by David Nobbs
The stew was nice, though.
Back at Low Farm, casual conversation was discouraged at table, and Henry had always wanted to chatter. Here, table talk was de rigueur, and his brain seemed to have had gum poured into it.
‘This stew’s nice,’ he said.
‘It’s boeuf bourguignon, ass,’ said Paul.
They discussed art exhibitions and museums that they might visit. Paul said that Henry was good at Latin, and his French was coming along too.
‘A great language,’ said Dr Hargreaves. ‘Are you familiar with Baudelaire at all, Henry?’
‘I’ve never been to France,’ said Henry.
Diana choked.
‘Baudelaire isn’t a place,’ she said. ‘It’s a song.’
‘It’s no such thing,’ said her mother. ‘He was a great French poet.’
Henry couldn’t be sure, in fact he would never know, but he suspected that Diana knew about Baudelaire and had diverted the correction onto herself to spare him. What a magnificent girl she was. How little taste he had. How could he ever have preferred the tight-knit, arrogant scrawniness of Belinda Brace-Toothingham? How could he have likened this magnificent creature to a sack of potatoes? How nice her breasts looked.
The slumbering giant stirred, yawned, stretched his legs. Not now! Not at the Hargreaves’s dining table! Get down, ass!
He looked away from Diana hurriedly. He racked his brains for something even vaguely interesting to say. He recalled a story somebody had told him at school. Well, that would do.
‘My people were burgled last week,’ he said, ‘Do you know what the thief took? A wireless, a ball of string and two pounds of tomatoes.’
Why was Paul glaring at him?
‘That’s incredible,’ said Dr Hargreaves. ‘We had a burglar too, and that’s exactly what he took.’
Henry closed his eyes. The one good thing about it was that the awakened giant shrivelled up in embarrassment.
‘It’s obviously the same one,’ said Diana.
‘It could be two different ones,’ said Paul.
‘Oh yes. The country’s awash with people stealing wirelesses, string and tomatoes,’ said Diana.
‘Where did this happen? said Mrs Hargreaves.
‘Sheffield,’ said Henry.
‘We must let the police know,’ said Dr Hargreaves. ‘It could be a vital link.’
‘No,’ said Henry. ‘My aunt’s very nervous of the police.’
‘We really ought to report it. It’s our duty,’ said Dr Hargreaves.
‘I wouldn’t like to do it without their knowing,’ said Henry ‘When I get back, I can tell them about your case and try and persuade them to report it.’
Dr Hargreaves agreed to that, but it had been a narrow escape. Henry suspected that they all knew that there had been no burglary, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it.
After dinner, he pleaded exhaustion.
‘Ass,’ said Paul, as they said goodnight. ‘Cretinous ass.’
He washed himself from head to foot, in his determination not to sully the sheets.
It was a warm night. He got into bed without his pyjamas.
He stretched his legs. They ached with tension. He began to feel drowsy. He thought about Diana. She was a nice girl. He thought about her breasts. He pretended she was in bed with him, also naked. He pressed his body against hers and kissed her mouth. He put the sheet over his head and moved down to kiss her breasts.
‘Diana, darling, I love you,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Diana. Diana.’
The slumbering giant awoke, leapt up, and spat. It was brief, burning, terrifying, amazing, wonderful.
For ten seconds after it was over, he felt exhilarated. He wasn’t a freak. He was a man.
Then he began to feel embarrassed about the Hargreaves’s sheets.
9 The Day Pratt Broke Out
‘I WOULDN’T GO myself if I hadn’t helped to organise it,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Rawlaston Working Men’s Club isn’t the Moulin Rouge, you know.’
It was pre-prandial drinks time in Cap Ferrat, on a wet evening in January, 1950.
‘I’ve never been to a club,’ said Henry.
‘You’re under age,’ said Auntie Doris.
‘I don’t want to drink,’ said Henry. ‘I just want to see the cabaret. I’ve never seen a cabaret. They’ll let me in if you’re the organiser.’
‘I don’t like abusing positions of influence,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘You never take me anywhere,’ said Henry. ‘I’m nearly fifteen. I can behave myself. Every summer holidays, when I come back, you’re as bronzed as Greek gods. You think I don’t realise that you’ve been on holiday, but I’m not as green as I’m cabbage-looking. That’s why I never get any letters towards the end of the summer term.’
Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris didn’t look as bronzed as Greek gods at that moment. In fact they’d both gone deathly pale.
‘You go to Cap Ferrat,’ said Henry. ‘It’s your favourite place. You named your house after it. I used to think it was a hat for ferreting. I was naive. You’ve given me the chance to be sophisticated, and that means I can see through you.’
Auntie Doris burst into tears and left the room.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘It’s what you’ve done,’ said Henry.
‘You don’t like us very much, do you?’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘I want to,’ shouted Henry. ‘I want to, but you won’t let me into your lives.’
It was quite a large room, with thirty-two tables. Some of the tables were square, others oblong. They were arranged in straight lines. The men came in flat caps and many of them had square, rugged faces. They drank their pints from straight glasses. It was a world that had eschewed curves as the product of weakness. Henry loved it. It was also a dark room. The lights were low. The decor and furnishings were a tribute to the versatility of brown. All the men wore dark clothes. Many of the women looked as if they hoped they’d be mistaken for men. Here and there, there was a blaze of blonde hair, some real, more false. Occasionally, a woman in a colourful dress. One woman had a bright yellow drink. These were exceptions. Auntie Doris wore a low-cut, blue evening dress. Her figure was still excellent.
The room smelt of stale beer, fresh beer, cigarettes, cheap perfume, furniture polish, disinfectant and sweat. The atmosphere was smoky.
Also seated at their table was Jack Ibbotson, his wife Mabel and her friend Denise. It was because he employed Jack that Uncle Teddy had allowed himself, so untypically, to be roped in. He resented it.
‘It’s never been properly ventilated, hasn’t this venue,’ said Jack Ibbotson. ‘Not within living memory, any road.’
There were three acts on the bill. The Amazing Illingworth (The Crown Prince of Prestidigitation), Talwyn Jones (The Celtic Droll) and Doreen Tibbs (The Tadcaster Thrush). The weak spots of the cabaret, if one wished to be hypercritical, were that the Crown Prince of Prestidigitation was so drunk that he was pushed to say magic, let alone prestidigitation, that the Celtic Droll had about as much comic personality as a tent pole and the Tadcaster Thrush had a shocking cold, with incipient laryngitis.
The concert secretary was none other than the peripheral Sid Lowson, who was to take no further part in this narrative after his performance as a domino substitute almost fifteen years ago.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Sid Lowson. ‘All proceeds tonight go to that very fine footballer, Don Ibbotson, of Thurmarsh United, who’s had to pack it in due to injury. He was a great servant of the club. If he’d had a bit of pace, who knows how far he’d have gone? Let’s hear it for Don Ibbotson.’
Don Ibbotson stood up. The audience applauded. There were tears in Jack Ibbotson’s eyes.
‘Thank you,’ said Sid Lowson. ‘And now, without further ado, our special cabaret, who have all dispensed with their services tonight for nowt. Thank you, each. First, a legendary Tyke entertainer what I saw last week at Mexborough. I didn
’t rate him mysen, but then I don’t like magic. Any road, let’s hear it for the Amazing Illingworth.’
The Amazing Illingworth’s act wasn’t going terribly well even before the escape of the doves. They flew around the room, fluttering wildly, and it was only after a quarter of an hour, and the use of a ladder, that they were all recovered.
Sid Lowson returned to the stage and called for silence. Slowly, the hubbub died down.
‘I have three messages,’ said Sid Lowson. ‘One. Will the bar please not serve the Amazing Illingworth? Thank you. Two. If anybody has a cleaning bill, we will honour them, though as this will come out of what we raise for Don, we hope there won’t be. Three, and I should have said this at t’ beginning, but in view of the Amazing Illingworth’s condition I forgot. With great regret I have to announce the death of one of t’ best-loved members of this club, Reg Oldfield. Reg passed away peacefully last night. He was a good ’un. We sent all our sympathies to Madge and the family, and we hope to have a bit of a do to raise summat for them later. T’ funeral’s on Tuesday. And now, comedy. Let’s hear it for Talwyn Jones, the Celtic Droll.’
You’re in trouble when you come on in a bright red suit, with a giant leek in your buttonhole, wearing a pith helmet and one roller skate, and nobody laughs.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and concert secretary,’ said the Celtic Droll. ‘My name is Taff the Laff. I just came over from by there to by ’ere. So where’s the tapestry? By ’ere. Bayeux tapestry. Get it? Nor do I, much. So, you’ve never heard of the Bayeux tapestry. It’s Plan B. Sex. You’ve heard of sex, have you? It’s what the upper classes bring their coal home in.’
Uncle Teddy looked at Auntie Doris in something approaching panic, but excitement coursed through Henry’s veins. Suddenly, without a shadow of a doubt, he knew what he was going to be when he grew up. A stand-up comedian.
‘…Still, accidents will happen, won’t they? Take my friend the undertaker. Jones the bones. No, I can’t do that one. Somebody just snuffed it. There were these two Welshmen, Paddy and Mick. Well, I can’t do the Irish accent. Paddy says, “I’m walking to Pembroke Dock, isn’t it, begorrah?” Mick says, “How long is it?” Paddy says, “I don’t know, I haven’t looked.” Hasn’t the rationing been terrible, though. Terrible, the rationing. Mind you, my wife’s been rationing me for years. I’m talking about meat, madam. Rissoles to you too…’
Many people never find their vocation in life. Lucky is the lad who finds it at the tender age of fourteen. Henry was awash with an amazing exhilaration.
‘You can take your gas-mask off, sir. The war’s been over for…oh, sorry, you haven’t got it on. Laugh? I thought you’d never start. Right. What else we got? Oh yes. Thurmarsh United. We slaughtered you last year nil all. I hear you’ve gone into the transfer market – bought a spectator from Liverpool. What about Stalin then, eh? He’s a lad, isn’t he?’
No matter that the comedian was bad. No matter that he was dying on his feet. Henry knew that he wouldn’t die on his feet. It had all fallen into place. His search for a catchphrase. The long hours listening to the wireless. His insistence on coming tonight. It had all clicked in his head.
‘Music’s great, though, isn’t it? It’s great, music. There’s this Welsh tenor, see…on a string attached to a Welsh wallet…tenner, see?…What a state I’m in. Tennessee, state, get it? Nor do I, much. No, there’s this Welsh tenor, see, from Welsh Wales, has to have this operation, on his throat, this tenor. Comes round, after the operation, doctor says, “How are you?” “Fine, doctor, but I couldn’t half go a cup of tea.” “All right, but you’ll have to not take it through the mouth, you see, because of the operation, you’ll have to take it through the…” The doctor paused, trying to be polite, like. “Rectum?” said the tenor. “Well, it didn’t do them much good,” said the doctor.’
No matter that the joke was in tatters. Henry felt like an old pro. He’d practically worked the rectum gag himself, with old Busy B.
‘So they pours the old cup of tea in the old rectum, and the tenor screams. “What’s wrong?” said the doctor. “Was it too hot?” “No,” said the tenor. “You forgot to put any sugar in.” Thank you very much, and goodnight, ladies and gentlemen.’
There was sporadic applause, but Henry clapped wildly, less in tribute than in gratitude for having had his eyes opened.
Much of the night passed in a dream for Henry. He hardly heard the raffle draw, which was won by Cecil E. Jenkinson. He was barely conscious of the Tadcaster Thrush, her low-cut dress revealing the massive cleft between her huge breasts, her cold giving her the red nose the comic should have had. Her nasal voice gave her songs the sexual ambiguity of a Berlin cabaret in the thirties. After her first song, ‘You’re breaking my heart’, somebody called out, ‘You’re not doing much for mine.’ Henry was up on stage throughout the song, dreaming of a vast audience in stitches at his patter. He returned to earth to hear her graceful apology for her condition. ‘Sorry about t’ voice,’ she said. ‘I’ve got this dreadful cold. I’m right bunged up.’ She launched herself into ‘Now that I need you’. Henry reflected on the content of his act, trying out the odd phrase in his head to see how it fitted. It could be the big come-back for ‘It’s months since I ’ad rat.’ During ‘Far away places’ he was in Hampstead, wondering what Dr and Mrs Hargreaves would make of this, how they would react to the drunk magician, the terrible comic and the singer who sounded like a man imitating Marlene Dietrich badly. She was embarked now upon ‘I didn’t dow the gud was doaded’. Henry thought briefly about Sid Lowson. Should he go up to him and say, ‘I used to be a friend of your son before divisive social elements pulled us apart. Give him my best wishes, will you?’ Next, Doreen Tibbs attempted ‘Confidentially’. At one point the voice went completely, and somebody shouted, ‘There’s no need to be that confidential, luv,’ and there was laughter, but she ploughed resolutely through it, and the voice returned. Henry’s thoughts turned to Cecil E. Jenkinson, landlord of the Navigation, winner of the raffle. Should he go up to him and say, ‘You virtually banned my dad from your pub. Well, he’s dead now. I hope that makes you very happy.’ There wasn’t any point. All that part of his life was dead. It all seemed so very far away. It was amusing to touch it so secretly, so tangentially, tonight, by being in the same room as these people without their knowing. For her final number, the ailing Thrush (Turdus Tadcasterus) chose, ‘I don’t see be id your eyes ady bore’. Henry embarked upon a reprise of his opening number, the fantasy of standing on the stage, holding the multitude in his grip. Doreen Tibbs received the best ovation of her career. Her false notes, usually so clearly the result of lack of talent, were assumed tonight to be an unfortunate side-effect of her cold. It was an award for gallantry, and she accepted it with surprise and a sudden vulnerable charm. In Henry’s mind the applause was for him. He had to restrain himself in order to remain in his seat. How embarrassed Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris would be if he stood up and took a bow.
He sat suspended between his past and his future, in that dimly-lit, fetid, smoky, noisy, beery room.
‘And now,’ said a voice that filled the room, although Henry alone could hear it. ‘Now, the moment you’ve been waiting for, our star turn tonight. He’s droll. He’s daft. He’s Henry. Let’s hear it for Henry “Ee By Gum I am Daft” Pratt.’
Dreams sometimes come true.
Life at Dalton College, in the spring term of 1950, still had its unpleasantnesses. Getting up at seven fifteen, in the freezing dorm, long before the dawn. The Spartan diet. The pale orange night-light in the stifling san when half the school went down with gastric flu, and the male nurse with the twisted lip came round with his night-time tray of Ovaltine, Horlicks or Milo, all of which made Henry feel sick. Hockey on Lower Boggle in a hailstorm, and a huge boy from Tudor House tripping him deliberately and sending him nose-first into the thick Somerset mud. The agony of those six-mile runs along the Somerton Road, gasping for breath, frozen, red, chapped legs smeared
with mud, and the disgusting smell of Broadlees Farm’s silage. The sound of crashing feet bounding off the walls of the gym as he struggled to climb a rope, hands cold, arms so feeble, up, up so slowly, and far below the supple vaulting of some natural athlete over the horse, across which he would shortly stumble in knee-wrenching, skin-scraping horror. Being beaten at table tennis 21–8, 21–7 by Brownlow, 21–6, 21–4 by Paul and 21–1, 21–2 by Prince Mangkukubono of Jogjakarta. There was the ever-present absence of Diana Hargreaves, in whose presence his courage had failed. There was the pervasiveness of homosexuality, whose dark vapours invaded dorm and changing room. He interrupted glances, smelt entanglements, heard about orgies, and felt both disgusted and neglected.
But there were pleasant things, too. The friendship with Paul. The semi-sexual sparring with Lampo. The memorable day when Orange became cock house at hockey, beating Stuart 3–1, with two goals from Tosser Pilkington-Brick. How they cheered on Middle Boggle! With what fervour they sang ‘Jerusalem the Golden’ in house prayers that night, with the windows slightly open so that farmers, corn chandlers, labourers and auctioneers could pause on street corners in the little market town, if they so wished, and hear the proud, patriotic lines that sent the pimples goosing across the flesh of Dopy S and every boy except Lampo Davey, who closed his eyes and thought of Tuscany. Then there were the joys of self-abuse, and the redecoration of his partition, which consisted now entirely of pictures of Patricia Roc.
But lessons still took up the bulk of the day. It is time to consider Henry’s progress at his lessons.
Art. This subject was not considered important at Dalton College. He sat quietly and caused no trouble.
Chemistry. ‘Give me a test tube and I will show you a disaster,’ might have been Henry’s cry. Poor Stinky G. In Henry’s hands even simple tests like the solubility of potassium permanganate or the preparation of oxygen from hydrogen peroxide H2O2 became dangerous adventures. As for the acids, whether sulphuric, hydrochloric or nitric, the less said the better. But Henry Pratt, budding comic, didn’t seem to mind his disasters any more. He would grin vacantly. ‘Ee, by gum, I am daft,’ that grin would seem to say. Usually he came about twenty-first out of the class of twenty-five.