A Bit of a Do

‘Oh my God,’ said Ted, half to himself, still digesting Liz’s news. Rodney Sillitoe, arriving at his elbow as the hungry throng surged forward, said, ‘You see! Even my best friend’s dreading my chickens.’

The ballroom of the Angel Hotel was just too small to be impressive. It was also slightly too long for its width. The walls were the colour of smokers’ fingers. The outside wall, opposite the double doors to the Gaiety Bar, was curtained for most of its length. The curtains had also seen better days. In those better days they had been dark red. Now they were just dark. Ted noticed none of this.

At one end of the room, on a raised platform, the Dale Monsal Quartet had already set up their instruments. On the big drum, in large letters, were the words, ‘Dale Monsal Quartet’. Ted noticed none of this.

At the other end of the room, separated from the platform by the dance floor, there were eighteen round tables, where nineteen dentists and their hundred and twenty-three guests were tucking into prawn cocktails. There were only two empty places. Laurence endeavoured to compensate for the absence of Jenny and Paul by being unwontedly free with his claret.

The prawn cocktails were at least reasonably generous. The diners had been consuming rubbery frozen prawns for quite a while before they found that all they had left in their cut-glass bowls was a pile of soggy lettuce in Marie Rose sauce. As far as Ted was concerned, he might have been eating braised toenail clippings in porcupine blood. How like Liz to give him this earth-shattering news seconds before they were to sit at the same table, for a three-course meal, in company with her husband and his wife.

Rita was too preoccupied to notice how preoccupied Ted was. What had happened to Paul and Jenny? And then suddenly she was too preoccupied even to worry about Paul and Jenny. Elvis had entered, also in evening dress, carrying a pile of plates. She almost stopped breathing. The humiliation of it! Her own son, Elvis Simcock, philosophy graduate, the first graduate in the family, working here, tonight, in front of all the Rodenhursts, as a waiter!

Timothy and Helen Fincham’s table got their main course first. The Mercers’ table had to wait longer, and Percy Spragg entertained them with reminiscences about the golden age of dung. By the time the Rodenhursts got theirs, the chicken was already congealing. And Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, had called out excitedly, ‘Good Lord! There’s Elvis! He’s one of the waiters!’ and Rita had closed her eyes and felt herself sinking.

Some said the chicken was tasteless. Others were not so complimentary. Fish meal was the main flavour detected. The chicken was burnt on the outside, but almost raw along the bones. No playwright on the first and only night of a West End flop suffered more than Rodney Sillitoe during that meal. Only Timothy Fincham’s Bulgarian burgundy kept him going.

With each portion of chicken there was a rock-hard rasher of bacon. The stuffing was from a packet. The service was strained. The frozen beans weren’t. The pale green water in which they had been cooked mingled with the anaemic gravy. Thin green streams trickled round the natural dams provided by tinned carrots and greasy roast potatoes. It reminded Simon Rodenhurst of seaside holidays, of building dams to trap the streams emerging from tidal pools, of untroubled youth, before he had realized what a very ordinary, plodding brain he had.

Between the main course and the ersatz meringue, the Dale Monsal Quartet began to play. It comprised piano, drums, saxophone and clarinet. Dale Monsal himself was on sax, a dry, rather sad, withdrawn man, with receding hair. The pianist was black, wiry, all smiles and ivory teeth. The drummer was white, huge and fierce. The clarinetist was middle-aged, with her greying hair done in a severe bun, which contrasted dramatically with the very low cut of her long evening gown. She simpered, smiled and ogled, constantly attempting to impose her personality on the gathering.

After the first, somewhat uninspiring number, Dale Monsal spoke through a microphone held too close to his mouth. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and dentists,’ he said in a slow Yorkshire voice, as flat as a fen. ‘My name is Dale Monsal and this is my quartet. Our aim tonight is enjoyment. Your enjoyment. We aim to provide music loud enough to make you want to get up and dance, but not so loud that you can’t talk if you want to. Thank you. And now, without further ado, take it away, maestros.’

Dale Monsal and his three maestros took it away. Muddy coffee was served. Rita gave Ted an urgent look and, when he ignored it, she kicked him and he said, ‘Ow! You kicked me, Rita!’ and she glared at him, and performed a brief and surprisingly competent mime, suggesting that she could have had quite a career in street theatre, if fate had willed her life otherwise; and at last the penny dropped, and Ted bought a round of drinks.

At first nobody danced, and it looked as if the event would be a monumental flop. People began to stretch their legs and wander about. Simon Rodenhurst moved off to join some of the younger people, and the immaculate Neville Badger went on a slow though restless wander.

The conversation turned inexorably to Peru.

‘It’s a fascinating country,’ said Laurence, after giving a not notably brief resumé of their holiday, ‘but it is very poor. It makes one ashamed of one’s greed and over-consumption.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Ted.

‘Same again?’ said Laurence.

‘Why not?’ said Ted.

Laurence moved off, and Ted got a look from Rita.

‘Well, if I don’t have another whisky, it’ll not get transported to the shanty towns of Lima,’ he said. ‘I mean … it won’t. It’ll just help put some poor sod in Western Scotland out of work.’

Rita sighed. ‘I do hope they’re all right,’ she said fervently.

‘Well, a lot of distilleries have closed,’ said Ted, ‘but …’

‘I think Rita meant Paul and Jenny,’ said Liz.

‘Oh, don’t worry about them,’ said Ted. ‘It’s just a tiff.’

‘They have such high expectations from marriage,’ said Liz.

‘They’ll learn,’ said Rita.

There was a pregnant pause.

‘Do you think that was what novelists mean by a pregnant pause?’ said Liz.

‘Liz!!’ said Ted, and immediately realized that he’d sounded much too horrified, since nobody else knew that Liz was pregnant. ‘I mean it’s not exactly tactful, is it?’ he went on, struggling to justify his interjection. ‘I mean … mentioning pregnancy in public. When our son got your daughter pregnant before they were married. I mean … is it?’

Neville Badger returned from his wanderings, and asked Liz to dance.

‘Come on, Ted,’ said Rita.

‘Rita! The floor’s not crowded enough for me yet.’

‘I find talking a strain. I hardly drink. The food’s never any good. The only thing I enjoy’s the dancing. So come on.’ And she yanked Ted to his feet. Her new-found ruthlessness and strength astounded and worried him. How much did she know?

As they made their way between the tables to the dance floor, Ted felt very conspicuous in his evening dress.

Elvis, conspicuous in his evening dress, was passing by with a tray of empties.

‘Elvis!’ said Ted. ‘I mean …’

‘What?’

‘Working 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!”?’