by David Nobbs
But we love you.
Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.
That leaves you quite a lot!!!!
Work hard.
With lots and lots of love,
Auntie Doris and Uncle Teddy.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
P.S. I hope you don’t think all those kisses are babyish. You must be so grown-up now.
Dear Auntie Doris and Uncle Teddy [wrote Henry],
Thank you for yours of July 19th. It took simply ages to get here. The stamp was nice, though I don’t collect them now.
I really was very pleased to get a letter from you, but sorry to read how much you rebuke yourselves. There is really no need. You took me in, and I’m grateful.
Well, I got nine ‘O’ Levels, and now I’m going to take my ‘A’ levels. I think I’ll do them in English, Latin and History. Some people can’t understand why I do Latin, because it’s a dead language. They don’t realise that that’s why I do it. I’ve only just realised myself. I think education is wasted on the young. The penny has only just dropped for me. The purpose of education is not to teach us facts but to help us to learn to use the faculties which God gave us. If I did French, it might help me get a job in France or something. Learning Latin is pure education, and that’s why I like it. In fact I’d like to do Greek as well, but you can’t at Thurmarsh Grammar.
No doubt you were amazed to see the word ‘God’ in that last paragraph. Yes, I have found God, and He has brought so much more into my life that I can recommend Him to you without reservations. I am going to devote my whole life to His service in some form or other. This is a wicked world, as I’m sure you’ve realised. God’s love means that I look on you with gratitude for what you did do, rather than with blame for what you didn’t do. I don’t feel I need to forgive you, but if you feel it, then I do forgive you.
I cannot let this letter pass without touching on the subject of Strong Drink. You may feel that I am too young to have a right to say this, but because I love you both I must say it. Your letter is full of references to the subject. Reading between the lines, it seems to me that you are both ‘knocking it back’. I beg you to give it up. Believe me, you will find yourselves happier without it. Why not make October a dry month? I shall pray to God to give you the strength to do it.
Does all this make me sound like a terrible goody-goody like Norbert Cuffley (a terrible goody-goody at our school!)? Well, I’m not really. In fact I’m a Miserable Sinner. Today I wanted to Sin with Mabel Billington (from our youth club!). She wouldn’t let me. I’m glad now. Sex is permitted with marriage, of course, but until then one must exercise control.
Cousin Hilda looks after me very well, and it’s extremely pleasant here, all things considered. Her food is quite nice (though not as nice as yours) and so are her businessmen.
I was interested to hear about Geoffrey Porringer. Don’t tell him this, but I prayed for a cure for the blackheads on his nose. Well, it must be awful to have blackheads like that.
On reflection, I think the three of us have a lot in common, to judge from your letter. I think we all feel that we have Sinned and are full of Remorse. Perhaps this is the Human Condition, and I hope that in the future we can all learn to help each other better than we did in the past.
It made me want to cry when you said you loved me, and I love you just as much. I certainly didn’t think all the Xs were babyish. In fact, I think it’s pretty babyish to find things babyish.
With lots of love. May God be with you,
Henry.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
P.S. That’s exactly the same number as you gave me! Thirty-One! Now here’s one extra each from my heart. XX.
When Henry woke up the next morning, he was once again applying some of the principles by which he now hoped to live his life. He was thinking of somebody else more than about himself, and he was being thoughtful and kind and generous to that person. Unfortunately, that person was Mrs Hargreaves, and the result was another wet dream.
He took regular cold baths. He went for long walks. He took up running. He mortified the flesh. He managed to think himself out of sexuality.
On one of his walks, he wandered in the vicinity of Drobwell Main Colliery. It might have been a model of an Alpine landscape created by a lunatic. The mountains were spoil heaps, some new and black, some old and grassy. The lakes were ground that had subsided and flooded. The water was heavily contaminated. Nature fought against almost impossible odds to re-establish itself. He came upon a deep pit, filled with rusty railings. They had been ripped out eleven years ago, for the war effort, and had ended up here.
There was a fence around the edge of the colliery. He saw a small group of miners, walking wearily. They didn’t see him. One of them looked like Chalky White, but it was difficult to tell, as all their faces were black.
His life in the sixth form began. He apologised to Martin Hammond for his unfriendly behaviour during the previous school year. Martin beamed shyly.
‘None of it’s your fault,’ said Martin. ‘You’re a bit of flotsam swirling on the flood-waters of a class-ridden society. That’s what my dad reckons, any road.’
The following week, Martin invited Henry home for tea. The Hammonds didn’t live in Paradise Lane any more. They had bought a semi in the streets over the river, quite close to the little row of shops were Tommy Marsden had fired his catapult at the butcher’s window. The address was 17 Everest Crescent. An elderly Standard Eight stood in the open garage at the side of the pebble-dash semi. It was the day before the general election. They had fish-cakes. Reg Hammond ate quickly. He had two whole streets still to canvass, and then he had to ferry people to a meeting.
‘There’s nowt like a good fish-cake,’ said Reg Hammond.
‘And this is nowt like a good fish-cake,’ said his son Martin.
Everybody laughed. It was a family joke.
‘They’re grand, mother. Highly palatable,’ said Reg Hammond, who was rising in the union.
‘Very nice indeed,’ said Henry.
With the fish-cakes, there were chips, Reg Hammond’s favourite brand of baked beans, bread and butter and tea.
‘You can keep your fancy foods,’ said Reg Hammond. He made it sound as if he was talking about Henry’s fancy foods.
‘I don’t like fish-cakes,’ said Martin’s young sister, who was eight.
‘There’s folk in India’d be glad of them,’ said Mrs Hammond.
‘Send them to India, then,’ said Martin’s young sister.
‘Am I to give her summat else?’ said Mrs Hammond.
‘No. She mun learn,’ said Reg Hammond, a fleshier owl than Martin, and with a touch of the hawk in there too. ‘So, lad, tha’s backed t’ wrong horse,’ he added, turning to Henry.
‘Pardon?’
‘“Pardon,” he says. What’s wrong wi’ Yorkshire? What’s wrong wi’ “tha what?”?’
‘Tha what, then?’
‘Tha’s backed t’ wrong horse. God. Tha’s gone up a blind alley there.’
‘Reg!’ said Mrs Hammond.
‘What’s the right horse, then?’ said Henry.
Reg Hammond stared at him in amazement.
‘Socialism,’ he said. ‘Socialism.’
‘Are the two mutually exclusive, then?’ said Henry.
‘He’s got you there!’ said Mrs Hammond.
‘Mother!’ said Reg Hammond, as if to say, ‘This is man’s talk.’
Martin looked from his father to Henry, refereeing their talk. In the blue corner, God. In the red corner, socialism.
His sister began to cry.
‘Ignore her,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘We’ve got to learn her. In t’ war she’d have given thanks.’
‘The war’s been over six years, Reg,’ said Mrs Hammond.
‘Some wars are never over, mother,’ said Reg Hammond. He turned to Henry, brushing off everything else as irrelevant. ‘God promises a better world in the next world,’ he said. ‘Soc
ialism promises it in this one.’
‘Who’s to say we can’t have a better world in this world and the next one?’ said Henry. ‘There’s no contest.’
‘Careful, Henry. Don’t deny him his fight,’ said Martin.
‘The church is all part of the ruling classes,’ said Reg Hammond.
‘Jesus Christ wasn’t exactly a ruling class figure,’ said Mrs Hammond.
Reg Hammond looked at her with a pained expression. She was ruining a straight fight by coming in on Henry’s side.
‘Martin’s on my side, I know,’ said Reg Hammond, openly making it a foursome.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Martin.
‘Why afraid?’ said Reg Hammond.
‘You never say anything I can disagree with,’ said Martin. ‘It’s not healthy. It’s stunting my development.’
Martin’s sister cried on.
‘The Tories are going to get in tomorrow,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘Does tha know summat? I don’t trust them an inch. I wouldn’t put it past them to have lost t’ 1945 election deliberately because they knew whoever got in then stood no chance. 1950, let ’em back with a tiny majority. Get them to start tearing themselves apart, the ever-present curse of the left.’
‘Just listen to his babblement,’ said Mrs Hammond lovingly.
‘Now the Tories’ll nip in and reap t’ benefit of all t’ hard work we’ve done,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘They’ll be in for years. Their hard times are over. Their brief decade of nightmare without servants. Now we’ve entered the decade of the consumer durable, but not too durable. Mechanical servants, made by the same class that used to be the servants. Everything appears to change. Nowt does.’
‘The rubbish he comes out with,’ said Mrs Hammond proudly.
‘I hope it is rubbish,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘I just hope it is.’
He sighed deeply and sank into his chair.
‘Are you really depressed, Mr Hammond?’ said Henry.
‘Aye, lad, I am,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘I hoped that 1945 meant that the middle class were losing their fear of Labour, and Labour would no longer be forced to be the sort of party they had any reason to fear. I hoped we could all go forward together. I really did.’
Martin’s younger sister stopped crying, and ate a tiny corner of fish-cake. There was silence for about five seconds. Then it was shattered by a motor-bike spluttering into violent life in Matterhorn Drive.
‘I said summat about it to that Crowther at t’ grammar school,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘I don’t think he knew what I were on about. Pillock.’
‘Dad!’ said Mrs Hammond. ‘You shouldn’t talk like that about their headmaster, not in front of them.’
‘That’s summat that is changing, mother,’ said Reg Hammond, springing to his feet. ‘From now on, authority is going to have to earn its respect. Pillocks of the world, watch out.’
‘Criticise him, fair enough,’ said Mrs Hammond. ‘But there’s no cause to call him a pillock. What will Henry and his God think?’
‘God will forgive Mr Hammond,’ said Henry. ‘God will give him his tha what.’
‘Tha what?’ said Reg Hammond, turning at the door, half into his coat.
‘Pardon,’ said Henry. ‘God will give you his pardon.’
Henry grinned.
Reg Hammond gave him an old-fashioned look, then laughed.
‘By heck, Martin. Tha can’t put much over on your Henry Pratt,’ he said.
‘He was brought up in a hard school,’ said Martin.
‘Several hard schools,’ said Henry, but Reg Hammond had gone.
Reg Hammond was right about the election. Labour got the highest vote ever recorded by a political party in Britain, but lost by twenty-six seats.
Henry went to tea at the Hammonds every week after that. One day, as the last of the dusk was lingering, Martin accompanied him down the suburban roads, over the railway and the River Rundle, across the waste ground, over the canal, along the towpath, through the gate into the ginnel, along the ginnel as far as Paradise Lane, along Paradise Lane and across the main road to the tram stop outside Crapp, Hawser and Kettlewell’s. They walked in silence, awed by their memories.
A youth was approaching, jaundiced by the street lights, a snappy dresser, a flashy young man. He carried a football under his arm.
‘By heck,’ he said. ‘It can’t be. It bloody is, though. Martin Hammond. Henry Pratt.’
‘Tommy Marsden!’ said Martin.
‘Bloody stroll on,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘Hey, are we to go for one in t’ Navigation?’
‘We’re under age,’ said Martin.
‘To hell wi’ that,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘Barry Jenkinson’s me mate. I often go up there, sup a bit of stuff.’
‘Not me,’ said Henry. ‘Not a pub. Sorry.’
‘He’s religious,’ said Martin.
‘Oh heck. Bad luck,’ said Tommy Marsden sympathetically. ‘Why does tha think I’ve gorra football?’
‘Why have you got a football?’ said Martin.
‘I’ve been took on by t’ United.’
They looked at him in awe. They were boys. This was a man.
‘Come on, Henry,’ said Martin. ‘Under the circumstances.’
‘Well, all right,’ said Henry. ‘Under the circumstances. I won’t drink, though.’
The smell of stale smoke, stale beer and furniture polish almost knocked Henry over.
He liked it. He fought against liking it, but he couldn’t help it.
Cecil E. Jenkinson greeted them heartily.
‘Evening, gents,’ he said. ‘All over eighteen, are we? Good. I have to ask. Heard about the flasher? Decided not to retire. Going to stick it out another year. He’s upstairs, Tommy.’
‘Line ’em up, Cecil,’ said Tommy Marsden, going to the door marked ‘private’.
‘What’s it to be, lads?’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson, licensed to sell beers, wines and spirits. ‘Pints all round?’
‘Orange squash for me,’ said Henry.
‘Orange squash?’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson.
‘He’s religious,’ said Martin.
‘He’s norra Catholic, any road,’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson, licensed to tell dirty jokes and use foul language. ‘They’re all piss-artists.’
‘Have a beer,’ said Tommy Marsden, returning. ‘To celebrate. Under the circumstances.’
‘Well, all right,’ said Henry. ‘Just a small one. Under the circumstances.’
Cecil E. Jenkinson poured three and a half pints of bitter. Barry Jenkinson joined them. Tommy Marsden paid. They raised their glasses.
‘To Tommy,’ said Henry. ‘I really am thrilled, Tommy.’
Tommy Marsden pretended not to care, but you could see he was pleased.
‘Henry Pratt,’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson. ‘Ezra’s lad.’
‘That’s right,’ said Henry.
‘He was one of my best customers,’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson.
Discretion proved the better part of Henry’s valour. A tart comment would have provided a discordant note at what was, after all, a celebration.
The four under-age drinkers sat in the little snug. The stuffing was peeping out from inside the faded green upholstery. At regular intervals round the little room there were bells for service. On a shelf above the fireplace there were two sets of dominoes, two packs of cards and four pegboards. The window was of fine Victorian smoked glass. The fire was lit. If this was the Hell of Strong Drink, Henry found it surprisingly cosy.
He felt ashamed, but also exhilarated, as he sipped his beer. His conscience was eased by the fact that it tasted terrible.
‘I may not play in t’ first team for quite a while,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘Mr Linacre says he’s grooming me carefully for stardom. He says not to be disappointed if I don’t make progress straight away. He says many a lad’s been ruined by being brought on too fast, and I think he’s right. He says I’m to remain level-headed whatever.’
‘What position do you play?’ said Mar
tin.
‘I’m an inside forward in the Raich Carter mould,’ said Tommy Marsden.
Martin Hammond insisted on buying a round, and must have forgotten that Henry was only drinking halves. There was no point in saying anything. He needn’t drink it all.
‘Is this the same beer?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘It tastes nicer.’
They chatted about old times, in the Paradise Lane Gang.
‘We used to race dog turds in t’ Rundle,’ said Tommy Marsden to Barry Jenkinson.
Henry apologised silently to his maker for Tommy Marsden’s language.
‘I don’t remember that,’ said Martin.
‘It’s the only thing before the war I do remember,’ said Tommy Marsden.
‘What happened to Ian Lowson?’ said Martin.
‘He’s in t’ steelworks, like his dad. I don’t see much of him.’
‘What about Chalky White?’ said Henry.
‘He’s gone down t’ pits, where they’re all black,’ said Tommy Marsden.
‘I thought I saw him,’ said Henry.
‘It’s the pressure to conform,’ said Martin Hammond.
‘Don’t say things like that,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘Barry can’t understand them. He’s thick.’
‘I am,’ said Barry Jenkinson. ‘I’m as thick as pig shit.’
Henry apologised silently to his maker for Barry Jenkinson’s language.
‘What happened to Billy Erpingham?’ said Martin.
‘God knows,’ said Tommy Marsden, and Henry agreed silently that he did. ‘I did hear summat, but I forget.’
A few other customers entered. Barry Jenkinson, not as mean as he was thick, rang a bell, and a waiter in a white coat came out with a tray, and Barry Jenkinson said, ‘Same again, Gordon,’ and Henry hadn’t the energy to protest, and besides, the beer wasn’t having any effect on him, so where was the harm?
‘Is this the same beer?’ he asked.