The Complete Pratt

by David Nobbs

  Henry awoke, drenched in sweat, to hear the telephone ringing with tinny insistence in the deep silence of the house. And he knew, with utter certainty, that it would be Hilary, disturbed by the aura given off by his dream, ringing to say that she still loved him. As he rushed to the phone, at ten past three on his thirty-first birthday on the 13th, having dreamt that he was the only one on the stage sitting in the third seat in the third row, the numbers three and one had sharp and lucky significance for him. He dived for the phone, terrified that she would ring off.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Dyno-Rod?’ said a deep male voice. ‘Sorry to ring you at this unearthly hour, but I’ve got water pouring through my back passage.’

  Two months later, Henry’s phone rang again at ten past three in the morning. He felt certain, even though he no longer had any belief in his psychic powers, that it would be another crossed line for Dyno-Rod.

  ‘Hello,’ he said wearily.

  ‘Henry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Diana. Are you alone?’

  ‘Of course I’m alone.’

  ‘I’m sorry to ring you at this unearthly hour. Tosser’s left me and you’re the only person I can talk to.’

  9 For Better, For Worse

  ON SATURDAY, JUNE 10th, 1967, the Middle East War ended after just six days with a cease-fire between Israel and Syria, Spencer Tracey died of a heart attack, and Dr Paul Hargreaves married Dr Christobel Farquhar.

  The reception was held in a huge marquee in the vast garden of Brigadier and Mrs Roderick Farquhar, near Alresford in Hampshire.

  The sun glinted in the grey streaks that were beginning to fleck Henry’s slowly thinning hair. He was standing with Diana in a queue outside the marquee, waiting to tell the happy couple that they looked wonderful and it had been worth waiting almost two years to get Winchester Cathedral on a Saturday in June.

  Behind them were a close friend of the bride, the lovely Annabel Porchester, and her fiancé, the unlovely Josceleyn Tubman-Edwards, of the merchant bankers, Pellet and Runciman.

  ‘It’s Henry!’ said Josceleyn Tubman-Edwards. ‘Good Lord! Darling, this is Henry Pratt, a chum of mine. We were at Dalton College together, and then Henry got a job with my father at the Cucumber Marketing Board. Henry, this is Annabel Porchester. She’s one of the Suffolk Porchesters.’

  ‘I always thought they were a breed of pig,’ said Henry.

  Diana giggled. It was one of her most endearing qualities that she had never quite grown up.

  ‘I should have warned you that Henry is awful,’ said Josceleyn Tubman-Edwards.

  ‘Henry has a dreadful thing about posh social events,’ said Diana. ‘They make him panic and he fights back by being incredibly rude. He hasn’t even introduced me.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Henry. ‘Diana Pilkington-Brick. Paul’s sister. She married Tosser Pilkington-Brick, who was also a “chum” at school. You remember Tosser, don’t you, Josceleyn?’

  Josceleyn Tubman-Edwards tried to smile. A piece of saliva remained attached to both his lips even as they parted, but they didn’t part very far.

  ‘Yes, I … er … I remember Pilkington-Brick,’ said Josceleyn. ‘Is … er … I mean … er …?’

  ‘We’re separated,’ said Diana. ‘I’m divorcing him for adultery.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Josceleyn.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Diana. ‘I’m going to marry Henry.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Josceleyn. ‘I mean, congratulations.’

  ‘Yes, congratulations,’ said Annabel.

  ‘What do you do, Annabel?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Not a lot. I only came out last year,’ said Annabel.

  ‘Really! What were you in for?’

  ‘Henry!’ said Diana.

  They edged slowly forward, a queue of hats wilting in the summer sun. It was so boring. They couldn’t wait for the champagne and the food.

  ‘So where will you get married?’ asked Josceleyn.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Diana. ‘I was just thinking, “How do you follow this?”’

  ‘Probably a church hall in Thurmarsh,’ said Henry.

  ‘Ugh!’ said Josceleyn.

  ‘Well don’t worry,’ said Henry. ‘You won’t be invited.’

  ‘Henry! Why are you being so awful to the poor man?’ said Diana.

  Henry lowered his voice, to spare Annabel from his reply.

  ‘He introduced me as his chum. The great bag of rancid lizard droppings blackmailed me over that business of pretending my father’d been a test pilot.’

  ‘Oh! That was him!’ said Diana. ‘Oh well, that’s all right, then. Poor girl. She must be after his money.’

  ‘Well I’d hate to think she was after his sex appeal.’

  At last it was their turn to greet the happy couple. Paul looked magnificent in morning dress, while Christobel looked the very essence of beauty, sophistication and, more surprisingly, virginity, in a high-necked, full-sleeved, full-length white silk dress with cape-effect back and matching pillbox hat. She carried a bouquet of white roses.

  ‘You look stunningly wonderful. Any man could fancy you,’ said Henry. ‘And you don’t look too bad either, Christobel.’

  Paul and Christobel gave Henry cheerily disgusted looks.

  ‘Seriously, you’re a stunner, Christobel,’ said Henry, kissing her gently on the cheek.

  They moved on, took champagne, located their positions on the seating plan, and mingled. It really was a big wedding. There were more than three hundred guests. Henry wondered if they should run away to Gretna Green for theirs.

  Mr Hargreaves, magnificent in morning dress, approached.

  Henry felt that he alone did not look magnificent in morning dress. His hired suit was slightly too long and slightly too tight.

  ‘Be nice to Daddy, won’t you?’ urged Diana.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He’s still in shock.’

  It had only been on the previous evening that Henry had told his future father-in-law. Well, he’d only proposed two days ago. His reunion with Diana had been a success from the start – comfortable, sexy and, above all, fun. But they had never thought of marriage. Henry couldn’t imagine being father to Benedict and Camilla. And he didn’t believe that the possibility had crossed Diana’s mind. But he’d found it such a wrench to part from her, and so delightful to be with her, that he had suddenly decided, on the telephone, the day before coming down for the festivities, to propose. There had been a long, astonished silence, and then, to his astonishment, Diana had accepted him with the stunningly romantic words, ‘I don’t see why not. It could be rather fun.’

  And now here was Mr Hargreaves, brain surgeon, bearing down on them and smiling warmly.

  Henry smiled back, thinking wryly of the previous evening, when he’d said, ‘Do you remember my asking to see you the day after Tosser lost England the Welsh match, in 1956? You thought I was going to ask for Diana’s hand. And I was actually asking to borrow fifty quid. You were so relieved that you’d have gladly given me a hundred quid.’

  ‘Oh, Henry! I wasn’t relieved,’ Mr Hargreaves had said. ‘Of course I wouldn’t have minded if you were going to marry Diana.’

  ‘Oh good,’ Henry had said. ‘Because I am going to marry her.’

  ‘What??’

  Mr Hargreaves had gone white. His mouth had opened and closed silently just once, like a disconcerted turbot. He’d regained his equilibrium rapidly, but not quite rapidly enough.

  ‘Well, congratulations,’ he’d said. ‘When’s the happy day?’

  ‘Well she has to get divorced first.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Of course.’

  Now, in the champagne buzz of the wedding marquee, Mr Hargreaves was also remembering last night’s encounter.

  ‘Hello!’ he said warmly. ‘You know, when I saw your friend Tommy Marsden on the idiot box the other day – I very rarely watch, but it happened to be on – and he was asked, “How does it fee
l to score the winning goal for England at Wembley?” and he said, “It hasn’t really sunk in yet,” I thought he must be really dense, but now I know what he meant. Last night it didn’t sink in. Today it has. I hope you’ll both be very happy.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Henry. He hadn’t expected to say ‘sir’, he didn’t think he was capable of it, unless it slipped out unintentionally, but, having said it, he was quite glad that it had slipped out unintentionally.

  ‘Thank you, Daddy.’

  Diana kissed her father.

  ‘Any thoughts about the shindig?’

  ‘Modest, we thought,’ said Diana. ‘No attempt to compete.’

  ‘Good. Good. Any thoughts about where you’ll live?’

  ‘We thought London,’ said Henry. ‘I can’t quite see Diana in the North. Too far from Harrods.’

  ‘Well … good … yes, quite, huh! … good. You’ll … er … you’ll abandon the cucumbers, then?’

  ‘Oh yes! They just aren’t giving me a chance there.’

  ‘Good. Good. Well that’s splendid.’

  ‘Henry’ll get a job in London. There’s bound to be something for a man of his talents.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Hargreaves doubtfully. ‘Yes,’ he repeated more positively. ‘Oh yes, yes, bound to be.’

  ‘Henry has such a lot to offer the world, Daddy. He can’t just throw himself away on cucumbers.’

  Mr Hargreaves looked at his daughter in surprise at her fervour, then he looked at Henry as if reassessing him.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good. Well, good.’

  Mrs Hargreaves might have been designed for this day. She looked stunning in a green, pink, blue and orange-red double-breasted organza coat with roll collar and flap pockets, over a plain, vivid green sleeveless shift with matching green broad-rimmed straw hat from Christian Dior, gold earclips, and black patent pumps from Charles Jourdan at nine guineas. She approached them with two very excited pageboys and two even more excited bridesmaids.

  ‘Shall we tell our children now?’ said Diana.

  ‘Why not?’ said Henry. ‘Darlings. Kate. Jack. Diana and I have something to tell you.’

  ‘Benedict. Camilla. This is for you too,’ said Diana.

  ‘Diana and I are going to be married,’ said Henry.

  He clutched Diana’s hand.

  All around there was a roar of conversation, but in the middle of the marquee, in the eye of that champagne cyclone, there was silence.

  Kate was the first to break it.

  ‘You mean,’ she said, her voice laden with gloom, ‘Benedict and Camilla are going to be our brother and sister?’

  ‘And Kate and Jack are going to be ours,’ said Benedict. ‘Bloody hell!’

  Homosexuality between consenting adults in private was legalised. Henry couldn’t help wondering what Lampo and Denzil would consent to do in private that night by way of celebration.

  In San Francisco, during the long, hot ‘summer of love’, peaceful hippies lit joss-sticks and placed flowers in the rifle barrels of bemused National Guardsmen. Elsewhere in America, in the long, hot summer of hate, the racial riots were terrifying, and other soldiers were still using flowerless guns all over Vietnam.

  There was a military coup in Greece. The long night of the colonels had begun.

  During the long, not-so-hot nights in Britain, motorists found themselves compulsorily breath-tested. Cousin Hilda wasn’t affected, Uncle Teddy walked to the pub, and the journalists on the Thurmarsh Evening Argus took no notice.

  The Director (Operations) of the Cucumber Marketing Board sent for Henry, swivelled happily in his chair and, looking him full in the face, gave him the good news.

  ‘Your hour of glory has arrived,’ he said.

  On Saturday, July 13th, 1968, fierce fighting broke out between police and several thousand young people in Paris, teenage members of four Glasgow gangs surrendered meat cleavers, knives, a sword and an open razor during a one-hour amnesty arranged by Frankie Vaughan, the sea turned orange between Folkestone and Hythe as a result of dumped sheep dip, and Henry Ezra Pratt and Diana Jennifer Pilkington-Brick, née Hargreaves, held their wedding reception in the Hospitality Suite of the exclusive Regent Clinic, where Mr Hargreaves had saved the brains of the extremely rich for more than twenty years.

  Before they all sat down, there was champagne in the slightly antiseptic ante-room, though not as much champagne, and not such good champagne, as there would have been if Diana had been marrying the tall, handsome son of one of the many medical luminaries who had graced the Hargreaves table over the years, rather than Paul’s funny little friend, the cucumber man.

  Nobody wore morning dress, but Henry looked almost smart in the best of his three dark cucumber suits, and Diana looked charming in a knee-length Pierre Balmain-style navy and white dress. The guests wore dresses of many different lengths, Mary Quant having described the mini as boring, the maxi having failed to take off, and the midi being seen as a dull compromise.

  The best man, Lampo Davey, wore a velvet suit with frilled burgundy shirt, while his legalised partner, Denzil Ackerman, plumped for a lime green shirt and a dazzling white suit. Anything went, as the sixties swung towards their close.

  Nobody cut a more dashing figure than Auntie Doris, who wore a huge scarlet hat she had last put on in 1938. Cousin Hilda sniffed the moment she saw it, and Henry was on tenterhooks over how the conversation would go when she talked to Auntie Doris for the first time since his first marriage eleven years ago.

  Unfortunately for Cousin Hilda, Lampo Davey buttonholed her before she’d spoken to Auntie Doris. ‘I don’t believe you’ve met my lover, Denzil, have you?’ he said, and Cousin Hilda sniffed so violently that she developed a nose bleed. It soon subsided, but for some time she walked with her nose pointing towards the ceiling. She was therefore unable to sniff with any force when she came face to face with Auntie Doris’s hat or when Auntie Doris said, ‘Have you had a nose bleed, Hilda, or are you communing with your maker?’

  ‘Is the vet not here?’ countered Cousin Hilda icily.

  ‘The vet??’ said Auntie Doris. ‘Why, has somebody brought a sick dog?’

  ‘I were informed your latest amour was with a retired vet,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘If I’ve got the wrong end of the stick, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, that vet! Yes, he is. Is a vet, I mean. No, he isn’t. Isn’t here, I mean. He’s got this summer flu thing.’ Auntie Doris was furious at having to tell everyone that he was ill. Ill as well as retired. They’d think she’d thrown herself away on some broken reed of an elderly vet. She longed to tell them that she was living with the man she’d always loved, her husband Teddy. ‘I forget he was a vet sometimes. It was before I knew him. You needn’t sniff, anyway. He’s a fine man.’

  ‘As fine as Geoffrey Porringer?’ said Cousin Hilda grimly.

  ‘Incomparably finer,’ said Auntie Doris stoutly.

  ‘As fine as Teddy Braithwaite?’

  ‘No finer, but Teddy’s equal in every respect.’

  Cousin Hilda managed another cautious sniff.

  ‘Can I lend you a handkerchief, Hilda?’ offered Auntie Doris. ‘I have a fine lace one from Harrods.’

  ‘No doubt you do,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘No doubt you do. I have one, thank you. A nice plain one from Woolworth’s. There are folk starving in Pakistan. I don’t think I should waste my money on tarts’ hankies.’

  ‘Hilda!’ said Auntie Doris. ‘It’s Henry’s wedding day.’

  ‘Oh, dinna worrit thasen,’ said Cousin Hilda, dusting down her dialect for Auntie Doris’s benefit. ‘I won’t show Henry up.’

  Henry approached and kissed them both, to Auntie Doris’s delight and Cousin Hilda’s embarrassment.

  Auntie Doris came over all emotional suddenly.

  ‘Auntie Doris! What’s wrong?’ said Henry.

  She couldn’t tell them that she was upset because she was living in sin with a man whom she couldn’t marry because he was supposed to be dead and
because she was already married to him, and she had a husband whom she couldn’t divorce because she wasn’t married to him. ‘I’m in a cleft stick with no paddle,’ she had told him once over a post-prandial game of Scrabble in Honeysuckle Cottage.

  ‘It’s just … Teddy would have loved to see this day,’ she said, and she hurried off to the Ladies to repair her mascara.

  ‘I think Doris is failing,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘She’d forgotten her new man’s a retired vet.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Henry feebly. ‘You remember Paul Hargreaves, Diana’s brother, do you? And this is Christobel, his wife.’

  As he left them to it, Henry heard Paul say, ‘I’ve never forgotten your spotted dick,’ and Cousin Hilda reply, ‘Oh! That’s very kind of you.’

  He stopped to chat to Belinda Boyce-Uppingham.

  ‘How’s Robin?’

  ‘Marvellous.’

  ‘How are Tessa and Vanessa and Clarissa?’

  ‘Blooming. Robin wants to go on till he has an heir. We’ll probably end up with a ladies’ football team. So, you’re bringing Diana up north? Good show.’

  ‘Well, yes, I was coming south, but the Cucumber Marketing Board made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘Really? What of?’

  ‘I’m their Chief Controlling Officer (Diseases and Pests).’

  Belinda Boyce-Uppingham tried hard to look impressed.

  ‘I am solely responsible for the nationwide fight against diseases of the cucumber. Did you know that there are more than forty major diseases of cucumbers?’

  ‘Golly!’

  ‘“Golly!” indeed!’

  Henry was a bit worried about Tommy Marsden, who was knocking back the champagne. He hoped what they said in the papers wasn’t true.

  ‘Hello, Tommy,’ he said. ‘Far cry from the Paradise Lane Gang.’