A Bit of a Do. David Nobbs
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disfavour on the smiling face of Terry Wogan, who had signed his picture with the message ‘Super nosh. Pity about the flab. Love – Tel’. But Laurence’s expression might equally have been because he was talking to Larry Benson, of fitted kitchen fame.
The Angel Hotel stood in Westgate, which sloped gently away from the abbey church towards the westerly loop of the Gadd. Seven building societies, four shoe shops and the great concrete frontage of the Whincliff Shopping Centre had replaced its old town houses. Only the Angel’s long, peeling facade remained to recall the street’s Georgian heyday.
The Angel’s yellowish Georgian facade concealed a crumbling, rambling, heavily altered medieval interior. The Gaiety Bar, whose beamed roof was concealed by plaster except for one small hole, was situated next to the ballroom and was used as a private bar for functions held there. It was just too small to be impressive. The green-and-white striped wallpaper bore the stains of a decade, and there were large damp patches not quite hidden by furniture and radiators. The tables were extremely low, and customers reclined so steeply in the armchairs that their knees were level with the table tops. It was rumoured that the chairs had been designed by the brother of an unscrupulous osteopath. Bar snacks were served in the Gaiety Bar at lunchtimes, although the furniture made it almost impossible to eat them; but perhaps this was the aim, since they were almost inedible. The brown leather upholstery was beginning to burst. Everyone said that the Angel had known better days, though nobody could actually remember them. But it had one great advantage for events such as the Dentists’ Dinner Dance. There was still nowhere else in the town with a function room of the size required, at least not until the Grand Universal opened.
The standing room around the bar was slowly filling up with dentists and their guests. The men wore lounge suits, the women short dresses. Liz Rodenhurst’s black dress was restrained and bold, simple and revealing, elegant and sexy. Her back and shoulders and, almost certainly, her breasts were tanned.
Laurence had invited his son Simon, Jenny and Paul, Ted and Rita Simcock, and Neville Badger. None of them had yet arrived.
‘In Peru they drink a thing called pisco sour,’ Laurence was telling Larry Benson, of fitted kitchen fame. Larry Benson was looking everywhere but at Liz’s cleavage.
‘Laurence!’ said Liz. ‘Don’t bore Larry to death over Peru. He hasn’t paid you for his gold bridge yet.’
She moved off energetically.
‘Your wife is stunning,’ said Larry Benson, trying to breathe in her lingering aroma without being seen to do so. He ran a small firm called Kitchen Wonderland. His wonderland was situated between two Indian restaurants, at the wrong end of Commercial Street.
‘Yes,’ said Laurence, whose chosen apéritif that night was gin and tonic. ‘It’s local brandy mixed with lemon juice and beaten white of egg. Surprisingly enough, it’s very good.’
‘She must have been quite a sensation in Peru,’ said Larry Benson, whose tipple was whisky.
‘Yes. Though why I say “surprisingly” I don’t know. They wouldn’t drink it if it wasn’t. Peruvians aren’t daft. Oh Lord, here are Paul’s parents.’
Ted and Rita Simcock approached bravely. They were already aware that they were the only people in the room in evening dress.
‘Oh God, they’re in evening dress!’ said Laurence. He turned towards them, putting on a smooth, false smile.
‘Ted! Rita! Good to see you.’
He introduced them to Larry Benson.
‘I’m sorry, Laurence,’ said Rita, pink spots showing on her cheeks. ‘I feel mortified. Ted said it was evening dress.’
‘Never mind,’ said Laurence. ‘It sometimes is. It’s up to the incumbent dentist. In my presidential year, it was evening dress.’ It would have been, thought Ted. ‘Anyway, you both look terribly distinguished.’
Laurence Rodenhurst was lying. Ted always looked like a head waiter in evening dress, and Rita’s long, heavy, dark blue gown hung around her in folds that made her look more curtained than dressed.
‘What did his wife see in him?’ said Larry Benson, the moment Laurence had gone to buy them drinks. ‘She could have had anybody. She’s an amazingly lovely woman.’
‘Is she? I hadn’t really … er …’ For an awful moment Ted thought he was going to blush. He looked round and saw Liz, chatting to Timothy Fincham, president of the area dental association for the year. Helen Fincham was at his side, as always. Ted’s eyes practically popped out of his head at the sight of Liz’s stunning outfit. ‘Yes … I … er … I suppose she … er … are you a dentist, Barry?’
‘Larry. No, I’m in kitchens.’
‘So am I, most of the time,’ said Rita. ‘Perhaps that’s why I’m not amazingly lovely.’
There was a pause. Larry Benson, of fitted kitchen fame, sensed that perhaps he had not been entirely tactful. Ted spent longer studying a smiling photograph of Ian Botham than its message, ‘A smashing evening. Cheers. Ian’, could possibly justify. Rita looked round the room, seeking escape, finding none. Larry Benson seemed on the verge of one or two remarks, only to abandon them. Would it be fanciful to imagine that one of the abandoned remarks had been, ‘But you are amazingly lovely, Mrs Simcock’?
At last he hit upon a gem that satisfied him. ‘Are you a dentist, Fred?’ he said.
‘Ted. Oh no, no. I run a little foundry, forge type of effort. You’ve probably heard of us. The Jupiter Foundry.’
‘No,’ said Larry Benson. After another brief pause he added, ‘Well, excuse I. Must go and rescue my lady wife.’
‘Rita!’ said Ted, when Larry Benson had gone.
‘Well! People!’
‘I agree, but … I mean … Rita!’
‘I want to go home.’
‘Rita!!’
‘Is this some memory training like the Americans? Do you keep repeating my name for fear you’ll forget it?’
‘Rita!’
‘Well, you’ve no interest in me.’
‘Rubbish.’ He looked round, and met Liz’s eyes. She winked. He looked away hastily. ‘Absolute rubbish. You’re my wife, Rita.’
‘Precisely. What on earth gave you the idea he’d said evening dress? I feel awful.’
‘Rita! Love! Brazen it out. Show a bit of style.’
‘I haven’t got any style. I don’t like style. I don’t trust style.’
Laurence returned with a whisky and American for Ted, and a gin and tonic for Rita. They raised their glasses in acknowledgement of his generosity, and Ted found his head swivelling in Liz’s direction. It seemed to have developed a life of its own, his head.
Liz blew him a kiss, a very brief kiss, so discreet that he could hardly believe that he hadn’t imagined it, but still a kiss from a dentist’s wife in a bar that contained her husband, his wife, several dentists, and guests from all walks of the town’s professional life. He turned away rapidly, and found Rita looking straight at him. He went cold all over. How much did she know?
‘How’s business, Ted?’ enquired Laurence with no overwhelming curiosity.
‘Oh, absolutely! Absolutely! What? Ah! Oh, it’s beginning to move again. I’m pinning great hopes on our new novelty boot scrapers with the faces of famous prime ministers.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Laurence. ‘That sounds … that is new.’
‘I’ve got some in the car, if you’d like to see them.’
‘Well, I’d … but I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘No