The Complete Pratt

by David Nobbs

  He entered the pub, and said, ‘Hello’ to Edna, the landlady. She remembered him, and escorted him to the function room.

  The room was awash with rustic good humour. There were the remains of a sit-down ham tea, but the lads in their bursting suits were congregating once more at the bar, cradling pints in their great outdoor hands.

  Lorna looked at him in astonishment and turned as white as her virginal dress. ‘Henry?’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He was unwelcome. Well he would be. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

  ‘Auntie Doris and Mr Porringer got married today.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘I know. And I thought, as I’m here, well, I couldn’t miss the chance of wishing you every happiness.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  In her relief, she kissed him warmly. He wondered what she had thought he’d come for. How thin she was.

  Eric Lugg hurried up. How huge he was.

  ‘You remember Henry?’ squeaked Lorna.

  ‘Oh aye. I remember Henry,’ said Eric Lugg. ‘I called him the evacuee squirt.’

  ‘Lorna and I were good friends once,’ said Henry. ‘Before your time, of course.’

  ‘“Before my time”?’ said Eric Lugg. ‘What does tha mean “Before my time”? There never was a time before my time.’

  ‘No. No,’ said Henry. ‘Oh no. No. No, I just meant, I liked Lorna. She liked me. We liked each other. And I thought, Well, I know what those Luggs are like. Friendly. If Eric Lugg ever found out that an old friend of Lorna and of his sister Jane had been in Troutwick and hadn’t come in to drink to their happiness, he’d be one angry insulted Eric Lugg.’

  Eric Lugg digested this speech slowly. ‘Have a pint,’ he said at last.

  ‘Right,’ said Henry, deeply relieved. ‘Thanks.’

  He couldn’t talk to Lorna on her own. He felt a million miles away from her. He was deeply upset that she was marrying Eric Lugg, an instructor in the catering corps. He was deeply upset that he was deeply upset that she was marrying Eric Lugg, an instructor in the catering corps. He grinned at Eric Lugg and allowed himself to be embraced almost to the point of strangulation by a very drunk Jane Lugg, whom he had once courted, till she had nits. It crossed his mind that she might have been a better choice for England than Tosser Pilkington-Brick. He nodded and chatted with his old friend Simon Eckington, with his old tormentor Patrick Eckington, with Simon’s wife Pam, whom he had once courted, till she had nits. He chatted with Lorna’s parents, with Luggs known and Luggs unknown. He chatted and laughed with everybody except Lorna, his first consummated love. He insisted on buying a large round of pints, which he couldn’t afford, in lieu of a wedding present. He clinked glasses with Eric Lugg.

  Eric Lugg clasped him in a hugely affectionate embrace. ‘You’re one of us,’ he said.

  Oh no, thought Henry, as he grinned his sheepishly pleased apparent agreement. Oh no, Eric. One of somebody I may be, although I haven’t found out who yet. One of you, that I most definitely am not.

  12 A Day in the Life of 22912547 Signalman Pratt

  ‘THERE’S BEEN A mistake, sergeant,’ said Henry desperately, peering out from under the slightly damp sheets and gently festering blankets, and looking up at the hard, threatening face of Sergeant Botney. ‘I’ve done my national service.’

  ‘Well now you’re doing it again, laddie,’ said Sergeant Botney. ‘And it’s three years this time.’

  ‘You can’t do national service twice, sergeant.’

  ‘You can if the authorities say so, son. And they say so. They’ve decided they need you. Gawd knows why.’

  ‘But I have a budding career as a reporter, sergeant.’

  ‘Well now you’re going to have a budding career as a soldier, sunshine. Who are you??’

  This question was barked at Signalman Brian Furnace, who had just popped up from under the sheets.

  ‘Signalman Furnace, sarge,’ said Signalman Furnace.

  ‘Two soldiers in one pit!’ thundered Sergeant Botney. He pulled back the bedclothes and stared down at the naked intertwined bodies of Henry and Signalman Furnace. ‘Two naked signalmen in one pit! I’ve never seen anything like it. What’s going on?’

  ‘We love each other,’ said Signalman Furnace.

  ‘You what?? You love each other?? This is the British army. You’re on a charge. Filthy and idle and stark bollock naked on parade. Get down to the charge room.’

  ‘As we are, sarge?’

  ‘As you are. No! As you were. Get dressed, you dirty little buggers.’

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhh!’ shrieked Henry. He pointed towards the ceiling. The inert body of Signalman Burbage was swinging gently in the draught.

  ‘Come down from there, Burbage!’ shouted Sergeant Botney. ‘Committing suicide on duty. I’ll have you for this.’

  ‘Sorry, sarge,’ said the dead signalman. He whipped a knife from his pocket and cut the rope that was holding him. His inert body dropped across Henry’s. Henry screamed. And woke up.

  He was drenched in sweat. Oh, thank goodness, oh sweet and wonderful life, it had been a dream.

  Where was he?

  He was lying on a palliasse, on a groundsheet, in a large tent. Rain was drumming on the canvas. There was a smell of wet grass, and damp rubber, and male feet, and male sweat, a vaguely disgusting goulash of damp and perspiration. Men were snoring, breathing congestedly, farting in their sleep. The charm of mankind. As opposed to womankind. He couldn’t believe that a tent full of women could have been so repulsive.

  He was in the army! It hadn’t been a dream! He hardly dared look up.

  No inert body was swinging there. No naked signalman’s body was intertwined with his.

  Of course. He was back in the army, for a fortnight, for the first of his three annual territorial reserve camps. He was on the Pennine moors, not more than thirty miles from Rowth Bridge.

  They’d be waking up soon, this rag-bag of strangers. Strangers! He’d hoped to meet Michael Collinghurst. He’d hoped and feared that he’d meet Brian Furnace. He’d hoped to see at least some of his old muckers – Taffy Bevin, Lanky Lasenby, Geordie Stubbs. Even Fishy Fisk, who smelt of herrings.

  Reveille reverberated over the sodden moors. A curlew trilled defiant rivalry. Men stirred, groaned, swore, farted, belched. The charm of mankind, shamed by a curlew’s trill. Nobody hurried. Discipline was lax. The old fears had died down. It was a shambles. It was raining. Nothing to hurry for.

  At Richmond Station, in September 1953, at the beginning of it all, Henry had said, ‘I’m a man.’ Sweat streamed off him at the thought of that grotesquely premature boast.

  If he’d been a man, he wouldn’t have joined in the destruction of Burbage. Burbage was clumsy. Timid. Shy. Not intellectually brilliant. A little odiferous. There’s no point in idealizing him because he’s dead. He was a clumsy, smelly, hopeless case. Hopeless. Dead. Hanged himself.

  Sergeant Botney had made them laugh at him by numbers. ‘Squad will laugh at Signalman Burbage, squad…wait for it… squad … at Signalman Burbage … laugh!’ And all together they had shouted, ‘Signalman Burbage smells two three ha two three ha two three ha ha ha.’ Man’s natural inhumanity to those weaker than himself had been tempered by unease, by a sense of their own weakness, by the knowledge that they weren’t being beastly to Burbage of their own free will but because they were under orders, they were only one rung above him on the ladder of humiliation. Afterwards they’d told Burbage that they hated doing it, didn’t mean it, only did it because they had to.

  They’d still done it. Henry too. He’d not said, ‘I refuse to laugh at Signalman Burbage, sergeant. It’s cruel and humiliating and I’d rather go to military prison in Colchester.’ He’d said, ‘Ha two three ha two three ha ha ha.’ And Burbage was dead. Hanged himself.

  People were getting up. Armpits of tangled hair were appearing and being wearily scratched. The charm of mankind.

  Henry went through the
deepening mud to the ablutions. He thought about Flanders, and didn’t complain. He endured breakfast. He thought about Eric Lugg, and did complain. Back to the tent, waiting. A shambles. There were no wireless sets here, so he couldn’t employ the only craft the army had taught him. Some days they were shown things. Today, somebody was supposed to show them flame-throwers. Nothing happened. They mooched in a damp tent. Gus Norris approached him.

  ‘Pratt? You’re an educated sort of geezer, ain’t yer?’

  ‘I can’t demur.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, I mean, you are, ain’t yer? Educated. Well, more than me, like.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘They can’t keep us ’ere, can they? Only it’s me dad’s shop, see.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘… ’e’s goin’ into ’orspital, i’n’ ’e? Next munf. I’n’ ’e? Bleeding backside’s bleeding bleeding. Got to ’ave a hoperation, ’asn’ ’e?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I gotta run the shop ’cos it’s me mum’s nerves with me nan ill an’all. ’aven’ I?’

  ‘Well, yes, Gus, I suppose you have.’

  ‘They can’t make us do anuvver two years, can they? I mean, because of the crisis and all that and everything. In the Middle East and that. Can they?’

  ‘Of course they can’t.’

  ‘Only some of the lads said they can. I mean, with the canal and the oil and everything and that. Only it’s me dad’s shop, innit?’

  ‘We’re here for a fortnight, Gus. They are calling up a few special reservists. They don’t just call you in for a fortnight and then keep you. If there’s ever a general mobilization, it’ll be done later. And you’ll probably get exemption on compassionate grounds, because of your dad’s arse.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Honestly, Gus.’

  ‘I wish I knew fings. I wish I was an educated geezer like you.’

  An educated geezer. He’d never thought of himself as that. Thought of himself as uneducated, because he hadn’t gone to university. Could probably have just about squeezed in, if he’d tried. Hadn’t ever really thought about it. Why not? Because nobody in the family ever had? Because he was frightened of not squeezing in? Because he was frightened of squeezing in and being so much worse than everybody else? Because he was in love with the romantic concept of ‘real life’? Too late to think about it all now, anyway. Je ne regrette rien. The Edith Piaf of the Thurmarsh Evening Argus.

  They were told to get fell in. They got fell in. The late August rain continued. They marched four miles up sodden tracks. They were told to get fell out. They got fell out. They stood, in their capes, watching nothing. The rain eased off. A mobile canteen provided them with hot food. It was cold curry. ‘They said we’d ’ave ’ot food,’ said Gus Norris. ‘It is hot,’ said Henry. ‘Mine’s stone cold,’ said Gus Norris. ‘So’s mine,’ said Henry. ‘I fought you said it was ’ot,’ said Gus Norris. ‘It is,’ said Henry. ‘What are you on about?’ said Gus Norris. ‘The curry is a hot curry, even though it’s stone cold. We can’t get them on that one, the sods,’ said Henry. ‘I wish I was an educated geezer,’ said Gus Norris.

  An officer addressed them through a megaphone. ‘Erm … hello, men,’ he said. ‘Erm … we were going to have a demonstration of … erm … flame-throwers, which I think you’d all have found very … erm … I know I would, but there you are, apparently there’s been a … erm … through no fault of ours, we’re rather in the hands of the flame-thrower chappies, so I’m afraid we’ll rather have to scrub round that one for the moment, which is jolly bad luck. However, never fear, we are hoping to arrange a … erm … and it is at short notice, so you’ll have to bear with us, a … erm … display of … erm … camouflage techniques, which should be jolly interesting. So … erm … for the moment … stand easy.’

  Since they were all standing easy already, there was no response to this instruction. And at that moment Henry caught sight of Brian Furnace and understood immediately that the ghost which still had to be laid wasn’t Burbage, but Brian Furnace. The whole thing was such a shambles that there seemed to be no objection to walking about, so he wandered over towards Brian. A pair of grouse flew low over the moors towards them. Catching sight of several hundred soldiers, and knowing that it was after the glorious twelfth, they veered away, in understandable panic, and disappeared over the mist-drenched horizon. Henry walked up to Brian with a heart that was beating like a grouse’s wings.

  ‘Hello, Brian.’

  Brian swung round and looked quietly astonished.

  ‘Henry!’

  Brian looked so placid. Always so placid. His face still boyish, but his arms strong and muscular. He worked for his father, who was a builder in Fareham. Brian liked working with his hands. It was hard to believe that Brian’s heart had ever beaten like a grouse’s wings.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘Yes. We’ll go for a few drinks tonight, eh?’

  A rendezvous arranged, Henry wandered back to his unit. The officer spoke again through the megaphone.

  ‘Erm …’ he said. ‘I’m afraid, men, I have bad news for you.’

  ‘They’ve found the flame-throwers,’ shouted a wag.

  A volley of cries from NCOs rang out over the wet moors. More grouse flew off. Their cries of ‘Go back’ mingled with shouts of ‘Shurrup’ and ‘Belt up, that man’ and ‘Hold your tongue, the officer’s talking.’

  At last order was restored sufficiently for the officer to continue talking.

  ‘Erm …’ he said. ‘Efforts to locate the camouflage team at short notice have unfortunately failed. Perhaps they … erm …’ His voice took on an exaggeratedly jocular tone, signalling and destroying the joke. ‘… perhaps they were too jolly well camouflaged, what?’ The sergeants laughed uproariously. The corporals smiled. They only laughed uproariously at the sergeants’ jokes. The men didn’t laugh at all. ‘So … erm … let’s all get fell in and see if we can have a jolly good march back to base.’

  They had a jolly shambolic march back to base. Once, in Germany, that creep Tubman-Edwards had said, ‘Any complaints?’ and Lanky Lasenby had said, ‘Yes, sir. There’s an awful smell of shambolic in the bogs’ and Tubman-Edwards had said, ‘Don’t you mean carbolic?’ and Lanky Lasenby had said, ‘Have you been in the bogs recently, sir?’ and everybody had laughed and the great lump of blackmailing yak turd had decided to find it amusing too so as not to lose face and Lanky Lasenby had got away with it as usual.

  After their jolly shambolic march, they had a jolly disgusting tea – what did Eric Lugg teach them? – and then Henry and Brian walked five miles, on a bitterly cold and grey but no longer wet summer evening, to the Red Lion at Scunnock Head, an old copper miners’ pub, the third highest in Britain. There, in the flagged bar, at a bare wooden table, in front of a fire that was roaring even in August, Henry and Brian drank good, strong Stones’s bitter and talked of everything except what mattered.

  They laughed about the method of marching that Lanky Lasenby had invented. The front ranks took huge steps, the back ranks took tiny steps, the squad elongated like a concertina, and they could never find anybody to blame.

  They laughed about the language of Corporal Pride. Cousin Hilda, whose look could strangle swear words at birth, approved of national service as character-building. Henry wished she could have met Corporal Pride. He hadn’t been a man of many words, but a man of one word said many times. He used it as adjective, noun and verb. They laughed as they recalled him saying, ‘Wot you done to this rifle, Pratt? The fucking fucker’s fucked.’

  What they didn’t talk about was their night-time embraces in German haystacks, their nights in a back street hotel in Aachen, with the church bells ingrained upon their guilt.

  Henry had decided what he’d say. He’d say, ‘Brian. I’m sorry I didn’t write. But … it’s over, you see. It was just because the sergeant warned us of the dangers of the Fräule
ins, and Lorna was so far away, and there I was, awash with youthful sexuality, in that strange, masculine, military world. And I liked you. But I’ve found out now that I’m completely heterosexual. Sorry, Brian.’

  He’d say it on the long, dark walk back, when Brian couldn’t see his face.

  They set off, briskly, through the raw night.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t write,’ said Brian, just as Henry was going to say ‘I’m sorry I didn’t write.’ Which left Henry saying the infinitely less impressive: ‘Yes. So am I.’

  ‘I’m engaged,’ said Brian.

  ‘What?’ said Henry.

  ‘To this nurse from Truro.’

  ‘Ah. Great.’

  ‘It was just … you know … the sergeant warning us about the Fräuleins and everything.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry, Henry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re upset, aren’t you?’

  ‘No. It’s just that … I was going to say the same thing to you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About us. And the sergeant and … er …’

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I’m engaged too. She’s called Jill Cornish. She’s an air hostess.’

  They would avoid each other for the rest of the fortnight and, when they’d gone home – Gus Norris’s fears were unfounded – Henry would never hear again from his national service lover.

  He crawled onto his palliasse, utterly exhausted, and was soon asleep.

  Sergeant Botney was waiting.

  ‘Right, you ’orrible little man,’ he said. ‘I’ve got you where I want you now. You’re going to be sorry you ruined my wedding anniversary, Signalman Henry Pratt. You’ve signed on while pissed, sunshine. I’m going to ruin your next fifteen years.’

  13 In the Land of Romance

  THE FAMOUS LANDMARKS of Florence floated like islands above a sea of red roofs. Around those great domes and bold elegant towers, those soaring triumphs of individual inspiration, lay the unified dignity of the city, the classical lines of the stark palaces, the genius of communal restraint. It was as if the eternal clash between the freedom of the individual and the discipline of the state had been frozen, in stone and marble, here on the banks of the Arno.