by David Nobbs
Tosser Pilkington-Brick entered en famille. He too had put on weight, and lost the fitness of his rugger years. Diana looked pleasantly chunky, but tired. Benedict, who was almost eight, looked like Little Ford Fauntleroy. Camilla, who was six, looked like a very small horse.
Henry longed to talk to Diana. The intensity of his longing astounded him. He moved towards her, but got waylaid by Belinda Boyce-Uppingham.
‘My God,’ he said. ‘This party’s registering seven on the reunion scale …’
‘Lovely to see you,’ said Belinda. ‘I heard something about you the other day. Now what was it? Oh yes. You’ve given up scribbling and are in radishes. That’s right.’
‘Well actually I gave up scribbling eight years ago, and it’s cucumbers.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And how about you?’
‘I’ve got two,’ said Belinda Boyce-Uppingham, as if there was no other subject but children. ‘Tessa and Vanessa. Robin would love a son, but never mind, they’re good girls. Ah, speak of the devil. Robin, you remember Henry Pratt.’
‘Er … oh yes,’ said Robin. ‘The refugee chap who’s in tomatoes.’
‘Cucumbers, actually,’ said Henry.
‘I said “radishes”,’ said Belinda.
They all had a laugh over that.
‘Oh, well, they’re all veg, I suppose,’ said Robin.
Henry was tempted to say, ‘Shrewd of you to spot that. Who says you’re as thick as two short planks?’ but he fought it off, smiled a self-deprecatory smile, and said, ‘Actually I sometimes forget what I’m in myself,’ and they all laughed again, in the way people do, at parties, at things that aren’t remotely amusing.
At last he was at Diana’s side.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said.
She flushed slightly.
‘You know Benedict and Camilla, don’t you?’ she said.
‘We have met but you were much younger then,’ said Henry.
‘So were you,’ said Camilla.
‘Camilla! Don’t be rude,’ said Diana.
‘No, she’s absolutely right. It was a silly remark,’ said Henry.
He smiled at Camilla. If he’d hoped to win her over, it was a dismal failure.
‘I remember you,’ said Benedict. ‘I’m nearly eight. Much older than Camilla. You were at Dalton College with Daddy, weren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m going to Dalton College after I’ve been to Brasenose College.’
‘Really? I was at Brasenose too. You’ll be following in my footsteps.’
‘Will you excuse me?’ said Benedict. ‘I’ve spotted a friend. Nice to meet you.’
Benedict moved off.
‘Bloody twit!’ said Camilla.
‘Please don’t swear, Camilla,’ said Diana.
‘Gosh. Nosh,’ said Camilla. ‘That’s good, isn’t it? “Gosh. Nosh.”’
‘It’s very good,’ said Henry. ‘Why don’t you go and eat some?’
Camilla gave him a cool look, and stalked off.
‘Where’s Nigel?’ said Henry, looking round, and remembering, on this his first day of total social smoothness, not to call him ‘Tosser’.
‘Tosser,’ said Diana. ‘Would you believe he’s gone to phone a client?’
‘Oh my God. He’s monstrous. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Yes, you should. He is.’
‘But you’re happy?’
‘No.’
‘Oh Diana, I wish you were happy.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Actually I wish everybody was happy tonight.’
‘Oh.’
‘But you particularly.’
‘That’s nice.’
It was so nice, Henry found, to smile at people and be smiled at by people. He wished the party would go on for ever and he would never have to go back to his lonely life.
The children returned, and Henry ‘Can I have permission to get something out of the Permissive Society?’ Pratt wasn’t nearly as lonely when they were around. They said they’d had a wonderful time but didn’t say much about Hilary, and he refused to stoop to using them in a search for information. They were very brown and looked extremely fit. To his enormous, his stupendous, his tear-wrenching, his heart-stopping relief, they seemed thrilled to see him and not unhappy to be home.
Folk music swept the land. Even in Thurmarsh there were hippies. Henry bought a Bob Dylan record, but he sensed that the whole movement was passing him by.
The Regional Co-ordinator, Northern Counties (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed) reached retirement age. His successor was named, and he was not the Assistant Regional Co-ordinator Northern Counties (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed) but John Barrington, Head of Gherkins.
Once again, the party was held in the Board Room, but this time there were no balloons. ‘A bad idea. Mea culpa,’ had been Timothy Whitehouse’s verdict on the balloons.
Maybe Henry ‘Nonpareil at avoiding blotted copy-books’ Pratt had become complacent. Maybe the pain of being passed over for his boss’s job was greater than he could bear with equilibrium. Maybe the depression he had felt at Dennis Tubman-Edwards’s retirement party had given him a morbid fear of retirement parties. Maybe he had a subconscious dread of finding that he had given his whole life to cucumbers and would end up at his own retirement party. Whatever it was, Henry couldn’t face Roland Stagg’s retirement party without having a couple of drinks first.
By the time he arrived, the party was already in full swing. He took a large glass of red wine and found his retiring boss bearing down on him, trousers at half-mast round his enormous paunch.
‘I’d like a brief word, Henry,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided to come clean. I was asked if I thought you should succeed me. Now I’m very pleased with your progress. You’ve been keeping a really low profile.’
‘So low that sometimes I wonder if I’m clinically dead,’ said Henry.
‘Excellent. Truly excellent.’ He gave his painful, Burmese cough. ‘Anyway, I said, “No. I don’t think Henry should succeed me. He’s ready for promotion, but he needs to move to a different department. He needs a challenge.” Be patient, Henry. Hang on in there, avoid blotting your copy-book, and the world can be your oyster. Your hour of glory is at hand. Have you met my wife Laura?’
Laura Stagg was quite unreasonably pretty. Men with vast paunches shouldn’t have such pretty wives. Where was the justice in the world? She was wearing a surprisingly low-cut dress and Henry was transfixed by her splendid cleavage. He felt an absurd temptation to say something outrageously sexy to her. Desperately, he said, ‘How are you feeling about having Mr Stagg at home all day?’
‘You’re the one who was at school with Tommy Marsden, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘When I heard him on the radio being asked what it was like to win the first division championship and he said, “It hasn’t sunk in yet,” I thought he must be some kind of prize idiot. But you know, I feel the same. It simply hasn’t sunk in.’
She smiled and looked straight into Henry’s eyes. He scuttled off in search of safer ground, and poured himself another large red wine.
He found himself face to face with Vincent Ambrose, the Director General. He hadn’t spoken to Mr Ambrose since his first week, and doubted if the Director General would remember him, but there he did him an injustice.
‘Get that kettle all right, did you?’ said Vincent Ambrose genially.
‘Absolutely.’ Henry wished he hadn’t said ‘absolutely’ so absolutely meaninglessly, when ‘yes’ would have sufficed.
‘Jolly good.’ The Director General paused, searching for something to say. ‘Well, keep up the good work,’ he said, and moved on.
When Henry spilt coronation chicken all down his suit front, he knew that he was sinking.
He took another large glass of red wine, to soothe his nerves.
He tried hard, that evening, to hang on in there, to keep a clear head, to avoid blotting his copy-book.
>
In vain!
He tried hard, that evening, having learnt for all time the dangers of jealousy, not to feel bitter about the promotion of John Barrington.
To no avail!
Somewhere, along the line, he had had one glass of red wine too many.
He awoke with a steam-hammer in his head and an unwashed wart-hog in his mouth. He could remember only three of the things that he had said during the rest of that awful evening.
He recalled countering John Barrington’s, ‘I hope we’ll work well together. I certainly relish the prospect,’ with, ‘Well, I don’t. You’re a little prick, and you should have stayed with gherkins.’
He remembered saying, ‘I bet you look gorgeous with no clothes on,’ to the unexpectedly pretty wife of Roland Stagg.
He saw, vividly, horribly, the expression on the face of the Director (Operations), as he limped off after Henry had said, ‘I know why you haven’t promoted me. Because the face doesn’t fit, does it, Mr Timothy Shitehouse?’
Slowly, Henry’s physical state improved. By lunchtime, he only felt as if he had a face flannel stuck in his throat, and managed to phone his ex-boss to apologise.
‘Oh dear oh dear oh dear,’ said Roland Stagg. ‘Who didn’t keep a low profile, then? Who blotted his copy-book?’
‘I know,’ said Henry. ‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I spoilt your party.’
‘Not at all, except that I was sorry for you. It’s never nice to see a good man disappearing up his own arse-hole.’
‘I … er … I’m sorry if I said anything untoward to your wife.’
‘I don’t think you did.’ Roland Stagg seemed puzzled. ‘I said you’d disgraced yourself all round and she said, “Well, he said some very nice things to me.”’
‘Oh! Ah! Yes! Sorry! That’s right.’ Henry floundered wildly. ‘Yes, I remember now. It was someone else’s wife I said awful things to. That’s right.’
At half past two, the Director (Operations) sent for him.
Timothy Whitehouse twitched his predatory nose, gave a half-smile and said, ‘Don’t look so miserable.’
‘I am miserable,’ said Henry. ‘I said some awful things last night.’
The Director (Operations) swivelled in his chair and sought solace in his reproduction of Albrecht Dürer’s little-known masterpiece, ‘The Cucumber’.
‘I’m not inhuman,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t hold what people say at parties against them, otherwise nobody would come to our parties and I enjoy our parties. I note that you are upset at not being given Roland’s job. I’m not so naïve as to believe that I’m never referred to as Shitehouse, but in your case I shall assume that it was a slip of the tongue caused by hearing lesser men use the expression about me. Is that correct?’
‘Absolutely. Oh, absolutely.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I’ll attempt to forget that you said it although, since no one has ever said it to my face before, that will be difficult.’ The Director (Operations) swivelled round again, this time to look Henry straight in the eye. ‘In ten years’ time, when I hope you will still be with us, we’ll look back on Roland’s retirement party, and we’ll split our collective sides. I hope that’s a comfort.’
‘Well it is, Mr Whitehouse, and I think you’ve been very generous, Mr Whitehouse, but … er … may I say something, Mr Whitehouse?’
‘Of course. Didn’t I advise you always to be your own man, stick to your guns and be fearless? Although I should have qualified that. I should have advised you to be your own man, stick to your guns and be fearless when sober. Mea culpa. So, what is it? Ask away.’
‘I’m not sure that I want to be here in ten years’ time.’
‘I know. You’ve applied for other jobs. I’ve supplied references. You haven’t got them. Bad luck.’
‘I wouldn’t want to stay unless … unless I felt it was worth my while.’
‘Bravely spoken, for a man who said the things you said yesterday, which of course I’ll try to forget. I understand. Point taken. Henry, my advice is this. Cease looking for other jobs, commit yourself fully to us, avoid saying the sort of things you said yesterday, which of course I’ll try to forget, and be patient. Your hour of glory is at hand.’
‘That’s what Mr Tubman-Edwards and Mr Stagg said.’
‘Well why don’t you believe us?’ said Timothy Whitehouse. ‘We are Englishmen, after all.’
Henry found himself dismissed rather abruptly. He steeled himself to call on John Barrington.
John Barrington had only been in his office for six hours, but already he had plastered it with photographs of his family. Henry could see them canoeing, sailing, surfing, skiing. He felt even more unathletic than usual.
John Barrington ushered him into a chair rather offhandedly.
‘I must apologise for what I said last night,’ said Henry.
‘Yes, I think you must,’ said John Barrington.
‘I hope we can work well together,’ said Henry.
‘Well so do, I, Henry. So do I.’ John Barrington just happened, as if by chance, to pick up the bronze gherkin given him by the Gherkin Growers’ Federation as Gherkin Man of the Year for 1962. He fingered it delicately. Henry wondered who on earth they had found to be Gherkin Man of the Year for 1963 and 1964. ‘I’ll lead by example, I’ll ask for your help when required, and if you give it we’ll have no problems. Now I am rather busy, if you don’t mind. My first day. I’m sure you’ll understand.’
1965 drew towards its close. The largest power failure in history blacked out New York City, parts of eight North Eastern states, and parts of Ontario and Quebec. Henry wondered if it had also disconnected his phone.
He sought an interview with John Barrington and was granted one.
‘I feel I’m being under-used,’ he said. ‘I feel I’m being victimised for an unwise drunken remark at a party.’
John Barrington picked up his award. As a dummy is to a baby, so was his bronze gherkin to the new Regional Co-ordinator, Northern Counties (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed). ‘I’m not a petty man. The fact is, my predecessor ran a lazy ship. Too much devolved on you.’
‘I didn’t mind it devolving on me.’
‘That does you credit, but it doesn’t make it right. I run a tight ship. The responsibilities are mine.’
‘I realise that, but I get nothing to do whatsoever. Sometimes I wonder why I’ve got this job at all.’
‘I shouldn’t speculate along those lines out loud, if I were you,’ said John Barrington.
Henry intended to take the matter up with the Director (Operations), but then the children got flu, and then he got flu, and then the Director (Operations) got flu, and then it was too near Christmas.
The children went to Spain for Christmas, and Henry considered all the poverty in the world and thought, ‘There are millions of people who’d be grateful for roast turkey and ginger cordial and three hours of Snap in a stifling basement room with Cousin Hilda and Mrs Wedderburn and Liam O’Reilly.’
That Christmas night Henry cried for Hilary as he had never cried before.
The children returned, life resumed its even keel, and Henry told the Director (Operations) of his displeasure at his inactivity.
‘I’ll have a word with John Barrington,’ said Mr Whitehouse. ‘Delegation is not weakness.’
Britain announced a complete trade ban against Rhodesia, the Soviet spacecraft Luna 9 made a soft landing on the moon, and the word that Timothy Whitehouse had with John Barrington produced only a marginal increase in Henry’s workload.
My life is draining away, he thought. I’ll be thirty-one soon.
Sales of the paperback of All Stick Together had suddenly accelerated over the Christmas period. The publishers told Henry that Hilary’s book was a big success, but they were getting no reply to their letters. He wrote and begged her to write to them. They told him that she had written to say that she was very pleased on the author’s behalf but that she no longer considered herself the author.
She didn’t write to Henry.
In the early hours of Sunday, March 13th, 1966, Henry had a disturbing dream. He dreamt that he was in a glorious, baroque opera house, but all the seats were on the stage, and all the scenery was in the auditorium. And there was only one person in the twelve rows of seats on the stage. Henry, in immaculate evening dress, was sitting in the third seat from the left in the third row.
He looked down on magnificent painted sets which suggested that the performance was to consist of a cross between Swan Lake and The Barber of Seville.
Into the auditorium came Helen Plunkett, née Cornish. She was naked. She smiled at Henry and took up a stilted theatrical pose. Her legs were magnificent.
Next came Diana, also naked, chunkily sexy. She was accompanied by Benedict and Camilla, who were dressed as page boys. Diana waved at him cheerily, but the faces of Benedict and Camilla broke into derisive smiles.
Next came the eighteen-year-old Lorna Arrow, also stark naked. She smiled shyly at Henry. Her four children, Marlene, Doreen, Kevin and Sharon, ran on behind her, all dressed as Beefeaters, and she turned into the Lorna Lugg who had lost her looks, breasts sagging and stretch marks forming like cracks on a mirror.
Helen’s naked sister Jill followed with her three boys, dressed as Chelsea pensioners. Then came Mrs Hargreaves, also naked and extraordinarily well-preserved, with a fifteen-year-old Paul and a fourteen-year-old Diana, both dressed as onion sellers. Young Diana blew a kiss to present-day Diana.
Next came Ginny Fenwick, stark naked, sturdy, running to fat, and carrying a Bren gun. She was followed by Anna Matheson, who slid on, seated naked on the very armchair on which she had been naked for Henry all those years ago.
Belinda Boyce-Uppingham was posing as a frontispiece for Country Life, except that frontispieces for Country Life wear clothes. Tessa and Vanessa wore jodhpurs and carried riding whips.
And out of the lake there arose Boadicea’s chariot, and on it, naked and palely lovely, was Hilary, with Kate and Jack at her side, dressed as bullfighters.
All the women held out their arms towards Henry, and all the children smiled. The band struck up ‘Happy Birthday to You’ and they all sang, ‘Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday, dear Henry, Happy birthday to you.’ Then all the women’s breasts sagged and stretch marks formed on all their thighs and five hundred balloons shaped like cucumbers descended from the ornate ceiling, and the flesh fell off all the women to whom Henry had ever been deeply attracted, and the clothes and the flesh fell off all the children that they had borne, and they all became horrible smiling skeletons.