The Complete Pratt

by David Nobbs

  English. Doing less well this year, because Mr Lennox (Droopy L) didn’t take to his style. Droopy L didn’t take to any style. He didn’t like style. He looked like a bloodhound which has lost its zest for life, but this morose exterior was merely a blind for his stony heart. Droopy L shredded your essays. His sole criterion of merit was that there should be no unnecessary words at all. ‘“We set off along the road.” You amaze me, Pratt. I thought you would have set off on top of the hedge.’ Under Droopy L, he usually came about fourteenth.

  French. Improving all the time, partly due to a secret ambition to become a bi-lingual comedian. Henri ‘Ah par gomme je suis stupide’ Pratt. Fifth to seventh.

  Geography. Henry shared the enthusiams of his teacher, Mr Tenderfoot, who was hairy, grizzled, six foot three and known as High T. (This was a joke about food, not anticyclones, despite High T’s preference for the latter over the former.) Henry and High T loved the bits of Geography without people in them. River erosion, corrasion and attrition. Lateral and medial moraines. Deltas, archipelagoes and gorges. Weather. Rainfall figures were High T’s pornography, sunshine records his Bible. Once, in chapel, in the middle of a sermon given by the Bishop of Bath and Wells, High T strode boldly out, to watch a particularly severe thunderstorm. Unfortunately, Geography exams were mainly about the bits with people in them. Reasons for population densities, nature of farming, reasons for the location of industries. Fifth or sixth.

  History. Henry sympathised with Mr Trench and his nervous breakdown. A very demanding subject, with its mixture of facts and interpretation. There was a lot to remember and a lot to understand. The understanding was not helped by doing History in blocks, so that you had no idea what happened before or after. It was a bit like studying a bottle of milk in order to understand the evolution of the cow. Not a lot like that, but a bit. Toady D claimed that Henry saw things too simply, because of his background. To Henry all history was the exploitation of the weak by the strong. This was simplistic. Usually about ninth.

  Latin. His favourite subject, now that Droopy L had ruined English. Lampo Davey mocked him for this. ‘But those Romans were so dreary, so greedy. All marching and plumbing and vomiting, and no imagination. Not like the modern Italians.’ Could it be that Lampo was right about modern Italians, and the Beano wrong? ‘The only Roman who comes over to me like a human being is Catullus,’ said Lampo. ‘I wouldn’t have minded a stroll in the woods with him. No, forget the Romans. Go on to the Greeks.’ Next year, Henry would. In the meantime, he usually came second in Latin.

  Maths. He was doing worse as he came upon more advanced concepts. Calculus in particular was a closed book, and geometry and algebra sometimes hurt so much that he seemed able to feel the cracks in his brain across which the connections couldn’t leap, and that gave him a pain in his toes, of all places, and made him worry about being dependent on such a complicated system of life-support as the human body. Had been as high as third, usually about fourteenth now.

  Physics. It certainly wasn’t as bad as Chemistry. Henry had difficulty in remembering the difference between Torricelli’s experiment and Pascal’s experiment, between Boyle’s Law and Charles’s Law. He tended to make silly jokes about this subject. ‘I’m dense about density and relatively dense about relative density.’ ‘I’ll tell you about good and bad conductors. What? Oh yes. There was this tram…’ or ‘The only magnetic pole I knew was Stefan Prziborski.’ Partly this was due to a natural element of facetiousness in his personality, partly to his ambition to be a stand-up comic, but that alone would not explain why this eruption occurred so much more in Physics than in other subjects. The truth of the matter was that the nature of matter didn’t matter to Henry. More, he felt that he couldn’t function in the physical world unless he took it for granted. It was hard enough wielding a cricket bat without knowing about its molecular structure. He usually came about thirteenth in Physics.

  Scripture. This subject was not considered important at Dalton College. He sat quietly and caused no trouble.

  Henry’s progress would have seemed very disappointing to Miss Candy, but it seemed good enough to him. He had no idea that anybody had ever had any special hopes for him.

  In March, 1950, two events occurred, one of which showed Henry in a very negative light, the other in a much more positive light.

  He was shown in a negative light during the general election. Shant held a mock election, with political meetings in Shant Shed. Henry went to the meeting of the Labour candidate, E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson, of Stuart House. It was sparsely attended. Only about fifty boys sat in the huge, tiered, semi-circular hall.

  ‘In 1945,’ said E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson, ‘this nation voted for a government of the people.’

  ‘My father didn’t,’ shouted somebody.

  ‘The people of Britain had fought together, as one nation, to win the war. Every man and woman, however humble, played their part.’

  ‘My father didn’t,’ shouted another boy, and there was laughter.

  ‘Now, they wanted a part to play in the peace that followed. Was that too much to ask?’ said E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson.

  There were several cries of ‘yes’, and more laughter.

  ‘The British people can no longer be cast off like old socks, when they’ve been used up,’ said E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson.

  ‘Pity,’ came a cry.

  There were cries of ‘S’sssh!’ at this.

  ‘They have rights,’ said E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson. ‘They have proper unemployment pay and health insurance. They have the finest health service in the world, given by the Labour government. It will last for ever.’

  Henry found it difficult to concentrate. E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson’s words about the achievements of nationalisation passed over him. He was imagining himself up on that stage, holding the school in thrall with his comical capers.

  ‘Groundnuts,’ shouted somebody.

  ‘Do you think a government which has achieved so much, in such difficult times, should be pilloried for one mistake?’ said E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson.

  There were cries of ‘yes’ and more cries of ‘groundnuts’.

  ‘Over a million homes have been built.’

  ‘On our land.’

  ‘Would you deny people the right to live? The Labour government has been forced to apply rationing and severe austerity longer than it would have wished to. Is that its fault? The nation was bankrupted by war. How could it recover overnight? Labour has sown the seeds for…’

  ‘. .more groundnuts.’

  ‘. .a gradual return to prosperity. The Labour government has been criticised for allowing the breach with Russia to grow so wide. Did Labour invent the Cold War? It had been made inevitable before we came to power. The Labour government has behaved responsibly, moderately, some would say conservatively. It has expelled communists. It has begun the painful, but inevitable, process of decolonisation.’

  There were roars of anger, and more cries of ‘groundnuts’.

  ‘Yes. Inevitable,’ said E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson. ‘All you can find to say is “groundnuts”. That proves how good the government’s record is.’

  A bag of flour exploded over E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson.

  ‘You fear the Labour government,’ said E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson, his hair streaked with flour, his shoulders white. ‘Why? You’re still here, aren’t you?’

  A few boys cheered and applauded E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson. Others jeered. Henry remained silent. He simply didn’t know enough to do otherwise.

  At Westminster, Labour were returned to power, with a majority of six. At Dalton College, E. J. G. Holmes-Hankinson got eight votes. The Liberals got nine. The Conservatives got 657.

  The event which saw Henry in a more positive light occurred two days before the end of term. He knocked on Lampo and Tosser’s door, received no reply, and entered, to find Lampo rehearsing a mime.

  ‘I didn’t say “come in”,’ said Lampo.

  ‘You didn’t say “s
tay out”,’ said Henry.

  ‘I couldn’t say anything,’ said Lampo. ‘Mime is silent. In future, wait till you’re told.’

  ‘You like me to clean your study when you’re out,’ said Henry. ‘If you’re out, you can’t say “come in” so if I have to wait for you to say “come in” I can never clean your study while you’re out.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lampo. ‘I was upset at being interrupted.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I’m appearing in the end of summer term concert. I’m doing a satirical mime about Sir Stafford Cripps in Hell. I’m calling it “Austerity in the Underworld”. It’s a satire on the mean spirit of post-war Britain. It’s going to be a sensation. A sensation. Tosser’s appearing too.’ Lampo Davey sighed. ‘A ballet skit done by the rugger fifteen. I ask you, Henry. What is that but the hoary old anti-art gag in new clothes? I am trying to do something avant-garde. Tosser is about as avant-garde as a mangle.’

  ‘My auntie had a mangle,’ said Henry. ‘I won’t say she was ugly, but I talked to it for five minutes before I realised it wasn’t her.’

  Lampo Davey stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I’m practising for my act,’ said Henry.

  ‘What act?’ said Lampo Davey.

  ‘My act in the end of summer term concert,’ said Henry.

  Lampo Davey gawped at him. Henry would have gawped at himself, had it been physically possible.

  He spent the Easter holidays researching for his act. Twice, he went to the first house at the Sheffield Empire. He went on the Tuesday. That way he could buy the Star and read the review of what he was going to see, and build up his anticipation.

  To his astonishment, Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris came with him. He would have preferred to be on his own, for professional reasons, but he couldn’t say this. They had taken his January strictures to heart.

  On April 4th, he saw the Five Smith Brothers, who sang with lots of energy. Second on the bill was Robb Wilton, a hero of his. He was upset because Robb Wilton wasn’t top of the bill. Uncle Teddy explained that he was on the way down. Others on the bill were Kay ‘On the Keys’ Cavendish, Tony Fayne and David Evans, with amusing impressions of BBC performers, and Donald B. Stuart, more comic than conjuror.

  On April 11th he saw the Mack Triplets, American close-harmony singers, sometimes saucy and always tuneful; Wee Georgie Wood, assisted by Dolly Harmer; Leslie Sarony; the Three Jokers, energetic knock-about comedians; Morecambe and Wise, amusing entertainers; Irene and Stanley Davis, clever dancers; Freda Wyn, who certainly knew the ropes; and Jackie, with extraordinary balancing feats.

  Then there was Emile Littler’s Waltzes from America for two weeks, so that was a dead loss, but he did persuade Uncle Teddy to go once to the Thurmarsh Empire, where the bill was headed by Confidentially, from Variety Bandbox, Reg Dixon. The Two Valettos provided an exotic touch with Eastern dancing, the Allen Brothers and June tumbled and glided in a sophisticated comedy routine, and the Two Harvards cut college capers with verve. Aimee Fontenay and her partner provided thrills on the trapeze. Margery Manners sang with an intimate microphone manner that was more than pleasing. Saucy Iris Sadler and ventriloquist Roger Carne provided plenty of laughs, and Victor Seaforth, the man with a hundred voices, gave an electrifying interpretation of Charles Laughton’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

  Henry loved it all. He had no idea that he was witnessing a dying art form, and that quite soon many of these theatres would be demolished for improvement schemes, and the rest would be given over to bingo.

  He learnt a great deal. The successful comedians presented the audience with a false image of themselves. Not a true image of themselves, which might well be boring, or a false image without themselves, in which case there would be no contact. Contact was more important than the quality of the jokes.

  But he still hadn’t got his act. He needed something more, an external element.

  It came in the shape of the headmaster, Mr Lichfield.

  The shape of the headmaster, Mr Lichfield, was oblong, with a sphere on top. He had no waist, very square shoulders, and vitually no neck. He looked like a message hoisted for sailors, sphere above oblong, meaning ‘easterly gales imminent’ or some such thing.

  After house prayers, in the panelled dining room of Orange House, with its list of house rugby captains since 1838 (1949 E. L. F. Pilkington-Brick, 1950 E. L. F. Pilkington-Brick, the first since 1857 to be house rugby captain for two years) Dopy S announced that the following day the headmaster would visit all the houses to talk to them individually on a matter of the greatest importance. They would assemble at 8.25. Dopy S was so concerned about this that he forgot his rubber cushion, which he was carrying on account of an excruciating attack of piles which all the boys except Lampo Davey found hilarious. ‘The banal anal English,’ said Lampo sadly.

  The following day, House assembled round the bare wooden refectory tables. The headmaster entered with the housemaster. Mr Lichfield carried his mortarboard in his right hand. Mr Satchel carried his rubber cushion in his left hand.

  House stood.

  ‘Sit down, boys,’ said Mr Satchel.

  House sat down.

  Mr Satchel arranged his cushion, and also sat down. The cushion sighed gently, perhaps for Mr Satchel’s lost, unhaemorrhoidal youth.

  Mr Lichfield remained standing, sphere over oblong. He looked very worried. He held his mortarboard in front of his private parts, as if he were naked.

  He began to speak. He spoke slowly, slightly too loud, as if he had learnt the art of public speaking by numbers. He had a slight speech impediment, being unable to say a soft ‘s’ without aspirating. He seemed to be drawn to his impediment like a moth to a flame.

  ‘I want to shpeak to you today on a very sherioush shubject,’ he said. ‘Sheksh. In particular, the shin of homoshekshuality. Because it is a shin. Oh yesh.’

  Henry stared fixedly at the table, through downcast eyes. This wasn’t out of shame, for he agreed with the headmaster. It was out of the fear that, if he so much as caught the eye of another boy, he would begin to shake with helpless hysterical laughter. Was it his fancy that he could sense a barely suppressed communal quivering all round him?

  The idea struck him like a swing door. Here was the very thing he had been seeking. And he wasn’t even listening to it. He had missed a whole section of the headmaster’s talk. He forced himself to concentrate on the peroration.

  ‘At every boarding shchool there are isholated inshidents of thish short of shekshual mishbehaviour, which musht be dealt with on an individual bashish,’ the headmaster was saying. ‘But here, in thish corner of Shomershet, it has become an imposhible shituation. As I shee you shitting there, sho sholemn, sho shad, your expressions shuffused with shame, yesh, the shame shame that I myshelf onshe felt at my shchool, I confesh that my shpirits shag. I feel for you. The innoshent are at rishk from the guilty. However, I musht shay what has to be shaid. No shchool of which I am headmashter will be allowed to remain a shink of iniquity. Any boy found guilty of any kind of shekshual offenshe will be shacked.’

  The headmaster’s face had gone purple with embarrassment and honest feeling. The boys’ faces had gone purple from their efforts not to laugh. Only the housemaster seemed unaffected. Mr Satchel’s smooth face remained totally innocent throughout.

  House stood, and they departed, the headmaster with his mortarboard, the housemaster with his rubber cushion, and Henry with his act.

  It was the first day of the first test match at Old Trafford. Debuts: England – R. Berry, G. H. G. Doggart; West Indies – S. Ramadhin, A. L. Valentine; Dalton College auditions for end of summer term concert – H. Pratt.

  The auditions were held in a small, bare room at the back of the stage in Shant Shed. It had mustard-washed brick walls. Kington, the producer, sat back-to-front on a kitchen chair, his chin resting on top of the back of the chair.

  If Henry felt nervous, he didn�
�t show it. Here at last was an area of life in which he was confident.

  Kington watched his rough-hewn act, intently still, poker-faced, wanting to see how Henry reacted under pressure. Henry was concentrating so hard that he didn’t even notice that Kington wasn’t laughing.

  ‘It needs a lot of work on it,’ said Kington. ‘A lot of work.’

  ‘I know,’ said Henry.

  Kington nodded. He seemed pleased.

  ‘You’re very young to do a solo,’ he said. ‘You’re still a fag. Don’t you think it would be more sensible to wait till next year?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘but who ever got anywhere by being sensible?’

  Kington grinned for the first time.

  ‘You can go on after the mime,’ he said. ‘They’ll be so relieved that’s over that you’ll go down a bomb.’

  The summer term passed pleasantly. His batting improved spectacularly. Scores of 0, 1, 1 not out, 0 not out, 2, 0, 0, 3 not out, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0 not out, 0 and 2 gave him an average of 1, an all-time high. He just managed to pass his swimming proficiency test in the green, icy waters of the open-air pool. He began to feel that he belonged here. Next year, he wouldn’t be a fag, and would be able to open one button on his jacket. The year after, he would have a senior study, he would be able to open two buttons on his jacket, he would be fagged for.

  It was pleasant that summer, as Ramadhin and Valentine swept through the English batting, to lie on Middle Boggle, hearing the thwack of leather on willow, feeling your cock harden against the warm grass as you dreamt idly of Diana Hargreaves and Patricia Roc, while you chatted to Paul Hargreaves, or explained the rules, with deliberate incomprehensibility, to Prince Mangkukubono of Jogjakarta. Two-fifths of your mind on cricket, two-fifths on sex, the other fifth always thinking about your act.

  The longest day came and went. So did Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris. A visit! They took Paul Hargreaves out and went to Weston-super-Mare. The tide was out. Henry wished Auntie Doris’s perfume didn’t smell so strongly. Paul seemed to enjoy himself. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said at the end of the day, rather stiffly and formally. ‘I’ve had a thoroughly enjoyable day.’