David Nobbs - The Fall and Rise of Gordon Coppinger

Sir Gordon sighed. It was a sigh steeped in realism. She would always have the last word.

Some people knew what had happened and sent their condolences, but far more of the revellers had no idea that anything untoward had happened, such had been the splendour of the display.

There was mulled wine to round the evening off, and then, gradually, the guests began to leave.

‘Next year will have to be pretty special,’ said Hugo Coppinger to his brother.

‘To next year,’ said Admiral Lord Feltham of Banbury (retired). ‘If we’re invited, of course.’

‘Time for us to retire, my dear,’ said Field Marshal Sir Colin Grimsby-Watershed (retired) to Lady Grimsby-Watershed (retired).

‘Did you enjoy the fireworks?’ said Sir Gordon Coppinger to his daughter Joanna.

‘I don’t much like fireworks actually,’ said Joanna Coppinger to her father.

‘Well,’ said Sir Gordon Coppinger to Emma Slate, whose Rabbit Droppings Near Hornchurch was said by one critic to have lent a completely new and translucent complexion to the meaning of art. ‘There have been many panicking cats and dogs, ponds and marshes full of frightened frogs and terrified toads, well over a hundred expensive cars pumping carbon monoxide into the air, lights blazing in every room of a house of hugely unnecessary proportions, vast amounts of fine foods likely to be thrown away, most of which were produced by rearing and keeping animals in very dubious conditions indeed, and one dreadfully startled old man. Have you enjoyed it?’

‘Oh, Sir Gordon, I have. I have,’ wailed Emma Slate. ‘Does that make me a bad person?’

‘No,’ said Sir Gordon Coppinger. ‘It makes you human.’

Their eyes met. She wasn’t his type at all. His father had been right. She wasn’t very clean. And there had to be something a bit insalubrious in the mind of a woman who could create a picture of rabbit droppings. But sexual attraction didn’t run along smooth lines. There weren’t any rules. And he did wonder if there was just a chance that he could steal her off Luke. That would be fun.

‘You’re pissed,’ said Sir Gordon Coppinger to Vernon Thickness. ‘If we don’t win tomorrow you’re on your bike, sunshine.’

‘We will hammer Charlton Unthletic tororrow. We will larecate them utterly. One–nil. I promise you that,’ said Vernon Thickness to Sir Gordon Coppinger.

‘A message for you, sir,’ said Farringdon to Sir Gordon Coppinger. ‘A lady rang and left a message. A Siobhan McEnery. I believe her husband had rung earlier.’

Sir Gordon’s heart almost stopped yet again.

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