by David Nobbs
Henry pocketed his list, and set off for Merrick Street, a little street of small shops that ran north from the back of the town hall. It was alive with shops for minority interests, but was already showing signs of social decay, and would soon be redeveloped.
The Merrick Herbalist’s was situated between a religious bookshop and a model railway shop.
Henry looked in the window of the religious bookshop and felt ashamed of his lost innocence. Then he looked in the window of the model railway shop and felt even more ashamed of his lost innocence. Then he took a deep breath, walked up to the herbalist’s, felt ashamed of the fact that he hadn’t lost his innocence, and walked away up the street. At the end of the street he stopped, irresolute, walked halfway back to the herbalist’s, then away again. Finally, when he was an object of interest to the whole street, he dived into the herbalist’s, heart pounding. It was dark inside. He could hardly see the man.
‘A packet of three, please,’ he said in a squeaky voice.
To his dismay the man said, ‘A packet of three what?’ Then he added, ‘Only joking,’ and handed Henry his purchase. ‘Good luck, lad,’ he said.
On Sunday he took Maureen Abberley to a spot near the hill where he had lusted briefly after Mabel Billington. It was quite private there, but she said that she couldn’t possibly make love to him in the open air. She caught colds easily, and besides, somebody would see. He supposed that he had been mad and naive to think that she would. He was mad and naive where sex was concerned.
An equilibrium between his mind and his genitalia.
It was definitely the mind’s turn next.
As the first meeting of the Thurmarsh Grammar School Bisexual Humanist Society drew nearer, Henry began to panic. He was its founder. He ought to deliver an inaugural address on humanism. But what was it? The more he tried to study it, the less he knew what it was. Every time he tried to think hard about it, he ended up by having fantasies about going the whole way with Maureen Abberley. They went the whole way in the home dressing room, the visitors’ dressing room, behind the scoreboard, even inside the heavy roller. He woke up one morning naked inside the heavy roller with Maureen Abberley, as it rolled the pitch for a test match between England and Australia. The two captains, Len Hutton and Lindsay Hassett, also naked, were tossing up. Len Hutton winked at him. Whatever the dream meant, it didn’t help him to resolve the mysteries of humanism
Cold baths. Early morning runs. Mind over matter. Perhaps as a result of the cold baths, or the early morning runs, he developed a streaming cold. All the girls would think him sickly.
The cricket ground was situated behind the football ground. Its southern boundary abutted onto the north terrace of the Blonk Lane stadium. The pavilion faced west, and from the road you had to trudge right across the sodden ground. The square was roped off to protect the wicket. The light was fading in the cloud-streaked west, but he could still just see that the scoreboard was set for the winter at 987 for 2 – last man 606. He let himself into the pavilion and flooded it with light. There was a wooden trestle table, at which the players sat for tea, as well as a few folding canvas chairs, which people took outside to watch the cricket on warm days. As Henry set up the chairs, he came upon a grimy, dust-covered jockstrap lying on the wooden floor. He hurled it into the dying nettles at the back of the pavilion. From this unpromising acorn, could any great tree of thought ever grow?
Famous philosopher mourned. Founder of ‘Thurmarsh Movement’ Lost at sea. ‘This tragic day’ – Bertrand Russell.
Nobody would come, except Martin and Stefan, who had promised. No girls would come. Perhaps that would be all for the best. His philosophical researches had revealed that there were no female philosphers, no Mrs Kants, no Daphne Spinozas or Gladys Wittgensteins.
Maureen Abberley arrived, with Betty Bridger, long-nosed and pale, Karen Porter, little, green-eyed and squashy, Beverley Minster, tall and buxom, and Denise Booth, sullen and pasty-faced. They brought three thermos flasks of coffee.
Good for them. Even if they didn’t contribute much to the ebb and flow of the philosophical debate, they had proved their usefulness.
By half-past seven, five boys had arrived. Martin, Denis Hilton, small, serious and bespectacled, Bobby Cartwright, large, red-haired, freckled and gawky, Alan Turner, tall, languid, good-looking, with a sense of great intellectual power held in reserve, and Michael Normanton, who was a martyr to acne.
They sat, the eleven of them, a mixed cricket team, at the trestle table, boys on one side, girls on the other, Henry, their founder, at the end.
Henry’s opening speech, which had caused him such worry, could have been criticised on the grounds that it did not grasp the nettle firmly in both hands. It might have been more impressive had it not been delivered in such a nasal, sniffy way. But the most churlish listener could not have accused him of tedious long-windedness.
Welcome to the Thurmarsh Grammar School Bisexual Humanist Society,’ he said. ‘The first question we must discuss is “What is Humanism?”’
There was no applause. He hadn’t expected any.
For an awful moment, he thought that nobody was going to speak.
‘Humanism was founded in Italy by Petrarch and Boccaccio and people like that,’ said Denise Booth.
Good for her, thought Henry. At least one of the girls had something to say for herself.
‘They went back to classical literature, Plato and Aristotle and that, to find out how they could get better ideals and that so they could yank themselves out of the Middle Ages,’ said Denise Booth.
‘That’s not how I understand humanism at all,’ said Karen Porter.
Good for her. If two of the girls had thoughts on the subject, it looked as if they were in for a lively time.
It was when the third person to speak was also a girl that Henry began to get uneasy.
‘Nor me,’ said Beverley Minster. ‘It means being kind, and nice to animals and things, and having charities, and visiting old people and things.’
When the fourth person to speak was also a girl, Henry began to get really worried.
‘Why should you visit things?’ said Betty Bridger.
‘I don’t mean visit things,’ said Beverley Minster. ‘I mean visit old people and people like that and things.’
‘What do you mean “people like that”?’ said Betty Bridger. ‘What people like old people are there except other old people?’
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Beverley Minster. ‘We’ll visit other old people as well.’
‘My God. If we can’t even define our terms,’ said Betty Bridger.
‘What do you understand by humanism, Beverley?’ said Karen Porter.
‘Being kind. Helping people. Bandaging sick animals and things,’ said Beverley Minster. ‘Running charities and things.’
‘You’re talking about being humane,’ said Karen Porter. ‘You’re talking about humanitarianism.’
‘That’s what I thought it was,’ said Beverley Minster.
‘We’re wasting time,’ said Betty Bridger.
‘Do you call bandaging sick animals and looking after old people and things a waste of time?’ said Beverley Minster.
‘We’re here to discuss the philosophy of humanism,’ said Betty Bridger.
‘That’s a great help to a sick animal,’ said Beverley Minster.
‘Look, if you want to bandage sick animals, you bandage sick animals,’ said Betty Bridger. ‘And visit things. There must be lots of lonely old umbrellas and hair-brushes would be glad of a visit. And we’ll discuss philosophy.’
‘I don’t see how you can say that philosophy is more important than bandaging sick animals,’ said Beverley Minster.
‘I know how I say it,’ said Betty Bridger. ‘I presume you mean, “How can I justify saying it?” Well, that’s a different question. Do we want to discuss that? On what grounds do we decide that one thing is more important than another?’
‘Clearly there have always been philo
sophers and there have always been people who have visited old people and bandaged sick animals,’ said Karen Porter. ‘History records the achievements of philosophers far more than the achievements of bandagers of sick animals because history is written by intellectuals and not by sick animals, and philosophy is more important to intellectuals, while bandaging sick animals is more important to sick animals.’
‘The two terms are not necessarily mutually exclusive,’ said Betty Bridger. ‘I mean, there may have been philosophers who visited old ladies.’
‘And bandaged sick animals,’ said Karen Porter.
‘We’ve got to use language with precision, Beverley,’ said Betty Bridger.
‘I know what you mean,’ said Beverley Minster. ‘I should have said “bandage injured animals”. You treat sick animals. You bandage injured animals.’
‘Fine,’ said Henry. ‘I think we’d all agree this is a very helpful discussion. Atschoo. Sorry. But I founded this society with Maureen…’ he smiled at Maureen, and she smiled back, ‘…and it’s a humanist society, not a society for doing humanitarian acts. I think you’d be happier, Beverley, if you left us and founded a society of your own for visiting old people and bandaging injured animals.’
‘I think you’re all horrid,’ said Beverley Minster, and she left the pavilion in tears.
Henry longed for one of the boys to speak. He felt ashamed for them. And he longed for Maureen Abberley, whom he loved, to speak. He felt ashamed for her.
‘Now there are quite a few people we haven’t heard from,’ he said. ‘Somebody else, please.’
‘Can I just say what I understand by humanism?’ said Karen Porter. ‘It’s a dictionary definition. It’s a philosophy that rejects supernaturalism, regards man as a natural object and asserts the essential dignity and worth of man and his capacity to achieve self-realisation through the use of reason and the scientific method.’
Alan Turner leant forward, and it was clear that he was preparing to speak. At last, a boy was going to contribute, and there was something impressive, calm, mature about Alan Turner. Everybody, even Betty Bridger, hung on his words.
‘I agree with that,’ he said.
‘I don’t,’ said Denise Booth. ‘Humanists didn’t not believe in God. There were humanist popes.’
‘How do you know?’ said Betty Bridger.
‘I’ve read it,’ said Denise Booth.
‘How do you know it’s true? said Betty Bridger.
‘How do you know anything’s true?’ said Denis Hilton, taking off his glasses and staring at them and leaping suddenly into brave, blushing, earnest life. ‘How do you know anything? How do you know you exist? Maybe you’re all a figment of my imagination.’
Rain began to drum on the roof. Karen Porter said that she knew that she often felt that she was a wraith-like figure, and that was probably the explanation. She was a figment of somebody else’s imagination. Betty Bridger said that Karen Porter might well be right, but Denis Hilton was wrong, since, if anybody was a figment of anybody’s imagination, they were all figments of hers. Henry said that if anybody was going to be a figment of anybody’s imagination, as founder and secretary it was only right that they should be a figment of his imagination. He proposed that they should draft a set of club rules, which would include a clause to the effect that the society be deemed to exist, all members be deemed to exist, and a charge of threepence per head for coffee be deemed to exist. Betty Bridger suggested that at each meeting somebody should read a paper, as a basis for discussion. She suggested that, as she had suggested the idea, she should deliver the first paper, on the subject ‘What is Humanism?’ Just as they were about to start their coffee, Stefan arrived. Martin, Bobby Cartwright, Michael Normanton and Maureen Abberley didn’t speak all evening. After the meeting, Henry suggested that Maureen Abberley and he stay behind to wash up and clear up and generally leave the pavilion as they would wish to find it. It was only fair that they should undertake this tiresome chore as they were the founders of the society in their respective schools.
When they had washed up and cleared up, Henry put his arms round Maureen’s soft waist. But she shook herself free, and refused even to kiss him, for fear she would catch his cold.
Henry found it hard to avoid the conclusion that, taken all in all, the first meeting of the Thurmarsh Grammar School Bisexual Humanist Society had been a disappointment. No great new system of philosophy had emerged, and he remained a virgin.
Three days later, Cousin Hilda had a face like thunder. Norman Pettifer was not an unduly timid man. No man who holds down the position of manager of the cheese counter at Cullens can be unduly timid. Tony Preece was not a timid man. No man who braves the rigors both of trying to get laughs in working men’s clubs and of selling insurance can be timid. Liam, though timid enough, was not a perceptive man. But at the sight of Cousin Hilda’s face, all three men quailed. They dispatched their liver and bacon and tinned peaches at a speed that positively invited stomach ulcers, and fled.
‘Well!’ said Cousin Hilda, when only Henry was left. ‘Well!’
‘Well what?’ said Henry.
Cousin Hilda’s jaw was biting on the pain of it.
‘I found a packet of. .them things. .in your pocket,’ she said.
‘I don’t know how they got there,’ said Henry. ‘One of the boys must have put them there.’
‘How do you know what I’m talking about, if you didn’t know they were there?’ said Cousin Hilda.
He noticed that there were now two cracked panes of blue glass in the front of the stove.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.
‘Sorry!’ she repeated bitterly. ‘Sorry! I’ve done my best to be a mother to you. I’ve done my best to give you standards.’
He felt full of shame. Not shame at having had a packet of Durex. Shame at having been found with a packet of Durex. Shame at being Henry Pratt. Great philosopher! Distinguished humanist! He couldn’t even avoid bringing misery on his poor surrogate parent.
Henry made no attempt to see Maureen Abberley before the next meeting of the humanist society. Let her do the pining and worrying.
He told Stefan that he was very upset with him. Stefan said that he couldn’t stand societies and formal debates. They made him ill. He’d spent two hours plucking up his courage before he’d dared turn up.
He told Martin that he was very upset with him. He was his friend, and he hadn’t said a word. Martin said he’d been shy. ‘I thought you were going into politics,’ said Henry. ‘Where would the Labour Party be now, if Kier Hardie’d been shy?’ ‘That’s different,’ Martin said. ‘That’s my chosen field. All this humanism’s just messing about.’
After school, on the day of the second meeting of the Thurmarsh Grammar School Bisexual Humanist Society, Henry went down to Merrick Street. He entered the shop hurriedly this time, head down, terrified he’d see somebody he knew.
‘A refill, eh?’ said the man. ‘Well done, lad.’
As he set up the chairs and got the coffee mugs out of the cupboard, Henry tried to concentrate on humanism, not Maureen Abberley. Was it true what Martin said? Were they just messing about? How many people would turn up anway?
To his surprise, everybody came except two. He knew Betty Bridger would come, of course, and probably Karen Porter. He wasn’t totally surprised that Denise Booth and Denis Hilton were there, and he’d expected Martin to come, out of loyalty if nothing else, but the presence of Bobby Cartwright and Michael Normanton, who hadn’t contributed a word, and of Alan Turner, who had only said, ‘I agree with that,’ did surprise him.
The absentees were Stefan Prziborski, who was allergic to meetings and formal debates, and Maureen Abberley, who had a cold.
Betty Bridger read her paper. She said that she had changed its title from ‘What is Humanism?’ to ‘What is “What is Humanism?”?’! They would have to examine the nature of statements, the nature of questions, the nature of definitions. But were they ready to do that? Shouldn’
t they first examine the nature of communication?
‘I’d like to put this to you, in conclusion,’ she said. ‘Ought we not to consider the four questions “What is what?” “What is is?” “Is what?” and “Is is?” before we ask ourselves “What is “‘What is Humanism?”?’!
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Martin. ‘There’s a real world out there.’
‘But is it real?’ said Denis Hilton, kick-starting himself into stuttering excitement. ‘I’m very interested in the question “what is is?”’
‘Not “is is?”?’ said Henry sarcastically.
‘No. I believe we have to assume that is is, if we’re to get anywhere,’ said Denis Hilton. ‘I was very interested in your father’s comments on how we decide what a table is, Betty.’
Betty Bridger gave Denis Hilton an angry stare.
‘Betty’s father?’ said Henry.
Some colour came to Betty Bridger’s cheeks for the first time.
‘My father’s a philosopher,’ she said.
‘Aha! So he wrote your paper,’ said Martin.
‘He bloody well did not. He helped, that’s all,’ said Bettv Bridger. ‘He just suggested areas of enquiry.’
‘Bloody stupid areas of enquiry,’ said Martin
‘Please everybody,’ said Henry.
Not stupid at all,’ said Denis Hilton. ‘Unless you define your terms, you’re talking in a vacuum.’
‘Ah, but what is a vacuum?’ said Martin.
‘Your brain,’ said Betty Bridger.
‘Please!’ said Henry. ‘Please! This is not a philosophical society. It’s a humanist society. If you want to form a philosophical society, do so.’
‘I think I will,’ said Betty Bridger, gathering up her papers.
