The Complete Pratt

by David Nobbs

  A cool little breeze had sprung up off the sea and was forcing its way through the gaps in the shutters. Henry shivered, and took another sip of champagne.

  He recognized her scent, just before she entered the room. She was wearing tight white shorts and a tight blue sweater. She carried a shopping bag in her right hand. She stood in the doorway, smiling her astonishment, as tanned as a kipper, as shameless as a cat. But he was more astonished.

  ‘Anna!’ he said, trying not to blush as he remembered that night, as he wondered if she’d told Uncle Teddy about that night.

  ‘Hello, Henry,’ said Anna Matheson. ‘And congratulations! I’m thrilled about you and old Hillers!’

  She enveloped him in her scent and gave him an extrovert kiss, accompanied by a grunted smacking of the lips. Uncle Teddy explained how Henry came to be there, fetched a glass and poured her some champagne. She sat down, crossing her big, brown thighs studded with tiny goose-pimples. It was too early for shorts, even in Cap Ferrat.

  ‘So, you’ve changed your identity,’ said Henry, trying not to look at Anna’s thighs.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Meet Mrs Wedderburn.’

  ‘Wedderburn?’

  ‘My naughty sense of humour. Alice Wedderburn was the first girl I ever did it with, behind the tram sheds. Anna will be the last girl I ever do it with.’

  ‘Alice Wedderburn!’ said Henry. ‘Alice Wedderburn! She lent me her camp-bed!’

  ‘She wasn’t Alice Wedderburn then,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘She was Alice Crapper. Anna drew the line at Mr and Mrs Crapper.’

  There was a strangely sombre little silence. Henry was painfully readjusting his view of Cousin Hilda’s friend. Uncle Teddy and Anna were reflecting on what life as Mr and Mrs Crapper would have been like.

  ‘I got hake,’ said Anna Wedderburn, née Matheson. ‘You do like hake, don’t you?’

  ‘Mrs Wedderburn?’ said Henry.

  ‘We got married three weeks ago,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘For the will. In case I can’t keep up the pace, and have a heart attack. Yes, I like hake. Go and get it unpacked, though, love. It’ll stink the place out.’

  Anna went into the kitchen, with her hake.

  Uncle Teddy smiled – a little sadly, Henry felt.

  ‘Don’t know if she’d stay with an old man like me if it wasn’t for the money,’ he said.

  He went over to the window, pushed the shutters open rather violently, and looked out towards the sea.

  ‘Doris liked hake,’ he said.

  27 A Day to Remember

  ON SATURDAY, JULY 20th, 1957, buses which ran in defiance of a strike were ambushed, stoned and daubed by strikers. Their tyres were let down, sand and grit were put in their tanks, pickets boarded buses and let off stink-bombs. Stirling Moss in a Vanwall won the Grand Prix of Europe at Aintree. The Prime Minister, Mr Harold Macmillan, said, ‘Let’s be frank about it. Most of our people have never had it so good.’ And Henry Ezra Pratt married Hilary Nadežda Lewthwaite.

  As the guests made their way into the Midland Hotel for the reception, a sharp shower dampened their hats but not their spirits.

  The Sir William Stanier Room was decorated, not altogether surprisingly, with photographs of engines designed by Sir William Stanier. The buffet was as sumptuous as a socialist councillor could provide without risking his political credibility. The drink flowed with a respectful nod to the memory of Sir Stafford Cripps and to Howard Lewthwaite’s bank balance. The staff dealt solicitously yet tactfully with both the wheelchairs. Henry made a nervous but charming speech. There was a big laugh when he said, ‘We’ve even been given two pictures, neither of which we plan to hang upside-down.’ Hilary’s smile, as they cut the three-tiered cake, was so wide that the caption in Monday’s Argus, ‘Councillor’s laughter weds former Argus man’, almost didn’t seem like a misprint.

  The past contained many sorrows and disasters. The future was uncertain. No matter. For one afternoon, Henry felt royal.

  Prince Hal was charming to Hilary’s friends. The Duke of Thurmarsh chatted animatedly to uncles and aunts and cousins. He even revealed a common touch, saying, ‘Belt up, snot-nose’ when Sam said, ‘I hope you’ve packed the soup. You’ll be wanting to consommé the marriage tonight.’

  King Henry the Ninth felt a particular concern for Ginny Fenwick, who had smiled bravely throughout. He was sorry when he saw that she was smiling bravely at Tony Preece, beneath a photograph of Stanier 3-Cylinder Class 4 2-6-4T No. 42527 entering Fenchurch Street with a semi-fast from Southend. She needed a good man, but not this good man, who had a good woman who needed him.

  ‘Tony’s been telling me he’s got a new act,’ said Ginny.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Henry. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come and see,’ said Tony. ‘Bring the lovely Hilary. She is lovely, Henry.’ There was a brief silence, during which Ginny might have said, ‘Yes, Henry, she is,’ but didn’t, and Tony might have said, ‘As you are, Ginny,’ but didn’t. Too late, just as Mr and Mrs Quell were approaching, Tony said, ‘This sexy, well-endowed, warm-hearted young lady tells me there’s no man in her life. What’s wrong with our sex? Are we all blind?’ He hurried off in confusion when he realized that Mrs Quell was blind.

  Henry introduced the Quells to Ginny. Mr Quell, his old English teacher and spiritual mentor during his brief religious phase, was a lapsed Irish priest, five foot four and barrel-chested. He was ageing with dignity. Mrs Quell’s porcelain face remained almost untouched by time. She told them how moved her husband had been to be invited. Henry longed to tell Mr Quell the truth about the headmaster’s death. There were times when he could hardly bear the knowledge that he had been unable to share with anybody, since that day on Cap Ferrat, five months ago.

  ‘Ginny?’ said Mr Quell, just as Ginny was about to escape. ‘I’ve been trying to describe Henry’s lovely bride and her exquisite dress. Alas, our sex, the admirers of women, are paradoxically incompetent at describing them. Could you oblige me, Ginny, for Beth?’

  Ginny and Henry both tried to hide their horror. ‘Well …’ began Ginny. ‘She’s … er … not beautiful exactly. She’s … something more than beautiful. She’s absolutely lovely.’ Henry blushed as Ginny, smiling desperately, gave a generous inventory of Hilary’s charms.

  ‘You’re blushing, Henry. I can feel it,’ said Mrs Quell. Her husband could see the tears in Ginny’s eyes. He thought they were tears of happiness for Henry.

  He talked with Peter and Olivia Matheson. He had found it impossible to give the editor his scoop. He had found it impossible to hurt those he loved – Cousin Hilda, Auntie Doris, Hilary and, ultimately, himself. He had found it impossible to uncoil the tangled ropes of motive, of his warmth and affection for others, of his personal and professional integrity, of the self-interest which lay on his tangled motives like frost on a whaler’s rigging. In the end he had done the easiest thing. He had done nothing. There were times when he regretted it. This was one of those times. Every corpuscle of his being screamed, ‘So you’ve got away with it, you bastard.’ Peter Matheson, knowing this, turned the full blankness of his charm on Henry. ‘A happy day, Henry,’ he said. ‘Congratulations.’ He changed gear with the smoothness of an advanced motorist. ‘Such a shame Anna couldn’t be here. Have you heard from her at all?’

  ‘No,’ lied Henry, terrified that he would blush. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Peter Matheson, and Henry had no idea whether he was telling the truth. Surely, having been so involved in all the machinations, he would know? But it obviously wasn’t a safe topic of conversation, in Thurmarsh. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘We’re worried, I must admit.’

  ‘We’re her parents,’ said Olivia Matheson unnecessarily. She was developing pronounced crow’s-feet, perhaps from wrinkling her face against her husband’s remorseless charm.

  ‘I’m a repenter of former arrogance,’ said Peter Matheson.

  ‘In what connection?’ said Henry.

  ‘In your connection,’
said Peter Matheson.

  ‘We didn’t think you a good enough catch,’ said Olivia.

  ‘We’d settle for you now,’ beamed her husband sadly.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Henry drily.

  Henry ‘Certified eligible by no less an authority than Councillor Matheson’ Pratt set off across the buzzing, bursting room in order to speak to a former flame, Diana Pilkington-Brick, née Hargreaves. Before he could reach her, her husband swept upon him like a tidal wave.

  ‘This isn’t the time to discuss money,’ said Tosser Pilkington-Brick. ‘No,’ said Henry. ‘So I won’t,’ said Tosser. ‘Oh good,’ said Henry. ‘But,’ said Tosser. ‘Ah!’ said Henry. ‘What?’ said Tosser. ‘Nothing,’ said Henry.

  ‘No, I just wanted to say,’ said Tosser, ‘at the moment you probably don’t have any …’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Henry.

  ‘I haven’t told you what I was going to say yet.’

  ‘It doesn’t make much difference. Money, prospects, savings, investments, property, children, transport, you put “no” and we can fill in the details later.’

  ‘That’s why I’m sure we at United Allied General Financial Services Consultants can help you.’

  ‘You’re right. It isn’t the time.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m not talking about it. I’m just saying, if ever in future you want to talk about it, you can always talk to me.’

  ‘Thanks, Tosser,’ said Henry, relenting. Why did he always relent?

  ‘Small point,’ said Tosser. ‘I’ve dropped the Tosser. It has … connotations. Do you think you could see your way to calling me Nigel?’

  ‘I’m sure I could, Tosser,’ said Henry.

  Diana had been swallowed up by the crowd. The Lewthwaites and the Hammonds were gathered round Nadežda’s wheelchair, beside a frosted-glass window against whose opacity a summer shower was beating in brief frustration.

  Nadežda smiled at him happily. He bent to kiss her cheek, cold even in July. How natural Martin Hammond looked in a suit. How unnatural anyone looked, who looked natural in a suit at twenty-two years of age.

  ‘Pleasant stag night last night,’ said Martin rather stuffily. He was miffed because he wasn’t best man.

  Reg Hammond, Martin’s father, said, ‘We had a good night, too. At Drobwell Miners’ Welfare. They had this grand turn. Irish. He were right comical, weren’t he, mother? I thought so, anyroad.’ ‘Right comical,’ echoed Mrs Hammond, who had found that it paid to agree.

  Sam Lewthwaite blushed furiously when Martin’s young sister, who was thirteen, stared at him. Henry was glad he wasn’t young any more.

  ‘Did anything ever come of that corruption story I put you onto, Henry?’ said Martin. ‘No. I tried. It fizzled out,’ said Henry. ‘Pity,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘The secret of beating the Tories at national level is to regularly expose them at local level. That’s what I reckon, anyroad.’ Howard Lewthwaite avoided Henry’s eyes.

  But, when Henry moved on, Howard Lewthwaite followed him. ‘Have I lost you for socialism?’ he said, looking round to make sure they weren’t being overheard.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Henry. ‘You were no worse than them.’

  ‘Ah, but we have to be better,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘As women have to be better than men and blacks better than whites to be equal in this fair land of ours. Top dogs expect underdogs to prove themselves every day of their lives.’ His eyes met Henry’s at last. ‘Thanks for not telling,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t not tell for you,’ said Henry, grammatically inelegant as usual, in the presence of his father-in-law. ‘I did it … I mean, I didn’t do it … for Hilary and me.’

  A group of his ex-colleagues was standing beside the drinks. He approached, smiling. Helen Plunkett, née Cornish, kissed him, and Jill felt obliged to emulate her sister. She approached the task as if he were a fillet of haddock lying on a fisherman’s slab, and this still irked him. Did he want to be loved by the whole world?

  ‘Epidemic time,’ said Gordon Carstairs. ‘I hope you’ll both be very happy,’ said Henry. ‘Henry’s got it!’ said Gordon Carstairs.

  ‘How’s Lampo, Denzil?’ said Henry. ‘How should I know? Ask him,’ said Denzil, whose hand-carved Scottish walking-stick was leaning against a cream radiator.

  ‘Name the wives of the English cricket team,’ commanded Ben Watkinson. ‘Ben!’ admonished his shy, petite wife Cynthia.

  When Henry moved on, Helen followed him. ‘Are we going to keep in touch?’ she asked. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘We never actually worked anything out, did we? You’ve still never really seen my legs properly,’ she said. ‘Helen!’ he said.

  Ted pursued them. His buttonhole looked tired. So did he. ‘Lovely wedding,’ he said. ‘Great girl. I’m really pleased.’

  ‘Oh God, Ted. How could I ever have thought you were trying to destroy my career?’ said Henry.

  Helen wheeled away, abruptly, towards the shattered remains of the buffet.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Ted.

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ said Henry.

  ‘You didn’t need to,’ said Ted. ‘I should have married Ginny.’

  ‘We’ll slip off quietly, if you don’t mind,’ said Mr Andrew Redrobe.

  ‘Andy thinks his presence inhibits the journalists,’ said Mrs Redrobe, who was in blue.

  ‘Will you apply for a job on another paper?’ said Mr Andrew Redrobe, his voice soaked in the infuriating, paternal kindness that he had used ever since he had become convinced that the scoop which Henry could never tell him was a figment of an immature imagination.

  ‘No. I’m thinking of something totally different,’ said Henry.

  ‘I think that’s very wise,’ said his former editor.

  Marie Chadwick steered the wheelchair expertly through the seething, chattering throng.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Henry. ‘It’s wonderful news.’

  ‘We got engaged before we were told I’d walk again,’ said Dennis Lacey.

  ‘Dennis! That’s not important,’ said Marie.

  ‘It is to me,’ said Dennis Lacey. ‘People said Marie left him for me because he was crippled. She left him for love. The fact that she was prepared to marry me when she didn’t know I wasn’t going to be crippled proves that.’

  Liam O’Reilly and Norman Pettifer were having a quick sit, in reproduction chairs with elegant curved backs.

  ‘Grand wedding,’ said Liam.

  ‘A wedding I’d love to have seen was that of Dame Sybil Thorndike and Sir Lewis Casson,’ said Norman Pettifer.

  ‘I hope you’ve been talking to people,’ said Henry.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Liam. ‘I had a very nice talk with one of the waiters.’

  ‘Though of course they weren’t Dame and Sir then,’ said Norman Pettifer. ‘Have you been to Cullen’s recently, Henry?’

  ‘No. Why?’ said Henry.

  ‘I wondered if you’d seen the cheese counter recently,’ said Norman Pettifer. ‘That Adrian! Hopeless. No idea.’

  Violet Skipton was in purple. Henry wished that she’d shaved off her moustache for the great day, but that would have involved tacit acknowledgement that it existed. ‘We’ll slip off quietly, if you don’t mind,’ she said.

  ‘We don’t like seeing people becoming affected by artificial stimulants,’ said Terry.

  ‘I expect you think we’re ridiculous,’ said Violet.

  ‘No, I suspect we’re ridiculous, but I won’t do anything about it,’ said Henry.

  The almost deformed news editor held out his hand and … yes, another first … he blushed. The blush gave a sheen of humanity to his dark, unattractive face. ‘Henry?’ he said. The Christian name! Another first. ‘If you ever feel … if you ever need … either of you, that is … how can I? … guidance, would you think of us? Our house has an open door. Our hearts are yours. Come on, Violet.’

  Terry Skipton turned away, as if angry with himself. Violet Skipton followed him for a few p
aces, then turned back.

  ‘I’ve never seen him take to anyone like he took to you,’ she said.

  Baron Pratt, third Duke of Thurmarsh, was temporarily at a loss. He stood there, shorn of all pretensions, twenty-two years old and still not mature enough or good-hearted enough to fight off unkind thoughts about women’s moustaches.

  Lampo Davey slid through the crowd, untouched by the increasing hubbub, carrying a large plate on which his single smoked salmon beignet looked aggressively ascetic.

  ‘What’s happened between you and Denzil?’ said Henry.

  ‘I broke her sugar bowl. Oh dear! Tragedy. Makes Antigone seem like a tiff about the funeral arrangements.’

  ‘Lampo? You aren’t going to end up hurting Denzil, are you?’

  ‘Quite possibly. Why?’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t forget I brought you together.’

  ‘You were the most reluctant matchmaker of all time,’ said Lampo.

  ‘I love you both,’ said Henry.

  Diana was sitting beneath Stanier Class 5 No 45284, which was carrying a Manchester to Cardiff troop special through Craven Arms. She was enormous. The Hargreaves family stood around her. Henry bent down, and she gave him a huge wet kiss, and said she’d felt vaguely jealous when she’d seen Hilary.

  ‘A congenial stag night last night,’ said Paul rather stuffily. He was miffed because he wasn’t best man.

  ‘Did Nigel try to sell you things?’ said Diana. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Oh no! He’s awful,’ she said, but she said it indulgently. She loved Tosser! She was enormous. Mrs Hargreaves, who was as slender as a silver birch, kissed him graciously, and he blushed because he remembered that he’d once desired her, and he could see that she thought he was blushing because he still desired her, and this made him blush all the more and of course he couldn’t explain. Mr Hargreaves pumped his hand as if trying to bring it back to life. Judy kissed him coolly, and said, ‘I’m amazed. All this. Smoked salmon. Champagne. The hotel. That lovely church. In the north. I’m amazed.’