by David Nobbs
3 A Sexy Weekend
SEXUALITY LAID HER sweet tongue on everything that Henry did next morning. The weather was suitably bright and crisp. He felt a surge of joy as he converted his bed into a sofa. He hummed the ‘Ballad of Davy Crockett’ while he shaved. As he packed with unsuppressed excitement, Eve Boswell was picking a chicken on his wireless. Podgy Sex Bomb Henry picked a chicken with her.
In eleven hours he’d be alone with Lorna, in the Midland Hotel. He must remember that he’d booked the room in the names of Mr and Mrs Wedderburn.
He had no hangover. He could enjoy his breakfast. The egg was rich and runny. He ate it slowly, relishing it. The fried bread was a stern test of teeth. They all ate that slowly. Barry Frost even stopped humming while he tackled it.
Henry tried, for Cousin Hilda’s sake, not to look too delighted about going away, but his body thrilled with anticipation, and he caught her looking at him suspiciously.
Liam hurried off, then Norman. Not wishing to be left alone with Cousin Hilda, Henry hurried through his third piece of toast – two would have seemed too mean, four excessively generous, and Cousin Hilda treated him exactly like her ‘businessmen’, to prevent embarrassment. A great deal of Cousin Hilda’s life was devoted to preventing embarrassment, which might have been why everything turned out to be so embarrassing.
Henry lost his race with Barry Frost, who finished his breakfast con brio.
Cousin Hilda closed the door behind Barry Frost, and faced her responsibility resolutely.
‘Four days in journalism, and look at you. It can’t go on,’ she said.
No. It can’t. Say, ‘No. I agree. For both our sakes, dear Cousin Hilda, whom I love, I’d better move out.’ But he couldn’t. All he said was, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I should think so too. When I think what Mrs Wedderburn says about you.’
He closed his eyes, as if he hoped that existence would go away, if he couldn’t see it. What had possessed him to choose Mr and Mrs Wedderburn?
‘She says you’re such a lovely, polite young man. I must be so proud of you. Proud! What would she think if she knew that the polite young man whom she once lent her camp-bed out of the goodness of her heart had been sick on the coal?’
‘I’m sorry about the coal.’
‘It’s not the coal. It’s you. A drunk. Yes, Henry. A common drunk.’
‘No, Cousin Hilda. Well, the first time I was drunk, yes. It was meeting all the journalists. It was the first time I’ve ever been drunk.’ He didn’t want to lie, but felt that he had to, for her sake. ‘And the last. The second time it was food. Honestly.’
‘I didn’t think you’d ever lie to me, Henry.’
‘I’m not lying,’ he lied. For her sake.
‘Do you think Mr Pettifer’ll stay if there’s always piles of sick on the stairs? Is that any way for the manager of the cheese counter at Cullen’s to live?’
‘No.’ Just say, ‘I’m sorry, Cousin Hilda. I’ll find a flat.’ But he couldn’t. ‘I’ll never do it again, Cousin Hilda,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
‘I know you mean to be a good lad,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I know it’s difficult without your parents. I do my best.’
He gave her a quick kiss.
‘Give him my best regards,’ said Cousin Hilda, sniffing furiously.
‘Him?’ said Henry. ‘Who?’
‘Well, Paul, of course,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘And you behave yourself with his family!’
At first, Henry thought it a great piece of luck when Terry Skipton said, ‘I want you to interview a Mr Gunnar Fridriksen, from Iceland. I want you to find out his impressions of Thurmarsh. I’ve arranged for you to meet him in the Midland Hotel at three. If you’ve time, come back and do some book reviews.’ Because Henry knew that he wouldn’t have time. He’d sit in the foyer, writing up his notes, until it was time to collect his beloved from the station. National service had taught him the art of making a little work go a long way. It was a lesson, forced upon them by the state, that a whole generation of the nation’s manhood would diligently apply to their lives in industry and commerce.
At two minutes to three, he entered the hotel’s huge foyer. What an unlikely venue it was for love. Vast armchairs sagged wearily. Huge, ugly chandeliers hung threateningly. Photographs from the halcyon days of steam trains abounded. The thick carpet, rich dark red like old port, seemed to grab his feet at each step. The male receptionist smiled with smarmy superiority.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Yes. Could you let me know when Mr Fridriksen arrives?’ His voice sounded small and selfconscious.
‘He’s already here, sir. Mr Fridriksen?’
A tall, thin man, so fair as to be almost albino, disentangled himself from an armchair and approached, smiling.
‘I have Mr Pratt for you, Mr Fridriksen,’ said the smarmy monstrosity. Oh lord, thought Henry, I hope this man isn’t still on duty when I book in as Mr Wedderburn.
They sat in a quiet corner, beneath a photograph of 46231 Duchess of Argyll steaming through Crewe station past knots of train-spotting schoolboys in baggy, knee-length trousers. Henry’s armchair sagged more than Mr Fridriksen’s, making command of the interview difficult. He ordered tea with insufficient aplomb.
‘I want to ask you your impressions of life here and in Iceland, and how it’s different,’ said Henry.
‘Good. Fire away. I am, as you say, all ears,’ said Mr Fridriksen.
Henry thought about Lorna, sticking her tongue in his ear in four hours’ time. No! Concentrate!
‘You speak very good English, Mr Fridriksen,’ he said.
‘I fear not,’ said Mr Fridriksen. ‘I have only the bare rudiments.’
In four hours’ time I’ll be kissing Lorna’s bare rudiments. No! ‘Er … what’s impressed you most about life in Thurmarsh, Mr Fridriksen?’ Oh, Lorna. Lorna. I want to taste your Lorna-osity. I want to drink from the fountain of your Arrowness. ‘Er … sorry, I … er … I didn’t catch all of that, I … er … I don’t do shorthand yet. Could you … er … could you start again, please?’
Mr Gunnar Fridriksen looked at Henry in some surprise, but with infinite politeness. Their tea arrived, and somehow Henry forced himself to concentrate on the interview.
She seemed smaller, here in Thurmarsh, thin rather than slim, as if she were shrinking from the bustle of town life. Her smile was broad, but so nervous that it looked forlorn. They kissed. He was so excited that, the moment the kiss had ended, he had no memory of how it had felt.
They approached the crumbling, turreted bulk of the great stone-fronted railway hotel and, oh god, the smarmy monstrosity was still on duty.
‘I’ve got a double room booked,’ he croaked. ‘Mr and Mrs Wedderburn.’
The smarmy monstrosity raised an eyebrow a quarter of a millimetre, and hunted through the list of bookings.
Henry glanced at Lorna. She was blushing. She’d never looked like a country bumpkin before.
‘Ah yes,’ smarmed the monstrosity. ‘Room 412, Mr Wedderburn.’ He invested the name with just the faintest hint of irony. ‘If you’d just sign the register, Mr Wedderburn.’
Henry signed with shaking hand.
‘Mrs Wedderburn?’
Lorna bowed her head as she signed.
‘Will you be taking dinner, Mr Wedderburn?’
‘Yes,’ said Henry defiantly, as if it had been insinuated that he couldn’t afford it.
‘Would you like an early morning call, Mr Wedderburn?’ said the genius of understated insinuation.
‘Yes, please.’ He glanced at Lorna. ‘Er … eight-thirty.’
‘Very good, sir. A morning paper, Mr Wedderburn?’
‘Yes, please. The Times.’
‘Very good, sir. Mrs Wedderburn?’
‘The Mirror, please.’
‘The Times and the Mirror.’ Just the faintest suggestion that this might be the first time in the history of the hotel that this particular combination had been ordered. Smar
mingtons clicked his fingers with astonishing volume. A page boy, dressed like a cross between a Morris Dancer and a colonel in the New Zealand army, appeared from nowhere. ‘Take Mr and Mrs Wedderburn’s “things” to room 412, Tremlett.’
‘I’ll carry them myself,’ said Henry hurriedly, anxious to avoid the embarrassment and expense of tipping.
‘As you wish, Mr Wedderburn.’
They walked towards the gilt-edged lifts, past the very chairs where Henry ‘I was the first British journalist to witness the searing horror that is Dien Bien Phu’ Pratt had interviewed Mr Fridriksen several centuries ago.
And there, walking towards them, was Colin Edgeley.
‘Hey up, our kid,’ he said. ‘So you’re the famous Lorna. Welcome to Thurmarsh, kid.’ He gave Lorna a kiss. ‘Smashing,’ he said. ‘You’re a belter. We’re all in the bar.’
‘What?’ Oh god, why did I tell him?
‘We thought we’d give you a surprise. It’s made a change to get out of the Lord Nelson.’ He kissed Lorna again. ‘Smashing.’ And he padded off across the carpet which, unlike the port it resembled, had not improved with age.
‘Oh God,’ said Henry.
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to go in there and drink with them.’
‘Are you ashamed of me?’
‘Course I’m not! Lorna! I don’t want to go in there because a) I’ve been awash with drink all week and b) …’ He lowered his voice. What he was going to say didn’t sound like the sort of thing Mr Wedderburn would say to Mrs Wedderburn. ‘… I want to make love to you in room 412. I want to kiss you all over.’
‘We don’t have to stay long.’
‘True.’
‘I am a bit thirsty. I’m a bit nervous too about … you know … here. A drink might help.’
He let out a little sigh of tension. She pounced on it.
‘You are ashamed of me.’
‘No!’
‘Going out with a country girl who works as a waitress. You think I’m not good enough for you.’
‘Lorna! I’ve experienced enough snobbery to know how much I loathe it. And anyway, they don’t need to know you’re a waitress.’
Lorna snorted. Oh not another woman snorting. She didn’t understand. It wasn’t that he lacked confidence in her. He lacked confidence that his new friends had the eyes to see the loveliness and warmth beneath her undeniably rustic manners.
They entered the bar. It had a plum carpet, faded velvet curtains, brown leather upholstery with gold studs, and two more chandeliers. There they all were, sitting at a round table in a large alcove. Ted and Helen and Colin. Ben. Gordon. Neil. The outrageous Denzil. Only Ginny was missing. They looked like a selection board interviewing Lorna for the position of Henry’s girlfriend. He tried to avoid the gravitational pull of Helen Cornish’s sparkling eyes. In vain. She gave him one of the cool, challenging looks which had been his lot ever since he’d spurned her in the Shanghai. He was shattered by his desire for her, and hurriedly moved his eyes upward, to a large photograph of a Patriot class engine pulling a mixed freight out of Carlisle Upperby Yard in light snow. As a diversion, it was a failure. Men who are interested in women are rarely fanatical about trains. He answered Ted as in a dream. ‘Glass of bitter, please.’ Lorna ordered sweet cider! I hate myself, thought Henry. Lorna Arrow, you were a dream. A dream that sustained an unhappy soldier through two years in the Royal Corps of Signals. A pin-up that outshone Petula Clark and Patricia Roc inside a young man’s locker, and touched the reality of his life barely more than they did. It isn’t fair to turn a person into a dream.
‘Nice to meet you, Lorna,’ said Neil Mallet, who that morning had echoed the views of Crossbencher in last Sunday’s Express – that the future for Anthony Eden would be even sunnier than the past. The doubters and moaners would be routed.
‘So you’re a country girl. Well done,’ said Denzil. Henry thought this the most meaningless remark he’d ever heard. ‘Passion among the cowpats. I love it.’ Henry doubted if Denzil had ever seen a cowpat.
‘Where are you from, Lorna?’ said Ben Watkinson.
‘Rowth Bridge. It’s in Upper Mitherdale, near Troutwick.’
‘Lovely country,’ said Helen.
Henry usually preferred the laconic understatement of country people to the hyperbole of city folk, but he’d have welcomed a stronger reply from Lorna than, ‘It’s not bad.’ He hadn’t realized how strong her Mitherdale accent was. Not that he was ashamed of it. It was lovely. He just wished it wasn’t quite so strong.
‘Troutwick are in the Wensleydale League, aren’t they?’ said Ben.
‘I don’t know,’ said Lorna. ‘I know they’re in summat.’
‘What do you do, Lorna?’ said Neil Mallet.
‘Yes, what is there to do in the country? I’ve often wondered,’ said Denzil.
‘I meant, what job does Lorna do?’ said Neil.
‘I knew what you meant, old dear,’ said Denzil. ‘I was trying to save you from your conversational banality. Your question sounded like matron checking items on a laundry list.’
Neil flushed at the reference to laundry, then remembered that Denzil was outrageous, and smiled bravely. Henry was pleased at the diversion. It meant that Lorna wouldn’t have to answer Neil’s question.
‘I’m a waitress at the White Hart in Troutwick. It’s a hotel run by Henry’s Auntie Doris,’ said Lorna.
There was a brief silence.
‘So how did you meet our young lady-killer, Lorna?’ said Helen, in the extra friendly voice she used to women she didn’t like. Ted smiled darkly at Henry. ‘I always love hearing how people met.’
‘We were at school together when Henry was evacuated to Rowth Bridge.’
‘I wasn’t evacuated,’ said Henry. ‘I was staying with relations.’
‘That’s a good one,’ said Ted. ‘Next time I’m in hospital, if they ask if I’ve evacuated my bowels, I’ll say “No, they’re staying with relations.”’
‘They don’t ask if you’ve evacuated your bowels,’ said Neil. ‘They ask if you’ve moved them.’
‘I’ll say, “Yes. I used Pickfords. Never again. Terribly expensive,’” said Denzil.
Lorna looked from one to the other in some astonishment at this conversation, and the slightly hysterical laughter that it produced.
‘I gather Henry’s a great one for reading,’ said Denzil. ‘Do you read together in bed, Lorna?’
Henry blushed.
‘What books do you like, Lorna?’ said Ted.
‘I like Woman, Woman’s Own,’ said Lorna.
Henry knew her family referred to magazines as books. Why did it matter so desperately?
‘Smashing,’ said Colin.
Denzil bought a round. ‘You have a sweet tooth, Lorna,’ he said. ‘I have actually,’ she said. ‘No wonder you like Henry, then. I think he’s awfully sweet,’ said Denzil, and Henry said, ‘I thought you went to London at weekends,’ because it had just occurred to him, but it came out so like an accusation that everybody laughed, and Henry pretended that he’d meant it to be funny, and Denzil said, ‘So sorry to burden you with my presence, callow youth.’ He lowered his voice. Homosexual acts of love were still illegal. ‘My friend is arriving on the 8.15. He wishes to see The North.’
The headwaiter approached, in evening dress, his lips pursed. He carried two enormous menus.
‘Mr Wedderburn?’ he said.
There was a revealing pause before Henry said, ‘Oh. That’s me.’
‘You’re dining, sir?’
‘Er … oh … yes … I … yes.’
‘All of you?’ The headwaiter’s alarm was ill concealed.
‘No,’ said Henry. ‘Just me and my … er … wife … unless any of you … er … I mean …’ He looked round the gathering. Heads were hurriedly shaken. Ted said, ‘Not me. Life’s too precious.’ ‘Just me and my … wife,’ said Henry.
The headwaiter handed Helen a menu.
‘No. Not me
,’ she said, smiling triumphantly. ‘The other young lady.’
‘Ah!’ said the headwaiter. ‘Madam?’ He handed Lorna a menu, and retired as hastily as decorum permitted.
‘Mr and Mrs Wedderburn!’ said Denzil. ‘You have a delicious gift for ornamentation, Henry.’
‘It’s all in a foreign language,’ said Lorna.
‘French,’ said Helen.
‘What a snobbish country this is,’ said Neil.
‘You can talk,’ said Ted.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Neil.
‘You drink in the back bar of the Lord Nelson. Your brother drinks in the front bar.’
‘The snobbery isn’t ours,’ said Neil. ‘It’s all the other reporters and compositors who don’t mix. I’m not a snob, Ted. I’ve never hidden my lower middle-class origins.’
‘I must get home,’ said Colin, looking at his watch. ‘Same again, everybody?’
‘I’ve just got time,’ said Ben. ‘Then I must go and give the wife one.’
‘Pink gin. Removed,’ said Denzil to the waiter. ‘You what, sir?’ said the waiter. ‘The bitters, man. Removed, not left in.’ ‘Ah. Yes, sir. Only I’m new here,’ said the waiter. ‘So am I, I do assure you,’ said Denzil.
Lorna’s menu was unpriced. Henry’s wasn’t. Sometimes, when he visited Troutwick, Auntie Doris pressed money into his hand when Geoffrey Porringer wasn’t looking. Quite a lot, sometimes. Twenty pounds even. She did it out of guilt, so he had to accept, for her sake. He had saved some of it, but he still couldn’t afford this. Why had he said they’d be dining?
‘What’s “es-car-gotts”?’ said Lorna.
‘Snails,’ said Neil.
‘Ugh!’ said Lorna, so unselfconsciously that everybody laughed.
‘Quite right, kid,’ said Colin. ‘Thee and me’s Yorkshire. We can’t eat snails.’
‘You two are going to experience the worst French meal you’ve ever had,’ said Denzil.
