Fair Do’s. David Nobbs
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also looked thunderstruck. ‘Oh heck. That’s torn it,’ he said. ‘Come on, Corinna. Let’s leave. It’s best. I mean, it is. Isn’t it?’
But his vision in orange was made of sterner stuff. ‘I don’t want to leave, Ted,’ she said. ‘I enjoy champagne. And I’m not frightened of a waitress. My father’s a bishop.’
Corinna Price-Rodgerson marched forward resolutely. Ted had no option but to follow.
‘Ted! Corinna!’ Neville’s enthusiasm for welcoming new arrivals was a bottomless well. ‘Tea or champagne?’
‘Champagne for me, please,’ said Corinna.
‘There you go, madam,’ said Eric Siddall, barman supreme. ‘No problem. Just the job. They can’t touch you for it.’
‘I think I’ll start with tea,’ said Ted. ‘I’ve got a mouth like an elephant’s …’ he glanced at Corinna, ‘… mouth.’
Ted’s choice of tea involved an encounter with Sandra, lover of cake and, until recently, lover of Ted. Well, so be it. It was unavoidable.
Sandra, who had made a creditable job of clearing up the worst of the mess that she had made, gave Ted a cup of tea and enquired, with suspect solicitude, ‘Do you take sugar, sir?’
Ted was uneasily aware that people were listening.
‘You know I … yes. Two, please,’ he said.
‘Nice to see you again, sir. We haven’t seen you around lately,’ said Sandra.
‘No, I … er … I … er … I’ve been … er …’
‘Tied up? I know how these things happen, sir.’
Jenny came in, carrying an electronic baby link.
‘They’ve put the babies in room 108,’ she announced.
‘They’ve what?’ said Ted.
‘That’s hardly appropriate,’ said Liz. ‘That’s the room he was … put in last time.’
‘Well they say they use that room as a kind of spare because it’s next to the boiler so it’s noisy at ni … What last time?’ said Jenny.
‘I didn’t realise it had ever really gone away,’ said Rita.
They all gave her blank looks.
‘Corduroy,’ she explained.
‘You’re religious,’ Ted told Corinna. ‘Come and have a look at our great Yorkshire abbeys.’
He led Corinna off to admire the paintings.
Rita slipped off without explanation.
‘What last time?’ insisted Jenny.
Neville excused himself without explanation.
‘Mum,’ said Jenny, suddenly alone with Liz. ‘He’s never been to the hotel before. Were you going to say “That’s the room he was conceived in”? Was he conceived during my wedding reception?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ admitted her mother. ‘I was so overjoyed at your marrying your road sweeper that I got carried away.’
‘Oh my God,’ wailed Jenny. ‘No wonder our marriage is going wrong. Oh Lord. I shouldn’t have said that. Not today.’
She plugged in the baby-listening device.
Ted and his fiancée stood beneath Fountains Abbey. The artist had imposed his romanticism on the natural romance of the ruins. He had imposed his concept of beauty on their natural beauty. The result was uniquely, inspiredly ugly.
‘Your waitress showed a bit of style there,’ said Corinna.
‘Surprised?’ said her fiancé. ‘That’s stereotyped thinking, Corinna. That’s a very glib social judgement, is that.’
‘I do not make glib social judgements, Ted.’ Corinna’s rebuke was cool but affectionate. ‘I was brought up not to. Don’t forget, my father’s a bishop.’
‘Some chance,’ muttered Ted.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing. Well, you do rather drag it in. “Nice cup of tea, this. Incidentally, my father’s a bishop.”’ He lowered his voice, in order to talk about sex. ‘“That was magnificent. You’re the best lover I’ve ever had, Ted. Not that I’ve had that many. My father’s a bishop.”’
‘I’ve never said you’re the best lover I’ve ever had.’
‘No. You haven’t. Why not?’
‘Maybe you’re the only lover I’ve ever had.’
‘What?’ Ted’s astonishment slipped out. He worked hard to alleviate his tactlessness. He wasn’t entirely successful. ‘I mean, not that I’m surprised. No, it’s just that … statistically speaking, it’s very unusual for women to reach your … oh heck …I mean … well … great!’
‘Don’t forget, my …’ began Corinna. Ted joined in. ‘… father’s a bishop.’
They laughed.
Sandra watched. Her face was a rigid mask.
‘Sorry if I was a bit edgy, love,’ said Ted. ‘But, I mean … I am. It’s with seeing her. Being reminded what a … well, not a bastard exactly. I mean, I didn’t intend when I … I had no idea I’d be passionately loved by a beautiful, glamorous, sophisticated virginal goddess. I forget sometimes how attractive I am.’
Liz’s skeletal, ramrod uncle, Hubert Ellsworth-Smythe, who had never refused liquid refreshment in his life, stood with a cup of tea in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, regaling Angela Wintergreen with anecdotes about faux-pas at tiffin, and Angela Wintergreen was enchanted, because he hadn’t mentioned golf once. Matthew Wadebridge, Neville’s colleague, whose wife did charity work six evenings a week and snored in her chair on the seventh, looked out over the grounds, watched a heron flapping indolently through the murk in search of more promising waters, shivered, thought how long the night must be for herons and what jolly times he had in the Bacchus Wine Bar in Newbaldgate each weekday lunchtime, decided that perhaps being human wasn’t too dreadful after all, and turned back to the jollifications with renewed enthusiasm. Jenny Rodenhurst, charming despite her advanced pregnancy in a red and cream chiffon tent-style dress, with a natural straw hat and a shoulder bag hand-woven by the wives of Bolivian tin miners, approached her mother diffidently, wondering how to present Paul’s absence in a not wholly unfavourable light.
‘Mum?’ she began.
‘Paul’s absence from social functions is becoming habitual, Jenny,’ said Liz, driving a coach and pair through her daughter’s diffidence.
‘He hates do’s. Any excuse. Look, Mum, we’ve had difficulties arising from lack of mutual faith arising from Paul’s lapse with Carol, but our troubles pale into insignificance compared to floods in Cambodia and earthquakes in Armenia and poverty in the shanty towns of El Salvador. So, let’s not talk about it.’ She wanted to get away from the mother she had longed to talk to two minutes ago. She saw Eric at his drinks table. ‘Champagne!’ she said, and set off without further excuse. ‘Better not,’ she said, looking down at her swollen body. ‘Have you any orange juice, Eric?’
‘Certainly, madam,’ said the dapper, ageless Eric Siddall. ‘No problem. Here we go. Tickety-boo. And how’s that husband of yours?’
‘Fine,’ lied Jenny. ‘Great.’
‘Sometimes, I – not having ever myself – sometimes I look at married couples and I … but with you two, I see you, so devoted, such loving parents, and I … I do, I come over all unnecessary …’