The Complete Pratt (134 page)

‘Take it off, please. I really do insist,’ said Droopy L.

‘Please don’t, Denzil,’ said Lampo. ‘I love Denzil, Mr Lennox. We argue like mad but live together more faithfully than most husbands and wives.’

‘That’s your problem,’ said Droopy L.

‘Oh no, it’s your problem,’ said Denzil. ‘It’s legal now and we’re doing no harm.’

‘I’ve had complaints,’ said Mr Lennox, ‘and I must ask you to remove it or leave. Where do you think this is – Marlborough?’

‘Quite right,’ said Tosser.

‘Oh, come off it, Tosser, don’t be such a pompous ass. You fancied Henry almost as much as I did,’ said Lampo.

‘Lampo!’ hissed Tosser.

‘Do we really need to go into all this?’ said Henry.

‘I’m very interested,’ said Felicity.

‘Come on, Denzil, my love,’ said Lampo. ‘We aren’t welcome here.’

‘We’re coming too,’ said Henry. ‘It’s outrageous.’

‘Henry!’ said Diana.’

‘What?’

‘You said we’re going. You haven’t consulted me.’

‘Sorry, darling. You will come, won’t you?’

‘No. Not because I think it’s disgusting, I think it’s funny, but Denzil isn’t actually Mrs Davey so he hasn’t got a leg to stand on, and I’m not going to get steamed up about it.’

‘I’m not steamed up. I care about my friends.’

‘I care about my brother, and I haven’t seen him for ages.’

‘It’s all right, Henry,’ said Denzil. ‘We’ll see you later. Thank you for your support. I shall always wear it.’

‘And with that hoary old joke, I leave with my hoary old lover,’ said Lampo. ‘Farewell, Droopy L. Farewell, Dalton.’

‘Absolutely disgusting,’ said Droopy L. ‘I sometimes wonder why we bothered to educate you all.’

‘It’s true,’ said the Director (Operations). ‘Absolutely true.’ He looked Henry straight in the eye at a moment when Henry would have expected him to gaze at one of his old masters for comfort. ‘I didn’t want to lose you.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I give good references to people I want to get rid of and bad references for people I want to keep.’

‘That’s outrageous.’

‘I have to protect my interests. And the interests of the organisation.’

‘How can I ever trust you again?’

‘I shouldn’t, if I were you. Then we’ll understand each other perfectly.’

‘I’m very unhappy about it,’ said Henry. ‘I don’t know if I can work with you any more.’

Now Mr Whitehouse did look away, gazing at Vermeer’s exquisite but little-known ‘Preparation of salad in a house in Delft’.

‘I’ll be sorry if you do resign,’ he said. ‘Though no doubt you’d find a good job eventually.’

‘How could I, with your stinking references?’

‘Oh, I’d give you good references once I’d lost you. I’m not a complete bastard. I’d tell the truth.’

‘What is the truth?’

‘That you’re reliable, intelligent, enthusiastic and talented, with a deep sense of loyalty, who gets on well with other people, forms a useful member of the team and was being groomed for higher office at the time of your resignation.’

‘Good Lord. Am I really being groomed for higher office?’

‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘No. You told me not to.’

‘As I say, you’re intelligent.’

‘I thought maybe I’d blotted my copy-book once too often.’

‘Sometimes people who cause difficulties at lower levels are moved up, where they can do less damage. Sometimes rebels are embraced into the heart of the establishment, where they are rapidly persuaded that it isn’t in their interests to be rebellious any more. Promotion is a minefield, and even you wouldn’t be so naïve as to assume that it’s usually given on merit.’

It was a deeply confused Henry Pratt who left the office of the Director (Operations). He couldn’t face the lift, so he took the cold, bare, bleak steps down to the basement and his increasingly isolated bunker.

‘To leave without having another job to go to is a terrible risk,’ said Henry next Sunday afternoon, when they had the house to themselves and were lying in bed, cuddling sleepily, after making love. ‘But if I stay and apply for other jobs, I won’t get them because I’ll get a stinking reference. I really am a square peg in a vicious circle.’

There was a burst of loud banging from the Gleneagles. They were refurbishing their bedrooms, not before time, and seemed to be doing the bulk of the work at weekends, presumably because they weren’t using proper builders.

‘I want to do something more with my life,’ said Henry. ‘I can’t wait much longer.’

Somebody, somewhere, will recognise a good man when he sees one.

The banging stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Blissful peace returned. It was starting to get dark. The slightest flush of pink touched the mackerel sky.

Henry cuddled gently into the curve of his wife’s body. Very slowly, he began to feel sexy. He ran his hands slowly up her wide, strong thighs. And then, sad to relate, he fell asleep.

Liam O’Reilly died on Christmas Day, after his Christmas dinner, suffering a massive heart attack during a game of Snap. There aren’t many better ways to go. He was sixty-nine.

On an impulse, Cousin Hilda, who wasn’t given to impulses, wrote to the latest addresses that she had for all her gentlemen, telling them of the funeral arrangements. ‘Well,’ she told Henry, ‘I feel it’s the end of an era.’ She also wrote to an address in Ireland, which she found in Mr O’Reilly’s wallet.

There was more of a turn-out at the funeral than might have been expected for such a reclusive man, but the mourners still felt dwarfed by the great, dark, incense-heavy vault of St Mary’s Catholic Church.

Two obscure relatives from Ireland arrived, full of praise for Cousin Hilda’s kindness, ‘of which Liam was always most appreciative’. They each gave her a bottle of Jameson’s whisky, and she was too moved by their kindness to refuse the gifts, which she passed on to Henry with a sniff.

Tony Preece also came, with his pale ash-blonde fiancée, Stella, whom he had still not married after an engagement lasting more than fourteen years. Tony had made quite a success of his act as Cavin O’Rourke, the Winsome Wit from Wicklow. He had the grace to feel embarrassed about his Irish jokes at Liam O’Reilly’s funeral.

Another of the gentlemen to reappear was Neville Chamberlain, who had retired six weeks before after selling paint for forty-seven years, in England and Kenya.

Also present was Norman Pettifer. ‘It’s a sad day,’ he said. ‘A sad, sad day. And yet I can’t feel sad, such is the selfishness of human nature. I heard this morning, this very morning, that young Adrian has been sacked.’

Also present, and increasingly prosperous, was Mr Travis, the liquidator.

Cousin Hilda invited all nine mourners back to her house ‘for a little something’. The two Irishman, anticipating a wake, licked their lips.

There were ham sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, sausage rolls, and a choice of tea or Camp coffee.

When nobody could manage another bite, Cousin Hilda said, ‘Now, I’ve summat special to see poor Mr O’Reilly off to a better world. I think he deserves to go out in style.’

Oh God, I hope it’s something small, thought Henry. They were going out to supper at Joe and Molly Enwright’s.

Cousin Hilda disappeared to her little kitchen.

‘A funeral I’d like to have been present at was that of Dame Sybil Thorndike,’ said Norman Pettifer. ‘She was a trooper if ever there was one.’

‘I expect there was drink at that funeral,’ said one of the Irishman.

‘Hush, Seamus,’ said the other.

‘I suppose selling paint has changed over the years,’ said Henry.

‘You can say that again,’ said Neville Chamberlain.

But Henry didn’t. He felt that it had been boring enough the first time.

Cousin Hilda entered with a tray on which there were five steaming bowls. Then she returned to the kitchen and brought another tray, on which there were also five steaming bowls.

Henry realised that he had been over-optimistic when he’d believed that he’d eaten his last spotted dick ever.

‘Well, it is a Tuesday,’ said Cousin Hilda.

BENEDICT, ALMOST FIFTEEN
, started wanting to stay away with friends. Diana, Henry, Tosser and Felicity welcomed this. They were pleased that he was happy. They hoped that, if they took no action, the problems that they had seen deep in his eyes would go away.

Kate was beginning the long build-up towards her O levels. Great success was anticipated. She had matured into a lovely girl, if slightly moody.

Jack was becoming increasingly unacademic. He was good at football and cricket, but not at lessons. Henry told his teachers that he thought that academic education was failing those of a more practical nature. ‘Tell the government,’ was the response.

Camilla had her horses.

1972 moved inexorably into 1973. The Americans withdrew from Vietnam after the Paris peace talks reached agreement, but the violence continued.

Benedict got eight O levels. He announced that, if he got three A levels, his father would buy him a car.

Kate got nine mock O levels.

Jack played football for the under-fourteens and scored several goals.

Camilla had her horses.

One Sunday in late September, 1973, Cousin Hilda called round after church. Benedict was back at Dalton and Camilla had gone to Benningdean, a very posh school in Kent, but Kate and Jack were in. Kate was doing homework in her room, and Jack was building a bike in the garden out of old bits.

Cousin Hilda sniffed, because it was obvious to her that nobody at number 83 had gone to church.

They invited her to stay for lunch, and told her it would be early because Kate and Jack were going out. She sniffed again. ‘In
my
day young people weren’t allowed to have Sunday lunch early so they could go out,’ her eloquent sniff attested.

To their astonishment, she accepted the invitation.

‘You seem surprised,’ she said.

‘Well I am,’ said Henry.

‘You shouldn’t issue invitations unless you mean them.’

‘Oh, we meant it,’ said Diana. ‘And we’re pleased. It’s just that we thought you wouldn’t be able to because of your gentlemen.’

‘I have no gentlemen now,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I’ve hung up my boots.’

They stared at her in astonishment.

‘I told Mr Travis, the liquidator, “I’m sixty-seven. I’m going into liquidation.” He laughed.’

They realised that they should have laughed, and did so belatedly, then stared at each other in astonishment. Cousin Hilda had made a joke.

Cousin Hilda sniffed.

‘There’s no need to look surprised,’ she said. ‘I am human.’

‘Oh, very much so,’ said Henry hurriedly.

‘I’ve realised for quite a while that I’ve been swimming against the tide. And I’ve a bit put by. I don’t live particularly extravagantly.’

‘Will you move?’ asked Diana.

‘No. It’ll be nice to have the whole house to myself. I’ll indulge myself.’

There was more laughter over lunch. Diana told Jack not to eat with his mouth full, when she meant not to talk with his mouth full.

‘That was a good one,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘That were a right comical slip, weren’t it, Kate?’

‘Very funny,’ agreed Kate, who was always nice to Cousin Hilda.

‘I must tell that to my … oh… I haven’t got anyone to tell it to any more, have I?’ said Cousin Hilda.

‘You knew Tommy Marsden, didn’t you, Dad?’ said Jack.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘He’s been sacked by Farsley Celtic.’

‘Well, he’s thirty-eight, like me.’

‘He’s sacked because he’s a piss-artist.’

Henry held his breath. Cousin Hilda didn’t appear to understand, but her lips tightened and he knew she was only pretending.

‘You can chart his ups and downs by his clubs,’ said Jack. ‘Thurmarsh United, Manchester United, Leeds United, Luton Town, Stockport County, Halifax Town, Northwich Victoria, Farsley Celtic.’

‘A sad story,’ said Henry.

When the children had gone out, they sat by the fire and Cousin Hilda said, ‘Do you know what decided me to retire?’

Henry and Diana, lolling full of beef, shook lazy heads.

‘I’ll tell you,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘Mr O’Reilly. Liam.’

Astonishment roused them from their torpor.

‘He never said much,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘He had more sense. I see no need for all the conversation that goes on. Natter, natter, natter. What about? Nowt. You might have thought, he’s not really made much mark on this globe, hasn’t Liam O’Reilly. A “yes, please” and “thank you very much”, and that was about all it amounted to. But I’ve been thinking, and I’ve been thinking about life, and it’s a right funny thing, is life, when you think about it. You see, he never did much with his life, not to say
did
, but without him, well, it’s just not the same. What it is is, he didn’t have much of a presence, but he has a very powerful absence. It’s funny, is that, isn’t it? Odd, I mean. I reckon so, anyroad.’