by David Nobbs
‘Let’s be “Our Gang”,’ lisped Lorna.
‘Not now,’ sighed Henry.
‘Do the Nigs,’ commanded Lorna.
‘I can’t. I’m fair jiggered up,’ protested Henry.
Lorna loved to enact the adventures of ‘Our Gang’. She particularly liked Henry’s accent when he portrayed Buckwheat and Billy, the darkies.
‘Which does tha prefer – greengages or eggs?’ queried Lorna.
‘Both,’ he responded.
‘Tha can have a fried greengage for breakfast, then,’ she exclaimed.
Once she brought him two Woodbines and insisted that he pretend to be Merry Marvo and his Magic Cigar, but he turned out to be Puking Pratt and his Soggy Ciggy.
When they ran out of comics, she made him read the All-Bran adverts. They were in comic strip form, featuring characters like Obstinate Oliver and Mary, Mary Not Contrary.
‘Which would tha prefer? Seven hundred thousand tons of All-Bran, or a castle with six gold doors?’ she said.
‘Which would tha prefer? A smack in t’ gob or a kick up t’ arse-end?’ said Henry.
She went home crying. It was all for the best. The boys were right. Girls were useless. So why did he apologise and take her out again?
‘Which does tha prefer?’ she said. ‘Pencils or the Walls of Jericho?’
‘Pencils,’ he said at random. ‘I don’t rate t’ Walls of Jericho, me.’
‘Which would tha prefer?’ she said. ‘Come home to tea or a yacht?’
‘A yacht,’ he said.
Lorna’s father came in late, and they started tea without him.
‘Ee, I’m right twined,’ he said grumpily, when he came in. ‘I’m as twined as me arse.’
‘Wash thy mouth out with soap and water,’ said Lorna’s mother.
‘Which would tha prefer?’ said Lorna. ‘Two hundred bars of soap or a chest of sunken treasure?’
‘Don’t be silly, Lorna,’ said Lorna’s mother.
She was silly. Henry wished he wasn’t there. But the next day, when he was with Simon, who was sensible, he longed to hear Lorna’s husky, toothy lisp.
The summer slipped past. Paris was liberated. Henry wasn’t. The weather was wet. Uncle Frank had the greatest difficulty in cutting his oats.
Fiona came over with her husband and his artificial leg. There was an element of the artificial about her legs, too. She had responded to the unavailability of silk stockings by using sun-tan lotion to give her legs the appearance of being stockinged, and had added the seams with eyebrow pencil. This was considered outrageously fast in Skipton banking circles, but then Fiona Brassingthwaite, née Turnbull, was known to be a law unto herself.
School resumed. Miss Candy rustled a lot. Her knickers were made of defective parachute silk. There was a war on. Miss Candy sometimes gave Henry glinting, conspiratorial looks. They embarrassed him less than he expected. The nit lady came. Lorna Arrow had nits. Henry vowed never again ever to have anything more to do with girls again ever.
The very next Sunday he ran across Belinda Boyce-Uppingham. She was riding, picking her way daintily through the little ash wood by the river. Henry was running home, to listen to a spelling bee between Post Office Workers and Red Cross Workers. He frightened her pony. The pony reared. Belinda Boyce-Uppingham, the great love of his life, because of whom all other loves were undergone, was deposited on the soggy, soggy ground.
He rushed forward to help her.
‘Art tha all right?’ he said.
She picked herself up and tested her limbs. Her face was scarlet with fury
‘No thanks to you, you…you bloody oik,’ she said.
The wet weather continued. Uncle Frank’s oats lay sodden in the fields, till well into November. The newspaper adverts began to look forward to a time of returning plenty. ‘After victory, our familiar packages will reappear in all parts of the country,’ said Parkinsons’ Old-Fashioned Humbugs. ‘When they have finished their vital war service, Dagenite and Perdrix batteries will again be available to all,’ promised Dagenite and Perdrix batteries. ‘It’s in the shops again! Reckitt’s Blue!’ thundered Reckitt’s Blue.
If Reckitt’s Blue was back, could peace be far behind?
But first there was the bombing of Dresden. Twenty-five thousand people were killed in one night, in a war that had already been virtually won.
Tuesday, May 9th and Wednesday, May 10th, 1945, were declared public holidays. Hitler was dead. Germany had surrendered. Union Jacks fluttered from big house and humble cottage alike. There was a victory peal on the bells of Rowth Bridge Church.
In Skipton there was dancing in the streets, to music relayed by loudspeakers. In Rowth Bridge Parish Hall, a dance was hastily laid on. It was widely agreed that a new piano was one of the first priorities of peace.
The children lit many bonfires. Henry ran around uselessly in great excitement.
Forty people, many of them from as far away as Troutwick, climbed Mickleborough and lit a victory beacon.
Uncle Frank danced with Auntie Kate. Jackie, the land-girl, danced with anybody and everybody. Even Jane Lugg, Pam Yardley and Lorna Arrow bore no grudges that night.
Pools of light. Tinkling of a bad piano. Chunter of assembled Luggs in the Three Horseshoes. Bonfires on all sides, and a ghostly beacon roaring in the wind among the Mickleborough clouds. It was not entirely unrestrained. There was still war in the Far East. People had seen the end of a war to end all wars before. People were tired. But it was victory, and Rowth Bridge did its best. The little village celebrated with pools of light and noise in the dark, silent dale.
Uncle Frank died peacefully in his sleep. It was a dreadful shock for Auntie Kate, of course, but everyone said what a wonderful way it was for Uncle Frank to go. At peace, in victory.
5 What About the Crispy Bacon We Used to Get Before the War?
AUNTIE KATE INSISTED on coming with him, although she had problems enough in keeping the farm going until the sale went through.
A Labour government had been elected. The Cold War had begun. Britain had given her blessing to the dropping of atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Henry was going back to Thurmarsh.
‘I want to stay here, Auntie Kate,’ he’d said.
‘It’s not possible, Henry,’ she’d told him. ‘The farm’s sold. I’m going to live wi’ Fiona in Skipton. It’s not possible.’
He’d done most of his crying at night.
Simon Eckington came on the bus with them. Mrs Eckington and Patrick were there to wave goodbye. So was Billy, the half-wit, who waved furiously, exaggeratedly. Henry said, ‘I hope there’s lots of eggs tomorrow, Billy,’ and Billy said, ‘Nay, t’ hens know tha’s going. T’ hens like thee.’
As Henry clattered out of the village, three girls sat on the hump-backed bridge. They were Jane Lugg, Lorna Arrow and Pam Yardley, whose father had not yet been demobbed. Henry waved. They stuck their tongues out.
And so Henry Pratt, liked by hens, hated by girls, rode out of hill-womb and began the long journey back to world-cobble. His heart was heavy. They rattled through Five Houses. He was glad there was no sign of Sidney Mold.
Miss Candy was at Troutwick Station to see him off. She was fifty-eight now, and even the tuft on her middle chin had gone grey. Miss Forrest had decided to put up with her till she was sixty, for the sake of her feelings.
‘What’s Miss Candy doing here?’ Simon said.
‘I don’t know,’ said Henry. ‘She’s probably meeting a friend.’
‘Miss Candy hasn’t got friends,’ said Simon.
The engine screeched to a halt. Henry didn’t care how many wheels it had.
He hated farewells, and there seemed to be so many of them.
He leant out of the window, smiling inanely.
Henry and Simon, loquacious explorers, vivacious naturalists, enthusiastic pursuers of Huns, were unable to think of a single thing to say to each other.
Miss Candy came to the rescue.
‘C
lemmie and Winnie send their love,’ she said.
‘Clemmie and Winnie?’ said Henry.
‘My seals,’ said Miss Candy. ‘I train them for circuses, you know.’
They waved until they were so far away that he couldn’t see Miss Candy’s moustache.
On the train, he closed his eyes and willed it that when he opened them it would be a nightmare and he’d still be in Rowth Bridge. He opened them to see telegraph poles flashing by on a wet July day, traffic on a main road, and the last cows and sheep he would see for many a moon.
They changed trains at Leeds. As the train slipped out of City Station, Auntie Kate said, ‘Tha’s all he’s got now. He’s had five years of fighting. He’ll miss our Ada so it hurts.’
‘Does tha miss Uncle Frank so it hurts?’ he said, as they passed a wet, forlorn Elland Road.
‘Happen I do,’ said Auntie Kate.
‘That’s Elland Road,’ said Henry. ‘Miss Candy took me there. She shouted at t’ ref.’
‘Miss Candy is a strange woman,’ said Auntie Kate.
‘Does tha think Uncle Frank’s up in heaven?’ said Henry.
‘If any man deserves it, he does,’ said Auntie Kate with a sigh.
‘He might meet me mam.’
He didn’t tell her his private theory. There was no God. There was a heaven and there was a hell, but they were on this earth. Heaven was Low Farm, Rowth Bridge, Upper Mitherdale. Hell was number 23 Paradise Lane, Thurmarsh.
His dad was at the station to meet them. They hadn’t expected him to look so gaunt and ill, his demob suit hanging off him like wool on a dying sheep. They hadn’t realised that his swift demob had been on medical grounds. They hadn’t expected that he would only have one eye.
‘Grand snoek, this.’
‘I don’t like snoek, Dad.’
‘Well tha’ll have to lump it. There’s a war on.’
‘There isn’t, Dad. It’s over.’
‘Tha wouldn’t think so, would tha? No food. No clothes. No nowt. I mean, did we win or am I deluded?’
‘We won, Dad.’
‘I’m just slipping out to t’ Navigation for a bevvy,’ said Ezra. ‘Will tha be all right?’
‘Course I will. I’m norra kid. I’m ten.’
‘I’ll not be long.’
Please be long, because you don’t belong and I don’t belong, so be long, thought Henry. He had a lot of thoughts nowadays that nobody knew about. It was one of the best things about being a human being.
When his dad was in, Henry often went out. He’d enjoyed wandering around in Upper Mitherdale, in fact it had been a way of life. It was different here. The River Rundle was a sewer, compared to the Mither. The Rundle and Gadd Navigation was only marginally better. The little cobbled streets were mean and nasty. He hated the shared lav in the yard. He hated wiping his backside on squared-off bits of Reynolds News. He only liked two things in this environment – the trains and the trams. It was nice to stand on the footbridge, immediately over the trains, so that the smoke roared up behind you and then suddenly it stopped, and a moment later it roared up in front of you.
The best thing about the trams was that they led into Thurmarsh Town Centre, and there was a public library there. Auntie Kate had told him about the libraries they had in the towns, full of proper books, not comics. Just before he left Rowth Bridge, he’d read a Sexton Blake book which was ninety pages long! Everyone had been amazed.
Ezra gave him fourpence a week pocket-money. He spent it all on tram fares, to get books. The library was the only thing in Thurmarsh that was better than the worst thing in Rowth Bridge, which was its girls. There were girls in Thurmarsh too, but you ignored them.
His reading was wide and various. He read Biggles Flies North, Biggles Flies South, Biggles Flies East, Biggles Flies West, Biggles Flies In, Biggles Flies Out and Biggles Sweeps The Desert. They were written by Captain W. E. Johns, whose main virtue was that he was the greatest writer who ever lived. He had created four magnificent characters, Biggles, Algy, Ginger and Bertie, who defeated cruel Germans, wily orientals, unshaven dagoes and pock-marked mulattos in burning deserts, icy mountains, crocodile-infested swamps and spider-infested jungles, and never a woman in sight. But he read other books as well. He read Gimlet Flies North, Gimlet Flies South, Gimlet Flies East and Gimlet Flies West. Gimlet books were also written by Captain W. E. Johns and were better than everything in the world except Biggles books. Once he brought home a book called Hamlet – A Shortened Version, thinking it was Gimlet. It was rubbish, probably because it wasn’t written by Captain W. E. Johns.
That evening, he found it difficult to concentrate. In the morning, he was starting at Brunswick Road Elementary School. Eager anticipation was not coursing through his veins. Even the works of Captain W. E. Johns couldn’t take him away from his worries. If only they had a wireless.
Ezra returned, a little unsteady on his feet.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I were detained.’
‘Why haven’t we gorra wireless?’ said Henry.
‘We had one before t’ war,’ said Ezra. ‘It’s disappeared into thin air.’
‘Only I were thinking,’ said Henry. ‘I wouldn’t be that worrited if tha stayed a bit longer at t’ Navigation, if we had a wireless.’
High walls noise jostle confusion shouting bleak corridor smell stale greens green paint where to go tidal wave big room hubbub who are you Henry Pratt Henry Pratt? Henry Pratt ah! new boy returning evacuee no! lived with relations same thing how old ten ah! must be Mr Gibbins’ class over there come with me sit here hubbub yell silence shuffling feet cough cough silence sing hymn sit let us pray oh God we thank thee for another term like hell we do notices shortages breakages cough cough stand shuffle off corridor smell stale greens green paint classroom big high cold dark damp dank clatter boys sitting don’t know where to go stand small shy forlorn who are you?
He walked forward slowly towards the teacher’s desk. Mr Gibbins was six foot four and entirely bald. How old? Age didn’t come into it. He was Mr Gibbins, a fixture, an ageless chrome-dome.
‘Who are you?’ he repeated.
‘Henry,’ said Henry, determined that there should be no Ezra nonsense here.
‘Henry what?’
‘Henry Pratt.’
There was some laughter.
‘Henry Pratt what?’
‘Just Henry Pratt.’
Thirty-three white boys and one black boy hung breathless on the exchange.
‘Are you new to this school?’
‘Aye.’
‘At your last school, if your teacher had said to you, “What’s your name?” what would you have said?’
‘Ezra.’
It came out before he could stop it.
‘What?????’
‘Ezra.’
‘I thought your name was Henry Pratt.’
‘Aye, but there was another Henry there, and they couldn’t have two Henrys, so they called me Ezra.’
‘I see. Now, Pratt, when you addressed your teacher, did you use a little word as a mark of respect to the teacher?’
‘Oh aye.’
‘Well we believe in respect for authority here at Brunswick Road, Pratt, so I’d like you to use that same word to me. Do you understand?’
‘Oh aye.’
‘Oh aye what?’
Henry shrugged, then did what he was told.
‘Oh aye, miss,’ he said.
There was a roar of laughter. He hated it when people laughed at him.
That evening, when Henry got home, he found that Ezra had bought a wireless.
The nights drew in. The Beano exhorted, ‘We still need salvage, ton by ton – even though the war is won,’ but Henry didn’t read the Beano any more.
The only thing there was plenty of was shortages. Even professional men went to work in odd trousers and jackets! Miners threatened to strike due to a shortage of cigarettes. Four tons of dried-fruit slab cake were sent from Capetown. A third of all street lights
were switched off. Britain had pawned herself, and there would be hard bargaining before America allowed her to redeem the goods.
The premises of Binks and Madeley Ltd had been destroyed in the Sheffield blitz, and Ezra was forced to swallow his pride, and take work making pocket-knives. The job didn’t last, and he was able to go to the Navigation at dinner time as well.
Uncle Teddy sent Ezra the occasional sum of conscience money, not knowing that Auntie Doris, not knowing that he was sending conscience money, was also sending conscience money. Cousin Hilda, not knowing that either Uncle Teddy or Auntie Doris were sending conscience money, was also sending conscience money, in lieu of taking a closer interest in what was going on. Her Mother, over at Leonard’s, had gone a bit funny, and ignored them completely. Ezra’s father was dying, and his mother had her hands full making sure that love and dignity were at the bedside. Ezra made sure that Henry had enough to eat and went to school looking no less presentable than the other children. Ezra told the customers at the Navigation that Cousin Hilda was looking after the boy. The neighbours at number 25 were old and deaf. At number 21 she was on the game. There was nobody to object. Nobody knew that Henry spent evening after evening on his own, except Henry and Ezra, and neither of them would tell.
One evening, returning from the pub a little earlier than usual, and finding his son still up, Ezra told him that he had applied for a job at the steelworks that day.
‘They said, “Sorry. No vacancies.” Them were their exact words. I said, “Listen. Think on this. I spent six years fighting against the perils of Hitler’s Reich. I lost an eye. If I hadn’t fought, it wouldn’t be Crapp, Hawser and Kettlewell. It’d be Krupp, Kaiser and bloody Goebbels.” He said, “That’s as may be, but I can’t sack lads as have worked for me throughout t’ duration.” He said, “Tha wouldn’t be up to t’ work. Tha’s not suited. Tha’s a cutler.” I said, “Get me Crapp. Fetch me Hawser. I want to speak to Mr Kettlewell hisself.”’