by David Nobbs
Henry parked his new second-hand Ford Escort in the car park of the Bald-Headed Angel, for fear that if he drove it to the school gates Benedict would refuse to get in it. He and Diana walked to the school. The air was raw and damp.
Tosser Pilkington-Brick was standing beside his Jaguar in a very smart new overcoat. His second wife, Felicity, was sitting in the car, looking, as Henry and Diana decided later, pretty but vapid.
‘Hello!’ said Tosser, surprised. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Taking Benedict out,’ said Henry.
‘There must be some mistake,’ said Tosser. ‘We’re taking him out.’
Benedict sauntered jauntily towards them. His confidence, now that he was fourteen, and no longer in his first year, was coming back all too quickly. He looked from his father to his stepfather and said, casually, ‘Oh lawks. Contretemps. Did I forget to tell you, Mummy, that I was going to lunch with Daddy? I only knew he was coming the other day. Frightfully sorry.’ He kissed his mother casually. ‘See you two at the match. Pity it’s such a cold day for it. Right, Dad, let’s get this Jag going.’
It had been on another cold late October day, twenty-three years ago, in the restaurant of the Bald-Headed Angel, that Diana, on the very first occasion that Henry had met her, had said, ‘Isn’t embarrassment embarrassing. This is the most embarrassing meal I’ve ever been to.’ And now here she was, sitting with Henry at a table laid for three, next to the table where her son was sitting with her ex-husband and his second wife. The restaurant had recently been revamped, inexplicably, as a German gaststaette, which went with its character as an English coaching inn about as well as the cauliflower au gratin and carrots went with the badly trimmed, tough wienerschnitzel.
All around them, in the crowded restaurant, were parents and children. Henry and Diana alone had no pupil with them.
Henry reached across the table and clasped Diana’s hand. She gave his hand an answering squeeze.
Benedict frowned on seeing this, and said, to his father, ‘Any thoughts about this year’s skiing?’
Tosser looked uneasily at Felicity, and it dawned on Henry that Benedict might be trying to embarrass Tosser and Felicity just as much as himself and Diana. This made him feel better.
Benedict leant across towards them. He had an unhealthy gleam in his eyes. ‘Everything all right for you two?’ he asked.
‘Amazing,’ said Henry cheerfully. ‘The food here is incredible. One never believes it could get worse and it always does.’
‘You fagged for my dad, didn’t you?’ said Benedict in an unnecessarily loud voice.
‘Yes, I am younger than him, that is true,’ said Henry. He raised his glass and clinked it with Diana’s. The indifferent Piesporter swished gently. He turned to Tosser’s table, raised his glass to the three of them, and said, ‘Your good health, and your continued happiness and wealth.’
Neither Tosser nor Felicity seemed to know quite how to respond to this. They raised their glasses and smiled uneasily.
‘You’re happier this time round, I hope, Tosser,’ said Diana.
Tosser tried to hide his fury at the use of his nickname.
‘You didn’t tell me you were called Tosser,’ said Felicity. ‘Why were you called Tosser?’
‘No significant reason,’ said Tosser pompously.
Henry saw Benedict give Tosser a malicious look. He felt an unworthy surge of pleasure.
Later, as he walked arm in arm with Diana towards the school, through the market-place whose charming jumble of old buildings was now dwarfed by a concrete and rust shopping centre, he realised that he’d been quite exhausted by the effort of not being embarrassed. A keen wind bore the faintest traces of rain. He shivered.
‘Cold?’ said Diana.
‘No. Thinking about the look in Benedict’s eye. There’s so much anger in that boy.’
‘And we’re all angry with him, although it’s mainly our fault,’ said Diana.
‘We’re angry because it’s our fault.’
‘Come on. This afternoon’s going to be hell if we don’t throw ourselves into it. Let’s cheer our heads off.’
The West Country is warm, wet and soft, with just three exceptions – Land’s End, Lower Boggle and Middle Boggle. That afternoon, at Dalton College, Middle Boggle was at its most spiteful. The wind cut into eyes, painted noses red, and forced its way up trouser legs. Tosser went mad, reliving his glory days, shouting, ‘Bolly bolly bolly, Dalton Dalton Dalton, play up shant, bolly bolly bolly,’ in the time-honoured way. Diana shouted, ‘Come on Dalton,’ and waved her arms around. Felicity scowled and froze. Henry gradually got excited, but just couldn’t bring himself to shout, ‘Bolly bolly bolly, Dalton Dalton Dalton, play up shant, bolly bolly bolly.’ Lampo and Denzil walked past them, hands touching. ‘How the cretins roar,’ said Lampo.
Dalton took a 13–8 lead early in the second half, and clung on for a victory that was unexpected and brave, albeit slightly fortunate. A great roar greeted the final whistle. Only cold Felicity and caustic Lampo remained aloof.
A great chatter of old boys wended its way down to School Hall, flushed with triumph: solicitors with hoarse voices, merchant bankers with chapped lips, and the cucumber man re-entering the scene of his past triumph.
The seats, which all those years ago had been packed with schoolboys laughing at Henry’s comic act in the end-of-term concert, had been removed and stored under the stage. On the stage were trestle tables, laden with sandwiches and cakes. The old boys and their wives queued good-humouredly to be given name stickers. ‘H. E. Pratt, Orange House 1948–50’ and ‘Mrs Pratt’. ‘P. K. R. Davey, Orange House 1945–50’ and ‘Mrs Davey’. Denzil wore his ‘Mrs Davey’ sticker proudly. Doctors, bankers and accountants frowned at it and moved on. Vicars smiled, to show how broad-minded they were.
By the time he’d been forced to leave Dalton so abruptly, Henry had been on the point of feeling that he belonged there. Now, twenty-one years later, that confidence was hard to recreate. The words of his comic turn reverberated through his head – ‘’Ow do, I’m t’new headmaster, tha knows’ – but they carried memories not only of his triumph but also of his shame at the betrayal of his father. In any case the ghostly words were soon drowned under the very real hum as hundreds of old boys greeted old friends. Most of them were taller than him and apart from the vicars they all looked more prosperous. He was Oiky Pratt masquerading in the over-careful tweed jacket and overweight creased body of a thirty-six-year-old man.
As he was walking away from the stage with a cup of tea and a slice of date-and-nut loaf, Henry was approached by a man whom he knew by his sticker to be F. L. Barnes, Plantagenet House 1946–51.
‘H. E. Pratt,’ announced F. L. Barnes, stooping to read Henry’s sticker.
‘That’s me,’ admitted Henry.
‘I wondered if I’d see you,’ said F. L. Barnes. ‘You applied for a job with us not long ago. I’m in personnel at McVitie’s.’
‘Yes, I did. Didn’t even get an interview. Frightened of employing another Daltonian, were you? Worried about charges of nepotism.’
‘No, no,’ said F. L. Barnes. ‘Absolutely the reverse. Trouble was, you’d been given the most awful reference I’ve ever read.’
Henry felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He was still feeling shocked when N. T. A. Pilkington-Brick, Orange House 1945–50 arrived on the arm of Mrs Pilkington-Brick. Tosser looked so bulky, and Felicity so small and frail, that Henry flinched inwardly at the thought of them making love.
‘I hope you didn’t find the lunch too embarrassing,’ said Tosser.
‘I hope you didn’t,’ said Diana.
‘Do you think we ought to talk about Benedict some time?’ said Tosser. ‘We think he’s turning out a bit strange. Are you happy with the way you’re managing him?’
‘You sound as though he’s a portfolio,’ said Diana, ‘and he is at school thirty-four weeks of the year and with you almost half of the rest.’
‘Yes, but yours is his home. You are the prime influence upon him.’
‘You could apply for custody if you want,’ said Henry.
Tosser’s fading Madagascan suntan faded still further. ‘No, no. No, no. We’re happy as we are. In fact … er … now that I’m married…,’ he gave Felicity a little smile and she simpered back, ‘… we … er… well, let’s say, I have been having them almost every holiday, Camilla’s fine, of course, but Benedict is a problem. This coming year too I have business commitments which … and I don’t want to be greedy. He’s your son as well, Diana.’
‘Felicity isn’t all that keen on him, is that it?’ said Diana.
Felicity didn’t move a muscle. They had no idea what she was thinking or indeed if she was thinking.
‘No, no, you’ve got it all wrong, it isn’t that at all,’ said Tosser. ‘I just think he doesn’t know where his real home is and he ought to. That’s all. I’m only thinking of him.’
‘Of course,’ said Henry.
Paul and Christobel joined the family circle. They were both practising gynaecologists now, and childless. Paul was putting on weight and developing gravitas. Christobel was still beautiful but Henry didn’t feel that he knew her at all. Their voices always sounded as if they were comforting an elderly patient of limited intelligence. In his friskier moments Henry referred to their Georgian house outside Farnham as Bedsyde Manor. But this was not one of his friskier moments.
‘No more problems with fainting, then?’ asked Christobel. ‘I know it’s not our field, but it did concern us.’
‘Fainting?’ said Tosser.
‘Henry fainted at his wedding,’ said Paul. ‘Went spark out during the telegrams, poor chap.’
‘I was overcome with love for Diana,’ said Henry uneasily.
J. C. R. Tubman-Edwards, Tudor House 1948–53, approached.
‘Hello, mates,’ he said. ‘How are you, Tosser? Long time no see.’
‘Thank God,’ said Tosser, ‘and the name’s Nigel, and you never were my mate. You were rotten to Henry.’
‘And I didn’t like people being rotten to my little fatty faggy-chops,’ said Lampo, joining the gathering along with Denzil.
Henry flinched. This wasn’t what he wanted to remember.
‘“Mrs Davey”!’ said Josceleyn Tubman-Edwards. ‘I think that’s rather tasteless.’
‘Yes, it’s splendid, isn’t it?’ said Henry, revived by the prospect of teasing Josceleyn. ‘How’s your lovely debutante lady?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Josceleyn Tubman-Edwards. ‘She jilted me two days before my wedding.’
Life can be a pig. A group of old boys are enjoying getting their own back on a bully, and suddenly they all have to feel sympathy for the poor bloke.
‘Oh, I’m really sorry,’ said Henry, and meant it.
Mr Lennox, Henry’s old English master, a pedantic soul known to the boys as Droopy L., approached through a wall of conversation. His hair and skin were grey and he had frown lines the way other people have laugh lines.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to remove your name badge,’ he told Denzil.
‘Oh come off it, Mr Lennox,’ said Lampo. ‘You always were a little Hitler.’
‘There’s no need to be rude,’ said Droopy L.
‘What’s the use of reunions if we can’t be nasty to masters we didn’t like?’ said Henry, with a boldness he didn’t feel.
‘Take it off, please. I really do insist,’ said Droopy L.
‘Please don’t, Denzil,’ said Lampo. ‘I love Denzil, Mr Lennox. We argue like mad but live together more faithfully than most husbands and wives.’
‘That’s your problem,’ said Droopy L.
‘Oh no, it’s your problem,’ said Denzil. ‘It’s legal now and we’re doing no harm.’
‘I’ve had complaints,’ said Mr Lennox, ‘and I must ask you to remove it or leave. Where do you think this is – Marlborough?’
‘Quite right,’ said Tosser.
‘Oh, come off it, Tosser, don’t be such a pompous ass. You fancied Henry almost as much as I did,’ said Lampo.
‘Lampo!’ hissed Tosser.
‘Do we really need to go into all this?’ said Henry.
‘I’m very interested,’ said Felicity.
‘Come on, Denzil, my love,’ said Lampo. ‘We aren’t welcome here.’
‘We’re coming too,’ said Henry. ‘It’s outrageous.’
‘Henry!’ said Diana.’
‘What?’
‘You said we’re going. You haven’t consulted me.’
‘Sorry, darling. You will come, won’t you?’
‘No. Not because I think it’s disgusting, I think it’s funny, but Denzil isn’t actually Mrs Davey so he hasn’t got a leg to stand on, and I’m not going to get steamed up about it.’
‘I’m not steamed up. I care about my friends.’
‘I care about my brother, and I haven’t seen him for ages.’
‘It’s all right, Henry,’ said Denzil. ‘We’ll see you later. Thank you for your support. I shall always wear it.’
‘And with that hoary old joke, I leave with my hoary old lover,’ said Lampo. ‘Farewell, Droopy L. Farewell, Dalton.’
‘Absolutely disgusting,’ said Droopy L. ‘I sometimes wonder why we bothered to educate you all.’
‘It’s true,’ said the Director (Operations). ‘Absolutely true.’ He looked Henry straight in the eye at a moment when Henry would have expected him to gaze at one of his old masters for comfort. ‘I didn’t want to lose you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I give good references to people I want to get rid of and bad references for people I want to keep.’
‘That’s outrageous.’
‘I have to protect my interests. And the interests of the organisation.’
‘How can I ever trust you again?’
‘I shouldn’t, if I were you. Then we’ll understand each other perfectly.’
‘I’m very unhappy about it,’ said Henry. ‘I don’t know if I can work with you any more.’
Now Mr Whitehouse did look away, gazing at Vermeer’s exquisite but little-known ‘Preparation of salad in a house in Delft’.
‘I’ll be sorry if you do resign,’ he said. ‘Though no doubt you’d find a good job eventually.’
‘How could I, with your stinking references?’
‘Oh, I’d give you good references once I’d lost you. I’m not a complete bastard. I’d tell the truth.’
‘What is the truth?’
‘That you’re reliable, intelligent, enthusiastic and talented, with a deep sense of loyalty, who gets on well with other people, forms a useful member of the team and was being groomed for higher office at the time of your resignation.’
‘Good Lord. Am I really being groomed for higher office?’
‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘No. You told me not to.’
‘As I say, you’re intelligent.’
‘I thought maybe I’d blotted my copy-book once too often.’
‘Sometimes people who cause difficulties at lower levels are moved up, where they can do less damage. Sometimes rebels are embraced into the heart of the establishment, where they are rapidly persuaded that it isn’t in their interests to be rebellious any more. Promotion is a minefield, and even you wouldn’t be so naïve as to assume that it’s usually given on merit.’
It was a deeply confused Henry Pratt who left the office of the Director (Operations). He couldn’t face the lift, so he took the cold, bare, bleak steps down to the basement and his increasingly isolated bunker.
‘To leave without having another job to go to is a terrible risk,’ said Henry next Sunday afternoon, when they had the house to themselves and were lying in bed, cuddling sleepily, after making love. ‘But if I stay and apply for other jobs, I won’t get them because I’ll get a stinking reference. I really am a square peg in a vicious circle.’
There was a bur
st of loud banging from the Gleneagles. They were refurbishing their bedrooms, not before time, and seemed to be doing the bulk of the work at weekends, presumably because they weren’t using proper builders.
‘I want to do something more with my life,’ said Henry. ‘I can’t wait much longer.’
Somebody, somewhere, will recognise a good man when he sees one.
The banging stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Blissful peace returned. It was starting to get dark. The slightest flush of pink touched the mackerel sky.
Henry cuddled gently into the curve of his wife’s body. Very slowly, he began to feel sexy. He ran his hands slowly up her wide, strong thighs. And then, sad to relate, he fell asleep.
Liam O’Reilly died on Christmas Day, after his Christmas dinner, suffering a massive heart attack during a game of Snap. There aren’t many better ways to go. He was sixty-nine.
On an impulse, Cousin Hilda, who wasn’t given to impulses, wrote to the latest addresses that she had for all her gentlemen, telling them of the funeral arrangements. ‘Well,’ she told Henry, ‘I feel it’s the end of an era.’ She also wrote to an address in Ireland, which she found in Mr O’Reilly’s wallet.
There was more of a turn-out at the funeral than might have been expected for such a reclusive man, but the mourners still felt dwarfed by the great, dark, incense-heavy vault of St Mary’s Catholic Church.
Two obscure relatives from Ireland arrived, full of praise for Cousin Hilda’s kindness, ‘of which Liam was always most appreciative’. They each gave her a bottle of Jameson’s whisky, and she was too moved by their kindness to refuse the gifts, which she passed on to Henry with a sniff.
Tony Preece also came, with his pale ash-blonde fiancée, Stella, whom he had still not married after an engagement lasting more than fourteen years. Tony had made quite a success of his act as Cavin O’Rourke, the Winsome Wit from Wicklow. He had the grace to feel embarrassed about his Irish jokes at Liam O’Reilly’s funeral.
Another of the gentlemen to reappear was Neville Chamberlain, who had retired six weeks before after selling paint for forty-seven years, in England and Kenya.
Also present was Norman Pettifer. ‘It’s a sad day,’ he said. ‘A sad, sad day. And yet I can’t feel sad, such is the selfishness of human nature. I heard this morning, this very morning, that young Adrian has been sacked.’