The Complete Pratt (44 page)

‘We’re here to discuss the philosophy of humanism,’ said Betty Bridger.

‘That’s a great help to a sick animal,’ said Beverley Minster.

‘Look, if you want to bandage sick animals, you bandage sick animals,’ said Betty Bridger. ‘And visit things. There must be lots of lonely old umbrellas and hair-brushes would be glad of a visit. And we’ll discuss philosophy.’

‘I don’t see how you can say that philosophy is more important than bandaging sick animals,’ said Beverley Minster.

‘I know how I say it,’ said Betty Bridger. ‘I presume you mean, “How can I justify saying it?” Well, that’s a different question. Do we want to discuss that? On what grounds do we decide that one thing is more important than another?’

‘Clearly there have always been philosophers and there have always been people who have visited old people and bandaged sick animals,’ said Karen Porter. ‘History records the achievements of philosophers far more than the achievements of bandagers of sick animals because history is written by intellectuals and not by sick animals, and philosophy is more important to intellectuals, while bandaging sick animals is more important to sick animals.’

‘The two terms are not necessarily mutually exclusive,’ said Betty Bridger. ‘I mean, there may have been philosophers who visited old ladies.’

‘And bandaged sick animals,’ said Karen Porter.

‘We’ve got to use language with precision, Beverley,’ said Betty Bridger.

‘I know what you mean,’ said Beverley Minster. ‘I should have said “bandage injured animals”. You treat sick animals. You bandage injured animals.’

‘Fine,’ said Henry. ‘I think we’d all agree this is a very helpful discussion. Atschoo. Sorry. But I founded this society with Maureen…’ he smiled at Maureen, and she smiled back,
‘…and
it’s a humanist society, not a society for doing humanitarian acts. I think you’d be happier, Beverley, if you left us and founded a society of your own for visiting old people and bandaging injured animals.’

‘I think you’re all horrid,’ said Beverley Minster, and she left the pavilion in tears.

Henry longed for one of the boys to speak. He felt ashamed for them. And he longed for Maureen Abberley, whom he loved, to speak. He felt ashamed for her.

‘Now there are quite a few people we haven’t heard from,’ he said. ‘Somebody else, please.’

‘Can I just say what I understand by humanism?’ said Karen Porter. ‘It’s a dictionary definition. It’s a philosophy that rejects supernaturalism, regards man as a natural object and asserts the essential dignity and worth of man and his capacity to achieve self-realisation through the use of reason and the scientific method.’

Alan Turner leant forward, and it was clear that he was preparing to speak. At last, a boy was going to contribute, and there was something impressive, calm, mature about Alan Turner. Everybody, even Betty Bridger, hung on his words.

‘I agree with that,’ he said.

‘I don’t,’ said Denise Booth. ‘Humanists didn’t not believe in God. There were humanist popes.’

‘How do you know?’ said Betty Bridger.

‘I’ve read it,’ said Denise Booth.

‘How do you know it’s true? said Betty Bridger.

‘How do you know anything’s true?’ said Denis Hilton, taking off his glasses and staring at them and leaping suddenly into brave, blushing, earnest life. ‘How do you know anything? How do you know you exist? Maybe you’re all a figment of my imagination.’

Rain began to drum on the roof. Karen Porter said that she knew that she often felt that she was a wraith-like figure, and that was probably the explanation. She was a figment of somebody else’s imagination. Betty Bridger said that Karen Porter might well be right, but Denis Hilton was wrong, since, if anybody was a figment of anybody’s imagination, they were all figments of hers. Henry said that if anybody was going to be a figment of anybody’s
imagination
, as founder and secretary it was only right that they should be a figment of his imagination. He proposed that they should draft a set of club rules, which would include a clause to the effect that the society be deemed to exist, all members be deemed to exist, and a charge of threepence per head for coffee be deemed to exist. Betty Bridger suggested that at each meeting somebody should read a paper, as a basis for discussion. She suggested that, as she had suggested the idea, she should deliver the first paper, on the subject ‘What is Humanism?’ Just as they were about to start their coffee, Stefan arrived. Martin, Bobby Cartwright, Michael Normanton and Maureen Abberley didn’t speak all evening. After the meeting, Henry suggested that Maureen Abberley and he stay behind to wash up and clear up and generally leave the pavilion as they would wish to find it. It was only fair that they should undertake this tiresome chore as they were the founders of the society in their respective schools.

When they had washed up and cleared up, Henry put his arms round Maureen’s soft waist. But she shook herself free, and refused even to kiss him, for fear she would catch his cold.

Henry found it hard to avoid the conclusion that, taken all in all, the first meeting of the Thurmarsh Grammar School Bisexual Humanist Society had been a disappointment. No great new system of philosophy had emerged, and he remained a virgin.

Three days later, Cousin Hilda had a face like thunder. Norman Pettifer was not an unduly timid man. No man who holds down the position of manager of the cheese counter at Cullens can be unduly timid. Tony Preece was not a timid man. No man who braves the rigors both of trying to get laughs in working men’s clubs and of selling insurance can be timid. Liam, though timid enough, was not a perceptive man. But at the sight of Cousin Hilda’s face, all three men quailed. They dispatched their liver and bacon and tinned peaches at a speed that positively invited stomach ulcers, and fled.

‘Well!’ said Cousin Hilda, when only Henry was left. ‘Well!’

‘Well what?’ said Henry.

Cousin Hilda’s jaw was biting on the pain of it.

‘I found a packet of. .them things. .in your pocket,’ she
said
.

‘I don’t know how they got there,’ said Henry. ‘One of the boys must have put them there.’

‘How do you know what I’m talking about, if you didn’t know they were there?’ said Cousin Hilda.

He noticed that there were now two cracked panes of blue glass in the front of the stove.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

‘Sorry!’ she repeated bitterly. ‘Sorry! I’ve done my best to be a mother to you. I’ve done my best to give you standards.’

He felt full of shame. Not shame at having had a packet of Durex. Shame at having been found with a packet of Durex. Shame at being Henry Pratt. Great philosopher! Distinguished humanist! He couldn’t even avoid bringing misery on his poor surrogate parent.

Henry made no attempt to see Maureen Abberley before the next meeting of the humanist society. Let her do the pining and worrying.

He told Stefan that he was very upset with him. Stefan said that he couldn’t stand societies and formal debates. They made him ill. He’d spent two hours plucking up his courage before he’d dared turn up.

He told Martin that he was very upset with him. He was his friend, and he hadn’t said a word. Martin said he’d been shy. ‘I thought you were going into politics,’ said Henry. ‘Where would the Labour Party be now, if Kier Hardie’d been shy?’ ‘That’s different,’ Martin said. ‘That’s my chosen field. All this humanism’s just messing about.’

After school, on the day of the second meeting of the Thurmarsh Grammar School Bisexual Humanist Society, Henry went down to Merrick Street. He entered the shop hurriedly this time, head down, terrified he’d see somebody he knew.

‘A refill, eh?’ said the man. ‘Well done, lad.’

As he set up the chairs and got the coffee mugs out of the cupboard, Henry tried to concentrate on humanism, not Maureen Abberley. Was it true what Martin said? Were they just messing about? How many people would turn up anway?

To his surprise, everybody came except two. He knew Betty Bridger would come, of course, and probably Karen Porter. He wasn’t totally surprised that Denise Booth and Denis Hilton were there, and he’d expected Martin to come, out of loyalty if nothing else, but the presence of Bobby Cartwright and Michael Normanton, who hadn’t contributed a word, and of Alan Turner, who had only said, ‘I agree with that,’ did surprise him.

The absentees were Stefan Prziborski, who was allergic to meetings and formal debates, and Maureen Abberley, who had a cold.

Betty Bridger read her paper. She said that she had changed its title from ‘What is Humanism?’ to ‘What is “What is Humanism?”?’! They would have to examine the nature of statements, the nature of questions, the nature of definitions. But were they ready to do that? Shouldn’t they first examine the nature of communication?

‘I’d like to put this to you, in conclusion,’ she said. ‘Ought we not to consider the four questions “What is what?” “What is is?” “Is what?” and “Is is?” before we ask ourselves “What is “‘What is Humanism?”?’!

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Martin. ‘There’s a real world out there.’

‘But is it real?’ said Denis Hilton, kick-starting himself into stuttering excitement. ‘I’m very interested in the question “what is is?”’

‘Not “is is?”?’ said Henry sarcastically.

‘No. I believe we have to assume that is is, if we’re to get anywhere,’ said Denis Hilton. ‘I was very interested in your father’s comments on how we decide what a table is, Betty.’

Betty Bridger gave Denis Hilton an angry stare.

‘Betty’s father?’ said Henry.

Some colour came to Betty Bridger’s cheeks for the first time.

‘My father’s a philosopher,’ she said.

‘Aha! So he wrote your paper,’ said Martin.

‘He bloody well did not. He helped, that’s all,’ said Bettv Bridger. ‘He just suggested areas of enquiry.’

‘Bloody stupid areas of enquiry,’ said Martin

‘Please everybody,’ said Henry.

Not stupid at all,’ said Denis Hilton. ‘Unless you define your
terms
, you’re talking in a vacuum.’

‘Ah, but what is a vacuum?’ said Martin.

‘Your brain,’ said Betty Bridger.

‘Please!’ said Henry. ‘Please! This is not a philosophical society. It’s a humanist society. If you want to form a philosophical society, do so.’

‘I think I will,’ said Betty Bridger, gathering up her papers.

‘Good idea,’ said Martin. ‘Your father obviously can’t help you quite so much on humanism.’

‘I’m coming too,’ said Denis Hilton. He turned towards Henry. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but that’s my real interest. The wider field. I think the idea of confining it to humanism is a bit narrow for me.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Henry. ‘Anybody else who finds the future of mankind too narrow and prefers the broader field of “What is is?” may as well go as well.’

Betty Bridger looked questioningly at Karen Porter.

‘No, I’m staying,’ said Karen Porter, grinning at Henry, who immediately felt glad that Maureen Abberley had a cold.

Betty Bridger and Denis Hilton departed. There were now two girls facing four boys, two of whom had not yet spoken.

‘Right,’ said Henry. ‘So what is humanism?’

Alan Turner leant forward again, urgent, impressive, measured, as he had at the last meeting, when he had said, ‘I agree with that.’

‘I agree with what she said last time,’ he said this time.

‘Which “she”?’ said Henry.

‘The pretty one,’ said Michael Normanton. His appearance improved briefly as the rest of his face and neck went as red as his acne.

‘That’ s not a very nice thing to say of. .of whichever girl you don’t mean,’ said Henry.

‘He means me,’ said Denise Booth. ‘I mean I’m the one he doesn’t mean. We all know that.’

‘I looked up your medieval humanism stuff, Denise,’ said Karen Porter. ‘I must say I found it all very confusing.’

‘I’m probaby on the wrong track altogether,’ said Denise Booth. ‘I’m probably stupid as well as ugly.’

She stormed out of the pavilion, slamming the door so hard that
a
photograph of the Thurmarsh Cricket Team of 1932 fell to the ground.

‘Why have you come here, Michael?’ said Henry. ‘You haven’t contributed anything.’

‘I wanted to meet girls,’ said Michael Normanton.

‘What girl would look at you? You’re covered in acne,’ said Henry. ‘You’ve got more spots than a set of dominoes. In fact we could have a good game of fives and threes on your neck.’

Michael Normanton flung himself at Henry. They rolled on the floor. Martin grabbed Michael Normanton’s collar and attempted to pull him off. Alan Turner walked calmly over, yanked Michael Normanton from the pile of bodies and punched him on the nose. Bobby Cartwright made no move.

‘Why did you hit me?’ said Michael Normanton, sitting on the floor, holding a hankerchief to his nose.

‘You attacked the chairman physically. That’s anarchy,’ said Martin.

‘He made personal remarks about my face,’ said Michael Normanton.

‘You called Denise Booth ugly by implication,’ said Karen Porter.

‘To praise you,’ shouted Michael Normanton. ‘And, any road, his insults to me weren’t by implication.’