by David Nobbs
When they left, Auntie Doris hugged Henry, and Uncle Teddy clasped his hand firmly and pressed it.
‘Well done, old chap,’ he said.
Henry impressed Sweaty W with the revelation that he was reading Baudelaire. The trouble was that it was very difficult to enjoy something that was untranslatable. It was impossible to enjoy a line like ‘les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon’ because, although it sounded good, it was in a foreign language, and when you had translated it as ‘the evenings lit up by the heat of coal’ it was still impossible to enjoy it because, although it was in your language, it sounded awful. Henry was reading Baudelaire in preparation for his second visit to the Hargreaves’s home in Hampstead. This time he meant to impress. He intended to keep a clean sheet and not to blot his copy-book.
The day of the end of term concert approached.
He sat in his partition in the junior study, a small piece of land entirely surrounded by pictures of Patricia Roc. He had a severe attack of nerves. What a fool he had been to think he could make the whole school laugh.
He brought his stamp album up to date, for something to do. Auntie Doris had sent him five Canadian stamps. He could hardly control the hinges in his shaking fingers.
He counted the number of stamps in his album, to pass the time. There were 112. 57 of them were Canadian. 28 of them were identical.
Lampo Davey put his head round the door.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘They’ll be in such a good mood after my mime, they’ll laugh at anything.’
He was sick. He walked to main school, head throbbing, saying to himself, ‘It is funny. It is. No, it isn’t. Yes, it is.’ He was sick again, in the Shant Shed lats. Oh, presumptuous oik.
It is funny. Far funnier than the Celtic Droll. Nobody’ll laugh at all. Everybody’ll be in stitches.
He put on his dark suit, his comedy glasses and his mortarboard, ready for the dress rehearsal.
He felt better.
He went on for the dress rehearsal. He had refused to do his full act on this occasion, having read that this was what real comedians did. What did he mean, ‘real comedians’? Wasn’t he real?
‘Ow do, I’m t’ new headmaster waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle Moss Bros. Goodnight,’ he said.
He felt much better.
He felt awful.
He was sick.
He gargled and cleaned his teeth.
The concert began. He became convinced that he would forget all his words.
Kington obviously thought he could do it. Or did he? Was it a deliberate plot to humiliate him in front of the whole school? That was it. He’d show them. No, that wasn’t it. And he wouldn’t show them. Yes, he would.
He heard the early acts as if from very far away. A parody of the school song. A sketch, with quite a few laughs. Another song. Warm applause. Then silence.
‘Five minutes,’ Kington told him. ‘Davey’s just doing his mime.’
Henry joined Kington at the side of the stage. The silence was total. His legs were leaden. He was shaking.
‘He’s dying on his arse,’ whispered Kington. ‘He’s dying on his arse out there. You’ll be terrific after this. A wow. A two hundred per cent copper-bottomed wow.’
There was a dribble of polite, bewildered applause for Lampo’s mime. He came off fuming.
‘Peasants,’ he said.
Henry stood transfixed.
‘Good luck,’ whispered Kington. ‘You’ll slay them. If you’re dying on your arse, get off quick.’
Kington pushed him. He walked forward as in a dream, feverish and disembodied.
They roared at the sight of him, fifteen-year-old Henry Pratt, dressed as the headmaster. After several minutes in which most of them hadn’t even realised that they were watching the Chancellor of the Exchequer in the underworld, here was something they could understand.
All Henry’s nerves left him. He felt the amazing, steadying presence of power. His neck disappeared. He became the headmaster, sphere over oblong. He waited for the laughter to die down, then waited a little longer, to show that he was in charge, to build up the tension, ready to defuse it with the next laugh. He knew about this. Amazingly, instinctively, he was a master of his craft.
‘’Ow do, I’m t’ new headmaster, tha knows,’ he said.
They laughed. It wasn’t a joke, yet they laughed. He’d got them!
His voice was slightly silly, but not too silly.
‘I want to talk to you tonight about summat very important what I don’t like and what there’s too much of. Sex.’
They roared and applauded. He stood immobile, facing seven hundred laughing boys, and beyond them the masters, who might or might not be laughing.
‘What is sex? It’s what you snotty-nosed lot bring the coal home in.’
Yes, already he was not too proud to use old jokes.
‘Another thing that there’s too much of in this knacker’s yard – sorry, school, that was my last job – another thing there’s too much of is…er…homo…wait. I haven’t finished. Don’t laff just cause I say homo. Wait till I’ve finished… Sapiens. Far too many boys. Have to shack a few, I think. Now I’m a bit worried over t’ acoustics of this converted abattoir, and whether I can be heard proper and all. If you can’t hear me, shout out, and I won’t hear you. I said I’m a bit worried over…never mind. Ee, by gum, I am daft.’
They’d been waiting for that, those who knew him, and they led the applause.
‘Oh, I haven’t told you my name yet, have I? I’m Oiky P, M. A. I were born in a slum, tha knows. I were. I come from a slum. One day, my dad said to me, “Henry.” He were clever that way, cos that were me name. It still is. Ee, by gum, I am daft. “Henry,” he said, “I’ve gorra pain in me eye.” I didn’t ask which one, cos he only had the one. He couldn’t afford two. “Henry,” he said. “Go into t’ kitchen and gerrus t’ eye-drops.” I said, “I’m in t’ kitchen.” Well, we only had one room. We couldn’t afford two. I won’t say it was small, but the cockroaches and silverfish died of claustrophobia. He said, “Henry.” Cos his memory was still good in them days. He said, “Henry, get t’ eye-drops and gerrus dinner at t’ same time. It’s in t’ oven. I opened t’ oven door and there were this great big rat. I said, “Dad, there’s a great big rat in t’ oven.” He said, “That’s funny. I only ordered a little ’un.” It’s months since I ’ad rat.’
He paused, waiting for total silence, judging it was time to build the tension again. He adopted a pose of exaggerated innocence.
‘Ee, I could do with a fag,’ he said.
Homosexuality still shocked him, but he felt no guilt about pretending to be one, for the sake of his act. Anything went, where laughs were concerned. He was a real pro, at fifteen.
‘Right. My policies for this Borstal,’ he continued. ‘Education. We’ll have some. Not a lot, but some. We’ll get you off your buttocks. Not that I’ve got owt against buttocks. Never have had. Buttocks, I don’t think you can beat them, me. “What about sport?” I hear a strangled cry. Tosser’s got his jockstrap on too tight again. Yes, we’ll have sport too. And I would like to thank Foggy F for putting up t’ goal posts. It’s actually cricket this term, but it was a nice thought. Ee, by gum, I am daft. I gorra go now, cos my suit’s due back in Moss Bros. Goodnight.’
There was loud applause. Everyone agreed that he hadn’t quite known how to end it, but that he’d been amazingly good for a fifteen-year-old.
As he came off, Kington grabbed him by the hand and said, ‘Well done.’
He slumped, exhausted, into a chair in the crowded, communal dressing room, with its litter of make-up and costumes on all sides.
Lampo Davey came in, and stood by the door, gazing at him, smiling his twisted smile.
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You have discovered the greasepaint behind the agony. I’m going to kiss you.’
Lampo Davey kissed him full on the mouth.
‘I’ll proba
bly never see you again after tonight,’ he said. ‘I’m leaving this Philistine island. I’m going somewhere where my kind of art will be appreciated. Crete.’
Henry couldn’t sit for long. The adrenalin was still pumping. He wandered out into the warm, still night. A bat almost brushed his head as he wandered down the passage between the chapel and main school. He looked up at the mellow stone of the Queen Anne mansion, and no longer felt unworthy of it. He no longer felt like the Bauhaus block. He had toned in.
He returned in time to hear the roars that greeted the first fifteen’s ballet skit.
‘It confirms them in their belief that sport is superior to art. How the little cretins roar,’ said Lampo Davey.
Henry went on stage to take his share of the final curtain. He had wondered if the applause would embarrass him. Now he wished that it would go on for ever.
There was a party, on stage. Henry enjoyed a glass of wine for the first time. He had reached maturity.
Lampo acted as his chaperone, choosing to bask in reflected glory rather than wallow in his own disgrace. Many people were leaving Shant the next day. Some of them would never know such glory again. The atmosphere was manic.
The headmaster came round briefly to congratulate them. Henry’s heart beat a little faster as he approached.
‘Congratulations,’ said the headmaster warmly. ‘It was a mosht amusing shkit.’
This made Henry feel guilty.
‘Feeling guilty?’ said Lampo Davey, when the headmaster had moved on.
‘No,’ said Henry.
‘With what infinite subtlety the British ruling classes swallow up their opposition,’ said Lamp Davey. ‘That’s the only thing I’m going to miss, in Crete.’
People paid Henry tributes, and they didn’t embarrass him, for he regarded them as his due.
Only one thing marred his evening. He wanted to do the whole thing again the next day.
10 Oh God
IN THE MORNING, when he received the summons to go and see Mr Satchel, he assumed that his housemaster wished to add his congratulations to the many he had received.
He weaved his way cheerfully between trunks, parents and tuck boxes. The smell of warm gravel wafted in through open doors and windows. This evening he would see Diana.
He plunged into the stuffy gloom of Dopy S’s private quarters, wondering idly what it must be like to have eighty schoolboys living in your home.
He entered Mr Satchel’s study. At first he could see only Mr Satchel. Then he saw Auntie Doris. Her face was stricken.
‘Congratulations on last night,’ said Mr Satchel.
‘Thank you very much indeed, sir,’ he said graciously.
‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ said Mr Satchel. He put his hand briefly on Henry’s shoulder as he left.
‘Come and sit down,’ said Auntie Doris.
She looked gaunt. He could feel his heart thumping.
‘You never really wanted to go away to school, did you?’ she said.
‘What’s happened?’ he said. ‘What’s happened, Auntie Doris?’
Her eyes were very moist. He wished she hadn’t used so much perfume.
‘Teddy’s got problems,’ she said. ‘Business problems.’
A wave of relief swept over him.
‘He’s got problems with his English end,’ she said. ‘He’s going to have to wind it up. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Well…yes…he’s going to have to wind up his English end.’
‘I’m saying that he’s gone out East, to try to preserve his Oriental end. If he can preserve his Oriental end, all may not be lost.’
Oh God. Above the mantelpiece there were photographs of the cock house rugby team of 1937 and the cock house hockey team of 1950. He found himself full of sympathy for Mr Satchel, for the pain and humiliation which that long gap must have caused him. It was his mind’s way of pretending that he hadn’t got worries of his own.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ said Auntie Doris.
Yes. I’m going to another school. Hong Kong High or Bangkok Grammar. The only English boy in a school of old school Thais. Oh God.
‘I’m saying that he’s going to have to live in Rangoon. I’m saying that I’m going to have to join him as soon as I’ve sold Cap Ferrat. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Well…yes.’
‘I’m saying that we can’t take you with us. I’m saying that there isn’t room even if we could afford it. We’re almost ruined. The receiver will take the money for Cap Ferrat. I don’t mind for us. We’ve had a good innings. Uncle Teddy always says, “You can’t lose money unless you’ve made it.” But…do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Well…yes.’
‘I’m saying that we can’t afford to send you here any more. You’re going back to Thurmarsh Grammar.’
Oh God.
‘But, Auntie…’
‘You liked it there. You didn’t want to leave.’
‘Yes, but… things are different now.’
‘Everything’s different now.’
‘Yes, but…where will I live?’
‘With Cousin Hilda, of course. We wouldn’t send you out of the family.’
‘You’re back among your own folk,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I were never happy about your being at those schools. Getting ideas.’
She sniffed. Her tone suggested that she thought of ideas as if they were germs.
‘Your tea’s a bit dried up,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be here before.’
It had been half-past seven before they had arrived at number 66 Park View Road. Auntie Doris had come in only briefly. The moment she had gone, Cousin Hilda had opened the windows wide.
He looked at his tea. It was roast lamb, with mint sauce, roast potatoes and runner beans. He felt too sick to eat, but he must.
Paul had been horrified when he’d heard the news. They had vowed to keep closely in touch.
He discovered that he was hungrier than he had thought. The blue-tiled stove was out. One of the blue glass panes was cracked. On top of the stove, for the summer, sat a blue vase filled with blue flowers.
This time last night he had been just about to go on. This time tonight he should have been with Diana. This year he would have had the courage to touch her, to tell her that he loved her, to steal secretly to her boudoir.
‘Giving their house a French name. I don’t know,’ said Cousin Hilda. It was as near as she ever came to a direct condemnation of the behaviour of Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris.
Henry thought of Tosser Pilkington-Brick, telling them about a taxidermist who had retired to Budleigh Salterton and called his bungalow ‘Dunstuffing’. Lampo had thought that priceless.
A wave of nostalgia for Shant swept over him. He longed to be back in South Africa Dorm. Would he ever see the shower room again? He thought about condensed milk sandwiches, drinking chocolate eaten straight from the tin, the plopping of soft ball against squash court, the wheezing of Gorringe as he doled out the coley pie, the ever-present odour of male sweat. This time yesterday he had been standing on a stage, holding seven hundred boys in his grip.
‘Mrs Wedderburn’s very kindly lent you her camp bed, to tide us over,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I hope you’re grateful to Mrs Wedderburn.’
He wouldn’t care if Mrs Wedderburn’s insides all fell out as she waited for the tram.
‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘I’m very grateful to Mrs Wedderburn.’
He was sitting on one of the bench seats. Cousin Hilda sat opposite him, and watched him eat. He was trying to make his tea last a long time, because after he had finished it there would be several weeks with nothing to do.
There was rice pudding to follow.
‘Your favourite,’ said Cousin Hilda.
It was happening again! He didn’t like rice pudding! First brawn, then Gentleman’s Relish, now rice pudding.
‘You’ll have to sleep in my room. There’s nowt else for it,’ said Cousin H
ilda. ‘We’ll see how we get on. If it’s not satisfactory, I’ll give Mr Carpenter notice. He’s a journalist.’
Her tone of voice suggested that notice would be the least he deserved, if he was so stupid as to be a journalist.
‘He still hasn’t come in for his tea,’ said Cousin Hilda.
He went into the little bedroom, at the front of the basement. There was only just room for the camp bed between Cousin Hilda’s bed and the dressing-table. How could he live here? How would he ever invite Paul here? How could he share a bedroom with the sniffer? Where would she put her voluminous undies? How would he ever amuse himself? How would he ever abuse himself?
He decided to go for a walk in the park, but when he went back into the living room to tell Cousin Hilda, she produced a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper. It looked aggressively plain, that paper, as if to say, ‘Those who use gift wrapping paper and such fripperies are on the slippery slope.’
‘It’s just a little thing,’ said Cousin Hilda, shyly. ‘I thought you might not have owt to read, and I know what a one you are for reading. I’ve never seen one like you for reading. I said to Mrs Wedderburn, “I don’t know where he gets it from, but it’s a pleasure to watch him with his little nose buried in all them words.”’
I actually read with my eyes, Cousin Hilda, not my nose, he thought, and then he felt guilty about thinking it. He’d asked Auntie Doris why he couldn’t still go to Paul’s. She had said that Cousin Hilda would be very worried if he didn’t go to her first and get settled in. He decided that he couldn’t bear much more of this. He’d go the next day. With what? He had no money. You couldn’t sting Cousin Hilda for train fares. Sting. Words like that belonged to Dalton.
‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’ said Cousin Hilda.
He realised that he’d just been standing there, holding his present, thinking. He didn’t want to open it. It would be something wildly, embarrassingly unsuitable. The Journals of St Paul. A Short History of Congregational Chapels in the West Riding, 1865–1898.