by David Nobbs
Auntie Doris sat with them for five minutes, but spent the whole time saying, ‘Ah, bless them, aren’t they lovely? Aren’t you lovely children? Oh, Kate is pretty, love her. Oh and Jack’s smile. That smile will turn women’s knees to jelly. Oh, bless him.’
When Henry went to get more drinks, he managed to get served by Auntie Doris and said, ‘On a lovely day like this, Auntie Doris, do you get the feeling, “My life is as wonderful as can be”?’ but all Auntie Doris said was, ‘No. I get the feeling, “Oh hell, I’m going to be rushed off my feet.”’
It was half past three before the last customers had left. They went into Doris and Geoffrey’s private quarters. Kate and Jack had eaten, but the adults were awash with drink and empty with hunger. Auntie Doris began to cook steak, fried onions and chips in her tiny kitchen. In their private living room, shabbier even than the pub and unadorned by antiques, Geoffrey Porringer snored obligingly, Hilary occupied the children with plasticine, and Henry went into the kitchen for a hurried chat with Auntie Doris.
‘So, how are you really?’ he enquired.
Auntie Doris looked at him in surprise.
‘What’s up with you today?’ she asked. ‘You’re very interested in whether I’m happy all of a sudden.’
Henry cursed himself for his mistake even as he was making it. ‘Well, Cousin Hilda asked me the other day if I thought you were happy. And this set me thinking about it.’
‘What’s it to do with her? I don’t want my mental state discussed by the Sniffer. It’s none of her business. Put some plates in the oven, there’s a good lad.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t going to tell her.’
But voluble, indiscreet Auntie Doris was doing an impression of a clam.
They stayed till half past seven. Henry disliked driving home in the dark, but the children would sleep and with luck they wouldn’t wake as they were carried to their beds back home.
Shortly before they left, in the quiet early evening bar, Henry said to Auntie Doris, in a low voice, ‘That trouble you had with Geoffrey and the waitresses. Does he still … you know … touch them up?’
‘I’m not telling you anything,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘You’re too friendly with the Sniffer. You may not mean to tell her, but I know you, things’ll slip out. Dried-up old cow.’
Henry felt that this was an implicit admission that things weren’t all right, but it wasn’t the definite answer that he needed. He realised, however, that he’d failed dismally in his secret investigations and he made a mental note not to set up a detective agency when at last he broke free from cucumbers.
He also felt that he couldn’t let Auntie Doris’s description of Cousin Hilda go unchallenged.
‘You’re unfair to Cousin Hilda,’ he said. ‘She’s kind and loving, in her way.’
‘I don’t deny it,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘She’s a kind, loving, dried-up old cow. Collect the empties for me, will you, there’s a good lad?’
Henry hadn’t thought of the possibility of seeking the truth from Geoffrey Porringer, but it was from Geoffrey that he learnt it.
Hilary was loading up the car with the children and all their paraphernalia, Henry was handing her things, including Jack, who was asleep, while also holding Kate’s hand so that she didn’t run into the road, and Geoffrey Porringer was watching them, with a soft smile on his face.
Auntie Doris leant out of the window and hissed, ‘Help them, Teddy. Don’t just stand there like a spare prick.’
‘The name is Geoffrey, Doris, not Teddy,’ hissed Geoffrey Porringer. He turned to Henry and said, ‘Shall I take her hand?’
‘No, no. It’s quite all right. We’ve nearly finished,’ said Henry.
‘I get it all the time,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘Do this, Teddy. Do that, Teddy. On her mind, you see. Dead for six years, and she still loves him. If I say, “I don’t like kidneys, Doris,” it’s, “Teddy liked kidneys.” If I say, “I’ve got catarrh,” it’s, “Teddy never had catarrh,” so I say nothing and it’s, “Teddy never sulked, I’ll say that for him.” The man was my friend, Henry, so I know what he was like. A self-centred, inconsiderate rogue. Now he’s a bloody saint. Death’s immortalised the bastard.’
An American spacecraft hit the moon, the last trolley bus ran in London and Coventry Cathedral was consecrated.
One Saturday morning towards the end of May, a couple of weeks before the publication of Hilary’s novel, they left the children with Cousin Hilda, who was always secretly thrilled to have them, and went shopping for clothes, followed by a drink in the Pigeon and Two Cushions, and a meal at Thurmarsh’s first Indian restaurant.
In the Pigeon and Two Cushions, Oscar welcomed Hilary ecstatically.
‘Oh, madam!’ he said. ‘Madam! I’ve missed you. I thought you were dead. I nearly died the other day. Chest pains. I thought, “Hey up, Oscar Wintergreen, this is it, owd lad, your number’s up, your time has come, the old ticker’s finally had its chips.”’
‘I presume it hadn’t,’ said Hilary, ‘since you’re still here.’
‘You deduce correctly,’ said Oscar. ‘Indigestion. Salami. Should have known better. Salami and me, we’ve never seen eye to eye. Anyroad, I were very sick. Oh sorry, madam. I shouldn’t have brought that up. Oops! No joke intended. Anyroad, within two hours, right as rain, I were here as per usual that selfsame evening. So, where have you been?’
‘Nowhere,’ said Hilary. ‘I’ve been having, and looking after, two children.’
Oscar’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged, as he realised that he had never endured any health problems in that area. All he could do, therefore, was to fall back upon the question which, for all the pleasure of their reunion, they were longing to hear.
‘What can I get you?’ he said.
Henry had two pints of bitter, and Hilary had a gin and tonic, and they laughed at the suitability of Oscar having a surname that was also an ointment.
In the Taj Mahal, which was dark and empty as always on a Saturday morning, they sat in front of an enormous photograph of the eponymous edifice, and ate onion bhajis, lamb dhansak and chicken dopiaza, and Henry suddenly realised that Hilary was about to broach a difficult subject.
‘Er…,’ she said.
‘Er?’ he said. ‘What “er”?’
‘The publishers want me to do a kind of promotional tour.’
‘I see.’
‘Just the major cities. London. Birmingham. Glasgow. Manchester.’
‘How long would you be away?’
‘A week.’
‘What about the children?’
‘Well that’s obviously a problem. I suppose you’d have to take a week off and look after them.’
‘But that’d mean using up my holiday.’
‘I know. Obviously if you don’t feel you can, there’s no more to be said.’
The waiter saw the look on Henry’s face, and approached hurriedly. He had a generous nature, a distinct talent on the sitar, a philosophical bent, a worrying pain in the left testicle, a desperate desire to be a doctor, fantasies about Petula Clark and a disturbing letter about the health of his mother in Hyderabad, but since all he said was, ‘Is everything all right?’ it is impossible, with the best will in the world, to reflect all these factors in dialogue.
‘Yes, yes, everything’s lovely,’ said Henry. ‘If I had a long face it’s just … a personal problem.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the waiter inappropriately.
When the waiter had gone, Hilary said, ‘I mean, I’d like to go, simply because they’ve put all their effort into my book and how can I expect them to do it if I’m not prepared to?’
‘Not because you’d enjoy it?’ said Henry as drily as a bhuna curry.
‘Of course I’d enjoy it,’ said Hilary. ‘I love you very much, but it’s only one week and it’d be interesting and, yes, I’d love to go.’
Henry grinned. ‘Then you must go,’ he said. ‘It’s a wonderful book and you deserve it.’
Hi
lary leant across and kissed him. The waiter beamed.
So Hilary went to London and Birmingham and Glasgow and Manchester and Henry got the children up and praised Jack for his success on the potty and dressed them and played with them and read them stories and Kate drew and painted and acted out little scenes she’d made up, and Jack put increasingly elaborate things together and pulled them to pieces again and laughed, and Henry cooked fish fingers and beans and dreamt of Hilary in French restaurants, and he said to himself, ‘I am not jealous. I am not jealous. I am not jealous,’ and sometimes it worked.
In the mornings he took the children to the Alderman Chandler Memorial Park, and it was there, sitting on a bench, watching them playing happily on the swings and roundabouts, that he fell into conversation with the Indian waiter.
‘Have a sweet,’ said the waiter. ‘Indian sweet. Very sweet.’
‘Thank you,’ said Henry, taking the proffered delicacy. ‘Oh yes. Very sweet.’
‘Very sweet sweet.’
‘Yes.’
They laughed.
‘Life is an odd one, yes?’ said the waiter.
‘Well, yes. Very. Actually a very odd one.’
‘Quite so. This morning, for instance. I have breakfast. I practise on the sitar.’
‘Oh. You play the sitar?’
‘Not very well.’
‘I bet you do.’
‘Well I suppose I have a talent. I play. I am happy. Then “ouch”.’
‘Ouch?’
‘Back comes the worrying pain in my left testicle. I play a happy tune and I think, “Oh, if only I didn’t have this pain,” and I am happy and sad at the same time.’
They watched the children in silence for a few moments.
‘Do you like being a waiter?’ asked Henry.
‘Not much. It is dreary work and many people are not like you. Many people are pigs,’ said the waiter. ‘I would much like to be a doctor.’
‘One day, perhaps,’ said Henry.
‘Maybe, if I work hard. Your children?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very fine children.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I would love to have children by Petula Clark.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘I know, but she is a fine woman. I like Western women. Eastern women too. All women.’
‘Sexy beast.’
‘Alas, yes. But I ought not to wish for children by Petula Clark. It is impossible.’
‘Unlikely, certainly.’
‘One should never seek to attain the unattainable.’
‘You have a philosophical bent.’
‘Thank you.’
Kate fell and almost cried, but didn’t, so Henry didn’t interfere.
‘Did you see me fall, Daddy?’ she shouted.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see me not cry?’
‘Yes. Brave girl.’
‘I inherited it from my mother in Hyderabad,’ said the waiter.
‘Sorry. What?’ said Henry.
‘My philosophical bent. She has eight children. Brings them up well. Her life is work. Work work work. In old age she gets her reward. Arthritis.’ He stood up and shook Henry’s hand. ‘Count your blessings, my friend.’
7 The Contrasting Fortunes of Four Lovers
IT WAS NATURAL that on Hilary’s return, the children should run to her with squeals of uninhibited delight, ignoring totally the person who’d looked after their every need for six long days. How wonderful, thought Henry, to be so oblivious of one’s effect on other people.
‘Tell me how helpful you’ve been to your wonderful daddy,’ said Hilary.
Henry felt humiliated by her need to include him with such blatant tact. She was nervous, and this made him feel grumpy. The words that he’d planned – ‘Oh, darling, I’ve missed you so much’ – stuck in his craw. How often this seemed to happen to him.
‘You’re nervous,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘I was frightened you might be grumpy. And I was right to be frightened. You are grumpy.’
‘I’m only grumpy because you didn’t trust me not to be grumpy,’ growled Henry.
Hilary made the mistake of laughing.
‘It isn’t funny,’ said Henry. ‘I see nothing funny in the break-up of a marriage.’
Hilary went even whiter than usual, and began to cry. Henry heard the voice of the Indian waiter, ‘Count your blessings.’
He rushed over to her and said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it,’ but she refused to let him kiss her properly.
He’d laid the table in the small, cosy kitchen, which at Hilary’s suggestion he’d painted a cheery yellow. He’d even lit a candle. He’d made watercress soup and moussaka. Hilary said it was nice, and even the children ate a little, but it wasn’t what he’d hoped for, and the fact that it was entirely his fault only made it worse.
At the end of the meal, Hilary said how lovely it had been.
‘What, even after all the sophisticated food you’ve been having?’
‘Best meal I’ve had all week.’
He didn’t believe her, but he was pleased none the less.
‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ he said, as they washed up. ‘I love you so much and I miss you so much that I can’t cope sometimes.’
Hilary put her arms round him, lifted his ‘Oxfam’ apron, and touched his thigh gently.
He told her about the Indian waiter, and she laughed, and once again things were almost as they had once been.
During the summer of 1962, Hilary had a minor disappointment, and Henry had a minor success.
The minor disappointment was that Hilary’s book, despite good reviews, was selling only modestly.
The minor success was that figures issued by Eddie Hapwood, Head of Research (Statistical), showed that in 1961, throughout the Northern Counties (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed) production of cucumbers had risen by 1.932 per cent.
Hilary and the children came with Henry on one of his trips round the North Country, but the children grew bored in the car, and even the knowledge that they were passing through areas where people were growing 1.932 per cent more cucumbers failed to excite them for very long.
They flew to Spain for their holiday. Kate and Jack were incoherent with excitement. They ate paella and Spanish omelette and swam and grew brown and both Howard and Nadežda told Henry how much they loved him for making Hilary so happy, and Henry thought of the times when he’d made her miserable, and felt sick with guilt. He resolved, secretly, to be much better towards her when they returned home.
But all the time, whether lolling on the beach or being driven up into the dry hills, or catching the little train that wound painfully slowly through the orange groves near the coast, Henry was aware of the two important decisions that he must make – when to move out of cucumbers, and what to do about Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris.
Shortly after their return, the Cuban Missile Crisis pushed the world to the brink of war. President Kennedy revealed that the United States had evidence of Russian missile bases in Cuba. He began a partial blockade of Cuba. Russian warships steamed towards Cuba. President Kennedy did not waver. The Russian warships turned back, the Russians agreed to remove the missile bases, America agreed to lift the blockade, and Henry decided, in this uncertain climate, not to move out of cucumbers until 1963.
He also decided that he must tell Auntie Doris about Uncle Teddy.
‘I’ve no choice,’ he told Hilary. ‘He’s unhappy, she’s unhappy, even Geoffrey Porringer’s unhappy.’
‘I agree,’ said Hilary. ‘I’m surprised you’ve delayed so long.’
‘It’s a big responsibility, interfering in people’s lives,’ said Henry. ‘It’s a terrible responsibility. I think, before I actually do it, I’d better write to Uncle Teddy to check if it’s still what he really wants.’
Dear Uncle Teddy [he wrote],
I’m sorry not to have been in touch before, but I just haven’t known what to do. I’ve decided
now that I will act as a go-between for you, if you solemnly swear that you really do love Auntie Doris and will commit yourself to her till death do you part.
Kate is at school full time now and loving it, she’s very bright. Jack is more the practical type. He’s into everything, naughty but lovely. Hilary’s getting on well with her second novel, set in a glue factory! She doesn’t want me to read it before it’s finished.
Work is going pretty well for me too. Would you ever have guessed, when you took me into your home that snowy day in that awful winter of 1947, that fifteen years later I’d be responsible, virtually single-handed, for an increase of 1.932 per cent in cucumber yields in Northern England (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed)?
I look forward to your reply and hopefully setting the whole thing in motion very soon.
We hope you’ll have a happy Christmas and that 1963 will see the beginning of a great new life for you.
Lots of love,
Henry and Hilary (not forgetting Kate and Jack)
They had a Christmas card from Uncle Teddy, but it had crossed Henry’s letter. His message read:
I hope you all have a lovely Christmas. Very disappointed not to have had any news re what we discussed. No news or bad news or you forgot or just got too busy? Sorry there’s no lolly enclosed. Fings ain’t wot they used t’be in import–export.
And then there was nothing. A year that was to leave the world a very changed place began with a giant freeze, with heavy snowfalls and frost night and day for several weeks. Henry rushed to the post each morning. Bills, giant carpet sales, one fan letter for Hilary – I wonder if you are a relation of Gloria Lewthwaite, who did water-colours, mainly of lighthouses, before the First World War – but nothing from Uncle Teddy.
And then at last, towards the end of February, there was a letter from France:
Dear Henry,