The Complete Pratt

by David Nobbs

  He found himself, midway through the evening, trapped in a corner, beneath a framed certificate commemorating the winning of the third prize at the Foire Internationale de Légumes in Nantes, listening to the retiring Head of Establishments’ woes.

  ‘What am I going to do, Henry?’ he said. ‘All day, every day, at home with Margaret.’

  ‘Polar exploration?’

  ‘Possibly. I’ve tried golf. I just can’t hit the damned thing and I lose my temper. Never marry a snob, Henry. You didn’t marry a snob, did you?’

  ‘No. I married a much too wonderful woman.’

  ‘Well I married a snob. Margaret is a snob. She thought I’d have a glittering career. A mandarin of the civil service. What did I become?’

  ‘A satsuma of the not-so-civil service?’

  ‘Exactly. You need a sense of humour here. My son bullied you, didn’t he? Josceleyn.’

  ‘Well… yes … he blackmailed me.’

  ‘No moral fibre. A sticky end predicted. I have an only son who was unlikeable even in the pram, a grotty little house full of all the Spode my wife inherited from her family and keeps on using to remind me that she’s known better days, and there I sit between a scrap-metal dealer and a ball-bearings mogul, with a snobbish wife who’s as sexy as a camshaft and can’t even cook anything edible to put on her bloody Spode plates. I also have a deep sense of failure and futility. I’ve struggled through, keeping my nose clean, and now they say, “Thank you very much, here are some inedible vol-au-vents cooked by your wife, piss off.”’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ said Henry.

  ‘Not your fault,’ said Dennis Tubman-Edwards. ‘My fault for marrying a snob.’ He winced. ‘The shrapnel. Always plays me up when I get angry. Did you read Biggles?’

  ‘Yes. I loved Biggles.’

  ‘Knew you would. I always wanted to be Biggles. Air Force turned me down. Bad eyesight. I hate my initials. D. F. C. Tubman-Edwards BA. I always wanted to be B. A. Tubman-Edwards DFC. A few gongs might have improved my sex life. My wife’s a snob, you see. Did I tell you that?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you did.’

  ‘You look depressed, Henry. Are you depressed?’

  ‘Well I have to say I haven’t found you a riot of laughs.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘I don’t feel I’m getting anywhere.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’re serving your apprenticeship and managing not to blot your copy-book. People will begin to notice you.’

  ‘Nobody’s noticing me.’

  ‘People will begin to notice that nobody is noticing you. People will begin to realise that you’re a sound man. Be patient. Your hour of glory is at hand.’

  Some of the staff became the worse for drink. The Deputy Head of Liaison (otherwise known as the post-boy) was sick.

  At eleven o’clock all the balloons descended. Henry had managed not to blot his copy-book, but he still felt depressed.

  So Henry got up, gave the children breakfast, took them to the Blairs, travelled to Leeds, sat in his dark little office waiting for his hour of glory, read the Situations Vacant column, travelled back to Thurmarsh, picked up the children from the Blairs, listened to them chattering about how much they were looking forward to seeing Mummy, put them to bed, read them a story about a bow-tie that didn’t like the posh man who was wearing it and wanted to be worn by a farm labourer, drank a large, slow whisky, tossed and turned in his lonely bed, got up, gave the children breakfast, took them to the Blairs, travelled to Leeds, sent off applications for jobs, travelled back to Thurmarsh, picked up the children from the Blairs, listened to them chattering about how warm the sea would be in Spain, put them to bed, read them a story about a grandfather clock that laughed at a cuckoo clock because it was Swiss and got punished for its racialism and arrogance, had a large, slow brandy, recalled sadly in his lonely bed those fiercer days of masturbation at Dalton College, got up, gave the children breakfast, picked up his mail and discovered that he hadn’t even been granted an interview by the people to whom he had applied for jobs.

  Three months of the swinging sixties passed unswingingly in this way. The Commons voted for the renationalisation of steel, Ian Smith’s Rhodesia Front Party was elected with an increased minority, Cassius Clay knocked out Sonny Liston in the first round, the Beatles received OBEs and Edward Heath became leader of the Conservatives.

  The children went to Spain, beside themselves with excitement, to spend a month with Hilary.

  On his return from the airport, Henry heated up a Vesta prawn curry, and ate it while watching Coronation Street. Then he went to the Winstanley and sat there on his own, slowly drinking pint after pint. At twenty-five past ten Peter Matheson came in and Henry was thrilled to see him. This must be my lowest ebb, he thought.

  ‘So it’s out every night, the bachelor life again, is it?’ said Peter Matheson.

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry, accepting another pint. ‘Yes, it’s terrible.’

  Peter Matheson looked at him as if he was deranged or Italian or something equally odd, but Henry didn’t care. Whenever the macho men said, ‘Bet you’re living it up now you’ve offloaded the little horrors,’ he told the truth. ‘The house is so silent. I miss them desperately.’

  He missed Hilary dreadfully too, but he knew that there was no hope there, so he looked for pastures new.

  His first Friday evening without the children saw him in the Lord Nelson, in Leatherbottlers’ Row. Seated at their old table in the back bar, looking as if they’d been there ever since Henry’d left the paper eight years ago, were Helen Plunkett, Ginny Fenwick, Colin Edgeley and Ben Watkinson.

  Ben was almost fifty now, and they all looked older. But then so did Henry. His hair was just beginning to thin.

  Colin Edgeley leapt up, said, ‘Hello, kid. Great. Have a drink, kid,’ hugged Henry, and said, ‘Oh shit. I haven’t any money.’ Ben Watkinson said he’d buy him a drink if he could name the county grounds of all seventeen first-class cricket counties. Ginny Fenwick blushed and bought him a drink. Henry named sixteen of the seventeen grounds, and Ben said that was good enough. Helen put her hand on his knee under the table and he developed an erection. She ran her hands across his crotch, felt the erection and raised her eyes.

  ‘Where’s Ted?’ enquired Henry.

  ‘Walking in the Lakes with mates,’ said Helen. ‘I hate the Lakes in August.’

  Henry felt very excited indeed

  ‘So are you on the loose tonight or are you going on somewhere?’ asked Ginny.

  ‘No. No plans,’ said Henry.

  ‘No. Nor me,’ said Ginny. ‘I don’t much like making plans. I like to see how the evening develops.’

  Henry said, ‘My round. Same again?’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Ben. ‘Time I went home and gave the wife one. Oh, all right, as I haven’t seen you for so long.’

  ‘Yes, just the one, then I must get back to Glenda,’ said Colin.

  ‘Well just the one,’ said Ginny. ‘I don’t want to hang around the pub all night.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Helen. ‘I’m in no hurry.’

  Ben went home to give the wife one. Ginny said, ‘Well, I fancy something to eat. Are you coming, anybody?’

  ‘No, got to get back to Glenda,’ said Colin.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Helen.

  ‘No, thanks, Ginny. I’ve eaten,’ lied Henry.

  Ginny Fenwick blushed again and stumbled out of the pub.

  ‘It must be awful not to be attractive,’ said Helen.

  ‘If you lend me a quid, I can buy a round,’ said Colin.

  ‘I thought you were going home,’ said Henry.

  ‘Glenda won’t mind. You’re my mate,’ said Colin.

  ‘How is Glenda?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Very well,’ said Colin. ‘We’re getting on much better now I don’t drink.’

  They told Henry all the office gossip. Terry Skipton, news editor and Jehovah’s Witness, had retired. Neil Mallet, who had once plagued H
enry with deliberate misprints, had been seen in Buenos Aires, where he was apparently working on an English-language newspaper.

  ‘I’m starving,’ announced Helen. ‘Have you tried our Indian restaurant, Henry? At last we’re catching up.’

  ‘Yes, I have. I like it,’ said Henry.

  ‘Great idea,’ said Colin. ‘I could murder a vindaloo.’

  ‘And Glenda’ll murder you,’ said Helen. ‘Go on home, Colin, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Colin Edgeley. ‘Oh!! Message received. Never let it be said that Colin Edgeley came between a mate and a leg-over.’

  Henry and Helen held hands on that warm summer’s evening.

  ‘Shall we pop into the Devonshire first?’ said Helen.

  ‘No, let’s not. I quite fancy an early night,’ said Henry meaningfully.

  ‘Me too,’ said Helen meaningfully.

  The Taj Mahal was half full. Later, after the pubs closed, it would be full.

  Henry’s nice waiter, whom he always thought of as Count Your Blessings, beamed up to them and said, ‘Nice to see you again, sir. And your lovely wi …’

  He stopped, confused.

  ‘You’re quite right,’ said Henry. ‘This is not my lovely wife. My lovely wife has left me. This is my lovely non-wife, Helen.’

  It was impossible to see if Count Your Blessings blushed. He showed them to a corner table, handed them menus, and asked what they’d like to drink.

  ‘A pint of lager, please,’ said Henry.

  ‘Do you make lassi? I don’t feel that I need any artificial stimulation tonight,’ said Helen meaningfully.

  They had finished their meal by five to ten. A light soft rain was falling on the darkening summer streets of the unprepossessing town.

  ‘Do you fancy coming home for a drink?’ said Henry Ezra Pratt.

  ‘You’ve rejected my advances once too often,’ said Helen Marigold Plunkett, née Cornish. ‘I’m not suddenly going to become available now that you’re on your own. A girl has her pride.’

  The following Friday, Ted was in the Lord Nelson, but not Helen. Also present were Ginny, Colin and Ben.

  ‘Helen not here?’ asked Henry.

  Ted looked round the bar.

  ‘No. Can’t see her,’ he said.

  ‘All right, it was a silly question,’ said Henry. ‘Working, is she?’

  ‘Gone to see her parents,’ said Ted. ‘I don’t go. Mr and Mrs Basil Cornish don’t see eye to eye with their son-in-law. You must be very disappointed. I gather you had a curry with her last week.’

  Ginny blushed. She seemed to have developed a blushing problem.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Henry.

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Ted. ‘Got on well, did you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘but nothing happened.’

  Ted Plunkett raised his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘What do you mean, “Nothing happened”?’ he said. ‘Why do you need to tell me that? I assumed nothing happened. Helen is a married lady.’

  Ben went home to give the wife one. Colin announced that he’d better go as he’d been in the doghouse last weekend, and Ted said, ‘Well, I’m off. Two’s company. Three’s a crowd.’

  Henry and Ginny smiled at each other a trifle nervously, now that they were alone.

  ‘Fancy a curry?’ said Henry.

  ‘Yes, please, even though I’m second choice,’ said Ginny.

  ‘Oh Ginny!’ said Henry.

  ‘Oh I’m not offended,’ said Ginny. ‘You’re third choice.’

  Count Your Blessings greeted them warmly and said, ‘Good to see you again, sir. It’s been quite a while.’

  ‘There’s no need to be tactful,’ said Henry. ‘Ginny knows I was here last Friday.’

  Count Your Blessings showed them to a corner table, handed them menus, and asked what they’d like to drink.

  ‘A pint of lager, please,’ said Henry.

  ‘Do you mind if I have wine?’ said Ginny. ‘I’m feeling rather nervous tonight.’

  They talked about the old days, when Ginny’d had the flat above him, in Winstanley Road.

  ‘A dental mechanic has your flat now,’ she said.

  ‘Lucky man,’ said Henry.

  ‘He is a lucky man. He has a nice wife, a lovely daughter, and nobody upstairs keeping them awake with twanging bed-springs.’ Ginny sighed. ‘I loved Gordon so much. I love him still.’

  ‘Is there no one in your life now?’

  ‘No one in that way. I had two great ambitions, to become a war correspondent and find myself a gorgeous man. I’ve managed neither.’

  ‘There’s still time.’

  ‘Henry, I’m thirty-five.’

  ‘Maybe not for the war correspondent, I don’t know about these things, but certainly for a gorgeous man.’

  They finished their meal by twenty to ten. The air in the grey, dusty town was warm and stale as the summer’s day faded.

  ‘Do you fancy coming home for a drink?’ said Henry.

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ said Ginny.

  They took a taxi. In the taxi, Henry put his hand on Ginny’s thigh. She had big thighs.

  They sat on the settee and drank almost neat whisky. Henry wished that Hilary’s grave beauty wasn’t watching them from the telephone table. He wished Kate and Jack weren’t watching them, cautiously and seriously from the mantelpiece, laughing delightedly from on top of the television. He went upstairs to the lavatory, hurried into his bedroom, took the family photographs off the bedside table, where they fuelled his self-pity each night, and put them in a drawer.

  He had a sudden fear that Ginny, like Anna Matheson on that never-to-be-forgotten night, would be lounging naked in an armchair.

  But she was standing, with her coat on, reading an invitation on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Time I was off,’ she said.

  This was worse than her having taken all her clothes off.

  ‘Oh, Ginny,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you going to stay and come to bed with me?’

  She put her arms round him, and kissed him solemnly.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t want me enough. I don’t want you enough. It might work at the time. It wouldn’t work afterwards. I’d want to go home as soon as it was over. Neither of us would want to wake up beside the other. Will you walk me to my door, like a gentleman? I’d like to feel I’d been out with a gentleman, just once in my life.’

  The invitation which Ginny had been reading on Henry’s mantelpiece was to the engagement party of Paul Hargreaves, Henry’s best friend at Dalton College, to Dr Christobel Farquhar.

  It took place in the elegant Hampstead home of Paul’s parents. Henry told himself, with every mile of the long journey from Thurmarsh, that this was another social event at which it was important for him not to blot his copy-book. He would be witty, gracious, generous, sober – well, fairly sober. It was ridiculous to have a best friend whom you no longer liked very much. He would find in his heart the warmth to rekindle his affection for Paul.

  Dr Christobel Farquhar was, as was to be expected, strikingly attractive. ‘Paul’s a lucky man,’ Henry told her, and he told Paul, ‘You’re a lucky man.’ Low marks for originality, but his reward was a warm smile from Paul which almost persuaded him that he really did like him.

  There was champagne, but Henry drank carefully. There was a salmon buffet, and Henry ate carefully. With his suit unsullied by mayonnaise, and his senses barely affected by champagne, he sailed through the elegant rooms, crowded with surgeons and radiologists and neurologists and psychiatrists and a couple of Hampstead artists to give just a slight piquancy of bohemianism.

  It was less than halfway through the party when he overheard the exchange. ‘Who is that?’ ‘That’s Paul’s funny little friend. You know, the cucumber man.’

  The cucumber man’s heart raced, his pulse hammered, but he refused to feel humiliated. He was a fighter. He had always been a fighter. He would regain his fighting form.

  So, when he had a
minute or two with Paul and Christobel, he didn’t say, ‘Going to be a lawyer, get engaged to a lawyer. Going to be a doctor, get engaged to a doctor. Is your whole life programmed?’ He said, ‘I hope you’ll be very happy and I hope you’ll visit me in Thurmarsh. I haven’t seen nearly enough of Paul over the years.’

  When Mr Hargreaves, eminent brain surgeon, said, ‘I’m retiring next year. Let some of the younger chaps in. No point in being greedy,’ Henry didn’t say, ‘You don’t need to be, you’ve got enough salted away to live in luxury for fifty years.’ He said, ‘An admirable sentiment. I wish you a long and happy retirement.’ Mr Hargreaves thanked him warmly. It was nice to be thanked warmly.

  When Mrs Hargreaves bore down on him, she imposed a critical test on his new-found social solidity. He felt an absurd temptation to say, ‘I bet you look wonderful with nothing on.’ He fought it off valiantly, and said, ‘You look as young and elegant and beautiful as ever,’ and was rewarded by a blush of pleasure and embarrassment that sent an exquisite shiver through his genitals.

  Henry was surprised and delighted to see Denzil and Lampo. They weren’t speaking to each other. ‘A contretemps over a tantalus.’ Lampo had put on weight. He looked solidly successful, as well he might, since he was regarded as a golden boy at Sotheby’s – or was it Christie’s? Denzil remained slender and trim, his limp had grown no worse over the years, and his parchment skin, stretched and flecked with age, had barely changed in the ten years that Henry had known him. He had aged young, and in his mid-fifties he was gently ripening into distinction.

  ‘Still with cucumbers?’ asked Lampo.

  ‘Still with cucumbers.’

  ‘Priceless. Oh my God. Tosser!’