A Bit of a Do

They swung round beside the Dale Monsal Quartet.

‘What about Big Bertha from Nuremberg?’

Ted stared at the musicians, in order to avoid thinking about Big Bertha from Nuremberg. He found himself gazing at the lady clarinetist’s slightly blotchy shoulders, which rose to an almost Amazonian bos …

‘What about Big Bertha from Nuremberg?’ repeated this new, remorseless Rita.

‘All right,’ Ted admitted. ‘Two isolated lapses, bitterly regretted.’

He felt his eyes searching out Liz. He yanked them back to the Dale Monsal Quartet. He felt that the lady clarinetist was willing him to meet her eyes. He did so. She dropped her eyes coyly, as if directing him down past her busy blowing mouth to her slightly blotchy shoulders, which rose to an almost Amazonian bos …

‘What about Doreen from the Frimley Building Society?’

‘All right! Three isolated lapses, bitterly regretted!’

‘That was carrying “Everyone’s friendly at the Frimley” too far.’

‘Well exactly, Rita. This is it, love. I was seduced by the power of advertising.’

‘You were seduced by Doreen Timperley. And I was impressed by how regularly you were paying in.’

‘Rita! Three peccadilloes in twenty-four years of marital bliss. I mean … be fair … that’s one lapse every eight years.’

‘It’s eight years since Ingeborg.’ Rita turned to flash a beaming, insincere smile at Liz. ‘I’ll be very suspicious if you don’t dance with her,’ she said.

‘I’ve said … I’ll dance with her.’

‘Don’t hold her too close, or I’ll know something’s up.’

‘Bloody hell, Rita!’

‘Don’t hold her too far away either, as if she’s a piece of Dresden china. That’ll make me really suspicious.’

‘Bloody hell, Rita. Have you brought your tape measure?’

The waltz ended. There was modest applause, as befitted the performance.

The cynical Elvis Simcock approached Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, on the tide of that modest applause. He bore a tray of exotic drinks.

‘So, Elvis,’ said Simon. ‘Are you finding your three years as a philosophy graduate helpful in your job?’

‘Incredibly.’

‘Oh good. That is a relief. You don’t feel the taxpayers’ money has been poured down the drain, then?’

‘Money! Money! Money!’ said Elvis. ‘I hear the heart of an estate agent beating like a till. No. In my brief spell as a waiter, Simon, I’ve found the answer to a question that has exercised philosophers down the ages.’

‘What question?’

‘Is the external world real, or is it just a figment of my imagination? Does this room exist? Does this tray exist? Does your large pernod and blackcurrant exist? Do you exist outside my mind? I know now that you do.’

‘How?’

‘Because I wouldn’t waste time by inventing anybody as futile as you.’

Simon’s companions felt that this waiter had gone too far. They glared at him, and waited for Simon to deliver a suitably cutting retort. They weren’t sure if Simon rose to the occasion. ‘Same to you, with knobs on,’ he said.

‘Precisely!’ said Elvis Simcock. ‘Case proved.’ He put on his obsequious waiter voice, dripping with respect. ‘That’ll be nine pounds thirty-six, sir. Call it ten pounds for cash.’

‘My ex-brother-in-law from Falkirk, he’s an income tax inspector. and an amateur ventriloquist. Though when I say amateur, I’m not saying he doesn’t accept a bit in the back pocket. Well, they know the dodges, don’t they? They’re forced to.’

It was very quiet in the Gaiety Bar. Trade was slack, and the Dale Monsal Sound barely penetrated. The dark, intense Alec Skiddaw was taking the opportunity to regale Betty Sillitoe with tales of his family life.

‘Amazing,’ said Betty, feeling that some comment was called for. She had just ordered another drink. It would have looked odd if she’d spent so much time in the bar and never ordered anything.

‘His first wife came from Lowestoft. I’ve never known a woman that could do dog impressions like she could when she’d had a few.’

Neville Badger entered from the ballroom, with Liz.

‘A dry vermouth and a dry white wine, please. Betty, what will you …?’ Liz shook her head urgently. ‘Ah! Yes!’ said Neville. ‘That’s all, thank you.’

‘They took this self-catering holiday in Llandudno,’ said Alec Skiddaw, to the considerable surprise of Neville Badger and Liz as he served their drinks. ‘Well, you’re free to eat what you want when you want, aren’t you?’

Paul and Jenny returned, more than somewhat sheepishly.

‘Jenny and I have survived our first row,’ said Paul.

‘Congratulations,’ said Neville.

‘We’ve decided that, if the correct lessons are learnt, my lie can cement our relationship,’ said Paul.