by David Nobbs
Although he still dreaded his return to school, Henry found that he was looking forward to seeing Paul, and, more surprisingly, to fagging for Lampo Davey and Tosser Pilkington-Brick.
Lessons proceeded smoothly enough. The sports facilities provided wonderful opportunities for a boy who hitherto had only discovered that he was bad at cricket, soccer, hockey and rugger. By the end of his first year at Dalton College, Henry was bad at squash, fives, tennis and swimming as well. In the holidays, he no longer watched much sport. It wasn’t much fun without friends. At school, he watched everything, especially if Tosser Pilkington-Brick was playing. Once again, Orange House failed to be cock house at anything. Plantaganet took rugger. (Blast. One up for Tubman-Edwards.) Tudor took hockey and cricket.
‘All this sports watching will do you no good,’ said Lampo Davey one Sunday evening in early March as he picked his way elegantly through Henry’s egg, bacon and fried bread. ‘You’ll go blind. Has the slumbering giant still not stirred?’
‘No.’
‘Pour me a glass of claret.’
Lampo Davey and Tosser Pilkington-Brick kept wine under their floorboards. Henry poured Lampo Davey a glass of claret.
Lampo put his hand on Henry’s knee.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ said Henry.
Lampo removed his hand.
‘I do wish you’d be my bit of rough trade, little slum boy,’ he said. He saw the look in Henry’s eye. ‘Sorry. Little sub-standard housing boy. Maybe you will, when the slumbering giant stirs. You’re probably just a late developer. At least you aren’t interested in girls.’
‘I used to be,’ said Henry.
‘When?’
‘Till I was nine.’
‘My God. You were nine before your latent sexuality period began. You are a late developer.’
Henry tried to let it all wash over him. He tried not to show how much the homosexuality still shocked him. He tried not to show how hurt he was at the suggestion that even his apparent precocity at Rowth Bridge had been nothing more than retarded infantilism. He still suffered some fairly fierce mockery of his humble origins, but he had learnt to cope now. Henry ‘Ee by gum, I am daft’ was back in play. He even tried it on Lampo Davey and Tosser Pilkington-Brick when he dropped a glass of claret. Tosser gave a snort of laughter and spooned some more powdered drinking chocolate into his capacious mouth. Claret and powdered chocolate were a favoured snack. Lampo showed no signs of amusement, but said, ‘Priceless. Absolutely priceless.’
The high point of Henry’s week was the arrival of the Picturegoer. He read it from cover to cover, from ‘Should Betty Grable wear tights?’ to ‘Open pores – do they mar your beauty?’
One day, just before the end of the Easter term, he sat in his partition in the junior study, gazing at his montage of cuttings from the Picturegoer. The pictures were mostly of the stars at social functions. They had captions like ‘At the Mocambo Club. William Powell selects a cigarette for socialite Mrs H. Bockwitz’, ‘Gene Kelly and Deborah Kerr found themselves having quite a serious conversation’, ‘Katharine Hepburn, seen with Lena Horne, caused top sensation. She wore slacks’ (the accompanying picture showed only the top halves of the two ladies!) and Somebody must have called “yoo-hoo!” to judge from the faces of James Stewart and veteran Frank Morgan’. They triggered off a fantasy world which might feature such captions as ‘To judge from the friendly waves, it looks as though ex-oik Henry Pratt has won the hearts of the crowd at Elia Kazan’s birthday party’ and ‘At the Mocambo Club, former slum kid Henry Pratt proffers a canapé to thrice-married Jasper K. Bungholtz. To judge from Bungholtz’s expression, the tasty morsel is not unwelcome.’ As Henry sat there, dreaming his fantasies of non-sexual social conquest, Paul butted in to announce that he had just had his second wank of the day, in the lats. Even Paul, elegant, shy, avant-garde, Braque-loving, discriminating, fractionally fastidious Paul was doing it. Henry sighed. His display suddenly looked very dull. He wanted to start wanting to offer people more than canapés.
The Easter holidays brought Chips Rafferty in Eureka Stockade and similar delights. The railway acquired another engine, two carriages, a tunnel and a footbridge. The slumbering giant remained a lifeless dwarf.
Henry remodelled the decoration of his partition. Out went the social events. In came the scantily clad females. The captions now were ‘Possessor of these shapely underpinnings, of course, is Jean Kent, in her latest picture Trottie True’, ‘This is something like a pin-up. Gloria de Haven is wearing a striking swim-suit, although we doubt if she’s ever actually dived off the deep end in it’ and ‘If you were running before the wind, wouldn’t you like a sea nymph like Janice Carter, in contrasted slip and top, as part of the crew!’ In Henry’s fantasy, there were captions like ‘Top glamour photographer Henry Pratt must have been up very early to catch this delightful pose by lovely Adele Jurgens. Poor fellow – or is he?’ But the fantasy refused to come to life. The giant slumbered on.
One day, in the middle of June, 1949, two fourteen-year-old friends were watching Orange House play Plantaganet House at cricket on Middle Boggle. The sports fields were behind the school and slightly above it. They were on two levels, Middle Boggle and Lower Boggle. There had never been an Upper Boggle. This was just one more of life’s many mysteries.
Orange House were 92 for 9. Tosser was 55 not out. From their position on the bank beside the Pavvy, they could see Lower Boggle studded with junior games, and the mish-mash of indifferent brick and stone buildings tumbling out of the back of the Queen Anne mansion like architectural faeces. Right at the back was the solid, pseudo-classical frontage of School Hall.
They could see Tubman-Edwards approaching. When he saw them, he turned away.
Tosser hit a massive six. They cheered lustily.
Lampo Davey walked past, ostentatiously reading a book on renaissance art and taking no notice of the game. Mr Satchel (Dopy S) glared at him. No wonder Orange never became cock house at anything if certain subversive elements preferred renaissance art.
Tosser preferred hitting sixes. Another massive pull brought up the hundred. Next ball he was out for 67. 104 all out. Not enough.
‘I think I’ll have a wank tonight,’ said Paul, to cheer himself up.
‘So will I,’ said Henry.
‘I didn’t think you’d started,’ said Paul.
‘I started last night,’ said Henry.
‘Congratulingles.’ Paul thumped his friend in delight.
‘Thanks.’
‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’
‘Fantastic.’
‘The most fantangles thingles in the univingles.’
‘Absolutelingles.’
Henry closed his eyes in dismay. Not at the awful new language which swept Shant mercifully briefly that term. At the stupidity of his lie. How many long weeks of pretence would follow? What a thing to feel the need to boast about. You pulled a bit of your body, it got longer, and some stuff came out. Amazingly clever!
‘I don’t believe it does make you go blind,’ said Paul.
‘Well if it did, everybody’d be blind,’ said Henry.
‘Exactly,’ said Paul. ‘I wonder if it ever makes people deaf.’
‘Pardon?’ said Henry.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ said Paul. ‘I had a letter from mother today. She says it’s perfectly all right.’
‘Wanking?’
‘Ass. You coming to stay for the first week of the hols.’
Henry’s heart sank. He never wanted to see Dr and Mrs Hargreaves again.
‘They won’t eat you,’ said Paul. ‘They liked you. They understood.’
I know, thought Henry. That’s what makes it so bad. They can see into my shallow, lying, dirty, oiky little soul.
‘They’ve been burgled,’ said Paul. ‘All the burglar took was a wireless, a ball of string and two pounds of tomatoes.’
‘Sounds like a nutcase,’ said Henry. ‘Perhaps he’s going to bury the tomatoes in the ground,
in rows marked by string, and play “Music While You Work” to them in the hope they’ll seed themselves.’
‘You will come, won’t you?’ said Paul as the Orange team made its way onto the field, followed by the Plantaganet openers.
‘If my people will let me,’ said Henry, who still found it odd to refer to his surrogate parents as his people.
That night Henry wrote to Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris. He wrote dutifully, and found it hard to inject any real life into his efforts.
Dear Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris [he wrote],
It’s quite hot here. I am well. How are you? House lost to Plantaganet by three wickets today. We made 104. Tosser Pilkington-Brick, the one I fag for, made 67. They made 107 for 7. Tosser Pilkington-Brick took 4 for 36. Yesterday I played for Orange 4 v Hanover 4. Hanover 4 made 26. I didn’t bowl. We made 17. I made 0. Shant (that’s what we call school, it rhymes with pant) lost to Bruton by 8 runs on Saturday. They made 137. A bloke called Porringer made 43. I wonder if he’s related to Geoffrey Porringer. Tosser Pilkington-Brick took 3 for 41. We made 129. Tosser Pilkington-Brick made 33. The blokes I fag for are really quite nice, compared to some of the blokes.
I did quite well at Latin and History this week. We’re doing the Tudors. I told Toady D I thought some of the kings were no better than bullies. In chemistry my litmus paper went a different colour to everybody else’s. Art is good. We just look at slides and Arty K talks about things and we don’t have to write anything down.
We had a film show on Saturday in School Hall (that’s Shant Shed in Shant Rant. [That means school language.]) It was Monsieur Verdoux, with Charlie Chaplin. It was very good, but rather boring.
Paul Hargreaves, who is still my best friend, wants me to go and stay with his people in Hampstead for the first week of the hols. They’re frightfully posh and everything. His father’s a brain surgeon. They live in Hampstead. Oh, I said that! Paul’s got a twin sister, Diana. She’s not bad for a girl. If I go I can have a brain operation. I need it. Joke. I hope. Seriously, I’m not bothered about going and if it’s inconvenient I’d be just as happy to come straight home.
I finished the Gentleman’s Relish yesterday. It was super.
With lots of love.
Henry.
Five days later he got a reply from Auntie Doris. Her replies came quicker than they used to, and were longer.
Dear Henry [he read],
Thank you for your nice, long letter. We’re always really interested to read all your interesting news. Nothing much is happening here, business as usual. Your uncle is pretty fed up about the economy. He says the Labour government don’t understand business. He calls them the groundnuts government. He says they penalise people like him who’ve got up off their backsides and done something with their lives. We were very interested in all your cricket scores. What a pity you aren’t in very good form yourself this term. Uncle Teddy says everybody has these ‘bad trots’ from time to time. Yes, I believe I did hear that the Porringer brat is at Bruton. The Porringers have the same idea as your uncle, that a boy should go a long way away so as to learn to be self-reliant. We were very pleased that you did well in Latin etcetera. Where do you get the brains from? We were glad that the film you saw was very good, but sorry it was rather boring. We think it’s a very good idea for you to go to stay with your friends. It’s not that we don’t want you for all the holidays, because we miss you very much, but it worries us that you don’t have any friends your own age here. Stay longer than a week if you want to. Don’t worry about us. Actually it fits in very well with our plans, as your uncle has some kind of conference thing to go to, and it means we won’t have to rush back, which we would have been very happy to do, to be here when you got back. I enclose some more Gentleman’s Relish, also eight Canadian stamps. Mum’s the word.
With lots of love to our lovely boy, from Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (Wipe off that lipstick!)
They took a taxi from Paddington to Hampstead. Mrs Hargreaves stood smiling at the door of the narrow, four-storey, Georgian town house. She looked elegant in a short yellow dress with straight lines, and high-heeled black leather court shoes.
Henry hadn’t dared ask Paul if Diana would be there.
‘No cold this time?’ said Mrs Hargreaves.
‘No,’ said Henry. ‘I don’t usually get colds.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Hargreaves. ‘Only at the most embarrassing times.’
There was a faint hint of expensive perfume about her which Henry couldn’t help comparing with Auntie Doris. She gave him an approving glance. He knew that he looked his best. He had grown quite a bit taller in the past nine months, and had lost some of his podgy look. But although there had been approval in her glance, he felt it to be the sort of approval a would-be owner might give a promising horse.
They had afternoon tea in the drawing room, on the first floor. The wallpaper, lamp-shades and curtains had a faintly Chinese air, and there was China tea. ‘Isn’t Diana here?’ said Paul.
‘She’s upstairs, pretending not to care about Henry’s arrival,’ said Mrs Hargreaves.
‘Ass,’ said Paul. ‘Girls can be asses. That appalling Brace-Uppingham girl isn’t with her, is she?’
‘Boyce-Uppingham, dear. She had a brace in her teeth, poor dear. I hope you like China tea, Henry.’
‘Very much,’ lied Henry. He’d had it at Auntie Doris’s. It tasted like burnt rubber.
‘Are you a post-lactarian?’ said Mrs Hargreaves.
‘No,’ said Henry. ‘I’m C of E.’
‘Post-lactarian means you like the milk in last,’ said Paul. ‘It’s considered correct.’
‘I like the milk in first,’ said Henry.
Mrs Hargreaves poured the milk in first. Henry sensed that she was trying to prevent her eyes from showing amusement. He sensed that he was Paul’s funny little Northern friend, to whom they would all be very kind. He was also aware that he tended to imagine this even when it wasn’t true, and that he sometimes played up to it, so he couldn’t grumble.
Diana entered, dressed in skirt and scruffy old shirt, with flat shoes. Her cheeks were slightly pink.
‘Oh hello, Henry. You here?’ she said casually. ‘Tea, please.’
Henry was aware that he was also slightly pink, and that yet again he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He was also deeply disappointed by Diana’s appearance. She looked lumpy, like bad porridge. Her legs looked quite thick, her knees were uncompromisingly knobbly. In his memory she had been a cross between Mrs Hargreaves, Patricia Roc and Gloria de Haven, all much younger, of course. He had even felt vague stirrings of the slumbering giant as he thought about meeting her again.
‘Henry’s a pre-lactarian,’ said Mrs Hargreaves.
‘Sounds disgusting,’ said Diana.
Her cheeks couldn’t be pink because of him. Yet she had spoken nicely to him at the Bald-Headed Angel. He hoped she hadn’t got a horrid schoolgirl crush on him, however flattering that would be. He didn’t want this sack of potatoes round his neck.
With Diana such a wash-out, and the house so stiflingly elegant, and the tea tasting of burnt rubber, albeit better burnt rubber than Auntie Doris’s, Henry didn’t think he could stand a week of it.
‘Your school’s broken up too, has it?’ he said.
‘No. I’m still there,’ said Diana. ‘I have this amazing gift where I can send my body to lots of different places at once.’
Diana went off to her room, and Paul showed Henry the garden. It was quite small, terraced, walled, secret as only town gardens bother to be. Every square inch was used, and every plant was lovely. Probably the weeds all died of shame. Paul explained about the publisher on one side, the famous author on the other side and the potty professor at the bottom.
‘I’ll save the tour of the pictures for tomorrow,’ said Paul.
‘They’re all originals, of course.’
Of course, thought Henry.
He was amazed to disco
ver that Paul had an older brother, Jeremy, who was expected home from school within two or three days.
‘You never even mentioned him,’ said Henry.
‘We don’t get on awfully well,’ said Paul. ‘He’s a little bit arty-crafty. My father sent him to one of these progressive schools, because it was such a Hampstead thing to do. He hated it at first. The headmaster asked him why. He said, “I like rules and regulations.” The headmaster said, “Well, you can’t have any here.” He said, “Why not?” The headmaster said, “Because I say so.”’
Henry laughed.
He washed and changed for dinner. By the time he came downstairs, Dr Hargreaves was back. Dr Hargreaves asked him if he liked sherry. He said he did. It tasted like razor blades.
Diana had changed into an elegant, short, black dress. She had moderately high-heeled shoes, which flattered the luscious fleshiness of her legs. No sack of potatoes ever looked like this. Only the cheery knobbliness of her knees revealed that she was still only fourteen. Henry caught his breath and hoped he wasn’t gawping like a lovesick cod.
‘Sherry?’ said Dr Hargreaves.
‘No fear. Your sherry tastes like razor blades. Lemonade, please,’ she said.
With their dinner, in the olive-green dining room on the ground floor, they had claret. Henry said that he loved it, although he knew he hated it.
