The Complete Pratt (141 page)

They drove down to Benningdean and took Camilla out with her friend Sally Harper. At the end of a splendid lunch in the Rose and Crown at Spewelthorpe, as they were getting their coats, Henry heard Sally whisper, ‘I like him. He may be a funny little cucumber man, but he’s very sweet.’ They visited Penshurst Place, and as they walked back to the car through the golden russet of a Kentish autumn, Henry said to Camilla, ‘I gather you told Sally I was a funny little cucumber man.’ Camilla went red and said, ‘Yes, but only because I didn’t know if she’d be able to see what I can see in you. I’d only really seen her with people out of the top drawer before,’ and she went even more red, and Henry said, ‘It doesn’t matter, darling. I love you,’ and Camilla said, ‘I love you too … Daddy,’ and tears sprang into Henry’s eyes and slid down his face and he brushed them away and said, ‘Oh dear. Aren’t people silly?’

Back in London, they went to dinner with Lampo and Denzil. It was Denzil’s turn to cook. It had dawned on Henry only gradually that nowadays it was always Denzil’s turn to cook. He pointed this out to Lampo, who said, ‘He won’t let me in the kitchen. He’s a little Hitler.’ Denzil and Lampo were barely speaking when they arrived. Lampo had broken a tea-cup. ‘He’s absolutely livid,’ said Lampo, who was now very senior in Christie’s – or was it Sotheby’s? ‘It’s literally a storm in a tea-cup,’ and Denzil hissed, ‘It’s ruined the set. It’s a storm in twelve tea-cups.’ During the meal, Denzil irritated Henry with his fussiness, always doing bits of washing up between courses and coming to the table late for the next course, but Lampo showed no sign of irritation whatsoever, and after all, Denzil was in his seventies. It had dawned on Henry only gradually over their long friendship that, beneath their almost constant arguments, Lampo and Denzil loved each other very much. So it was an enormous delight to enter their stuffed, impossible little house, although it was also an enormous relief to leave, knowing that one hadn’t broken anything.

On their way to Bristol, they spent a night in Paul and
Christobel
’s exquisite Georgian house. Christobel’s food was lovely, and there was beautiful claret and port. In his gentle cups, Paul said, ‘I really moved into medicine because I noticed how many holidays my father had,’ in that low, exquisitely modulated voice that he had developed over the years. Every time Paul spoke, he sounded as though he was saying, ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Welkin. It’s only a harmless cyst and we’ll have you up and about again in no time.’ This bedside manner worked on Henry so effectively that he said, ‘Well, you do work hard when you’re not on holiday, don’t you?’ instead of, ‘You spoilt bastard. You don’t know what work is.’ When Paul said, ‘We made a conscious decision not to have children. They interfere with one’s work, and we neither of us really like children,’ Henry was tempted to say, ‘A person who doesn’t like children only likes people when they’re convenient to them. It’s a real give-away of selfishness,’ but he didn’t, he said, feebly, ‘Well, that’s your choice, fair enough.’

There was only one minor contretemps. Christobel said, ‘I hear you’re involving yourself with the Liberals,’ and Henry said, ‘Yes,’ and Christobel said, ‘Well at least it isn’t the other lot,’ and Henry said, ‘Well, I wouldn’t. I hate the Tories,’and Christobel said, ‘Oh, I meant Labour,’ and then realised that Henry had known that, and Henry said, ‘What a delightful ceiling rose that is,’ and the tactful gear-change was so blatant that everybody laughed, and the awkward moment passed. In their exquisitely elegant spare bedroom, Diana thanked Henry for being so nice to Paul. ‘I knew what you wanted to say. I can read you like a book,’ and they held each other very close, and almost made love.

In Bristol they met Kate’s new boyfriend, who was called Edward. He was handsome and intelligent, but intended to be an actor. Already, he had involved Kate in stage management. She was blissfully happy and looked extremely pretty despite all the hard work she had put in to conceal the fact. It was becoming politically incorrect to be pretty. Henry felt that this was a shame and had no relevance to the injustices and abuses which plagued the world. He also felt a wave of sympathy for poor Brian in Thurmarsh and hoped that Kate had let him down lightly. Not that he had any doubts.
Kate
was kind. He found it difficult, in a long evening of pub followed by moderate Anglo-French restaurant, not to feel a certain jealousy of Edward, who had taken so much of his daughter’s affection, but he resisted it with all the force he could muster. Edward made it clear from his attitude to Henry how warmly Kate had spoken of her father, and although Edward had been to Winchester, he was deeply ashamed of the fact, of his height and looks and talent, and would much rather, or so he thought from his lofty, privileged position, be a funny little cucumber man from Thurmarsh.

They arrived back at Waters Meet Cottage exhausted, and resumed the even tenor of their lives. Henry worked at the market gardens and drank in the Lamb and Flag, Diana learnt bridge, played bridge and went to Highland Dancing classes, and every now and then they saw each other and were pleasant to each other, and in this way an English winter passed.

The summer of 1977 saw the British climate return to normal after the unseemly excesses of 1975 and 1976.

Spain held its first general election for more than forty years. General Franco’s long dictatorship was over at last.

In the newly democratic Spain, Nadežda Lewthwaite died.

Lightning plunged New York into darkness for one long, terrible night. Fires were started, thousands of stores were looted of everything from food to new cars. 3,200 looters were arrested, but the authorities couldn’t contain the rampaging mobs. How fragile is our civilisation! How miraculous it is that democracy should ever be introduced!

How disappointing it was that Henry heard nothing from the Liberal Party!

Elvis Presley died.

Henry and Diana discovered that Benedict was not dead.

One morning in September there was a letter from Tosser:

Dear Henry and Diana,

I’ve been endeavouring to make telephonic communi
cation
with you, but it seems that you’re always out. What a social whirl it must be up there in Nether Bibbington. I’m quite envious.

The reason I’m contacting you is that I’ve had a letter from Benedict. He’s working in a bar in Spain and is all right. His letter is very unsatisfactory, but I think you ought to hear it. I’m reluctant to send a copy as he might interpret this as a breach of confidence.

I hope you’re both well.

With all best wishes,

Nigel.

Diana rang him immediately. Both their hearts were thumping. Henry sat on the settee beside her and was able to hear most of what Tosser said.

‘The Pilkington-Brick residence.’

‘Oh hello, Felicity, it’s Diana.’

‘I’ll get him.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Hello, Diana.’

‘Hello, Nigel.’

‘This’ll have to be brief. I’m due at a client’s.’

‘I’ll be thrilled if it’s brief, Nigel. Perhaps you’ll read the letter.’

‘Right.’ They heard him call to Felicity. ‘Darlesy-Warlesy, have you got the letter?’

Diana mimed being sick at ‘Darlesy-Warlesy’.

Henry grinned.

‘Thanks, Darlesy. Hello, Diana, are you still there?’

‘Still here, Nigey-Wigey.’

‘What? Oh! Diana! No, he says, and I must say it’s all pretty unsatisfactory:

‘Dear Dad,

‘I thought it was about time I let you know that I’m all right. I hope you’ve been worried, but somehow I doubt it. I’ve been doing all sorts of things – helping in the wine harvest, et cetera
– and
have finally settled running a bar with a friend near Malaga. That’s all you need to know. I could do with a bit of dosh, and you were always decent in that department. I won’t beg, but if you’ve got any spare from all your over-charging of your suckers, a cheque which I can cash here would be welcome. You can send it to Poste Restante, Malaga. I suppose I hope Felicity’s well, she never did me any good, but she never did me harm either. I can hear you saying that I’m being pretty insulting if I want money. Well I hope you’d rather the truth than a lot of old poloney (is that the right word? The old vocab rusts a bit when you’re abroad) about family and love just to get money from you.

‘I hope that mother of mine is all right. I’ll be happy to write to her when she’s got tired of the cucumber man. Please give all my best to Camilla. I think that by the standards of this bastard world she’s an OK person. Too OK for me to suggest she sees me here.

‘I’ll be grateful, in my way, for any dosh you can spare.

‘Bye for now.

‘Benedict.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Diana.

‘Exactly. What do you think he means by “too OK for me to suggest she sees me here”?’

‘I dread to think. You will tell Camilla what he says about her being OK, won’t you?’

‘Well I wasn’t going to. It’s hardly ringing praise, is it?’

‘It is from him, you stupid oaf, and she’ll be absolutely thrilled, she worships him still.’

‘More fool her, and I did hope we might be able to discuss this in civilised language, Diana. I hope we’re civilised people.’

Diana made a face at Henry. He grinned. Much more of this and they’d be in love again.

‘Are you going to send any money, Nigel?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. I don’t feel like it. It’s a bloody arrogant letter.’

‘You spend a fortune to get him taught to be arrogant, and then
you
complain. At least it’s honest, though.’

‘In its horrible way, I suppose. All that, “I hope you’ve been worried, but somehow I doubt it.” That’s an awful thing to say to a father.’

‘It’s an awful thing to have to say to a father.’

‘Diana! Don’t be so beastly.’

‘I am beastly. You’re so lucky to be with your magnificent Darlesy-Warlesy. Do you put a flag up when you’re in residence? Or only when you’re indulging in your brief, unsubtle love-making?’ She slammed the phone down and burst into tears. ‘Oh Benedict,’ she wailed. ‘Oh Ben!’

Henry hugged her, but couldn’t comfort her. She needed other comfort now.

Henry had a week’s holiday left. They flew to Malaga and toured every resort and every bar for fifty miles in each direction, showing a photograph of Benedict wherever they went. They found no trace of him, and arrived home exhausted, depressed and broke.

In October, Henry received a letter from a man called Magnus Willis.

Dear Mr Pratt,

I have read your letter about the Liberal Party and your desire to become involved. I’ve an idea of what form that involvement might take. I’ll be in Yorkshire next week and wondered if you might be able to spare the time from your busy life to meet me for a drink at the Midland Hotel at 6.30 on Friday next, the 22nd.

I must apologise for the short notice, but my travel plans have only recently been fixed.

So Henry found himself once more in that ungainly red-brick pile, the Midland Hotel, Thurmarsh. It was more than twenty-one years ago that he’d entered the hotel, twenty years old and aching with love, to spend a night with his childhood sweetheart, Lorna Arrow.

At the last count Lorna had had six children, and he was into his second marriage, but the Midland Hotel seemed to be in a time
warp
. The same vast armchairs, sagging terminally. The same huge, ugly chandeliers. The same photographs from the halcyon days of steam. Only the carpet, a light red, claret to the former’s port, had changed.

Magnus Willis unfolded himself from an armchair, bounded across like a sex-starved wallaby, shook hands fiercely, said, ‘Absolutely delighted to meet you,’ took Henry into the bar, and said, ‘What’s your poison?’

‘A pint of bitter, please.’

‘Ah me!’ sighed Magnus Willis. ‘A bitter man. The common touch. I wish I was a bitter man.’ He plumped for a glass of tonic water.

They installed themselves in an alcove.

‘I thought this was better than the Liberal Club,’ said Magnus Willis. ‘Wagging tongues. Now, tell me your life story.’

Magnus Willis curled himself in his chair, legs tucked up in a pose that was at once strikingly foetal and so aggressively that of the fascinated listener that to his astonishment Henry found himself telling his life history.

‘Absolutely excellent. First rate. Well done,’ enthused Magnus Willis when he’d finished. ‘Perfect. Needn’t go into the first wife scenario too closely, but otherwise absolutely spot-on. Gloss over the newspaper connection, but otherwise tremendous. Needn’t emphasise the cucumbers too much, but apart from that I don’t think one could pick too many holes in it. And Thurmarsh through and through, that’s what I like. Tell me why you’re a Liberal.’

‘Basically because I don’t believe in dogma and I believe that interference by politicians in the running of the country should be kept to a minimum.’