The Complete Pratt

by David Nobbs

  ‘It was a bit odd really,’ said Hilary. ‘The headmistress said, “Welcome to Thurmarsh Grammar. I hope you’ll be very happy here,” and I said, “Thank you very much. I’m sure I will. I’d like to give in my notice. I’ll be leaving in July. I’m pregnant.”’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘I did. I thought it only fair to make my position clear from the start.’

  Henry shivered. He couldn’t always cope with Hilary’s directness.

  On Henry’s first day at work, Hilary found it difficult to concentrate on the subjunctive tense, and Act One of Macbeth, and Lily Rosewood being sick all over Jeannie Cosgrove’s satchel. All day she was wondering how he was getting on. Her love had robbed her of her sense of proportion, and she felt sick with anxiety lest his new career be an instant fiasco. ‘It can’t be. They’re bound to recognise his lovely talents. They’re bound to take my lovely man to their hearts,’ she told herself. But the tension persisted. She hung around the school as long as she could, and walked home slowly, to their charming, but tiny, one-bedroom flat in Copley Road. Her route took her down Market Street, past the beginnings of the new Fish Hill Shopping Complex, along the Doncaster Road, down Blonk Lane, past the football ground, up Ainsley Crescent, left into Bellamy Lane and right into Copley Road. A fine, penetrating drizzle was falling, and her unreasonable and absurd tension rose throughout the journey.

  She set to, in the characterful but primitive little whitewashed kitchen, making fish pie and feeling that she never wanted to eat again.

  At last he came in, her lovely man.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Well what?’ he said.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘It was all right.’

  She shivered. Sometimes, nowadays, it was as if a curtain had come down between them.

  Every morning the Assistant Regional Co-ordinator, Northern Counties (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed) caught the 7.48 from Thurmarsh (Midland Road) to Leeds City Station, crossed City Square, with its sculpture of the Black Prince, walked up Park Row, turned left into South Parade, and entered the sombre brick building that housed the Cucumber Marketing Board.

  Every morning, he walked along the uncarpeted corridor of the ground floor, past the offices of the Head of Services (Secretarial) and the Assistant Heads of Services (Secretarial), took the shuddering lift to the first floor, where the gloomy corridor was carpeted, but not as expensively as was the second floor, walked past the offices of the Head of Gherkins and the Deputy Head of Gherkins, and entered Room 106.

  If an estate agent had been selling Room 106, he would have said that it was compact, enjoyed central heating and afforded substantial opportunities for improvement. He would not have pointed out that it had a splendid view over a courtyard on which the sun never set because it never rose on it either, and offered an unrivalled opportunity for the study of the changing styles of drainpipes over the last sixty years.

  Henry was the proud possessor of a heavily scratched desk with three drawers, a telephone, adequate supplies of basic stationery, an in-tray, an out-tray, a pending-tray, and precious little else.

  On that first morning, about which he had told Hilary so little, Henry had been in the process of discovering that all the filing cabinets were empty, when his telephone had rung with shocking shrillness.

  ‘Assistant Regional Co-ordinator, Northern Counties (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed),’ he had said. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Henry Pratt?’ a pleasant female voice had asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he had admitted cautiously.

  ‘I’m Roland’s wife.’

  ‘Roland?’

  ‘Roland Stagg. Regional Co-ordinator, Northern Counties.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Roland has flu.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘He asked me to welcome you, and to ask you to take his messages and generally hold the fort.’

  ‘Right. Right, I’ll … I’ll hold the fort.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  And so, for a week, little Henry sat in his little office, growing even paler than usual, and held the fort in almost complete isolation. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. Approximately five times a day the phone rang, and it was almost always a re-routed call for Roland Stagg. Of the twenty-five messages which Henry took down, eleven related to meeting people for drinks and only seven contained any reference to cucumbers. But he looked forward to taking these messages. They gave him something to do.

  He went to the library, got out books on vegetables, and wrote down all the information he could find about cucumbers. He brought in five postcards from various friends, and pinned them to the wall beside his window. He bought photo frames and put two photographs of Hilary on the desk.

  The rest of the time he sat at his desk, with pen, paper and reading glasses at the ready, so that he could pretend to be busy if anyone came in.

  Only two people came in all week, but the first, the whistling post-boy, did come in four times a day, bringing no mail, peering at the empty out-tray, nodding pleasantly, and leaving the door annoyingly ajar. In the end Henry grew so ashamed of his empty out-tray that he sent letters to Cousin Hilda, Auntie Doris, Uncle Teddy, Lampo and Denzil, Howard and Nadežda, Ted and Helen, and Ginny Fenwick. The post-boy looked at him in surprise and almost said something.

  The other visitor was a pleasant, matronly lady, who introduced herself as ‘Janet McTavish, Head of Services (Secretarial). I should have called on you on Monday. I didn’t realise you’d started.’

  ‘Well there’s not been much sign of it,’ said Henry. ‘Do sit down.’

  ‘Oh no thank you!’ said Janet McTavish fervently, as if horrified at the thought of such intimacy. ‘I just wanted to welcome you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And to tell you that you’ll be sharing Andrea, and when Andrea isn’t available you’ll have second use of Jane.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Henry. ‘What for?’

  ‘Well typing, of course,’ said Janet McTavish.

  ‘Ah yes. Of course. Right. Right. Well, thank you,’ said Henry.

  ‘No typing yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Apart from the two visitors to his office, Henry only met three other people all week – the Director (Operations), the Director General, and the lady with the tea trolley.

  The phone call from the Director (Operations) came on the Wednesday.

  ‘Timothy Whitehouse, Director (Operations). Can you spare me a mo’?’

  ‘Yes, I … er … I can spare you a mo’.’

  He took the lift to the second floor, with its superior carpet.

  Mr Whitehouse’s office was considerably larger than Henry’s, and decorated with reproductions of all the paintings by old masters that had ever included a cucumber.

  The Director (Operations) was in his mid-forties, a lean, sharp man with a predatory nose, but tired eyes. He invited Henry to sit down and said, ‘How are you settling in?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Henry, ‘if a bit slowly.’

  ‘A bit slowly?’

  ‘Well, with Mr Stagg being ill this week. Obviously I’m holding the fort …’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘But I’m not able to do a great deal till he returns.’

  ‘No, of course. Now, Henry … you don’t mind if I call you Henry, do you?’

  ‘No, no. Not at all.’

  ‘Good. We’re friendly people here. A word about our structure, Henry. You are answerable to Roland Stagg departmentally, to Dennis Tubman-Edwards staff-wise, and to me operationally, and vice-versa. Is that clear?’

  As mud. ‘Oh yes. Very clear.’

  ‘Good. May I offer you some advice, Henry?’

  ‘Certainly, Timothy.’

  ‘Ah!’ Mr Whitehouse swivelled round to gaze out of the window. ‘I may have given you a false impression when I said that we are friendly. Mea culpa!’ He repeated the Latin tag, as if it was the apogee of learning. ‘Mea culpa! I addre
ss you as “Henry”, you address me as “Mr Whitehouse”. I might want you to call me Timothy, but we exist in a rather difficult limbo between the civil service and the free market economy, and in this quasi-governmental limbo it has been found that a degree of formality is, regrettably perhaps, appropriate. You understand, I hope?’

  Like I understand Swahili. ‘Oh yes!’

  ‘Good.’ The Director (Operations) swung back with disconcerting abruptness, and looked Henry straight in the eye. ‘A word of advice, Henry. Be your own man, stick to your guns, be fearless, always speak the truth, and you won’t go far wrong.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Roland Stagg’s a good man, but between you, me and the mythical G.P., you should take everything he says with a pinch of salt.’

  ‘Sorry? The mythical G.P.?’

  ‘They told me you were bright.’ Mr Whitehouse shook his head sadly. ‘The gatepost.’ He stood up. ‘Good.’ He limped round the desk, and shook Henry’s hand. ‘Sorry about the limp. A present from Jerry at Alamein. Come and see me if you need me. Never worry about wasting my time. Goodbye, Henry.’

  The summons from the Director General, Vincent Ambrose, came on the Friday.

  The lift clattered up to the third floor, where the carpet had a thick pile.

  Mr Ambrose’s office was much larger than Mr Whitehouse’s, with a vast antique desk and leather armchairs. It had a standard lamp with a shade of a particularly succulent red, several pictures, none of which contained cucumbers, and an antique sideboard laden with bottles of drink, none of which Henry was offered.

  Mr Ambrose – large, genial, vague – was very welcoming, however, sat him down, offered a cigar, and said, ‘I make a point of seeing all new staff. We aren’t an aloof bunch in cucumber marketing, Mr Bratt.’

  ‘Pratt.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. So sorry. Learning the ropes, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m learning the ropes.’

  ‘Finding your way around?’

  ‘Yes.’ Boldly, Henry ventured a little jest. ‘Well, I’ve found out the route the tea trolley takes anyway.’

  The Director General looked shocked.

  ‘You don’t use the trolley, do you?’ he said. ‘Don’t you make your own?’

  ‘Are we allowed to?’

  ‘My dear chap! What do you think you have a kettle for?’

  ‘I don’t think I do have a kettle.’

  Vincent Ambrose looked horrified.

  ‘No kettle?’ he said. ‘No kettle? Take it up with Maurice Jesmond.’

  ‘Maurice Jesmond?’

  ‘Head of Facilities. Must have a kettle. Can’t do decent work on trolley tea. Where do you live?’

  ‘Thurmarsh.’

  ‘Really? Really??’

  Mr Ambrose seemed astounded that anybody would actually live in Thurmarsh.

  There was a loud explosion from a car back-firing in the street.

  ‘Duck!’ shouted Vincent Ambrose, flinging himself onto the carpet.

  Henry looked down at him in astonishment. The Director General picked himself up, dusted himself down, and grinned.

  ‘So sorry,’ he said. ‘Last lingering effects of shell-shock. Please don’t feel embarrassed. I’m not. Totally involuntary. So, you’re learning the ropes?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Vincent Ambrose smiled benevolently, shook hands with Henry, and wished him luck. Henry returned to his office, phoned Maurice Jesmond, discovered that he was on leave, and spent the afternoon studying the changing styles of drainpipes over the last sixty years.

  The prospect of two whole days together dispelled the slight shadows that had begun to hang over Henry and Hilary’s relationship. They almost recaptured the rapture of their first moments of love. The thought of the developing baby excited Henry enormously. He woke in the middle of the Saturday night and put his ear to his wife’s stomach while she slept, hoping to hear some noise from the foetus, maybe a gurgle or a rumble from its incipient stomach. He knew in his head that it was far too early for such a thing to be a possibility, but his heart was full of joy at the great miracle of life, and awe at the thought that he, podgy Henry Ezra Pratt, could father a child. It dawned on him that he was now completely content to accept the miracle as a miracle and seek no explanation of it.

  He went to work on the Monday morning with dread. To his great relief, the Regional Co-ordinator, Northern Counties (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed) had recovered from his flu, and sent for him almost immediately.

  Roland Stagg was a large man of about fifty, with a double chin and a huge paunch over which his trousers drooped inelegantly. He smoked incessantly and always had ash on his clothes. His breathing was laboured, and he was in the middle of a coughing fit.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Burma.’

  ‘Burma?’

  ‘I was in Burma during the war. It didn’t do much good for my lungs. Don’t worry, no problem, only really affects me now when I’ve been ill. I shouldn’t smoke. I am sorry about last week. Did you find your feet all right?’

  ‘Well I didn’t really know what to do,’ admitted Henry.

  His departmental boss looked irritated. ‘Well, didn’t you think?’ he said. ‘Aren’t you capable of thought?’

  ‘Yes, but I had nothing to go on, and I didn’t want to queer your pitch.’

  ‘Quite right. I don’t like my pitch queered. But couldn’t you have at least explored your predecessor’s files?’

  ‘There aren’t any files. The filing cabinets are empty.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said the Regional Co-ordinator. ‘The bastard. He’s destroyed your records in toto. Vindictive little beast.’

  ‘I think he’s taken my kettle as well.’

  ‘Your kettle as well! And he was at Charterhouse. What’s happening to the public school system?’

  Henry judged that the question was rhetorical.

  ‘You’ll have to take my files, copy them, trace every grower in the North who isn’t on my files and contact them all to get the history of the relationship,’ said Mr Stagg. ‘You can’t operate without a history of the relationship. You’ll find I’m a hands-off employer. I’ll leave it to you. Chase Maurice Jesmond for a kettle. Come to me if you have problems. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Henry stood up. Suddenly, Mr Stagg smiled.

  ‘You took my messages very diligently,’ he said. ‘You’ll have gathered I’m a drinking man. Are you a drinking man?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Henry cautiously.

  ‘Be here at twelve thirty. We’ll have a noggin.’

  Over their noggin in the large, lively Victoria, with its huge Victorian windows, Roland Stagg gave Henry the benefit of his advice. ‘Be cautious, keep a low profile, and never commit yourself unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.’ He lowered his voice against the possibility of being overheard in the next booth. ‘Old Shitehouse is a decent sort and a loyal boss, but take everything he says with a pinch of salt.’ He raised his voice again. ‘Keep your eyes skinned, your nose clean, your ear close to the ground and your mouth shut, and you won’t go far wrong.’

  Henry ‘Deeply conscious of not having been in the war and distinctly guilty about being so healthy’ Pratt threw himself into his work with enthusiasm. He was determined to make his mark in the cucumber world, so that his reputation would go before him and find him other work. ‘I heard about this chap doing stirring things with cucumbers. Thought I ought to take a peep at him.’ He also felt, as a self-confessed underdog, a degree of natural sympathy for the cucumber, seeing it as the Henry Pratt of the vegetable world.

  In the early weeks he was kept busy compiling his missing records, contacting growers and retail outlets (shops to thee and me) and asking questions about the history of their relationship. He looked forward to travelling around his region, meeting cucumber folk.

  He realised that, if he followed Mr Whitehouse’s advice, he would be out on his ear within a month, whereas, if he listened to Mr Stagg, he wou
ld survive for a lifetime and get absolutely nowhere. He would need to steer a very careful course between the Scylla of Mr Whitehouse’s boldness, and the Charybdis of Mr Stagg’s caution. He felt confident that he could.

  Even in his social life, Henry didn’t neglect his new enthusiasm.

  One Friday evening, in mid-March, he went with Hilary to the Lord Nelson to meet his old colleagues. Henry, who was having no great social life at work, felt a frisson of excitement and delicious regret as they walked into the back bar and saw the journalists gathered round their corner table.

  Henry’s journalistic disasters had slipped irrevocably into legend in the months since his departure. He greeted the humorous recollection of them now with a mixture of shame and pride, and was moved by the extent to which his former colleagues appeared to miss him.

  ‘I had to stay over. Couldn’t miss my dear Henry,’ said Denzil.

  ‘It’s extraordinarily kind of you,’ said Henry.

  ‘Not at all. I’m glad to get a night away from Lampo. He finds my snoring revolting.’ Denzil sighed. ‘Lampo says snoring is tasteless. The truth is I’m getting older and he finds it disgusting. He’s dreadfully selfish.’

  Henry felt sad at the thought that one day, inevitably, Lampo and Denzil would part.

  Helen Plunkett, née Cornish, pressed her thigh against him, and smiled her pert, seductive smile. Ted Plunkett, her brooding husband with the great bushy eyebrows, gave a theatrical scowl of mock jealousy. Henry recognised this now as double bluff. If Ted pretended to be jealous, people wouldn’t realise how deeply hurt he was. Ginny Fenwick, bulky but sensual, and still hankering after becoming a war correspondent, did recognise it and was hurt, because she still loved Ted. Henry felt embarrassed by Helen’s rampant thigh and by his excessive consciousness of it. Hilary gave him a wry smile, to assure him of her understanding of the situation. Helen, seeing the smile, scowled. Colin Edgeley hugged Henry hugely and said, ‘We miss you, kid. What are you having?’ Ben Watkinson asked him to name all the goalkeepers in the third division north. Even Terry Skipton, the slightly deformed news editor and Jehovah’s Witness, had two glasses of orange squash before saying, ‘It’s been lovely to see you, Henry. I’ll leave now. It pains me to see my children getting drunk.’