by David Nobbs
A corner of Henry’s mind debated the philosophical aspect of this. In all probability, no crates of surgical trusses had fallen that day in Europe, North America, South America, Asia, Australasia, Africa or the Indian Subcontinent. The only crate had fallen inches from Henry. It could have been worse, but … lucky?
He accepted a large brandy on the house. As he walked away, he reflected on what a week it was becoming for large brandies in the afternoon.
He wondered which of his colleagues would have written the story that would have gone beneath the headline ‘Journalist (21) crushed by surgical trusses’.
He thought of all the other things that might fall on him – decaying Georgian stonework, disintegrating meteorites, wing-flaps off old planes, swans cut short by blood clots in mid-flight. Life was incredibly dangerous.
And then it struck him, like a falling crate of surgical trusses. The obvious fact, which hadn’t occurred to him, because this was Thurmarsh, not Chicago, this was real life, not a novel, he was Henry Pratt, not a gangster. The crate had been meant to kill him. Somebody – Bill Holliday, or his evil-faced brother Stan, or both, or somebody else – was trying to rub him out.
He began to think of what might hit him by design. Packing cases pushed from attic windows. Sharp slates dropped off roofs. Bullets from hidden snipers. Meat pies lobbed from the Rundle Café. He arrived at the bus station in no fit state to conduct an interview, which might explain, though it couldn’t excuse, the fiasco that was to follow.
Hexington Hall was a minor stately home, with an unimposing classical stone frontage, set in scruffy park-land. A pale, male secretary led Henry across a large entrance hall, gliding as if on wheels, his buttocks firmly clenched against the expected flood of pornography. Henry caught a glimpse, through open doors, of rooms where once the living had been gracious.
The large drawing-room smelt of damp and righteousness. Courtly ancestors in darkened oils looked down on tables covered in piles of leaflets.
Colonel Hubert Boyce-Uppingham shook his hand with surprising gentleness. They sat in leather armchairs in front of a modest fire of dead wood from the estate. The Chief Torch Bearer had short, crinkly hair, an aquiline nose, and dark eyes which glittered with intelligence, or fanaticism, or malice, or a combination of all three. Henry wasn’t yet sure.
‘I know your niece,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Colonel Boyce-Uppingham sounded as if this was so unlikely that only good manners deterred him from disputing it. He changed the subject humiliatingly, launching into his theme, not with loud military briskness, as Henry had expected, but with the more dangerous, soft, silkily reasonable tones of the man who has never doubted that he is right. ‘It’s only straws in the wind as yet. Waiting for Godot. Look Back in Anger. A French revue in which a horse “defecates” on stage.’ An acolyte with acne, serving tea and a digestive, barely interrupted the flow. ‘Where will it end? With four-letter words on television and the live sexual act performed on stage by the Thurmarsh Repertory Company.’
Henry looked up and saw, to his horror, right above his head, a huge chandelier.
Totally unheard by Henry, totally unaware that he was totally unheard by Henry, Colonel Hubert Boyce-Uppingham was warming to his theme. ‘The military mind is trained to enter the mind of the enemy, in order to anticipate his moves. Monty did it with Rommel. That’s why he beat him. That’s what I’m doing.’
Journalist crushed by chandelier! Henry longed to move. He didn’t dare. He was petrified.
‘So I become the enemy,’ said Colonel Boyce-Uppingham. ‘So who am I, this enemy? I’m a greedy man. I’m an unattractive man, rejected by women. I’m a man with hatred in his heart.’
Henry looked up, at the single chain which held up the mighty chandelier. Which of them could have sawn through it? The spotty server of tea? The slinking, sliding secretary? Bill Holliday, visiting to collect an old car? He shivered, despite the fire.
‘So, I will wreak my revenge on the sex that has rejected me. On the God who has given me no charm. Making a fortune as I do so!’
Colonel Boyce-Uppingham paused, for dramatic effect. Like a passenger who wakes when the car stops, Henry hurtled back to consciousness. He began to scribble, self-protectively. Reassured by this activity, Colonel Boyce-Uppingham resumed.
‘I want to exploit women for money,’ he said. ‘I want to own and exploit “ladies of the night”.’ Even in the mind of the enemy, he couldn’t bring himself to avoid euphemism entirely. ‘I want to open filthy strip-clubs, where their bodies will be humiliated by men with hungry eyes. I want to fill the land with naughty magazines, a tidal flood of filth.’
Henry’s mouth sagged open. His pencil could hardly keep up. This was dynamite. The chandelier was almost forgotten.
‘Now do you see what I have to fight, why I see it as my personal mission to defeat these dark forces?’ said Colonel Boyce-Uppingham.
‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ said Henry.
‘And will you print all this, in your newspaper, to help me?’
‘Oh yes! Yes, I will,’ said Henry.
On Wednesday afternoon, there having been no reply to Henry’s second letter signed ‘First Angry Schoolmaster’, Colin typed a second letter signed ‘Second Angry Schoolmaster’.
The phrases rolled off Henry’s rickety old typewriter. ‘The Chief Torch Bearer of the Ark …’ It had turned out to be that kind of ark. ‘… of the Golden Light of Our Lady told me, with astonishing frankness, of his secret desires.
‘“I want to exploit women for money,” he told me. “I want to open filthy clubs …”
‘… instead of giving way to these impulses, Colonel Boyce-Uppingham is countering them by leading a nationwide fight against pornography.
‘Perhaps, as the man who knows no fear can never be truly called brave, so the man who knows no temptation can never truly be called good.’
He handed his first full-length feature article to Terry Skipton, who read it with increasing astonishment.
‘He really said all that?’
‘Every word.’ He showed Terry his notebook. The news editor read it carefully.
‘This is dynamite,’ he said at last.
‘I know.’
And off Henry went, well pleased with himself, to the private view at the Gusset Gallery.
His air of triumph was quickly flattened by the need to look out for falling crates. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, knowing that someone was trying to kill you.
At last he reached the comparative safety of the gallery. Safety? Man killed by falling painting. Constable lands on journalist.
The Gusset Gallery was situated next to the court house, beside the Town Hall. It was built in the Italianate style, as if it had been hoped that something of that nation’s artistic greatness would rub off on it.
He climbed an impressive staircase, past the bust of Sir Joshua Gusset, liniment maker and philanthropist, past early paintings of the Thurmarsh School, some of which, unfortunately, had not been restored, and others of which, even more unfortunately, had.
The white-walled rectangular gallery was bare of furniture except for a trestle-table with a white cloth, behind which a man with a bow-tie was dispensing wine, and two wooden benches, one facing each long wall, set in the middle of the room directly beneath a skylight. Skylight! Assassin lurked in skylight, inquest told.
Men in dark suits and women in two-piece costumes with extravagant hats were standing around and talking. A few artistically attired people were even looking at the pictures.
A large lady approached him like an overdressed waterspout.
‘Hermione Jarrett,’ she said. She seemed to think no further explanation was necessary.
‘Henry Pratt.’ Two could play at that game.
‘Ah!’ She was puzzled.
‘I’m from the Argus,’ he said, relenting.
‘Oh! What’s happened to our nice Mr Ackerman?’
‘He’s in London.’
‘Oh!’ Her
mione Jarrett’s expression suggested that they had been unforgivably let down by hitherto nice Mr Ackerman. ‘Well, never mind. You’d like a catalogue, of course.’
Her ‘of course’ triggered his perversity. ‘Later,’ he said grandly. ‘When I review exhibitions, I usually like to remain unencumbered by the kind of preconceptions that titles give.’
He took a glass of red wine and tried to look as if assessing paintings was something he did every week.
There were forty-two pictures. They were modern. They were colourful. They were bold, sometimes even violent. There seemed to be a Cubist influence. They were, he thought, not terrible. But were they good? He had no idea.
He began to see certain things in certain of them. He began to see strange seascapes, with blue still seas beneath black, thundery clouds. One picture seemed to be of a barometer, with a serene, empty face set before a background of purple storm clouds. A glimmer of an idea came to him. Perhaps the pictures represented complacency, blue seas failing to reflect stormy skies, man failing to find a message on the face of the cosmic barometer. He began to see this theme all round him, but was it Johnson Protheroe’s or his own? If only he hadn’t so pretentiously denied himself access to the catalogue.
He listened to other people’s comments, hoping for guidance. ‘Look, Edgar, that’s exactly the colour of our clematis,’ wasn’t much help. ‘He’s as daft as a brush,’ seemed more promising, until he heard the reply, which was ‘Aye, well, he would be. Red setters often are.’
Were there usually people so ignorant of art at private views? Or were these people hired hoods, with forged invitations, whose task it was to wipe Henry out?
He decided to stick closely to Hermione Jarrett, for protection. She topped up his glass, and gave him a catalogue. The pictures had no titles. No help there! He was out of his depth.
‘They’ve no titles,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Apparently he regards titles as the labels of prejudice. He’s an uncompromising man. Of course he has been described as the harbinger of a new brutalism.’
Henry felt that he must make some reply. What reply could he make? He hadn’t even been aware that there had been an old brutalism. His nerves felt shredded. He couldn’t cope with all this.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘he could hardly be more brutal than life.’
‘That’s not bad,’ said Hermione Jarrett. ‘You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel, young man. Well, under dear Mr Ackerman, to be precise.’ She remembered dear Mr Ackerman’s proclivities and visibly regretted her choice of phrase. ‘Come and meet a keen patron of the arts, Mr Hathersage.’ She led Henry, at a cracking pace that permitted no escape, straight towards the man who was very probably trying to kill him.
‘Henry Pratt!’ said the diminutive property developer. ‘Greetings, young sir!’
Oh no. Another member of the ‘young sir’ brigade.
Like many a hostess who has solved the problem of two guests whom she doesn’t like by introducing them to each other, Hermione Jarrett scuttled off with all the joy of a freed rabbit. The eyes of the two people whom Hermione Jarrett didn’t like met, and Henry’s blood ran cold. Was this man trying to kill him?
‘So what do you think of them?’ said Fred Hathersage.
‘I think they’re very interesting,’ said Henry cautiously, cravenly.
‘I think they’re crap,’ said Fred Hathersage savagely. Was his savagery really aimed at modern art, or at Henry? ‘I like English painters of the old school. I’m thinking of people like …’ He paused. ‘… Constable.’
Henry was seeing hidden meanings everywhere now. Did Fred Hathersage mean, ‘Don’t go to the police’?
‘And Turner.’
Did he mean, ‘Or you’ll be turning in your grave’?
‘And Sir Alfred Munnings.’
Did he mean, ‘If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up as dead, lifeless horseflesh’?
Henry shuddered. He felt that he couldn’t remain in the same room as Fred Hathersage a moment longer. He fled, back to the warm licensed womb in Leatherbottlers’ Row, and just missed hearing a broad-beamed lady in an aquamarine suit say, ‘It says “Toronto” upside-down on that one. How very strange!’
Next morning, before going to court, Henry typed up his review. He imagined that Denzil would approve of his intro, which read: ‘If Ceri Richards is the Welsh Vlaminck, can Johnson Protheroe be said to be the Braque of Canada? Or even … intriguing thought!… her Sisley?’
He imagined Denzil nodding approval of: ‘There is a series of bold, disturbing seascapes here. The seas are as blue as a de Wint door, yet the skies are heavy with the menace of thunder! Is this the sturm und drang of a transatlantic Klimt? Or is it a Hogarthian statement about mankind’s condition?’
Henry himself quite liked: ‘Another picture (a kind of faux-naïf Cubism of the Rockies!!) explores this leitmotif in an even more specific way. It shows a barometer hanging on a wall. The background says, clearly, “Stormy”. Significantly, the barometer does not!’
He bashed out his final paragraph. ‘If all you know of Canadian painting is of the likes of Tom Thompson, Jock Macdonald and A. Y. Jackson, with perhaps a vague notion about the Automatistes of Montreal … I must confess I’m shamefully vague about them!… then hurry along to the Gusset.’
He handed his review to Terry Skipton, with a third letter signed ‘First Angry Schoolmaster’. The news editor read the review slowly, his heavily lidded eyes seeming to bore through its pathetic pretensions.
‘Not bad at all,’ he said.
Henry tried to hide his surprise and relief.
‘Really not at all bad.’
Henry tried to hide his delight.
‘In fact it’s just like the incomprehensible twaddle Mr Ackerman writes,’ said Terry Skipton.
‘Have whatever you like,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘Though personally I’ll stick to the table d’hôte.’
The exceptionally mild weather was continuing, and it was uncomfortably warm in the restaurant of the Midland Hotel. All the lights were on, for the day was grey.
‘It’s very difficult to prove that a fire isn’t arson,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘You can prove it is, and if you don’t prove it is, you assume it isn’t.’
The waiter approached.
‘What is the potage today?’ said Howard Lewthwaite.
‘Oxtail, sir,’ said the waiter.
‘Right. Oxtail soup and I like the sound of the cheese omelette,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.
‘Soup for me, too,’ said Henry. ‘And what are the rillettes Thurmarshiennes?’
‘Rissoles, sir.’
‘The lamb chop, please.’
‘They do quite a nice choice, don’t they?’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘The fire people can add nothing to what was said at the inquest. All you have to go on, Henry, is one overheard comment. Heard from Hilary lately?’
‘Of course,’ said Henry. ‘We write almost every day.’
‘It’s wonderful the effect you’ve had on that girl. Wonderful. I’ve talked to Peter Matheson and Fred Hathersage. We’ll allow you to uncover, as a scoop for yourself, the development plans, the architect’s model, the fact that Fred owns some of the property. All above board. Nothing denied. If anybody wishes to make allegations, let them try to find proof. A great story for you, Henry. We didn’t want to unveil it yet, but you’ve been too clever for us. Kudos for you. No problems with Hilary. How about it?’
‘Somebody’s trying to kill me,’ said Henry.
‘Two oxtail?’ said the waiter.
‘Yes,’ said Howard Lewthwaite faintly. ‘What did you say?’ he said, when the waiter had gone.
‘I went to see Bill Holliday on Monday,’ said Henry.
‘Bill’s all right.’
‘So everybody says.’
‘He’s a very generous supporter of children’s charities.’
‘So what’s he hiding? I’ve grown up this last year. I was interviewing him
for “Proud Sons of Thurmarsh”.’
‘Did your piece on me well, incidentally.’
‘Thanks. I vaguely threatened him. A threat that was pretty meaningless if he wasn’t guilty. Immediately, he threatened me. And the very next day, I was nearly killed by surgical trusses.’
‘Surgical trusses?’
Henry gave Howard Lewthwaite the details, breaking off as the waiter removed their plates to say, ‘Mr Tintern thinks Hilary might get a first, if she works hard.’
‘It could have been an accident,’ said Howard Lewthwaite, when the waiter had gone.
‘So could the Cap Ferrat,’ said Henry. ‘It isn’t likely, though, is it? It’s all too damned convenient. God knows, Mr Lewthwaite, I’m not brave. And I can’t bear the thought of losing Hilary. But what can I do? Run away? Give up? Fine husband and father I’d make.’
The waiter returned.
‘Who’s for the chop?’ he said.
‘Both of us, probably,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.
22 Black Friday
HALFWAY THROUGH HIS coffee and toast, there was a knock on his door.
‘It’s me,’ said Ginny. ‘I’m not well.’
He opened the door. Her face was pale and puffy. He felt it incongruous that a future war correspondent should have a pink dressing-gown with fluffy pom-poms.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
‘Prawn curry.’
‘What?’
‘I had a prawn curry at the Shanghai. I’ve got food poisoning. Will you tell Terry?’
‘Right.’
She hurried off, unaware that a prawn curry might have saved her life.
There was pale, watery sunshine, but already high clouds were drifting in from the west. Dennis Lacey was also on his own.
‘Is your friend ill?’ he said.
‘She’s got food poisoning,’ said Henry. ‘How’s … er … Marie, isn’t it?’
‘By heck, you’ve got a memory.’
‘I’m a trained journalist.’
‘She’s gorra day off. She’s changed shifts with this friend … look out!!’
Henry turned, and saw a black Standard Eight coming straight for them. He looked into the white, silently screaming, strangely hunched face of the driver. He dived to the side. The car missed the tram stop by inches. It just missed Henry as he crashed onto the pavement, but it struck Dennis Lacey, tossing him into the air. The car scraped along the stone wall of number 243, struck another member of the queue a glancing blow, and roared off down Winstanley Road. Somebody screamed. Dennis Lacey was lying in a crumpled heap, moaning, bleeding. The woman who’d been hit was staring at her cut leg with stunned disbelief. Henry crunched across the gravel, past the monkey puzzle tree. The door opened. ‘999,’ he gasped. A frightened woman, with her hair in a net, nodded. The house had new furniture, new carpets, a new smell, but in the few seconds before his call got through, in that dark hall, Henry thought of the teas he’d had in this house with his English teacher, Mr Quell, and his blind wife, and stale Battenburg cake. The Quells had gone to live in Worthing so that, instead of not being able to see this northern industrial town, Mrs Quell could end her days not being able to see the sea.