Fair Do’s

‘And you know my wife Judy?’ said Andrew. ‘Heavily pregnant, but still lovely.’

‘Yes, I … er … yes, I … I showed her round a … er … a … er …’ Simon was a rabbit frozen before life’s full beam.

‘House,’ said Judy. ‘It was a house, Simon.’

‘Yes. Absolutely. A house.’

‘And here’s the godmother, even more pregnant, but also still lovely,’ said Liz.

Jenny was wheeling her son, Thomas, in an altogether more mundane pram. She did indeed look fairly enormous, being due any day now.

‘Hello, everybody,’ she said. ‘Congratulations, Rita. Fantastic! Fantastic! Ted!’

‘You know my fiancée, don’t you?’ said Ted.

‘Fiancée? Fantastic.’ Jenny tried to invest this ‘fantastic’ with the enthusiasm she had shown in her previous ones. It was a gallant failure. ‘Well … congratulations. What a happy day.’

‘Where’s Paul?’ said Rita nervously.

‘We had a terrible row this morning, and he’s refusing to speak to me, and he wouldn’t come. Oh Lord. I was going to say he has this mystery virus, but I couldn’t lie, but I should have lied, I shouldn’t have spoilt things, not today.’

The suave Doctor Spreckley glared at the Christening party, as if they had no right to be there. There were only thirty-six people gathered round the fifteenth-century font, and he had fifty-eight Belgians in tow. Doctor Spreckley, precise and delicate wielder of instruments at the General and, more frequently, the Nuffield, had thrown himself enthusiastically into the town’s twinning with Namur. He had visited that charming city twice and on each occasion had managed to wield his instrument precisely, if not delicately. Since his wife had left him, because of his unfaithfulness, he had thought of very little except sex and food, and nowhere did that combination seem more promising than in gallant little Belgium. These last few months had seen an incomprehensible falling-off of these appetites, and today he was in a thoroughly sour temper. He no longer felt attracted to his physiotherapist from Liège. His roast beef dinner at the Grand Universal Hotel had been vile – goodness knew what the Belgians must have thought. He was damned if he would deny them a tour of the church just because of some blasted service.

And so, the new young vicar took that small gathering through the service of baptism accompanied by a loud echoing whispered commentary, in vile French, on the charms of his church, and by the tip-toeing of fifty-eight Belgians, many of whom may have been gallant, but very few of whom were little.

The three godparents stood at the front of the gathering, with Jenny between Simon and Andrew. She was holding Thomas, and she was terrified that he would cry.

The congregation recited along with the vicar, temporarily drowning Doctor Spreckley.

‘Heavenly Father, in your love you have called us to know you, led us to trust you …’

Simon did something he hadn’t done since boarding school. He prayed, silently.

‘Oh Lord,’ he said, ‘I expect you know this, well you know everything, but in case you were looking the other way or something … I mean, you must sometimes, you’re only human, well no, you’re not … anyway, the thing is, the only time I’ve ever … you know … it was with the wife of the other godfather. She’s … you know … and I think it’s very probably mine. I’m very sorry and I’ll never … you know … again with anybody ever, but what am I to do? I should never have agreed to take on the moral welfare of this child. Should I back out now? Help me.’

He finished just in time to hear the vicar say, ‘Therefore I ask these questions which you must answer for yourselves and for this child. Do you turn to Christ?’ And the parents and Godparents responded, ‘I turn to Christ.’

What should he say? ‘Sorry, vicar. No can do’?

‘I turn to Christ,’ he said.

‘Do you repent of your sins?’

This time Simon joined the others. ‘I repent of my sins,’ he said, so intensely that Jenny turned to look at him.

‘Do you renounce evil?’

‘I renounce evil.’ Andrew Denton was also surprised by Simon’s intensity.

‘We will now sing …’ The vicar paused to glare at the Belgians. ‘… hymn number one hundred and sixteen, omitting verses four and five.’

The dimly-lit House of God thundered to the uninspired playing of Leslie Horton, water-bailiff and organist, who hated to be called Les.

‘All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,’ sang the congregation.

Rita glanced at Rodney. He looked rough. ‘Rodney’s on his own again,’ she thought. ‘I hope nothing’s wrong.’

‘Each little flower that opens

Each little bird that sings.’

The Belgians began to file out of the church. They had tickets for the rugby league match against Featherstone Rovers.

Jenny, oblivious of everyone, including the Belgians, told herself, ‘Concentrate on these young lives. Forget your own troubles. Pretend you believe, and pray.’

‘All creatures great and small

All things wise and wonderful …’

Ted craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Rodney. ‘Oh dear,’ he thought. ‘Don’t say they’re splitting up.’

‘The river running by,

The sunset and the morning …’

The long-haired Carol Fordingbridge looked charming in a grey and white floral patterned dress with white collar, and a natural straw hat with a black band. But Elvis in his thrusting young media person suit had no eyes for her charms.

‘Oh Lord,’ she prayed, ‘make the whole world happy. Get rid of poverty and disease, and make Elvis love me.’

‘All things wise and wonderful,’ sang that small congregation, dwarfed by the cool, echoing church. ‘The Lord God made them all.’

Even Liz, the high and mighty, the haughty and naughty, couldn’t resist a curious glance at Rodney.

‘Rodney looks awful,’ she thought. ‘Don’t say he’s got marital problems.’

‘How great is God almighty,

Who has made all things well …’

‘I wish He could make me well,’ thought Rodney. ‘But I deserve it. I have strayed, oh Lord.’

‘All things wise and wonderful,

The Lord God made them all.’

The last notes of the organ reverberated around the empty nave, and died. There was total silence. The vicar couldn’t have taken Liz’s son from her with less confidence if the boy had been a great lump of soap.