A Bit of a Do. David Nobbs
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He felt that he was making no impression on the emotional gap either. ‘Jenny!’ he panted. ‘I did it to stop her thinking she could get me to do what she wants any more.’
‘By doing what she wanted? That’s a funny way of showing it,’ shouted Jenny over her shoulder, pounding on towards the Tadcaster Road.
She was drawing away from him! He felt a pang of sexist humiliation. He felt a pang of guilt at feeling a pang of sexist humiliation. He struggled on desperately. ‘I never intended to have my hair cut,’ he croaked. ‘I just wanted to frighten her. That’s all, love. Oh, Jenny, please! I love you! I love you!’
Paul’s shouted endearments caused a sentimental chemist to miss a two-foot putt on the seventh hole. It also caused Jenny to turn and wait for him. She held out her arms, and he buried himself in her loveliness. They clung to each other, motionless. Eva Blumenthal, a florist from Freiburg, watching their youthful embrace with delight and not a little envy, missed the teacup at which she was aiming and poured half a pot of scalding tea down the crotch of her husband Fritz, a com chandler from the same ancient city. They play little further part in this tale, and sympathetic readers should be assured that they are happily married, with two boys, one daughter, a labrador and a BMW, and that they enjoyed their holiday, except for the ruining of a pair of Italian trousers and a Saturday night.
Paul and Jenny set off slowly back towards their reception, blissfully unaware that they were the object of so much attention.
‘I don’t want to lie to you,’ said Paul. ‘I did intend to have my hair cut.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘There was a queue. Just as I got to the front a man barged in in front of me. Just because he had an appointment. I saw red and stormed out.’
‘What a stormy day.’
‘Well … I’m on edge. Weddings.’
‘I know.’
‘Come on,’ said Paul, increasing his pace sharply. ‘Everybody must be wondering where I am.’
‘Yes,’ said Jenny doubtfully.
‘Anyway, it all ended up all right. I’ve taught her a lesson, and I haven’t had the haircut she wanted.’
‘I wish you would have a haircut,’ said Jenny.
‘What chance have they got?’ said Rita, after the happy couple had returned and normality had been largely restored.
‘They’ll sort it out,’ said Ted. ‘You’ll see.’
There were distinct signs of impending speeches. The best man, the uncouth Neil Hodgson, was sorting the tele-messages and looking sick.
‘What does marriage mean these days?’ said Rita.
‘Love! Give them a chance.’
‘What does our marriage mean?’
‘Love! It means I love you, love.’
‘Do you?’
‘Love! I mean … really!’
‘I’m frightened for them. I mean … what chance have they got if they haven’t got any back-up?’
‘Back-up?’
‘Our two families making a real effort to be friendly to each other.’
‘I’m doing my bit,’ said Ted.
Laurence Rodenhurst made quite a good speech, which drew a few modest laughs from the guests. His Aunt Gladys from Oswestry described it as ‘very appropriate’. She employed understatement in her choice of adjectives almost as much as the classless Nigel Thick used overstatement, and Laurence, a boy again, as always in her presence, blushed with pleasure at this high praise. ‘At least the bridegroom was brief,’ was her comment on Paul, but she couldn’t bring this degree of enthusiasm to the uncouth Neil Hodgson’s reading of the telegrams. She refused to call them tele-messages. And if ‘Get Stuck In’ was considered a suitable message from a teacher, it was no wonder that the nation was full of vandals and hooligans and drug addicts and sex maniacs and anarchists and businessmen who couldn’t speak a word of Japanese.
Then there was the cutting of the cake. Soon that great three-tiered masterpiece, created by the Vale of York Bakery in Slaughterhouse Lane, would be travelling in tiny wedges in white boxes to distant, not-quite-forgotten relatives in Braemar, Vancouver and Alice Springs.
Now, as Laurence had arranged, the two waitresses took up permanent station at the champagne table, in the hope that this would deter all but the most unashamedly avid consumers of free booze. The waitresses couldn’t afford to buy champagne, on their wages, and yet the smiles of this good-natured duo were a great deal less tired than their feet, even with people who treated them like automatic vending machines. Pam Halliday, the blonde, was dreaming of a big win on the Australian pools, and the ranch-style bungalow she would build for her parents. Janet Hicks, the redhead, was trying to forget her verruca. That night, in the public bar of the Crown and Walnut, she would drink pint for pint with Derek Wiggins, who drove a lorry for Jewson’s, and after-wards … well, it would be nice to get the weight off that verruca. She smiled deep in her eyes and got a rather startled look from Ted Simcock.
Ted sighed with instinctive envy of Janet’s Saturday night, as he took his champagne out into the walled garden and approached his wife. There were quite a lot of people in the garden now, but Rita was just sitting there in a far, hidden comer, on a wrought-iron bench all on her own, not looking at anything. All was not well. In front of her there were two urns, in which geraniums, lobelia and begonias were flowering. Beside her there was a hydrangea. Rita had once said that, if she had been born a shrub, she would have been a hydrangea.
‘Rita! What on earth are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Exactly. Come on, love. Please! Mingle!’
‘Why? Nobody wants to talk to me. I see it in their eyes when I approach. “Oh God, here she comes.”’
‘Rita! Love! That’s rubbish. I mean … it is. Absolute rubbish. Now come on! Make an effort, for Paul’s sake. You can do it.’
‘Just give me a minute.’
‘Right.’ He kissed’her. ‘Love!’
He entered the Garden Room, looking back to give her an encouraging ‘see how easy it is’ smile.
Ted’s aim in entering the Garden Room was to summon up reinforcements to deal with Rita. It was family rally-round time. They must show her how much they loved her. Meeting Laurence was a nuisance.
‘Reinforcements for Liz,’ said Laurence, who was carrying two glasses of champagne.
‘Ah.’
‘I’m a lucky man, aren’t I?’
‘Pardon?’
‘My wife’s a very attractive woman.’
‘Yes, I …’ Ted looked briefly into Laurence’s eyes, searching his intentions, wondering how much he knew. He found nothing, just two blue eyes searching his brown eyes. He hoped that Laurence was finding nothing except a pair of brown eyes searching his blue eyes. ‘Yes, I … I suppose she is. I mean … I hadn’t really … well, I mean, I had noticed, you couldn’t not, it sticks out a … but … I mean … it hadn’t exactly … if you see what I … Yes. Yes, I suppose she is. Yes, I suppose you are. Very. Yes.’
‘I thought Paul made a good speech, considering.’
Ted wanted to say, ‘What the hell do you mean – “considering”?’ but actually said, ‘Thank you. I thought he did very well.’
He approached Paul, who was talking with a group of his friends in front of the wrecked cake. ‘Paul?’ he said, and his tone made Paul move away from his friends. ‘Paul?