A Bit of a Do

Ted wanted to say, ‘What the hell do you mean – “considering”?’ but actually said, ‘Thank you. I thought he did very well.’

He approached Paul, who was talking with a group of his friends in front of the wrecked cake. ‘Paul?’ he said, and his tone made Paul move away from his friends. ‘Paul? Your mother’s in the garden on her own. She looks lost.’

‘Oh heck. I shouldn’t have gone off like that.’

‘You’re a good lad.’

At the other end of the buffet, the cynical Elvis Simcock was talking to Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch. Replenishments had ceased, and the buffet was now a pretty sad display. There were a few sausage rolls and slices of wet ham wrapped round cubes of pineapple, and quite a mound of tuna fish vol-au-vents, but many of the more popular plates were bare except for a few wisps of cress. Simon was shovelling sausage rolls into his mouth at a speed of which only nurses and people who have been to boarding schools are capable. ‘Give up, Simon,’ Elvis was saying. ‘We’ve tried politics, religion, the royal family, the class system, sex, the nuclear holocaust, the meaning of life, estate agents’ fees, blood sports, cars and Belgian beer, and we haven’t found anything we agree about yet.’

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Ted.

‘Please do,’ mumbled Simon Rodenhurst, sending a thin spray of soggy pastry and suspiciously pink sausage meat over Ted’s suit. ‘Oh Lord,’ he apologized, and his cheeks briefly matched the sausage meat.

Ted asked Elvis to go to the rescue of his mother. The great philosopher looked for a moment as if such a task were beneath him, then did a brief mime of the US cavalry. Ted didn’t understand it, but assumed that it meant that he agreed.

‘Hello, Mum,’ said Paul. ‘Are you all right?’

Rita tried a cheery smile. ‘Fine,’ she said.

High cloud was beginning to move in from the west, and the sun was more watery now. They’d been so lucky, considering.

‘Mum?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I went off like that.’

‘I thought you were going to miss the cutting of the cake. What would they have thought?’

Elvis approached.

‘Oh hello,’ he said, with unwonted heartiness. ‘I wondered where you were, our Mum.’

‘Who sent you?’ said Rita.

‘What?’

‘You’ve both come out to cheer me up. I thought for a moment it was spontaneous.’

‘Surprisingly good speech, I thought, Paul,’ said Elvis, ignoring this, ‘but your friend Neil Hodgson was the worst best man I’ve ever come across. I couldn’t make out whether he was drunk or dyslexic.’

‘Dyslexia’s a very serious condition, Elvis. You shouldn’t make light of it.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Elvis was genuinely contrite. ‘He is dyslexic, is he?’

‘No, he’s drunk, but he could have been.’ Paul grinned triumphantly, then turned serious. ‘It’s yet another proof that this is not a caring society. I mean, fancy calling the condition of not being able to spell by a word nobody can spell.’

‘All this caring about things, Paul,’ said Rita, and Paul turned guiltily towards her. He had almost forgotten she was there. ‘It worries me. You never used to care about things.’

Elvis looked up at a glider drifting peacefully towards Scummock Edge. He wondered how small they looked to the pilot. He wondered how small they really were.

‘You never used to turn a hair about dyslexia among Bolivian tin miners,’ said Rita, unheard by Elvis.

‘They don’t have that problem,’ said Paul.

‘Oh good.’

‘They’re illiterate.’

‘She’s changed you.’

‘Yes. Until I met Jenny I was a great wet slob.’

‘I loved that great wet slob. He was my son.’ Rita burst into tears.

‘Mum!’ said Paul. ‘Mum! What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve worn myself to a frazzle trying to lead a good life. A frazzle. Ask Doctor Gillespie. Is it asking too much that there’s somebody somewhere who likes me?’

‘Mum!’

Paul put an arm round his mother, and even the cynical Elvis sat on the other side of her and put an arm round her too, and she couldn’t remember when she’d last had any physical contact with Elvis.

‘I like you, Mum,’ said Paul, and he kissed her. ‘I love you.’

‘We both love you,’ said Elvis, and he too kissed her. ‘You just drive us up the wall, that’s all.’

As soon as the lovely bride saw Paul’s face, she detached herself from her friends and came to meet him. ‘What on earth is it?’ she said.

‘Our two families. It really pisses me off. Mum’s got the idea that they aren’t hitting it off. And she’s right, isn’t she?’

‘Oh God,’ said Jenny. ‘Bloody families.’ She was still holding the train of her dress, even though it had been torn and stained during the chase along the hotel drive. ‘It’s supposed to be our great day and here we are having to hold a summit conference.’ And indeed, as their reception swirled noisily around them, the young couple in the middle of the now untidily elegant Garden Room did look as if they were bowed down by the responsibilities of high office. ‘We’ve got to do something about it, for our own sakes if not for theirs. I will not start my married life under a cloud. Look, you get my father to talk to your mum. I’ll work on your dad and my mum.’ Despite her politics, Jenny still found it difficult to refer to her father as ‘dad’, except to his face where she was encouraged by her knowledge of how much it irritated him.

‘Right,’ said Paul. He looked nervously across at Laurence, who was nodding and smiling at what looked like a very boring story. ‘Oh heck.’

As soon as Laurence broke away – who else but his gynaecological brother would even know three jokes about hysterectomies, let alone tell all three, in swift succession, at a wedding reception? – Paul approached him, trying to think of an opening gambit.

‘Hello,’ he said, in the absence of any greater inspiration.

‘Hello, Paul.’

No help there.

‘Hello.’ Pause. Can’t go on saying ‘hello’ for ever. ‘Er … will you do something for me?’

‘Of course!’ Unwise. Qualify it rapidly. ‘If I can, that is. What … er … what is it you want me to do?’

‘Mum.’

Total blankness.

‘I beg your pardon?’