by David Nobbs
‘George Timpley, of Timpley and Nephews!’ he said. ‘I interviewed you on the night of the fire.’
‘By ’eck,’ said George Timpley. ‘I thought I knew you.’
‘How are you?’ said Henry, thickly, through overcooked pastry.
‘I’ve been condemned.’
‘You what?’
‘My shop. Condemned. By the council.’
Henry moved over to join him.
‘I say condemned,’ said George Timpley. ‘They haven’t actually condemned it as such. They’ve offered to buy it. If I don’t sell, they’ll make a demolition order on the grounds that it’s unsafe. That’s tantamount to condemnation, i’n’t it?’
‘It’s blackmail. What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to sell. What else can I do, next to a blackened hole? An empty site rubs off on neighbouring properties. Her in corner house on end’s selling an’ all.’
‘Corner house? What corner house?’
‘Next to me on me right, on t’ corner wi’ Rundle Prospect. They say she’s unsafe an’ all.’
Henry began to think seriously about the area around the Cap Ferrat. But still not seriously enough.
On Saturday, December 15th, the Japanese actor Sessue Hayakawa got carried away by his role and punched Alec Guinness on the nose during the filming of The Bridge on the River Kwai. Alec Guinness accepted his apology and said, ‘I’m bleeding for my art.’ On the eve of petrol rationing, almost all petrol stations were closed. Henry bought Christmas presents, including a tea-cosy and tartan bedsocks for Cousin Hilda, a box of exotic honeys for Auntie Doris and cigars for Geoffrey Porringer. His other purchases were less inspired and need not detain us.
On Sunday, December 16th, the AA gave hundreds of stranded motorists enough petrol to get home. Henry, on foot, explored the area between Market Street and the river. The weather was cold, with a thin wind across the Rundle. Exhausted Siberian snow clouds dropped listless sleet over the silent Sunday town.
Three small streets, Canal View, Fish Hill and Rundle Prospect, ran eastwards down the gentle slope from Market Street to the river. Three small streets, Tannery Road, Malmesbury Street and Glasshouse Lane, ran at right angles to them. The whole area had an air of blight. Right at the centre of it was the great hole where the Cap Ferrat had been. There were other, smaller gaps in this neglected, stained mouth. Several teeth needed filling badly. Others were ripe only for extraction. The Old Apothecary’s House still had a gaping cavity, where old rubbish gathered. The Roxy Cinema, that yellowing old molar, no longer bothered to replace posters which wags had altered to Poxy. There were four empty cottages in Canal View. Several warehouses in Glasshouse Lane were boarded up, their trade gone when the Rundle silted. The Elite Guest House was elite no longer. The Old Gas Showrooms were used by Snugkoat Ltd as a store. Several tiles had slipped on the roof of the Paragon Surplus Stores. Outside number 11, Tannery Road, the board that announced ‘Tarpaulins Made, Hired and Repaired’ had come loose at one end and was hanging towards the uneven pavement. On the peeling shop front of number 6, Fish Hill, the sign announced ‘ontinental patisserie’. Nothing was quite right in these streets. In the Artisan’s Rest, the bitter tasted like liquid hair. The landlord said, ‘We don’t see strangers of a Sunday’ so accusingly that Henry almost said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go.’
And yet, in those modest streets, there were good simple buildings, Georgian, Victorian, Edwardian. If they were improved, if the warehouses were restored, if the gaps were sensitively filled, it could become a delightful area. Henry Pratt, investigative journalist, would fight to discover the truth. Henry Pratt, proud son of Thurmarsh, would fight to preserve what remained of the heritage of his town.
On Monday, December 17th, Hilary rang him at the office. Canal View, Fish Hill, Rundle Prospect, Tannery Road, Malmesbury Street and Glasshouse Lane were forgotten.
18 A Festive Season
HE ENTERED THE gleaming back bar of the Pigeon and Two Cushions three minutes late. The Christmas decorations were rather sparse. She was already there, dressed in a black jumper and a rather demure check dress in two shades of green. He was no more nervous than any young man would be who was taking out a screwed up, repressed, depressed, high-minded, mentally ill problem girl with a horrible body.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. He took off his duffel-coat and bought drinks. He glanced at her body. Its repulsiveness didn’t appear to be due to abnormality of shape. She was less thin than he’d remembered, and taller. As tall as him. She had a long, serious nose and a wide, really rather beautiful mouth. Her eyes were a deep brown. He sensed a wariness in them. She was extremely pale.
‘You’re very pale,’ he said. ‘Have you been ill?’
‘People are always asking me that,’ she said. ‘No. I’m as fit as a fiddle. I just am very pale.’
He asked if she’d eaten. She’d had enough not to starve if they didn’t eat, but not so much that she couldn’t shovel in a bit more if they did. This surprised him. He remembered her as a poor eater. He wondered if her mental illness consisted of bouts of starving herself and gorging herself. He went to the phone, with a decisiveness that surprised him, and rang Donny’s Bar. They had one table left. He booked it.
She asked him about his work. He spoke briefly about it, then changed the subject to her studies. She was reading English. He asked about her course. He was so busy sieving her replies for evidence of mental illness that their sense escaped him entirely. He hoped she hadn’t noticed, and tuned back in hurriedly. ‘But don’t let’s talk about me,’ she said. ‘I’m boring.’ It was a statement of fact, not a coquettish attempt to elicit a protesting ‘No, you aren’t!’
Oscar came on duty and smiled at them. Henry told Hilary about him, his colds and constipation. Strangely, considering how serious and high-minded she was, she laughed.
He ordered drinks, introduced Hilary, and asked Oscar how he was.
‘I’ve had a touch of flu. Otherwise, mustn’t grumble,’ he said. ‘Except for my little trouble.’
‘Your little trouble?’
‘Summat I wouldn’t like to discuss in front of a lady.’
Hilary ordered the next round and even offered Oscar a drink. He beamed his approval of her. Henry felt puzzled. No sign of mental illness so far. ‘I’m boring,’ was the only slightly odd thing she’d said.
She paid for the drinks. Oscar moved away, and then turned round, just as she said, ‘I need the Ladies. Where is it?’
‘It’s round the back,’ said Oscar, in a near-whisper, as if finding it indelicate to talk about the Ladies in front of a lady.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and hurried off. She was wearing flat shoes, which made her legs look thin.
‘“Thanks”?’ said Oscar, puzzled.
‘For telling her where the Ladies is.’
‘What?’
‘She asked where the Ladies is. You said, “round the back.”’
‘Oh! No! No! My little problem that I couldn’t mention in front of a lady. I knew you’d be worrying about it and I thought, if I said “round the back,” that might take away uncertainty without causing offence.’
Hilary returned.
‘I can’t find it,’ she said.
‘It’s in t’ corridor on t’ right,’ said Oscar.
Hilary stared at him.
‘It’s his problem that’s round the back,’ said Henry.
Hilary gave them a rather wild look, then hurried off.
They found it hard to avoid bursting into giggles every time they thought of Oscar. He asked her about Durham and she told him how beautiful it was. Of course her nose was too long, but when her face shone with pride, Henry felt that she was beautiful. He said, ‘I’d like to see Durham,’ and there was silence where her reply of, ‘You must come and see me’ might have been.
With every second of normality, his anxiety grew. Would she suddenly throw a fit or reveal that she thought she was Florence Nightingale? What would he do i
f she suddenly rolled around, frothing at the mouth, or shouted, ‘Put that light out! Don’t you know there’s a war on? And get me some lint.’
She did neither of these things.
They walked the short distance to Donny’s Bar. It was raining hard. As soon as they were out of earshot of the pub, they burst into laughter over Oscar’s piles. He hugged her and tried to kiss her. She struggled free. ‘No,’ she said.
Was it starting? Would she start screaming?
Nothing happened, except that she strode so fast, through the pinging rain, that he could hardly keep up.
‘Don’t go so fast,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
She touched his hand.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
They entered by the side door and went up the stairs to Donny’s Bar.
‘You’re soaking,’ he said.
‘I won’t melt.’
She couldn’t meet his eyes. Was she sinking into a private world of madness? Would she sit motionless at the table, in a catatonic trance, to the embarrassment of the Christmas revellers?
Donny’s Bar was heavily festooned with paper chains, and there was a large party, wearing paper hats, seated at five tables that had been pulled together. The waiter apologized for them.
‘It’s nice,’ said Hilary.
Henry felt almost weak with relief at her normality.
‘It’s nothing special here,’ he warned, when they’d got their menus.
‘It’s fine.’
They ordered rump steaks, with onion rings extra, and a bottle of red wine. Hilary clasped his hand and gave it a quick squeeze, but she wasn’t fully relaxed. Twice she looked round rather anxiously. Paranoia? Did she believe she was being followed, by little green men or the CIA?
She asked again about his work, and he abandoned his attempt not to be self-centred, in the interest of keeping her happy. Their steaks arrived. She ate heartily, and laughed at his disasters. How few fillings she had. How he wished, despite her laughter, that his career so far had been more of a triumph. Well, soon it would be. Then he remembered that her father was a great friend of Councillor Matheson. There could be problems ahead, if … if what?
She examined the list of desserts at greater length and with more intensity than it deserved. He had another sharp stab of fear. Perhaps it was schizophrenia. Would she say, ‘I’ll have the strawberry ice, and I’ll have the apple pie.’?
She said, ‘Nothing for me, thanks. I’m full.’ He almost loved her for her normality.
They nursed the remainder of the wine and chatted pleasantly, though they sometimes had to shout to make themselves heard above the shrieking of the festive party.
‘I’m sorry about them,’ he said.
‘For goodness sake,’ she said. ‘They’re enjoying themselves. They’re briefly unhierarchical. It’s intoxicating.’
‘What?’
‘The rigid class system in their office is suspended for the duration of the festivities. They’re hysterical. They’re free, after twelve long months in a straight-jacket. I know how they feel.’
Oh no. Did she mean she’d been in a straight-jacket? He had to find out, without arousing her suspicion. It would need subtlety.
‘I … er … I should think it’s … er … pretty awful in a straight-jacket,’ he said.
She looked at him in astonishment.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Being in a straight-jacket. I shouldn’t think it’s very nice.’
‘I heard what you said. It was just that it sounded as if you thought I had first-hand experience of it.’
‘What?’ he said. ‘No. No! Why on earth should I think you’d been in a straight-jacket?’
‘I don’t know.’ She laughed. ‘Can we change the subject? It’s becoming a bit of a straight-jacket.’
He searched for a change of subject.
‘You must have arguments with your father about the class system,’ he said.
She looked puzzled. ‘Why?’ she said.
‘Well, you obviously hate it, and he’s a Tory councillor.’
‘He is not. He’s a lifelong socialist. Why did you think he’s a Conservative?’
‘Well … he’s a draper.’
‘I don’t think it’s compulsory for drapers to be Conservative.’ There was a dryness in her tone. She smiled, to take the sting out of it.
‘He’s a friend of Councillor Matheson.’
‘Outside the council chamber. Conservatives are human beings, you know. Fellow citizens of the British Isles. It’s a kind of love-hate relationship with Uncle Peter anyway.’
Uncle Peter! It was going to be difficult to tell her about his investigations.
And what about his evening with Anna? Should he mention that?
‘I … er … I took Anna out,’ he said.
‘Yes. She told me. I wondered if you’d mention it.’
Thank goodness he had. He wondered how much Anna had told her about it. Could he ever tell her the whole story?
‘I thought she was the one I fancied,’ he said. ‘I can be remarkably stupid sometimes.’
He was astounded to hear himself say this. She said nothing. He thought she might have responded to his implied compliment to her, or argued against his harsh assessment of himself, but she did neither.
He asked her if she’d heard from Anna.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I had a dreary letter from Toulouse. She’s staying with a pen-friend who’s going to become a nun.’
‘Yes,’ he said. No. He mustn’t have secrets from Hilary. ‘That’s the official story. She’s actually living with an older man.’
‘I knew she was lying,’ said Hilary. ‘Oh, I do find that depressing.’ Ah. A clue? ‘I find it all so depressing.’ Ah. ‘Going to Italy with her was depressing.’ Ah.
‘Why?’
‘We just drifted apart, inch by inch.’ Ah. ‘I’m not blaming her. It was mainly my fault.’ Ah.
‘What do you mean, your fault?’
‘Do we have to talk about that? Do I have to endure cross-examination?’
‘No. Of course not.’
The office party shrieked at something the accounts manager had said. Henry and Hilary looked at each other rather forlornly, as the waves of laughter crashed around them.
She wanted to pay her share. He refused.
As they left, the Christmas party apologized insincerely for the noise. ‘It’s been fun,’ said Hilary. ‘Go home and have one for me,’ said an intoxicated head cashier. ‘It’s the only one you’ll get tonight,’ responded a tipsy typist. Everybody shrieked. Henry and Hilary hurried out, embarrassed that the subject had been raised.
It had stopped raining. There were queues for the buses and trams, and no taxis to be seen. Buses and taxis had been reduced, due to the petrol crisis. The doomed trams seemed to say, ‘I told you so,’ as they clattered towards extinction.
‘I’d much rather walk really,’ said Hilary.
Claustrophobia? Cabophobia? Busophobia?
‘I love walking,’ she said. ‘I love fresh air.’
Agoraphilia?
They walked along York Road, past the junction with Winstanley Road, up out of the grime into the desirable suburbs. They turned left into Lambert Simnel Avenue, and right into Perkin Warbeck Drive. It seemed a very Conservative area for a Labour councillor.
He dreaded arriving at her house. He had no idea whether to kiss her or not.
‘This is it,’ she said, outside a pleasant brick house. One light still shone, as if they were waiting up for her to see if she was all right.
She kissed him and was gone, without even saying good night. She didn’t turn to wave. They’d made no plans to meet again.
In Eastbourne, Dr John Bodkin Adams was accused of murdering a rich widow. Lord Radcliffe’s proposals for Cyprus were published. There would be a period of self-government under British sovereignty, with 6 of the 36 members of the legislative assembly nominated by the Governor. Later, wh
en self-determination came, partition between Greek and Turkish Cyprus was a possibility. Nobody seemed to regard these proposals as a Christmas present.
Henry couldn’t bear even to look at his article on Peter Matheson. The glory which he hoped to win from his exposure of municipal corruption would be considerably reduced if every rogue whom he exposed had been praised to the skies by him as a ‘Proud Son of Thurmarsh’.
When he drew back the curtains from his absurdly positioned French windows on Christmas morning, he was surprised to see a covering of snow, turning the shared front garden into a Christmas card.
He didn’t feel Christmassy. His head ached unpleasantly. His eight cards sat sadly on the mantelpiece. They were from the Hargreaveses, Auntie Doris and Geoffrey, Cousin Hilda, Mrs Wedderburn(!), Martin Hammond and family, Lampo Davey, Ginny, and Ted and Helen, with seven kisses naughtily added beneath Helen’s name. Ginny had put one kiss.
The house was silent. Ginny had gone to her family. Gordon and Hazel were spending Christmas together, for the sake of the children, though in separate beds. Ginny was terrified that there’d be a reconciliation. She was terrified of this insight into her own heart – terrified that she wished that those young children, who needed love and stability, should be denied them so that she could have her man. She’d told Henry this, beneath tartan shields draped with holly, in the thronged, frenzied lounge bar of the Winstanley, awash all around them with goodwill for all men, including, Henry hoped, those sorts of men who were never seen in the Winstanley, such as blacks, gypsies, queers, communists, Jews and foreigners. She had cried, and blown her nose while others blew squeakers.
He went into the cold, bleak hall, the no-man’s-land of the rented sector, and found it. His ninth card. Underneath the printed message there were no easy kisses, no biro love, no postal coquettishness, but a single, simple sentence, written in an elegant but perhaps too careful hand. ‘Thank you for a really enjoyable evening. Hilary.’