The Complete Pratt

by David Nobbs

  ‘You asking Cuffley to give you a sentence, sir.’

  ‘No. I mean, yes, that is the subject in the sense of what it’s about. I meant, “What is the subject in the grammatical sense?” What word in the sentence fulfils the role that we call the subject? Milner?’

  ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, you. That’s why I said Milner, Milner.’

  ‘No, sir. I meant “me”. “The teacher asked me.” That “me”, sir.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Milner?’

  A loud fart rent the air. Everybody laughed, except Cuffley.

  ‘Who did that?’ said Mr Gibbins.

  ‘Me, sir,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ve got wind.’

  ‘I choose to believe you,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘I cannot believe that any boy would deliberately waste time, in the most important year in his school life, by breaking wind deliberately.’

  ‘Exactly, sir,’ said Tommy Marsden.

  ‘Why is this the most important year in your school life?’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘Because we now have, for the first time, true equality of opportunity in education. At the end of the year you will take the Eleven Plus examination to see which of you are clever enough to win this equality of opportunity. Some of you will go to the grammar school, and the chance of being somebody in life. Others won’t. It’s up to you.’

  ‘If we all work hard, sir, will we all go to grammar school, sir?’ asked Tommy Marsden.

  ‘No, of course not. There isn’t room. The best will go,’ said Mr Gibbins.

  ‘So whether we all work or all do nowt, t’ same people will go, sir,’ said Tommy Marsden.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Marsden,’ said Mr Gibbins. A thin bead of sweat was glistening on his forehead. ‘Right. Hilarious joke over. Back to education. Milner, why did you say that “me” was the subject of the sentence?’

  ‘T’ teacher’s like t’ king, sir. So t’ pupils are his subjects.’

  ‘Ah! Very ingenious, Milner. I’m glad to see you’re thinking, at any rate. It makes a change. Keep at it. You may find you grow to like it. But you’re wrong. Hammond?’

  ‘Is the subject the noun, sir?’

  ‘Very good, but which noun?’

  ‘Teacher, sir.’

  ‘Very good, Hammond. Why?’

  ‘Because it comes first, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s not really the…’

  A loud fart rent the air. Everybody laughed, except Cuffley.

  ‘Who did that?’ said Mr Gibbins wearily.

  ‘Me, sir,’ said Booth.

  ‘Come here, Booth.’

  ‘I couldn’t help it, sir.’

  ‘Come here, Booth.’

  ‘It’s not fair, sir.’

  Booth held out his hand. Mr Gibbins smacked it twice with the cane.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you all,’ he said. ‘The subject of a sentence, and we did deal with the subject of subjects last week, the subject of a sentence is the nominative, the element in the sentence about which something is predicated. The object is that which is governed by a transitive verb or preposition.’ Mr Gibbins looked at their blank faces and wished he hadn’t started on this. The sweat was beginning to run down into his eyes. ‘In simple terms, the subject is the doer, the object is that which is done to.’

  ‘What’s a doer, sir?’ said Cuffley.

  ‘It’s t’ thing in t’ hoil in t’ wall to stop t’ draught,’ said Appleyard.

  ‘Write out fifty times “I must not make silly remarks in class”, Appleyard,’ said Mr Gibbins.

  ‘Can’t I have t’ cane, sir?’

  Mr Gibbins took a deep breath.

  ‘The subject of the sentence is therefore the teacher,’ said Mr Gibbins.

  A loud fart rent the air. Everybody laughed, except Cuffley.

  ‘Would your tiny minds laugh however often that happened?’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘Would you still laugh if it happened a hundred times – don’t try it!!!! Right. Who was it that time?’

  ‘Me, sir,’ said Martin Hammond.

  ‘You’re an intelligent boy, Hammond,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘You could go far. Sometimes I wish you would. Why do you deliberately break wind and ally yourself with these miserable cretins?’

  ‘The working class must stick together. That’s what my dad says, any road,’ said Martin Hammond.

  Mr Gibbins stared at Martin Hammond wildly.

  ‘I won’t punish you this time, Hammond,’ he said, ‘because I believe you to be fundamentally sensible.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ muttered Tommy Marsden.

  ‘I heard that,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘Come here, Marsden.’

  ‘It’s not fair, sir,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘He makes a loud noise and gets nowt. I whisper one word and get caned.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were going to be caned,’ said Mr Gibbins, realising that Tommy Marsden had a point, and back-tracking hurriedly. ‘Come here.’

  Tommy Marsden walked forward and held out his hand.

  ‘Point to the subject of the sentence on the board,’ said Mr Gibbins, handing Tommy Marsden his pointer.

  Tommy Marsden pointed to the word ‘teacher’.

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘It’s the teacher, because it’s the teacher who asked. So what’s the object?’

  ‘Him, sir,’ said Chalky White.

  ‘Me, sir,’ said Henry Pratt.

  ‘No, sir. Me! Me! said Norbert Cuffley.

  ‘Me,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘Precisely.’

  ‘How can it be you, sir?’ said Appleyard. ‘You’re the subject.’

  ‘I didn’t mean me as a person,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘I meant “me” in the sentence.’

  Something approximating to order was gradually restored. Mr Gibbins’ class didn’t want to overthrow the law and order of the classroom, because they wouldn’t have known what to do after they’d done it. A total collapse of discipline would have frightened them. It was a war of attrition, fought on safe ground, renewable every day.

  Henry liked it when order was restored. He wanted to learn. Judge then of his discomfiture when he began to feel a genuine need to break wind. He fought against it. He was frightened of the cane. He had no wish to do anything but sit quietly, learn things (if possible) and give the occasional right answer without being a disgraceful goody like Norbert Cuffley.

  Desperately he pressed his buttocks against each other. In vain! There emerged a piercing whistle of gargantuan duration. It was so high-pitched that only dogs, bats, all twenty-nine boys and Mr Gibbins could hear it.

  Everybody laughed, even Cuffley.

  Henry could feel his cheeks burning. Then he realised that everything would be all right so long as he pretended that he had done it deliberately.

  He grinned.

  Mr Gibbins brought the cane down four times on his outstretched hand, but he could hardly feel the pain through the glory.

  Henry had been made an honorary member of the Paradise Lane Gang, on account of a single act, the slow emission of a phenomenal amount of wind in the form of a high-pitched scream unique in the anal annals of the West Riding. The gang had never heard of Le Pétomane, but, if they had, they would have believed that the distinguished Gallic farter had a worthy rival in South Yorkshire.

  Henry relished the fame uneasily, for he knew he was living on borrowed time.

  ‘Do it again!’ was the constant command of his new chums.

  ‘On my birthday,’ he said, and they accepted that. An artist of such rare talent was entitled to choose the stage for his performance.

  He had four whole weeks in the gang. There were six members. Tommy Marsden, Billy Erpingham, Chalky White, Martin Hammond, Ian Lowson and Henry. They got on trams without any money, knocked on people’s doors and ran away, pretended to be blind and got helped across roads by kind old ladies, dialled 999 and ran away, painted spots on their faces and went on a trolley bus disguised as an epidemic of chicken pox, gave each other haircuts, bought a bathing cap and some glue, and const
ructed a wig which they put in Mr Gibbins’ desk.

  On Friday, March 8th, Henry listened to Jackie Paterson of Glasgow v Bunty Doran of Belfast.

  On Wednesday, March 13th, he faced exposure.

  The Paradise Lane Gang laid on a birthday party for him. He would give the cabaret. Dress was informal. The venue was the waste ground between the Rundle and Gadd Navigation and the River Rundle. Tommy Marsden brought a quart of pale ale, stolen from his dad. Ian Lowson brought a packet of Park Drive, ditto. Chalky White brought chewing gum. Martin Hammond brought a packet of digestive biscuits and a jar of strawberry jam.

  I forget what Billy Erpingham brought.

  The sky was bleak, and the light was fading. The wind was cold. There were a few flakes of sleet.

  There was no escape. It was his birthday. He had boasted that he liked beer and smoking.

  He ate three digestive biscuits, spread with raspberry jam, washed down by swigs of the nauseous, flat, bitter beer. Gamely, he struggled through the third cigarette of his life. He ate three more digestive biscuits, spread with raspberry jam, washed down by swigs of the nauseous, flat, bitter beer. Gamely, he struggled through the fourth cigarette of his life.

  He took another swig of the beer, hoping against hope that it would help to produce some wind. To no avail! And he was fair perished with cold. Exposure of two different kinds was at hand.

  He rushed over to the canal and was prodigiously sick into its murky waters.

  He set off home, his head thumping. There could be no question of any performance now. The day of reckoning was postponed, yet he didn’t feel cheered by this. His life was passing him by. When he was twice his present age he would be twenty-two. When he was twice that he would be forty-four. When he was twice that he would be eighty-eight, and already an old man. When he was twice that he would be…his head thumped…a hundred and seventy-six, and people would come from far and wide to discover the secret of his long life. Unless he was dead. Dead! He shuddered.

  He’d be late home for his tea, but it didn’t matter.

  He walked slowly along the footpath under the brick wall that separated the cul-de-sacs from the canal. He didn’t turn right into Paradise Lane. He didn’t want to go home yet.

  It was almost dark now, and sleeting gently. The cold wind soothed his burning brow, and provided a suitable background for his mood.

  He walked on past the ends of Back Paradise Lane, Paradise Hill, Back Paradise Hill, Paradise Court, Back Paradise Court and Paradise Green. He walked down Back Paradise Green to the main road. In a sudden surge of anger against life he ran across the road in front of a tram. The driver yelled at him. He went on down the side of Crapp, Hawser and Kettlewell. On all sides there were great sheds, topped by rows of narrow chimneys. Nothing moved around these stranded liners, but from time to time huge flashes of molten flame lit up the sky, and occasionally, through a ventilation gap, he would see the glow from a furnace mouth. He went right round the huge works of Crapp, Hawser and Kettlewell, his head thumping as if in time with some vast industrial hammer. A tiny shunting engine took its freight slowly across the road in front of him, blocking his path.

  On an impulse he plunged deeper into this nightmare industrial estate. He would walk west, over the Pennines, to Liverpool, and there he would stow away on a cargo ship and work his passage when he was discovered. He’d break ship on a tropical island where there was plenty of sunshine and fruit, and no school or girls, and he’d live happily ever after.

  It would serve them right. Nobody cared about him. Except Simon Eckington and Auntie Kate and Miss Candy. Maybe he wouldn’t go straight to the tropical island. He’d call in at Rowth Bridge first.

  It was very cold, and his headache was no better. He decided to go home, and set off tomorrow after a good night’s sleep. This would give him a chance to write a suicide note, and really worry them.

  He struggled back to the main road, very tired now. The main road seemed endless. He hadn’t realised how far he had come. His mouth tasted as if it had been coated with shrimp and dead grasshopper paste. He began to compose his suicide note.

  His father, Uncle Teddy, Auntie Doris and Cousin Hilda were sitting by the not-so-efficiently leaded range. They tried to hide their relief and show only their anger.

  On the table there were sandwiches, a cake with eleven candles, and – unheard of for many years – a wine-red Chivers jelly.

  There were also three brown paper parcels.

  He burst into tears.

  Ezra’s father had died. Twice they had made the trip to the home of Penistone’s leading coal merchant to see him. Now they went to see Ezra’s mother, who was quietly fading away from sorrow. These trips made Henry uneasy, even vaguely frightened. He didn’t know how to cope, or what to say. There was nothing he could say. He didn’t even like it when he was given a shilling before they left. It seemed like payment for services that he had failed to render.

  Family deaths often come in clusters, and now Her Mother was dying as well. She had gone funny, and hadn’t wanted to see them. Now, in the face of the grim reaper, she had relented.

  Henry hated everything about the visit to the hospital. He hated the long walk from the gates, in the torrential rain, following the signs for Radcliffe Ward. The hospital appeared to have been designed by someone whose only previous experience had been the creation of mazes, but at last they found the ward. It was a kind of Nissen hut, with six beds on each side, and a Nurse Waddle, who did.

  Her Mother was in the end bed on the left. They collected two chairs from a pile of chairs at the end of the room, and hung their sodden coats over the backs.

  ‘How’s tha doing, then, Ezra? And who’s this?’ said Her Mother.

  ‘This is Henry.’

  ‘Nay. Henry’s nobbut a baby.’

  ‘That was years ago, Norah. Before tha went to our Leonard’s.’

  ‘I’ve only been at our Leonard’s for a fortnight,’ said her mother. ‘Just to help her wi’ t’ bairn.’

  ‘Tha lives there, Norah,’ said Ezra.

  ‘With Leonard?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How long have I been there?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘Oh heck. I forget. How’s Henry, then?’

  ‘All right, thank you, Grandma,’ said Henry. He longed to add something amusing, or compassionate, or even just vaguely interesting. Nothing came. It never did in the presence of the old and ill.

  Nurse Waddle waddled down the ward towards them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Ezra. ‘We’re making puddles on t’ floor.’

  It was true. Why else should Ezra have said it? Quite sizeable puddles were forming beneath their coats.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Nurse Waddle. ‘Worse things’ll happen before t’ day’s done.’

  Henry remembered another puddle on another floor. The shame rose off him like the steam off his drying coat. He felt himself blushing. He caught Nurse Waddle’s eye, and believed that she had seen into his soul, and he blushed all the more. Nurse Waddle waddled off to get a sponge and a bucket and then she waddled back and cleared up the puddles before they spread.

  ‘Tha shouldn’t have come on such a wet night,’ said Her Mother. ‘I’m not feeling neglected.’

  ‘Aye, but Leonard said this were t’ best night for him not to come,’ said Ezra.

  ‘Who’s that?’ said Her Mother.

  ‘That’s our Henry,’ said Ezra.

  ‘It can’t be. Henry’s nobbut a baby,’ said Her Mother.

  ‘Tha’s lived with Leonard for six years,’ said Ezra.

  ‘Six years?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Oh heck. I forget.’

  The woman in the bed opposite, who was very elderly and emaciated, began to get out of bed very slowly, with great difficulty. She began to sing ‘Throw out the life-line’ in a mumble as she did so.

  ‘Press the bell,’ said Her Mother scornfully. ‘Get back into bed,’ she shouted.

 
; Henry pressed the bell, glad to be of use, yet frightened of pressing the bell, in case it was the wrong thing to do. He caught sight of the old woman’s naked, creased body, and shuddered at the shocking thinness of it.

  Nurse Waddle waddled briskly up the ward like a clockwork toy. ‘Where do we think we’re going, Mrs Purkiss?’ she said briskly, and started putting the very old woman back into bed.

  Any hope of Henry thinking of anything interesting to say was dashed when Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris arrived.

  Auntie Doris smelt like a perfume factory, and put a bunch of bananas in Her Mother’s bedside bowl.

  Bananas! Henry stared at them in wonder. They were an unheard-of luxury. It was rumoured that there had been a few in the corner shop, and Billy Erpingham had thought they were yellow polony, but these were the first Henry had seen.

  That was something he could say. He waited for a gap in the conversation, into which he would slip the bon mot ‘Billy Erpingham saw a banana and thought it were yellow polony’. But, as luck would have it, there was no gap.

  ‘Is it all right to have four visitors?’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Only it says two at a time.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Her Mother.

  ‘We could go out and come back when you go, if you like,’ said Auntie Doris.

  ‘Or you could go out now and wait for us. We can’t stay long. I’ve got some business to discuss,’ said Uncle Teddy.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Her Mother. ‘She’s not too bad, this one. Not like t’ other one.’

  ‘Pity we all came on the same day,’ said Uncle Teddy.

  ‘We could have given you a lift if we’d known,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘Then you needn’t have got soaked.’

  ‘I’m saying nowt,’ said Her Mother.

  ‘You’re looking grand, Mother,’ said Auntie Doris.

  ‘I’m dying, but I’m not complaining. I don’t feel hard done by,’ said Her Mother.

  Henry thought that perhaps it was just as well not to do the banana polony gag. It might suggest that he was hinting that his grandmother offer him a banana, and, much as he longed for one, he knew that under these circumstances he wouldn’t enjoy it.

  It was stifling. The bananas were looking more cheerful by the minute.

  Biggles wouldn’t be stuck for something to say. Or would he? Henry had never actually come across Biggles doing hospital visiting.