LITMIR.BIZ

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they say Himmler was very fond of dogs. Or was it Goebbels?’

      ‘It must have been dogs,’ said Rodney. ‘I don’t think he was at all fond of Goebbels.’

      ‘No! I meant … oh! How can you joke when I’m comparing you to … oh, not that I mean that you’re really … sorry.’

      ‘Bless you!’ said Rodney Sillitoe, and he gave her an avuncular kiss which, like many avuncular kisses, held a distant echo of kisses less avuncular.

      Jenny was angry. ‘You’re being patronizing now,’ she said. ‘You’re forgiving me because I’m an attractive young thing. I don’t want that. I hate that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Not today.’

      She kissed him.

      ‘Bless them,’ said Betty Sillitoe, watching the kiss.

      ‘I envy you,’ said Rita.

      And in room 108, the father of the groom withdrew from the mother of the bride, in a moment of exquisite ambiguity, of relief and regret, of pride and shame, of ecstasy and horror. It was three minutes to four, and in the lounge and on the terrace the residents were ordering afternoon tea.

      Exactly below the wet patch in the double bed in room 108 was the dry, happily innocent head of the bride’s only brother, Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch. He was talking to Elvis Simcock, the groom’s only brother.

      ‘I’m sorry to hear you can’t get a job, Elvis,’ he said.

      ‘Oh, that’s all right, then, Simon,’ said the cynical Elvis. ‘That makes me feel much better about the total uselessness of my life.’

      ‘I’m trying to be pleasant, Elvis,’ said Simon.

      ‘Effort, is it?’ said Elvis.

      ‘I just thought that as we’re related by marriage it might be a good idea if we tried to get on with each other.’

      ‘You’re right,’ said Elvis. ‘I’ll try. Sorry, Simon.’

      Elvis gave Simon a semi-apologetic, semi-embarrassed hint of a smile, and they stood for a moment in a reasonably companionable silence as they searched for suitable topics of conversation.

      ‘Were you named after …?’ began Simon Rodenhurst.

      ‘Of course I was, you stupid twit!’ said Elvis Simcock, and he stormed out through the French windows.

      And Rita, seeing this, said ‘Oh dear’ and sighed deeply.

      ‘Rita!’ said Betty Sillitoe, her blonde hair with its unashamedly dark roots mocking her friend’s joylessly careful appearance. ‘Rita! You can’t take responsibility for how the whole of your family behaves, or you’ll crack up. Relax. Have a drink.’

      She poured half a glass of champagne for Rita, and topped up her own glass in order to be sociable.

      ‘Thanks, but I’ve had enough,’ said Rita. She put her glass down. Betty drank half her glass and refilled it from Rita’s glass, so that Rita wouldn’t feel guilty about the waste. You will crack up, Rita, she thought. You’re heading for a collapse, my girl, and where will we be then? What’ll happen to our cosy foursome, our holiday in the South of France, our pleasant life together, our just reward for the modest wealth that we create for this community?

      And Rita looked at the door and wondered why on earth Ted was taking so long. And she wondered how long Paul would be, and how they would explain his haircut. Where was her family when she needed them? Spread to the four winds. The panic came over her in waves, and she wanted to scream, and she mustn’t.

      Luckily, she hadn’t realized, in all the crush and her self-obsessed panic, that Liz was also absent.

      And Ted Simcock drifted into a half-sleep, vaguely conscious of Liz Rodenhurst’s warm buttocks lodged in his crotch in the great warm tent of sensuality and satisfaction which was room 108 of the Clissold Lodge Ho …

      The Clissold Lodge Hotel! He sat bold upright, every part of his body rigid, except one.

      ‘Come on, Liz,’ he said, leaping out of bed. ‘We’ve got to get downstairs.’

      As Simon Rodenhurst wandered out into the walled garden, determined to effect an improvement in his relationship with the cynical Elvis Simcock even if it ended with neither of them ever speaking to each other again, he passed the immaculate Neville Badger, drifting slowly into the Garden Room through the weeds of his Sargasso Sea.

      Elvis Simcock was making faces at the carp. It was a one-sided game.

      ‘I wish I was as thick as a fish,’ he said.

      ‘I’m sorry about … er …’ said Simon. ‘But you really shouldn’t have a chip on your shoulder about something as unimportant as a name.’

      ‘How would you like it, Simon, if you were called Garfunkel?’

      ‘What did you read at university?’

      ‘Dirty books mainly.’

      ‘No. I meant …’

      ‘I know what you meant. That was a little thing we Simcocks call “a joke”. Philosophy.’

      ‘Philosophy!’

      ‘Don’t sound so scornful. I’ve registered as a philosopher down the Job Centre. No luck yet. Although the way relations are between the two sides of industry in this country I’d have thought a bit of logical thought might come in handy.’

      ‘Why don’t you work for your father?’

      ‘I have some pride. Our sort of people tend not to rely on that kind of privilege.’

      They watched the carp in silence for a few moments, until that entertainment palled.

      ‘What do you do?’ Elvis made it seem more of an accusation than a question.

      ‘I’m an estate agent.’

      ‘Ah!’

      ‘What do you mean – “ah!”?’

      ‘I meant “Ah! I can’t think of anything to say in response to something so incredibly boring, so I’ll say ‘Ah!’”’

      ‘You can mock, but selling houses is a bit more useful than philosophy.’

      ‘Well, I doubt if Bertrand Russell and Nietzsche would agree with that.’

      ‘Bertrand, Russell and Neetcher? It rings a bell. Are they those big estate agents over at Beverley?’

      ‘They are among the most famous philosophers in the history of Western thought, you ignoramus,’ said the cynical Elvis Simcock.

      ‘It was what we Rodenhursts call “a joke”,’ said Simon Rodenhurst of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch.

      And the carp swam round and round. Round and round.

      Liz entered first, as casually and inconspicuously as she could.

      Laurence detached himself without regret from a discussion about video recorders – his cousin Leonard was saying what a burden they were, all those programmes you’d recorded and never had time to watch, so you ended up getting up at seven on Sundays to catch up with them – and approached his wife. His eyes were cold.

      ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded.

      ‘Having it off with the king of the door knockers.’

      ‘What?? Liz!!’ Laurence had turned quite white.

      ‘I’m joking! Do you think I’d do a thing like that in the middle of my daughter’s wedding reception? And, if I did, do you think I’d tell you?’

      ‘Well, where have you been?’

      ‘I needed some fresh air. In the immortal words

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