by David Nobbs
‘And you did that,’ said Henry, ‘by giving us stupid orders, so that in all of us except the very stupid the question constantly arose “Is this a stupid order?” And every stupid order we obeyed, we obeyed with more resentment. Supposing every order we ever got had been sensible and justifiable? Don’t you think we might have learnt to obey orders better out of respect for those giving the orders?’
‘My job was to make a man of you,’ said Sergeant Botney. ‘I did a good job. That’s why you can stand up to me now. Well done, lad.’
‘Oh yes, you’re not stupid, sergeant. That’s why it’s all so inexcusable, you sadistic bastard.’
‘Now look here …’ Sergeant Botney leapt up. Mrs Botney tried to speak. Sergeant Botney silenced her with a look. ‘This is our wedding anniversary, lad. ’Nuff said, I think.’
Yes. Not the time. Social convention. Social convention? There aren’t any social conventions for Burbage.
‘No. Sorry,’ said Henry. ‘But I was the one who found him, you see.’
‘Found him?’
‘You don’t even remember, do you? Burbage. The late Signalman Burbage.’
Sergeant Botney went pale.
‘He hanged himself in the ablutions in our hut, Mrs Botney,’ said Henry.
‘Stop him, Lionel. I don’t want to hear,’ said Mrs Botney.
‘You didn’t make a man out of Burbage, did you?’ said Henry.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ snapped Sergeant Botney. ‘I’m going to fetch the management.’
‘That’s all the authority you ever had,’ shouted Henry. ‘The authority to fetch a higher authority.’
But Sergeant Botney was already out of hearing, separated from them by the pseudo-Gallic strains of Alphonso Boycott and his Northern Serenaders. He strode furiously across the dance floor, parting the dancers like a Red Sea.
‘I’m sorry about your wedding anniversary, Mrs Botney,’ said Henry.
‘Sorry!’ Mrs Botney’s face was a limestone crag. Peregrines could have nested on her forehead without looking out of place.
‘Burbage’s death came at a very inconvenient time, too,’ said Henry. ‘Right at the beginning of his manhood. You’ll get over this upset soon enough. Burbage never really got over his death. It seemed to knock all the stuffing out of him.’
Sergeant Botney returned with Uncle Teddy.
‘Henry!’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘You know this boy?’ said Sergeant Botney.
‘He’s my uncle,’ said Henry. ‘And he knows how distressing it is to come upon people hanging in lavatories. He found my father. Right. I’ve said all I have to say. I’m sorry I had to do it, Uncle Teddy.’
He hurried away, on legs that were suddenly weak. He was shaking with the enormity of what he had done. And also with the puniness of it. What had he achieved? He felt flat, depressed. The music sounded very far away. Ben Watkinson was approaching, with his shy, petite wife Cynthia.
‘Are you all right?’ said Ben. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘It’s funny you should say that,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve been trying to lay one. What did you do in the War, Ben?’
‘I was a conscientious objector,’ said Ben. ‘I worked down the mines.’ He blushed scarlet. Cynthia took his hand and pressed it with defiant sympathy.
Henry’s mouth fell open. He was astonished to find that Ben, who had never discussed feelings or ideals, or indeed anything except football, could have felt so strongly, could have been so brave, and could now be so embarrassed, as if ashamed. He closed his mouth rapidly, in case Ben realized that he was realizing how much more there was to Ben than he had realized. He felt embarrassed at witnessing Ben’s embarrassment. He hoped that, in the red light, Ben would think that Henry hadn’t noticed him blushing. He wished Ben were a woman, so that he could kiss him. He wished it wasn’t so difficult for an Anglo-Saxon male to express deep platonic affection for another Anglo-Saxon male. He wished this revelation hadn’t come when he had dipped so deep into his store of social courage. He moved on towards the journalists’ table. He longed to sit down. But Gordon had gone to get drinks, and Ginny hurried over to him.
‘I wanted a word,’ she said.
They stood with their backs to the table, watching the townsfolk moving, with varying degrees of style, to the strains of Alphonso Boycott and his Northern Serenaders. Colin was being flamboyant with an extremely glamorous young lady.
‘I suppose you’ve heard me … er … us … er …’ began Ginny.
‘… throwing yourselves around your bed in orgies of sexual excitement? Yes.’
‘Oh Lord. I … er … I hope it hasn’t …’
‘… kept me awake, wallowing in loneliness and frustration, night after agonizing night?’
‘Oh Lord. I’m sorry. It can’t be a very nice welcome to your new flat. But … you see … the thing is… I’ve never had anything like this. I can’t give it up.’
‘Of course not. Sex makes us all totally selfish. Look at me.’
‘Quite.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry. Anyway, his wife’ll be back soon.’
‘Wife??’
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘No. Mind you, he may have told me without my understanding.’
‘He is a bit obscure till you crack the code. She’s away for three weeks, with the children. After that it’ll all be over except for occasional hurried daytime trysts. Unless he leaves her. He says he will. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Well, thanks, Ginny. It’ll make me feel a lot better tonight when I …’
‘… hear us going at it like rabbits.’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh Lord.’
Gordon returned. Ginny moved away from Henry as casually as she could. Again, Henry tried to sit down. But Neil Mallet was approaching, with the air of a man bent on a tête-à-tête.
‘I want to mark your card,’ said Neil, leading him away from the table.
‘Oh?’
‘I think you … like Ginny, and I think she … likes you. So I just wanted to say that I don’t think you should give up hope. That’s all.’
‘Well … thank you, but …’
‘On what do I base my optimism?’ Neil was having to shout, to be heard above the music. ‘Just my powers of observation. You see, Henry, a) I don’t believe Gordon loves her or will ever leave his wife for her and b) I don’t think she loves him. She’s on the rebound.’
‘The rebound?’
‘She’s been deeply in love. She’s been badly hurt. I don’t blame Helen. She can’t help being fatally attractive.’
Helen? Could he mean …?
‘She’s seen this man she loves lose interest in her the moment Helen came on the scene.’
He did mean … but … had Ginny loved him?
‘But there was nothing to all that with Helen,’ he lied.
‘What do you mean? They’re engaged.’
Henry tried to pretend that he’d thought Neil had meant Ted all along.
‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘I know … but …’ He was floundering. And he wasn’t fooling Neil.
‘You thought I meant you?’ he said. He almost laughed, then touched Henry’s arm affectionately. ‘Ginny and Ted were engaged,’ he said.
‘I’m out of my depth.’
‘Not with me here to guide you.’
‘Why should you do that?’
‘I don’t make friends easily, and I know how difficult it can be when you join a new group,’ said Neil.
At last Henry managed to arrive back at the journalists’ table. He collapsed in an exhausted heap. He felt awful. He knew nothing about life. How could he have presumed to tell Sergeant Botney anything?
And there were Sergeant Botney and his bristling spouse, marching out, and … oh god … they were in step! Henry examined the traditional southern French tablecloth as if he were a buyer whose career depended on his assessment of it. When he looked up, the Botney
s had gone, and Colin Edgeley was sliding into the seat beside him.
‘Why do I have this fatal impulse towards self-destruction?’ said Colin, with a histrionic sigh.
‘What are you talking about, Colin?’
‘I’ve just put my life in danger.’
‘Give over, you daft twat.’
‘You think I’m exaggerating?’
‘I think you always exaggerate.’
‘Not this time. I’ve danced with the voluptuous Angela Groyne.’
‘Is that her name? She’s quite something.’
‘She’s Bill Holliday’s girlfriend.’
‘Bill Holliday?’
‘Scrap king of the Rundle Valley. Leader of the Thurmarsh Mafia. Rich. Powerful. Evil.’
‘So?’
‘I’ve danced with his girlfriend. He’s possessive to the point of mania.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She told me. He won’t even let her see her girlfriends, in case she meets their boyfriends. I’m a dead man, Henry.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Colin. Thurmarsh isn’t Chicago.’
‘It isn’t Tunbridge Wells either. Still, I can look after myself.’ Colin produced a knife from his pocket. ‘I’m prepared, and not like a boy scout.’
‘Are you serious, Colin?’
‘This is a tough old world, Henry.’ He flung a painful burst of lifelong friendship across Henry’s shoulders. Later, Henry would remember Colin’s words.
The floor show resumed. Henry thought he was watching it, but afterwards he could remember nothing except the climax, when the legendary Martine and the Côte d’Azur Cuties joined in an increasingly sexy finale.
There were gasps as it became clear that the girls were going to strip. Was Thurmarsh ready for this? What would the wives of bank managers and managing directors think? This wasn’t a sleazy stag night. Had Uncle Teddy gone too far? Henry suffered agonies of shame and fear, as the girls slowly removed their top hats, their white gloves, their black stockings. They whisked off their traditional mediterranean dresses with almost indecent haste. Chief Superintendent Ron Ratchett whistled so loudly that two councillors thought it was a signal for a police raid, and left hurriedly.
Then, when Martine and the Cuties were down to their bras and panties, they turned into five Edith Piafs, and regretted nothing. Thurmarsh didn’t know whether it regretted or was relieved, and applauded loudly to hide its confusion. Several balloons descended from the ceiling.
They sat with a bottle of champagne, the three of them, in the deserted, smoky room. Uncle Teddy, Henry and Derek Parsonage.
‘I’m sorry about … er …’ mumbled Henry.
‘I think we can afford giving their money back to Sergeant and Mrs Botney,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘Yes. The omens look good,’ said Derek Parsonage.
‘I hate that kind of systematic petty sadism under the excuse of authority. You must have come across a lot of that, Uncle Teddy,’ said Henry. ‘In Rangoon,’ he added hurriedly.
The oriental mind is different to ours,’ said Derek Parsonage. ‘Well, what did you think of it all, Henry?’
Henry couldn’t bring himself to say that he’d liked it. Why did everything Uncle Teddy do have to be to some degree a con?
‘Were the Côte d’Azur Cuties really French?’ he asked.
‘No. Nobody said they were,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘Monsieur Emile did.’
‘No,’ said Derek Parsonage. ‘He said they were born close to the French coast. They were. In Folkestone.’
‘Their real name is the Kent Hoppers,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘Clever,’ said Derek Parsonage.
‘Is Monsieur Emile French?’ said Henry.
‘Oh yes,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘But he isn’t from Gay Paree. He’s from Gay Charlesville-Mexières.’
‘But it doesn’t have the same ring,’ said Derek Parsonage.
‘What about the legendary Martine?’
‘She’s French, she’s called Martine, but she isn’t legendary,’ said Uncle Teddy.
Uncle Teddy and Derek Parsonage laughed. Henry didn’t.
‘Don’t sit there with the weight of the world’s shortcomings on your shoulders,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘It’ll destroy you.’
‘It’s show business,’ said Derek Parsonage. ‘What is show business but illusion?’
When Derek Parsonage had gone home to bed, Uncle Teddy poured the rest of the bottle.
‘Oh dear oh dear,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ said Henry.
They sat in exhausted silence.
‘I’m grateful to national service,’ said Henry. He couldn’t leave it alone that night. ‘It’s shown me how cruel people in positions of authority can be if their attitudes get any kind of nod from a higher authority.’
‘Yes … well … I can see that you feel the need to justify your extraordinary behaviour,’ said Uncle Teddy.
Henry felt that Uncle Teddy wanted to say something affectionate. He wanted to say something affectionate to Uncle Teddy. He wanted to tell him that he loved him. He’d managed to tell Cousin Hilda and Auntie Doris. It wasn’t so easy, with a man. Go on. Try. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much point in you and me discussing anything,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t agree. I imagine you’re pretty right-wing about everything. Villains usually are.’ No!! ‘Sorry, Uncle Teddy. I’m all churned up. I … er … I really am sorry. Because I’m really … er … quite fond of you, you know.’
There was a pause. He was blushing. He hoped Uncle Teddy wouldn’t be too embarrassingly fulsome in reply.
‘You’re right about villains,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘I wonder why.’
‘Well left-wingers are left-wingers either because they’re poor or because they’re idealists,’ said Henry. ‘Not many villains are poor, and none of them are idealists.’
‘You can be quite clever sometimes,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘I know,’ said Henry. ‘So why is my life such a mess?’
8 Lost Heads
A THAW BROUGHT floods throughout Europe. 6,000 Midland car workers were put on a four-day week. In South Africa, 400 white women, wearing black sashes, stood with bowed heads in protest at a law removing coloured workers from the common roll. Mr Andrew Redrobe summoned Henry to his office.
‘I’m going to give you a tremendous opportunity,’ he said. ‘Do you think you’re ready for it?’
He could hardly say ‘no’, but it seemed presumptuous to say ‘yes’.
‘I hope so,’ he said.
‘I plan a major series of features, and I believe you’re the ideal man to do it.’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’ Henry was too busy trying not to show how flattered he was to worry about that ‘sir’.
‘It’s about the total ineptitude of English education,’ said the neatly dressed editor, banging his right hand on his desk three times for emphasis.
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said Henry.
When he told Terry Skipton that he would be spending three days down south, visiting his old schools, the news editor accepted the prospect of his absence with equanimity.
‘But what about my calls?’ said Henry, somewhat nettled.
‘We’ve a seventeen-year-old joining us. You’ll move on to general reporting.’ Terry Skipton shook his large, bulbous head disbelievingly. ‘Your apprenticeship is over, Mr Pratt.’
The next task of Henry ‘He probes the facts behind the facts’ Pratt was to telephone the headmaster of Thurmarsh Grammar School. He dreaded this. He’d crossed swords with Mr E. F. Crowther before.
‘Mr Crowther? My name’s Henry Pratt. I’m a recent old Thurmarshian,’ he began, selfconsciously. He still hadn’t got used to telephoning from an open-plan office, with all his colleagues listening. ‘Pratt.’ He smiled sheepishly at Ginny. ‘P-R-A-T-T.’
‘Ah! Pratt!’ said Mr E. F. Crowther. ‘Sorry. It’s a bad line. Yes, I remember you. You interrupted me with a fatuous joke when I was giving t
he school the benefit of twenty years of careful thinking about life.’
‘That’s me.’
‘For a while quite a lot of people referred to you as Guard’s Van Pratt.’
Ginny and Colin were surprised to hear Henry say, ‘Guard’s Van Pratt?’
‘I said, “In every part of the army, from the Pioneer Corps to the Guards, there were Thurmarshians in the van”,’ said Mr E. F. Crowther. ‘You said, “The guard’s van.”’
‘No, sir.’ Damn! ‘Actually you said, “In every walk of life there are Thurmarshians in the van. I said, “The bread van.”’ He made a face at Ginny and Colin.
‘Well, anyway,’ said Mr E. F. Crowther, ‘what a pleasure it is to renew acquaintanceship with a wag of your calibre.’
‘I’m twenty-one in a couple of weeks, Mr Crowther,’ said Henry. ‘I’m no longer a … er …’
‘… foolish youth who thinks his asinine comments are of more value than the accumulated wisdom of his elders.’
‘Quite.’ Henry was uneasy about this series. He didn’t share his editor’s obsession that all English education was bad. Within a system too rigid, too remote, too class-conscious, too exam-oriented, he’d been taught by some splendid teachers like Miss Candy and Mr Quell. But Mr E. F. Crowther was not among them. He’d make a splendid start to the series. He was a pillock.
‘How can I help you, anyway?’ said the headmaster.
‘I’m a reporter on the Argus, Mr Pill … Crowther.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘I’m doing a feature on the total … range of English education. And … er … I wondered if I could a) interview you and b) have carte blanche to … er … talk to people in the school.’
‘There are corners of the school on which no female eyes have ever been clapped. Would you plan to cart Blanche everywhere?’
‘What?’
‘It was a joke. I was seeing how you liked being interrupted with juvenile jokes. A pathetic piece of tit for tat which I already regret. Forget my foolishness. Certainly I’ll see you. Would two-thirty on Friday be convenient?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good. I have to go now. I have an appointment.’
The police would later believe that these were the last words that Mr E. F. Crowther ever said to anybody.
