The Complete Pratt (18 page)

It had stopped raining, but an ambulance roared through a large puddle and drenched them from head to foot. They had to wait twenty minutes for a tram. By the time it came, Uncle Teddy was already discussing his business, which consisted of paying the barman at the Robin Hood in Sheffield for two large whiskies and a large gin and It.

At last they got home, and Henry had his first banana. The old master of the Mars bar made it last seven minutes. Life’s pleasures were not taken lightly in those days.

Visits to hospitals and to the home of Penistone’s leading coal merchant could not delay the moment of truth for ever. Today was to be Henry’s day of reckoning with the Paradise Lane Gang. He was to meet them at the bridge over the Rundle and Gadd Navigation, to demonstrate on that brick edifice that his prowess at emitting wind was no fluke.

Uncle Teddy had done his bit at last. He had given Ezra a job, at his import/export business in Sheffield. His father didn’t get home till half-past six, so Henry often got his own tea. On this particular day he chose a tin of baked beans on toast, followed by a tin of baked beans not on toast.

He walked up Paradise Lane, along the footpath, through the gate onto the towpath, and along the towpath towards the bridge. It was a clear evening, and there wasn’t a breath of wind. He regarded this as a bad omen.

The bridge over the canal was attractive, with the shallow
curve
of the towpath at either side perfectly proportioned. Only five things marred its simple, functional beauty. Tommy Marsden, Martin Hammond, Chalky White, Billy Erpingham and Ian Lowson. They stood in line on the top of the bridge. Immobile. Stern. Ruthless. The Paradise Lane Gang.

Henry climbed slowly up the towpath to the top of the bridge.

He took up his position, slightly bent over. He strained. Come on, beans. Do thy stuff, he implored. He strained again. A tiny, barely audible, semi-asthmatic wheeze dribbled from his backside.

They threw him into the Rundle and Gadd Navigation. It wasn’t the last canal into which he would fall, but it was undoubtedly the most bruising to his ego.

ANOTHER SEPTEMBER. ANOTHER
beginning. Henry got off the Thurmarsh tram at the stop before the terminus. The grammar school was in Link Lane, next to the fire station.

Boys were converging on the school from all sides, in black blazers and black-and-yellow-striped ties. The new boys stood out among the scruffy stream like barristers in a public bar.

The school building was long, brick, many-windowed, uninspired but also unforbidding. He was looking for Martin Hammond, but found only Norbert Cuffley. Although he didn’t want to be seen as an ally of such an outrageous goody, they clung together in that vast strangeness.

He caught sight of Martin Hammond in the school hall. The boys sat in rows, with the younger boys at the front. The masters filed in, and sat facing the boys. The hubbub subsided, and the headmaster, Mr E. F. Crowther, entered.

They stood and sang a hymn. They sat and the headmaster intoned a prayer. Henry also noticed Milner and Trellis from Brunswick Road. He was surprised to find that he was feeling quite excited.

Mr E. F. Crowther addressed the school. Mr Quell stifled a yawn.

‘Welcome back, old boys. Welcome to Thurmarsh Grammar, new boys,’ began Mr E. F. Crowther. ‘You see before you our staff, as fine a body of men as can be found…in this building.’

Mr Crosby had heard this joke twenty times before, but he still laughed exaggeratedly at it.

‘Thurmarsh. It is not perhaps a name that resounds throughout the educational world. It is not an Eton or a Harrow. But is it any the worse for that?’ Mr E. F. Crowther paused, as if defying some miserable urchin to say ‘yes’. Nobody did. Nobody ever had. ‘I am proud to be headmaster of Thurmarsh Grammar,’ he continued at last. ‘Perhaps I am biased, because I am Thurmarsh born and Thurmarsh bred.’

‘And Thurmarsh bread is very nice when it’s fresh,’ whispered Henry to Norbert Cuffley. He hadn’t expected to say it. It just came to him. He was a budding humorist, an emerging character, and he felt exhilarated. Besides, it terrified Norbert Cuffley.

The headmaster paused, and looked in his direction. Careful, Henry.

‘In the great war that has strained the civilised world almost to breaking point,’ resumed Mr E. F. Crowther, ‘Old Thurmarshians have been up there beside Old Etonians and Old Harrovians. I am sure that in the battle to rebuild our nation and take up once again our rightful place in the forefront of history, there will once again be Thurmarshians in the van.’

‘The bread van,’ whispered Henry.

The headmaster turned towards him.

‘Did somebody speak?’ he asked.

Oh, miserable and aptly-named Pratt.

‘Who spoke?’ thundered the headmaster.

The room resounded to the loud silence of six hundred boys. You could have heard an earwig breathe.

‘The whole school will stay in for one hour, unless somebody owns up,’ said Mr E. F. Crowther.

‘It were me, sir,’ said Henry in a small voice.

‘Stand up,’ commanded Mr E. F. Crowther.

Henry stood up.

‘Who are you?’ said Mr E. F. Crowther.

‘Pratt, sir.’

There was laughter.

‘Silence,’ said Mr E. F. Crowther. ‘There is nothing funny about a boy’s name. People who find names funny are puerile. You’re new, aren’t you, Pratt?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You have passed your eleven plus, and are therefore considered fit to come here rather than fester away in a secondary modern school,’ said Mr E. F. Crowther. ‘Allow us to share the epigrammatical delight of your secret discourse, Pratt, and help us to judge whether we find you fit.’

‘Sir?’

‘What did you say?’

His mind was a blank. He could think of nothing except the truth.

‘The bread van, sir.’

‘The bread van, Pratt?’

‘Yes, sir. Tha said tha hoped there’d be Thurmarshians in the van. I said “the bread van”.’

‘Are you related to Oscar Wilde, by any chance, Pratt?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I thought not. You’re an imbecile, Pratt. What are you?’

‘An imbecile, sir.’

‘You will come and see me in my study after school.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The headmaster resumed his address. Everyone would be sorry to hear that Mr Budge had suffered a stroke. Extensive repairs had been carried out in the boiler room. They could face the winter with more confidence.

At Brunswick Road, all Henry’s lessons had been taken by Mr Gibbins. At Thurmarsh Grammar his development was entrusted to several teachers, and much of the first day was spent in finding their classrooms and taking part in roll-calls.

His first lesson was given by Mr Quell, his form master, who would teach him English. Mr Quell was five foot five tall, large-framed and barrel-chested, and he had an absolutely square-topped head. He gave the impression of being quite a tough man, yet he looked at Henry with something approaching awe.

The boys in Henry’s class were Astbury, Blake, Burgess, Crane, Cuffley, Dakins, Elmhurst, Hammond, Harrison, Huntley, Ibbotson, Jones, Larkins, Longfellow, Milner, Norris, Oberath, Openshaw, Pratt, Prziborski, Quayle, Smith, Stoner, Taylor, Tunnicliffe, Turner, Weston, Wilkinson, Wool and Yarnold.

After the day’s chaotic activities were over, and a relatively ordered basis for the future had been established, Henry made his way uneasily towards the headmaster’s study.

‘Good luck, bread van,’ said a senior boy, whom he met in the corridor.

He knocked.

‘Come in,’ said Mr E. F. Crowther.

He entered.

Mr E. F. Crowther sat behind a large desk on which there were several piles of papers arranged on spikes. His study was airy. The walls were liberally festooned with rosters and graphs. The room stated, ‘Things get done here. We are plain, practical men, concerned with achievement, not pretension.’

‘Good afternoon, Pratt,’ said Mr E. F. Crowther.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Henry.

‘Thought up any more little gems, Pratt?’

‘No, sir.’

‘A pity. I’ve had a hard day. I was looking forward to being entertained.’

Mr E. F. Crowther picked up his cane, then let it fall onto the top of his desk.

‘Can you furnish me with any arguments that might persuade me not to cane you, Pratt’ he enquired.

‘Yes, sir.’

The headmaster raised his eyebrows in eloquent surprise.

‘Then do so.’

‘I were excited, sir.’

‘It’s “I was excited,” Pratt. You’ll have to learn to speak grammatically here. After all, it is the grammar school.’

‘I
was
excited, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘Coming to Thurmarsh Grammar, sir.’

Mr E. F. Crowther gave Henry a searching glance. He prided himself on his searching glances. Sometimes, he was so keen on making sure that his glance was searching that he forgot to look for the thing for which he was searching.

‘I must warn you that I have the sole franchise for all sarcasm uttered between these four walls,’ he said.

‘Please, sir?’

‘Are you seriously telling me that you said “the bread van” because you were excited about coming to Thurmarsh Grammar?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Mr E. F. Crowther leant back in his chair. Behind him, a hazy autumn sun shone. There was a beam of dust in the air.

‘Explain,’ he said.

‘Well, sir, I didn’t like it that much at Brunswick Road because it were…it
was
mainly Reading, Writing and Arithmetic, with just a bit of Geography and that. I were…I
was
looking forward to learning all the different subjects, like, like History and French and that, and with seeing all the older boys and everything, I thought about everything I was going to learn and how after I left school I might get on in t’ world and be summat, and I felt like my life was just starting at last, and I gor over-excited, sir. I’m only eleven.’

The headmaster stared at Henry with his mouth slightly open.

‘Try to stay excited,’ he said, ‘but try not to get so carried away with your enthusiasm that you say “the bread van” while I’m talking. Run along now.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

Martin Hammond was waiting for him outside. He was astounded when he heard that Henry hadn’t had the cane.

‘I never wanted to throw thee out of t’ gang,’ said Martin Hammond. ‘It were Tommy and Billy and Chalky and Ian. There was nowt I could do, not on me own.’

The Rawlaston tram was only half full. Most of the children had gone home, and the evening rush-hour had not yet started.

The tram dropped into the Rundle Valley, and swung round to the right, running alongside the canal for about a hundred yards. Then the cul-de-sacs began and they saw them waiting at the bus stop. Tommy Marsden. Ian Lowson. Billy Erpingham. Chalky White. Four boys who had not passed the eleven plus. On another day, the results might have been different, and the tramp ships of their lives might have been sent to different ports. But they hadn’t, and now they stood facing each other, two grammar-school boys and four secondary-school boys.

‘Art tha coming out tonight?’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘Well, we’re all still members of t’ gang, aren’t we? Tha’s not turned snotty-nosed just cos tha’s gone to grammar school, has tha?’

‘Course not,’ said Martin Hammond.

‘I was never made a proper member any road,’ said Henry.

‘We’ll make thee a full member on Saturday,’ said Tommy Marsden.

‘I can’t,’ said Henry. ‘I’m going t’ match.’

‘At six o clock,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘After t’ match. On t’ waste ground. Be there.’

The match was against Accrington Stanley, in the Third Division North. This time Henry was excited by the crowd of flat-capped men and boys pouring up Blonk Lane. He felt six inches taller as he went through the juveniles’ entrance and rejoined Ezra inside the ground.

The boys were handed to the front row over the heads of the good-natured crowd.

There was a cheer from the sizeable contingent of Stanleyites when the visitors emerged, but it was nothing compared to the roar that greeted the Reds. Eleven giants in their red shirts and long white shorts. Rawlings: Thong, Ibbotson: Salter, Cedarwood, Smailes: Ellison, Bunce, Gravel, Thompson and Hatch.

The Reds attacked from the start. The Peel Park men, who were wearing yellow due to a clash of colours, were pinned into their own half for long periods. There were cries of ‘Windy’ when they made back passes.
BUNCE
put the Reds into the lead in the twenty-third minute following a sinuous dribble by Hatch. In the eighty-third minute, the ubiquitous
SMAILES
popped up by the far post, to head a second for the home team. Unfortunately, by that time the visitors had scored three times in breakaways.

It took a long while to get back to Thurmarsh, and by the time they got there the ‘Green ’Un’ had already been published. They read about the match they’d just seen. ‘The visitors were lucky to be on level terms at the interval,’ opined the writer. ‘When the Reds took the lead through the medium of young
BUNCE,
the cheers could have been heard as far away as Rotherham. The 13,671 crowd enjoyed the fast and furious exchanges. There was no question of cotton wool and swaddling clothes for these boys.’ 13,671, thought Henry. That included me. Without me it would have been 13,670. I’m mentioned in the paper. It cheered him up a little, but not much. They had lost, unfairly. They had been robbed. Life wasn’t worth living. And he dreaded his initiation into the Paradise Lane Gang.