Fair Do's Read Free Page B

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. Asix-year-old girl with an empty water pistol said, ‘There’s no bride. Mam, there’s no bride.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 throughthe 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.
    â€˜You know Rita better than any man on earth, Ted. Why has she done this to me?’
    â€˜Look on the bright side,’ said Ted encouragingly. ‘She could have had an accident.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I mean, not that I … just a minor accident. I heard a siren.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜There’s no need to go now,’ said Gerry, spurning the proffered extremity. ‘You may as well come to the reception.’
    â€˜You what?’
    â€˜We’re colleagues now. Members of the same exclusive