The Complete Pratt (65 page)

Because of Burbage.

Because there is a ghost that has to be laid.

Because the Sergeant Botneys of this world get away with it precisely because we allow social conventions to constrain us. We hide behind them, in our weakness and apathy.

‘It’s Sergeant Botney, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Sergeant Botney looked surprised, but not alarmed. His skin was leathery. Any expression there might have been in his eyes was carefully hidden.

‘I’m Signalman Pratt. You don’t remember me, do you? Perhaps you’ll remember this better. 22912547.’

‘Well … hello, Pratt. This is my wife, Mrs Botney.’

‘Hello, Mrs Botney.’

‘Hello.’ Unfriendly. Not surprising, really.

‘I … er … I was in your hut, sergeant.’

‘So, what are you doing now, Pratt?’

‘I’m a newspaper reporter.’

‘Well done, lad!’

‘Thanks.’

‘Where did you get to in your service, then? Make some good pals, did you? Met some good oppos?’

‘Oh yes. Great pals. Smashing oppos.’

‘Well done, lad.’

‘I’ve never forgotten that first night, sarge. You showed us how to make bed-packs. We made bed-packs. You said they were
terrible
. You threw them out of the window. It was raining. They landed on wet flower-beds. We fetched them. You said “Lights out.” We made our wet dirty beds in the dark at one o’clock in the morning.’

‘Let’s dance, Lionel,’ said Mrs Botney.

‘In a moment, dear. Let’s hear the lad out.’

‘We used to have to paint the coal white,’ said Henry. ‘We used to have to paint black lines on the floor with boot polish so as to line our beds up, and then we had to wash every trace of the boot polish off.’

‘Yes, I was hard,’ said Sergeant Botney. ‘Hard but fair. “You play ball with me, I’ll play ball with you” was my motto.’ He produced the cliché as if it were an epigram that he had been honing for hours.

‘We spent hours spooning our great rough boots with hot spoons, Mrs Botney,’ said Henry. ‘Jenkins was the best. You said you wanted all our boots to shine like that, so you could see your face in them. And, since it wouldn’t be fair for Jenkins to be idle while we worked, you scratched two lines on Jenkins’s boots and made him start again.’

‘Stop him, Lionel,’ said Mrs Botney.

‘Please, Margery,’ said Sergeant Botney. ‘Leave the lad to me. I’m not frightened of him.’ He turned back to Henry. ‘It was our job, laddie, to train you so that in war you’d obey orders automatically, however stupid they were.’

‘And you did that,’ said Henry, ‘by giving us stupid orders, so that in all of us except the very stupid the question constantly arose “Is this a stupid order?” And every stupid order we obeyed, we obeyed with more resentment. Supposing every order we ever got had been sensible and justifiable? Don’t you think we might have learnt to obey orders better out of respect for those giving the orders?’

‘My job was to make a man of you,’ said Sergeant Botney. ‘I did a good job. That’s why you can stand up to me now. Well done, lad.’

‘Oh yes, you’re not stupid, sergeant. That’s why it’s all so inexcusable, you sadistic bastard.’

‘Now look here …’ Sergeant Botney leapt up. Mrs Botney
tried
to speak. Sergeant Botney silenced her with a look. ‘This is our wedding anniversary, lad. ’Nuff said, I think.’

Yes. Not the time. Social convention. Social convention? There aren’t any social conventions for Burbage.

‘No. Sorry,’ said Henry. ‘But I was the one who found him, you see.’

‘Found him?’

‘You don’t even remember, do you? Burbage. The late Signalman Burbage.’

Sergeant Botney went pale.

‘He hanged himself in the ablutions in our hut, Mrs Botney,’ said Henry.

‘Stop him, Lionel. I don’t want to hear,’ said Mrs Botney.

‘You didn’t make a man out of Burbage, did you?’ said Henry.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ snapped Sergeant Botney. ‘I’m going to fetch the management.’

‘That’s all the authority you ever had,’ shouted Henry. ‘The authority to fetch a higher authority.’

But Sergeant Botney was already out of hearing, separated from them by the pseudo-Gallic strains of Alphonso Boycott and his Northern Serenaders. He strode furiously across the dance floor, parting the dancers like a Red Sea.

‘I’m sorry about your wedding anniversary, Mrs Botney,’ said Henry.

‘Sorry!’ Mrs Botney’s face was a limestone crag. Peregrines could have nested on her forehead without looking out of place.

‘Burbage’s death came at a very inconvenient time, too,’ said Henry. ‘Right at the beginning of his manhood. You’ll get over this upset soon enough. Burbage never really got over his death. It seemed to knock all the stuffing out of him.’

Sergeant Botney returned with Uncle Teddy.

‘Henry!’ said Uncle Teddy.

‘You know this boy?’ said Sergeant Botney.

‘He’s my uncle,’ said Henry. ‘And he knows how distressing it is to come upon people hanging in lavatories. He found my father. Right. I’ve said all I have to say. I’m sorry I had to do it, Uncle Teddy.’

He hurried away, on legs that were suddenly weak. He was
shaking
with the enormity of what he had done. And also with the puniness of it. What had he achieved? He felt flat, depressed. The music sounded very far away. Ben Watkinson was approaching, with his shy, petite wife Cynthia.

‘Are you all right?’ said Ben. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘It’s funny you should say that,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve been trying to lay one. What did you do in the War, Ben?’

‘I was a conscientious objector,’ said Ben. ‘I worked down the mines.’ He blushed scarlet. Cynthia took his hand and pressed it with defiant sympathy.

Henry’s mouth fell open. He was astonished to find that Ben, who had never discussed feelings or ideals, or indeed anything except football, could have felt so strongly, could have been so brave, and could now be so embarrassed, as if ashamed. He closed his mouth rapidly, in case Ben realized that he was realizing how much more there was to Ben than he had realized. He felt embarrassed at witnessing Ben’s embarrassment. He hoped that, in the red light, Ben would think that Henry hadn’t noticed him blushing. He wished Ben were a woman, so that he could kiss him. He wished it wasn’t so difficult for an Anglo-Saxon male to express deep platonic affection for another Anglo-Saxon male. He wished this revelation hadn’t come when he had dipped so deep into his store of social courage. He moved on towards the journalists’ table. He longed to sit down. But Gordon had gone to get drinks, and Ginny hurried over to him.

‘I wanted a word,’ she said.

They stood with their backs to the table, watching the townsfolk moving, with varying degrees of style, to the strains of Alphonso Boycott and his Northern Serenaders. Colin was being flamboyant with an extremely glamorous young lady.

‘I suppose you’ve heard me … er … us … er …’ began Ginny.

‘… throwing yourselves around your bed in orgies of sexual excitement? Yes.’

‘Oh Lord. I … er … I hope it hasn’t …’

‘… kept me awake, wallowing in loneliness and frustration, night after agonizing night?’

‘Oh Lord. I’m sorry. It can’t be a very nice welcome to your new
flat
. But … you see … the thing is… I’ve never had anything like this. I can’t give it up.’

‘Of course not. Sex makes us all totally selfish. Look at me.’

‘Quite.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry. Anyway, his wife’ll be back soon.’

‘Wife??’

‘Didn’t you know?’

‘No. Mind you, he may have told me without my understanding.’

‘He is a bit obscure till you crack the code. She’s away for three weeks, with the children. After that it’ll all be over except for occasional hurried daytime trysts. Unless he leaves her. He says he will. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you.’

‘Well, thanks, Ginny. It’ll make me feel a lot better tonight when I …’

‘… hear us going at it like rabbits.’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh Lord.’

Gordon returned. Ginny moved away from Henry as casually as she could. Again, Henry tried to sit down. But Neil Mallet was approaching, with the air of a man bent on a tête-à-tête.

‘I want to mark your card,’ said Neil, leading him away from the table.

‘Oh?’

‘I think you … like Ginny, and I think she … likes you. So I just wanted to say that I don’t think you should give up hope. That’s all.’

‘Well … thank you, but …’

‘On what do I base my optimism?’ Neil was having to shout, to be heard above the music. ‘Just my powers of observation. You see, Henry, a) I don’t believe Gordon loves her or will ever leave his wife for her and b) I don’t think she loves him. She’s on the rebound.’

‘The rebound?’

‘She’s been deeply in love. She’s been badly hurt. I don’t blame Helen. She can’t help being fatally attractive.’

Helen? Could he mean …?

‘She’s seen this man she loves lose interest in her the moment Helen came on the scene.’

He did mean … but … had Ginny loved him?

‘But there was nothing to all that with Helen,’ he lied.

‘What do you mean? They’re engaged.’

Henry tried to pretend that he’d thought Neil had meant Ted all along.

‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘I know … but …’ He was floundering. And he wasn’t fooling Neil.

‘You thought I meant you?’ he said. He almost laughed, then touched Henry’s arm affectionately. ‘Ginny and Ted were engaged,’ he said.

‘I’m out of my depth.’

‘Not with me here to guide you.’

‘Why should you do that?’

‘I don’t make friends easily, and I know how difficult it can be when you join a new group,’ said Neil.

At last Henry managed to arrive back at the journalists’ table. He collapsed in an exhausted heap. He felt awful. He knew nothing about life. How could he have presumed to tell Sergeant Botney anything?

And there
were
Sergeant Botney and his bristling spouse, marching out, and … oh god … they were in step! Henry examined the traditional southern French tablecloth as if he were a buyer whose career depended on his assessment of it. When he looked up, the Botneys had gone, and Colin Edgeley was sliding into the seat beside him.

‘Why do I have this fatal impulse towards self-destruction?’ said Colin, with a histrionic sigh.

‘What are you talking about, Colin?’

‘I’ve just put my life in danger.’

‘Give over, you daft twat.’

‘You think I’m exaggerating?’

‘I think you always exaggerate.’

‘Not this time. I’ve danced with the voluptuous Angela Groyne.’

‘Is that her name? She’s quite something.’

‘She’s Bill Holliday’s girlfriend.’

‘Bill Holliday?’

‘Scrap king of the Rundle Valley. Leader of the Thurmarsh Mafia. Rich. Powerful. Evil.’

‘So?’

‘I’ve danced with his girlfriend. He’s possessive to the point of mania.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She told me. He won’t even let her see her girlfriends, in case she meets their boyfriends. I’m a dead man, Henry.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Colin. Thurmarsh isn’t Chicago.’

‘It isn’t Tunbridge Wells either. Still, I can look after myself.’ Colin produced a knife from his pocket. ‘I’m prepared, and not like a boy scout.’

‘Are you serious, Colin?’

‘This is a tough old world, Henry.’ He flung a painful burst of lifelong friendship across Henry’s shoulders. Later, Henry would remember Colin’s words.

The floor show resumed. Henry thought he was watching it, but afterwards he could remember nothing except the climax, when the legendary Martine and the Côte d’Azur Cuties joined in an increasingly sexy finale.

There were gasps as it became clear that the girls were going to strip. Was Thurmarsh ready for this? What would the wives of bank managers and managing directors think? This wasn’t a sleazy stag night. Had Uncle Teddy gone too far? Henry suffered agonies of shame and fear, as the girls slowly removed their top hats, their white gloves, their black stockings. They whisked off their traditional mediterranean dresses with almost indecent haste. Chief Superintendent Ron Ratchett whistled so loudly that two councillors thought it was a signal for a police raid, and left hurriedly.

Then, when Martine and the Cuties were down to their bras and panties, they turned into five Edith Piafs, and regretted nothing. Thurmarsh didn’t know whether it regretted or was relieved, and applauded loudly to hide its confusion. Several balloons descended from the ceiling.

They sat with a bottle of champagne, the three of them, in the deserted, smoky room. Uncle Teddy, Henry and Derek Parsonage.

‘I’m sorry about … er …’ mumbled Henry.

‘I think we can afford giving their money back to Sergeant and Mrs Botney,’ said Uncle Teddy.