by David Nobbs
‘Hilary! I don’t want you to be social if you don’t want to.’
‘Yes, you do. You don’t know it, but you do.’
‘Oh God! Look. We’ve had a perfect day. Let’s not spoil it now.’
‘Yes. That’s probably what’s wrong with me. It’s too perfect. I thought any kind of happiness had gone for ever. Now I feel happy beyond anything I knew was possible.’
‘It worries you?’
‘Well … yes.’
‘Being happy makes you unhappy? Being unworried worries you?’
‘No! Well … you know those screams of the world I told you about?’
‘Yes.’
‘I haven’t heard them today.’
He grabbed hold of her, with violent affection. He held her to him.
‘Don’t hear them today,’ he said. ‘You may hear enough tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ she said.
‘Nothing.’
She kissed him, a little doubtfully.
‘Time for bed,’ she said.
‘Just for a change,’ he said.
They slipped into the pub by the side door. She went straight upstairs. He went into the bar, to ask for the key. A few late drinkers were dimly visible through the smoke. The smell of beer was overwhelming.
‘Nice day, Henry?’ said Irene Titmarsh.
‘Very nice, thank you, Irene.’
‘This is my husband, George.’
‘Hello, George.’
George had ginger hair and was quite small.
‘Would you and Hilary like a drink, Henry?’ said George.
‘Thank you very much, George, Irene. Er … if you don’t mind, though … it’s our last night, if you understand me.’
‘You didn’t have a drink last night, Henry,’ said Irene.
‘That was our first night. That’s what forty-eight-hour leaves are like. Good night, George, Irene.’
George and Irene Titmarsh gazed at Henry’s departing back with something approaching awe.
They went to bed, and gave each other great pleasure. In the morning, Irene said, ‘I’ve left your tea outside, Henry, Hilary. Come down to breakfast when you’re ready.’ Hilary said, ‘I don’t think we’ll want any breakfast this morning, thank you, Irene.’
They left at 11.47. They would never forget Irene Titmarsh, but they would never remember the name of the pub.
It was snowing gently. There was a hole coming in Henry’s left shoe. They had no bed to go to. They’d seen the cathedral.
‘Shall we meet your friends again?’ he said.
‘Would that be wise?’ said Hilary. ‘You’d have to charm them as much as you did last night, in order to prove that you were being charming because you’re charming and not because you were trying to be charming.’
‘Touché,’ he said.
The city was touched by the thinnest covering of snow. They spent two hours in a rather dull pub, which was unfrequented by students because it was rather dull. They ate in a rather dull café. The sun came out and melted the snow. It snowed again, as gently as before. They walked, and talked, and held hands.
Hilary sighed deeply.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘I wasn’t actually sighing at that,’ she said. ‘I was hearing those screams.’
‘Touché,’ he said. ‘Why do I end up saying touché so often?’
‘Because you deserve to say touché so often.’
‘Touché.’
They laughed. Then she looked solemn again.
‘It’s already too late for billions of people,’ she said. Their one spell of consciousness is already ruined beyond repair. Every second of happiness I have seems to me to be obscene.’
‘You can’t do anything about it.’
‘Can’t I? We’ll see about that.’
‘These moods of yours worry me. I’m not sure I can live up to them.’
‘They aren’t moods, Henry. They’re truths.’
‘Then they frighten me all the more. Are we never to be happy?’
‘Yes. Often. Because I’m weak.’
‘It’s not much of a kind of happiness, that’s based on selfishness and weakness.’
‘It’s the only kind I can offer you.’
They sat, rather bleakly, in a station buffet designed for sitting rather bleakly. They had regrettable cakes and regretted them. They shed a tear or two. Henry had no excuse, now that Hilary had herself introduced the subject of misery, for not broaching his bad news. It was a good time for it.
And it was a terrible time for it. To tell her now would be to suggest that all the loving, all the laughing, all the awe and all the charming had been an act, because he’d known what he was going to say. So of course he couldn’t say it. Could the glorious memory of love among the Titmarshes be for ever entwined with the smell of deceit?
Sunday evening trains are a special breed. They’re grimier than others. They’re slower. Their bulbs are dimmer. They rattle more. Their heating knows only the extremes of Arctic ice and tropical greenhouse fug. They’re late, due to track maintenance. Their mournful whistles are like the cries of lovesick owls. And they are full of people going from where they chose to be to where they have to be.
Henry shared his stifling compartment with two navvies who talked about rock-and-roll, two silent staring soldiers, a snoring sailor, a girl with red eyes and an exhausted guest preacher, who’d expected three laughs but got only one. The train juddered away from Hilary, towards his lonely flat, towards Ginny trying not to look haunted as she asked if he’d had a good time. It clanked through a hostile world, whose inky blackness was broken only by occasional lines of sodium troops and the tracer bullets of cars’ headlights.
And Henry justified his silence to himself. He couldn’t leave Hilary there, without him, in her final year, with her important studies, to wrestle with the knowledge of her father’s corruption, of her mother’s sorrow, of the collapse of their Mediterranean dream, and all because of him. Impossible. No. The time to tell her was on the first day of the vacations. Yes, that was it. The Argus would have to wait. It was only another few weeks. Yes, that was it. The wheels picked it up. Yes, that was it. Yes, that was it. He’d tell her on the first day of her vacations, when he’d be with her to support her, and she’d be with her family, and they could all work things out together. Yes, that was it. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He could have enjoyed Hilary’s beauty, the squeaky bed, the ham salads with no onion, the great Norman cathedral, without a twinge of anxiety, without a flicker of guilt. But still, it had been a wonderful weekend. He felt more hopeful, as if his rationalization would eventually make everything all right. The train sounded faster, more cheerful altogether. They yes-that-was-itted all the way to Thurmarsh.
25 Vignettes Thurmarshiennes
THE COLD SNAP continued. They shivered as they waited for the tram. Ginny tried not to look haunted as she asked if he’d had a good weekend.
On the tram, he read the Situations Vacant pages. Roll Turners, Fitters, Overhead Crane Fitter required. Jig and Tool Makers wanted. Experienced Moulders needed. Spoon and Fork Dolliers and Roughers required. Swing Grinders wanted. Die Sinkers urgently needed.
On Monday, February 18th, 1957, as his confrontation with the editor loomed, Henry was losing confidence in his ability to talk himself out of this one.
But what else could he do? Could he turn rolls, fit, mould, make jigs and tools? Could he dolly and rough spoons and forks? Could he grind swings or sink dies?
He could not.
Mr Andrew Redrobe’s neatness might have been an ironic comment on the state of Henry’s career. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Fire away. I’m all agog.’
‘Er …’ said Henry.
‘I don’t recall ever being agogger. Reveal your sensations.’
‘Er …’ said Henry.
‘It’s rare that a cynical, world-weary old warhorse feels a quickening of the pulse, finds himself on th
e edge of his seat, hardly dares to speak lest he miss the biggest scoop of his career. What did you say?’
‘Er …’ said Henry.
‘I thought you did. You’ve got cold feet about your story? Come on. Don’t be shy. Let me be the judge of it.’
There was a moment when Henry thought that he was going to tell him. But he couldn’t. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell him that he couldn’t.
‘Er …’ he said.
‘You exaggerated?’ said Mr Andrew Redrobe, in a kindly, almost paternal tone. ‘Well, you won’t be the first young reporter to exaggerate. Tell me what you have got. I won’t bite. I’m human.’
‘I … can’t.’
‘What??’
‘Not until after the first day of Durham University’s vacations, when I’ve told my fiancée. I went to see her this weekend. I found I couldn’t leave her, so far away from me … er …’
The editor shook his Brylcreemed head, perhaps at the idea that anybody could suffer as a result of being a long way away from Henry.
‘… with such upsetting news as my news would be, so momentous are the implications of my story.’
Mr Andrew Redrobe leant forward. He was fully paternal now.
‘There isn’t any story, is there?’ he said gently.
‘There is!’ said Henry indignantly. ‘Look, I’ll make you an offer, sir.’ Damn.
The editor’s head jerked upwards, as if his neck had struck an unseen wire.
‘An… offer?’ He didn’t welcome the suggestion of a deal from one so young.
‘Yes. After all, the chapel might have something to say about sacking me for not getting a scoop.’
Mr Andrew Redrobe narrowed his eyes at the mention of the union chapel. His paternal kindness was but a memory now.
‘Hundreds of journalists don’t get scoops every day,’ said Henry. ‘They aren’t sacked.’
The editor’s silver pencil tapped insistently on his green-topped desk. The woodpecker had revived, it seemed.
‘What about your monumental cock-ups?’ he said.
‘You let them go at the time.’
‘I’m not talking about your past monumental cock-ups.’ His left eye twitched. ‘I’m talking about your future monumental cock-ups.’
‘There may not be any, if you accept my offer.’
‘All right, then. What is this offer?’
‘If I don’t give you an amazing scoop, on the second day of the Durham University vacations, I’ll resign.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘Mr Redrobe, you have the word of a Pratt.’
The editor’s right eye twitched. The woodpecker tapped on.
‘The first time you kill a man is the worst,’ said Mr Andrew Redrobe. ‘Then it gets easier. I killed at least seven men in the War.’
It was difficult, looking at this tidy, battened-down, buttoned-up man, to imagine it.
‘Sacking a man should be simple after that. And sackings there will be, if the long-term predictions for this industry are correct. So why am I so curiously reluctant to start? Is it because you look so helpless, sitting there, that it would be like guillotining a door-mouse?’
Henry didn’t reply.
‘All right,’ said the editor. ‘You have till the second day of the Durham University vacations. No scoop then, and it’s the sack. And I do mean it. Mr Pratt, you have the word of a Redrobe.’
The moment he knew that Henry hadn’t told Hilary, Howard Lewthwaite relaxed. He positively beamed at the waiter. ‘French onion soup for me,’ he said, ‘and I’m very taken with the idea of the haddock with parsley sauce.’
‘Soup for me too,’ said Henry. ‘And what are the vignettes Thurmarshiennes?’
‘It’s a new idea of the chef, sir. Five tiny vol-au-vents filled with local delicacies. Black pudding, cow-heel, brawn, tripe, mushy peas. Very different. Very tasty.’
‘I’ll have the chaud pot de Lancashire,’ said Henry. ‘You don’t think I’ll ever tell, do you?’ he said, when the waiter had gone. ‘You don’t think I’ve got the courage. You think I love your daughter too much. Well, I do. Love her, I mean, not love her too much. If I loved her more than any man has ever loved any woman it wouldn’t be too much. And I do … love her more than any man has ever loved any woman. But I do also love the truth. So because I love her so much I’m going to have to tell her the truth. I’m going to tell her on the first day of the holidays. When I’m there to support her. When you’re there to support her. When we’re all there to support her.’
Henry felt that he could have expressed all this more elegantly, more succinctly, and that it might have been more effective if he’d been able to look his prospective father-in-law in the face.
Howard Lewthwaite topped him up with the house white.
‘Supposing it comes to a clash between your two great loves?’ he said. ‘Hilary and the truth. Which one will win?’
Israel rejected American proposals for the withdrawal of her troops from Gaza. Britain gave the United Nations a heavily documented indictment of Greece, accusing her of giving financial and propaganda support to the Eoka terrorists in Cyprus. Charges for milk, school meals, and the NHS portion of National Insurance were increased. President Eisenhower had a persistent cough.
Walking down the busy, decaying Commercial Road, after conducting a sensational interview with the President of the Thurmarsh Friends of Fur and Feather on the catastrophic effect television was having on pet clubs – attendances at Thurmarsh Rabbit Society down 39%, Splutt Tropical Fish Society planning merger with Rawlaston Cage Bird Club, a 22% decline in entries for pigeon races oh no, not pigeons again! – he had a shock. Wasn’t that man with the blackheads …? He was.
Just as some fortunate people are able to live for weeks without thinking about nuclear weapons, so Henry had gone for months without thinking about Derek Parsonage.
What was the man doing, walking down the path from a severe, black-bricked, Victorian town house with rotting window frames, in front of whose sad, gravelled garden a large board announced: ‘World-Wide Religious Literature Inc.’?
‘Hello. Henry Pratt,’ said Henry, who had no overwhelming belief in his own memorability.
Was it just his imagination that Derek Parsonage turned pale beneath his unseasonal tan?
‘Henry!’ he said, beaming with belated and rapidly assumed delight.
‘Can we talk?’ said Henry. ‘I have news for you.’
‘Come in,’ said Derek Parsonage. ‘I was only going shopping.’
He led Henry through a large entrance hall, with religious literature displayed on three tables, into his office. It was a small, plain room, with a corner of a high, elaborately moulded ceiling which had once graced a much larger room. There were two hard chairs and a desk covered in pamphlets and invoices. Behind the desk was a large photograph of a black woman with huge bare breasts being handed a Bible by a man in a pin-striped suit.
Henry sat down, paused briefly for effect and said, ‘“World-wide Religious Literature Inc.”?’
Derek Parsonage shrugged. ‘I’m no more religious than the next man,’ he said. He lowered his eyes uneasily, as if expecting the next man to materialize through the skirting board and dispute this. ‘But it’s a way of earning a crust.’
‘What do you do?’
‘We’re a sort of clearing house for the world of religious publishing. Basically it’s just a specialized form of import-export, with a translation service thrown in. So, what’s the news?’
‘The burning of the Cap Ferrat was arson. Uncle Teddy was murdered.’
‘No! Henry! How do you know?’
‘We never reveal our sources.’
‘Arson! How? Who by? Why?’
‘I hoped you might tell me.’ Bitter was the taste of the shame of The Man Nobody Muzzles, Henry ‘The leech’ Pratt, investigative journalist extraordinaire, who hadn’t even thought of looking for Derek Parsonage. ‘You never suspected it might be arson?’
‘No reason. I just wondered.’
Questions were flying into Henry’s brain like pigeons coming home to … not more pigeons! That’s all I’m good for. Henry ‘All you ever needed to know about pigeons’ Pratt.
‘You were part of the Cap Ferrat,’ he said. ‘Are you being paid by the insurance people?’
‘No. I sold my share to Teddy a fortnight before the fire.’
What???
‘Oh … er … really? Er … may I ask why?’
‘Certainly. It’s my turn to have a shock for you, Henry. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, and I know you were fond of your uncle, but …’ Derek Parsonage stared so fixedly at the wall behind him that Henry turned to follow his gaze, even though he knew that Derek Parsonage was only looking there to avoid looking at him. He found himself staring at a photograph of a huge naked black woman with a bolt through her nose, grinning broadly as she held up a copy of Quaker News. ‘Henry? You know your uncle told you he was in Rangoon. He wasn’t. He was in prison.’
‘Oh, I knew that.’
‘Well, I didn’t. When I found out, I was shocked. I’m no prude. Nightclubs, in my book, fair enough. But crime? No, sir. I sold out. I’d probably have made a lot more, as it’s turned out, if I hadn’t, but I’m glad. My conscience is as clear as a Lakeland beck.’
‘Well, if you think of anything you think is even remotely relevant, will you let me know?’ said Henry.
‘I certainly will,’ said Derek Parsonage.
As Henry walked out across the gravelled garden, Stan Holliday was entering. They looked at each other in surprise, but neither of them spoke.
Henry turned and watched Stan Holliday close the door behind him. His spine was tingling. Many things he was prepared to believe, but if that evil-faced villain was interested in religious literature, Henry was a reincarnated Yugoslavian brush salesman who could relate the whole of the Koran in Urdu under hypnosis.
A new trail was opening up. He was onto something. If only he wasn’t off to Cap Ferrat in two days!
He’d lived in a house of that name. He’d been to a club of that name. His surrogate parents had often gone there without taking him. At last he was going there, at the one time in his life when it would be an annoying interruption.