Fair Do’s. David Nobbs

not coming, Rodney,’ whispered Betty Sillitoe, over-excited as usual. ‘She’s jilted him. How awful!’

      ‘She may have had an accident,’ whispered Rodney.

      ‘No. I know it. I feel it.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know whether to feel glad or sad.’

      ‘I never do these days,’ whispered Rodney. Affection softened his florid face as he added hurriedly, ‘Except about you.’

      ‘Aaaah,’ said Betty, so loudly that several heads craned to identify the source. They heard her, oblivious to them, saying, ‘I’d kiss you if we weren’t in church.’

      In front of them, the ravishing Liz Badger whispered into the immaculate right ear of her husband, ‘Maybe Gerry isn’t getting married after all. Maybe you’ll still have cause to feel jealous.’

      ‘Liz!’ Neville’s protest was too heartfelt to be contained in a whisper. ‘I respect you far too much to feel that I need ever feel jealous.’

      ‘Oh, Neville,’ whispered Liz. ‘You’re hopeless.’

      The clock struck the half hour.

      ‘Five more minutes,’ whispered the vicar.

      Gerry’s lips twitched. ‘Your precious councillor will have to wait, vicar,’ he hissed. ‘I think you should know that I just happen to be the prospective Social Liberal Democratic parliamentary candidate for Hindhead.’

      The vicar smiled thinly. ‘He’s a serving councillor, not prospective. And he’s chairman of the Tower Appeal Fund Committee. Five minutes.’

      The hum of conversation grew louder still. Leslie Horton’s playing grew slower. The sun lit up the garish battle scenes in the modern stained-glass window, dedicated to the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.

      Ted’s eyes were drawn to Liz’s again and he realised that he was smiling. Hurriedly he tried to look horrified.

      The new young vicar made a signal to Gerry.

      Gerry nodded resignedly. A crescent of blue, reflected from a stained-glass window, was falling across his face.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the vicar. ‘It looks as if something has happened. I’m afraid we have no alternative, for the moment, as we have further nuptials pending on a tight schedule at this ever-popular venue, but to respectfully suspend the wedding for the moment. Mr Horton, would you please play us out?’

      Leslie Horton, water-bailiff and organist, who hated to be called Les, would wonder to the end of his days why he played ‘The Wedding March ’ at that moment.

      The vicar raised his eyes to heaven, but received no immediate help.

      

      In the town the traffic moved slowly. A police horse, en route to football duty, crapped hugely outside the Abbey National Building Society. Four overweight railway enthusiasts, sitting on the top deck of a bright yellow corporation bus, with engine numbers in their notebooks and no rings on their fingers, peered at the hats and morning dresses without envy, so far removed from any of their remaining hopes was the glittering scene. A six-year-old girl with an empty water pistol said, ‘There’s no bride. Mam, there’s no bride.’

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ said her mam, giving her a whack for her accuracy.

      The wedding guests stood uneasily in the tactless sunshine. The women had to hold onto their hats as another gust announced the fragility of the fine weather. The men found no opportunity to wear their top hats and wondered why they had hired them. The funny little man with big ears who turned up unbidden at all the weddings walked slowly away, shaking his head.

      All those who were saddened by the turn of events wore long faces, to prove that they were saddened.

      All those who weren’t saddened wore even longer faces, to hide the fact that they weren’t saddened.

      Nobody looked sadder than Ted Simcock, except perhaps the photographer, the pasty-faced Wayne Oldroyd, from Marwoods of Moor Street. He cast a last baleful glance at Gerry, before shuffling off with his unused tripod.

      Out of the inhospitable gravel on the south side of the church there grew a lone tree, a sickly, unshapely ash. Around this tree a munificent council had placed a round slatted seat. Onto this seat jumped Gerry Lansdown. His face was pale. His eyes were hot. His complacency was a distant memory.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he cried, and silence fell instantly. Everyone wanted to hear what he would say. What could he say? ‘Ladies and gentlemen. It seems that something has delayed Rita … or something. Until we find out what … and bearing in mind that many of you have travelled a long way, many from Hindhead and some from even further afield … and as the reception … er … and it seems criminal to waste all that lovely food.’ Gerry’s voice gained assurance as he touched on political matters. ‘We in the Social Liberal Democratic party believe that all waste of food is totally unjustified in a world where so many haven’t enough to eat … so, whatever has happened, if indeed it has, I think the best course will be to proceed with the reception as if nothing had happened … I mean, as if nothing hadn’t happened. Thank you.’

      Gerry jumped down off the seat, and marched firmly through the throng, which parted before him like the Red Sea before the Israelites.

      Ted’s spine tingled as he realised that Gerry was about to confront him. Illogically, he flinched. But Gerry’s voice was mild, almost pleading.

      ‘You know Rita better than any man on earth, Ted. Why has she done this to me?’

      ‘Look on the bright side,’ said Ted encouragingly. ‘She could have had an accident.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I mean, not that I … just a minor accident. I heard a siren.’

      ‘I’ve checked. There’s been no accident. That was an officer going home for his lunch.’ The public figure in Gerry rose to the surface even at this moment of private grief. ‘I shall write a strong letter of protest.’ Then the private anguish returned. ‘She’s jilted me, Ted.’

      The guests, drifting past towards their cars, tried to ignore them.

      ‘What can I say, Gerry, except …’ Ted fought to keep the tell-tale gleam out of his eyes ‘… I’m very, very sorry. I mean, I am. I’m shattered. Devastated. Goodbye, Gerry.’

      He held out his hand.

      ‘There’s no need to go now,’ said Gerry, spurning the proffered extremity. ‘You may as well come to the reception.’

      ‘You what?’

      ‘We’re colleagues now. Members of the same exclusive club.’

      In the distant, ordinary town, another siren blared urgently.

      ‘He’s had his lunch,’ said Ted, and immediately wished he hadn’t. ‘Exclusive club? What exclusive club?’

      ‘The club of men who’ve been made miserable by Rita Simcock.’

      ‘Ah. Well. Yes. I suppose we … but, I mean, even so, is it appropriate that I, her ex-husband, should be present at …’

      The elegant yellow lady turned to smile at Ted as she passed.

      ‘Thank you very much, Gerry,’ said Ted.

      

      So Ted found himself back in the Garden Room of the Clissold Lodge Hotel, where, at another wedding, he … he didn’t even want to think about it.

      The Clissold Lodge was situated in large, gently rolling grounds that had once belonged to Amos Clissold, the glue tycoon, whose slogan, ‘Ee! Buy gum! Buy Clissold’s’, still occupied a prime site on the station forecourt. Now it was a country hotel on the edge of town. ‘The hotel where country meets town,’ as its brochure claimed. Its red-brick exterior was austere and forbidding. The interior