by David Nobbs
Dennis Lacey was rushed to the Infirmary, where he was X-rayed in his own department. ‘Not an emergency already,’ said one of his colleagues, as he was wheeled in. ‘There would be, with Dennis late.’
Henry described the incident to the police, without letting on that he was the intended target. He’d have to tell them some time, but he wanted to tell Mr Lewthwaite and Hilary first.
He’d tell Mr Lewthwaite tonight, and go on to Durham tomorrow after work. He’d have to. There was no time to lose. He owed it to the citizens of Thurmarsh.
Dennis Lacey’s only crime had been to stand next to Henry Pratt, The Man They Were Trying To Muzzle. It seemed possible that it had cost him his life.
The newsroom was eerily quiet when Henry arrived at ten-fifteen. All the reporters were out on stories.
‘What’s kept you?’ said Terry Skipton. ‘And where’s Ginny?’
‘Ginny has food poisoning,’ said Henry. ‘She ate a prawn curry at the Shanghai. I’ve almost been killed.’
‘You what?’
‘A car came straight for us at the tram stop and almost killed the man next to me.’
‘Why? It’s not icy, is it?’
‘Oh no. This was an attempted murder, Mr Skipton.’
Terry Skipton gawped at him.
‘You lucky man!’ he said.
‘I know. A few inches more!’
‘I’m talking about the story.’
‘You what?’
‘I came within inches of death as I saw the murder car mow down the man standing beside me. I felt the wind on my legs as the fatal mudguards brushed my trousers. Miracle escape for Argus reporter in tram stop rush-hour murder terror.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Henry. ‘I never thought of it as a story.’
Terry Skipton threw back his head and laughed. Henry had never seen him laugh before. He wanted to say, ‘But he was trying to kill me, you see.’ He couldn’t.
Terry Skipton stopped laughing as suddenly as he’d begun.
‘How’s the person who was hit?’ he said.
‘Still alive when he was taken off.’
‘Ring the Infirmary and find out how he is and who he is.’
‘I know who he is,’ said Henry. ‘He’s called Dennis Lacey. He works in the X-ray department.’
‘Where?’
‘At the Infirmary.’
‘Hospital worker’s colleagues fight for his life after horror at the tram stop when rush-hour became crush-hour,’ said Terry Skipton.
‘His girlfriend Marie would have been with him, but she changed shifts in favour of a friend.’
‘Amazing escape of Miracle Marie, the good-time girl who became a good-turn girl,’ said Terry Skipton.
‘Ginny would have been there too.’
‘“Chinese meal saved my life,” says Grateful Ginny.’ Terry Skipton smiled. Henry had never seen him smile before. ‘It must have been a nasty experience,’ he said, much more gently. ‘Now get the complete story. You have one hour to redeem yourself. Nobody need ever know about this conversation.’
He winked. Henry had never seen Terry Skipton wink before.
Barely an hour later, Henry stuck a piece of cheap paper into his decrepit typewriter and hammered away so fiercely that the letter t broke off. Excited by his story and by his courage in continuing to work when he’d so narrowly escaped being murdered, Henry didn’t notice. He bashed out his intro: ‘A peaceful tram queue turned into a cauldron of error in hurmarsh his morning when a car climbed he pavemen and hi wo people, injuring one of hem severely in he legs and ches .’
He inked in the missing letters, handed in the story, reported the fault to the typewriter maintenance people and, as instructed, left a note in the machine to remind them what was wrong. He wasn’t happy with the first draft of his note, which read: ‘his typewriter has no le er .’ He threw it away and, after careful thought, started again. ‘My machine lacks a symbol which follows s and precedes u,’ he typed. ‘So please would you give my machine a symbol which follows s and precedes u. Yours sincerely, Henry Pra .’
He had the front page lead, his first ever review of an art exhibition, and a huge feature on Colonel Boyce-Uppingham. It was practically a Henry Pratt benefit edition. He’d have felt good, except that the better he felt, the more he felt that he didn’t want to die, and so the worse he felt.
At 3. 13 his world began to fall apart. Terry Skipton told him that an angry Colonel Boyce-Uppingham was in Interview Room B and wanted to see him.
Interview Room B was bare and dingy, with dirty yellow paint, four upright chairs round a nasty, cheaply veneered table, a single light bulb with a green shade and a ribbed radiator from which the paint was peeling.
Colonel Boyce-Uppingham was pacing up and down restlessly, but his voice was carefully controlled.
‘Redrobe’s gone out,’ he said, as if the editor’s absence was a deliberate snub. ‘So I’ve come to you for an explanation.’
‘An explanation?’
Colonel Boyce-Uppingham waved Henry’s article in the air. ‘Of this disgusting pan of festering ferret’s entrails masquerading as journalism. It’s misrepresentation on a gargantuan scale.’
Henry hurried out, and soon returned with the notebook full of someone else’s shorthand notes from days gone by. He opened it at a random page and handed it to Colonel Boyce-Uppingham.
‘“English pork is good, with leg and loin at 3s. 8d. a pound,’” read Colonel Boyce-Uppingham. ‘“Shoulder of lamb is 3s. to 3s. 4d. English beef, too, is good, and offal is plentiful.” What is all this?’
‘Oh. You … er … you can read shorthand,’ said Henry.
‘“Large Norwegian herrings are a snip at 10d. a pound”??’
‘Oh, I … er … must have given you my shopping notes, we do them on a Friday, how silly of me,’ said Henry.
He hurried out, and soon returned with his own notebook. The colonel grabbed it.
‘It’s not in shorthand,’ he said.
‘No, I can’t do shorthand.’ Henry realized his mistake immediately.
‘So! You were deliberately fobbing me off,’ said Colonel Boyce-Uppingham with deadly calm.
‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Henry. ‘I think you’ll find you said everything we printed,’ he added, rallying. It was to prove a brief recovery.
‘I don’t dispute that,’ said Belinda Boyce-Uppingham’s uncle.
‘What?’
‘It’s the words you didn’t print that I’m concerned about.’
Fear laid her cold talons on Henry’s throat. Quietly, almost gently but with suppressed fury, the Chief Torch Bearer of the Ark of the Golden Light of Our Lady explained to Henry the enormity of what he had done. He also made it clear what he thought of Henry, ironically using three of the words against which his great campaign was being planned.
Terry Skipton went white.
‘You twerp,’ he said. ‘You bloody twerp.’
Henry had never heard Terry Skipton swear before.
Mrs Etheridge, the oldest of the copy-takers, came over from her booth with a story which had just been phoned through. She handed it to Terry Skipton without a word. Terry Skipton read it and handed it to Henry without a word. Henry read it and handed it back to Terry Skipton without a word. Terry Skipton passed it to the subs’ table, where a sub-editor swiftly created the headline ‘Artist fumes at “incredible” gallery blunder’.
The story that all Johnson Protheroe’s paintings had been hung upside-down appeared in the same issue as Henry’s review of them.
‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ said Mr Andrew Redrobe. Was the ‘gentlemen’ faintly ironical?
Henry sat opposite the editor. Terry Skipton sat at the end of the desk, facing them both.
‘I’ve read your main lead,’ said the editor. ‘A good story. And a lucky escape.’
‘Yes. The lad did very well,’ said Terry Skipton.
Henry gawped. He’d never heard Terry Skipton give unqualified praise before. In one da
y he’d made the news editor laugh, smile, wink, swear and give unqualified praise. It was an achievement that would pass down in the legends of provincial journalism.
‘I’ve had Colonel Boyce-Uppingham in here,’ said Mr Andrew Redrobe. ‘He’s a very unhappy man. Can you explain what happened?’
‘I made a mistake,’ said Henry. ‘I missed one vital link in his argument.’
‘Do you call that an excuse?’
‘No. I call it an explanation.’
‘I’ve had to promise him a full retraction, a grovelling apology, a series of articles about his organization and free advertising. Even with all that, he may sue.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Henry.
‘Why did you let this go through without checking, Terry?’
‘Henry showed me his notebook. Every word we quoted was written down there at the time,’ said Terry Skipton. ‘And I do have to have some trust in my reporters.’
‘But these were sensational admissions.’
‘So sensational that I felt that, if I queried them, he might reflect on the wisdom of allowing us to print them.’
‘All right. I accept that,’ said Mr Andrew Redrobe. He sighed. ‘Let’s turn to the paintings. What excuse or explanation have you for that cock-up.’
‘It wasn’t my cock-up,’ said Henry. ‘It was the gallery’s. All I did was fail to spot it.’
‘All you did? What a wonderful story that would have made. Ridicule for the art gallery, which turned me down when I was nominated for their board, not that that’s important. Intellectual poseurs pricked. The philistinism of the mass of our readers triumphantly justified. Instead of which, it’s us they’re laughing at. Us. Me. My paper. I’d like to hear your views on why you think I’d be sensible to continue to employ you.’
‘I’m investigating a story that’ll take the lid off this town and reveal a rotting heap of stinking fish,’ said Henry. ‘I can deliver you a scoop that’ll be the envy of every provincial journalist from Land’s End to John O’ Groats.’
The jaws of Mr Andrew Redrobe and Terry Skipton dropped. There was a long silence. At last the editor plucked up his courage and asked the question that had to be faced.
‘Is it about a pigeon?’
‘It’s not about a pigeon.’
There was another long silence.
‘Well come on,’ said the editor.
‘Ah!’ said Henry.
‘What?’ said the editor.
‘These matters affect my fiancée and her family and I must tell them first. Can I have till Monday morning?’
The editor gave another deep sigh. ‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘You’ve got till Monday. Now get out.’
‘Thank you, Mr Redrobe,’ said Henry.
He’d made two enormous mistakes. He was a laughing stock. Somebody was trying to kill him. A man was fighting for his life, in the Infirmary, because of him. But, even on that black Friday, Henry managed to find one tiny consolation. At last he’d survived an interview with the editor without saying ‘sir’.
He felt sick with tension as he rang the Infirmary. He felt as if he were asking for a bulletin on himself. Dennis Lacey had survived a major operation and was as well as could be expected. Would he live? He was as well as could be expected.
As they walked to the Lord Nelson he felt disembodied, could hardly feel his feet on the damp pavement, hardly feel Helen’s affectionate squeeze of his arm in which, strangely, he could detect no element of coquetry. It was as if he were unreal, and only existed in the minds of his five drinking companions.
It wasn’t a large gathering. Denzil was in London, Ginny in bed with food poisoning, Ted in Manchester on an overnight job, but they seemed determined to make up in warmth what they lacked in numbers. He’d have to leave soon, to visit Dennis Lacey in hospital, and to talk to Howard Lewthwaite. But he couldn’t leave too soon, when they were all being so nice.
They vied to ply him with drinks. Helen squeezed his arm again. Gordon said, ‘Small print. Small print,’ and Henry sensed that it was meant to be affectionate. Ben asked him to name the grounds of all the Scottish teams, and he managed them all except Stenhousemuir. Even Jill seemed to find his company pleasant. When it was his turn to buy a round, Colin came to the bar with him, and hugged him.
‘What’s all this?’ said Henry.
‘We’re all right upset because of thee.’
‘You what?’
‘You could have been killed today. We love you, kid.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I do. I’m almost crying, for God’s sake. I mean, Henry, I hope you’d feel like crying if I were almost killed.’
‘Course I would,’ said Henry.
He hugged Colin.
Of course! He realized why they were all being so nice to him, even Jill, who had probably been told to by Gordon, on whose words she still hung even though she didn’t understand many of them. It wasn’t any old evening. It was the ‘cheering up our Henry after one of the most disastrous days ever to befall a British provincial journalist’ evening. Be churlish to leave in the middle of it. Dennis Lacey wouldn’t be conscious yet, anyway, and he could see Howard Lewthwaite briefly after work tomorrow.
When the six of them walked to the Devonshire through the spattering rain, they were like six babies in one incubator, protected from the germs and hostility of the outside world.
The drink flowed. The timeless jazz rolled out in the crowded upstairs room, as if the rock-and-roll craze didn’t exist.
A huge man in a bright blue corduroy suit was pushing his way through the crowds towards them. He had black hair, but his bushy black beard was streaked with grey. At his side was a delicate-looking young lady, with a round, serene face and a flat, thin body. She reminded Henry of a barometer. Both their faces were registering ‘stormy’.
‘Is one of you guys Henry Pratt?’ said the huge man, loudly, in a North American accent.
‘I am,’ admitted Henry reluctantly.
‘Johnson Protheroe,’ said Johnson Protheroe.
Henry’s colleagues, and even Jill, closed round him, shutting the door of the incubator.
Johnson Protheroe’s loud voice battled effectively with the music. Sid Hallett and the Rundlemen were playing ‘Basin Street Blues’. It was beginning to dawn on Henry that their repertoire was not inexhaustible.
‘You’re the biggest ass-hole I’ve ever met,’ yelled Johnson Protheroe.
‘Johnson!’ It wasn’t an easy word to invest with love, but the girl managed it.
‘Listen, kid,’ said Colin, grabbing Johnson Protheroe’s lapel. ‘Nobody calls my mate an ass-hole.’
‘Colin!’ said Henry desperately. ‘It’s all right.’
‘Take your hands off me,’ shouted Johnson Protheroe.
‘Johnson!’ said the girl. Even when she raised her voice, she was barely audible.
‘Please!’ shouted Henry.
‘Shut up!’ shouted a jazz fan.
‘Shut up yourself!’ shouted a second jazz fan.
‘Bloody hell fire!’ shouted the first jazz fan. ‘I’m telling them to shut up. Don’t tell me to shut up.’
‘Shut up!’ shouted several more jazz fans.
Sid Hallett and the Rundlemen abandoned all hope of solos and played fast and loud to overpower the disturbance. The disturbance emitted a few drowning glugs and expired. The music and the set finished, to loud applause. Sid Hallett and the Rundlemen stomped off to the bar. Henry and his friends faced Johnson Protheroe and his friend in wary silence.
‘I never read such a load of crap as your article,’ said Johnson Protheroe.
Henry’s colleagues began to protest.
‘Please,’ pleaded Henry. ‘Allow me the dignity of defending myself.’
‘Oh!’ said Johnson Protheroe, in a scornful mock-English tone. ‘“Allow me the dignity of defending myself”! Blue seas under black clouds, my ass. Those were blue skies above the Rocky Mountains, you cretin.’
Henr
y’s colleagues allowed him the dignity of defending himself.
‘I … er … I … er … sorry,’ he said.
‘The barometer that you described so vividly was a portrait of Deborah here.’
‘Oh, I … er … I am sorry. You don’t look a bit like a barometer,’ lied Henry.
‘Thanks,’ said Deborah, in her low, sweet voice.
Henry’s head was beginning to swim, but he managed to focus on Johnson Protheroe. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I am the biggest ass-hole you’ve ever met.’
‘What?’ said Johnson Protheroe.
‘It’s the first art exhibition I’ve ever reviewed. I was standing in for our arts editor. I imitated his style. I’ll never do that again in my life, especially as I happen to believe that critics should be widening the understanding of art, not narrowing it.’
‘Oh … well … spoken like a man!’ said Johnson Protheroe.
‘I do a good imitation,’ said Henry.
‘Do you have football as we know it in Canada?’ asked Ben.
Henry couldn’t remember how they got to the Shanghai Chinese Restaurant and Coffee Bar. The evening had become a warm blur. They were all in the incubator together now, even Johnson Protheroe, who had become a harmless bear.