by David Nobbs
On Monday, April 9th, Henry ran into Martin Hammond outside the Thurmarsh and Rawlaston Cooperative Society.
‘Let’s have a clean fight,’ said Henry.
‘I’ve nowt to say to thee,’ said Martin Hammond, whose dialect was becoming more pronounced as polling day loomed.
Martin had telephoned Henry months ago, and said, ‘I can’t think how you can do this. You’re a turncoat.’
‘I’ve found that my true position is left of centre,’ Henry’d said. ‘I have to be true to myself, Martin. I believe Britain needs non-dogmatic, non-centralist government.’
‘Cobblers.’
‘Yes, I believe Britain needs cobblers too. We must support the dying crafts. Good point.’
Martin had rung off, leaving Henry to regret his cheap joke. He didn’t want to argue with his old friend, and a couple of weeks later had written to Martin:
Dear Martin,
I’m sorry that at our last conversation I was so frivolous. It was to cover my embarrassment. I’d like to feel that during this campaign we can be gentlemen, and when it’s over we can be friends. I respect your convictions, though I don’t any longer believe they’re the right way forward. I’m deeply opposed to the Tory Party, and will have no mercy for Tosser, but I’ll oppose you honourably.
With love and friendship,
Your old mate from the Paradise Lane Gang,
Henry
Martin hadn’t replied.
On Wednesday, April 11th, Henry sat next to Tosser in the directors’ box at Blonk Lane. All three major candidates declared their support for ‘the Reds’ though Martin hadn’t been to a match for twenty-seven years, and Tosser had never been.
‘Who’d have thought,’ said Henry at half-time, ‘all those years ago at Dalton, that you and I would share a wife and a constituency?’
‘I asked you to keep Diana out of it,’ said Tosser. ‘But I suppose one can’t expect honour from a grammar-school boy.’
Tosser was referring to a phone call he’d made to Henry several weeks before.
‘Well, this is a funny situation, Henry,’ he’d said.
‘Yes.’ Henry had been very dry. ‘Did you ever get out to Malaga to try and find Benedict?’
‘Well it’s been difficult. I have sent money.’
‘Money’s easy for you. He might appreciate a bit of time spent on him.’
‘He doesn’t deserve it, Henry. Life’s a two-way process. But this is what I wanted to talk to you about. Can we keep our families out of this?’
‘If you wanted to keep your family out of it, it might have been better not to come to the constituency where your wife’s second husband is standing.’
‘I didn’t know you were going to stand. And I hadn’t told them Diana lived in Thurmarsh. Why should I? I never dreamt I’d be sent to your God-forsaken hole, and when I was, I thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie. I mean, I didn’t have a choice of constituency, so what was the point of mentioning it? The aim of the exercise is to groom me, Henry. Lose with honour, get myself a nice seat somewhere in civilisation, with a nice fat majority.’
‘Well I’ll do all I can to make sure you lose without honour,’ Henry’d said. ‘I’ll wipe you off the face of the map. I love my home town. I don’t like to see it being used.’
Somehow, it didn’t look as though it was going to be an overwhelmingly friendly campaign.
*
The opinion polls gave the Conservatives 49 per cent, Labour 38½ per cent, the Liberals 9 per cent!
All three candidates toured Thurmarsh in cars with loud-hailers. They toured the parts of the town where they might expect to win most votes. Canvassing wasn’t about changing people’s minds. It was about persuading your supporters to get up off their backsides and vote.
There were areas around Paradise and Splutt and York Road into which it was inadvisable for Tosser to venture, even though he’d been a rugby international.
There were areas like Winstanley and the streets around the Alderman Chandler Memorial Park where it would be a waste of time for Martin to canvass.
Henry’s supporters were more difficult to locate. They could be anywhere. He had the hardest task, and he approached it with an energy and dedication which fired the enthusiasm of his helpers. He could charm people on the doorsteps. The canvassing returns were surprisingly good. He couldn’t imagine that Tosser had a clue about talking to ordinary people, and Martin could hardly be described as inspiring. His confidence grew.
Every morning Henry held a press conference. He was never at a loss for a word. When his former colleague, Ted Plunkett, asked him where he stood on Europe, there was just a little smugness in his voice, as if he hoped to discomfit Henry.
‘I believe in Europe,’ said Henry. ‘We must fight against its absurdities – uniform envelope sizes, Euro-sausages and standardised tomatoes – but we can never afford to be against its principles. I’ll tell you why. Portugal has recently become a democracy after fifty years, Spain after forty years, Greece has emerged from the rule of the military junta, Germany and Austria were under the mad rule of Hitler not so long ago, while Italy had Mussolini. Six major Western European countries with dictatorships in my lifetime. If we’re all together in Europe, that cannot happen again.’
Ted looked disappointed at that fluent answer from the man whom his wife had been known to fancy. Henry’s confidence grew.
*
As polling day grew closer a report recommended a 100 per cent pay rise for MPs.
Mr Callaghan said that the defeat of inflation and unemployment took top priority.
Mrs Thatcher promised greater respect for law and order, improved education, a fair balance between rights and duties for trade unions, and the stopping of the stifling of individuality by the state.
Mr David Colclough, President of the National Hairdressers’ Association, said in Bournemouth that windblown and unkempt hair could lose votes.
At the beginning of the evening of Friday, April 20th, Henry’s hair was not windblown. Indeed, it was positively kempt.
By the end of the evening, Mr Callaghan, Mrs Thatcher and David Colclough would have been united in their disgust for him.
And the evening had started so well!
Henry was walking along Commercial Road, alone, after canvassing in Rawlaston. He’d told his team that he needed a few minutes on his own, to clear his head and marshal his thoughts.
To his amazement, to his disgust, to his utter and total joy, he saw Tosser Pilkington-Brick emerge furtively from the premises of ‘World-Wide Religious Literature Inc.’
The Conservative candidate had been visiting a male brothel!
All sorts of lurid headlines passed through the mind of the former journalist. TORY CANDIDATE IN ARMOUR ORGASM SHOCK. PERVERT PILKINGTON DROPS A BRICK. BROTHEL BLOW GIVES BLUES THE BLUES. WHAT A GORY TORY STORY. No, he’d settle for something straightforward. CANDIDATE IN SEX SCANDAL SENSATION.
That evening, as chance would have it, Henry was embarking on a whistle-stop tour of the town’s pubs. He was used to pubs. He was known in some of these pubs. He would do well.
Magnus Willis hated pubs and drank tonic water, a vote loser if ever Henry had seen one. So Henry’s companion and minder was Ron Prendergast.
The pubs were quite busy almost from opening time. They always were on a Friday night, which was why Friday had been chosen for this particular exercise.
They went to old haunts of Henry’s – the Lord Nelson, the Pigeon and Two Cushions, the Devonshire, where the jazz had not yet started. They popped in at the Globe and Artichoke, the Artisan’s Rest, the Coach and Horses, the Jubilee Tavern, the Nag’s Head, the Tap and Spile, the Three Horseshoes, the Commercial, the Tipsy Gipsy and the Baker’s Arms. In each pub, Henry had half a pint. He had to. It was part of his vote-catching exercise. It was his duty to his party.
He didn’t discuss the issues, but chatted to people, told the landlords their beer was nicely kept, except in the Artisan’s Rest,
where nobody would have believed him. He called out, ‘Good luck. Happy drinking. A vote for me is a vote for a good pub man,’ and spoke of the old days when the pub had been one of his locals. All thirteen appeared to have been his locals, but he had been in eleven of them, and a bit of exaggeration is permissible during an election.
Ron Prendergast admitted defeat at the Baker’s Arms, and Henry moved on alone to the Grenadier’s Elbow, where he was to meet Magnus Willis.
Magnus, who’d been doing a major canvass in Splutt, entered the pub nervously but bouncily. There was a gleam in his eyes.
‘Excellent returns in Splutt,’ he said. ‘People like you.’ He sounded envious, about which Henry was sorry, and surprised, about which Henry was even more sorry. ‘“He’s like one of us,” they say, and, “He’s so ordinary,” and, “I could imagine giving him his breakfast.” You’ve got the common touch. We could be making history here.’ He looked at Henry more closely. Some of the gleam disappeared. ‘How many have you had?’
‘Only thirteen.’
‘Thirteen!!’
‘Halves. Only halves. I’m as fit as a daisy. Magnus, I have great news.’
Magnus braced himself for the great news. All the gleam had gone.
He told Magnus about Tosser and the exotic brothel.
Magnus whistled.
‘Are you absolutely certain?’ he said.
‘Absolutely certain.’
‘We’ve got him! Not a word about this tonight, Henry. Leave it to me. I have to work out how to handle it. Oh, well done!’
The gleam had come back.
‘Fancy a drink?’ said Henry.
‘No. No! Home now, there’s a good chap.’
‘Henry! My old mate!’
Colin Edgeley emerged from the roughish crowd at the bar, carrying a full pint with care.
‘Have a drink, kid,’ said Colin Edgeley.
‘Just a half,’ said Henry.
Magnus groaned.
‘I’m not drunk, Magnus. One drink, then home like a good boy.’
‘Right. I’m ordering you a taxi,’ said Magnus.
Magnus went off to order a taxi, Colin returned, borrowed a pound from Henry, and bought him his half.
‘A half used to be a “glass” of beer round here, and there were waiters,’ said the Liberal candidate. ‘What’s happening to the world?’
‘You ask them in Whitehall when you get there.’
‘Too right. I will.’
‘Are you coming up to the Devonshire for the jazz?’
‘No. I’m going home.’
‘It’s not even ten yet.’
‘I’m under orders.’
‘Taxi ordered,’ said Magnus, returning. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘Just time for the other half,’ said Henry.
Magnus groaned.
When the taxi arrived, his agent took him firmly by the arm and frogmarched him to the door.
At the door, Henry wriggled free and turned round.
‘I’m being sent home,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve been a naughty boy. Would you vote for a naughty boy? ’Course you would. ’Cos you’re all naughty boys too, aren’t you?’
Magnus groaned.
‘Waters Meet Cottage, Nether Bibbington,’ Magnus told the taxi-driver.
He pushed Henry in and slammed the door gratefully. His job was done for the day.
As soon as they were out of sight of Magnus, Henry said, ‘I don’t want to go to Nether Bibbington or Upper Bibbington or any Bibbington. I don’t want to go to Waters Meet. I don’t like water. I want to go to Bitters Meet, otherwise known as the Commercial Arms in Devonshire Street.’
‘Or even the Devonshire Arms in Commercial Street,’ said the taxi-driver.
‘That’ll do.’
‘I’m supposed to take you to Nether Bibbington. I’ve got a chitty.’
‘Well I’ll sign your chitty and give you a fiver.’
‘Fair enough, Chief.’
So Henry found himself in the jazz club. It wasn’t as crowded as in the old days. Sid Hallett and two of his Rundlemen were drawing the state pension now, and jazz wasn’t hard enough for the new world that was coming.
He saw the journalists immediately. They were in a good strategic position, at a table close to the bar. Ginny Fenwick was there, and Helen Plunkett, née Cornish, and Ben Watkinson and his shy, no longer so petite wife Cynthia. Just the four of them. Not like the old days.
They greeted Henry warmly and with great surprise. A pint of bitter and a whisky chaser had been ordered before they realised how drunk he was. Colin arrived and said, ‘How the hell did you get here?’ and Henry said, ‘Turned the taxi round,’ and Colin said, ‘You old rogue.’ Henry couldn’t finish his beer, but he accepted another whisky. It was extremely pleasant to sit with old colleagues in a bar and listen to ageing jazzmen greeting closing time with energy. Helen smiled at him and he smiled back and … and …? He was in bed. He was alive. His head hurt. The telephone was ringing. Where was he? The telephone had stopped ringing. He recognised that wardrobe. Where had he seen it before? At home! He was at home! How had he got home? He sat up and his head swam and he lay down again hurriedly. The telephone was ringing. What had happened? A blackbird was singing. It was morning! The telephone had stopped ringing. How had he got here? Where had he been last night? He remembered touring pubs and oh God yes turning the taxi round. The Devonshire. The blackbird had stopped singing. He remembered sitting in the Devonshire listening to Sid Hallett and the Rundlemen approaching what passed for a climax in their performance. He remembered Ginny leaving abruptly. Had he said something to upset her? He remembered Helen smiling. Had he upset Ginny by saying something to Helen?
The telephone was ringing. Why did the telephone keep ringing? It hurt his head.
It stopped.
He remembered a corridor. A dark corridor. A lawn. But indoors. Strange there should be a lawn indoors.
He remembered flashlights. Voices. Intruders. A lavatory. He hadn’t felt well in the lavatory. He didn’t feel well now.
The door opened.
Diana stood at the door.
She wasn’t happy.
What had happened?
She gave him a look, half angry, half pitying. What did it mean?
‘I’ll stand by you until after the election or until you resign,’ she said. Her voice was icy. Why was her voice icy? What did her words mean? The telephone was ringing.
‘Why does the phone keep ringing?’
‘Why do you think it keeps ringing?’
‘What’s happened? I must know what’s happened.’
‘Don’t you know what’s happened?’
‘No!!’
She gave a hoarse, humourless laugh. He didn’t like her laugh. He didn’t like anything about this morning. He’d come out in a cold sweat.
‘You’d better read the paper,’ she said.
She handed him the Thurmarsh Morning Chronicle, which was to cease publication at the end of May.
He read the main headline. ‘CANDIDATE IN SEX SCANDAL SENSATION.’
‘Hurrah!’ he cried. ‘They got him.’
‘What do you mean, “Hurrah!”?’ said Diana.
He read on.
The election campaign of Henry Pratt, the 44-year-old Liberal candidate for Thurmarsh, was in tatters last night after he was found in a naked love tryst on a pub’s snooker table.
His blood ran cold. Icy sweat covered his body. He gawped at his icy wife. He remembered nothing. He read on.
With him ‘on the green baize’ in the back room of the popular Devonshire Arms public house in Commercial Street was a well-known married Thurmarsh journalist, Mrs Helen Plunkett, who works for our sister paper, the Evening Argus.
The couple, who have known each other for more than twenty years, were caught ‘in the act’ by Inspector William Bovis, after the police had responded to an anonymous tip-off.
Another message, also anonymous, was received by this newspaper. There is as
yet no indication of the identity of the caller, who was male and ‘didn’t have a strong accent’.
Inspector Bovis said that the couple had both been naked, and charges might follow. ‘I actually witnessed them engaged in an indoor sporting activity not normally associated with snooker tables,’ Inspector Bovis told our reporter. ‘There is no doubt in my mind that what I saw was sexual congress.’
The landlord of the Devonshire Arms, Mr Wilf Cottenham (aged 52), said that the couple had been drinking in the bar earlier in the evening. Mrs Plunkett had arrived with friends at about nine o’clock and Mr Pratt had arrived on his own more than an hour later.
‘They’d both been drinking, but they weren’t drunk or I wouldn’t have served them,’ he said. ‘It’s not that kind of pub.’
‘I locked up at approximately eleven twenty-five, but didn’t look in the Billiard Room,’ he added. ‘It’s closed on jazz nights, so I had no reason to look.’
‘I’m right choked about the table. It’s torn in more than one place. They must have been at it hammer and tongs. It’ll be a long time before anyone pockets any more balls on it.’
Mr Pratt appeared to our reporter to be very drunk indeed. ‘Where’s Chick Zamick?’ he mumbled. ‘In bed with Flory Van Donck, I’ll be bound.’ This was understood to be a reference to an ice hockey star and a Belgian golfer.
Mrs Plunkett said after the incident, ‘Henry had been canvassing in pubs and was very definitely inebriated. He made certain suggestions and was very insistent. I’d been drinking and I yielded. I’m deeply ashamed of myself and just hope that I’ll be able to patch things up with my husband.’
Rumours that Mr Pratt might resign were described as premature by Mr Pratt’s agent, Magnus Willis. He said, ‘It’s a disaster. No question of it. But we’ll assess the situation in the light of day, and I imagine that he’ll attempt to prove that, despite this isolated lapse, he’s the best man to represent Thurmarsh in Parliament.’