by David Nobbs
The smells of an elegant dinner were drifting delicately around the hall of the Hargreaveses’ home. ‘Henry! So good to see you so soon,’ said Mrs Hargreaves, and he couldn’t detect a trace of sarcasm.
‘Henry!’ Mr Hargreaves was also extremely pleased to see him. Henry was beginning to get worried. ‘Dry sherry?’
‘Please.’
‘Henry!’ Paul was extremely friendly too. What had happened?
He soon found out. He was no longer a threat.
She entered with a companion who was preceded by a wall of after-shave – still quite a rarity in the smelly fifties.
‘Hello, Henry,’ she said. ‘Lovely to see you again so soon. I think you know my fiancé.’
Henry found himself staring at the large, smiling, indecently clean-shaven moon-face of Tosser Pilkington-Brick.
7 The Opening of the Cap Ferrat
ALMOST FIVE YEARS after they had disappeared from the Foreign Office, Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean turned up in Moscow. The blizzards returned. The trade gap widened to £74 million. The Football League, alarmed by falling gates, proposed a major reorganization, with four divisions. Malta voted 3–1 in favour of integration with Britain. There were many attacks on Britons in Cyprus.
Several times on his calls, Henry had made a detour to see if he could find Uncle Teddy on the site of the Cap Ferrat, in Malmesbury Street, between Fish Hill and Canal View. This was an area of small, slowly decaying streets and culs-de-sac, sloping damply from the east of the town centre towards the river and the canal. The Cap Ferrat was being converted out of a once-elegant little Regency terrace, which it shared with the Mandarin Fish Bar and the Thurmarsh Joke Emporium and Magic Shop.
On the afternoon of Wednesday, February 15th, Henry found Uncle Teddy. In daylight, he could see that his experience of prison had left a mask of wariness on Uncle Teddy’s big, bluff face. His carefully styled crinkly hair was flecked with grey. His dark suit and sober shirt would have given him the respectability on which he had spent so much money, if they hadn’t looked so obviously expensive.
Uncle Teddy ushered him out of the building. ‘I don’t want anyone seeing it till it’s finished,’ he said. ‘It’s tight, but we’ll make it for Tuesday. I just hope this snow clears. Snow and night life are contradictions in terms.’
‘Can we talk somewhere quiet in private?’ said Henry.
They walked through the town centre, between mounds of swept snow, and went for afternoon tea in Davy’s. Uncle Teddy was like an estranged father, giving his son an uneasy weekly treat.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ said Henry.
‘I’ve been in France,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Picking up last-minute items. All genuine stuff.’
Uncle Teddy ordered tea for two, and toasted teacake. The waitress had a bunion. The place was full of women who worked all day cooking and cleaning for husbands who got home tired and didn’t want to talk. Afternoon tea, while shopping, was a rare chance to rest over-used feet and exercise under-used vocal chords.
‘This isn’t quiet,’ said Henry.
‘It’s private,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘In quiet places you’re overheard.’
Henry wasn’t sure how to begin. So he started with something else.
‘I’m sorry I was rude about Derek Parsonage,’ he said.
‘Why did you say he was a Geoffrey Porringer substitute?’
‘It was just the blackheads.’
‘Blackheads?’
‘They both have blackheads.’
‘Good Lord. Do they?’
‘Uncle Teddy! You can’t not have noticed. Their noses are festooned with them.’
‘I hadn’t.’
Is it just me? thought Henry. Is that my real identity? Henry ‘Obsessed by blackheads’ Pratt?
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be rude about your friends.’
‘Geoffrey Porringer’s hardly my friend, Henry.’
A perfect cue. Too perfect?
The waitress brought their tea. ‘Teacakes’ll be a minute, but we’re that busy and we’ve one grill out of action for maintenance,’ she announced.
‘Shall I be mother?’ said Henry’s surrogate father.
‘How have you got the money for the Cap Ferrat?’ said Henry. ‘It must be costing a packet.’
Uncle Teddy touched the side of his nose. Henry wondered if, in shady businessmen’s secret societies, they touched each other’s noses. Perhaps that was how blackheads were transmitted. Stop thinking about blackheads!
The tea was very strong.
‘They use soda,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘To make it go further. They save on tea.’
‘But spend on soda,’ said Henry.
‘It’s better than bromide,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘Did they put bromide in the tea in …’ The waitress arrived with their teacake. ‘… Rangoon?’
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘He says they’re a bit burnt, it’s his first day on his own, he’s scraped them, but I can take them back if you want.’
‘No, no,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Carbon’s good for you.’
‘I never have liked my teacakes rare,’ said Henry.
Uncle Teddy smiled indulgently. ‘Could you get something in the paper about the opening?’ he said, when the puzzled waitress had gone.
‘Damn! I should have asked you that,’ said Henry. ‘But I hate using my friends and relations for my work. I’m just not ruthless enough.’
‘Too soft.’ Uncle Teddy nodded his agreement sympathetically.
‘Exactly. I should have been asking you if you’d be my contact from the shady underworld.’
‘Henry!’
‘Sorry, Uncle Teddy. I didn’t mean … I meant … from the world of the night. The world that wakes up when the rest of us go to sleep.’
‘I like that,’ said Uncle Teddy. He lowered his voice unnecessarily, amid all the chatter and rattle of cups. ‘I’ve failed you,’ he said. ‘I suppose you despise me.’
‘Actually, I don’t seem to,’ said Henry. ‘I think maybe I’m fatally fascinated by evil.’
‘Thank you, Henry.’
‘Oh, sorry, Uncle Teddy. I didn’t … oh heck.’
‘Well come on, then,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘What’s all this about? As if I couldn’t guess. You’ve seen Doris, haven’t you?’
‘Well, yes, I … I see them occasionally.’
‘Them? So she and Geoffrey are still cohabiting.’
‘Yes. They’re still … cohabiting.’
‘Still running the hotel, are they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Doing well?’
‘I think so.’
‘What a relief.’
‘Uncle Teddy, I … I’ve talked to Auntie Doris.’
‘Very wise. It’d have been rude not to.’
‘No. You know. Talked. About you.’
‘Would you like fancies?’ said the waitress.
‘Yes, we’ll have a selection,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘I don’t think … you know … she’s entirely happy with Mr Porringer,’ said Henry.
‘It’s hard to imagine that anybody could be.’
‘I know. But I think it’s … you know … more than that.’
The waitress brought a plate of cakes and said, ‘Go on! Be sinful!’
‘Have the éclair,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘I don’t want the éclair,’ said Henry. ‘I want the pink, square one. It looks so boring, like the last evacuee in a church hall. I’ll put it out of its misery.’
Uncle Teddy shook his head. It was beyond his comprehension that anyone could be so soft as to have sympathy for underprivileged cakes.
‘More than that?’ he said.
‘She said … she liked you very much. She said … life’s very complicated. I mean, Uncle Teddy, if there … you know … if there’s … somebody else, just tell me.’
‘There’s nobody else,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Not in that way. Not at th
e moment.’
‘Would you think it possible you could ever have her back?’
Uncle Teddy picked up a chocolate truffle and examined it as if seeking an answer to the mysteries of molecular structure. Then he smiled, and gave Henry thirty pounds.
‘Don’t tell Doris or Geoffrey,’ he said. ‘Or the sniffer.’
English and French celebrities will toast each other in champagne next Tuesday night, when the glamour and glitter of mediterranean life come to brighten up those cold Thurmarsh nights.
Yes! Thurmarsh’s very first nightclub – the Cap Ferrat – will be opening its doors in Malmesbury Street.
The Cap Ferrat is the brain-child of Mr Edward ‘Teddy’ Braithwaite, handsome 55 year-old Thurmarsh industrialist and entrepreneur, who has recently returned to Yorkshire after a five-year ‘stint’ in Rangoon.
‘My aim is to mix good old down-to-earth Yorkshire warmth and meaty grit with a bit of French sauce, that Gallic oo-ta-ta sophistication,’ muses Mr Braithwaite, a former pupil at Doncaster Road Secondary School.
He adds: ‘Of course it will be a bit naughty, but all good clean family fun. We aim to create a venue where Mr and Mrs Thurmarsh can relax from the cares of helping to build Britain’s post-war revival. Not everyone can go to France, so we’re bringing France to Thurmarsh.’
Everything – food, wines, décor, even crockery – will be the genuine article. ‘I’ve scoured the Côte d’Azur, spent weeks there, just to make sure Thurmarsh gets the best,’ says Mr Braithwaite.
Among the celebrities invited to join in the ‘first night’ festivities are Michael Venison, Dulcie Crab, Richard Murdoch, Kenneth Horne, Gwen Catley, Maurice Chevalier, Danielle Darrieux and Mr Frank Carnforth, Mayor of Thurmarsh.
‘It should be quite a fight,’ opines Mr Braithwaite.
‘Mr Skipton?’ said Henry. ‘Could I have a word?’
‘What is it?’
‘These misprints in this story. I think they’re deliberate.’
‘Misprints do happen,’ said Terry Skipton, ‘even on papers like this.’
‘Venison and Crab seems unlikely. “Fight” instead of “night” is pretty embarrassing. And “oo-ta-ta” instead of “oo-la-la”. French sauce. Ta-ta. Tartare sauce. Somebody’s playing clever buggers.’
‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you,’ said Terry Skipton.
The pound rose to 2 dollars 81 cents. The price of bread and milk rose as food subsidies were reduced by £38 million. President Eisenhower played golf for the first time since his heart attack in September.
The icy roads were the worst in living memory. The Thames froze at Windsor. The weather prevented the attendance at the Cap Ferrat of Michael Venison, Dulcie Crab, Richard Murdoch, Kenneth Horne, Gwen Catley, Maurice Chevalier and Danielle Darrieux.
A concern for civic dignity prevented the attendance of Mr Frank Carnforth, Mayor of Thurmarsh.
Mr Andrew Redrobe, editor of the Thurmarsh Evening Argus, had also declined to attend. His presence might have offended the churches, and he prided himself on having a good relationship with the churches.
Among those who struggled and slithered into Malmesbury Street on the night of February 21st, 1956, were Henry ‘Obsessed by blackheads’ Pratt; Derek ‘Festooned with blackheads’ Parsonage; Ted Plunkett and his attractive fiancée, Helen Cornish; Gordon Carstairs and his companion, lusty future war correspondent Ginny Fenwick; Denzil Ackerman, elegant metropolitan sophisticate; ace sports reporter Ben Watkinson and his shy, petite wife, Cynthia; the second D. H. Lawrence; and the Voice of Common Sense, alias ‘Thurmarshian’, Neil Mallet.
Also present were Bill Holliday, scrap merchant, used-car dealer, greyhound owner and gambler, who was accompanied by Miss Angela Groyne, a buxom red-haired model; Chief Superintendent Ron Ratchett, who was accompanied by his notebook; and Sergeant Botney, of the Royal Corps of Signals, who had travelled down from Catterick Camp in the company of his grim-faced wife to celebrate their wedding anniversary in a manner more sophisticated than could be managed by the Sergeants’ Mess, the Naafi or Toc H. They’d left the girls in the care of Mrs Botney’s mother.
The revellers sat at traditional southern French tables in a large, low-ceilinged, smoky room lit by the dim red light of impending sin. On the platform, beyond a dance floor that was slightly too small, Alphonso Boycott and his Northern Serenaders were playing slightly naughty dance tunes slightly naughtily. Meals were served by big-busted French waitresses, dressed in white blouses the size of large pocket handkerchieves, black skirts the size of small pocket handkerchieves, and black stockings. Sergeant Botney smiled uneasily at Mrs Botney. There was a choice of traditional Provençal steak in a watery, timidly garlicky tomato sauce or traditional Provençal chicken in a watery, timidly garlicky tomato sauce, or plain grilled steak or chicken, served with traditional Provençal chips. The journalists, seated at a large table at the back of the room, ate gratis, courtesy of the management.
The champagne and the medium-sweet white wine flowed. The dim light was dimmed still further, and a disembodied voice announced, ‘It’s cabaret time. Let’s hear it for Monsieur Emile.’
Monsieur Emile told them that he was from Gay Paree, but that Gay Paree would have to look to its laurels because the world would soon be talking about Gay Thurmarsh. ‘Under ze bridges of Thurmarsh with you,’ he crooned briefly and, since the laughter was a bit thin, he thickened it with some guffaws of his own.
There was a roll of drums.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Monsieur Emile. ‘I now introduce, with great pleasure, ze Cap Ferrat’s resident dancing girls, all born vairy close to ze coast of France, and bringing a touch of ze Gallic sun and ze Gallic beaches to your town. Ladies and gentlemen, ze Côte d’Azur Cuties!’
Ze four Côte d’Azur Cuties danced vivaciously, with long-legged athleticism and perfect synchronization, that effective substitute for artistry.
There was a roll of drums.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Monsieur Emile. ‘I now introduce, with great pleasure, ze Cap Ferrat’s resident singer, ze legendary Martine. Need I say more?’ He continued hurriedly before anybody could shout ‘yes’. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, ze legendary Martine.’
Ze legendary Martine sang in a loud, deep, throbbing, harsh, sexy, passionate, smoky, wine-sodden Gallic growl.
‘She’s like a cross between Marlene Dietrich and Edith Piaf,’ said Ted.
‘It’s a cross we’re just going to have to bear,’ said Denzil.
Henry hardly heard any of this. He was aware only of what had to be done.
Monsieur Emile announced an interval. He hoped that everyone would dance. Henry sighed deeply.
‘All right, kid?’ said Colin.
‘Yes,’ said Henry, irritated. ‘Stop trying to protect me.’
He walked slowly towards Sergeant Botney’s table. His old sergeant was another of those who looked smaller than Henry had remembered. In fact, his wife looked more fearsome than he did. Henry hesitated. All the pressures of social convention were against him. His respect for good manners shrieked its disapproval. But they’d all sworn that, if ever any of them came upon the rotten sadistic bastard in civvy street, they’d do him. But, then again, it had all been a long time ago. Why not forget it, tonight of all nights?
Because of Burbage.
Because there is a ghost that has to be laid.
Because the Sergeant Botneys of this world get away with it precisely because we allow social conventions to constrain us. We hide behind them, in our weakness and apathy.
‘It’s Sergeant Botney, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Sergeant Botney looked surprised, but not alarmed. His skin was leathery. Any expression there might have been in his eyes was carefully hidden.
‘I’m Signalman Pratt. You don’t remember me, do you? Perhaps you’ll remember this better. 22912547.’
‘Well … hello, Pratt. This is my wife, Mrs Botney.’
‘Hello, Mrs Botney.’
‘Hello.’ Unfriendly. Not surprising, really.
‘I … er … I was in your hut, sergeant.’
‘So, what are you doing now, Pratt?’
‘I’m a newspaper reporter.’
‘Well done, lad!’
‘Thanks.’
‘Where did you get to in your service, then? Make some good pals, did you? Met some good oppos?’
‘Oh yes. Great pals. Smashing oppos.’
‘Well done, lad.’
‘I’ve never forgotten that first night, sarge. You showed us how to make bed-packs. We made bed-packs. You said they were terrible. You threw them out of the window. It was raining. They landed on wet flower-beds. We fetched them. You said “Lights out.” We made our wet dirty beds in the dark at one o’clock in the morning.’
‘Let’s dance, Lionel,’ said Mrs Botney.
‘In a moment, dear. Let’s hear the lad out.’
‘We used to have to paint the coal white,’ said Henry. ‘We used to have to paint black lines on the floor with boot polish so as to line our beds up, and then we had to wash every trace of the boot polish off.’
‘Yes, I was hard,’ said Sergeant Botney. ‘Hard but fair. “You play ball with me, I’ll play ball with you” was my motto.’ He produced the cliché as if it were an epigram that he had been honing for hours.
‘We spent hours spooning our great rough boots with hot spoons, Mrs Botney,’ said Henry. ‘Jenkins was the best. You said you wanted all our boots to shine like that, so you could see your face in them. And, since it wouldn’t be fair for Jenkins to be idle while we worked, you scratched two lines on Jenkins’s boots and made him start again.’
‘Stop him, Lionel,’ said Mrs Botney.
‘Please, Margery,’ said Sergeant Botney. ‘Leave the lad to me. I’m not frightened of him.’ He turned back to Henry. ‘It was our job, laddie, to train you so that in war you’d obey orders automatically, however stupid they were.’