by David Nobbs
‘I have to. Editor’s orders. Otherwise it’ll look as if he’s biased towards the Conservatives.’
‘He is.’
‘Precisely. That’s why he can’t be seen to be. Mr Lewthwaite, how old are you?’
‘This morning I was 49. Now I’m 93.’
‘What made you enter politics?’
‘I wanted to serve the Labour Party, and the wider community. My fellow citizens of Thurmarsh, I suppose.’
‘No thought of personal gain?’
‘Financial, no. I … I can’t go on with this.’
‘We have to. I repeat, “No thought of personal gain?”’
‘Financial, no. Glory? Power? Self-satisfaction? We all seek those a bit, don’t we? I don’t dwell too much on motives. I prefer to dwell on achievements.’ Howard Lewthwaite reached out across the table. He just managed to clasp Henry’s hand. ‘Henry?’ he said. ‘I promise you. If arson and murder are proved, I’m with you, whatever it costs. Even if it costs … Naddy’s life. Even if it costs …’
Henry finished it for him.
‘… our marriage.’
21 Dangerous Days
11,000 MEN WERE idle at Fords of Dagenham, due to a strike at Briggs Motor Bodies. Egypt announced that she might halt work on clearing the Suez Canal altogether if Israel refused to withdraw from former Egyptian positions in the Gulf of Akaba. Henry took Ginny for a drink at the Winstanley.
‘There’s a reply to my letter at last,’ he said. ‘Outraged fury, signed “Another Angry Schoolmaster”.’
‘Colin wrote it,’ said Ginny.
‘What?’
‘Editor’s orders.’
They sat at a corner table, surrounded by brasses and shields. He took surreptitious glances at her face, noting the differences between it and Hilary’s, thus making a kind of living map of Hilary’s face. It was unfair to use Ginny in this way, but he couldn’t help it.
‘Hilary’s coming down this weekend,’ he said. ‘And we’ll … er … quite probably be … er …’
‘… playing bridge? You want me to make up a four? No? Having a bottle party? Fine. I’d love to come. No? Don’t tell me. I’ve got it. Making love!’
‘Oh, Ginny. No, I just thought I’d tell you so that … er … you could go away if you wanted to.’
‘We never made you move out.’
‘I’m not making you move out, Ginny.’ There’s Mr Matheson. Oh no! Supposing Howard Lewthwaite comes in and sees me with Ginny. Why did we come here? Why don’t I think ahead? ‘I’m giving you the chance to move out, if you want to, because, although I know sound doesn’t travel up as much as it travels down, you might still be very conscious of our presence, and I know what it’s like, Ginny, when you’re all alone, listening to people … er …’
‘… thrashing around in sexual ecstasy.’ Ginny’s eyes filled with tears. Henry handed her one of three handkerchieves which he’d brought in case of just such an emergency. She did it justice. Howard Lewthwaite entered. Ginny said, ‘Thanks, Henry. I’m sorry,’ and gave him a quick kiss. Howard Lewthwaite saw. Henry hurried up to the bar, to buy drinks they didn’t need.
‘Hello, Mr Lewthwaite,’ he said, over-brightly. ‘Hello, Mr Matheson. I’ve just been … er … telling the girl from the flat above me that Hilary’s coming down this weekend and suggesting that she might like to … er … go away, so as not to … er …’ He realized that Howard Lewthwaite had no idea that they were having pre-marital sex. His face blazed. Later, he’d realize that Howard Lewthwaite had been embarrassed too, because he was meeting Peter Matheson to discuss what Henry had told him.
‘I’ve got a little story for you,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘One of our councillors. Jim Rackstraw. He lost a champion pigeon four years ago. His prize bird. It turned up yesterday in Oslo.’
‘Thanks,’ said Henry. ‘Terrific. Thank you very much, Mr Lewthwaite.’
When he returned to Ginny with the drinks, Henry said, ‘One of the men I was talking to is Hilary’s father. Do you think I could ask you not to kiss me or fondle me or be in any way physically intimate with me for the rest of the evening?’
‘I think I might be able to restrain myself,’ said Ginny Fenwick.
The New York Post attacked the American oil industry’s refusal to meet Western Europe’s fuel needs. Dick Francis retired from the race track at the age of 36. Denzil Ackerman took Henry for a drink in the bar of the Midland Hotel.
They sat in an alcove, on the brown leather upholstery with gold studs. Above them, the Patriot class engine was still pulling a mixed freight out of Carlisle Upperby Yard in light snow, reminding Henry that this was the corner where they’d sat with Lorna Arrow. Tomorrow he’d be subjecting Hilary to a similar ordeal in the Lord Nelson. He felt sick at the prospect. Had he learnt nothing?
‘I’ll be in London next week,’ said Denzil. ‘Interviewing glittering show business personalities so that the citizens of Thurmarsh will be wildly envious of the great world of metropolitan sophistication. I want you to stand in for me.’
‘Oh! Well … thank you very much,’ said Henry.
‘This is quite deliberate, dear boy. As you know, I have private means. Not enough to keep me for a lifetime without working. Enough to keep me for what remains of my lifetime without working. I shall retire when I’m fifty. I’ve found it all quite amusing, even if I haven’t exactly fulfilled all my ambitions. I want to go while it’s still amusing. I’m grooming you to succeed me.’
‘Oh! Well … thank you very much.’
‘You aren’t made for the hurly burly of general reporting.’
‘Oh. Well … thank you very much,’ said Henry rather more doubtfully.
‘You introduced me to Lampo. I’m in your debt. There are two jobs for you next week. On Tuesday afternoon you’ll interview the Chief Torch Bearer of the Arc of the Golden Light of Our Lady.’
‘What??’
‘It’s a pseudo-religious cult. A pseudo-moralistic sect. It’s based in a big house outside town. Hexington Hall. It aims to protect South Yorkshire from the flood of obscenity and pornography.’
‘What flood of obscenity and pornography?’
‘The one it predicts is coming. And presumably hopes is coming, so that it can protect South Yorkshire from it. It’s run by an ex-colonel called Boyce-Uppingham.’
‘Good God!’
‘You know him?’
‘I know his niece. She said she had a nutty uncle near Thurmarsh.’
‘Nutty’s about right.’
‘Is it arc as in light or ark as in Noah’s?’
‘I don’t know. It could be either. Should be fun, anyway. And on Wednesday there’s a private view of a new exhibition at the Gusset.’
‘Paintings?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know enough about art.’
Denzil summoned a waiter, and ordered a pink gin and a pint of bitter.
‘Use long words,’ he said. ‘Stick in lots of cultural references. A few exclamation marks to suggest they’ve missed points they didn’t even know you were trying to make. It’s easy.’
‘Whose exhibition is it?’
‘Johnson Protheroe’s.’
‘Who?’
‘Precisely.’
‘What?’
‘Nobody else’ll have heard of him either. So you can say what you like.’
‘I won’t know if he’s any good.’
‘It’s unlikely. He’s Canadian.’
‘But, Denzil … I want to be fair to the man.’
‘Oh dear. The sweet innocence of youth! Look, not only is Johnson Protheroe Canadian, but he sounds like a firm of merchant bankers. If, however unlikely, he is good and you don’t spot it, I’m sure a bad review in Thurmarsh won’t ruin his career. I’m giving you the biggest chance of your career. For goodness sake, dear boy, rise to it.’
Their drinks arrived.
‘Try not to think beer,’ said Denzil Ackerman. ‘Think pink gin.’
; Until he received the editor’s summons, Henry had completely forgotten that, before his bout of flu, he’d promised to reveal his scoop within a week. What was he to do? He couldn’t reveal it till he’d told Hilary. And he’d told her father that he wouldn’t tell her until he’d found out what her father had found out.
‘Sit down, Henry.’
So far so good. An order with which he was happy to comply.
‘I want you to write another letter, attacking “Another Angry Schoolmaster”. Sign it “First Angry Schoolmaster”. This one can be really big if we get it off the ground.’
‘Right, Mr Redrobe.’ At last he’d get through an interview without saying ‘sir’.
‘It’s time to find a permanent job for you, a personal niche, apart from your general duties.’
‘Right, Mr Redrobe.’ Henry’s hopes rose. Had the neat, Brylcreemed editor forgotten?
‘But first, you promised me your scoop. Fire away. I’m all ears.’
‘Well … er … it involves a councillor.’
‘Ah!’
‘A Labour councillor.’
‘Ah!!’
‘And his pigeon.’
There was a long silence.
‘What?’
‘His pigeon. Councillor Jim Rackstraw keeps pigeons. He had a prize pigeon. His best bird. One of the four best birds ever bred in South Yorkshire. Four years ago, it disappeared. Without trace. Not a word. Not a coo. It’s turned up. In Oslo.’
The editor tapped on his desk very slowly, with his silver pencil, like a sick woodpecker losing its battle for life.
‘I see,’ he said quietly. He looked at his watch. ‘There’s time to make the travel arrangements this afternoon.’
‘Travel arrangements?’ said Henry.
‘To Norway. We’ll need a complete list of the names and addresses of every single Norwegian on whom that bird has crapped.’
Henry made no reply. There wasn’t any reply to be made.
‘Yes, I have just the job for you,’ said the editor. ‘Uncle Jason.’
‘Uncle Jason?’
‘And his Argusnauts. It’s an important job, Henry. Today’s children are tomorrow’s adults. Don’t look so horrified. Surely you aren’t going to tell me that the young man who in little more than a twelvemonth has come up with the wandering cat, the escaped canary and the rediscovered pigeon feels incapable of writing for children?’
‘No, sir. Of course not, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Damn! Damn! Damn!
They were all there, seated at their corner table in that brown and secret place, that most masculine of all surrogate wombs, the back room of the Lord Nelson in Leatherbottlers’ Row. As Uncle Jason entered with his pale, calm fiancée, they all turned to look, like the escape committee eyeing with suspicion the newcomer who’d been recommended as an expert in forged documents. Even Denzil was there, and he very rarely stayed over on a Friday night. Even Ginny was there, and this was the first time she’d been with Gordon and Jill since it had happened. Ginny looked brave and forbidding. Gordon looked sheepish. Jill looked defiant. Colin gave Henry a thumbs-up, as if to suggest that he already approved of Hilary. Henry frowned at him. It wasn’t a question of approval.
Denzil bought a round. Hilary asked for beer. Colin nodded his approval. Henry frowned at him.
‘We’re discussing what the world will be like in thirty years’ time,’ said Ted.
‘Homosexuality will be legal,’ said Denzil, arriving with a tray of drinks. He spoke louder than was necessary, for the benefit of Chief Superintendent Ron Ratchett.
‘Over my dead body,’ muttered Chief Superintendent Ron Ratchett.
‘Necrophilia may take a little longer,’ said Denzil.
Henry smiled. He’d told Hilary that Denzil was outrageous, and here he was being outrageous. Then he remembered that it wasn’t a question of approval, so he stopped smiling and frowned. Then he realized that this might look prudish, so he stopped frowning and smiled. Then he realized that constantly frowning and smiling looked ridiculous, so he sat very rigid and tried to show no feelings at all. Hilary raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘In thirty years’ time homosexuality will be so normal that it won’t even be considered odd to have homosexual priests,’ said Denzil.
‘And women priests?’ said Hilary.
‘That may take a bit longer,’ said Ted.
Hilary nodded ruefully. ‘You’re probably right,’ she said.
‘The Arc of the Golden Light of Our Lady, whose Chief Torch Bearer I’m interviewing on Tuesday, seem to believe that a flood of pornography is going to be unleashed on the world,’ said Henry.
‘I think it is,’ said Helen. ‘I think in thirty years’ time it’ll be as compulsory for comedians to talk about willies as it’s impossible now.’ To everyone’s surprise, she blushed. When she realized she was blushing, she went scarlet. Ted stared at her in fascinated astonishment.
‘Quite right, Helen,’ he said. ‘Everything’ll be pornographic. Even Listen with Mother.’
Henry bought a round. When he returned, Ted was saying, ‘In thirty years’ time, there’ll be photos of naked women in the newspapers.’ He seemed to be drawn to the subject like a mosquito to a fat thigh.
‘What about naked men?’ said Hilary.
‘That’ll take another thirty years.’
‘Sex will be a subject that can be freely discussed, openly, honestly, naturally, everywhere,’ said Colin.
‘Surely, if sex is that free and open, men will no longer need to look at pictures of naked women?’ said Hilary.
‘Advantage Hilary,’ said Gordon.
No, no, Gordon. You’re getting it all wrong. It isn’t a game, and it isn’t competitive.
‘Well said, kid,’ said Colin. ‘No more sex crimes. No more rape.’
None of them knew she’d been raped. Henry began to sweat with embarrassment. Please change the subject, he begged silently.
‘What a wonderful thought,’ said Hilary, so fervently that he thought she was going to add, ‘I’ve been raped.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Ginny. ‘I wish I agreed with you all. Your world of sexual freedom will be a world for the attractive and the beautiful.’ She looked straight at Gordon and Jill. Jill, who hadn’t spoken yet, blushed. Ginny relented, and turned away. ‘The ugly and the unprepossessing will stand on the side-lines and ogle,’ she said. ‘It’ll be flaunted endlessly. They’ll be tormented endlessly. Sex crimes will increase.’
‘How very depressing,’ said Helen.
‘You’re all right. You’re beautiful,’ said Ginny, with feeling.
‘I won’t be in thirty years,’ said Helen with equal feeling.
‘Deuce,’ said Gordon.
‘Are you trying to excuse sex crimes, Ginny?’ said Helen.
‘Certainly not. I’m trying to explain them,’ said Ginny. ‘The British are very good at condemning results while totally ignoring causes.’
Colin insisted on buying the next round, because he’d have to rush home to Glenda soon. Hilary drily expressed surprise on learning that he was married.
‘Well, time I went home to give the wife …’ Ben glanced at Hilary. ‘… some help with putting the children to bed.’
And Colin did rush home to Glenda. Ted raised an astonished eyebrow. Henry was amazed at Hilary’s ability to change things without saying anything.
A trip to the jazz club was mooted. Gordon and Jill exchanged looks and Gordon said, Dunkirk.’ Jill looked puzzled.
‘He means you should make a tactical withdrawal,’ said Ginny. ‘There’s no need to on my account. I’m thick-skinned and hard-bitten.’
‘Good,’ said Jill. ‘I like the jazz club.’
‘Are you coming, Henry?’ said Helen.
‘Yes,’ said Henry, decisively. ‘We are, aren’t we?’ he added, ruining the effect.
Hilary laughed. Everyone must have seen her beauty at that moment. Henry felt proud, and then he realized that Hilary wouldn’t
like that, and then he didn’t know what to think.
They walked down Leatherbottlers’ Row into Albion Street, down Albion Street, past the Chronicle and Argus building, and turned left into Commercial Road. Henry found himself with Helen. Ted was ahead of them, with Hilary. They seemed to be chatting easily. Behind them he could hear Ginny asking Gordon and Jill determinedly casual questions about their plans. Jill was clearly embarrassed. Gordon was finding few opportunities for elegantly coded replies. Ginny sounded totally relaxed.
Helen linked arms with Henry, as they began the gentle climb up Commercial Road. ‘One day when I was feverish with the flu I had a hallucination that you were there in bed with Ted and me,’ she said. ‘I was awfully disappointed to find you weren’t.’
‘For God’s sake, Helen,’ he said. He tried to pull his arm free. She clung on. They walked on, linked and silent.
In the jazz club, Helen said, ‘Hilary’s making a big hit with Ted,’ and Henry couldn’t bear to see her talking to Ted any more, so he went up to them, right in the middle of ‘Basin Street Blues’, and grabbed hold of Hilary, and said, ‘I want to talk to you, darling,’ and Ted hurried back to Helen, smiling, and Henry had an uncomfortable feeling that he’d been an unwitting puppet in a charade.
‘How do you like Sid Hallett and the Rundlemen?’ he asked.
‘I’ve heard them before, you know,’ she said. ‘I’m a Thurmarsh girl. Talking of that, your series, “Proud Sons of Thurmarsh”, is pretty male-oriented, isn’t it? How about a follow-up series, “Proud Daughters of Thurmarsh”?’
‘An excellent idea.’ Desire for her swept over him. ‘I want to make love with you,’ he said.
‘I must go and see my parents tonight.’ There was applause. Sid Hallett and the Rundlemen took huge sips of beer, in unison, as if it were written in the score. They embarked upon ‘South Rampart Street Parade’. ‘Let’s go now,’ she said.
‘We don’t want to seem like wet blankets the first time you meet them all. You’ve had a bit of that effect already. Usually they all come.’
‘They should go home to their wives.’
‘I quite agree. But it’s their life, isn’t it?’
‘I can’t hide my feelings,’ she said. ‘I’m awkward, difficult, uncompromising, inconvenient. Do you want to call it off now?’ She went round to them all, saying ‘Good night.’