by David Nobbs
Count Your Blessings announced that luncheon was ready, and they all took their places at the long table under the huge lurid photograph of the eponymous edifice.
Count Your Blessings had told Henry that there would be magnificent food, ‘not from the menu. Menu is standard Indian restaurant. Real Indian food.’ There were chats and doshis and all kinds of bhagia, and spicy dumplings and whole marinated trout and quail, and beautiful stuffed marrow and delicately stuffed ladies’ fingers and banana methi and coconut rice and lemon rice and lovely breads. Cousin Hilda tried the food cautiously, and said, ‘Well, it’s not tasteless. I’ll give it that.’ Kate’s boyfriend Adam ate with his fingers. ‘I hope nobody minds,’ he said, ‘but I like to eat as the common people do.’ None of them minded, but the waiters giggled.
Howard Lewthwaite, sitting beside Henry, turned to him and said, ‘I asked Hilda out.’
‘You did what??’
‘For a meal. For companionship. I said to her, “Just for companionship. No hanky panky.” She went pink and said, “Mr Lewthwaite! I should hope there wouldn’t be.” I said, “Well, come on, then,” and she said something strange. She said, “Mr Lewthwaite, you’re fifty years too late.”’
‘That isn’t strange,’ said Henry. ‘That’s poignant.’
Henry and Hilary kept touching each other under the table, wine and beer and lassi flowed, and it was all the most tremendous success.
Peter Matheson leant across and said, ‘Is it really true you’re working as a waiter, Henry?’
‘Yes, Peter,’ said Henry. ‘At the Post House.’
‘Good God!’
‘And proud of it. An honourable profession. Only the British think it’s demeaning to wait on your fellow men.’
‘Really hard work, though, badly paid and rarely appreciated,’ said Joe Enwright.
‘Rather like teaching,’ said Henry.
‘Touché,’ said Joe Enwright with feeling.
‘I tried going back to the market garden,’ said Henry. ‘I just couldn’t face it.’
‘Have some raita. It’s delicious,’ said Nigel Clinton.
‘I can’t even eat them,’ said Henry. ‘Forty-nine years old, receding hair line, expanding stomach line, doesn’t know anything except cucumbers, absolutely fed up with cucumbers, Hilary’s got herself a real prize catch.’
‘I think I have,’ said Hilary lovingly.
‘I wonder how much these people send back to India,’ said Martin Hammond.
‘Lots,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘They’re wonderfully non-materialistic.’
‘Unlike the Thurmarsh Socialists,’ said Peter Matheson.
‘Oh shut up about politics, Peter,’ said Olivia.
Henry stood up.
Silence fell slowly.
‘This is not a formal wedding,’ he said. ‘We aren’t having speeches.’
‘Hooray!’ shouted Jack.
‘But I would like to call on my best man, Martin Hammond, who I believe has some telegrams.’
Martin Hammond stood up.
‘I know you’re supposed to make jokes at weddings,’ he said, ‘but I can’t make jokes, so I won’t.’
‘Hooray!’ shouted Jack.
‘Henry and I met when we were four. We joined the Paradise Lane Gang. We thought we were right little tearaways too. Tearaways? We were boy scouts compared to today’s lot. Law and order? Now there is a joke. Oops, sorry, I promised not to be political.’
‘Quite right, too,’ said Peter Matheson.
‘Shut up, Peter,’ hissed Olivia Matheson.
‘We had our well-publicised disagreements over the 1979 election,’ continued Martin. ‘But it was all taken in good part, and we remained friends, as witnessed by my having the honour to be best man today. Politicians always speak too much …’
‘Hear hear,’ said Olivia Matheson.
‘Shut up, Olivia,’ hissed Peter Matheson.
‘So I’ll get straight on with my main job, the reading of the telegrams,’ continued Martin. ‘This one’s from Switzerland: “We wish you happiness for the rest of your days – Diana and Gunter.”’
There was a murmur of approval. Camilla’s eyes filled with tears and Giuseppe held her hand.
‘That is very nice,’ said Martin. ‘An ex-wife saying that. That is highly delightful. The next one is from Suffolk: “We wish we were with you – Auntie Doris and Uncle Miles.” That’s nice. And one from London: “Many congratulations – James and Celia.”’
‘Diana’s parents. Very nice,’ said Henry.
‘Oh, and here’s one from Thurmarsh,’ said Martin Hammond. ‘“Congratulations. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do. That leaves you quite a lot – Ted and Helen.”’
Ginny Fenwick gave a loud derisive snort, and everyone looked at her, and she blushed.
‘Ah!’ said Martin. ‘Now this is definitely a case of last, but not least, because this one has come all the way from Peru.’
‘It’ll be from our daughter,’ said Olivia Matheson. ‘She’s a nun.’
‘Let the man speak, dear,’ said Peter Matheson.
‘I’m sorry to have to disappoint you,’ said Martin, ‘but somehow I don’t think this one’s from a nun. It says, “Get stuck in – Anna.”’
There was laughter. Cousin Hilda frowned. Olivia Matheson looked embarrassed. Peter Matheson gave a smile so fixed that it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
‘That concludes the telegrams,’ said Martin. He sat down, and there was applause.
Henry stood up.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I find I must say a few words. First, a huge thank-you to the staff of the Taj Mahal for the wonderful food and service.’
Everybody clapped and cheered. Count Your Blessings couldn’t have smiled more widely if Petula Clark herself had walked in.
‘In a minute I’m going to propose just one toast,’ said Henry. ‘To absent friends. Before I do, I’d like to mention four absent friends briefly. My Auntie Doris, who can’t be here due to illness, and her companion, Miles Cricklewood, who can’t be here because he’s looking after Auntie Doris. I’ve known them both all my … well, I’ve known Auntie Doris all my life and Miles ever since he came on the scene. I do wish they could have been here. Also, our friend Anna Matheson, who is a nun in Peru – yes, that telegram was from her and as you’ll have gathered she’s no ordinary nun, she’s a worker nun, a nun of the world. Last, but definitely not least, my step-son, Benedict. He’s an unhappy soul, a lost soul. I just wish he’d come back and give us another chance. We might not fail him so badly next time. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming, and I give you the toast of “absent friends”.’
They all said ‘absent friends’ fervently, and then they drank, and then they applauded Henry heartily.
Soon the guests began to leave.
First to go was Howard Lewthwaite. He had to catch the plane for his honeymoon. He left to a chorus of good wishes.
Next were Sam and Greta. ‘Lovely do. Hope you’re incredibly happy,’ said Sam. ‘Sorry to rush off, but I’ve an idea and I’ve got to work on it.’ ‘He’s always like this when he feels a soup coming on,’ said Greta in her charming Danish accent.
Lampo and Denzil kissed Hilary but, in deference to being in Yorkshire, they only shook hands with Henry. Denzil said, ‘This is a great day. Lampo cried,’ and Lampo said, ‘You cried too,’ and Denzil said, ‘I’m allowed to be sentimental. I’m old,’ and Lampo said, ‘You are, aren’t you? What am I doing living with a disgusting old man?’ Henry smiled. He’d suddenly realised that there had never been the slightest risk that Lampo and Denzil, for all their quarrelling, would ever split up.
Ginny kissed Henry and Hilary and blushed, Joe and Molly Enwright invited them to dinner, Colin Edgeley said, ‘Keep in touch, kid. You’re my mate,’ Paul said, ‘Don’t forget we have the secret of eternal youth,’ Nigel Clinton said, ‘Get her writing,’ Cousin Hilda said, ‘If my gentlemen could see me today! Indian
food! Whatever next? Thank you, and I wish you so much happiness this time,’ and they gazed at her in astonishment; Jack said, ‘I’m very pissed. Sorry. But I’m right chuffed. It’s grand to have you two together again’; Olivia Matheson stumbled and fell, and Peter Matheson said, ‘She’s never ever done that before’; Giuseppe said, ‘You very happy, I make your step-daughter very delirious’; and Kate just shook her head and cried.
Last to leave were Ben Watkinson and Cynthia. Ben had never known how to leave a room except by saying, ‘Well, I’m off to give the wife one.’ He couldn’t say that when she was there, so it was Cynthia who said, ‘Come on, Ben. We’re outstaying our welcome,’ at which neither Henry nor Hilary demurred.
The happy couple got into their hired car and were driven to their new home.
The house wasn’t large, it wasn’t luxurious, it wasn’t beautiful, but it was theirs, and they had a lovely, gentle fortnight, getting to remember each other’s rhythms, exploring each other’s bodies, finding happiness. Howard, meanwhile, enjoyed their honeymoon, the concept of which had really amused him, and he sent a card saying, ‘You’re having a wonderful time. Wish I was here.’
As soon as Howard’s honeymoon was over, Henry and Hilary enacted what they saw as the final part of their wedding. They went to see Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris.
Auntie Doris’s eyes were sunk deep into her face now, and her face had become pinched and hollow. Uncle Teddy had lost weight, was moving rather stiffly, and was slightly round-shouldered, but he’d worn better than her, and in fact they both thought that he’d worn incredibly well, considering the strain he’d been under.
After lunch, Uncle Teddy said he fancied a walk. Henry went with him. They walked past May Cottage, Old Cottage, the Old Thatcher’s Cottage, Christmas Tree Cottage, April Cottage, High Cottage, Jane Farthing Cottage, Oak Cottage and Little Pond Cottage to the river, and back up the green past a cottage called The Cottage, as if there were no other cottages, and Uncle Teddy breathed in the air and said nothing until, as they passed the church, he said, ‘Beautiful. All this air, Henry. I’ve been cooped up, you see. I can’t leave her.’
They walked for two hours. Soon after they got home, the sun went down over the yard-arm, and after their drinks Uncle Teddy heated up some tinned soup and Marks and Spencer’s cannelloni, and after their meal they settled down in the rustic little living room with its floral suite, and Uncle Teddy said, ‘I hope you weren’t expecting a game of Scrabble. Doris doesn’t like that any more.’
They assured him that they weren’t expecting a game of Scrabble.
‘What she likes best is the story of our life,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘Oh yes,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘Tell me the story of our life.’
‘Do you mind?’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Only I tell her it every night, and she likes it.’
‘Of course we don’t mind,’ said Hilary.
‘We met in 1927,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘1927!’ exclaimed Auntie Doris.
‘At the Mecca.’
‘Don’t you have to stand in a certain direction at the Mecca?’ said Auntie Doris. ‘Facing the South Pole or something?’
‘No, no. This was a dance hall,’ said Uncle Teddy. He leant across to Henry and Hilary and whispered, ‘Surprising what the old girl remembers sometimes. Quite surprises me.’
‘Can’t do much dancing if you’re all facing the South Pole,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘Bit inhibiting.’
‘No, no,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Mecca is a holy city, and Muslims face it when they pray. The Mecca is a dance hall.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Reginald Lichfield and his Boulevardiers used to play. It was packed Saturday nights in them days. Packed. Cigarette smoke everywhere. Through the smoke I saw this vision. Know what it was?’
‘Was it me?’ mouthed Auntie Doris.
‘Well done! It was you. Prettiest girl in all the hall.’
‘Was I?’
‘Curves in all the right places. Lovely legs. Beautiful lips. Bright red.’
‘Ee!’
Henry gave Hilary a wry grin. Auntie Doris hadn’t said ‘Ee!’ for over fifty years. It wasn’t posh.
‘I asked you to dance. You said, “I don’t mind.” All casual and offhand.’
‘Oh dear! Was I a little minx?’
‘You were a vixen! We danced. I asked you out. Within five weeks we were engaged.’
‘No! You were a quick worker, then?’
‘I’d say. Never met anyone like you. Had to be. Too many rivals to hang about!’
‘O’oh! Really? And then?’
‘We got married in St Matthew’s Church. A hundred and twenty guests.’
‘Ee! A hundred and twenty!’
‘Grand wedding. The Sniffer sniffing like mad. Face like a cupboard full of brooms.’
‘The Sniffer?’
‘Cousin Hilda. Mellowed now from what Henry tells me. Amazing what fear of the grim reaper can do. We bought a house in Dronfield. I went into import-export.’
‘We had children.’
‘No, Doris. We decided not to. We were good-time people.’
‘I’ve always liked a good time.’
‘Right. I did well.’
‘Did you, Teddy?’
‘Oh yes. Very well. Bought a big house. Called it Cap Ferrat.’
‘That’s a place.’
‘Absolutely spot on. A very nice place where we had our holidays. Then war came. Then after the war …’
‘Don’t you usually tell me more about the war? Summat brave that you did somewhere.’
‘Absolutely right, Doris. You’re in good form today.’ He looked at Henry and Hilary uneasily. ‘I’m shortening it tonight. We have guests. Our Henry, our nephew, and his wife Hilary. Henry’s mother died, you see.’
‘Oh no!’
‘And his father hanged himself.’
‘Oh no!! What a tragic boy.’
‘Yes. So we took him in as our son.’
‘Oh! Lovely!’
‘Yes, he was.’
Henry smiled sheepishly.
‘He was,’ continued Uncle Teddy. ‘But I was a naughty boy. I went to prison.’
‘Teddy! What for?’
‘Oh, just technical offences. Tax evasion. Evading currency restrictions. Fraud. Nothing criminal.’
‘Good. That’s good. How long did you get?’
‘Three years.’
‘Three years! That’s hard.’
‘It was hard. It was hard for you, too. You were lonely. You couldn’t manage without a man. You took up with a business friend of mine. Geoffrey Porringer.’
‘I didn’t! Naughty me.’
‘Well! Partly my fault.’
‘Was he nice?’
‘He had blackheads.’
‘Oh dear. I don’t like the sound of him one bit.’
‘I came out of prison. You were with Geoffrey. I was … upset. I took up with a … slightly younger woman.’
‘You rogue!’
‘Yes. I pretended to be burnt in a big fire, and you had a funeral for me.’
‘No! Teddy!’
‘And I lived in the South of France and married this … slightly younger woman, and you married Geoffrey.’
‘Teddy! We were both rogues then?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Well!’
‘Anyway, Anna … the slightly younger woman … we parted, and I realised that I’d loved you all the time.’
‘Teddy! All the time?’
‘All the time. And you didn’t love Geoffrey Porringer. So, you left Geoffrey and I came back to England and we bought this cottage.’
‘Well!’
‘But because I’m supposed to be dead, I have to live as Miles Cricklewood, a retired vet, in Suffolk, where nobody knows me.’
‘And we lived happily ever after.’
‘Well, no, nobody does that. But almost.’
‘And all this happened to us?’
&
nbsp; ‘Yes.’
‘Well, we’ve lived a bit, Teddy.’
‘We certainly have.’
‘We’ve given them a run for their money.’
‘We’ve cut the mustard.’
‘We certainly have. Well, thank you, Teddy, that was lovely. I remembered bits of it, of course.’
‘Of course. But not all.’
‘No. Not all. I think you’re very kind to me, Teddy.’
‘I think I probably am, now.’
They said goodbye to the bottle of port and went to bed and they all slept like tops.
18 They Also Serve
HIS EMPLOYERS AT the Post House were pleased with Henry’s performance as a waiter. At last there’s something I definitely do well, he thought wryly. He even invented a character for himself. He’d been on the ocean liners. ‘When I was on the ocean liners …,’ he’d begin. It wasn’t truly a fantasy. He hadn’t lost touch with reality, and he said it even to people who knew it wasn’t true. But he enjoyed the performance, and avoiding being caught out in contradictions kept his mind sharp. ‘I’ll never forget – sixty miles off the Azores – a force six easterly – I slopped mulligatawny soup all over the dress tunic of a colonel in the New Zealand army … Ructions? I’ll say there were ructions!’
One day, towards the end of 1984, Henry came home to find Hilary somewhat tense and her father watching television.
‘Henry?’ she said.
‘I’ll go,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘My room isn’t really terribly cold.’
‘What?’ said Hilary.
‘You’re going to say something serious,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘I don’t want to be in the way.’
‘You aren’t in the way. I think you should hear this.’
‘Oh. Because I don’t want to be a nuisance.’
‘You’re only a nuisance when you keep saying you are.’
‘Well I am. I’m stopping you saying what you want to say.’
‘Well shut up, then.’
‘You see. I am a nuisance.’
‘You aren’t! Please stay!’
‘You’re angry now.’
‘Daddy! Shut up!’
Howard Lewthwaite sat solemnly, looking hurt.
‘Henry?’ said Hilary. ‘I’ve something to tell you.’