Fair Do’s. David Nobbs

proportions. Outside its French windows, the low January sun shone on a charming walled garden. Bouquets of hot-house red tulips and imported freesias studded the room. The guests were chatting animatedly. Two smiling waitresses in smart black and white outfits were dispensing non-vintage Moet. There was a splendid three-tiered cake. On the long buffet table there sat a superb Bradenham ham, a magnificent sea trout in wine jelly, a large walnut and spinach terrine spiked with green peppercorns, fleshy langoustines from Brittany, cold roasts of Scotch beef and Welsh lamb, bowls of green salad, Waldorf salad, salade niçoise, bean salad, avocado and mangetout salad, and not a tuna-fish vol-au-vent in sight. It was a perfect reception, save only, a purist might complain, for the absence of the bride.

      Gerry Lansdown was doing the rounds, welcoming, smiling, urging people to eat, not that they needed urging.

      ‘It seems wrong to enjoy anything on such an awful occasion,’ said Liz Badger, ‘but I have to admit, this sea trout in wine jelly is absolutely delicious.’ She was wearing a black and white tunic with sweetheart neck, black skirt, and an elegant black cocktail hat.

      But Neville Badger, now the only Badger in Badger, Badger, Fox and Badger, wasn’t listening.

      ‘I must go and say something to Gerry,’ he said.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I’m not an unimaginative man, Liz. I can imagine how he must be feeling.’ Neville searched for the mot juste. ‘Upset. I mean, I was thinking how I’d have felt if Jane hadn’t turned up at our wedding.’

      ‘But not me?’ Liz’s voice was icy. The sea trout was forgotten.

      ‘What?’

      ‘You married me as well. Or had you forgotten?’

      ‘Of course not. How absurd!’

      ‘It’s just that it was Jane not turning up that you instinctively thought of, because she meant so much more to you than I do. Thank you, Neville.’

      ‘No, Liz! Of course not. I love you. I’m the father of your child.’ Ted sauntered past, trying not to look down at the stain on his hired trousers. ‘Hello, Ted.’ He turned back to Liz and lowered his voice. ‘Well, no, not actually the father, but … no, I mentioned my marriage to Jane, I suppose, because I was married to her for so much longer than to you.’ Liz glowered. ‘So far,’ he added hopefully. ‘Anyway, Gerry needs support and it’s up to me to give it.’

      ‘Why you?’

      Neville stared at Liz in astonishment, as if the answer were self-evident.

      ‘Because I’m a man of the world. An experienced professional man. A man whose working life brings him into daily contact with sorrow and distress. A man who knows what to say.’

      ‘What are you going to say?’

      ‘I don’t know. Oh Lord.’

      Neville wandered off, to prepare himself for his errand of mercy. Left alone, Liz flashed a dazzling smile at the world, reducing the dazzle level sharply when she realised that she was smiling at Ted.

      Ted approached his ex-lover cautiously.

      ‘Marvellous spread,’ he said.

      ‘Paid for by him, I should imagine. And rather more generously than the one poor Laurence laid on for Jenny’s wedding. Not a tuna fish vol-au-vent in sight.’

      ‘Odd, isn’t it?’

      ‘I think it’s very sensible. I hated those tuna fish vol-au-vents.’

      ‘I meant …’ Ted lowered his voice and looked quickly round the room, hoping most people weren’t looking at them, hoping the woman in yellow was looking at them. ‘I meant you and me, here, in this very room, where, less than two years ago, in this very room, we … went upstairs to the very room above this very room and … made love.’

      ‘I had remembered.’

      Liz looked up at the ceiling, then at Ted, and shook her head ever so slightly at the memory of what she had done.

      ‘How is my baby?’ whispered Ted.

      ‘Flourishing. I wish you wouldn’t talk about him, Ted.’

      ‘I care about him. Does he … er … still takes after me, does he?’

      ‘No. He’s losing the resemblance rapidly. Which, I would say, shows a remarkable degree of tact for an eight-month-old baby.’

      Liz walked away. Ted went to the buffet table, seeking a displacement activity. He grabbed the first bit of food that didn’t need cutlery – it was a slice of leek and stilton quiche, as it chanced – rammed a great piece into his mouth, and chewed slowly while he tried to regain his composure. He looked up to find the attractive yellow lady at his side smiling radiantly. He chewed desperately, tried to swallow, chewed again, tried to smile, chewed, and mumbled, ‘Hello. I’m Ted Simcock,’ through a porridge of half-chewed quiche.

      ‘Of course you are,’ said the symphony in yellow.

      ‘You what?’

      ‘I’ve had my card marked.’

      At last the quiche was gone, and he could speak freely. He failed to take full advantage. ‘What?’ he said.

      ‘You’re opening a new restaurant in Arbitration Road.’

      ‘What?’ Really he might as well take another mouthful, if he couldn’t do better than this.

      ‘I’ve made it my business to find out about you.’

      Her voice was cool, but not cold. It was classy without being shrill. He liked it. He liked her. He tried to think of something interesting to say. He said, ‘Good heavens.’

      ‘You interest me.’

      ‘Good Lord.’

      There was a loud crash of plates.

      ‘Good God.’

      It couldn’t be.’

      He turned slowly, towards the kitchen door.

      It was.

      It was Sandra. Sandra, whom he’d met at the DHSS. Sandra, whom he had found a job at Chez Albert. Sandra, with whom he lived.

      ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Oh heck.’

      As she bent down to pick up the broken plates, the cake-loving Sandra Pickersgill flashed Ted a look of defiance. The left leg of her tights had snagged.

      

      Gerry Lansdown, hoping that the dreadfulness of his predicament would disappear if he ignored it, was holding a determinedly casual conversation with his best man and his best man’s wife. They had exhausted the charms of Dundee and its environs, the state of the jam industry, the rope industry, and the royal burghs of Fife, and had turned to his native Surrey, far from this hard North Country into which he had strayed with such disastrous results.

      ‘I love that whole area,’ he was saying. ‘Farnham. Guildford. The Hog’s Back.’

      Neville approached, concern creasing his bland face.

      ‘I’m not interrupting, am I?’ he said.

      ‘No. No.’ Gerry excused himself reluctantly from the enjoyable geographical chit-chat.

      ‘Only, I … er … I felt I had to come and talk to you. You see, Gerry …’ Neville became portentous, ‘I’ve been there.’

      Gerry was puzzled. ‘Been there? Been where? Guildford?’

      ‘Guildford?’ It was Neville’s turn to be puzzled.

      ‘We were just talking about Guildford,’ said Gerry.

      ‘Oh! Oh, no. No, no, no, no.’ Neville felt that these repeated negatives might be construed as an unworthy slur on a fine town. ‘I mean,