The Complete Pratt (63 page)

‘Bloody ’ell, Henry. I ’aven’t said I’m going to
marry
’im.’

‘I should hope not.’

‘I might. It’s none of your bloody business anyroad. So belt up about Eric Lugg, will yer?’

She flounced off down the lane. In his mind she was already giving birth to endless Luggs while her oafish husband made coarse jokes as he taught his smelly recruits how to bang thick grey gravy onto stale meat pies.

He trudged forlornly down the lane. He was a prig. He was a snob. In his travels through the steamy jungle of the class system, he had become infected with the disease that he loathed so much.

WINTER RETURNED. THURMARSH
and London recorded their coldest days for sixty years. Cousin Hilda’s stove roared and crackled.

The national papers reported the warmth and friendliness of the big cold world. After three days of talks President Eisenhower and Mr Anthony Eden declared their complete agreement over the Middle East. They supported Colonel Nasser – for the immediate future, at any rate. In Cyprus, the Governor had friendly talks with Archbishop Makarios. Britain’s offer of self-government was expected to be accepted. Archbishop Makarios favoured the ending of terrorism in exchange for an amnesty.

Life was less cheery in Cousin Hilda’s small, hot basement, as Henry worked his way through his last six days. He craved the company of his friends in the Lord Nelson. He longed to track down Uncle Teddy. But no. He would be devoted to Cousin Hilda that week.
Fabian of Scotland Yard, The Grove Family, The Burns and Allen Show, Forces’ Requests
. If it was on, they watched it, though Cousin Hilda drew the line at
Travellers Tales – Pygmies of the Congo
. ‘What’s the use of watching pygmies?’ she said. ‘I’m never likely to see a pygmy.’ Henry bit back his reply of, ‘Well, this is your chance, then.’

On Monday evening – liver and bacon and rhubarb crumble – he asked Barry Frost, ‘Have the Operatic decided what to devote their talents to next?’ Barry Frost replied, gruffly, as if suspecting sarcasm, ‘Yes.
No, No, Nanette
.’

On Tuesday evening – roast lamb and his last spotted dick
for ever
– he asked Norman Pettifer, ‘Are we getting a run on Danish Blue this week?’ Norman Pettifer replied, coolly, as if suspecting sarcasm, ‘No. It’s an extraordinarily average week this week.’ Henry said, ‘Good Lord! So average, you mean, as to defy the law of averages? That is extraordinary.’

On Wednesday evening – toad-in-the-hole and sponge pudding with chocolate sauce – Barry Frost was subdued. Henry said, ‘Is everything all right, Barry?’ ‘No, everything is not all right. She’s
broken
it off, because I’ve accepted the lead in
No, No, Nanette
,’ said Barry Frost. After the meal, Henry knocked on Barry’s door and said, ‘Are you all right? I’ve got my first shorthand lesson tonight, but we could meet afterwards for a drink.’ ‘Thanks. You’re a pal. But no. I’ve got to face this thing on my own,’ said Barry Frost.

On Thursday evening – roast pork and tinned pears – Norman Pettifer was subdued. ‘Is everything all right?’ Henry asked. Having found a useful formula, he saw no reason to alter it in the interests of so-called conversational glitter. ‘They’ve removed me from the cheese counter,’ said Norman Pettifer. There was a stunned silence, into which Henry’s ‘Oh dear’ plopped pathetically. ‘Mr McConnon was very nice about it. He had me into his office. “Norman,” he said. “This is no reflection on you, but change is the bedrock from which the seeds of our success flower. Young Adrian is a lucky lad to inherit what you’ve built up.”’ ‘I’m really sorry, Norman. Where are they moving you to?’ said Henry. ‘General groceries. You know what that boils down to, don’t you? Tins,’ said Norman Pettifer, with withering scorn.

On Friday evening – battered cod and jam roly poly – Barry Frost was pensive. ‘You’re pensive, Barry,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve resigned from
No, No, Nanette
. Candice has won,’ said Barry Frost.

On Saturday, February 4th, an MP warned of the 200,000 elderly who were falling behind the rising standard of living, Ivy Benson spoke of the problems her women’s band faced from marriage – ‘In one year, I lost three trombones’ – the thaw brought hundreds of burst pipes, and Henry reported on his first football match. It was Rawlaston v Ossett Town in Division One of the Yorkshire League.

Unfortunately he had to phone his report through ten minutes before the end, when there were still no goals. ‘It was end-to-end stuff in this tense relegation battle at sodden Scuffley Park,’ he enthused. ‘The “Grinders” created the better chances, but had nobody to take advantage of Macauley’s speed. Ossett’s powder-puff attack, sluggishly led by Deakins, rarely threatened a staunch Rawlaston rearguard, ably marshalled by the immaculate Linnet.’
His
awards were ‘Entertainment 6, Effort 8. Man of the Match – Linnet.’ Later he phoned through the result. ‘Rawlaston o, Ossett Town 2. Goals: Linnet (own goal), Deakins.’

On Sunday morning, at the end of breakfast, he held out his hand to Liam. ‘Goodbye, Liam. And … good luck.’

‘The same to you, Mr Henry,’ said Liam O’Reilly.

‘Goodbye, Norman. Sorry about the … er …’

‘I’ll get over it,’ said Norman Pettifer.

‘Goodbye, Barry. Good luck with the nuptials.’

‘Yes, well …’ said Barry Frost. ‘We’ll see. Whatever will be, will be.’

‘You could make a song of that,’ said Henry, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

He went upstairs, converted his bed into a sofa for the last time, packed his puny collection of clothes, his photo of Len Hutton, his one shelf of books by Kafka, Evelyn Waugh, Henry Miller and Captain W. E. Johns, and went down to say goodbye to Cousin Hilda. His mouth was dry.

‘Well … thank you very much for everything, Cousin Hilda,’ he said. ‘I’ve been very happy here.’

Cousin Hilda sniffed.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I have. But I can’t live off the family for ever.’

‘What are families for?’ said Cousin Hilda.

For getting away from.

‘I’m not going to be far away,’ said Henry. ‘You must come to tea, and I’ll come and see you regularly.’

Cousin Hilda sniffed.

‘We’ll see,’ she said.

Ginny welcomed him with a selfconscious smile, a Lancashire hot-pot and a bottle of robust red wine. Her flat had the same layout as his but without the French windows. They ate in the tiny kitchen. She’d laid a red check cloth over the formica-topped table. He washed up. She dried and put away. He put his arms round her. His hands tingled at her soft and ample splendour. He said, ‘What about a bit of hanky-panky? I believe the feller
downstairs
is out.’ She removed his hands gently but firmly and said, ‘I think it might be better if we were strictly platonic, now we’re house-mates, don’t you?’ ‘Fair enough,’ he said. There was plenty of time. ‘Can I take you for a nice, platonic drink this evening?’ She said, ‘I’m going out this evening.’

At 3.22 he began unpacking. At 3.29 he finished unpacking. He listened to
Take It From Here, Melody Hour, Hancock’s Half Hour
, and
Victor Sylvester
. He fell asleep during
Question Time
, unfortunately missing four celebrities exchanging ideas with young hill farmers from Breconshire. He woke to hear Jack Payne saying it with music. At 7.49 he went to the Winstanley. He had three pints of bitter. Nobody spoke to him. They were all in little cliques. He’d never seen such an absurdly self-satisfied lot. They laughed uproariously at jokes that weren’t remotely funny. They were cretins. It was a privilege to go home and leave them.

Home? He hadn’t even bought any tea or coffee. He was totally unprepared.

During
Grand Hotel
, with Jean Pougnet and the Palm Court Orchestra, he heard the front door slam. Was it her? Could he cadge some coffee and bread?

He heard a man’s voice say, very distinctly, ‘Neutral territory. Berlin wall.’ She’d brought Gordon Carstairs back!

He listened to
Java, Land of the Moonlight Orchid
, in which Nina Epton described a visit to that magical country.

They were making love! He turned up the volume, till Nina Epton was shouting.

He went to bed. He lay there, wide awake, lonely, hungry, in his cramped room. And they began again! It dawned on him that he wasn’t going to get much sleep that night. It dawned on him that Podgy Sex Bomb Henry, who had thought himself so precociously successful with older women, wasn’t actually doing very well. He’d been toyed with by Helen Cornish. He’d lost Lorna Arrow and Ginny Fenwick. That only left Diana Hargreaves. He’d better make sure of her before he lost her too.

At last Ginny and Gordon stopped. Gordon went home. Henry fell asleep at 4.17. At 6.38 he woke up. A man who was vaguely familiar had been telling him, in thirty blindingly simple words,
the
secret of life and how to conduct it. He couldn’t remember any of it.

The world grew colder. Ominous headlines poured off the presses. The big freeze returns. After the bursts, the frozen pipes. ‘Flick Knife’ Teds terrorize teachers. Housewives flee Cypriot rioters. Tear-gas used in Algiers uproar. British military police kill Cypriot youth.

There were headlines on Henry’s stories too. Chiropodist breaks foot! Man, 83, falls out of bed. Found cuff-link after 42 years.

The early part of Henry’s evenings was spent in the Lord Nelson. The middle of the evenings was spent in the Globe and Artichoke, the Devonshire, the Pigeon and Two Cushions. The last part of the evenings was spent in the Shanghai Chinese Restaurant and Coffee Bar, where he hoped to meet Uncle Teddy again, but didn’t. How he longed to sit in peace and warmth and watch television with Cousin Hilda. He even looked forward to his second shorthand lesson.

Every evening, shortly before midnight, a gurgling mass of beer and monosodium glutamate arrived back at a home that was no home, and lay awake, marvelling at the virility of Gordon Carstairs. By Thursday night, even Gordon Carstairs was exhausted.

On Wednesday evening Henry telephoned Paul, who was surprisingly friendly and would love to see him that weekend, as would Diana. Henry got so excited that he forgot to go to his second shorthand lesson.

On Friday lunchtime, dreaming of Diana in the Rundle Café while pretending not to be listening to the cautionary tale of Gertrude the Greedy Guinea-Pig, he heard an enormous crash. After about a minute he remembered that he was a journalist, and rushed out.

A lorry had hurtled, just down Rundle Prospect, into the tiny Old Apothecary’s House, whose delicate flint and stone dated back to the early fifteenth century. The lorry was jammed into the gaping mouth of the building like a cuckoo being fed by a wren.

The driver was sitting on the pavement, dazed with shock.
Henry
sat beside him diffidently. He felt shy of intruding into the man’s trauma with his tactless notebook. But the man seemed to want to get everything off his chest. Must get all the facts. Name, age, address. Dave Nasenby (29), of Rawlaston Road, Splutt. Occupation? ‘Lorry driver, of course.’ Stupid! He was driving along, he braked hard to avoid a cat, he skidded on a patch of ice, lost control, he was going towards two nuns, it was the nuns or the building, he swerved, he just had time to leap out, he’d left it so late that he scraped himself all along the wall. He showed Henry his abrasions. Henry winced. It was a pity the nuns had disappeared, but with his present luck they’d probably have been Trappists anyway.

He caught the London train in good humour, blissfully unaware that the story which was streaming off the Thurmarsh presses began ‘A lorry driver had a miraculous escape today when he crashed into Thurmarsh’s oldest historical landmark rather than hit two buns.’

The smells of an elegant dinner were drifting delicately around the hall of the Hargreaveses’ home. ‘Henry! So good to see you so soon,’ said Mrs Hargreaves, and he couldn’t detect a trace of sarcasm.

‘Henry!’ Mr Hargreaves was also extremely pleased to see him. Henry was beginning to get worried. ‘Dry sherry?’

‘Please.’

‘Henry!’ Paul was extremely friendly too. What had happened?

He soon found out. He was no longer a threat.

She entered with a companion who was preceded by a wall of after-shave – still quite a rarity in the smelly fifties.

‘Hello, Henry,’ she said. ‘Lovely to see you again so soon. I think you know my fiancé.’

Henry found himself staring at the large, smiling, indecently clean-shaven moon-face of Tosser Pilkington-Brick.

ALMOST FIVE YEARS
after they had disappeared from the Foreign Office, Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean turned up in Moscow. The blizzards returned. The trade gap widened to £74 million. The Football League, alarmed by falling gates, proposed a major reorganization, with four divisions. Malta voted 3–1 in favour of integration with Britain. There were many attacks on Britons in Cyprus.

Several times on his calls, Henry had made a detour to see if he could find Uncle Teddy on the site of the Cap Ferrat, in Malmesbury Street, between Fish Hill and Canal View. This was an area of small, slowly decaying streets and culs-de-sac, sloping damply from the east of the town centre towards the river and the canal. The Cap Ferrat was being converted out of a once-elegant little Regency terrace, which it shared with the Mandarin Fish Bar and the Thurmarsh Joke Emporium and Magic Shop.