by David Nobbs
Kate fell asleep on cue after being fed and changed. Hilary looked beautiful in a simple, beige, straight sheath dress, which reflected, subtly, the sack dresses that had come back into fashion. Henry realised that he was so very nervous tonight because he was so anxious for her to shine.
As they walked down the narrow stairs to the drawing room on the first floor, Henry resolved to be charming, to sparkle wittily, but to give Hilary the space to be even more charming and sparkle even more wittily. He wouldn’t call Nigel ‘Tosser’ once.
The drawing room had a faintly Chinese air, and Mr and Mrs Hargreaves had the confidence to have allowed it to become just slightly shabby.
Even before the arrivals had been concluded, Henry was aware that his irritation level was high. He would have to be careful.
He was irritated that Lampo Davey and Denzil Ackerman were both wearing bow-ties. It seemed too showy a touch for this gentle, elegant house.
He was irritated that Lampo and Denzil were putting on such a show of courtly charm and togetherness, when he knew that they’d have spent most of the day arguing.
Lampo and Denzil always kissed women with exaggerated enthusiasm, and little murmurs of delight, as if they seriously thought that they could hide their homosexuality, but they seemed to kiss Hilary with special enthusiasm, and this also irritated Henry.
He was irritated at the realisation that Paul was deeply upset at the loss of the dreaded Judy.
He was irritated that Benedict Pilkington-Brick (what a mouthful!) had already inherited Tosser’s complacent nose and self-satisfied mouth, and that Diana was pregnant again.
He was irritated by the understated beauty of Mrs Hargreaves’s black dress and by Diana’s baby-doll outfit.
He was irritated by Hilary’s self-confidence. She rose to the civilised atmosphere, accepting a glass of white port as if she knew what it was. He realised, with a sickening thud, that the depressed, repressed girl had grown into a confident woman who could succeed in places where he was unable to follow.
‘How’s the novel coming on?’ asked Denzil.
And Hilary, who hadn’t mentioned the book to Henry for weeks, told him.
‘Slowly,’ she said. ‘I have to break off to feed Kate and Henry at regular intervals. But I think it’s developing its inner core, and whatever other merits it may lack, at least it’s not autobiographical.’ Did she know that Henry’s novel would have been the story of his life? ‘Upstairs, in the tiny back bedroom, Annie’s pains began. Amos heard her first sharp cry at twenty-five to seven in the evening.’ He shuddered at the thinness of the disguise.
Everybody was thrilled that she was writing a novel. When she left the room to check on the sleeping Kate and Benedict, Mrs Hargreaves said, ‘I wondered if you’d ever find anybody good enough for you, Henry. Now I wonder if you’re good enough for her.’
‘So do I,’ said Henry, with such feeling that there was an uneasy pause.
Enjoying the 1948 Pomerol, in the olive-green dining room, Henry remembered the first time he had eaten there, and had hated claret, and had called the boeuf bourguignon ‘stew’. For a moment he felt warm and sophisticated, and then Hilary irritated him by saying, ‘This soup’s lovely.’ He glared at her. She smiled with infuriating assumed innocence.
Mr Hargreaves asked Hilary about her novel again as he dissected his grouse with a disturbing lack of delicacy for a brain surgeon. They discussed Lampo’s work at Christie’s – or was it Sotheby’s? – Denzil’s recent interview with Frank Sinatra for the Argus – ‘Have you ever been to Thurmarsh, Frank?’ – the absence of Judy, which Paul, fooling nobody, described as a great release, and Paul’s career. He announced that he was abandoning the law and taking up medicine. ‘The law is so cynical,’ he said. ‘I could never defend a man I knew to be guilty. I want to feel I’m at least trying to do good in the world,’ and Henry said, ‘How can you say that, Paul? You’re more motivated by money than anyone I know, except Tosser.’
With one fell swoop, Henry had offended Paul and Tosser, incurred the disapproval of Mr and Mrs Hargreaves, and caused Hilary to look at him in surprise, as if realising that there was a side of him that she hardly knew. Only Diana seemed pleased by his remark, giving Henry a quick grin and then wiping it off and looking exaggeratedly pompous for Tosser’s benefit.
‘Henry,’ said Mrs Hargreaves with chilling politeness, ‘we’re longing to hear about these cucumbers.’
Henry decided that he had no option but to take her remark at face value, but that he mustn’t be so naïve as to launch into a description of his work.
He decided to strike a more oblique and urbane note.
‘Tiberius adored cucumbers,’ he said.
There was silence.
‘The king of the conversation-stoppers strikes again,’ said Diana, looking like a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl once more.
Mrs Hargreaves gave Diana a look which said, ‘Careful. Don’t be rude to our guests, however rude they are.’
‘Talking of Tiberius,’ said Mr Hargreaves, as if to prove that it hadn’t been a conversation-stopper, ‘when you think of what went on in Ancient Rome, it’s remarkable that two thousand years later what you two do in the privacy of your own home is still illegal.’
Lampo and Denzil smiled a little uneasily.
‘What Lampo does is break my objets d’art,’ said Denzil. ‘I didn’t know there was a law against that.’
‘I’ve always maintained that you should be able to do what you like, as long as you don’t frighten the horses,’ said Tosser Pilkington-Brick.
‘Good old Tosser,’ said Henry. ‘Everyone has one special talent. His is for coming out with clichés as if they’re the product of deep and original thought.’
Hilary stood up abruptly.
‘The food is delicious,’ she said. ‘The grouse is perfectly moist and gamey, the stuffing is extremely subtle, the celeriac purée is a revelation, but I must ask you to excuse me. I’m fed up with my husband being so graceless.’
Henry went red and mumbled, ‘I’ll go after her,’ and there followed all the embarrassing business of his pleading with her, and their returning to the appalled dining room together, and everybody’s finishing the meal with unbelievably careful conversation.
In bed that night, Hilary whispered, ‘Are you in love with Diana?’
‘Of course I’m not,’ whispered Henry.
‘Well you were very rude to Nigel.’
‘One can hate Tosser without loving anybody. One needs no ulterior motive.’
‘You were childish and stupid tonight. I was appalled.’
‘Yes, well, you weren’t, everybody adored you, so that’s all right.’
‘I thought you wanted me to shine. I tried to shine for my man.’
‘Why did you keep praising the food, when I specifically asked you not to?’
‘Because you specifically asked me not to. I don’t like being given instructions, as if I’m a northern hick.’
They lay in silence for the rest of the night, side by side but not together. In the morning Henry apologised, and told Hilary how much he loved her, and everything was almost all right, and he apologised quite charmingly to Mr and Mrs Hargreaves, and everything was almost all right with them also.
Kate opened her eyes more frequently and gurgled more inventively and began to smile and went gently onto solids and cried when she had colic and when she burped they said, ‘Clever little girl!’ but when Henry burped Hilary said, ‘Do you have to be so crude?’ and Henry said, ‘Don’t forget I’m not a writer. I’m an inferior being,’ but these little verbal spats were few and far between, and their love for each other was kept warm by their love of Kate.
They sent photographs of her to Uncle Teddy and Anna.
In his reply, Uncle Teddy said:
Anna was so pleased to see you both in Berwick. I was glad to hear that Jed struck you as a reliable old boy. The first batch of you-know-what has arrived and is fetching high prices. I’m
still an old rogue, Henry, and you’re well shot of me, but if you ever feel like coming over, we’d love to see you all and I have two very good sauces of sea bass. Hilary looks far too lovely for you, what is it the girls see in you? Ouch, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that! As for Kate, she looks just grand. What a belter! I never wanted kids, never could stand the little buggers, in one end and out the other and spend the rest of the time sleeping or crying. Minimal entertainment value. Age is a funny thing, though. When I see Kate I want to cry for the kids I never had. Too late now. I’d love kids by Anna but I’d be too old to play football with the little buggers and I’d drop dead or something equally silly and leave the poor girl stranded with them.
Hilary smiled after she’d read the letter and said, ‘A bit sad, really.’
‘Just a bit.’
‘He spelt “sources” wrong.’
‘A Freudian slip. In his mind he’s cooking them already.’
‘Let’s go next summer.’
‘Right.’
They moved into a two-up, two-down stone terrace house in an attractive but crumbling Victorian terrace in Newhaven Road, off the top end of York Road. The Rawlaston and Splutt Building Society were worried by the condition of the house and thought the asking price of £3,250 excessive, but liked the security of Henry’s position, and gave them their mortgage after careful consideration.
They invited Cousin Hilda for tea on their very first Saturday. That morning Henry banged a new name plate into position on the gate. Hilary bandaged his thumb, and they stood back and looked at the name with pride.
Cousin Hilda was less impressed.
‘Paradise Villa!’ she sniffed.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ said Henry.
‘Putting on airs,’ said Cousin Hilda.
The living room had no carpets or curtains, and no furniture or decorations except for the art deco clock, a second-hand three-piece suite, a hard chair, and a very cheap nest of tables. A gas fire hissed gently.
Cousin Hilda gave the suite a dirty look, and plonked herself, legs akimbo and bloomers at half-mast, in the hard chair.
‘“Paradise” is an echo of the back-to-back where I was born, of which I’m not ashamed,’ explained Henry.
‘“Villa” is meant to be humorous,’ said Hilary. ‘Anyone can see it isn’t really a villa, but it also reflects the fact that Henry is thankful to have such an improvement on what his parents had.’
‘Aye, well, I just hope Mrs Wedderburn’ll be able to read all that into it,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I wouldn’t want her to think you’re putting on airs.’
Henry spread the nest of tables round the room, and Hilary brought in a tray of tea, crumpets and ginger cake.
‘Oh no, nothing to eat, thank you. I must have an appetite for my gentlemen,’ said Cousin Hilda.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Henry.
‘I owe it to my gentlemen to eat heartily,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘If I just picked at my food, they’d think there was something wrong with it. I am, in my small way, a public figure. It carries responsibilities.’
‘You must have something,’ said Hilary. ‘You’re our very first guest.’
‘We chose the house because it’s nearer to you than the flat,’ said Henry.
Cousin Hilda went pink, and Henry wondered how a lie could be bad, when it brought so much pleasure.
‘Well all right,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘Just one crumpet.’
She ate her crumpet with deliberation and concentration.
‘Very palatable,’ she said primly.
‘Have you ever thought of using cucumbers?’ asked Henry.
‘I can’t,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I share all my meals with my gentlemen. They know what to expect. They expect to know what to expect. I can’t make changes. There’d be ructions.’
The art deco clock struck four. Kate stirred, opened her eyes, yawned, and gave Cousin Hilda a beautiful smile.
‘She’s smiling at you,’ said Henry. ‘She likes you.’
‘Ee!’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘Mrs Wedderburn would love to see her. She’d be right thrilled to hold her.’
‘Does that mean you’d like to hold her, Cousin Hilda?’ asked Hilary, and Henry held his breath, and an amazing thing happened. Cousin Hilda smiled and said, ‘Aye, well, I would.’ So Kate was passed over to her very carefully, and Cousin Hilda held her with grim concentration, and tickled her chin selfconsciously, and said to her, ‘Who’s a pretty baby, then?’ Henry and Hilary looked at each other and smiled with their eyes, and there was a long silence, as nobody dared disturb the mood, and then Henry said, ‘Do you think your gentlemen would like to see her?’
So Henry slipped home early on the following Thursday, and they took Kate to tea at Cousin Hilda’s, and Kate slept as they ate their roast pork and tinned pears, and Mr O’Reilly said, ‘There’s a bit of you in her, Henry. And a bit of you, Miss Hilary, oh yes. She’s a lovely little thing, that she is,’ and Brian Ironside mumbled, ‘She certainly is,’ and Norman Pettifer said, ‘Adrian had no Stilton at all today. Gorgonzola, Roquefort, Bleu de Bresse, Danish Blue, and no Stilton. There isn’t an ounce of patriotism in that boy’s body.’
That Saturday they took Kate to Troutwick to see Auntie Doris and Geoffrey Porringer. Auntie Doris said, ‘Can I hold her, please? Oh, isn’t she gorgeous, love her?’ And Geoffrey Porringer said, ‘There’s none of you in her at all, Henry,’ and Auntie Doris said, ‘Teddy!’ and Geoffrey Porringer said, ‘The name is Geoffrey, Doris. And why are you Geoffreying me anyway?’ and Auntie Doris, who always made things worse by protesting about them, said, ‘Because you’re tactless, Geoffrey. I said she was gorgeous, and you said there’s none of Henry in her at all, and you know how sensitive he is about not being good-looking.’
Auntie Doris seemed to Henry to be growing larger by the month and to be laughing almost too much now. He sensed that there was something rather desperate about her laughter and her drinking and about this deeply successful performance that she was giving as the landlady. He felt that if she didn’t stop she would go on expanding until she exploded into little bits all over the antiques in the lounge bar one crowded Saturday night.
And, as Auntie Doris grew larger, it seemed that Geoffrey Porringer was growing smaller, hiding in her shadow. Henry could no longer dislike him enough to call him slimy.
He caught Auntie Doris pretending to pour herself a double gin. While she drank heavily, she didn’t have quite the Rabelaisian capacity that she claimed. Geoffrey Porringer, on the other hand, pretended to be a moderate man, but slipped spirits into his beer at every opportunity, from whatever bottle happened to be most handy. Henry had the impression that, if something didn’t change, the pub’s popularity would kill them both.
They took Kate to Perkin Warbeck Drive. Nadežda said, ‘I don’t intend to do this business of saying whom she takes after. She’s lovely, she’s healthy, and she’s herself.’ Howard Lewthwaite said, ‘We mustn’t rest until we give this girl, and millions like her, true equality of opportunity.’ Sam said, ‘God, she’s ugly!’
Donald Campbell achieved a world record 248.62 miles per hour on Coniston Water, the Preston by-pass became Britain’s first stretch of motorway, and autumn slid irrevocably into winter.
Henry found himself increasingly desk-bound as the weather closed in. He sent letters to market gardeners who grew cucumbers, market gardeners who didn’t grow cucumbers, farmers who might grow cucumbers, shops that sold cucumbers, shops that didn’t sell cucumbers, restaurants that used cucumbers and restaurants that didn’t use cucumbers. All these letters were typed by Andrea in the typing pool. When he discovered that Andrea was known as Deputy Head of Services (Secretarial), Henry realised that everybody in the Cucumber Marketing Board had a title, and there wasn’t anything special in being the Assistant Regional Co-ordinator, Northern Counties (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed).
One wild wet window-rattling, dustbin-lid-tormentor of a morning, Mr Whitehouse called Henry into h
is office, blew his predatory nose, and said, ‘You’re sending an awful lot of letters.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Henry. ‘I’m aiming at blanket coverage.’
‘M’m. There are two ways of looking at everything, Henry,’ said the Director (Operations). ‘On the one hand there is blanket coverage. On the other hand, there is saturation point. Point taken? Good. I’m delighted with your enthusiasm, Henry. Delighted. The fact is, though, because we all have to live in the real world, you’ve exceeded your budget.’
‘I didn’t even know I had a budget,’ said Henry.
‘Oh dear,’ said the Director (Operations). ‘Oh dear. I would never run a colleague down behind his back, not my style, not the Timothy Whitehouse way, but between you, me and the mythical G.P., Roland Stagg is getting a bit lax in his old age.’
Mr Whitehouse leant back in his chair, pulled his braces out, and let them fizz back into his chest. I wonder if he likes bondage, thought Henry.
‘You did tell me to be my own man, stick to my guns and be fearless. I took that as an invitation to independence,’ said Henry.
‘I did indeed. A fair point. I sit rebuked. Mea culpa. Mea culpa! I should have told you to be your own man, stick to your guns and be fearless within the budget. Point taken, Henry?’
‘Point taken, Mr Whitehouse.’
As Henry set off to return to Room 106, Roland Stagg shambled out of his office on the second floor, crumpled trousers hanging low over his obscene paunch, and said, ‘I warned you, Henry. A low profile.’
‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘but he told me to be fearless and stick to my guns.’