by David Nobbs
It was clear, in the olive-green dining-room, over the bacon and kidneys – eggs would have been too obvious – that they all knew. It was also clear, despite their politeness, that they disapproved.
Diana came in late, still kissed by sleep, and said, ‘Morning, everybody,’ with a determined brightness that verged on defiance.
‘Did you sleep well, Diana?’ said Paul, meaningfully avoiding sounding meaningful.
‘Very well indeed,’ said Diana, ditto. ‘How did you and Judy sleep?’
‘I slept very well,’ said Paul. ‘Did you sleep well, Judy? Was your room quiet?’
‘Very quiet,’ said Judy. ‘I slept very well. Did you sleep well, Henry?’
‘I slept very well, thank you, Judy.’
Mr Hargreaves smiled. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘It sounds as though everyone slept as well as could be expected. We shall be able to issue a very satisfactory communiqué.’
Diana still hadn’t given Henry a direct look. He wished she would.
‘And what are you young people planning to do this morning?’ said Mrs Hargreaves.
‘I’m going to show Henry round the heath,’ said Diana rather shrilly.
Henry felt that he could have been exultant that morning, if he hadn’t told Diana that he loved her, if he hadn’t got to ask Mr Hargreaves for fifty pounds, if he hadn’t got to explain to the Midland Hotel why he’d walked out without paying, and if he hadn’t got to explain to Cousin Hilda why Paul had rung to invite him for a weekend for which he had already departed.
The sunshine grew steadily hazier, until the sun was just a vague diffusion of yellow light in a dull and darkening mist. There was a smell of snow. Hampstead Heath that Sunday morning seemed alive with interesting people. In Henry’s imagination they were philosophers and painters, socialist intellectuals, Middle European exiles, eccentrics and poets. Probably quite a few of them were actually plumbers and insurance brokers.
The path took them out of the trees, onto a bare grassy knoll. Several people were flying kites in the freshening wind. To the south the great city was dimly visible through the thickening murk. The light was growing faintly purple.
‘Henry?’
She was finding it difficult to look at him. He didn’t like it.
‘What?’
‘I wish I hadn’t come to your room last night.’
That jolted him. ‘Oh. May I ask why?’ There was no reply. ‘I thought you … er … enjoyed it.’
‘This morning,’ she said, ‘thinking of what you said … I had no idea. That you loved me.’ She forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘I could never love you, Henry.’
Wonderful. It let him off the hook completely. So why did he feel as if a heavyweight boxer had just hit him in the stomach? Ego? He tried to look blank. He didn’t want her to see him with ego on his face.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘so why, if I may ask, did you come to my room?’
‘I like you very much and I find you …’ Why did she have to search so long for an adjective? ‘… appealing.’
He kissed her. Now why did he do that?
‘No!’ she said. ‘Please!’
He held her tight and pressed his crutch into hers, in the midst of all the kite fliers. He kissed her long and slowly on the mouth. Now why did he do that? And she kissed him back, her lips working diligently, until their faces were slimy with each other’s saliva. Now why did she do that?
At last the kiss ended. ‘You see,’ she said. ‘It’s very simple. I like sex. I’m probably over-sexed.’
‘Ah,’ he said.
‘What do you mean, “ah”?’ she said indignantly. ‘Is that an adequate response to such an incredible admission?’
‘I wasn’t sure whether to say “congratulations” or “bad luck”.’
‘I know. I mean, I’m not promiscuous. Not really. I’d never do it with somebody I didn’t like a lot or know really well. But I do enjoy going to bed with men I like. And once not a man. Does that shock you?’
‘No. I … er … don’t think I have any right to be shocked by that.’
‘Oh? Really? Interesting. Anyway, when you said you loved me, I felt awful. You could never be that important to me.’
‘Well, that’s … wonderful.’
‘What?’
‘I … er … you’re so lovely, Diana, so attractive, such a nice person, that I said things I didn’t mean. I don’t love you.’
‘Oh.’
‘I like you very much. Perhaps I feel all the feelings of love towards you except love itself.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s all right, then.’
‘Yes.’
And they walked back slowly, under a bruised sky, both let off the hook, both feeling offended when they should have felt relieved. Ah, youth! How very like middle and old age it is.
They realized that everyone was wondering what had taken place on their walk. They decided, without needing to consult each other, to play the situation up. Every now and then, during lunch, they gave each other intense glances.
They had fish soup and medallions of rare beef in red wine sauce. Henry wondered, with shame but also with love, what Paul must have thought of Cousin Hilda’s meals.
‘Were there any paintings out up Heath Street?’ said Mrs Hargreaves.
‘Oh yes, quite a few,’ quipped Henry sparklingly.
‘I think you found them very interesting, didn’t you, Henry?’ said Diana. ‘I mean, you don’t get a lot of open-air paintings in Thurmarsh.’
Henry was appalled to hear himself say, in betrayal of his whole heritage, ‘You don’t get a lot of anything in Thurmarsh.’
‘Except spittle,’ said Judy.
There was an amazed silence. Paul flushed. Even Judy looked horrified. But she had to enlarge on it now.
‘Paul tells me people keep spitting up there. On the pavements,’ she said.
Paul glared at her. Clearly this was a breach of confidence.
‘They do,’ said Henry. ‘It’s because there’s such a lot of pneumoconiosis.’
‘I think that’s a beautiful word,’ said Judy.
‘Extremely beautiful,’ said Henry. ‘It must be a great consolation to people who’re dying of it.’
‘Henry! For Christ’s sake!’ said Paul.
‘Well I’m sorry, but it isn’t funny, you see,’ said Henry.
‘I thought it was parrots, anyway,’ said Diana.
‘Sorry? You thought what was parrots?’ said Paul.
‘Pneumoconiosis.’
‘That’s psittacosis,’ said Mr Hargreaves reluctantly.
‘What’s psoriasis, then?’ said Paul.
‘A skin disease,’ said Mr Hargreaves reluctantly.
‘Please! People!’ said Mrs Hargreaves. ‘What has happened to your idea of table talk?’
‘Could parrots have psoriasis as well as psittacosis?’ said Diana.
‘Diana!’ said Mrs Hargreaves.
‘I wonder if anybody’s ever given a parrot an enema for eczema in Exeter,’ said Diana.
‘You’re in a very silly mood today, Diana,’ said Mrs Hargreaves. She gave Henry an involuntary look, and he knew that she blamed him for Diana’s silly mood. He exchanged intense looks with Diana.
The conversation continued in more subdued vein. On the surface everybody was very civil, but he knew that, while acceptable as a friend, he was not regarded as suitable for marrying Diana, and the fact that he had no intention of marrying her didn’t make this any more palatable. He was finding out how unpleasant it is not to be thought good enough, and that provoked unpleasant reflections on his own behaviour towards Lorna.
And he still had to ask to borrow fifty pounds. He’d thought it would be easy to ask for money from the rich. He was realizing that they are the hardest of all to ask.
At last, the gastronomically exquisite, socially unbearable meal came to an end.
‘Er …’ he began, over coffee, in the faintly Chinese drawing-room on the first floor. ‘I … e
r … I wonder if I could …’ Oh god, he was blushing. ‘I wonder if I could have a word in private, Mr Hargreaves?’
There was an eloquent silence. Henry realized that everybody except Diana thought that he was going to ask Mr Hargreaves for his daughter’s hand in marriage. He could hardly suppress a smile at the thought that he could ever bring himself to do anything as feudal as that.
Mr Hargreaves took him to his study. Over his desk was an enormous diagram of the human brain, which struck Henry as sheer affectation. The man must know his way round the brain by now, unless, ghastly thought, he needed a quick refresher after breakfast.
If Henry was tense and nervous, so was Mr Hargreaves. This made Henry all the more furious that he had to ask to borrow money off the man.
‘Er … I’ve got myself in a very small financial jam,’ he said.
‘What? Oh!’ It took Mr Hargreaves two seconds to realize that good manners demanded that he attempt to hide his immense relief. ‘What sort of a jam, Henry? And how small?’
‘Well … er … not really a jam exactly. I just have a bill, and no money to pay it.’
‘That is, in my estimation, a jam.’
Snow had begun to settle on the little walled town garden. They both noticed it at the same moment. It’s hard to say which of them was more appalled at the possibility of Henry being snowed in there.
‘How much are we talking about?’ asked Mr Hargreaves.
‘Well … er …’ It sounded such a lot. ‘Fifty pounds, actually.’
Mr Hargreaves relaxed, and Henry realized what a small sum it seemed to him.
‘Of course, Henry.’
‘I could pay you back at two pounds a week.’
‘Do you mind my asking how much you earn?’
‘Seven pounds ten a week.’
Mr Hargreaves stared at him in amazement.
‘Good Lord! That’s not very much,’ he said.
‘I know a lot of people who earn less,’ said Henry. ‘People who do unpleasant, essential jobs.’ Shut up! Not now! Don’t pollute the reservoir of goodwill you’ve built up by not getting engaged to Diana.
‘Yes … well … I think a pound a week would be more practical, don’t you?’ said Mr Hargreaves smoothly. ‘We don’t want you failing to keep up the payments.’
‘I’d rather die than fail to keep up the payments, Mr Hargreaves.’
Mr Hargreaves gave Henry a look, then nodded briskly.
His train was seventy-seven minutes late, due to snow. If he’d waited till the last train, he wouldn’t have got back that night.
He looked at Thurmarsh as if he were a Londoner arriving for the first time. How cold it was. How bleak the station looked. How small, dreary and ill lit the ticket hall was. He felt ashamed.
The town was muffled by snow and almost deserted. There weren’t enough taxis, and a queue was forming. Henry trudged across Station Square through several inches of snow. The Midland Hotel had become an enchanted castle.
Why did he feel so nervous? It didn’t matter what they thought of him here. He explained the situation to the duty manager, who produced his bill with minimal politeness. He looked the sort of man who’s frightened of catching VD off lavatory seats, and handed Henry his battered case as if fearing that it might be contaminated. Henry wondered what he expected to catch off it. Chronic gaucherie? Terminal podginess? Poverty?
He struggled along York Road and turned right into Commercial Street, which ran behind the Town Hall, across decaying Merrick Street. As he walked east, Commercial Street became Lordship Road and began to go up in the world. By its junction with Park View Road it was thoroughly respectable, though already struggling for survival. Two houses had been turned into private hotels. They were called the Alma and the Gleneagles.
Henry’s footsteps violated the smooth whiteness of Cousin Hilda’s front garden. Inside the house it was raw and dim and silent.
He put his head round the door of the basement room. The ‘businessmen’ were just finishing the little supper which Cousin Hilda gave them each evening. It was a shock to see them there, in mid-brawn, as if nothing had happened during the last three days.
‘My feet are soaked. I’ll be down in a minute,’ he announced.
The ‘businessmen’ had gone by the time he returned. The room smelt of greens’ water, warm wool and cold brawn. A warm fire burnt in the blue stove with the cracked panes. Cousin Hilda looked beyond the reach of warm fires.
‘Where have you been?’ she said.
He looked at her in carefully simulated astonishment.
‘The Hargreaveses’,’ he said. ‘I told you. Oh, I suppose you were worried by Paul’s phone call on Friday night. I wanted to surprise them, so I didn’t tell them I was going. I phoned them when I got to St Pancras, but there was no reply. They’d gone out to dinner.’ Cousin Hilda couldn’t resist sniffing at this extravagance, even though she didn’t entirely believe in it. ‘So I stayed in a little hotel near King’s Cross, and rang them in the morning. It’s called the Caledonian. You can check if you don’t believe me.’ He knew she wouldn’t. How could she, without sounding vaguely disreputable? He resented life for providing so many reasons for turning a young man of honest intent into an accomplished liar. He gave her an edited version of the weekend, and felt indignant because he suspected that she didn’t even believe the bits that were true.
‘What an exciting life they all lead,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘How drab all this must seem.’
He attacked his brawn bravely. What a terrible cue she had given him. He couldn’t say, ‘Yes, it is drab. Horribly drab. I’m leaving.’ He said ‘No’ again, although each time he said ‘No’ it made it harder for him to say that he was leaving. And leave he must. ‘No!’ He meant it. He’d much prefer to live here than with the Hargreaveses. Well, say that. ‘I’d much prefer to live here than with the Hargreaveses. But, you see, Cousin Hilda, I …’ He swallowed. Why did he find it so incredibly difficult to say it? ‘I’m going to get a flat.’ Her lips were beginning to work, with the distress. ‘I’ve been happy here. I regard it as my home. But I’ve got to live in my own place and lead my own life and find my own feet if I’m to compete in the hard world of the press.’
‘Journalists!’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘Giving you airs! I don’t know!’
4 A Difficult Week
‘HOW WAS THE weekend, kid?’ said Colin Edgeley.
Henry shrugged.
‘You’ve got a good kid there. You stick with her.’
Colin raised a questioning eyebrow at the failure of Henry’s attempted smile.
Henry stuck a sheet of coarse, cheap paper into his ancient, clattering typewriter. He typed slowly, with two fingers: ‘Iceland-1.’ This identified the story and the page, and exhausted his inspiration.
He turned, as he’d been hoping not to do, to have a quick peep at Helen. He met Ted’s dark, deep, ironic eyes and turned away hurriedly. ‘Iceland is a country of beautiful women, according to an Icelandic visitor to Thurmarsh.’ Rubbish. He tore the sheet out, replaced it, and typed: ‘Iceland-1.’ He knew that Ginny’d seen him looking at Helen. He leant across to speak to her.
‘Do anything exciting this weekend, Ginny?’ he said.
‘No.’
Good. ‘Oh dear.’
The conversation fizzled out after this misleadingly sparkling exchange. ‘Hot geysers have a very different connotation from in Thurmarsh …’
Gordon Carstairs struggled in, his eyes set deep in his baggy, insomniac’s face. ‘What sort of a time do you call this?’ said Terry Skipton. ‘Twenty past nine,’ said Gordon with less than his usual obscurity. But when Henry said, ‘Morning, Gordon. Nice weekend?’ Gordon exclaimed, ‘Penalty!’ Henry deduced that it hadn’t been a nice weekend.
His disobedient head was swivelling round again, to take a sip of Helen’s loveliness. She smiled sweetly and returned to her forecast of a revolution in ladies’ undergarments. He switched off her loveliness with a sigh, and stepped back into th
e dark world of his journalistic inexperience.
He finished the story and handed it to Terry Skipton, who began to read it with a face as long as a Sunday in Didcot.
‘“Connotation”!’ he said. ‘What’s the meaning of “connotation”?’
‘Meaning,’ said Henry.
This is what I say,’ said Terry Skipton. ‘What’s the meaning?’
‘No,’ said Henry. ‘You’ve mistaken my meaning. When I said “meaning” I was meaning that the meaning of connotation is meaning.’
‘Well, if you mean “meaning”, say “meaning”. They won’t understand “connotation” in Splutt. Anyroad, I must read on. I’m riveted.’ Terry Skipton read on, with darkening brow. ‘It’s all about Iceland,’ he said.
‘He’s from Iceland.’
‘I told you to find out his views about Thurmarsh. I mean, what are we, the Thurmarsh Argus or the Trondheim Argus?’
‘Trondheim’s in Norway.’
‘Is it? Well, if you’re such a Clever Dick you ought to know better than write rubbish like this. I want stuff about Thurmarsh.’
‘But Thurmarsh people know about Thurmarsh.’
‘They want to know what he thinks about Thurmarsh. They couldn’t care less about Iceland. It’s thousands of miles away. They’ve never been there. They’re never going to go there.’
‘I didn’t realize people were so parochial,’ said Henry.
‘I’m deeply sorry that mankind fails to come up to your high standards, Mr Pratt,’ said Terry Skipton. ‘You’ll rewrite that story this afternoon. In the meantime, get round them hospitals and police stations. There’s been snow and ice. There’ll be accidents. And, regrettable though our parochialism is, please try not to ask the desk sergeant at Blurton Road police station for his views on tribal dancing in Timbuctoo.’
As he walked away, Henry was already regretting making an enemy of Terry Skipton. His new friends were looking at him aghast. Only Gordon spoke. ‘Change ends. More lemons,’ he said. He sounded as if he meant it to be encouraging.
Henry trudged along pavements swept and pavements unswept. He phoned through a whole crop of minor accidents. He lunched alone, in the Rundle Café. A quantity surveyor, enjoying a cup of coffee after his braised steak, concealed himself behind the Sporting Chronicle to hide the moisture in his eyes as he Listened with Mother to the story of Gerald the Shy Guards Van.