The Complete Pratt

by David Nobbs

  Courage.

  ‘I have to say I don’t know much about Sisley’s late haystacks.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I don’t know much about his early haystacks either.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Belinda Boyce-Uppingham approached, oozing, if not sexuality, an aura of healthy vigour and cleanliness that would do almost as well. ‘Henry!’ she said. ‘How you do keep popping up in my life.’

  Mr Hargreaves was able to escape from Henry while pretending that he was tactfully leaving him with Belinda.

  To his horror Henry heard himself say, ‘I know. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.’

  ‘I hope not,’ she said, fervently.

  Did she mean it? He felt an erection trying to find room to express itself, just below the marinated carp, in a suit into which he’d only just been able to squeeze himself in flaccid sexlessness after a modest breakfast. Journalist in society wedding fly-button horror. Down down. Probably she didn’t even remember that she’d once called him a ‘bloody oik’. Social indignation strangled his erection.

  ‘Still scribbling away on your paper, are you?’ she said. Well, at least she’d remembered, but ‘scribbling’!

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Scribble scribble!’

  ‘Jolly good,’ she said. ‘Henry? Will you let me say how sorry I am for something awful I called you many years ago when I knew no better?’

  The bell rang for round two of the fight between Henry’s erection and his hired suit.

  ‘Ah! Robin. There you are. Meet Henry Pratt,’ said Belinda. Henry found himself looking at a tall man with thighs like oak trees and skin like sandpaper, who was looking down on him like a member of the Royal Family admiring a pumping station whose workings bored him to distraction. The fight was stopped. The hired suit was declared the winner.

  ‘Hello, Henry Pratt,’ said Robin. Henry asked Robin about his views on Sisley’s late haystacks. Robin’s eyes glazed over, and they made a hurried escape from him, which freed him from the necessity of making a hurried escape from them.

  He approached Tosser and congratulated him.

  ‘Thanks, Henry,’ said Tosser loftily, as if Henry were still his fag. This irked Henry, and he couldn’t resist saying, ‘I saw the Wales match.’ Tosser made a cheerfully wry face and said, ‘Oh Lord. Did you? I had a bit of a stinker.’

  The man didn’t even seem mortified! How insensitive could you get?

  Lampo joined them, smiled his slightly twisted, sardonic smile and said, ‘Hands off, Tosser. You’re married now,’ and Henry thought he was going to blush.

  ‘Careful of La Lampo, Henry,’ said Tosser. ‘Her spell in the WRACS has made her more sexually devious than ever.’

  ‘Did you do national service, Lampo?’ said Henry, with such surprise that Lampo laughed.

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t think of a decent excuse,’ said Lampo. ‘I became a sergeant in the education corps. Priceless.’

  Tosser drifted off at last.

  ‘What a bore he is!’ said Lampo affectionately. ‘I wonder whether he’ll bore her to death or crush her to death.’

  ‘Oh I hope they’re happy,’ said Henry, with a depth of feeling that surprised him. ‘I like Diana.’

  ‘Randy little bugger, aren’t you?’ said Lampo. ‘Henry? Come to Italy with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I assume you are given holidays from your sordid tasks. I’m going to Italy for several weeks. Pop over and see me. I want to show you Italy.’

  ‘Well, I … er …’

  ‘No strings attached. I know how horrified you are by the homosexual side of your nature.’

  ‘Lampo!’

  ‘Sorry. I can’t help teasing. I’m so pleased to see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘God knows. Absurd, isn’t it? Henry, it is true that, absurd though you look in those clothes …’

  Thank you.’

  ‘… perhaps because you look so absurd in those clothes, I would, were your views on the matter different, enjoy … a relationship. But not in Italy. Italy’s too beautiful for sex. Nobody in Venice or Siena could possibly have eyes left for you. In Runcorn or Barnsley I might try to seduce you, to take my mind off the surroundings. In Italy you’d be safe. Please come.’

  ‘Have you ever been to Barnsley?’ said Henry, glowering.

  ‘Of course not!’ said Lampo. ‘Oh dear. I’ve offended the Yorkshireman in you. I notice you don’t bother to defend Runcorn. Henry, on your holidays, if you can tear yourself away from the delightful towns of South Yorkshire, with their fine public buildings, spacious libraries, ample toilet facilities and charming citizenry, will you let me show you the most beautiful cities in the world?’

  ‘Why does everybody want to show me Italy?’

  ‘Everybody?’

  ‘Our arts editor. An ageing queer with parchment skin and a limp.’

  ‘A limp what?’

  ‘Oh God. Why did I describe him like that? How ungenerous. But why do you all want to show me things? As if I didn’t know.’

  ‘Oh. So you know. Why do we?’

  ‘Because I’m a blank page. I have no personality. You all want to create me in your image.’

  ‘What mawkish rubbish. Henry, I can’t speak for your arts editor with his limp parchment, but I want you to come to Italy because you’re not blasé. With you I can live each day as if it’s my last and look at Italy as if I’ve never seen it before. Will you come?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Henry was as surprised by his answer as Lampo.

  The last British troops left Suez ‘quietly and with dignity’, in accordance with the 1954 Anglo-Egyptian agreement. Charges for school meals, passports, driving tests and higher education classes were increased. Martial law was declared in Poznan after 38 people including communist officials had been killed in riots. In the Wimbledon finals, Lew Hoad beat Ken Rosewall and our very own Angela Buxton lost to Shirley Fry. On the day before the wedding of Helen and Ted, Henry received a letter from Auntie Doris.

  Dear dear Henry [she wrote]

  My Geoffrey and I are to be married on Saturday, August 18th, in Skipton. A lot of people are going to say we should have waited, but I’d been parted from Teddy for a long time so ‘the damage had been done’. Geoffrey’s all I have now and I hope you’ll come and give us your ‘blessing’. Who knows what would have happened if I’d met my Teddy again but that’s all ‘past history’, as they say. I think I should tell you I told Geoffrey what you told me. He admitted it. He just couldn’t help himself, and he hates himself for it. You’ll find, Henry, unless you’re very lucky, that ‘the physical side of things’ brings as many problems as joys and those without ‘skeletons in the cupboard’ are lucky. Geoffrey’s promised not to do it again, and I’ll be watching him. So what you told me’s put me in a position of strength. I expect that seems shocking to you but, remember, we’re quite elderly business people marrying as much for convenience and security as for love. Don’t despise things like convenience and security, Henry. You’ll come to value them as the body starts to disintegrate. Oh dear! I am cheering you up, aren’t I?

  Anyway, Geoffrey wants to be good friends with you and wants you to come to the wedding. He says if ever things don’t work out in ‘the world of journalism’ there’ll always be a job for you in the catering industry. We also want the sniffer to come. Oh Lord, I shouldn’t call her that, should I? Hilda and I are chalk and cheese but blood is thicker than water, as they say. We’re sending her an invite but suspect she might refuse. We know how close you are to her, so would you be an angel and use your famous charm?

  Henry, my darling, your silly old auntie has realized over the years that she loves you very much.

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (One for each year of your life and one for luck) Doris

  ‘How close you are to her’! He hadn’t been to see her for weeks. ‘Your famous charm’!

  He felt touched by this letter, and less upset than he’d have expected at the th
ought of Auntie Doris marrying Geoffrey Porringer. But he did also feel a little depressed.

  Would he ever be done with other people’s weddings?

  On Saturday, July 14th, 1956, Cypriot terrorists warned that, for every Greek child killed by the security forces, Eoka would kill a British child. Marilyn Monroe, arriving in Britain for the first time, was asked who she wanted to meet, and said, ‘Sean O’Casey and Dame Edith Sitwell.’ Sir Anthony Eden said, ‘We are in mortal peril, not of immediate unemployment, but of poverty by stages.’ Ex-King Farouk of Egypt offered to remarry his first wife, Farida. She refused. Ted Plunkett did marry Helen Cornish. Henry pocketed three handkerchieves, in case Ginny needed them.

  Ben Watkinson was picking them up and driving them to Buxton. Ginny knocked on Henry’s door five minutes before Ben was due to arrive.

  She was wearing green and looked at her largest, but he knew that he wouldn’t need the handkerchieves. She was a war correspondent, going to the front line.

  ‘Will you do something for me?’ she said shyly, very embarrassed.

  ‘If I can.’ Her embarrassment made him cautious.

  ‘Will you make it look as if you and I are … you know? Gordon’s wife’ll be there.’

  The reception was held in the ballroom of the Palace Hotel, a large stone hydro, standing above Buxton like a lesser château which had somehow become separated from the Loire. The ballroom was a high-ceilinged, elegant room, with huge windows overlooking gardens which sloped to a domed hospital and the dignified, classical, dark grey spa town.

  Henry stuck to Ginny like a parking ticket. Helen was so radiant that Henry wondered if she was regretting the marriage already. She had looked achingly lovely as she’d walked up the aisle in what she would have described, in one of her fashion articles, which Ginny despised, as a beautiful wedding gown of lace and pleated tulle, with a short train, a full-length veil with a crown of orange flowers, and a bouquet of white orchids, stephanotis and lilies. She kissed Henry warmly, as if finding him attractive for the first time in months. And then Denzil was approaching. It was happening again. He was only attractive to queers and brides.

  ‘When are you off to Filey?’ said Denzil. ‘Filey?’ said Henry, awkward in his dark suit. ‘Filey. With your aunt,’ said Denzil. ‘Oh. Yes. Filey. I’d forgotten. Because I’m not,’ said Henry. ‘Not going to Filey? I invited Henry to Italy, Ginny. He said he was going to Filey,’ said Denzil. ‘Well, I’m not. I’m actually going to Italy, funnily enough. Change of plan,’ said Henry. ‘But not with me,’ said Denzil grumpily. ‘Well, I can’t. I’m going with my uncle,’ said Henry. ‘Ah, your uncle! Not your aunt,’ said Denzil. ‘No. I was telling Ginny only yesterday, funnily enough. Wasn’t I, Ginny?’ said Henry. ‘Telling you what, Ginny?’ said Denzil. ‘About his uncle and his aunt,’ improvised Ginny. ‘They were very good to him as a child. They’ve split up. He goes on holiday with them in alternate years. He thought this was an aunt year, but it’s an uncle year. This is a different uncle from the one who was killed, of course, otherwise Henry wouldn’t be going on holiday with him.’ ‘Right,’ said Henry. What a wonderful woman she was. If only he loved her.

  Denzil wasn’t sure whether to believe them, and in any case he was grumpy and jealous. Henry felt that Denzil was diminishing as he got to know him better. He wanted Denzil to be stylish and outrageous, not grumpy. And yet, as Denzil diminished, Henry found that he liked him more.

  Denzil introduced them to Helen’s younger sister, Jill. She was a little shorter than Helen, fractionally fat, somewhat flat-chested, with a tiny mouth. She was shy, gawky and, Henry suspected, sensual. He desired her very much indeed. Ginny tucked her arm into his and led him through the throng, out of danger.

  They spoke, briefly, to several of Helen’s relatives and to Ted’s mother, who seemed to be his only relative. The champagne flowed. Henry could see Ted, over by the cake, glowering at the champagne as if blaming it for not being Mansfield bitter. Colin Edgeley called it a ponce’s drink. ‘Glenda likes it,’ he said. ‘Pity she couldn’t come.’ Henry didn’t want to feel guilty about liking champagne. He wanted to be a man of the people, drinking pints out of straight glasses. He also wanted to be a connoisseur of fine wines. He wanted to be all things to all men. Was he in fact nothing to anybody?

  Ginny clasped his arm even more firmly as they found themselves talking to Gordon and Hazel Carstairs, who were also firmly indivisible. Hazel was fair-haired, blue-eyed and slightly plump. She looked tired. Henry thought her attractive, in a very middle-class, trim way, which didn’t seem to go with Gordon. ‘Hello, young lovers,’ said Gordon without a hint of shame. ‘Not a bad wedding, is it? Pity it’s such a grey day, though.’ Henry was amazed. He’d never known Gordon deliver such a comprehensible message. It was so banal that he felt ashamed for Gordon. ‘It’s a shame we couldn’t have had a bit of sun,’ Gordon continued, ‘but at least the rain’s held off.’ Didn’t he speak in code when accompanied by his wife? Was it all an act? Or was this the act? He looked Gordon straight in the face and received a totally blank look in return.

  ‘How are you, Ginny?’ said Hazel. ‘I’m almost surprised to find you’re still on the paper. Gordon never speaks of you any more.’ Henry was afraid that Ginny would blush, but she was made of sterner stuff than that. Then he was afraid that he would blush. Luckily, Ginny replied, ‘Doesn’t he? Well, I don’t see much of him. I’m otherwise engaged these days, aren’t I, love?’ ‘He’s blushing. You’re embarrassing the young man, Ginny,’ said Gordon. Henry felt obliged to take part in this repellent charade. ‘I’ve got a flat in the same house as Ginny,’ he said. ‘Say no more!’ said Gordon, and Henry was happy to obey. Hazel smiled throughout this exchange, and Henry had an uneasy feeling that her smile hid bottomless pain and that she saw through the charade completely and despised them all utterly. But he might be wrong about this, because he also had an uneasy feeling that, for a journalist with an international future, he knew very little about people.

  He was glad to move on to Ben Watkinson and his shy, petite wife Cynthia. Another couple who didn’t trust each other to go their separate ways, but steered side by side round the crowded ballroom as if on a slow, invisible dodgem car. ‘I hope the light’s better in Leeds,’ he said. ‘Why?’ said Cynthia, astonished. ‘The cricket,’ said Henry. ‘Silly me. I might have guessed. Bloody sport again,’ said Cynthia. Ben glared at Henry. Henry thought this unfair. It was hardly his fault if he never talked to Ben about anything except sport. He’d tried to shift the relationship onto a more personal level, now that he knew about Ben being a conscientious objector. It hadn’t worked. He didn’t think Cynthia looked the sort of person to whom you went home to give one, in mid-evening, on the rug, before supper. Was all that another lie? Colin passed by, his plate piled high. For a man who professed to have no interest in food, he couldn’t half shovel it in when it was free, thought Henry uncharitably.

  And every moment of every conversation, even as Helen kissed him bubblingly on the cheek, as if there were champagne in her veins instead of blood, he was aware of the exact spot in the room occupied by her sister. ‘Dear Henry,’ said Helen. ‘You won’t desert us when we’re knee-deep in nappies, will you?’ ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and he strolled over towards Jill, leaving Ginny and Helen alone together, united in their displeasure at his abrupt departure, but with nothing whatever to say to each other.

  He caught up with Jill just as she was leaving the buffet. His heart was pumping.

  ‘Hello, Jill,’ he said. ‘What’s it like being Helen’s sister?’ Oh no. The world’s most stupid question. Quite rightly, she ignored it. His next question was no more sparkling, but infinitely more answerable. ‘What do you do?’

  She blushed. Shy! Warm, too.

  ‘I’m still at school till July.’

  ‘Good Lord! You look too old. Mature. Grown-up.’

  ‘Excuse me. I must … er … move on.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Be bold, Henr
y. ‘Jill? Will you come out some time?’

  ‘No, sorry, I … sorry.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘You would know me if you came out with me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Give me one good reason why not.’

  ‘I don’t find you remotely attractive.’

  She walked on past him, her face grim and blazing. His face was blazing too. He had an uncomfortable feeling that everyone at the reception was looking at him. He hurried to the buffet, and began piling a plate with things that he didn’t even see. Never in the whole of his life would he ever again risk humiliation by having anything whatsoever to do with a woman. He felt an arm on his arm. It was Ginny’s. She’d seen his humiliation and suffering and, even though he’d deserted her, she had come to his rescue. What a magnificent woman she was. He loved her.

  Sir Bernard Docker, sacked by the Birmingham Small Arms Company for extravagances including having five Daimlers with special bodywork built for the exclusive use of himself and Lady Docker, sent out 10,500 telegrams declaring that he wasn’t extravagant. The pay of farm workers went up 6s. to £7 1s. for a 47 hour week. Hungary’s hated boss, Matyas Rakosi, resigned amid open jubilation in Budapest. Britain and the United States withdrew their offer to loan Egypt £7,500,000 to start work on the Aswan Dam. Colonel Nasser retaliated by nationalizing the Suez Canal Company. It was the wettest July for 100 years.

  The rain battered on the rotting window frames at the back of number 66, Park View Road. A bowl of dying chrysanthemums stood on the unlit blue-tiled stove. A faint aroma of toad-in-the-hole lingered. Cousin Hilda switched the television off.

  ‘You needn’t switch it off,’ said Henry.

  ‘It’s a poor night,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘We’ve had Alma Cogan. All we’ve got now is some play by some Russian, some people looking at paintings and talking, and a lot of Austrians yodelling on their zithers. I ask you! Who plans these things?’ ITV hadn’t come to Thurmarsh and, even when it did, Cousin Hilda would die of boredom rather than watch it. ‘Anyroad,’ she continued. ‘It’s common to keep the television on when strangers call.’