The Complete Pratt

by David Nobbs

  Auntie Doris slipped him thirty pounds.

  ‘Don’t tell Geoffrey,’ she said.

  They went in to dinner fairly late, after the paying customers had ordered. The dining-room was small and unpretentious, with whitewashed walls. There was a fine Welsh dresser covered with good English plates. Lorna handed Henry the menu as if she’d never seen him before.

  He ordered oxtail soup and grilled lamb cutlets. Geoffrey Porringer spent a long time choosing the claret. ‘You’ll like this one, young sir,’ he said, with a smile that was barely slimy at all.

  The claret was nice. He thanked Lorna for his soup. He wanted to call her ‘Lorna’ but found it impossible. He thanked her for the lamb cutlets. He thanked her for the potatoes and the cauliflower and the carrots.

  ‘My word, young sir, you’re being very polite to our Lorna,’ said Geoffrey Porringer.

  ‘Geoffrey! Don’t draw attention to it,’ said Auntie Doris, who always made things worse by protesting about them. ‘He knows her,’ she mouthed.

  At the end of the meal, Lorna caught Henry’s eye and nodded. She could have saved him a lot of tension if she’d done it earlier, but he didn’t blame her.

  Over his bacon and fried eggs, Henry read the Sunday Express. An exchange of letters between Presidents Bulganin and Eisenhower was published. President Bulganin had tried to establish a 20 year American–Russian pact, which would completely ignore Great Britain. President Eisenhower rebuffed the suggestion and said that they already had such a treaty, if the Russians chose to make it work. It was called the Charter of the United Nations. In Troutwick, these sounded like voices from another world.

  Geoffrey Porringer drove him to Rowth Bridge. It had rained in the night but the winter sun was breaking through, touching the great mass of Mickleborough with its faint warmth, shining palely on the glutinous fields. Henry’s mind went back to the last time he had travelled this road by car, before his national service, with his three best friends, Martin Hammond, Paul Hargreaves and Stefan Prziborsky. Now he wasn’t even sure if he liked Martin or Paul, and Stefan, the only Polish-born batsman ever to play cricket for Thurmarsh, had emigrated to Australia.

  ‘What are you doing in Rowth Bridge?’ Geoffrey Porringer’s voice plopped dully into his nostalgic melancholy.

  ‘Looking up an old friend.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘That kind of thing.’

  ‘Jolly good. Keep at it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  That was the kind of fatuous conversation he had with Geoffrey Porringer. He wondered if Geoffrey Porringer suspected that the girl was Lorna.

  When they reached Rowth Bridge, Geoffrey Porringer slipped him thirty pounds. ‘Don’t tell Doris,’ he said. Only later did Henry wonder if it was hush money, because Geoffrey Porringer suspected that Lorna had told him about the rubbing against her.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘I had to wait for Geoffrey Porringer.’

  Lorna snorted.

  They walked slowly, past the jumbled stone houses and cottages, in the watery sunshine.

  He felt a stab of horror as he realized that they were approaching the church. He didn’t want to run the gauntlet of the village churchgoers, holding hands with Lorna Arrow.

  He tried, gently, to remove his hand. She clasped it firmly. He saw people out of the corner of his eye.

  The Boyce-Uppinghams were arriving! Lorna squeezed his hand, so hard that it hurt. He could hardly wrench their hands apart. His cheeks blazed. He hoped neither Lorna nor Belinda would see his blazing cheeks. He squeezed Lorna’s hand and carried on up the road. He didn’t look round.

  They were going towards Kit Orris’s field barn. She let go of his hand, now that it no longer mattered.

  It had always been wonderful, in Kit Orris’s field barn. She walked straight past the gate that would have led them to the barn. Had she engineered the whole walk? Was it her revenge? He couldn’t blame her.

  Belinda would never contact him in Thurmarsh now. Well, he ought to be grateful to Lorna for that.

  He couldn’t stand the silence any more. ‘I was very surprised in the hotel, when I got your note,’ he said.

  ‘Were you?’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry about all that.’

  ‘You were ashamed of me.’

  ‘No. No, Lorna.’

  ‘You were ashamed of me, just now, in front of ’er.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Bloody Belinda. You were as twined as me arse. You never could walk past ’er wi’out blushing when we were bairns.’

  ‘Give over, Lorna. It’s rubbish, is that.’

  ‘I ’ave to go now, Henry.’

  ‘Go?’

  ‘I’m meeting someone.’ She couldn’t hide a flash of triumph.

  ‘Oh? Who?’

  ‘Eric Lugg.’

  ‘Eric Lugg? He’s got leave from the Cattering Corpse, has he?’ He closed his eyes, as if that would wipe out his sentence.

  ‘All right, I know I can’t spell,’ she said. ‘I know I’m a right ignorant pig. Well so’s Eric, so it’s all right.’

  ‘It isn’t all right,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m sorry I said that. I was …’ Upset at the thought of your slender, lovely body being pawed by a Lugg. ‘… upset. Jealous, I suppose. I mean … do you … er … know Eric well?’

  ‘Course I do. He lives in t’ next lane.’

  ‘No. I mean … you know … have you been … out with him?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘While I was in the army?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I see. So I was being lied to.’

  ‘I suppose you just sat in your barracks and thought about me.’

  ‘I never went out with another woman, Lorna. Not once.’

  Lorna shrugged. ‘We didn’t do owt,’ she said. ‘Not when there was you. Yesterday was the first time.’

  And he’d nearly called on them! A dreadful thought struck him.

  ‘You didn’t do it in the barn, did you?’

  ‘Course we bloody did. It’s like Piccadilly Circus in our ’ouse.’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t done it in the barn.’

  ‘Ruddy ’ell,’ said Lorna. ‘You’re a funny one.’

  They turned back, and walked in silence. The sun had disappeared.

  ‘It’s just … well … Eric Lugg!’ he said. ‘Lorna! You’re special. Spelling doesn’t matter. Education doesn’t matter. What matters is … you’re special. Eric’s a lout.’

  ‘He’s norra lout. He’s a cookhouse instructor. You ’ardly know ’im, ’ow can you say ’e’s a lout? ’e’s a bit rough, a bit uncouth, bur … ’e’s all right, is Eric.’

  ‘Is that enough for you, Lorna – “all right”?’

  ‘Bloody ’ell, Henry. I ’aven’t said I’m going to marry ’im.’

  ‘I should hope not.’

  ‘I might. It’s none of your bloody business anyroad. So belt up about Eric Lugg, will yer?’

  She flounced off down the lane. In his mind she was already giving birth to endless Luggs while her oafish husband made coarse jokes as he taught his smelly recruits how to bang thick grey gravy onto stale meat pies.

  He trudged forlornly down the lane. He was a prig. He was a snob. In his travels through the steamy jungle of the class system, he had become infected with the disease that he loathed so much.

  6 A New Life

  WINTER RETURNED. THURMARSH and London recorded their coldest days for sixty years. Cousin Hilda’s stove roared and crackled.

  The national papers reported the warmth and friendliness of the big cold world. After three days of talks President Eisenhower and Mr Anthony Eden declared their complete agreement over the Middle East. They supported Colonel Nasser – for the immediate future, at any rate. In Cyprus, the Governor had friendly talks with Archbishop Makarios. Britain’s offer of self-government was expected to be accepted. Archbishop Makarios favoured the ending of terrorism in exchange for an amnesty.

  Lif
e was less cheery in Cousin Hilda’s small, hot basement, as Henry worked his way through his last six days. He craved the company of his friends in the Lord Nelson. He longed to track down Uncle Teddy. But no. He would be devoted to Cousin Hilda that week. Fabian of Scotland Yard, The Grove Family, The Burns and Allen Show, Forces’ Requests. If it was on, they watched it, though Cousin Hilda drew the line at Travellers Tales – Pygmies of the Congo. ‘What’s the use of watching pygmies?’ she said. ‘I’m never likely to see a pygmy.’ Henry bit back his reply of, ‘Well, this is your chance, then.’

  On Monday evening – liver and bacon and rhubarb crumble – he asked Barry Frost, ‘Have the Operatic decided what to devote their talents to next?’ Barry Frost replied, gruffly, as if suspecting sarcasm, ‘Yes. No, No, Nanette.’

  On Tuesday evening – roast lamb and his last spotted dick for ever – he asked Norman Pettifer, ‘Are we getting a run on Danish Blue this week?’ Norman Pettifer replied, coolly, as if suspecting sarcasm, ‘No. It’s an extraordinarily average week this week.’ Henry said, ‘Good Lord! So average, you mean, as to defy the law of averages? That is extraordinary.’

  On Wednesday evening – toad-in-the-hole and sponge pudding with chocolate sauce – Barry Frost was subdued. Henry said, ‘Is everything all right, Barry?’ ‘No, everything is not all right. She’s broken it off, because I’ve accepted the lead in No, No, Nanette,’ said Barry Frost. After the meal, Henry knocked on Barry’s door and said, ‘Are you all right? I’ve got my first shorthand lesson tonight, but we could meet afterwards for a drink.’ ‘Thanks. You’re a pal. But no. I’ve got to face this thing on my own,’ said Barry Frost.

  On Thursday evening – roast pork and tinned pears – Norman Pettifer was subdued. ‘Is everything all right?’ Henry asked. Having found a useful formula, he saw no reason to alter it in the interests of so-called conversational glitter. ‘They’ve removed me from the cheese counter,’ said Norman Pettifer. There was a stunned silence, into which Henry’s ‘Oh dear’ plopped pathetically. ‘Mr McConnon was very nice about it. He had me into his office. “Norman,” he said. “This is no reflection on you, but change is the bedrock from which the seeds of our success flower. Young Adrian is a lucky lad to inherit what you’ve built up.”’ ‘I’m really sorry, Norman. Where are they moving you to?’ said Henry. ‘General groceries. You know what that boils down to, don’t you? Tins,’ said Norman Pettifer, with withering scorn.

  On Friday evening – battered cod and jam roly poly – Barry Frost was pensive. ‘You’re pensive, Barry,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve resigned from No, No, Nanette. Candice has won,’ said Barry Frost.

  On Saturday, February 4th, an MP warned of the 200,000 elderly who were falling behind the rising standard of living, Ivy Benson spoke of the problems her women’s band faced from marriage – ‘In one year, I lost three trombones’ – the thaw brought hundreds of burst pipes, and Henry reported on his first football match. It was Rawlaston v Ossett Town in Division One of the Yorkshire League.

  Unfortunately he had to phone his report through ten minutes before the end, when there were still no goals. ‘It was end-to-end stuff in this tense relegation battle at sodden Scuffley Park,’ he enthused. ‘The “Grinders” created the better chances, but had nobody to take advantage of Macauley’s speed. Ossett’s powder-puff attack, sluggishly led by Deakins, rarely threatened a staunch Rawlaston rearguard, ably marshalled by the immaculate Linnet.’ His awards were ‘Entertainment 6, Effort 8. Man of the Match – Linnet.’ Later he phoned through the result. ‘Rawlaston o, Ossett Town 2. Goals: Linnet (own goal), Deakins.’

  On Sunday morning, at the end of breakfast, he held out his hand to Liam. ‘Goodbye, Liam. And … good luck.’

  ‘The same to you, Mr Henry,’ said Liam O’Reilly.

  ‘Goodbye, Norman. Sorry about the … er …’

  ‘I’ll get over it,’ said Norman Pettifer.

  ‘Goodbye, Barry. Good luck with the nuptials.’

  ‘Yes, well …’ said Barry Frost. ‘We’ll see. Whatever will be, will be.’

  ‘You could make a song of that,’ said Henry, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  He went upstairs, converted his bed into a sofa for the last time, packed his puny collection of clothes, his photo of Len Hutton, his one shelf of books by Kafka, Evelyn Waugh, Henry Miller and Captain W. E. Johns, and went down to say goodbye to Cousin Hilda. His mouth was dry.

  ‘Well … thank you very much for everything, Cousin Hilda,’ he said. ‘I’ve been very happy here.’

  Cousin Hilda sniffed.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I have. But I can’t live off the family for ever.’

  ‘What are families for?’ said Cousin Hilda.

  For getting away from.

  ‘I’m not going to be far away,’ said Henry. ‘You must come to tea, and I’ll come and see you regularly.’

  Cousin Hilda sniffed.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said.

  Ginny welcomed him with a selfconscious smile, a Lancashire hot-pot and a bottle of robust red wine. Her flat had the same layout as his but without the French windows. They ate in the tiny kitchen. She’d laid a red check cloth over the formica-topped table. He washed up. She dried and put away. He put his arms round her. His hands tingled at her soft and ample splendour. He said, ‘What about a bit of hanky-panky? I believe the feller downstairs is out.’ She removed his hands gently but firmly and said, ‘I think it might be better if we were strictly platonic, now we’re house-mates, don’t you?’ ‘Fair enough,’ he said. There was plenty of time. ‘Can I take you for a nice, platonic drink this evening?’ She said, ‘I’m going out this evening.’

  At 3.22 he began unpacking. At 3.29 he finished unpacking. He listened to Take It From Here, Melody Hour, Hancock’s Half Hour, and Victor Sylvester. He fell asleep during Question Time, unfortunately missing four celebrities exchanging ideas with young hill farmers from Breconshire. He woke to hear Jack Payne saying it with music. At 7.49 he went to the Winstanley. He had three pints of bitter. Nobody spoke to him. They were all in little cliques. He’d never seen such an absurdly self-satisfied lot. They laughed uproariously at jokes that weren’t remotely funny. They were cretins. It was a privilege to go home and leave them.

  Home? He hadn’t even bought any tea or coffee. He was totally unprepared.

  During Grand Hotel, with Jean Pougnet and the Palm Court Orchestra, he heard the front door slam. Was it her? Could he cadge some coffee and bread?

  He heard a man’s voice say, very distinctly, ‘Neutral territory. Berlin wall.’ She’d brought Gordon Carstairs back!

  He listened to Java, Land of the Moonlight Orchid, in which Nina Epton described a visit to that magical country.

  They were making love! He turned up the volume, till Nina Epton was shouting.

  He went to bed. He lay there, wide awake, lonely, hungry, in his cramped room. And they began again! It dawned on him that he wasn’t going to get much sleep that night. It dawned on him that Podgy Sex Bomb Henry, who had thought himself so precociously successful with older women, wasn’t actually doing very well. He’d been toyed with by Helen Cornish. He’d lost Lorna Arrow and Ginny Fenwick. That only left Diana Hargreaves. He’d better make sure of her before he lost her too.

  At last Ginny and Gordon stopped. Gordon went home. Henry fell asleep at 4.17. At 6.38 he woke up. A man who was vaguely familiar had been telling him, in thirty blindingly simple words, the secret of life and how to conduct it. He couldn’t remember any of it.

  The world grew colder. Ominous headlines poured off the presses. The big freeze returns. After the bursts, the frozen pipes. ‘Flick Knife’ Teds terrorize teachers. Housewives flee Cypriot rioters. Tear-gas used in Algiers uproar. British military police kill Cypriot youth.

  There were headlines on Henry’s stories too. Chiropodist breaks foot! Man, 83, falls out of bed. Found cuff-link after 42 years.

  The early part of Henry’s evenings was spent in the Lord Nelson. The middle of t
he evenings was spent in the Globe and Artichoke, the Devonshire, the Pigeon and Two Cushions. The last part of the evenings was spent in the Shanghai Chinese Restaurant and Coffee Bar, where he hoped to meet Uncle Teddy again, but didn’t. How he longed to sit in peace and warmth and watch television with Cousin Hilda. He even looked forward to his second shorthand lesson.

  Every evening, shortly before midnight, a gurgling mass of beer and monosodium glutamate arrived back at a home that was no home, and lay awake, marvelling at the virility of Gordon Carstairs. By Thursday night, even Gordon Carstairs was exhausted.

  On Wednesday evening Henry telephoned Paul, who was surprisingly friendly and would love to see him that weekend, as would Diana. Henry got so excited that he forgot to go to his second shorthand lesson.

  On Friday lunchtime, dreaming of Diana in the Rundle Café while pretending not to be listening to the cautionary tale of Gertrude the Greedy Guinea-Pig, he heard an enormous crash. After about a minute he remembered that he was a journalist, and rushed out.

  A lorry had hurtled, just down Rundle Prospect, into the tiny Old Apothecary’s House, whose delicate flint and stone dated back to the early fifteenth century. The lorry was jammed into the gaping mouth of the building like a cuckoo being fed by a wren.

  The driver was sitting on the pavement, dazed with shock. Henry sat beside him diffidently. He felt shy of intruding into the man’s trauma with his tactless notebook. But the man seemed to want to get everything off his chest. Must get all the facts. Name, age, address. Dave Nasenby (29), of Rawlaston Road, Splutt. Occupation? ‘Lorry driver, of course.’ Stupid! He was driving along, he braked hard to avoid a cat, he skidded on a patch of ice, lost control, he was going towards two nuns, it was the nuns or the building, he swerved, he just had time to leap out, he’d left it so late that he scraped himself all along the wall. He showed Henry his abrasions. Henry winced. It was a pity the nuns had disappeared, but with his present luck they’d probably have been Trappists anyway.

  He caught the London train in good humour, blissfully unaware that the story which was streaming off the Thurmarsh presses began ‘A lorry driver had a miraculous escape today when he crashed into Thurmarsh’s oldest historical landmark rather than hit two buns.’