The Complete Pratt (56 page)

‘What?’

‘You don’t say things like that in places like this.’

‘I do. I’m a country bumpkin. Remember?’

‘Lorna!’

The elderly wine waiter limped towards them with a vast tome.

‘The wine list, sir?’

‘Please.’

Henry peered blankly at a long list of names. ‘Which would tha prefer?’ he said. ‘Château Lafite ’36 or a glass of Tizer?’

Lorna gave a leaden smile. The memory of their childhood games echoed desolately round the room like a marble in a Wall of Death. The wine waiter waited, breathing asthmatically, as if he expected Henry to choose from a list of three hundred wines in less than a minute. He chose at random a wine he couldn’t afford with a name he couldn’t pronounce.

Their food arrived. Henry almost cried when he discovered that
pamplemousse
was half a grapefruit. A waitress gripped stale rolls in silver tongs and dropped them onto their plates. They almost shared a laugh.

‘How’s your tomato soup?’ he asked.

‘It’s tomato soup. How’s your
pamplemousse
?’

‘It’s bloody grapefruit.’

Henry hoped the waitress would offer them another roll, so that this time they might share a laugh, but such largesse was not to be seriously expected.

‘What did you think of them?’ he said, drawn to the subject of his new friends as a man with vertigo is drawn towards the path’s edge.

‘I liked Colin.’

‘Yes. He’s smashing. He liked you.’

‘Great. One down, six to go!’

‘Lorna!’

The waiter brought Henry his bottle as if it were a priceless antique. On Henry’s salary, it was. He poured a tiny drop into Henry’s glass. Henry took an embarrassed sip and nodded. The wine waiter filled their glasses to the brim. Years later Henry would remember this, and realize how ignorant the wine waiter was, and wish that he could have his youth back so that this time he could live it without being overawed.

‘Gordon liked you,’ he said. ‘You have to read between the lines with Gordon.’

‘Two out of seven!’

He took a sip of wine. A waiter came over and poured a sipful into his glass. He mumbled his thanks at this tiresome gesture.

‘Ben liked you.’

‘I liked Ben.’

‘Ben’s all right.’

‘Well … three out of seven.’

Their main courses arrived. His steak tartare looked very strange.

They watched numbly while five different vegetables, all overcooked, were piled onto Lorna’s plate. Henry had only salad.

At last they were free to eat. He took a cautious mouthful. ‘Bloody hell!’ he said, louder than he intended. ‘It’s raw.’

A man at a neighbouring table gave him a pitying ‘The barbarians are at the door’ look.

The headwaiter hurried over with swift, absurdly small steps.

‘Is anything wrong, sir?’ he asked.

‘Well … I …’ Henry was bathed in embarrassment. ‘My … er … steak. It’s … not cooked. Is that … er …?’

‘Steak tartare is raw fillet steak, sir, blended with garlic, tabasco, raw egg, chopped onion, chopped capers and herbs.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘We can change it, sir, if you don’t like it.’

‘No. No. That’s fine. It’s very nice. I just didn’t … thank you.’

He wanted to say to Lorna, ‘If you’re a country bumpkin, what am I? An ignorant provincial hick. And what does it matter?’ He couldn’t. Why couldn’t he? Because it did matter. He’d been tossed like a cork through a land where it mattered very much, and he was only a human being. He took another sip of wine. A waiter hurried over and poured a sipful into his glass. He mumbled his thanks at this annoying gesture.

‘What
is
all this “three out of seven” business, anyroad?’ he said. ‘You make it sound like some sort of exam.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘Course it wasn’t.’

‘I felt as if I was on trial. As if you ’ad no faith in me. As if you didn’t want me, but somebody to bring glory to you. As if a waitress from a country village isn’t good enough for your literary friends.’

‘Literary friends? Give over, Lorna. Is your steak nice?’

‘It’s steak. How about yours?’

‘It’s not bad, actually. Once you get used to the idea. It’s pretty fiery. Tell us about Rowth Bridge.’

‘You don’t want to know about Rowth Bridge. You’ve changed.’

‘Course I’ve changed. We all change.’

‘I ’aven’t. That’s the trouble.’

‘I don’t want you to change.’

‘Yes, you do. You want me to be interesting and keen on books and paintings and ideas and that and foreign countries and things and I’m not.’

He hesitated. ‘I would like you to be interested in those things, yes,’ he said. ‘I think they’re good things, but I don’t want a different you to be interested in them. I want the you that you are now to be …’

‘… different.’

‘No. Well … the same, but different. Look, let’s leave it. I
am
interested in Rowth Bridge. How are Simon and Pam?’

Simon Eckington, from the post office, had married Pam Yardley, the evacuee, who had been Henry’s childhood sweetheart before Lorna.

‘All right. They’ve got two smashing kids.’

‘Smashing.’

‘You see, you aren’t interested. You haven’t even asked if they’re boys or girls.’

‘What are they?’

‘Girls.’

‘Smashing. Two little girls. Smashing.’

‘I love children. I wanted to ’ave your children.’

‘Lorna! You will!’

‘I’m just a stop-at-home girl. ’ousewife in Rowth Bridge, three bairns, that’s me.’

‘Maybe you only think that because that’s the role society’s put you in.’

‘No. I like it. I don’t want to be a film critic.’

‘Who’s talking about film critics?’

There was a sullen silence between them. He took a large gulp of wine. A waiter hurried across and poured a large gulpful into his glass. He mumbled his thanks at this irritating gesture.

‘This wine’s nice, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘I think it’s ’orrid,’ said Lorna.

‘Would you prefer cider?’

‘Yes, please.’

He tried to attract the attention of a waiter. Suddenly no eyes were looking their way.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes it does.’

‘Imagine me ordering sweet cider in Hampstead!’

‘What’s Hampstead got to do with it?’

‘What was ’er name? Paul’s sister. Diana? Or is she forgotten now you’ve met the fabulous Helen?’

‘Lorna!’ He raised his arm imperiously. Two waiters ignored him. They were laying up for breakfast.

‘She’s a cow, that one. She’d scratch me eyes out except then folk wouldn’t know any more that my eyes aren’t as pretty as hers.’

‘Lorna! She’s not like that.’

‘You see!’

‘Lorna! I couldn’t care less about her.’ At last he’d made such strong eye contact with a waiter that the waiter couldn’t ignore it. ‘About time!’ he said. The waiter ignored this. ‘Er … could I have a pint of sweet cider, please?’

‘Certainly, sir.’ The waiter moved away and called out unnecessarily loudly, ‘Pint of sweet cider for table eight, George.’ This time the neighbouring diner’s expression said, ‘The barbarians aren’t
at
the door. They’re inside. Civilization’s over. It’s official.’

‘I couldn’t,’ resumed Henry, ‘care less about her. But sheer justice leads me to say that she isn’t like you think.’ He changed the subject. ‘How are you getting on with Auntie Doris?’

‘She’s all right. She’s quite generous when that ’orrible man’s not around.’

‘Geoffrey Porringer?’

‘’e’s’ orrible.’

‘I know. I call him the slimy Geoffrey Porringer.’

‘’e keeps touching me up. Rubbing against me. Making it look accidental.’

‘Oh no. That’s horrible.’

‘’e’s disgusting. How do folk get to be so disgusting?’

The wine waiter brought the pint of sweet cider as if it were a Mills bomb. Yet, off duty, he never drank anything except dark mild.

‘I met my Uncle Teddy on Wednesday,’ said Henry. ‘I’m going to come to Troutwick and try to get Auntie Doris to go back to him. And I’m going to warn Geoffrey Porringer off you. Nobody rubs up against my Lorna.’

‘I’m not your Lorna.’

‘You are. I love you, Lorna.’

‘You don’t. I’ve lost you, Henry.’

‘Lorna!’

He took a gulp of wine. Three waiters raced to pour a gulpful of wine into his glass. He mumbled his thanks to the winner at this infuriating gesture.

The lift took them slowly to the fourth floor and the room which they had still not entered. The huge wooden block to which the key was attached rubbed Henry’s leg, mocking his flaccid organ. He couldn’t bring himself to admit that it was over, that he wasn’t a caring humanist socialist but an obnoxious intellectual snob.

The lift juddered to a halt all too soon. He picked up their cases and staggered into the corridor. Oh no! He was drunk again. He hadn’t meant to be, but Lorna hadn’t liked the wine, and it was costing him, so he’d had to drink it, and it was rich, heavy stuff, and he wasn’t used to wine, and the key turned in the lock, but the door wouldn’t open. He heard somebody inside the room. The door opened, and a sleepy man in a tasselled green dressing-gown was standing there.

‘It can’t ’appen,’ said the night porter. ‘There’s a foolproof system. It can’t ’appen.’

‘Well, it has happened,’ said Henry.

‘I’m not saying it ’asn’t ’appened,’ said the night porter. ‘’appen it ’as ’appened. I’m saying it can’t ’appen.’

‘All right,’ said Henry. ‘It can’t happen. But it has happened. What are you going to do about it?’

‘I don’t rightly know,’ said the night porter. ‘It’s never ’appened before.’

‘Well, do you have any other rooms?’

‘Oh aye. ’undreds. It’s right quiet. Friday night. No businessmen, does tha see?’

‘Right. Well, can we have one of those hundreds of rooms?’

‘Aye, but I’m not allowed to take bookings, tha knows. I’m not like authorized. I’m night porter, like, not reception.’

‘You wouldn’t be taking a bloody booking. We’ve already bloody booked into a room with a man in it with a bloody silly green dressing-gown with tassels.’

‘There’s no call to swear at me, sir. I fought in t’War when tha were too young. I’ve only got one lung.’

‘I’m sorry I swore at you,’ said Henry. ‘I’m sorry I was too young to fight in the War. I’m very sorry you’ve only got one lung. I’m sorry I’m drunk. I’m sorry there’s a man with a bloody silly green dressing-gown with tassels in our room, but this is the first night of our honeymoon, and Mr and Mrs Wedderburn and I … I mean, Mrs Wedderburn and I … are looking forward to a bit of … to a … and we’d like a room to do it in.’

‘Well why didn’t you say so, sir?’ said the night porter. ‘I’ll give you the bridal suite.’

The bridal suite was enormous. There was a huge sitting-room, in the Midland Hotel’s idea of French elegance – more platform fourteen than Louis Quatorze. The furniture was reproduction seventeenth century. The curtains and upholstery were like a tapestry exhibition. Above the ornamental marble fireplace, the Golden Arrow was steaming through Penge on its way to Paris, city of love. Henry agonized over whether to tip the night porter, and decided that he must, because the confusion wasn’t his fault.

‘God, it’s big,’ he said, when the night porter had gone.

‘Can you afford it?’ said Lorna.

‘Yes,’ he lied.

They examined the rest of the suite. The bed was a four-poster. The bathroom was vast, overflowing with enormous white towels and covered in huge mirrors.

‘I need a bath,’ he said. ‘I’m caked in sweat.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Lorna, in a little voice that pierced his heart.

In the mirrors in the bathroom, seven podgy Pratts with seven tiny organs stepped gingerly into seven immense hot baths. Henry tried to think himself into desire, reliving those snatched, scratchy moments in Kit Orris’s field barn, trying to find the love that until this week he’d never doubted, except perhaps for those weeks in Germany. He tried to arouse himself with thoughts of Diana Hargreaves and Belinda Boyce-Uppingham, who had called him an oik. He tried not to arouse himself with thoughts of Helen Cornish.

He dried himself hurriedly, thankful that the steam on the mirrors was hiding him from view. He was sweating again, from fear and the heat of the bath and the steamy fug of the room. He washed himself in cold water – had he ever really felt clean? – and wrapped himself in a voluminous towel. He entered the bedroom. In the four-poster, Lorna was sailing on a gentle sea of dreams. He crept into the bed. It creaked. He lay beside her, barely dry, shivering now. She stirred to put a thin arm round him. ‘You’re cold,’ she said. She began to nibble his ear. He felt nothing. She began to massage his cold body gently. Desperately he thought of Helen, of pulling off her swirling magenta dress in the dim, dusty midnight newsroom, of laying her white, curvaceous body on the news desk. He began, just in time, to be aroused. He entered Helen there, amid piles of rejected stories, on the news desk, and it was all right, and Lorna Arrow would never know.