A Bit of a Do (26 page)

The moon came out from behind a bank of quiet cloud. Paul felt very visible. Supposing the whole gathering decided to admire the night.

‘But … she needn’t know. Need she?’

‘I don’t even know your wife.’

‘She’s here tonight. I just thought … if you could avoid her … it might be best.’

‘I’ve no burning desire to meet her.’

It wasn’t an unqualified assurance, but Paul sensed that it was all he’d get.

‘I didn’t mean to do what I did,’ he said. How could he say that he’d been drunk without seeming rude and unsympathetic to feminine sensitivities? His reserves of tact were stretched to the full. ‘I … I was … I’d been celebrating the birth of my first child. I was … in a state of … exaltation.’

‘You were drunk.’

‘Carol! I’d had a few. Who wouldn’t? You overwhelmed me. In my … emotional state …’

‘You were as emotional as a newt.’

‘You knew I was married. You knew I’d just become a father. You shouldn’t have done it if you disapprove.’

‘I was pretty emotional myself.’

‘Exactly. You said yourself you’d been in the pub for hours. Oh, Carol. I’m not like that really. I’m a young idealist brimming over with concern and respect for all forms of life. My ambition is to eliminate poverty from the Third World, not have a drunken sex orgy the night after I’ve become a father. I long to go back to that night, and do something different. Anything. March through central Leeds protesting about unemployment. Break into Molesworth Camp and sit on a cruise missile. Be a kidney donor while still alive. Anything, rather than meet you.’

‘Thanks very much.’

He heard the cheering as the guests watched the second race. It made him feel safer.

‘No! Carol! What I mean is … lovely though that was. Particularly because that was lovely. I mean I must admit that after-wards … what I could remember … I wondered if it was
only because I was … so emotional … that I’d thought you were so lovely. It isn’t. You are. You’re amazingly lovely.’

The moon went in again, hiding her amazing loveliness. He longed to take her creamy body out here, now, in the dewy grass. Well, not take her body, he was a sensitive enlightened feminist. He longed to give her pleasure, to let
her
take
him
, here among the rabbits, beneath the floating owls. He closed his eyes and fought against it. ‘Down, down!’ he told his penis, as if it were an overexcited dog. He forced himself to think about asexual things – golf, Graham Wintergreen, the Tory Party Conference. He sighed with relief. The moment of danger was over.

‘We’d better go in,’ he said.

Half the world was starved of water, but they could hear the soft hiss of the sprinklers, making sure that the green wouldn’t be too fast the next day. In view of this, and his youth, and the dark, and his emotional turmoil, golfing readers may perhaps excuse Paul for not tidying up the bunker where their heels had scuffed a pit in the sand.

As they walked back, Paul put round Carol Fordingbridge an arm that was intended to be comradely, affectionate, respectful, grateful, apologetic, non-sexist and unpatronizingly protective. To his horror his hand squirmed its way down her back and felt the outline of her superb buttocks as they swung rhythmically through the night. She removed the hand and gave it a smack. Three startled rabbits scuttled off into the rough.

The second race was over. Ted had lost five of his thirty pounds. The cynical Elvis had explained to his employer that he was making a simple error of logic. If he wanted to lose, it was no use backing his unlucky number. Since it was unlucky, he would win. He must back his lucky number, and thus achieve the desired effect – defeat. Luckily, Jenny had been too busy to worry about Paul’s absence. Laurence had asked her to indicate to Liz that he regretted his earlier sarcasm, and wished to discuss the situation in a civilized way. Jenny had conveyed this message to Liz, who had indicated that if her father wished to have a civilized discussion, he should approach her and have it. He had been rude and it was up to him to make an apology, which she would accept in handsome fashion. Jenny had conveyed this message to Laurence,
who had sighed. Ted had bought one more large whisky, to give him the courage to approach Rita. Harvey Wedgewood, as he walked away from Graham Wintergreen’s one-man tote, pocketing his betting slip for the third race, needed no such courage. After all, he was Harvey Wedgewood, the actor.

‘Hello, dear lady,’ he boomed fruitily. ‘You are …?’

‘Rita.’

‘Rita! What a lovely name!’

‘Thank you.’ Rita felt a glow suffusing her cheeks, a faint flush, quite unlike those pink spots. ‘You’re Harvey Wedgewood, the actor, aren’t you?’

‘Alas! My anonymity is shattered!’ said Harvey Wedgewood with a gesture of regret, which he hoped would seem like self-effacing modesty, though it was actually an attempt to hide a spasm of irritation. It was all very well his using the suffix ‘the actor’, but when the punters used it it reminded him that he had never become quite as famous as he had expected. This Rita woman would have said to Sir Alec Guinness ‘You’re Sir Alec Guinness, aren’t you?’ not ‘You’re Sir Alec Guinness, the actor, aren’t you?’ as if it was necessary to distinguish him from all the other Sir Alec Guinnesses that were clogging up the civilized world. He switched off the irritation and turned a charming smile onto Rita. ‘But don’t let’s talk about me,’ he said. ‘Actors are boring. Our job is to observe, to listen. Tell me about yourself.’

‘I’m just a very ordinary woman.’

‘Rita!’ Harvey Wedgewood’s outrage at this description was so loud that the headmaster of the Abbey School almost dropped the half-pint of bitter which was all he ever allowed himself in public in case one of his boys saw him setting a bad example. ‘Nobody’s ordinary!’ There was deep concern on his richly cratered face. ‘Don’t sell yourself short. My agent used to say to me, “Harvey, never sell yourself short. You’re a genius. Never forget it.”’

‘I saw you in
The Dance of Death
at Dewsbury,’ said Rita, who had never been told she was a genius by anybody.

‘I thought I was quite good in that,’ said Harvey Wedgewood. ‘I thought I brought out an optimistic side that is usually sadly overlooked in Strindberg. But don’t let’s talk about me. What’s your favourite food, Rita? Your favourite colour? Your deepest hope? Your greatest fear? I’m fascinated by people’s dreams. What
did you dream about last night? Spill the beans to Uncle Harvey.’

‘Well … last night, actually …’ Rita didn’t want to talk about her dreams. ‘… it’s so silly, but …’ You just couldn’t disappoint this great bear of a man. ‘… last night I dreamt I was a rabbit.’

‘A rabbit! Good Lord! Sounds like one for Clement Freud rather than Sigmund.’

Rita shook her head. She knew that the repeated images of her own insignificance in her dreams were definitely for Sigmund.

Ted found himself approaching Rita on his way from the bar with the large whisky which was to give him the courage to approach her. He was in a quandary. He didn’t want to talk to her when she was with the actor, but he didn’t want to snub her by veering away. While he was debating his course of action, Harvey Wedgewood grabbed him in a bear-like hug so affectionate that most men would have reserved it for old friends who had just returned to freedom after seventeen years in a Siberian labour camp.

‘Rita,’ said Harvey Wedgewood. ‘I’d like to introduce you to a
very
old friend of mine, Ted Simcock. Ted has recently liquidated his foundry, Rita. Ted, meet Rita, who dreams she’s a rabbit. I didn’t catch your other name, Rita.’

‘Simcock.’

‘What?’

‘Exactly.’

‘You mean …?’

‘Precisely,’ said Ted.

‘But I thought Ted and …’ Harvey Wedgewood stopped, wishing he hadn’t started.

‘Absolutely,’ said Rita.

‘Ah!’ improvised Harvey Wedgewood.

‘Rita?’ said Ted. ‘It’s time we had a talk.’

‘My friends!’ said Harvey Wedgewood, putting one hugely affectionate arm round each of them. ‘Take a leaf out of old Harvey’s book. Look on the bright side. Be reconciled. Forgive and forget. Life’s too short. ‘Nuff said? Exit Harvey Wedgewood left, tactfully.’

Harvey Wedgewood exited left, thankfully. A young lady was approaching him, tall and gauche. He was about to speak, but she
blushed and bolted. She was the daughter of Colonel Partridge, who was on the theatre management committee. Colonel Partridge was no intellectual, but he knew what he liked. He liked mystery plays (Agatha Christie and Francis Durbridge, not York and Oberammergau); port; stilton; hunting; shooting his namesakes; being kind to the poor and driving them to polling stations to vote Conservative; and his dear, over-loved, overprotected daughter Davina. How horrified he would have been if he had seen the swift exploratory sniff which Harvey Wedgewood gave her before she rushed from his aura. He smelt expensive perfume, horses, dogs, tomato soup and fear. Then the more general aroma of the room assailed him. Sweat, aftershave, cigarette smoke, alcohol, furniture polish and heat, the whole confection bound together with a hint of distant goulash. Hello! Who was this stick approaching?

‘Excuse me,’ said Laurence. ‘You’re Mr Wedgewood the actor, aren’t you?’

‘Please! No formality. Call me Harvey. And you are …?’

‘Laurence. I saw your Othello in Leeds.’

‘Yes, yes, never mind that. What do you do, Laurence?’

‘Me? I’m just a dentist.’

‘Priceless! Absolutely right!’ exclaimed Harvey Wedgewood so loud that several people turned their heads.

‘What?’ said Laurence faintly.

‘You being a dentist. Well done, the great casting director in the sky. A slightly up-market dentist, but … very good. I suppose, Laurence, as you went through all the business of sitting through it, it’d be selfish of me not to ask you what you thought of my Othello.’

‘Well … I thought the critics were
unnecessarily
cruel.’

‘I never read the critics. If the
Daily Telegraph
want to say that I showed all the passion of a man who has just discovered that Desdemona has been buying rather expensive curtain material, let them. What do they know? Can they act, Laurence? You’re quite right. They can’t. Don’t they realize that I want to send the audience home feeling there’s still some hope in life? But let’s talk about you. Your hopes. Your fears. Your dreams. I love other people’s dreams. Tell me, Laurence, what did you dream about last night?’

‘Well … actually …’ Laurence didn’t want to go into great detail about his dream, in which he had been judging an Eisteddfod in which every contestant had been Liz. But he felt obliged to say something. ‘It’s stupid, but I dreamt I was Welsh.’

‘A nightmare, eh? Probably you’d had cheese. Unfair. Just because they booed my Peer Gynt in Port Talbot. Laurence, why did you say
“just
a dentist”?’

‘Well …’

‘Laurence! Don’t say that! I merely pretend to be non-existent people. Or, which is worse, real people saying things they never said. Pathetic! But you … well … without people like you many of us would no longer have any …’ Harvey Wedgewood stopped as he saw Liz approaching.

‘… teeth.’ Laurence finished the sentence, wished he hadn’t, and also saw Liz.

And then Liz saw them, but it was too late. Harvey Wedgewood had her in his vast yet gentle embrace.

‘Laurence!’ he said. ‘I’d like you to meet an
extremely
good friend of mine, the very ravishing and deliciously naughty Liz Rodenhurst. Liz, you of the wonderfully wandering eyes, meet Laurence, the dreaming dentist. I didn’t catch your other name.’

‘Rodenhurst,’ said Laurence drily.

‘Oh my God!’ said Harvey Wedgewood.

‘Precisely,’ said Liz.

‘Liz …?’ began Laurence, and hesitated diffidently.

‘“… don’t you think it’s about time we had a serious chat about things?”’ prompted Harvey Wedgewood.

Laurence and Liz were briefly united in giving Harvey Wedgewood distinctly unfriendly looks.

‘Sorry,’ said Harvey Wedgewood. ‘But one picks up the conversational style of the place. Exit Harvey Wedgewood, left, in much confusion.’

Harvey Wedgewood exited left, in much confusion. He took an enormous swig of his drink, and sank exhausted onto a bar stool. He had come on a long and painful journey to this watering hole.

So had Paul.

‘Shan’t keep you, gentlemen,’ said Eric Siddall, barman supreme, as he slid past as if on rails to serve the drama teacher at the Abbey School. ‘
No
problem. Don’t go away. All under
control. We’re on our way.’

Paul gave Harvey Wedgewood an uneasy smile.

‘Don’t look so frightened, young man,’ said the exhausted Thespian in a kindly tone. ‘I’m human.’

‘No. That thing you did on the telly. I loved that when I was a kid,’ said Paul.

‘The Forsyte Saga?’

‘Chocky Bar, the between-meals meal that doesn’t spoil your meals.’

‘Yes! I daresay that
is
what I’m best remembered for after forty-three years,’ sighed Harvey Wedgewood. ‘And you are …?’

‘Paul Simcock.’

‘Another Simcock! Well, congratulations, Paul Simcock. You have a very lovely young lady.’