by David Nobbs
Splutt Working-Men’s Club was a long, low, uncontroversial brick building with many windows, situated opposite the controversial new ambulance station. It looked as if a large army hut had strayed among the small shops and low terraces of Splutt High Street, set low in a heavily industrialized valley, three and a half miles north-west of Thurmarsh.
He met Tony and Stella, his brassy blonde companion, by the long, bleak bar counter. Tony was attacking a pint of bitter with whisky chaser. It was more than three years since Henry had seen Stella, when for the second time he’d sat through Tony’s appalling comedy spot as Talwyn Jones, the Celtic Droll.
‘So what’s this story?’ said Henry.
‘Not now,’ hissed Tony, as a large, loud, florid man approached. He was wearing a large, loud, florid suit and was accompanied by a tall, buxom young red-head. The man was smoking a large cigar. The red-head wore large gold earrings and an engagement ring. Henry had seen them somewhere before.
‘Hello, Tony,’ said loud suit. ‘Are you performing or just visiting?’
‘Performing,’ said Tony.
‘Oh ’eck,’ said loud suit. ‘Shall we go ’ome?’ He roared with laughter. Gold earrings smiled mechanically. ‘Only joking,’ said loud suit. ‘I hear tha’s gorra new act. Let’s hope it’s better than t’ owd ’un. Eh, Angie?’ He roared with laughter again.
Of course! Bill Holliday, used-car salesman, scrap tycoon, gambler, leader of the Thurmarsh Mafia, and Angela Groyne, model, with whom Colin had once, unwisely, danced.
‘You’re wearing your engagement ring, Angela,’ said Stella.
‘Aye. It’s on again, i’n’t it, Bill?’ said Angela.
‘This time it’s for good,’ said Bill Holliday. He slapped his fiancée’s bottom.
‘I can’t wait for your new act.’ said Henry, when Bill Holliday and his future wife had moved off with their brandies. ‘I never thought that Welsh act was really you. You’ve got a perfectly good personality of your own. All you need to do is build on that, exaggerate it slightly, not seek refuge in heavy regional disguises.’ Stella was glaring at him. ‘I’m not criticizing him, Stella,’ he said. ‘I’m praising him. I’m telling him to have more confidence in the real Tony Preece. He was a dead duck in that act the moment he came on in a bright red suit, with a giant leek in his buttonhole, wearing a pith-helmet and one roller-skate, and nobody laughed. However good he was, there was no way back. That’s all I’m saying. So, come on, what’s this story?’
‘Sod the story,’ said Tony Preece, and he stormed off backstage.
‘What have I done?’ said Henry.
‘You’ll see,’ said Stella.
The room was filling up. They hurried to a table. Stella sighed deeply. Those three years hadn’t been kind. She looked thin and gaunt. There were dark bags under her eyes, and her artificially bright hair only served to highlight the haggard look of her hard, brassy face. Her legs were like matchsticks. Henry knew how much she loved Tony. He knew what a false signal that hard face gave to the world. He liked her very much, so he said, ‘You’re looking grand, Stella.’
She ignored this remark contemptuously. ‘He’ll be throwing up now,’ she said. ‘He’s worse than ever these days.’
‘Why does he do it?’
‘He says there’s got to be more to life than selling insurance.’ She sighed deeply. ‘We’re engaged now, you know.’
‘I didn’t. Oh, Stella! I’m so glad.’
He hugged her with an impulsive warmth that surprised them both. She smelt of cheap perfume, anxious sweat, cigarettes and sweet Martini.
‘I’m engaged too,’ he said.
‘Henry!’ There was an element of surprise in her voice, which irritated him faintly. She gave him a more formal, strangely shy little kiss.
He bought her a sweet Martini.
‘Don’t forget the cherry,’ she called after him.
He didn’t forget the cherry.
‘When’s the great day, then?’ he said, raising his glass.
‘We haven’t fixed a date yet. It’s taken us six years to get engaged. It’ll take a few more to get married. You?’
‘No. No date yet.’
The harsh lighting, so unflattering to thin, haggard, artificial blondes whose real gold is locked deep in their hearts, was dimmed, not without a few jerks and delays, which aroused jeers from the thronged tables in the long, beery, smoky room.
‘Now then! Now then!’ said the concert secretary, whose teeth almost fitted. ‘Letth have no repetithion of the behaviour of latht week.’ He glared at them with all the ferocity at his command. Henry’s mind went back to his headmaster at Dalton College, who also lisped, though his was a lishp, not a lithp. Sometimes it seemed as though there was a theme to Henry’s life, with recurring motifs of failure and absurdity. He might have welcomed this thought once, even exploited it. Not any longer, because he wouldn’t be able to bear it if any failure or absurdity attended his relationship with Hilary.
‘It wath,’ continued the concert secretary, ‘and I won’t minthe my wordth, a blot on the good name of Thplutt. All right, nobody’th pretending that Enrico and Ernethto, mind-readerth with a differenthe, were a good act. Letth fathe it, they were crap. But they came from acroth the thea. What thort of an imprethion of Yorkthire hothpitality have they taken back to the Ibernian peninthula? Our firtht act tonight ith a muthical trio, altho from acroth the thea, who are dethcribed ath three thtriking Vikingth, who are queenth of melody and animal imprethionth. Tho letth give them a fair hearing and a warm Yorkthire rethepthion. Letth hear it for thothe Great Daneth, the Larthen Thithterth.’
Henry had expected the Larsen Sisters to be tall, blonde and beautiful. He hadn’t expected them to be not only musical, but funny as well. What were they doing here?
‘Oh God,’ said Stella. ‘They’re good. Poor Tony.’
The applause at the end of the girls’ act was deafening.
‘Well,’ said the concert secretary. ‘If anybody had told me that three female Thcandinavian animal imprethionithtth would be the biggetht hit I’ve ever known at Thplutt Working-Menth Club, I would have thaid “Pith off.” Who could follow that? Next bugger’ll have to try! Will you welcome, from north of the border, that mathter of thcottith comedy, Mick McMuck, the Droll of Dundee?’
You’re in trouble when you come on wearing three pink tam-o’-shanters, a very short kilt with a very long sporran, a giant kipper in your buttonhole, and a set of bagpipes on one foot, and nobody laughs.
‘Oh heck,’ said Henry. ‘Oh heck, Stella. I’m sorry.’
‘Hold my hand,’ she said. ‘Help me through it.’
Henry tried desperately to think of other things. He tried to imagine himself back at his first visit to a working-men’s club, at Rawlaston, with Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris, listening to Doreen Tibbs, the Tadcaster Thrush. In vain. Tony’s voice broke in. ‘He said, “Have you Dunfermline?” I said, “I haven’t even started fermlin yet.”’ The jokes were even worse! He tried to speculate about the story that Tony was going to tell him. Somehow, he was reluctant to think about that. ‘I wouldn’t say my wife was frigid, but she thinks sex is something the ladies of Morningside have their coal delivered in. Coal. Sex. Get it? Och no, nor do I, much.’ Not all of them were worse jokes. Some of them were the same jokes. Stella tightened her grip on his hand at each reference to a ghastly fictional wife. He tried to think of Hilary. All day he’d been disembodied, gliding like a ghost through the grey mist of her absence. Now, when he tried to be with her, tried to be back in bed in Winstanley Road, tried to be in Durham, all ghostliness failed him, all disembodiment was impossible. He heard Tony say, ‘She smokes in bed, too. I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t even like kippers.’ ‘Oh, Hilary,’ mouthed Henry. ‘I love you, my darling. Let’s fix the date.’ It was no use. She was slipping away, because she was too real for fantasy. ‘I won’t say I’m unathletic but I put my shoulder out, tossing at the Highland Games. We’d only gone to Braemar for a picni
c. I was tossing a salad. Salad. Tossing. Get it? Och no, nor do I, much. Mind you, I like salad dressing. It’s better than the wife undressing. I won’t say she’s fat, but when she went swimming at North Berwick she was chased by five Norwegian whalers. Get it? Och no, nor do I, much.’
At last it was over. There was a smattering of applause. Stella sighed deeply, and gave him his hand back. It ached as the blood returned. He went to buy a pint for Tony and a sweet Martini for her. She called to him not to forget the cherry. The concert secretary introduced the ‘top of the bill, that well-loved thinger from Thunderland, Arnold “Tree-Trunk” Nutley. Inthidentally, earlier today a lovely Yorkthire lath called Thuthan promithed to become Mitheth Arnold “Tree-Trunk” Nutley.’ The audience applauded, and Henry had an idea for the gossip column, which was called ‘Out and About’.
Arnold ‘Tree-Trunk’ Nutley sang ‘Singing the Blues’, proving that he couldn’t sing like Guy Mitchell. Henry returned with the drinks. He hadn’t forgotten the cherry. Arnold ‘Tree-Trunk’ Nutley launched himself into ‘Friendly Persuasion’, proving that he couldn’t sing like Pat Boone. Tony returned. Stella kissed him and yelled, ‘It went better tonight.’ Tony nodded wearily. Henry apologized. Tony smiled wearily. Arnold ‘Tree-Trunk’ Nutley ventured upon ‘Just Walking in the Rain’, proving that he couldn’t sing like Johnny Ray.
Henry bent his head towards Tony’s. ‘What about this story?’ he said. ‘It’s safe to tell me now. Nobody’ll hear anything with this racket going on.’
‘A local publican told me, when he was pissed, that the burning down of the Cap Ferrat was no accident,’ shouted Tony.
He supposed that, since Tony’s phone call, he’d known that it had to be that. It was still a shock actually to hear it.
‘You mean … my uncle was murdered?’ he shouted.
‘Your uncle?’
They didn’t talk during the applause, which wasn’t nearly as loud as the singing. When Arnold ‘Tree-Trunk’ Nutley burst upon ‘The Garden of Eden’, proving that he couldn’t sing like Frankie Vaughan, Henry and Tony resumed their discreet shouting.
‘It was my Uncle Teddy who was found dead in there.’
‘Oh heck. I’m sorry.’
‘No,’ yelled Henry. ‘Thank you. This gives me a chance to avenge his death. But why, Tony? Hardly for the insurance, if the owner is dead.’
‘Because it was an architectural gem, I’d guess. I’d guess somebody has their eye on developing that area. I don’t know how well you know it. It’s very run-down. No problem, but they might have had trouble with the architectural lobby, the Thurmarsh Society, the Rundle Valley Historical Society, the South Yorkshire Georgian Society, all the freaks. So … whoosh … fire.’
They broke off for the applause. ‘Cindy, oh Cindy,’ moaned Arnold ‘Tree-Trunk’ Nutley, proving that he couldn’t sing like Eddie Fisher. They resumed their discussion.
‘Who told you? What leading publican?’ yelled Henry.
‘I can’t tell you,’ shouted Tony Preece.
‘I won’t let on,’ yelled Henry. ‘Us journalists never reveal our sources. And he’s not likely to have seen us together.’
‘His brother has,’ shrieked Tony. He gave an involuntary glance in the direction of Bill Holliday.
‘Bill Holliday’s brother. Thanks, Tony,’ roared Henry.
‘Oh heck,’ thundered Tony Preece.
The applause was muted. Arnold ‘Tree-Trunk’ Nutley hammered away at his final number, ‘True Love’, proving that he couldn’t sing like Bing Crosby or look like Grace Kelly.
True love. Henry thought about his own true love. He still had no idea what a problem he was going to have to face in that department. The far corners of his mind were still dark, and filled with the silence of pennies that had failed to drop.
20 A Disturbing Discovery
HEXINGTON LIES SEVEN miles to the north-east of Thurmarsh, on an exposed bluff high above the weed-knotted, pram-choked curves of the Rundle and Gadd Navigation. Seven villages and five coal mines can be seen, on a clear day, from the tower of the smut-blackened parish church. But the podgy young man who descended from the dun-coloured Thurmarsh Corporation bus, outside the Midland Bank, had no intention of climbing the 262 steps to take advantage of the view. He had four good reasons for not doing so. A thick drizzle was falling, it was pitch-dark, the church was locked and he had an urgent job to do.
He wasn’t tall. His long, thick, grey-green raincoat wasn’t elegant. The expression on his face wasn’t fearless. And yet, there was about him a certain air of determination, for the young man … you’ve guessed it, haven’t you?… was Henry Pratt, the Man Nobody Muzzles.
The Prince of Wales was a large, draughty, run-down Victorian beer palace, set on a windy crossroads. It had windows of opaque glass, and was topped by a round turret. It dominated the low terraced houses that surrounded it. There were two cavernous bars and a function room at the back. It smelt as if it had just dried out after being flooded.
The landlord lacked his brother Bill’s charm and urbanity. Stan Holliday was a large man. His small, narrow eyes were dwarfed by his huge conk. He had slobbery lips, in which a permanent wet cigarette drooped. He had a large paunch and smelt of the morning’s brandy. Twelve lank, dank, dark hairs pressed themselves into his otherwise bald pate as if seeking invisibility, yet his nostrils were a celebration of the hirsute. He smiled with his cheeks only. An ugly customer, thought Henry, except that he wasn’t a customer. An ugly landlord, then.
‘My name’s Henry Pratt,’ said Henry.
‘Well, there’s not a lot I can do about that, I’m afraid.’ Stan Holliday smirked at his customers who, not surprisingly, were few.
‘Yes. I… er… I was in a pub the other day …’
‘Fascinating. What a rich life you lead,’ said the Oscar Wilde of Hexington.
‘And I overheard something.’
Stan Holliday grew wary. Improbably, his eyes narrowed.
‘Oh aye?’ he said.
‘I wondered if I could buy myself a drink and then speak to you somewhere private,’ said Henry. ‘I’m from the press, but this is a personal matter.’ He showed his press card.
Stan Holliday reflected, then nodded. Henry bought himself a pint. Stan Holliday led him to his office, and with mock good manners motioned him to sit in the only chair. Henry instantly regretted it. Stan Holliday now towered above him.
‘Right,’ said Stan Holliday. ‘So what did you overhear?’
‘I overheard somebody saying you reckoned the burning down of the Cap Ferrat wasn’t accidental.’
‘You overheard somebody saying I reckoned the burning down of the Cap Ferrat wasn’t accidental?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was this somebody?’
‘I’ve no idea. Just somebody I overheard.’
‘He’s no idea. Just somebody he overheard.’ Stan Holliday began to talk as if to an invisible wife. If she was anything like her husband, thank god she was invisible. ‘Which pub was it?’
‘I don’t remember the name.’
‘He doesn’t remember the name. Where was it?’
‘Er … right in the middle of Thurmarsh.’
‘Where right in the middle of Thurmarsh?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘He can’t remember.’
Henry tried to take a casual swig of his beer. A man’s swig. It slopped all down the front of his flasher’s mack.
‘Right,’ said Stan Holliday. He yanked Henry to his feet by his hair, and still towered over him. ‘Right.’ Henry had seen numerous films in which investigators had fearlessly threatened the people they were investigating. It had never been like this. ‘Now listen this way. This man you don’t know that you overheard in some pub you don’t know somewhere you can’t remember somewhere in the middle of Thurmarsh who said I reckoned the burning down of the Cap Ferrat wasn’t accidental was talking through an orifice whose name I can’t remember situated somewhere in the middl
e of an extremely unattractive cleft between two large unidentified fleshy protuberances somewhere I’ve forgotten not at the front of his body. I know nowt about the Cap Ferrat. I never went there. I never knew anybody who worked there or went there. And why are you sniffing round about it, anyroad, Henry Pratt, whose name I will remember?’
‘It was my uncle who died there. And, if it wasn’t an accident, my uncle was murdered.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about your uncle,’ said Stan Holliday. ‘Death’s very sad. It can ruin folk’s lives. But it’s nowt to do with me. Things like that don’t happen in Thurmarsh, anyroad. Thurmarsh isn’t Chicago. You’re talking rubbish. Piss off.’
Henry tried narrowing his eyes. He tried glaring, as if to suggest that nobody pushed him around. He tried taking a nonchalant, man-sized swig of his beer. Then he pissed off.
On the shaking, dimly lit bus back to Thurmarsh, Henry didn’t read his story, in the ‘Out and About’ column. He knew only too clearly what it said.
Romance was in the air at Splutt Working-Men’s Club last night. There was loud applause when the concert secretary, Eddie Simpson (59), announced that the top of the bill artiste, well-known Wearside vocalist Arnold ‘Tree-Trunk’ Nutley (38) was to marry Susan Ullidge, a well-known flaxen-haired hair-stylist from Mexborough.
Nutley met vivacious 27 year-old Susan when he was doing a season at a holiday camp near Minehead. They plan an August wedding.
What the concert secretary didn’t know was that the well-known Thurmarsh comedian, insurance salesman Tony Preece (36), who works under the name of Mick McMuck, the Droll of Dundee, had also announced his engagement, to attractive Stella Hardcastle (33), a well-known blonde florist from Wath-on-Dearne. They have not yet fixed the date.
Joked the irrepressible Mr Preece, ‘I wonder if the third act on the bill, the Larsen Sisters, have any romantic announcements to make!’
They didn’t, but in the audience were Bill Holliday (42), the well-known Thurmarsh businessman and sportsman, and his glamorous flame-haired companion, Angela Groyne (22), a well-known local model whose successes have included three very popular calendars issued by Booth and Wignall Rolling Mills.
