LITMIR.BIZ

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why we didn’t cancel it, but if you’ve bought the present and then your invitation’s cancelled, and you’re left with a toaster you don’t want, it’s a bit annoying, so we decided to go through with it and not tell anybody and then go away or something round about the time so you didn’t cotton onto the dates and even if you did cotton on later, well, by then it would be a fait accompli anyway.’ She began to cry. ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Jenny!’ said Paul. ‘Come on, Jenny. Come on, love.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ sobbed Jenny. ‘We should have just done it quietly on our own like we wanted, but we wanted you all to have a lovely do like we knew you wanted.’

      ‘Come on,’ said Paul. ‘Let’s go and get changed and be on our way. Come on, love.’

      He led her tenderly to the door. Afterwards, Rita felt quite proud of how tender he had been.

      ‘I feel much better now I’ve told everybody,’ wailed Jenny, and off she went with Paul to room 108, where Liz had carefully remade the bed, though Ted would later wonder whether, as they believed nobody had used the bed, the chambermaids would change the sheets before the next occupancy and, if they didn’t, whether the next occupants would notice.

      There was a massed tactful movement of guests to the four corners of the room, to the walled garden and to the toilets. One or two even set off home without saying goodbye, feeling that it would be the least embarrassing thing to do.

      Ted and Rita and Liz and Laurence stood in silence for a moment, and then Clarrie Spragg came forward and asked Ted for the car keys.

      ‘I’m going to sit him in the car,’ she said. ‘He’s had enough.’

      Ted started to fish out the car keys. His hands were shaking slightly.

      ‘I ’aven’t,’ said Percy Spragg. ‘I want to stick it out to the bitter end.’

      ‘I’m not sure if I appreciate that phrase,’ said Liz.

      Clarrie Spragg began to lead Percy out, and everything might have been all right if Betty Sillitoe hadn’t lurched in, with Rodney hanging onto her, trying to stop her. Naturally, Percy stopped to watch.

      ‘No, Rodney, it must be said,’ said Betty Sillitoe. ‘Can’t go without telling them. Rude. It was a lovely wedding. Lovely. Obviously it wasn’t perfect. The tuna fish vol-au-vents were disgusting, and, all right, there were some of the biggest snobs in this town in this room – no names, no dentists’ drills – but it was a lovely wedding, give or take a few snobs and vol-au-vents, and that’s the main thing.’

      Betty Sillitoe staggered out of the room.

      ‘Sorry about that,’ said Rodney.

      ‘Never mind,’ said Laurence grimly.

      ‘You don’t mind much, do you?’ said Liz to Rodney.

      ‘Not much, no,’ said Rodney. ‘I love her for her foibles, you see.’

      ‘I envy you,’ said Liz.

      Betty blundered in again.

      ‘Come on, Rodney,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see we’re interrupting a family row?’

      Once more, Betty Sillitoe left the room.

      ‘Goodbye,’ said Rodney Sillitoe. ‘Thank you. Sorry.’ And he too left.

      Rita had watched this display by their closest friends with even more horror than Ted, but it was Ted who felt obliged to say, ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Please!’ said Laurence, rubbing it in while appearing to dismiss it. ‘You can’t be held responsible for the behaviour of your friends.’

      ‘So our Paul couldn’t wait, eh?’ said the barrel-chested Percy Spragg, who was still only halfway to the door. ‘I’m not surprised. She’s a right cracker.’

      ‘Or your relatives,’ added Laurence, not quite softly enough.

      ‘Go to the car, Dad,’ said Rita.

      ‘Wants to get rid of me,’ said Percy Spragg. ‘Didn’t want me to come.’

      ‘Dad!’ said Rita, pink spots flaring. ‘The things he says!’

      ‘Never has welcomed me in her house.’

      ‘Dad!’

      ‘Pretends it’s Ted, but Ted’s all right.’

      ‘Dad!’ said Ted.

      ‘Come on, Father,’ said Clarrie Spragg.

      ‘A bit different from our wedding, eh, Clarrie?’ said Percy. ‘July the twenty-first, 1938. Long time ago, i’n’t it?’

      ‘Jolly well done,’ said Laurence.

      ‘I never forget the date ’cos it was exactly two months to the day after our Rita was born,’ said Percy.

      Rita gasped, and Ted pulled a chair forward. She crumpled into it.

      ‘Percy!’ said Clarrie. ‘You wicked old man!’

      ‘I wouldn’t have said it if she didn’t want me out of the way. Come on, Mother.’ Percy lowered his voice to a whisper, discreet for the first time now that it was too late. ‘I need to go.’ Out loud, he added, ‘It’s the only good thing in this bloody awful business of growing old. You don’t have to give a bugger.’

      Percy and Clarrie hobbled from the room with agonizing slowness, agonizing to them because of their age and rheumatism and arthritis, agonizing to everyone else for fear that Percy would start up again with further revelations.

      Liz flashed Rita a smooth, cool, social, understanding smile, as of one woman to another who is very nearly her equal.

      ‘There’s no need to look at me like that, Mrs Rodenhurst,’ said Rita.

      ‘I was smiling, Mrs Simcock,’ said Liz.

      ‘Well, I don’t need your smiles, thank you very much,’ said Rita. ‘Your family isn’t exactly as pure as the driven snow.’

      ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ said Laurence.

      ‘Well, your daughter’s pregnant on her wedding day,’ said Rita.

      ‘Your son did have something to do with that,’ said Liz.

      ‘I hope,’ said Ted.

      ‘Ted!’ said Rita.

      ‘Mr Simcock!’ said Laurence.

      Elvis Simcock and Simon Rodenhurst entered from the garden.

      ‘I bet you fifty pounds you never make it as a philosopher,’ Simon was saying. ‘I mean, who ever heard of a famous philosopher called Elvis?’

      Elvis didn’t mean to knock Simon out, just to give him a good, hearty biff. But the rising young estate agent, who had also drunk rather more than he should have, fell backwards across the buffet table. He caught his head on the edge of a large plate, which jerked up into the air. Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, slid slowly onto the ground, the upturned plate crashed onto his forehead, and a shower of tuna fish vol-au-vents descended on his inert body.

      Rita fainted.

      The immaculate Neville Badger entered, complete with hat, and gazed at the scene with eyes that saw nothing.

      ‘I’m off now,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, and thank you. Sorry if I … it was just too soon. I just couldn’t cope with the sight of so many people enjoying themselves.’

Second Do

       October:

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