A Bit of a Do

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 that you have used to me so often, I have a headache.’

Liz moved on, towards Betty Sillitoe and Rita.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I feel the need for some more champagne.’

‘I’m practically a fixture in this comer,’ said Betty, pouring a glass for Liz.

‘Good idea,’ said Liz. ‘Best place to be.’

‘Oh, not for the drink. To keep an eye on my wretched husband. He has been known to overindulge.’

‘Haven’t we all?’

‘No,’ said Rita, and she could feel the telltale pink spots appearing on her cheeks.

‘What?’

‘I know how much I like. I know how much is good for me. I won’t change my ways just to please the so-called fashionable.’

‘And why should you?’ said Liz, pushing Rita’s hostility round the post like any competent goalkeeper.

‘I must say, Mrs Rodenhurst, it’s a lovely do,’ said Rita, accepting that her hostility hadn’t landed on its target. ‘The tuna fish vol-au-vents are quite an eye-opener.’

‘“Mrs Rodenhurst”! Call me Liz! We’re related now, Rita. Incidentally, where’s that lovely husband of yours?’

‘Well … er … Mrs … Liz … er …’ Rita dropped her voice, and the pink spots blazed. ‘I can’t really say.’

‘A mystery! How intriguing!’

‘No. There’s no mystery. He’s …’ The voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He’s answering an urgent call of nature.’

Liz seemed to find this amusing. She actually laughed. Really, there was no accounting for tastes.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Liz. ‘Well, enjoy yourselves.’ And she moved on.