Fair Do’s

‘Dad!’ said Elvis.

‘Hello.’ Ted smiled, well pleased with the effect that he had created. Gerry couldn’t have looked sicker if he’d come fourth behind the Green Party. ‘I … er … I just happened to be passing and I thought, “Good Lord! There’s Gerry in morning dress. It must be Rita’s wedding today. I’ll just pop in and …” Hello, Jenny.’ He broke off to kiss his daughter-in-law, frowning only briefly at the llamas. ‘Hello, Carol.’ There was a kiss for Carol too. ‘Hello, Elvis. “… just pop in and see the woman I was married to for twenty-five years launched on her new idyll of bliss.” As it were.’

‘You just happened to be passing, in full morning dress,’ said Gerry drily, his poise swiftly recovered.

‘Ah. Yes. I’m … er …’ Ted couldn’t help glancing down towards the pale stain on his hired, striped trousers, which he’d only noticed as he was putting them on. ‘I’m on my way to another wedding, funnily enough. Quite a coincidence. The wedding of …’ Ted’s attempt foundered ignominiously on the rocks of their disbelief. ‘Am I hell as like? I wanted to bury the hatchet. Give my blessing to Rita, who still means a lot to me, on what is after all the second happiest day of her life. It’s unconventional behaviour, I know, but then Ted Simcock has never given a fig for convention. I mean, I’m not coming to the reception, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Quite. I mean, that’s invitation only.’

‘Quite.’

‘Obviously. But churches are public. I have the right, if I read our unwritten constitution correctly. So, I thought, I’ll come to the church. In morning dress.’ Ted glowered at his elder son. ‘As befits.’

‘I thought you didn’t give a fig for convention,’ said Elvis, smiling with a self-satisfaction that he couldn’t quite conceal, even though he knew that his hero, Jean-Paul Sartre, would not have regarded such a tiny conversational triumph as worthy of self-satisfaction. But then Jean Paul Sartre hadn’t got a bad third at Keele University.

‘You have to know which figs you give for which conventions,’ said Ted. ‘That’s known as maturity of judgment in my book.’

Jenny’s brother Simon Rodenhurst approached, splendid in his wedding attire. He saw Elvis and Ted, tried not to look like an estate agent, and failed.

‘Hello!’ he said. ‘Ted! You here? Good Lord.’

They gave him looks which said, ‘Shut up, Simon. We’ve just been through all that.’

‘Hello, little sister,’ he said. ‘Where’s Paul?’

They gave him looks which said, ‘That’s another can of worms best not opened.’

‘What have I said?’ he said.

They gave him looks which said that it would have been better if he hadn’t said ‘What have I said?’

‘Come on, Simon,’ said Jenny. ‘Let’s get inside.’

‘We all better had,’ said Carol. ‘It’s nearly five to.’

Jenny approached the porch with Simon. Carol followed with Elvis.

Elvis called out, ‘You’re looking very spacious today, Simon.’

‘Oh belt up.’ Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, tossed his reply over his shoulder. A gust of wind caught his ‘Oh belt up’ and sent this example of his repartee swirling over the jumbled roofs of the town, over the turgid brown waters of the River Gadd, over the central Yorkshire plain, up and up through the weakening ozone layer into the blue beyond, to become a whisper around the planets long after this earth has been destroyed.

Rita’s fiancé and her ex-husband stood alone together, as the last of the guests made their way into the church, along with the funny little man with the big ears who went to all the weddings.

‘I hope my presence isn’t unwelcome, Gerry,’ said Ted.

‘Do you really want Rita to be happy?’ said Gerry.

‘Course I do, Gerry.’ Ted met Gerry’s piercing gaze firmly. ‘Course I do. I mean, what do you take me for?’

‘In that case you’re very welcome indeed, Ted.’

They shook hands.

‘Is there … er …?’

‘Somebody in my life? Yes, I’m glad to say my recent amour still flourishes.’ Ted had taken to using the occasional French word now that he was in catering.

A tall, attractive woman who had taken great pains to be of indeterminate age walked elegantly past them. Ted caught a whiff of expensive scent. She was wearing a bright yellow fitted top, yellow skirt, yellow pill-box hat, with a yellow bag and yellow shoes. The general effect was … yellow. On a summer’s evening it might have proved irresistible to moths and midges. On an early winter’s afternoon it proved irresistible to Ted. She turned and gave him a look which was unmistakeably meaningful although he felt that he must be mistaken over the meaning. Then she entered the church.

‘I’m … er …’ Ted tried to sound as if he hadn’t even noticed her. ‘I’m a very lucky man.’

He hurried into the church. Gerry Lansdown looked at his watch, and followed at a much more leisurely pace.

Ted Simcock, once the town’s premier maker of fire irons, now living in a furnished flat off the wrong end of Commercial Street with a waitress called Sandra, whom he had met at the DHSS when she was an unemployed bakery assistant, hesitated briefly on entering the church. He was about to sit on Rita’s side … after all, he hardly knew Gerry but had been married to Rita for a quarter of a century … but then he realised that this might not be entirely tactful, so he settled himself down near the back, on Gerry’s side, behind the thinning hair of moderate politicians, the carefully tasteful hats of their moderate wives, and the more arrogant hats of the wives of the microchip men.

Facing the massed ranks of Gerry’s friends and relations were the somewhat less massed ranks of Rita’s friends and relations, spiky aunts, uncouth uncles, spotty cousins, several of them not in morning dress. Less than two years ago, when she had been Liz Rodenhurst, Liz Badger had sat opposite them, and had tried to ignore them. She felt strange now, sitting among them, though still trying to ignore them.

Three rows behind her sat Rodney and Betty Sillitoe.

‘She’s late,’ whispered Betty, who was over-dressed as usual.

‘She’s exercising her prerogative,’ whispered Rodney.

‘You make it sound like a breed of dog,’ whispered Betty.

They shared a whispered laugh.

Ted Simcock, former provider of quality boot scrapers, now head waiter at Chez Albert in Bridge Street, looked round at exactly the same moment as Liz. They looked at each other with horror. At that other wedding eighteen months ago their exchanged glances had led to events which had broken up and reordered their world. Neville Badger, beside Liz, smiled blandly at Ted. Ted and Liz shied away hastily from the possibility that history might repeat itself. Ted craned his head to examine the great hammer roof. This was generally regarded as a magnificent example of early church architecture and a triumph for modern woodworm techniques, but Ted had no eyes for the vast pale beams, the carved angels, the faded red and gilt of the medieval paintwork. His head swivelled on, down again, towards the back of the church, where he met the gaze of the gleaming yellow lady. He looked away, she looked away, then they both looked back to see if they really had been giving each other meaningful looks. She smiled. He tried a smile that would make him look like a cool international sophisticate. It was a failure. He looked like a randy cocker spaniel.

The church clock proclaimed the quarter. Several people on Gerry’s side frowned. While a bride was expected to be late, a politician’s wife was expected to be punctual enough to be only slightly late.

Leslie Horton, water-bailiff and organist, who hated to be called Les, thundered through his limited repertoire without subtlety.

The best man, a drainage engineer from Dundee, who had been Gerry’s best friend at school, though more perhaps in retrospect than at the time, glanced at his watch and sighed.

Gerry smiled serenely at the new young vicar, who had not yet won the hearts of his congregation.

The long-haired Carol Fordingbridge was the first to mouth the possibility that had begun to form in a hundred barely credulous minds.

‘Wouldn’t it be awful if she didn’t turn up?’ she whispered.

‘Carol! She wouldn’t,’ whispered her fiancé with less than his usual cynicism. ‘She couldn’t. That’d be … awful.’

‘I know,’ breathed the former Miss Cock-A-Doodle Chickens excitedly. ‘Awful.’

They considered the awesome prospect in awful silence.