The Complete Pratt

by David Nobbs

  Alas, anxious reader, I have to dash your hopes. In January, 1970, Henry realised that he had neglected the pests shamefully.

  Never mind, he told himself, that’s all water under the bridge now, and it gives me a target for the summer.

  His target would be no less than the elimination of the glasshouse red spider mite and the glasshouse whitefly. From Land’s End to John o’ Groats there would be no resting place for the little bastards.

  In number 83, Lordship Road, life was a constant struggle against cold and damp. The solid Victorian house was on the verge of crumbling. It was extremely difficult to keep warm, and had sinister damp patches on the walls. In this unpromising setting, between the Alma and the Gleneagles private hotels, the Pratt family life proceeded by fits and starts.

  For thirty-four weeks, Benedict and Camilla were away at school, and Henry had to admit that it was an enormous relief.

  For much of the summer holidays, and for the Christmas and New Year period, Kate and Jack were in Spain, Benedict and Camilla in France or Austria, skiing. Diana didn’t want to hear about Tosser and was told his every banal thought, his every greedy mouthful, his every rich client. Henry wanted to know everything about Hilary and received only the sketchiest information that she was ‘all right’.

  Henry calculated that it was only for twenty-five days in the year that all four of the children’s bedrooms were occupied at once. For these twenty-five days he felt that he was carrying the North/South divide around with him, in an atmosphere that was never less than tense, although there were no major eruptions. Benedict seemed almost unnaturally calm, and even allowed himself to be driven round Thurmarsh in Henry’s Mini.

  The children covered the damp patches on the walls of their bedrooms with posters and blown-up photographs. They chose contrasting subjects, and Henry was amazed and delighted that none of them concentrated on pop stars, although Benedict’s choice did make him feel rather uneasy.

  Kate chose great ballet dancers, romantic men with white faces and hollow cheeks, who looked as if they were dying of consumption.

  In Jack’s room the posters were of footballers – Bobby Charlton, Bobby Moore, Jimmy Greaves, Denis Law. Not Tommy Marsden. Tommy Marsden wasn’t a hero any more.

  Camilla’s pictures were of horses.

  Benedict plumped for Mussolini, Rasputin, John Lennon, Nietzsche and Dr Crippen.

  Uncle Teddy rushed to the garden gate.

  ‘You’ll find her a bit changed,’ he said.

  ‘Changed?’ said Henry.

  ‘Her memory’s a bit patchy sometimes. She’s a bit obsessive.’

  ‘Obsessive?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  The garden of Honeysuckle Cottage was rich with sweet william and wallflowers and lupins and marigolds and the eponymous honeysuckle. The tilting, peach-washed thatched cottage was an impossible dream.

  Auntie Doris came out to meet them, smiling broadly. Henry could see nothing wrong, except perhaps that her eyes had become slightly deep-set.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said, hugging Henry. ‘Hello, Hilary.’

  ‘It’s Diana, actually,’ said Henry.

  ‘Of course it is. Silly me. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  They had tea in the garden. Blackbirds pinked, insects buzzed, fighter planes screamed, lawnmowers droned. Everything was as it should be, in the early days of summer.

  ‘It was just a slip of the tongue when I said Hilary,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘I knew who you were.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ said Diana.

  ‘I was at your wedding,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘I fainted, Henry fainted, that footballer passed out.’

  ‘Your memory’s very sharp,’ said Henry.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Auntie Doris. ‘Why do you say that? You think it isn’t, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I’d hardly be likely to forget three people passing out at a wedding, including the groom. That’s hardly evidence of a sharp memory. You’re humouring me.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Diana. ‘Henry doesn’t humour people.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Auntie Doris.

  ‘They’ve just had a cup of tea,’ said Uncle Teddy.

  ‘I know that,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘I’m not stupid. I made it for them. I thought they might want another one. It’s a warm afternoon.’

  After their second pot of tea, Uncle Teddy mooted a walk with Henry, and Henry realised that there was an ulterior motive for the suggestion.

  Flower baskets hung from the thatched eaves of pink-washed and whitewashed cottages. The larger houses had magnificent brick chimney-stacks.

  On the green that led up to the church, Henry stopped to read the notice on an old Victorian pump: ‘TAKE NOTE THAT BOYS OR OTHER PERSONS DAMAGING THIS PUMP WILL BE PROSECUTED AS THE LAW DIRECTS.’

  Uncle Teddy waited impatiently, and as soon as they moved on, he said, ‘Will you do me a small favour, Henry? Will you take some packages to Derek Parsonage for me?’

  Henry’s heart sank.

  ‘What sort of packages?’

  ‘Oh, just odds and ends. Safer for you not to know what’s in them. Nothing illegal.’

  ‘What do you mean, “Nothing illegal”?’

  ‘Nothing stolen. Nothing harmful. Just things that, in this drearily bureaucratic world, should go through the customs, that’s all. Security for our old age. Security for Doris’s old age. Bit in it for you.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want any money from it,’ said Henry, as they sauntered up the lane towards the open country.

  ‘You mean you’d do it, but only for nothing?’ said Uncle Teddy.

  They stopped to look over a five-barred gate at a pleasant view over gently undulating farmland. A lone skylark was singing. Henry tried hard to refuse.

  ‘Yes,’ he found himself saying.

  ‘Good man,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Good man. Sorry it has to be so cloak-and-dagger, but Doris has an unfortunate habit of remembering things she’s not supposed to remember.’

  ‘I thought her memory was bad.’

  ‘Exactly. She forgets what it is she’s not supposed to remember. Calls me Teddy sometimes in front of other people. I just tell people that was her husband. Died in a fire. Won’t marry me because she’s still carrying a torch for him. Touching story. Gets people in tears down the pub.’

  They set off, more briskly, for home. Uncle Teddy wasn’t interested in views and cottages now that he’d achieved his purpose.

  As they approached Honeysuckle Cottage, Uncle Teddy slowed down and said, ‘Er … just one thing. We’ll probably play Scrabble this evening. Usually do. The old girl’s spelling’s not always too hot these days. Best not to point her mistakes out, I find.’

  Auntie Doris offered to make a pot of tea. Uncle Teddy said the sun was almost over the yard-arm, so they had gin and tonic instead. Auntie Doris had cooked chicken-and-ham pie but had forgotten the ham, and she’d made rhubarb crumble with salt instead of sugar. ‘Bloody repulsive, but there’s no point in upsetting the old girl,’ said Uncle Teddy. They drank malt whisky and played Scrabble. Auntie Doris only made two spelling mistakes – Doezn for Dozen and Seequin instead of Sequin. She won, largely because, due to her mistakes, her Z and her Q both fell on triple letter squares. ‘Bit of luck for the old girl there,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Nice to see it. Deserves it after living with that arse Porringer. Wish I could run into the bastard again. I’d give him two black eyes to match his blackheads.’

  At first, Henry believed that the weather had played the major role in the creation of the cucumber mountain. His natural modesty and lack of self-confidence led him to underestimate his part. But as the summer of 1970 drifted on, evidence began to pile up which suggested that the major responsibility belonged to him. Rot was rare, wilt was minimal, mildew was almost entirely confined to the Celtic fringes. As for the glasshouse red spider mite and the glasshouse whitefly, the little bastards didn’t know wh
at had hit them.

  The dual northern chilled stores at Preston and Darlington were overflowing.

  When Henry was summoned before the Director (Operations), he expected praise for his achievements.

  ‘You look strangely contented,’ said Timothy Whitehouse.

  ‘Well, I … er … yes.’ The Chief Controlling Officer (Diseases and Pests) was puzzled. ‘Yes, I … er … yes.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Whitehouse, somewhat surprisingly. ‘Henry, we have a glut of cucumbers. A cucumber mountain.’

  ‘Or, since they’re ninety per cent water, a cucumber lake.’

  ‘This is no time for levity.’ Timothy Whitehouse looked at Henry sadly. ‘We have a disaster on our hands.’

  ‘How can that be? There are millions of cheap cucumbers around.’

  The Director (Operations) gave Henry another sad look and, as if he couldn’t bear to look at him any more, swung round and gazed at Rembrandt’s little-known and deeply compassionate ‘Old woman with cucumber’.

  ‘How can you be so naïve?’ he said. ‘Who are we responsible to?’

  ‘The public?’

  ‘No!!! They have no voice. They’re amorphous. They don’t, in the final analysis, exist.’

  ‘The growers?’

  ‘Better. They have a voice. We have to make sure they’re reasonably contented and don’t go dumping cucumber mountains outside Number Ten. Not that it’s likely. They aren’t French. But no, we as employees are ultimately responsible to our Board of Directors. And who are they responsible to? The government. They are our pay-masters. Have you heard of support buying?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course. Can you remind me how it works?’

  ‘Can I remind you? How long have you been with us?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Never mind. I haven’t time to wait for your brain.’ The Director (Operations) pulled his braces to their full extent and let them thud back into his chest. ‘We’re desperately buying up cucumbers, using up our budget, and destroying them to keep up the price. They don’t burn very well.’

  ‘Can’t we persuade people to buy more cucumbers?’

  ‘Well there is a limit. It’s their crisp freshness that appeals. They don’t freeze well.’

  ‘You can freeze cucumber soup.’

  ‘Take a walk through Holbeck. Take a walk through Beeston. Take a walk through Seacroft. Look at the people. Are they going to freeze cucumber soup?’

  ‘I think that’s a rather degrading cultural assumption.’

  ‘It’s not necessarily criticism. Maybe they aren’t poncey enough to freeze cucumber soup. We have a catastrophic glut, and I hold you responsible.’

  ‘Doesn’t the weather have something to do with it?’

  ‘Very possibly, but God is not within my remit and you are.’

  ‘I thought I was supposed to control diseases and pests.’

  ‘You are. But not eliminate them overnight. What we seek to achieve, Henry, as I thought you understood, is equilibrium. Stability. Stable levels of production. Stable incomes. Stable prices.’

  ‘So, I’m just to sit there and do nothing.’

  Timothy Whitehouse leant forward, and Henry realised that he was about to receive one of those smiles that didn’t reach the eyes. ‘Who knows what the future holds in store? Some vast new cucumber plague, perhaps. Dutch cucumber disease. French rot. German measles. If that day comes, you will stand alone between us and annihilation.’ He smiled again, persuasively, comfortingly, patronisingly.

  ‘And if that day never comes?’

  ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’

  ‘But you told me to be my own man, stick to my guns, and always speak the truth.’

  ‘How old are you, Henry?’ asked the Director (Operations).

  ‘Thirty-five,’ said the Chief Controlling Officer (Diseases and Pests).

  ‘And you still believe what the authorities tell you.’ Timothy Whitehouse shook his head sadly.

  On Tuesday, September 1st, 1970, Concorde boomed over Britain for the first time. The damage was not as great as had been feared. A fluorescent lighting tube fell from the ceiling of a house in Wales, and two pencils, placed on a bridge by scientists in Oban, fell over. No other incidents were reported.

  On the same day, King Hussein of Jordan escaped an assassination attempt, Benedict and Camilla returned home from Mykonos, US senators voted fifty-five to thirty-nine against ending the Vietnam War, Henry took two large parcels to Derek Parsonage’s exotic brothel in Commercial Road, Britons were criticised for buying millions of useless vitamin pills, and Mrs Wedderburn died.

  Derek Parsonage’s brothel was situated in a Victorian town house that was marginally more decrepit even than 83, Lordship Road. A brass plate at the side of the door announced, ‘World-Wide Religious Literature Inc.’

  The entrance hall was piled with religious literature, and gave no hint of the female underclothes, chain-mail, black bags, whips, studded belts, schoolgirls’ uniforms, harnesses, electric leads, dustbins, oranges, nooses, trapdoors, soft brooms, hard brooms and water hoses that lay in wait for the deviant men of Thurmarsh.

  Derek Parsonage came out of his office and greeted Henry warmly, if sanctimoniously.

  ‘So good to see you, Henry,’ he said. ‘Come into my office.’

  When they were in the office, he said, very unsanctimoniously, ‘I didn’t realise you were into this kind of thing. What is your preference?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Henry, feeling insulted yet also slightly flattered. ‘I’ve seen Uncle Teddy and I’ve got a couple of parcels.’

  ‘Say no more,’ said Derek Parsonage, whose blackheads had got worse. ‘Just drive them round the back. How is the old rogue?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Henry. ‘Playing a lot of Scrabble.’

  Uncle Teddy’s old partner in crime, whose brothel had been involved in the deception over the burnt-down Cap Ferrat, gawped at this news.

  As Henry drove his car round the back, he was horrified to see a police car lurking in the alley between the Pet Boutique and the Commercial Café.

  As he opened the front door of number 83 after delivering his parcels, Henry could hear the phone ringing. ‘I wonder if you’d come down the station of your own free will and save us all a lot of trouble, sir.’ When he heard Diana say, ‘Oh hello, Cousin Hilda,’ Henry’s relief was so great that he said, ‘Hello, Cousin Hilda,’ so heartily that her ‘Hello, Henry. Bad news, I’m afraid. Brace yourself,’ rocked him on his heels and he said, ‘What is it?’ in a croak, and when she said, ‘Mrs Wedderburn’s dead,’ he felt such a wave of relief and such appalling guilt at feeling relief, that when she said, ‘The cremation’s on Wednesday. She were right thoughtful lending you that camp-bed. You will come, won’t you?’ he said, ‘Of course we will,’ without hesitation or annoyance.

  Henry feared that he, Diana and Cousin Hilda would be the only mourners. He’d forgotten that Mrs Wedderburn had three sons. Judge then of his astonishment when there were in the gleaming, spotless clinical chapel of Thurmarsh Crematorium, off the Doncaster Road, not only the three sons and two of their wives, but also a sister, a sister’s husband, two cousins, a nephew, nine people from her church, three from her sewing circle, two neighbours, her whist partner, her medium and her chiropodist.

  ‘Quite a send-off,’ said Cousin Hilda.

  After the service, as they stood outside the chapel, not liking to rush away, but not wanting to talk to anybody, Henry found himself beside Mrs Wedderburn’s sister, a small plump lady in black.

  ‘A sad day,’ said Mrs Wedderburn’s sister.

  ‘Very sad,’ said Henry. ‘A generous woman, who lends you her camp-bed with no strings attached, all her life to live for, gets crushed beneath a JCB. It makes you wonder what life is all about.’

  ‘It’s the driver I’m sorry for,’ said Mrs Wedderburn’s sister. ‘He’s going to have to live with that for the rest of his days.’

  As they drove away from the cremato
rium, Cousin Hilda gave a deep sigh. It was the only emotion she allowed herself to show at the death of her one close friend.

  ‘You made a hit with Mrs Wedderburn’s sister,’ she said. ‘“What a nice young man,” she said.’

  It was her way of thanking them for coming.

  There were several deaths in the second half of 1970, in addition to Mrs Wedderburn’s. Antonio Salazar, Portuguese Chief of State for forty years, died in Lisbon. President Nasser died in Cairo. General de Gaulle died at Colombey-Les-Deux-Eglises. Henry felt as if something had died in him as well. There wasn’t any point in sticking flags into maps any more. He began applying for jobs again, without success. He was in a Catch-22 situation. He’d been too long in cucumbers, so he needed a new job, but nobody would give him a new job, because he’d been too long in cucumbers.

  Being a new boy at Dalton College did wonders for Benedict’s confidence. In fact it removed it entirely for months. Kate’s school reports remained good, and she took a keen interest in almost every subject. Jack plodded along, bulkily ugly, in the middle of the class if his teacher managed to stimulate him, towards the bottom if he didn’t. But he was good at sport and immensely practical. Camilla lived, breathed and, sad to say, resembled horses.

  1971 saw Britain’s first national postal strike. It lasted almost two months, and helped Henry to slow down his fight against the diseases and pests of cucumbers while preventing him from applying for any more jobs. Decimal currency was introduced, and the price of everything, including cucumbers, went up. Unemployment in Britain reached 3.4 per cent, the highest figure since 1940. Sanity was restored to the production of cucumbers. Henry resumed his job hunting, to no avail.

  On Saturday, October 23rd, 1971, Henry and Diana set off at 5.30 in the morning, in order to reach Dalton College in Somerset by twelve. Kate and Jack were staying with the Blairs, and Camilla was tucked up in a dormitory at St Ethelred’s. They would take her out for Sunday lunch before returning exhausted to Yorkshire.

  It promised to be quite a day. Lunch with Benedict at the Bald-Headed Angel, followed by the big rugby match against their arch rivals, Sherborne, and then a Grand Reunion Tea in School Hall for old boys who began their school career between 1945 and 1950.