David Nobbs - Fair Do’s

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Title Page David Nobbs Fair Do’s

First Do First Do

January : The Church Wedding

Second Do

February : The Christening

Third Do

April : The Grand Opening of Sillitoe’s

Fourth Do

June : The Farewell Party

Fifth Do

August : The Inauguration of the Outer Inner Relief Ring Road

Sixth Do

September : The Funeral

Seventh Do

October : The Civil Wedding

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A scruffy pigeon, a hopeless straggler in a race from Leek to Gateshead, shuffled across the hard blue sky as if embarrassed to come between the Social Liberal Democratic candidate for Hindhead and his Maker. Gerry Lansdown didn’t see the pigeon. His eyes were closed. He was praying.

‘Oh God,’ he prayed silently, gripping his top hat with tight, tense fingers, ‘thank you for what I am about to receive. Thank you for Rita Simcock.’

He opened his eyes and gazed up towards the God whose existence he had never doubted, although he had never thought of Him as a being so overwhelmingly superior to himself that it was necessary to worship Him, except during election campaigns.

The sun was astonishingly powerful for January, as if there were a hole in the ozone layer directly above Gerry’s head. The pigeon had gone. There was no sign of God either.

The ravishing Liz Badger bore down upon Gerry, arm-in-arm with her second husband, the immaculate Neville Badger, of Badger, Badger, Fox and Badger.

‘Hello, Gerry. You look wonderful,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’ Gerry tried to look as if the compliment was undeserved. He smiled cautiously at the woman who had once run off with his fiancée’s first husband. He kissed her, carefully, so as not to disturb her make-up.

‘Doesn’t he, Neville?’ said Liz.

But Neville Badger, immaculate in his morning dress, was months and years away, attending other services at this massive Norman abbey: his marriage to Jane, Jane’s funeral, and the marriage of Liz’s daughter Jenny to Paul, younger son of today’s bride.

‘Neville!’ Liz sounded as if she were summoning a recalcitrant Pekinese.

Her husband of four months sailed gently through time and made a soft landing beside her.

‘What?’ he improvised.

‘I was saying, Gerry looks wonderful.’

Neville gave Gerry a brief, unseeing glance.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Absolutely. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.’

‘Isn’t Rita lucky?’

‘Oh yes. Absolutely. Lucky old Rita.’

‘I mean … isn’t he a simply gorgeous man?’

‘Yes, he … er … I mean, gorgeous isn’t a word I … you’re looking very handsome, Gerry.’

The rising star in the Social Liberal Democratic firmament simpered. ‘Well …’ he said. ‘So are both of you. I mean, you’re handsome and Liz is gorgeous.’

‘Thank you …’ said Neville.

‘Very much,’ said Liz.

The Badgers walked slowly towards the West Door. The path ran between old, neglected graves. Beyond the graveyard, blackened stone and brick and rusting concrete buildings jostled in narrow, untidy streets.

At the porch Neville stopped. ‘Liz?’ he said. ‘I don’t query the basic truth of what was said, but wasn’t that rather too much of a mutual admiration society?’

‘Oh, Neville,’ she said. ‘I was trying to make you jealous.’

‘What?’

‘By praising Gerry.’

‘Why should I be jealous?’ Neville was struggling to understand, knowing from experience that his puzzlement would irritate her.

‘I wanted you to think I find him attractive.’

‘Maybe you do. He is attractive … I imagine … to a woman … which you are.’

The wedding guests were strolling slowly into the church. Two glorious hats bobbed past, wide-brimmed navy to the left of the stationary Badgers, bowl-shaped orange to their right.

‘I’m trying to get you to show me how fiercely possessive you can be when aroused,’ explained Liz.

‘Oh, I see,’ said the doyen of the town’s lawyers. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh, Neville, you’re hopeless.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No. It’s why I love you, I suppose.’

‘Because I’m hopeless?’ Neville was aroused now that Liz no longer wanted him to be. ‘I see!’

‘No, you don’t. You see nothing.’

‘I see Jenny.’

Liz’s daughter Jenny was smiling broadly but nervously. Her hair was cropped shorter than her mother would have liked. She was almost eight months pregnant. She would soon become the first person ever to enter this most English of churches wearing a dress which illustrated the life cycle of the llama.

‘Hello, Mum,’ she said, knowing that Liz preferred to be called ‘Mother’. ‘Hello …’ she hesitated, as if making a serious attempt to call Neville ‘Dad’ for the first time. ‘Neville.’ She kissed her mother and almost kissed Neville.

‘Where’s Paul?’ said Liz.

‘He wouldn’t come. He says he’d find it impossible to dredge up a smile.’ Neither of Rita’s boys had welcomed their mother’s engagement to a man more than ten years younger than herself.

‘Oh dear,’ said Liz. ‘Honesty can be so socially inconvenient.’ She made the remark sound as though it might just possibly be witty.

Neville had dredged up a faint smile which appeared to be set in concrete as he listened to the conversation between his second wife and her daughter.

‘I think Paul’s trying to be ultra-honest in order to try to make me forget the time he was dishonest over Carol Fordingbridge,’ said Jenny.

‘How sophisticated his feelings are,’ said Liz. ‘No wonder he’s doing so well with his road sweeping.’

‘Oh Mum.’ Jenny began to cry, big drops out of clear eyes like a summer shower. ‘Oh Lord. Now look what you’ve made me do.’

She hurried off, blowing her nose angrily.

Liz clutched Neville’s arm. ‘Oh Lord,’ she said. ‘I didn’t … why do I always …? Darling, say something very nice, very quickly.’

As people drifted almost reluctantly into the great church, Neville Badger stood at his wife’s side, his baggy face creased with mental effort.

‘Those scrambled eggs we had this morning were really delicious,’ he said at last.

‘Oh, Neville, you’re hopeless.’

Liz swirled into the church, the sun glinting on her large silver three-leafed clover earrings. Neville scurried immaculately in her wake.

As soon as Gerry Lansdown saw Jenny blowing her nose, he extricated himself without reluctance from a discussion on the ethics of High Street credit with a loss adjustor from Camberley, and hurried over to favour her with one of his most winning smiles and eliminate this blip of sorrow from the great joy of his wedding day.

‘Jenny!’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Fine. Great.’ She gave him a brave but watery smile. ‘Terrific.’

‘Good. Good.’ He kissed her. He liked her. He felt that she might make a good Liberal one day, when she had learnt to accept the compromises necessary for the conduct of civilised life. ‘Is Paul all right?’

‘No, he’s got a touch of … er …’ To her fury, Jenny felt herself blushing. ‘A touch of … er … a slight … I can’t lie. Paul and I promised. No more lies. He’s refused to come.’

‘I see.’ Gerry frowned. He didn’t really care whether Paul came or not, but Rita would be very upset, and that would upset him. Blast the ghastly youth. ‘I see. But you did.’