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here!’

      ‘It’s a job. You were scornful enough when I was on the dole.’

      ‘You might have told us,’ said Rita.

      ‘You’d have tried to stop me working tonight,’ said Elvis, who never told them anything now that he was sharing a flat with friends.

      ‘I would,’ said Ted. ‘You’ve embarrassed your mother.’

      ‘But not you?’

      ‘Well … I can’t say it exactly thrills me. I mean … it’s not exactly conducive, is it?’

      ‘You should have given me a job in the foundry.’

      Elvis moved on, and Simon Rodenhurst called, ‘Waiter!’ Elvis turned, and found himself facing a table of rather drunk young men who looked slightly too anaemic to be described as ‘young bloods’.

      ‘Elvis!’ said Simon with mock surprise. ‘Good Lord!’ To his friends he explained, ‘This is my sister’s husband’s brother.’ To Elvis he said, ‘I hope this isn’t embarrassing you.’

      ‘Not at all,’ said the cynical Elvis Simcock. ‘Though you might try something a little politer than yelling “Waiter!”’

      Simon’s companions raised their eyebrows.

      ‘What’s rude about that?’ asked Simon, and the eyebrows were raised even higher when Elvis replied, ‘Well, how would you like it if I popped into your office and yelled “Estate agent!”?’

      ‘That’s rather different,’ said Simon.

      ‘Yes,’ said Elvis. ‘You’re a member of a profession, and I’m “only a waiter”.’

      Simon’s companions gave little cries of derisive surprise at Elvis’s insolence. This was rather fun.

      ‘I think you’re rather forgetting your position, aren’t you?’ said Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch.

      ‘I was speaking as your sister’s husband’s brother.’ said the philosophy graduate from Keele University. ‘Speaking as a waiter …’ He became insultingly obsequious. ‘… what can I get you, “gentlemen”?’

      The Gaiety Bar was almost deserted as Laurence bought his round of drinks from the dark, intense Alec Skiddaw, the thirty-five-year-old barman with the boils.

      ‘This is my strategic defensive position,’ explained Betty Sillitoe from a bar stool. ‘Here I can keep an eye on Rodney’s drinking.’

      ‘Absolutely! Good plan!’ said Laurence.

      Betty Sillitoe gave a gasp of pain.

      ‘What’s wrong?’

      ‘Would you believe, toothache? No need to ask if there’s a dentist in the house.’

      ‘We had a heart attack last year at the Doctors’ Dinner Dance,’ said the dark, intense Alec Skiddaw. ‘That was a full dress do.’

      ‘It’s ironical,’ said Betty, who was over-rouged as usual. ‘Rodney chipped a tooth at the wedding. There was an imitation pearl in the cake. He’s had no pain, and I’ve had toothache ever since.’

      ‘I’m sorry about the cake,’ said Laurence. ‘That makes four. Some distant cousin wrote from Durban to ask if it was a good luck charm. I’ve complained to the Vale of York Bakery in no uncertain terms.’

      ‘It was the woman what did them keep fit classes on Radio Gadd,’ said Alec Skiddaw.

      ‘My dentist can’t find anything wrong,’ said Betty Sillitoe, with another gasp of pain.

      ‘Who is your dentist?’

      ‘Mr Young.’

      ‘Ah! Sorry, that was unethical. Young Mr Young or old Mr Young?’

      ‘I think it must be old Mr Young. He’s as bald as a coot.’

      ‘That’s young Mr Young.’

      ‘She’s made a complete recovery,’ said Alec Skiddaw.

      ‘If you want a change, I can thoroughly recommend Mercer,’ said Laurence. ‘Odd chap, but a good dentist.’

      ‘She’s very attractive. Wasted on radio,’ said Alec Skiddaw. ‘There were seven doctors fighting to give her the kiss of life.’

      ‘Odd?’ said Betty, taking a large sip of gin to ease the pain.

      ‘He’s a socialist,’ explained Laurence. ‘Believes in the National Health Service. Likes football. Supports the United. Must be a masochist.’

      ‘Doctor Spreckley won,’ said Alec Skiddaw. ‘His wife didn’t half give him what for afterwards. I was amazed she knew such words, but apparently she’s a regular theatre-goer.’

      ‘Or,’ said Laurence, ‘and I wouldn’t like to put any pressure on you, I could fit you in as a private patient on Monday morning.’

      ‘I’d like that,’ said Betty Sillitoe. ‘I’d like to have the job done properly.’

      As Laurence took his tray of drinks into the ballroom, he met Percy Spragg hobbling in the opposite direction.

      ‘Hello!’said Laurence. ‘How’s Mr Sprigg enjoying himself?’

      ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Percy Spragg.

      ‘What?’ said Laurence.

      ‘My name’s Spragg,’ said Percy. ‘I’m having a grand time, and this is the first time I’ve had to go all night.’

      The dance floor was beginning to fill up. The Dale Monsal Quartet were playing ‘Send In The Clowns’.

      Rita danced well, if tautly. Ted was clumsy and self-conscious, resentful of every second spent away from his drink.

      Neville Badger was leading Liz towards them. They passed quite close. Ted and Liz exchanged brief looks.

      Rita’s tongue slid out and moistened her lips as she summoned up her courage.

      ‘Ted?’ she said. ‘Is there something between you and Liz?’

      ‘What? Between me and Liz? Rita! What on earth gave you that idea?’

      ‘I keep seeing you exchanging looks.’

      ‘Ah.’ Ted swung her round just in time to avoid colliding with Rodney Sillitoe, who had miraculously managed to separate the Finchams, and was pushing Helen round the floor. ‘Yes. Well … the fact is, Rita … to be absolutely honest … I don’t like her. In fact, I can’t stand her. So that’s what I’m doing, you see. Overcompensating. For the sake of harmony between our two families.’

      Ted found himself steering straight for Liz and Neville again, as if they were on the dodgems. Neville steered Liz out of danger. He danced beautifully, immaculately, in an absent-minded, melancholy way.

      Ted met Liz’s eyes again, and flashed her a warning.

      ‘You are going to dance with her, aren’t you?’ said Rita.

      ‘What?’

      ‘People’ll talk if you don’t.’

      ‘What a convoluted mind you’ve got. All right. I’ll dance with her if you insist, but don’t you trust me?’

      ‘Trust you? After Ingeborg!’

      ‘Rita! For God’s sake! It was exceptional circumstances. I mean … love … she’d just placed an order for two thousand toasting forks! I mean … Rita … be fair … one isolated lapse, bitterly regretted.’

      They swung round beside the Dale Monsal Quartet.

      ‘What about Big Bertha from Nuremberg?’

      Ted

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