by David Nobbs
‘Well, not murder you,’ said the officer. ‘Murder Dennis Lacey.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t see any harm in telling you. We’re arresting him. He was Marie Chadwick’s boyfriend. She ditched him. Apparently she’s a right tasty … er …’ He looked at Terry and Violet Skipton, and the pile of Watchtowers, and stopped. ‘Apparently he drove past there day after day, waiting for a chance to get him without getting her.’
‘By ’eck, Henry,’ said Terry Skipton. ‘The way you stared at me, I thought you thought I’d done it.’
Ginny and Violet and the officer laughed.
‘You?’ said Henry. ‘You?? No!! No, I just thought … you being the first … if I didn’t give you a pretty long, dirty look it might look a bit odd when I gave the others long, dirty looks. Me think you’d done it? That’s a good one!’
The police were very grateful, but not so grateful as to provide a car home. Henry and Ginny trudged up York Road and Winstanley Road. Henry ran his hand gently over her buttocks as she walked, and then he put his arm round her. He felt very sexy after everything he’d been through. He thought of Hilary, in Durham. And, in the cold, sterile hall of their house, he gave Ginny a chaste kiss on the cheek and said, ‘Thanks for coming with me.’ She sighed and said, ‘Pleasure.’ They went to their separate beds.
As he undressed, and cleaned his teeth, and clambered into his clammy bed, Henry was thinking hard. The Standard Eight had not been driven at him. The gangs had not been waiting to beat him up. Of course the crate of surgical trusses could still have been meant for him, but logic now seemed to demand that it had been an accident also. After all, as he realized now, there’d been no way anyone could have known that he’d walk past, under that crane. He hadn’t known it himself. Believing that it had been a murder attempt meant believing that there were large numbers of people, stationed all over Thurmarsh, waiting for a chance to kill him. In view of later events, this seemed unlikely.
And yet … if Bill Holliday wasn’t trying to murder him, why should he have gone pale at the mention of trusses?
Henry longed for the relief of knowing that nobody was trying to kill him.
And yet … he also felt that he’d be a little disappointed, even hurt, if nobody thought him important enough to rub off the face of the earth.
On Wednesday, February 13th, the government announced that the Quantocks had been designated Britain’s first ‘area of outstanding natural beauty’, and that the British Megaton Bomb, capable of destroying many Quantocks, would be ready soon.
Howard Lewthwaite walked to the Midland Hotel for lunch with his prospective son-in-law.
‘Have whatever you like,’ he said, ‘though personally I’ll stick to the table d’hôte.’
The weather had turned colder and a brief burst of hail pattered against the windows, disturbing the hushed serenity of that temple of starched linen.
‘I’ve made some discreet inquiries into that crane driver,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘He doesn’t sound like a potential assassin to me.’
The waiter approached. He had new shoes, which squeaked.
‘What is the potage?’ said Howard Lewthwaite.
‘Mock turtle, sir,’ said the waiter.
‘I’ll have that, and I like the sound of that ham omelette,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.
‘Soup for me, too,’ said Henry. ‘And what’s the daube d’Irlande?’
‘Irish stew, sir.’
‘The pork chop, please.’
‘They ring the changes pretty well, don’t they?’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘Are you sure they’re trying to kill you?’
‘I’m not at all sure any more.’ He explained his reasons.
‘So, apart from Bill Holliday going pale when you mentioned trusses, the probabilities are all against it,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.
‘But why should he have said, “How did you guess?”’ said Henry.
‘Ask him. Here he is,’ said Hilary’s father.
Bill Holliday was walking through the restaurant with what might have been the smugness of a man who knew he was appearing on cue. He was puffing at a large cigar. He stopped at their table.
‘I’m not wearing one today,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Henry.
‘A truss. I’m a little better. And after what you said … how did you know? How was it obvious?’
‘Er …’ Henry tried not to meet Howard Lewthwaite’s eyes. ‘I … I’m a truss-spotter. I was in the truss-spotting club at school.’ Shut up.
Bill Holliday looked puzzled, shook his head in bewilderment, pulled fiercely at his cigar and puffed off.
‘So,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘Nobody’s trying to kill you. If you’re wrong about that, don’t you think you could have been wrong about all your suspicions of corruption?’
‘The lorry driver who had a miraculous escape when his lorry destroyed the Old Apothecary’s House is a film stuntman,’ said Henry.
‘Two mock turtles?’ said the waiter.
‘Yes,’ said Howard Lewthwaite faintly.
‘The haulage firm have no record of his being employed there,’ said Henry, when the waiter had gone. ‘He obviously came in to do that one job only. So, both the individually fine historical buildings inside the Fish Hill Complex were deliberately destroyed. So, let’s talk now in the knowledge that my suspicions are not the ravings of a deluded youth.’
‘It sounds as though you’re determined to go through with this,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.
‘I have to, and I haven’t much time,’ said Henry.
Howard Lewthwaite raised his eyebrows.
‘I told the editor I have a big scoop,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve promised to tell him on Monday after I’ve told Hilary.’
‘I see.’
‘I had to. I’d made a couple of cock-ups. He was going to sack me.’
‘I see. So it’s my career against yours.’
‘I’d rather call it right against wrong.’
‘I’m sure you would.’
‘Who’s for the chop?’ said the waiter.
‘Me, it seems,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.
The waiter gave him the chop.
‘No, I’m the chop,’ said Henry.
The waiter muttered to himself as he hobbled away in his new shoes.
‘Some of the things I’m going to have to tell Hilary – deliberately driving a lorry into an old building, arson, murder – are things you’re innocent of.’ He looked Howard Lewthwaite in the eye. ‘You do promise me you’re innocent of them, don’t you?’
Howard Lewthwaite held his gaze.
‘I promise,’ he said.
‘Right,’ said Henry. ‘Well, so far you’ve tried to pooh-pooh everything. I suggest you change your policy. I suggest you try to uncover as much evil as you can. The more evil you find in which you aren’t implicated, the less important your role in all this is going to seem.’
The waiter handed them the dessert menus. Henry’s hand was shaking. It isn’t easy, when you’re twenty-one, to talk like that to your prospective father-in-law.
They both plumped for the trifle.
‘Good luck in Durham,’ said Howard Lewthwaite, as they parted at the junction of York Road and High Street opposite the Chronicle and Argus building.
‘Thank you. I’ll need it,’ said Henry.
24 Durham City
THE CONDITION OF Dennis Lacey, fighting for his life in Thurmarsh Royal Infirmary, was as comfortable as could be expected.
The condition of Henry Pratt, clattering northwards through the dark February evening, was as uncomfortable as could be expected. He had to stand in the corridor. He ached with desire for Hilary. His stomach was knotted with tension. Should he tell her straightaway and risk spoiling the weekend, or should he wait until he was on the point of departure? He tried to think of other things. With his legs braced against the corridor wall he tried to read his vibrating copy of the Argus. Mr Gromyko had become Soviet Foreign Ministe
r. A pilot trip through the Suez Canal by three small vessels had been cancelled ‘for political reasons’, presumably because President Nasser wouldn’t allow any ships through until Israel had agreed to withdraw. Jenny Farthingale, aged 10, had brought two dolls to the newspaper’s offices. Uncle Jason had been very sorry to miss her.
He hobbled off the train. He had pins and needles in his legs, an ache in his genitals and a yawning pit in his stomach.
‘My God!’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he said.
She enveloped him in her warmth. She hugged him to her, on the platform, as the train snaked out towards Newcastle. So that was decided. He wouldn’t tell her that night.
She’d booked them into a little pub at the bottom of the hill, in the lower part of the town, as Mr and Mrs Pratt.
‘You don’t mind being known as Mr and Mrs Pratt, then?’ he said.
‘It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.’
The landlady led them up a narrow staircase. She introduced herself as Irene Titmarsh. ‘Call me Irene,’ she said. ‘Treat this as your home.’ She showed them into a small room, which was almost filled by a huge iron-framed bed and a heavy mahogany wardrobe, which stood two feet from the wall because of the sloping ceiling. A patterned blue china jug full of cold water stood in a patterned blue bowl on a small teak table in front of the tiny, net-covered window. Curtains, carpet and wallpaper were floral, in clashing shades of daffodil, tulip and marigold.
‘Will you be down for some tea?’ she asked.
‘Er … Mrs Tit … Irene,’ said Hilary. ‘This is a bit … er … my husband’s in the army. He’s Henry, incidentally, and I’m Hilary. He’s only got a weekend’s leave. We haven’t seen each other for a long time. Too long, and it’s so short, if you understand me. So … er … could we just have some sandwiches in our room, Irene?’
‘I understand you,’ said Irene Titmarsh. She had good strong teeth, but not enough of them. When she smiled she reminded Henry of several streets in Thurmarsh, and he didn’t want to be reminded of them. ‘I could do you two nice ham salads,’ she said.
‘That would be lovely, Irene,’ said Henry.
‘Could we have no raw onion in the salad, if you understand me, Irene?’ said Hilary.
‘I understand you,’ said Irene Titmarsh.
When Irene Titmarsh had left them, Hilary said, ‘I can’t be seen in the bar. I might meet people I know, and I could be in trouble if it was found out I was staying here as Mrs Pratt. So I had to think up some excuse to explain away why we spend all our time in our room “at it”.’
‘Magnificent!’ said Henry. ‘You’re magnificent.’
Her magnificence thrilled and chilled him. He didn’t think he could bear to lose her.
‘The only trouble is,’ she said, ‘if our story’s to be believed, I don’t see any alternative to spending a lot of time in our room “at it”. Do you think you can face that?’
‘I think so,’ he said. ‘We Pratts are made of pretty strong stuff.’
He began to take her clothes off. She was lovely in her happiness. He tried not to think how her face would look when he told her about her father.
They climbed into the bed. It was lumpy, and squeaked ominously.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said. ‘I suppose as a socialist I really ought to be kissing somebody ugly.’
‘You seem to infer that being kissed by you is a privilege,’ she said.
‘Touché,’ he said. ‘Hilary? Anna said something very odd about you. She said you didn’t undress on the beach because you wanted to spare the Italians your horrible body.’
‘I thought it was horrible. I was depressed.’
‘Oh.’
‘And I was as thin as a rake, then.’
‘Oh.’
‘My God! Were you wondering, all that time before we went to bed together, what horrors were going to be revealed, whether you’d be able to cope with them? Poor darling. How brave you must have been.’
She kissed him, laughing. He wasn’t sure whether she was making fun of him or not.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Your two ham salads with no onion, Henry, Hilary.’
‘Thank you very much, Irene. Could you just leave them outside, if you understand me.’
‘I understand you, Hilary. Leave the plates outside when you’ve finished.’
Henry fetched the ham salads. They enjoyed themselves greedily. Then they ate the ham salads, placing tasty morsels in each other’s mouths. They left the plates outside, when they had finished.
Then Hilary began to kiss him all over, slowly, with an intense expression of solemn concentration which aroused him to new heights of love.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Henry, Hilary, have you had enough?’
Hilary’s face appeared from under the bedclothes. She beamed and shook her head violently.
‘Yes, we’ve had enough, thank you, Irene,’ Henry said, and his voice almost broke into a laugh.
‘Goodnight, then. “Sleep” well.’
‘“We will.”’
They did.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Good morning, Henry, Hilary. Have you “slept” well?’
‘We’ve “slept” very well, thank you, Irene,’ said Henry.
‘I’ll leave your tea outside. Come down for breakfast when you’re ready.’
‘I don’t think we’ll want any breakfast this morning, thank you, Irene,’ said Hilary.
At eleven-thirty Henry handed in their key and they went out into a bright, crisp world. They had an early lunch in an unlicensed café. Neither of them wanted alcohol.
They walked over Elvet Bridge and up into the dignified old university town. Hilary greeted several acquaintances.
They wandered through the stone market-place, and turned left down Silver Street onto Framwellgate Bridge. They stood in silence among the shoppers, looking along the wooded River Wear, looking up through the bare woods to the old city, the castle, the cathedral, the fortified stone houses, up on their hill, safe in the great loop of their river. And Henry knew that he couldn’t tell her until she’d shown him Durham.
Dark clouds loomed up, and there were a few flakes of irresolute snow. They walked along the west bank of the river, past a wide, shallow weir, along a path of half-frozen mud, to the Prebends Bridge. All the while they had changing views of the three great grey towers of the cathedral.
They climbed towards the city. It wasn’t far. The sense of height was an illusion, the great illusion of Durham City.
At last, shyly, as if the city were a woman and they were her new lovers, they entered her. They entered her by the South Bailey, and came slowly that cold afternoon towards her great heart, by the cobbles and grey stones, the dark brick and red roofs of her Georgian skirts.
In awe and silence and strange pride the unbelieving young lovers entered the great temple of God. Henry gasped at his first sight of the vast Norman nave. He squeezed Hilary’s hand, as if to thank her for it. She smiled shyly, as if she had built it.
They sat in the nave, and looked up at its great ceiling. The huge, round Norman pillars, their circumference equal to their height, were strikingly carved, with vast simplicity. The clerestory and upper storey were of exquisite proportions. Three rows of shallow Norman arches were built on top of each other, with delicacy and charm sitting above grandeur and power. If you looked at the arches long enough they seemed to move like waves. They were a sea frozen in stone in a miraculous moment at the very beginning of time. Man couldn’t have built all this.
Hilary shuddered.
‘What is it?’ he whispered.
‘All the beauty of the world is waiting for us,’ she whispered. ‘I feel so happy I could break.’
So of course he couldn’t tell her that afternoon.
Darkness laid a soft glove on this godly place. The ungodly, sated with an awe that
seemed in no way unnatural to them, feasted on toasted teacake and pretended to be respectable. Hot butter streamed down chins that had run with lovers’ juices. Hilary told him about her friends, whom he would meet that evening. He decided not to give her his bad news until he’d met her friends, until he’d woven himself that bit more irrevocably into the fabric of her life.
He charmed her friends. He was in sparkling form. They went to a couple of student pubs. They drank slowly and sensibly, because that was all they could afford. Hilary’s friends seemed delightful people. Henry tried hard not to be egocentric. He remembered their names, and asked them about their lives, and remembered what he was told. He amused them with tales of his many disasters and included, for the first time, the incidents of the upside-down paintings and the misquoted Chief Torch Bearer of the Ark of the Golden Light of Our Lady. Here, in Durham City, far from Thurmarsh, he could expiate these horrors in humour. Hilary grew somewhat wry as his charm swelled. But what was he to do? He couldn’t pretend to be a Tory in order not to seem to be too good to be true. He couldn’t present himself as a reactionary young man who believed that a woman’s place is in the home, in order not to curry favour with these charming young women. Everything he said presented him in the light of a treasure, a find. It couldn’t be helped. He was acting, yes, and yet he wasn’t. He said nothing he didn’t believe. He told no stories that weren’t true. He tried to be quiet, but people said things to him and he had to reply. Could he help it if they found these replies witty and apt?
‘That was what you wanted me to do to your friends, wasn’t it?’ said Hilary, on their way back to their pub.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Set out to charm the pants off them.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I was just a little alarmed to see you in action tonight. You’re such a performer.’
‘Didn’t you want your friends to like me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Didn’t you want me to like them?’
‘Of course.’
‘So what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Well … I suppose I’m worried because you’re so social. I don’t think I can be as social as you.’
