upstairs.

‘Well, I put on my walls only what I like,’ he said at length.

‘And that includes nothing by Luke?’ asked David Emsley, who was big and solid and had played in the scrum for Rosslyn Park before coming out of the closet.

‘Difficult one. I really don’t want to be offensive,’ said Sir Gordon. ‘I only put on my walls paintings that I both admire and believe will enhance my house. If you think that makes me philistine, I am. I can admire Francis Bacon. I don’t want him in my house. The same goes for Hieronymus Bosch and, I’m afraid, Luke Coppinger. It isn’t a question of merit. It’s a question of … domesticity. In choosing a picture I use some of the same criteria as I use in choosing a settee. Does it enhance the room? Fact of life, I’m afraid. You disapprove, Emma. I see it in your face.’