David Nobbs - Fair Do’s

‘So!’ she said, when Liz had gone. ‘A sensational development.’

‘Sensational!’ said Ted with relish, forgetting that he was supposed not to be pleased.

‘And you’re pleased.’

‘I am pleased. I admit it. But only because he’s not right for her, not because I … Rita and I are over, Sandra.’

‘I know.’

‘Honestly, love! We are! Over. Finito. You what?’

‘I know. I’ve seen how you talk to that tarty piece.’

‘Sandra! She is not a tarty piece.’ Ted realised his mistake. ‘And I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.’

‘So!’ A scoop of potato salad. ‘You’re smitten!’ A scoop of Waldorf Salad. A couple passed close by. ‘Bean salad, sir?’ said Sandra, playing Ted’s game scornfully.

‘Thank you, Sandra.’

The couple threw hostile glances at Ted. He recognised Rita’s sneezing uncle and his wife. Her hat matched his nose. They moved on without speaking. It was a deliberate snub, for what Ted had done to Rita.

‘I am not, Sandra,’ he said. ‘I am not smitten. But I like to get my facts right. And the lady to whom I assume you refer, with whom I had a brief sophisticated exchange of views on Beaujolais Nouveau, happens not to be a tarty piece. All right?’

‘“Beaujolais Nouveau”! The only Nouveau you’ve ever drunk is Theakston’s Nouveau. She’s a tarty piece and you’re besotted.’ Ted began to raise his voice, forgetting that he was supposed to be having a casual conversation with a waitress who happened to be a colleague.

‘She’s a classy, elegant, attractive woman and I am not besotted.’

For a moment they glared at each other, eyeball to eyeball. Ted, expecting a deadly insult, was surprised to hear Sandra say, ‘Mayonnaise, sir?’ He was even more surprised to see the huge scoopful of mayonnaise that she plonked onto his absurdly heaped plate. It dropped off the edges. There would be a yellow stain just beneath the pale stain on his trousers. He turned away, trying not to show his anger.

The Sillitoes sailed unsuspectingly towards him and met the full force of the gale.

‘Hungry?’ said Rodney, seeing Ted’s piled plate.

‘Get stuffed,’ said Ted, as he stomped off.

‘What did I say?’ said Rodney.

Betty indicated Sandra with her head.

‘Ah!’ Rodney nodded, as if he understood, then realised that he didn’t understand. ‘What?’

He found himself staring into Sandra’s disconcertingly knowing young eyes and turned away. Now the Sillitoes were on collision course with Neville and Liz.

‘Ah!’ said Neville. ‘The Sillitoes! Calmer waters!’

‘What?’ said Rodney. ‘Well, who’d have thought Rita’d ever do a thing like that?’

‘Will we ever understand the minds of …?’ Neville hesitated, ‘… people?’

‘You were going to say the minds of women, and then thought I’d accuse you of being sexist,’ said Liz.

‘What an awful thing for Rita to do, though,’ said Betty Sillitoe, over-explicit as usual.

‘Yes,’ said Liz. ‘How to upstage everybody by not being present.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ said Betty.

‘So, what are you two planning now that your chickens will never come home to roost again?’ enquired Neville.

Rodney Sillitoe, who still looked as though he had spent the night in a chicken coop in his suit, even though he was no longer the big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens, having let all his battery chickens go free in a fit of remorse, explained their new plans briefly, but with evident enthusiasm. ‘We’re opening a health food complex.’

‘With wholefood vegetarian restaurant,’ added Betty proudly.

Liz laughed. Her laugh trilled through the tense gathering like the cry of a curlew on a misty morning.

‘Liz!’ said Neville.

‘Sorry.’ Liz seemed contrite. ‘But Mr and Mrs Frozen Drumstick selling nut cutlets!’

‘Why does everybody think vegetarian food is just funny laughable old nut cutlets?’ protested Betty.

Liz’s dainty hand fluttered to her neck, to be impaled there, a dying butterfly. ‘My God! You’re serious converts,’ she said, and laughed again, a less elegant laugh, a magpie’s malicious cackle.

‘Liz!’ said Neville.

‘Oh Lord,’ said Liz. ‘I shouldn’t laugh at anything today, should I? Sorry, Neville. Social lapse over.’

There was an uneasy pause. Neville, usually the first to fill uneasy pauses, leapt in. ‘Can I get you two a drink?’ he asked, before remembering that it wasn’t wise to offer the Sillitoes drinks.

‘Oh thank you,’ said Betty. ‘Grape juice, please.’

‘Apple juice, please,’ said Rodney.

This time Liz’s laugh was an owl’s hoot.

‘Liz!’ said Neville.

It would have been impossible for all the guests to have remained hushed all afternoon. It would have been unnatural if they had all continued to behave unnaturally all afternoon. So, as the sun dipped, as clouds bubbled up in the increasingly unstable air, as champagne flowed and sea trout slithered down throats, and an Egyptian cherry tomato with no respect for class squirted down the waistcoat of a merchant banker from Abinger Hammer, it was only natural that stories should be told, that laughter should be heard, that cautiously desirous looks should be exchanged between the head waiter at Chez Albert and the mysterious yellow lady whose blonde hair might have been natural.

By the time Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, approached the cynical Elvis Simcock and his long-haired fiancée, Carol Fordingbridge, a casual observer could have been forgiven for thinking that it was a happy occasion.

‘Hello,’ said Simon. ‘What an extraordinary … er … what can I say? What can one say? I’m … er … I’m …’

‘This is an unprecedented moment in our island’s history, Carol,’ said Elvis. ‘An estate agent lost for words.’

‘Here we go again,’ sighed Simon. ‘It’s bash an estate agent time. It’s mock an easy target time.’

‘You could say the situation leaves considerable scope for improvement,’ said Elvis. ‘Which is estate agent-ese for a ginormous cock-up.’

‘Except it isn’t,’ said Carol, who looked charming in an apricot crêpe, short-sleeved, belted dress.

‘What?’ said Elvis.

‘You never wanted your mum to marry him.’

‘No, but … I didn’t want her to do that to him.’

‘I believe you’re starting to like him now he isn’t going to be your new father.’

‘Well … he’s quite a nice bloke.’

Carol was appalled. ‘He’s a faceless, ambitious, self-satisfied, crummy, crappy, yuppie smoothie prig,’ she said.

‘He’s quite a nice faceless, ambitious, self-satisfied, crummy, crappy, yuppie smoothie prig.’

‘Hey!’ said Simon. ‘When are you two love-birds going to name the day?’

‘Poor Simon. Thank God I’m not cursed with good manners,’ said Elvis.

‘What?’ said Simon.

‘Trying to change the subject so tactfully.’

‘Except it wasn’t tactful, was it?’ Both men were shocked by Carol’s vehemence. Vehemence wasn’t her stock-in-trade.

‘What?’ said the philosophy graduate feebly.

‘He won’t name the date, Simon, till I’ve passed my philosophy finals.’

‘What?’ said the bemused young estate agent.

‘Oh, bloody hell, stop saying “what” alternately, will yer?’ said this new vehement Carol. ‘I’ve yet to satisfy Elvis, Simon, that I’m a mentally worthy partner for his philosophic journey through life.’

‘What?’ said Elvis.

Carol stormed off, leaving one rather surprised young man and one very surprised young man.

‘Women!’ said the very surprised young man.