The Complete Pratt

by David Nobbs

  In that great world outside, US officials in Saigon announced that defoliation in South Vietnam had produced no harmful results, and Mickey Mouse was forty. There was not necessarily any connection between the two events.

  Henry and Diana’s life settled into the next pattern, of Henry travelling to Leeds and of Diana taking Kate and Jack to school and fetching them home again. They gave occasional dinner parties. Diana was both a plainer and more confident cook than Hilary. Where Hilary would have produced delicious tandoori chicken with diffidence, Diana plonked down a decent but uninspired steak and kidney pudding as if it was ambrosia for the gods.

  Henry forswore comparisons, and found himself making them all the time.

  In his bunker in the basement of the Cucumber Marketing Board, Sir Winston Pratt prepared his strategy for 1969’s attack on the diseases of the cucumber. Graphs were made, correlations were pursued, comparisons were studied. Did the level of acidity in the soil affect the incidence of angular leaf spot? Was there any discernible connection between altitude and grey mould? So many questions. So few answers. Such a challenge.

  ‘Mrs Wedderburn’s not been herself lately.’

  ‘Oh dear. What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s nothing you can put your finger on.’

  Henry felt ashamed of thinking that there wasn’t much of Mrs Wedderburn that he would want to put his finger on.

  ‘She’s just a bit off colour, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  This was just one of the many sparkling exchanges between Cousin Hilda, Henry and Diana, in the stifling little blue-stoved, pink-bloomered basement of 66, Park View Road. Autumn had moved all too readily to accommodate winter.

  Henry and Diana were engaged in a difficult task.

  ‘Er … about Christmas,’ said Henry.

  Cousin Hilda sniffed psychically.

  ‘Er … we … er … obviously this is our first Christmas, and … er … obviously things aren’t entirely easy with the two different lots of children.’

  Cousin Hilda sniffed again. ‘If you can’t stand the heat, don’t move into the house,’ her eloquent sniff announced.

  ‘And … er … we … er … obviously we … er… want to give the children a very good Christmas. They are the top priority. And it isn’t a large house. Not when you’ve four children in it.’

  Cousin Hilda remained silent. ‘Spare me the excuses,’ her telling silence screeched.

  ‘So, the thing is … er … we … much as we’d like to normally … and hopefully in other years … and if we get the house we’re going for … we …’

  Cousin Hilda sniffed yet again.

  ‘What house?’ she said. ‘I don’t know owt about a house.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t we tell you?’ said Diana. ‘We meant to. We’ve seen a house, in Lordship Road, a big Victorian house, and nearer here than we are now. We’ve made an offer.’

  ‘Lordship Road!’ Cousin Hilda sniffed. ‘Which end of Lordship Road?’

  ‘This end,’ said Diana. ‘It’s between the Alma and the Gleneagles.’

  Cousin Hilda sniffed twice, once for each private hotel.

  ‘The Gleneagles used to be good,’ she said, praising the Alma by omission.

  Silence fell. The subject of Lordship Road had been exhausted. Henry would have to return to his main theme, and he received no help from Cousin Hilda or Diana.

  ‘So … er … the thing is …’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’re going to be able to invite you this year.’

  ‘There’s no reason why you should,’ said Cousin Hilda sharply. ‘Diana’s children are used to posh people. They wouldn’t want to spend Christmas with me. Anyroad, I’ve got Mr O’Reilly to think of. He’d be a square peg out of water on Christmas day wi’out me. And I couldn’t neglect Mrs Wedderburn. Not when she’s off colour.’

  They chatted briefly of other things after that, of the spiralling cost of crackers, the demise of the tram, and the golden age of corsets.

  ‘Don’t forget to send a card to Mrs Wedderburn,’ said Cousin Hilda as they left. ‘And if it isn’t too much trouble, pop in a few words. She were right thoughtful that time lending you her camp-bed like that.’

  Henry felt deeply ashamed of wishing that he could shove the camp-bed up Mrs Wedderburn’s backside. What sort of person am I, he thought.

  Henry helped Kate and Jack choose presents for Benedict and Camilla, and Diana helped Benedict and Camilla choose presents for Kate and Jack. All the children had stockings, filled with things of such careful originality that it didn’t strike even Benedict how cheap they were. Christmas dinner was good, and the children played Monopoly, which goes on a long time, which was a good thing. Benedict won, which was fortunate, as he was the one to whom it was most important to win. Major incidents and tears were miraculously avoided, and in the evening they watched Christmas Night With the Stars, which went on a long time, which was a good thing, and included Petula Clark, which set Henry wondering what sort of Christmas Count Your Blessings was having. Then they had cold ham and turkey, and then they watched Some Like It Hot, which went on a long time, which was a good thing.

  The newsroom of the Thurmarsh Chronicle and Argus throbbed with painful memories. The reporters attacking their typewriters with feverish urgency, the shirt-sleeved sub-editors searching for snappy headlines round the subs’ table, the news editor isolated like the conductor of an orchestra at his paper-strewn desk between the reporters and the subs. The long rows of windows were as streaked with grime as ever, save for one. A window-cleaner on a cradle was just about to attack a second window. Henry couldn’t imagine what the room would look like without its grimy windows.

  An impossibly young reporter was seated at his old desk. It wasn’t only policemen who were looking younger, now that Henry was thirty-three.

  He made a drinking mime to Ted and Colin as he passed through, and they nodded enthusiastically.

  He entered Interview Room B. Helen was wearing a short skirt and had her legs crossed. The blood had drained from her right knee.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ he said. ‘Anthracnose at Maltby.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have a new job. I thought it might interest you.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’

  ‘Oh … er … here?’

  ‘Nobody’s watching except the pigeons.’

  Henry tried to give Helen a polite kiss on the cheek. She reached for his mouth and plonked a great kiss on it, lips working hungrily. She’d been eating butterscotch.

  A row of pigeons, puffed up against the approaching night, watched from a slate roof sprinkled with snow and showed no curiosity whatsoever.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Helen. ‘I wondered if you’d gone off me.’

  ‘I’m a happily married man,’ said Henry.

  ‘I know. I’ve met your wife.’

  ‘You were pretty sniffy that night.’

  ‘Was I? Maybe I was disappointed that you hadn’t turned to me after your marriage broke up. You know I’m not happy with Ted.’

  ‘What? I did turn to you, and you said you weren’t suddenly going to be available when I was on my own. “A girl has her pride,” you said.’

  ‘Well, exactly. I wanted to be wooed, and chased. You could have pursued me.’

  ‘I like Ted.’

  ‘Ted would have been thrilled if I’d gone off with you. He’d have married Ginny, which he should have done all along, and everyone would have lived happily ever after. Too late now.’

  ‘Yes.’ There wasn’t any point in saying that he wouldn’t marry Helen if she was the last woman left on the planet.

  ‘Do I gather from your attitude that you don’t approve of Diana?’

  ‘On the contrary. I think she’s a great improvement.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s face it, Henry, Hilary could be heavy going. Diana’s fun. She might have possibilities.’

  ‘What do you mean, “possibilities”?’
>
  ‘Come off it. You know. Adult dinners. Nice company. Nice food. Good wine. A bit of swapping. Everyone enjoying themselves and no harm done. How about it, Henry? Then you’d see my legs at last.’

  ‘I’m not into that sort of thing, Helen.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so priggish and superior.’

  The light was fading fast. Henry wondered if the pigeons would stay there all night. Where do birds sleep? It was one of life’s many mysteries. He realised that he didn’t want to continue the conversation, he wanted to be at home with Diana, or anywhere rather than the bleak cell that masqueraded as Interview Room B.

  ‘I don’t feel in any way superior,’ he said. ‘I’ve made quite a mess of my emotional life, but I do still try to lead a good life. If that’s priggish, I’m priggish. Now, shall we do the interview?’

  Helen opened her notebook and waited.

  Is Your Cucumber Wilting? Henry’s your man!

  by Helen Cornish

  Do you have trouble keeping your cucumbers straight and firm?

  Are you having problems with Damping-off, False Damping-off, Gummosis, Scab or Topple?

  If you are, Thurmarsh-born Henry Pratt (33) is the man to help you.

  For Henry, a one-time reporter on the Argus, is now Chief Controlling Officer (Diseases and Pests) for the Cucumber Marketing Board, the Leeds-based organisation which aims to give the humble British cucumber a high profile.

  Henry, who recently moved into a big Victorian house in Lordship Road, Thurmarsh with his second wife, Diana, his two children, Kate and Jack, and his step-children, Benedict and Camilla, is passionate about cucumbers and their diseases.

  Bent

  ‘I seem to have given my life to cucumbers. Perhaps it’s my natural bent. Not that I’ve any time for bent cucumbers,’ he joked to me yesterday.

  ‘I suppose I am a bit of a fanatic,’ he enthused. ‘But then my job is probably one that needs a fanatic.’

  Henry, who is not tall and lean like a good cucumber, but short and podgy and a self-confessed unathletic slob, believes that the British public are shamefully ignorant about cucumbers, that they take them for granted and even regard them as objects of slight derision.

  ‘I think the cucumber’s a bit of an underdog in the salad world,’ he reflects. ‘I’m a bit of an underdog myself, so maybe I have a natural affinity for it.’

  Fairy Butter

  In his fight to bring healthy cucumbers to our tables, Henry has to battle against no less than 42 different diseases of cucumbers, ranging from three different kinds of wilt and four different kinds of mildew to such romantically named complaints as Angular Leaf Spot, Fairy Butter and Root Mat.

  ‘If you think it’s all a load of rot, it certainly is,’ he quips. ‘There are at least six different forms of cucumber rot.’

  Henry is spending the winter preparing booklets, pamphlets and leaflets for growers and gardeners, giving advice on how to recognise and deal with all their diseases.

  ‘It’s like a military operation,’ he explains. ‘I have all sorts of little flags dotted all over a map of Britain. The chaps josh me a bit about it, but all in good humour. They’re a terrific bunch.’

  If you think the cucumbers in your local shop are a terrific bunch this summer, and you can’t see any Leaf Spot, Mildew or Rot, you’ll know who to thank. That unsung hero, Paradise Lane-born Henry Pratt, the man who stops the cucumbers wilting.

  ‘It’s made us a laughing stock.’

  ‘It’s made me a laughing stock. I can’t go in a pub in Thurmarsh without people asking me if my cucumber’s wilting.’

  ‘It’s set our image back ten years.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’ Henry felt that the ‘sir’ was justified on this occasion. ‘I never dreamt she’d make fun of us. I didn’t realise how far the press has sunk since I left.’

  Timothy Whitehouse swivelled round to gaze at his reproduction of Van Gogh’s little-known ‘Sunflower with Cucumbers’, as if anything was preferable to looking at Henry.

  ‘Did you clear it with Angela?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘What’s the point of having a press officer if you don’t consult her?’

  ‘I’m afraid I tend to get excited and forget I’m an organisation man.’

  The Director (Operations) wheeled round and looked at Henry sadly.

  ‘There’s no room for mavericks or lone wolves in an organisation like ours,’ he said. ‘You’ve blotted your copy-book again.’

  ‘I realise that,’ said Henry.

  ‘Blot after blot, Henry. What am I going to do with you?’

  ‘May I just say in my defence that when I joined you did tell me to be my own man, be fearless and always speak the truth?’

  ‘I did. I did. Point taken. Mea culpa! I should have said, “Be your own man, be fearless and always speak the truth except to the press.” Let me spell it out once and for all, Henry.’ He pulled his braces forward, let them go thwack against his chest, leant forward, predatory nose pointing straight at Henry, and smiled with his teeth but not his eyes. ‘We’re a team here. We expect our staff to show discipline and team spirit. In working for us you have to accept authority as a force beyond individuality.’

  ‘That’s just what my headmaster at my prep school said.’

  ‘And you thought, “Silly old buffer. What does he know?” But he was right. What school was this? I must recommend it.’

  ‘Brasenose College in Surrey. The headmaster was Mr A. B. Noon BA.’

  ‘Aha!’

  ‘That’s funny, because his name is palindromic, the same backwards as forwards, and so was your “aha!”!’

  ‘I do know what palindromic means, I did recognise A. B. Noon BA as palindromic, and I said “Aha!” deliberately with what I hoped was a flash of rather neat wit,’ said the Director (Operations). ‘I’m not stupid, but I’m beginning to think you are, so maybe I won’t recommend Brasenose College after all.’

  As Henry drove up the drive towards the creepered fortress that held Brasenose College in its grim grip, he saw the palindromic headmaster, Mr A. B. Noon BA, balding and stooping now, striding towards the playing fields with his two palindromic daughters, Hannah and Eve, steaming pallidly in his wake, both stooping prematurely. Had they been walking like that, staring at the ground, for twenty-one years?

  Benedict’s face turned white when he saw the rusting Mini parked alongside the Daimlers and Bentleys of the other parents. He stood in the pillared portico of the main entrance and came no further.

  ‘Well come on,’ called Henry.

  Benedict shook his head.

  Henry approached the school building with dread, lest he catch something of its old smell of rissoles and fear. Swifts were screeching joyously round the roof.

  ‘I asked you not to bring that thing here,’ hissed Benedict.

  ‘I have no other means of transport,’ said Henry. ‘I’m not rich and you’ll have to accept that.’

  Benedict stared into the distance, loftily. His eleven-year-old face was stony.

  ‘Material possessions aren’t what matter, Benedict. It’s moral values that count. And love and affection and fun. We can have all these if we try.’

  ‘Try telling that to the chaps in the dorm.’

  ‘I did, once. It wasn’t much use, I admit.’

  ‘I’m not getting in that thing.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Be strong. Be your own man.’

  ‘I am my own man, and I’m not coming. I’ve better things to do.’

  ‘We’ve come a long way to see you.’

  ‘Miracle you got here.’

  ‘Well we did, and your mother wants to see you.’

  ‘She should have thought of that before she married you.’

  Henry looked into Benedict’s hot, blazing eyes, and thought he could see the potential for madness there.

  He almost felt the potential for madness in himself. His heart was pounding with barely controllable fury.

&
nbsp; Benedict’s face turned from deathly white to bright red.

  ‘I don’t want you sticking your cucumber into my mother,’ he said. ‘I bet it’s got downy mildew.’

  He turned abruptly and disappeared into the darkness of the school. Henry walked slowly back in the sunshine, feet crunching wearily.

  Diana gave him an anxious smile. He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Won’t come,’ he said.

  He got back into the car, started the engine, and turned to smile at Camilla.

  ‘Come on, Camilla,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and look at some horses.’

  11 A Surfeit of Cucumbers

  POVERTY IS A tragedy. Wealth is a problem. Being able to earn just enough money to make ends meet concentrates the mind wonderfully.

  Apollo II landed on the moon, Neil Armstrong and Edward Aldrin Junior walked on the moon’s surface for two and three quarter hours; the Isle of Wight music festival attracted 250,000 spectators and left the surface of the island looking like the moon; Spiro Agnew, who could well have been educated on the moon, launched a rich tradition of idiotic statements by US Vice-Presidents, when he told an audience at a New Orleans dinner that those who supported a moratorium on the Vietnam War were ‘encouraged by an effete corps of impudent snobs who characterize themselves as intellectuals’; and Henry concentrated wonderfully on the diseases of the cucumber.

  Not to the neglect of its pests, I hope, the anxious reader cries.