by David Nobbs
‘Careful,’ growled Stefan Prziborski. ‘Don’t mention the future.’
Stefan had been upset about his flat feet. He had been upset at getting the worst exam results of the trio. He had been upset that his inability to attend the meetings of the Humanist Society had revealed how fragile his edifice of insouciance was. He had been upset at his rejection by Karen Porter, who had suddenly left for London, because she found his pose of coolness so boring. It had caused a slump in his batting form, and he’d been dropped by Thurmarsh. The future was a hostile country.
‘It’s a good rule,’ said Paul. ‘No mention of the future, and no politics.’
‘It’s a stupid rule,’ said Martin. ‘All life is politics. That man with the bent back in that field is politics. Look at him, slaving away in his rags.’
‘It’s a scarecrow,’ said Henry. ‘Are you sure you’re fit to drive?’
They were making good time. Martin drove as he lived, steadily, unspectacularly, but making better time than you expected. He was the man who surprised you by passing his driving test first time. He was the man you didn’t notice until he crossed the finishing line in first place.
‘I was thinking about last night as well, when I sighed,’ said Henry.
Tony Preece had taken Henry and Paul to Fillingley Working Men’s Club, beyond Doncaster.
Also present had been Stella, Tony’s brassy blonde.
On the drive over, they had talked about comedy.
‘Henry did a turn at the end-of-term concert at school. He was super,’ Paul had said.
‘Came on as the headmaster, did you?’ Tony Preece had said.
‘How on earth did you guess?’
‘It’s the obvious thing to do.’
‘I suppose I was pretty cliché-ridden,’ Henry had said.
‘You were super,’ Paul had said.
In the headlights the road had been like a long, narrow stage. A leaf that had died before its time had appeared stage left in front of them. A gust of warm summer wind had sent the leaf dancing across the road like a mouse on a hot-plate.
‘I was at a working men’s club when I decided I wanted to be a comic,’ Henry had said. ‘There was this Welsh comic there. He had a leek, and a pith-helmet, and one roller skate. I thought, “I could do better than that.”’
‘No good?’ Tony Preece had said.
‘Terrible.’
Tony Preece had driven into the rutted car park of a large, ugly brick building. It looked more like a giant public convenience than a palace of laughter, and Stella had expelled a deep, anxious breath at the sight of it.
‘We’re with t’ turn,’ Stella had told the doorman.
They had sat very near the stage. Paul had bought two pints of bitter and a sweet martini. Stella had called to him not to forget the cherry. He hadn’t forgotten the cherry.
Henry and Stella had both gone very tense. It was worse than going on yourself.
Paul had appeared totally oblivious of the tension. He had gazed round the room with the detached eyes of a sociologist.
Before he announced Tony, the concert secretary had blown into the microphone.
‘And now another comic that’s making his first appearance at Fillingley,’ he had said. ‘Let’s hope he’s better than t’ last one. 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.
Stella had put a comforting hand on Henry’s arm.
‘Don’t worry too much about it,’ she’d said. ‘He knows he’s terrible.’
They stayed in the Crown Inn, Troutwick, since the Three Horseshoes in Rowth Bridge had no rooms.
The Crown was a low stone building in a tiny square just off the main square of the cluttered little town, where roads steered crazy courses between the damaged corners of old buildings.
Henry had not been content to let his youth end in anti-climax. He it was who had laid the plan. Now, when Simon Eckington arrived in the farm truck, the only four good friends he had ever had were assembled together for the first time, and the loose ends of a fragmented childhood were tied into a neater parcel than Henry had ever thought himself capable of making.
Simon was even bigger than he expected, tougher, slower, red-faced and weather-beaten.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, as he placed Paul’s soft hand cheerfully in his gnarled one. ‘I had to cut up a pig.’
Simon was centuries old, a worker, uncomplicated, cheery, thirsty. Pints were drunk. Darts thudded into darts boards. No matter that Henry played badly. It was the others who were the performers. That night he was the impresario who had brought the bill together. A bill that, if successful, would run a week.
This was the life. A cheery bar. Hosts George and Edna were cheerfulness personified. Young men relaxing in the way they knew best. A stag evening, rich with the promise of many more to come. Henry had accepted that young ladies did not beat a path to the door of unathletic young men such as himself. Some, like Stefan Prziborski, are born to be ladies’ men. But other young men collect engine numbers well into their thirties, sit at cricket grounds recording every ball in their score-books, or collect arcane objects and go away to meet other men who collect similar arcane objects. They are sensible enough to renounce sex before it renounces them. Henry had joined their ranks, and what a relief it was.
‘Does tha remember a girl called Lorna Arrow?’ said Simon. ‘Tall, slim girl wi’ a husky voice?’
‘I used to read comics to her,’ said Henry.
‘She remembers thee all right,’ said Simon.
‘She had nits,’ said Henry.
‘She’s grown into an attractive girl,’ said Simon. ‘She’s a right belter now, is Lorna Arrow.’
‘There was another one,’ said Henry.
‘Jane Lugg.’
‘That’s it. She was a tomboy.’
‘She still is.’
‘She had nits too. There was a third one. Evacuee.’
‘Pam Yardley.’
‘That’s right. She was sex-mad. Kept grabbing me knackers. Couldn’t stand you. She had nits too.’
‘She comes back to stay wi’ the Wallingtons every summer. We’re engaged.’
The next day dawned warm and sunny. They drove back into Skipton, with the windows wide open to help ease their hangovers. Somebody had blacked-out the final letter of the Forthcoming Attractions outside the Odeon, changing ‘Destination Gobi’ into ‘Destination Gob’. How childish, thought these four young men loftily.
They dropped Henry off outside the little bijou detached residence where Auntie Kate lived with her daughter Fiona, with her husband, the assistant bank manager with the artificial leg, who was now the bank manager with the artificial leg, and with the baby they had finally had when all hope had been abandoned.
He knew that Auntie Kate would be old, and he had tried picturing her looking extremely old, so that he wouldn’t be shocked when he saw how old she was. As a result, he was amazed how young she looked.
She embraced him till he could hardly breathe.
Fiona kissed him too and showed off her baby proudly. They’d waited so long. She was so excited. Henry felt awful about being a callous youth and not liking babies. The bank manager came home for dinner. The house was sparkling, the garden well-kept, the dinner palatable, the baby crawled in his play-pen, and Auntie Kate doted on him as much as Fiona did.
Fiona had forgotten reading him stories. She had forgotten that she had been a glamorous princess who had brought an aura of sexual mischief into a sick boy’s bedroom. She had forgotten that she had been a naughty lady of exquisite beauty, who could have had anybody, and for two worrying years probably had.
Auntie Kate could not have forgotten that she had been a farmer’s wife, taking jam to the sick, running W.I. stalls, making Low Farm a haven of good humour. But had she forgotten that she had been the sun rising in the morning?
Had she forgotten that she had been the laughter that had rolled round the high fells and merged with the chuckling of the River Mither? Now she was an elderly lady, doting on her grandson.
Henry felt really mean about finding the past so much more exciting than the present.
That evening he found exciting, as Martin drove steadily up the winding, narrow road towards Rowth Bridge. Memories flooded back.
There were seven houses now, in the hamlet of Five Houses. A teenage boy leant against a wall on his bike, and turned to stare at them. Was this the boy, whose name he had forgotten, into whose clammy, frightened hand he had dug his nails?
Martin drove past the tiny school, where there were new lavatories, past the Parish Hall, where there still wasn’t a new piano, and over the hump-backed bridge. How tiny the houses were.
Martin drove through the village and up towards the head of the dale. To Henry’s relief, the hills at least hadn’t shrunk,
When they reached the track that led to Low Farm, they got out and stared at Henry’s old home. It meant so little to the others, so much to Henry.
The cows were being led in by Simon, who waved at them. The cows were black-and-white Friesians. The shorthorns had gone. Billy, the half-wit, had gone. Uncle Frank and Auntie Kate had gone. Henry wanted to go.
Forewarned, the landlady of the Three Horseshoes gave them a ham and egg tea.
Simon arrived in the bar at ten to seven, with a demure, well-scrubbed, rather quiet, dark-haired, square-faced, nit-free girl, who would make him a grand wife, three healthy children and many excellent dinners. Could this really be Pam Yardley, that Hun of yesteryear?
‘Lorna’ll be here about eight,’ said Simon with a grin.
Henry shook his head. If he struck a chord in her memory, it was far better that it remained there.
A burly young man entered with a noisy group, and said, ‘Hello,’ to Henry.
‘Who’s he?’ whispered Henry.
‘Jane Lugg,’ whispered Simon.
‘That’s a girl?’ said Stefan.
They hissed at him to shut up. He smiled and downed a pint in one gulp.
Henry bought Jane Lugg a drink and they tried to find memories in common.
‘I bet the wages here are well below what I’d call a dignified living,’ said Martin.
Henry was totally unprepared for the tall, slender, toothy, husky, lisping sexuality of Lorna Arrow. She coloured as she talked to him, and her small but shapely breasts heaved.
‘I were heart-broken when tha threw me over,’ she said to Henry. ‘I cried for months.’
‘Give over,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t throw you over now, Lorna.’
‘Why’s that?’ she said.
‘You’ve become a great beauty,’ he said.
‘You haven’t,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he said.
‘Tha’s still my Henry,’ she said. ‘Does tha remember t’ barn where tha used to read t’ comics to me?’
‘Course I do.’
‘It’s still there.’
Their legs rubbed together as they walked. The sun had long disappeared beneath the hills, and the evening light was blue. They walked round to the back of the village, and up to Kit Orris’s field barn. Swallows and house-martins were gathering on the telegraph wires, and there were clouds of midges.
Inside, the barn was dark and sweet with rotting crops.
‘We should have brought comics wi’ us,’ chuckled Lorna.
‘I don’t want to read tonight,’ protested Henry.
‘There’s better things to do,’ grinned Lorna.
‘Oh, Lorna,’ he gasped.
‘Which would you prefer?’ she queried. ‘A fortnight’s coach tour of Finland with the W.I., or me taking all my clothes off?’
She removed what few clothes she had on with all the grace with which a female gazelle would remove its clothes, if it wore any.
Henry undressed hurriedly, clumsily, and she laughed.
Her body was long, pale and exquisite in the dim light.
She put her bare feet on his, and pressed her naked body against his.
‘You’re hurting,’ he cried urgently.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered softly.
‘You’re lovely,’ he mouthed gently.
‘Oh, Henry,’ she lisped breathily.
‘Oh, heck,’ he ejaculated prematurely.
Breakfast at the Crown Inn, Troutwick, was an affair of mixed emotions, although George and Edna were hospitality personified.
Henry’s emotions were of satisfaction, relief and pride. After their unfortunate start, events in the barn had proceeded much more successfully. He had lost his virginity at last. The first of two long journeys was over, and he could face the second, that of adult life itself, with more confidence than had at one time seemed possible.
Paul was disgruntled, because Stefan had been so wild, and Simon so quietly rural, and Martin so grumpily political, and Henry had deserted him.
Martin was disgruntled, because he had been driving his father’s car, and he was a responsible young man, and so he had had to remain sober, and Stefan had been so wild, and Simon so quietly rural, and Paul so infuriatingly detached and complacent, and Henry had deserted him.
The waitress handed them their egg, bacon, sausage, fried bread and tomato.
‘That’ll put hairs on your chest,’ she said.
Paul stared at her in astonishment.
‘If you found out that waitress’s hours and wages, you’d be shocked,’ said Martin.
Paul groaned and imitated the winding up of a gramophone.
‘It’s all right for people like you,’ said Martin angrily. ‘Your father gets more in a week than these people earn in a year.’
‘It’s not my fault,’ said Paul.
‘Echoing the parrot cry of the German people,’ said Martin.
‘Please don’t mention parrots,’ said Henry.
‘People like you make me sick,’ said Martin, and he tipped his breakfast plate over Paul and strode from the room.
Paul sat immobile, deathly white, his dignity ruptured, as a fried egg slid slowly down his face.
The waitress returned.
‘I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of an accident,’ said Henry, and the waitress agreed.
George and Edna were tolerance personified.
Paul left, to clean himself up, and Martin returned, shamefaced.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘He got on my nerves. You agree with me, don’t you?’
‘I believe brain surgeons should get less money than dustmen, because their job is more rewarding in itself,’ said Henry.
‘My God. You’re more leftwing than I am,’ said Martin.
‘I don’t believe you should make a fool of yourself and me by throwing breakfast over my friend,’ said Henry.
He was furious with them both, for destroying his mood of complacent well-being.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Martin. ‘I get none of the fun, that’s all, because of the driving.’
‘We’ll stay in Troutwick tonight,’ said Henry.
Paul returned, white-faced, clean-shirted.
‘I’m very sorry, Paul,’ said Martin.
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Paul airily. ‘These things happen.’
‘If you’re so unwise as to consort with the lower orders,’ said Martin.
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Paul. ‘Do you want a breakfast over you?’
‘Shut up,’ screamed Henry. ‘We’ve only got one week, and it’s falling apart.’
‘That’s why it’s falling apart,’ said Paul.
Stefan appeared, comically hung-over, a parody of bloodshot vulnerability.
‘What happened last night” he said.
‘You bet ten bob that Jane Lugg was a boy,’ said Martin.
Stefan groaned.
‘She undressed on the bridge,’ said Paul. ‘You lost.’
‘Narrowly,’ said Martin. ‘After a recount.’
‘Give over,’ said Henry. ‘I like Jane Lugg.’
He could afford to be generous. Suddenly roles were reversed. He was a man, and they were behaving like children.
Stefan laughed.
‘I really am terrible,’ he said. ‘I must get a grip on myself. No more drinking. What are we doing tonight?’
‘Pub crawling in Troutwick,’ said Henry.
‘Fantastic,’ said Stefan Prziborski.
They started their pub-crawl at the White Hart, the two-star hotel on the main square. The eponymous beast stood proudly upon a handsome Georgian porch.
They ended their pub-crawl at the White Hart.
The reason why they spent the whole evening in the White Hart was the landlady. She was Auntie Doris.
It couldn’t be.
It was.
She smelt like a perfume factory.
She was staring at him, her sunburnt face going as white as it ever could.
‘Auntie Doris!’
‘I dreaded this might happen,’ she said.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s a long story, perhaps best not told.’
Auntie Doris poured their drinks. She still looked glamorous. She was unvanquishable. But there was a difference. She looked as if she had suffered.
‘Is Uncle Teddy here?’ he asked.
Auntie Doris shook her head.
‘Stay on and I’ll explain everything,’ she said.
Everything?
A tall man with a long face and bags under his eyes joined Auntie Doris behind the bar. He was dourness personified.
‘When did you come back from Rangoon?’ said Henry.
‘Rangoon?’ said the dour barman. ‘Rangoon?’
‘This is my nephew, Henry, Bert,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘I just want to have a word with you about something.’
She practically pulled Bert out of the bar.
Everybody looked at Henry in astonishment. He spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness.
‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he said.
They played darts. The room was bare, basic, unlovely. Tomorrow he would see Lorna again. Today he should be enjoying a pub-crawl. But sands were shifting under his feet. How could he relax?
‘Let’s move on,’ said Stefan.
‘I can’t really,’ he said. ‘It’s all right here.’
‘It’s dreadful,’ said Martin. ‘It’s as if they thought they ought to have a public bar, for ordinary people, but it isn’t worth any bother.’