The Complete Pratt (78 page)

‘How’s work?’ said Henry.

‘Ruddy awful today,’ said Martin. ‘Mr Templeton’s canary escaped and got into the mechanism. Charlie Fancutt risked his life to rescue it.’ Henry’s face must have revealed his astonishment. ‘Well, he’s managing director, is Mr Templeton. And he’s very attached to that canary. It’s a descendant of the canary that his grandfather sent down the pit so if the air was poisoned they’d find out when it died. Which it didn’t, presumably, or it wouldn’t have had descendants. Unless it died after it had had its descendants, of course.’

‘Now that
is
a story,’ said Henry.

Tudor Lodge was a large, detached house with a pretentious curved gable, set back from the road up a steep drive. One curtained window was lit.

If only he wouldn’t shake. What was wrong with him? And his legs weren’t steady. He’d drunk more than he’d intended.

He rang the bell. It sounded harsh and obtrusive.

He found himself facing a fairly tall, slightly overweight, rather good-looking, even potentially charming man. Should he wish to charm. Which, just then, he didn’t.

‘Yes?’ said Mr Matheson cautiously. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Is … er …’ His voice was trembling, and he was panting after the steep drive. ‘I … er … can I speak to Anna, please?’

‘Anna doesn’t live here any more.’ He made it sound like the title of a tragedy.

‘Oh … er … I see. Well … er … could you tell me where she does live?’

‘I could, yes,’ said Mr Matheson. ‘The question is, should I?’

Oh no. A headmaster.

‘I want to see her. I’m a friend. Could you please tell me where she lives?’ he panted.

‘Well now,’ said Mr Matheson. ‘I have to ask myself whether it’s safe to give my daughter’s address to a trembling, panting, remorselessly monosyllabic young man who arrives at my door
after
ten o’clock at night, dressed like a bad journalist and considerably the worse for drink.’

Anger gave Henry pride. He drew himself up to his full height, a gesture which would have been more impressive if he hadn’t still been three inches shorter than Mr Matheson. ‘Mr Matheson,’ he said. ‘I met your daughter in Italy. I like her very much. I had the depressed instinction that she liked me. I know she’d like to see me.’

Mr Matheson switched on his charm. His voice relented. ‘I dare say she would,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell her you called and ask her to get in touch with you. All right?’

‘Well … yes. Thank you,’ said Henry. ‘Thank you.’

He turned away. Mr Matheson coughed discreetly.

‘Er … don’t you think you ought to give me your name and address?’ he said. ‘Anna isn’t a mind-reader.’

‘Oh. Yes. Sorry.’ Henry emitted a strangulated laugh. He longed to say that he was Jasper Phipps-Ockington, but it would defeat the object of the exercise. ‘I’m Henry Pratt. I live at 239, Winstanley Road. I’m not on the phone.’

‘No.’ Meaning, ‘You wouldn’t be.’

‘Or she could phone me at … er … the
Argus
.’

‘Ah.’

As he slithered down the drive, Henry felt that it had not been a wildly propitious first meeting with his future father-in-law. Would they laugh about it, over the port, at family Christmasses to come?

Next day, Anna didn’t ring. Terry Skipton liked the canary story.

On Wednesday, Anna didn’t ring. Nor did Mr Gaitskell, the Queen, Cousin Hilda, Auntie Doris, Sir Leonard Hutton or any of the population of the West Riding.

On Thursday, October 4th, 1956, at 3.27 p.m., Henry’s phone burst into heart-stopping life. He let it ring five times, so as not to seem too eager, then grabbed it in panic, in case she should ring off.

The male voice disconcerted him totally.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I missed that.’

‘It’s your contact from the world of sport. I’ve got a story for you.’

She was never going to ring. He’d been a brief Italian fantasy, a good idea on a hot day, long forgotten.

He arranged to meet Tommy in the Winstanley at seven.

Ginny approached his desk rather tentatively.

‘Are you in tonight?’ she croaked.

‘Yes and no,’ he said cautiously.

‘I’m really fed up with this cold. I felt like popping over to the Winstanley for a few drinks.’

‘I’m meeting one of my contacts there at seven,’ said Henry grandly. ‘I’m sure we’ll be through by … oh … shall we say eight-thirty?’

Tommy didn’t turn up until twenty to eight. He didn’t apologize.

His scoop was hardly earth-shattering. The whole team was going to autograph the plaster of a seventeen-year-old girl who’d broken her leg when she’d fallen down a flight of steps at the match against Mansfield Town. But Henry rewarded him by buying another round.

‘’ey oop, our Tommy,’ said a passing customer. ‘If tha doesn’t score Saturday we’ll know why, won’t we? ’cos tha’s been supping.’

Tommy sighed. ‘It’s no use me coming in places like this,’ he said.

‘He was only joking,’ said Henry.

‘He was joking if we win,’ said Tommy. ‘He wasn’t if we lose.’

‘Would you like another drink?’ said Henry.

At the bar, Henry found himself standing beside Mr Matheson. This was his chance to redeem himself.

‘Good evening, Mr Matheson,’ he quipped wittily.

Anna’s father stared at him politely but blankly.

‘Henry Pratt,’ he said. ‘I called on Monday night.’

‘Oh yes. Yes.’

‘Did you give Anna my message?’

‘Oh blast. I forgot. I’m so sorry. My memory!’ said Mr Matheson. ‘I’ll ring her tomorrow.’ He smiled. It was a charming smile. Henry wanted to glare. The man’s lack of consideration had
caused
him three days of mental anguish. But he didn’t feel like glaring, because this news meant that Anna hadn’t been neglecting him, so he smiled back.

‘I’m buying a drink for Tommy Marsden,’ he said. ‘He’s giving me a story.’

‘Jolly good,’ said Mr Matheson. ‘Well … keep at it. Nose to the grindstone.’ Mr Matheson’s nose didn’t look as if it had ever been anywhere near a grindstone.

Tommy waxed ungenerous about his team-mates. Muir was yellow. Ayers was as thick as two short planks. Gravel was shagging himself to death.

The sparkling level of the conversation didn’t survive the arrival of Ginny.

‘I’m a colleague of Henry’s,’ she said. ‘On the paper,’ she added, as if not trusting Tommy’s intelligence, and perhaps she was justified in view of Tommy’s next remark. ‘What, writing and that?’ he said.

‘Yes. What do you do, Tommy?’ inquired Ginny.

Henry kicked her under the table. She glared at him.

‘Tommy’s the star of Thurmarsh United,’ hissed Henry.

‘Oh yes! I remember now,’ said Ginny. ‘I read about you. You saved a penalty, didn’t you?’

‘Tommy’s the centre forward,’ said Henry.

Ginny sneezed. It was like the eruption of a human Etna. She turned towards Tommy, who recoiled. ‘I’m one of those people who’re never ill,’ she said. ‘So when I am, I get it really badly.’

Tommy searched vainly for a reply.

Ginny sneezed again.

Henry glared. ‘Ginny lives in the flat above me,’ he said.

Tommy looked at his wrist. He wasn’t wearing his watch, but he didn’t allow this to put him off. ‘Time I was off,’ he said.

‘There’s no need to go on my account,’ said Ginny.

‘Nothing personal,’ said Tommy. ‘But Mr Mackintosh says it’s unprofessional to expose ourselves to germs unnecessarily.’

‘Well, thank
you
,’ said Ginny, when Tommy had gone.

‘What for?’ said Henry.

‘Disowning me. “Ginny lives in the flat above me.” Meaning, “This monstrosity isn’t my girlfriend.”’

Henry said, ‘Ginny! I wasn’t disowning you.’ After a pause he added, ‘And you aren’t a monstrosity.’ If he could have started the conversation again, he’d have put these two comments in the opposite order.

Ginny began to cry, silently.

‘Ginny, love! What is it?’ he said.

‘Gordon’s never going to leave his wife.’

Henry felt an immense tenderness towards her. He grasped her hand. He wanted to say something really nice. ‘I think you’re a smashing journalist,’ he said. ‘Thanks. What every woman wants to hear,’ she said. He leant forward and licked the salt tears off her cheek. ‘I’ve got to blow my nose,’ she warned. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said bravely. And then he saw Mr Matheson staring straight at him. He shrank from her. ‘My nose-blowing revolts you,’ she said. He said nothing. What could he say? ‘No. I like it.’? ‘Well, you are a pretty horrific performer on the old hooter.’? ‘It’s nothing to do with your nose. The father of my future fiancée is staring at me, and I’m embarrassed.’?

When Mr Matheson went to the Gents, Henry tried not to follow him. But he had to explain himself.

He stood next to Mr Matheson, at the urinals.

‘The young lady I’m with is not a girlfriend, Mr Matheson,’ he said. ‘She lives in the flat above me. She has a bad cold, and she’s depressed, and she believes that the man she loves, who also has a cold, incidentally, will never leave his wife. I’m trying to cheer her up.’

Mr Matheson stared at him in astonishment. ‘What an angel of mercy you are,’ he said.

As he walked out of the Gents, Henry felt that it had not been a wildly propitious second meeting with his future father-in-law. Would they laugh about it, over the port, at family Christmasses to come?

The weather was cold, with snow as far south as Leek, in Staffordshire. The Middle East crisis was debated in the United Nations, amid rumours that Mr Dulles was ‘de-toughening’. 21 soldiers were arrested in Cyprus after demanding an assurance that they’d be home by Christmas. 15 guardsmen in Malta protested
about
a rumoured kit inspection. 250 reservists complained about bad food and army ‘bull’ at an RAMC Depot in Cookham.

Gradually it dawned on Henry that Anna would never phone, because her father would never tell her that her company was sought by a short, podgy, trembling young drunk who dressed like a bad journalist because he was a bad journalist and followed him into pub lavatories while having dates with women with bad colds. It also dawned on him that if he wrote her a letter her father could hardly refuse to forward it, because he couldn’t know who it was from.

On Wednesday, October 10th, Seretse Khama, chief-designate of the Bamangwata tribe, returned to Bechuanaland for the first time since his exile for marrying Ruth Williams, a white London typist. When she’d married him, Cousin Hilda had said, ‘It’s her mother I’m sorry for.’ Henry had said, ‘If I was a typist and married a tribal chief, I’d expect you to be thrilled.’

Anna must have got his letter but still she didn’t ring. He wondered if Cousin Hilda would be thrilled when he married her.

He had a permanent pain in his testicles as he thought about her, and was finding it difficult to walk without doubling up. He went for his lunch at the Rundle Café, because she’d worked there. A hosiery salesman listened with bated breath to the tale of Sammy, the Squirrel who’d lost his nuts. Henry envied Sammy the Squirrel. That afternoon, he busied himself with his film reviews. His phone didn’t ring.

On the next day, when he returned from number two magistrates’ court – he made dog noises, she mewed like cat, court told – Colin Edgeley said, ‘A girl rang for you. Very sexy. She’ll ring at nine-fifteen tomorrow morning.’ Henry tried not to blush, and failed.

Most of the usual crowd drifted to the Lord Nelson, drawn by no greater impulse than habit. Ben bet Henry that he couldn’t name the five league teams whose names ended with the same letter as they began. He tried, but his heart wasn’t in it. He got Liverpool, Charlton Athletic and Aston Villa, but missed Northampton Town and York City. Helen pressed her thigh against him and quizzed him about the phone call from the sexy lady.

It struck him with a shock of shame that he hadn’t been to see
Cousin
Hilda since he’d got back from Italy. He’d go tonight. If he didn’t, Anna wouldn’t ring. No. That was juvenile. But he’d go anyway.

Gordon and Ginny left early, after an elaborate debate about which film to see, although everybody knew they weren’t going to the pictures. Ben announced that he was going home to give the wife one. Henry asked if anybody had peppermints. Ben and Colin, the married men, both had peppermints.

The fog was returning, after a fine day. Henry’s peppermint breath made clouds of steam as he crunched the gravel outside number 66.

The fire crackled economically in the blue-tiled stove. The smell of pork and cabbage lingered. Cousin Hilda switched Frankie Howerd off.

‘Don’t switch him off for me,’ he said.

‘He’s nearly finished,’ said Cousin Hilda, ‘and then we’ve only got some documentary or something about violence against witnesses in Liverpool and then some woman and Edgar Lustgarten, who isn’t even English, having the cheek to think they can solve people’s personal problems. Though I like the
Horse of the Year Show
at nine-fifty. I’m not struck on the horses, but Dorian Williams speaks beautifully.’

‘How’s Liam?’ he inquired.