by David Nobbs
In Bristol they met Kate’s new boyfriend, who was called Edward. He was handsome and intelligent, but intended to be an actor. Already, he had involved Kate in stage management. She was blissfully happy and looked extremely pretty despite all the hard work she had put in to conceal the fact. It was becoming politically incorrect to be pretty. Henry felt that this was a shame and had no relevance to the injustices and abuses which plagued the world. He also felt a wave of sympathy for poor Brian in Thurmarsh and hoped that Kate had let him down lightly. Not that he had any doubts. Kate was kind. He found it difficult, in a long evening of pub followed by moderate Anglo-French restaurant, not to feel a certain jealousy of Edward, who had taken so much of his daughter’s affection, but he resisted it with all the force he could muster. Edward made it clear from his attitude to Henry how warmly Kate had spoken of her father, and although Edward had been to Winchester, he was deeply ashamed of the fact, of his height and looks and talent, and would much rather, or so he thought from his lofty, privileged position, be a funny little cucumber man from Thurmarsh.
They arrived back at Waters Meet Cottage exhausted, and resumed the even tenor of their lives. Henry worked at the market gardens and drank in the Lamb and Flag, Diana learnt bridge, played bridge and went to Highland Dancing classes, and every now and then they saw each other and were pleasant to each other, and in this way an English winter passed.
The summer of 1977 saw the British climate return to normal after the unseemly excesses of 1975 and 1976.
Spain held its first general election for more than forty years. General Franco’s long dictatorship was over at last.
In the newly democratic Spain, Nadežda Lewthwaite died.
Lightning plunged New York into darkness for one long, terrible night. Fires were started, thousands of stores were looted of everything from food to new cars. 3,200 looters were arrested, but the authorities couldn’t contain the rampaging mobs. How fragile is our civilisation! How miraculous it is that democracy should ever be introduced!
How disappointing it was that Henry heard nothing from the Liberal Party!
Elvis Presley died.
Henry and Diana discovered that Benedict was not dead.
One morning in September there was a letter from Tosser:
Dear Henry and Diana,
I’ve been endeavouring to make telephonic communication with you, but it seems that you’re always out. What a social whirl it must be up there in Nether Bibbington. I’m quite envious.
The reason I’m contacting you is that I’ve had a letter from Benedict. He’s working in a bar in Spain and is all right. His letter is very unsatisfactory, but I think you ought to hear it. I’m reluctant to send a copy as he might interpret this as a breach of confidence.
I hope you’re both well.
With all best wishes,
Nigel.
Diana rang him immediately. Both their hearts were thumping. Henry sat on the settee beside her and was able to hear most of what Tosser said.
‘The Pilkington-Brick residence.’
‘Oh hello, Felicity, it’s Diana.’
‘I’ll get him.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Hello, Diana.’
‘Hello, Nigel.’
‘This’ll have to be brief. I’m due at a client’s.’
‘I’ll be thrilled if it’s brief, Nigel. Perhaps you’ll read the letter.’
‘Right.’ They heard him call to Felicity. ‘Darlesy-Warlesy, have you got the letter?’
Diana mimed being sick at ‘Darlesy-Warlesy’.
Henry grinned.
‘Thanks, Darlesy. Hello, Diana, are you still there?’
‘Still here, Nigey-Wigey.’
‘What? Oh! Diana! No, he says, and I must say it’s all pretty unsatisfactory:
‘Dear Dad,
‘I thought it was about time I let you know that I’m all right. I hope you’ve been worried, but somehow I doubt it. I’ve been doing all sorts of things – helping in the wine harvest, et cetera – and have finally settled running a bar with a friend near Malaga. That’s all you need to know. I could do with a bit of dosh, and you were always decent in that department. I won’t beg, but if you’ve got any spare from all your over-charging of your suckers, a cheque which I can cash here would be welcome. You can send it to Poste Restante, Malaga. I suppose I hope Felicity’s well, she never did me any good, but she never did me harm either. I can hear you saying that I’m being pretty insulting if I want money. Well I hope you’d rather the truth than a lot of old poloney (is that the right word? The old vocab rusts a bit when you’re abroad) about family and love just to get money from you.
‘I hope that mother of mine is all right. I’ll be happy to write to her when she’s got tired of the cucumber man. Please give all my best to Camilla. I think that by the standards of this bastard world she’s an OK person. Too OK for me to suggest she sees me here.
‘I’ll be grateful, in my way, for any dosh you can spare.
‘Bye for now.
‘Benedict.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Diana.
‘Exactly. What do you think he means by “too OK for me to suggest she sees me here”?’
‘I dread to think. You will tell Camilla what he says about her being OK, won’t you?’
‘Well I wasn’t going to. It’s hardly ringing praise, is it?’
‘It is from him, you stupid oaf, and she’ll be absolutely thrilled, she worships him still.’
‘More fool her, and I did hope we might be able to discuss this in civilised language, Diana. I hope we’re civilised people.’
Diana made a face at Henry. He grinned. Much more of this and they’d be in love again.
‘Are you going to send any money, Nigel?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t feel like it. It’s a bloody arrogant letter.’
‘You spend a fortune to get him taught to be arrogant, and then you complain. At least it’s honest, though.’
‘In its horrible way, I suppose. All that, “I hope you’ve been worried, but somehow I doubt it.” That’s an awful thing to say to a father.’
‘It’s an awful thing to have to say to a father.’
‘Diana! Don’t be so beastly.’
‘I am beastly. You’re so lucky to be with your magnificent Darlesy-Warlesy. Do you put a flag up when you’re in residence? Or only when you’re indulging in your brief, unsubtle love-making?’ She slammed the phone down and burst into tears. ‘Oh Benedict,’ she wailed. ‘Oh Ben!’
Henry hugged her, but couldn’t comfort her. She needed other comfort now.
Henry had a week’s holiday left. They flew to Malaga and toured every resort and every bar for fifty miles in each direction, showing a photograph of Benedict wherever they went. They found no trace of him, and arrived home exhausted, depressed and broke.
In October, Henry received a letter from a man called Magnus Willis.
Dear Mr Pratt,
I have read your letter about the Liberal Party and your desire to become involved. I’ve an idea of what form that involvement might take. I’ll be in Yorkshire next week and wondered if you might be able to spare the time from your busy life to meet me for a drink at the Midland Hotel at 6.30 on Friday next, the 22nd.
I must apologise for the short notice, but my travel plans have only recently been fixed.
So Henry found himself once more in that ungainly red-brick pile, the Midland Hotel, Thurmarsh. It was more than twenty-one years ago that he’d entered the hotel, twenty years old and aching with love, to spend a night with his childhood sweetheart, Lorna Arrow.
At the last count Lorna had had six children, and he was into his second marriage, but the Midland Hotel seemed to be in a time warp. The same vast armchairs, sagging terminally. The same huge, ugly chandeliers. The same photographs from the halcyon days of steam. Only the carpet, a light red, claret to the former’s port, had changed.
Magnus Willis unfolded himself from an armcha
ir, bounded across like a sex-starved wallaby, shook hands fiercely, said, ‘Absolutely delighted to meet you,’ took Henry into the bar, and said, ‘What’s your poison?’
‘A pint of bitter, please.’
‘Ah me!’ sighed Magnus Willis. ‘A bitter man. The common touch. I wish I was a bitter man.’ He plumped for a glass of tonic water.
They installed themselves in an alcove.
‘I thought this was better than the Liberal Club,’ said Magnus Willis. ‘Wagging tongues. Now, tell me your life story.’
Magnus Willis curled himself in his chair, legs tucked up in a pose that was at once strikingly foetal and so aggressively that of the fascinated listener that to his astonishment Henry found himself telling his life history.
‘Absolutely excellent. First rate. Well done,’ enthused Magnus Willis when he’d finished. ‘Perfect. Needn’t go into the first wife scenario too closely, but otherwise absolutely spot-on. Gloss over the newspaper connection, but otherwise tremendous. Needn’t emphasise the cucumbers too much, but apart from that I don’t think one could pick too many holes in it. And Thurmarsh through and through, that’s what I like. Tell me why you’re a Liberal.’
‘Basically because I don’t believe in dogma and I believe that interference by politicians in the running of the country should be kept to a minimum.’
‘Go on.’
‘I think we desperately need common sense and compromise in this country. I believe in moderation. There’s nothing wishy-washy in being middle-of-the-road. It’s a dangerous place to stand. I’m a passionate moderate.’
‘You’ll do,’ said Magnus Willis.
‘Sorry,’ said Henry. ‘What’ll I do for?’
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ said Magnus Willis. ‘Sorry. You’ll do for our shortlist of candidates for the Parliamentary Constituency of Thurmarsh.’
Henry gawped.
‘It’s nothing to write home about. We only have one councillor and he’s useless. We’ve no local candidate who’s remotely astute politically, and we must have one local candidate on the shortlist. We’ve no chance of winning, but if you are chosen as candidate, if you put up a good show, a plum may follow. A nice by-election seat. Quite possibly a victory. We’re rather good at by-elections.’
The 230,000 ton Amoco Cadiz, carrying oil from the Persian Gulf to England, broke in half in heavy seas off the coast of Brittany and caused the world’s worst pollution disaster … so far. In Rome the body of Aldo Moro, the kidnapped and murdered ex-Prime Minister, was found in the boot of a car. The world’s first ‘test-tube’ baby was born in Lancashire. Pope Paul VI died, his successor, Pope John Paul I, died after thirty-four days in office, and Karol Wojtyla, Archbishop of Krakow, became the first non-Italian pope for four centuries.
Henry had a quiet year. Kate was doing well at Bristol; Camilla surprised everybody by applying to go to art school and being accepted; Jack was building and drinking; Henry and Diana led not unpleasing but largely separate lives in Nether Bibbington, and the market garden company continued its expansion down eastern England, opening the Market Deeping Market Garden and the Downham Market Market Garden.
Just two things broke the even tenor of Henry’s life.
The first occurred in May. He met Hilary in Fish Hill, right in the middle of the redevelopment that he’d fought to prevent. His heart stood still, and he fancied hers did too.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said.
‘Looking for houses,’ she said. ‘We’re hoping to come back. Dad hates Spain.’
‘And you?’
‘It doesn’t really matter where I live.’
Her face was unlined. She hardly seemed to have aged. In fact she looked as if she had hardly lived.
‘I often think of you,’ he said.
‘Do you?’ she said. ‘I often think of you.’
‘Shall we have a coffee?’ he said. ‘Or a drink?’
‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ she said.
‘Are you … er … I heard there was a chap … are you still … er …?’
‘Still happy? Yes. Yes, it’s a very satisfactory relationship.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Henry,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I’ve seen you. You look well.’
That was all. But his heart thumped and his stomach sank and his veins throbbed and he could hardly breathe and he felt that he was going to faint. He leant against the wall of Marks and Spencers and waited until it no longer felt as if his world was disintegrating into ten thousand pieces, and then he set off slowly and sadly on the long path back to real life.
The other thing that occurred was equally unexpected. After a gently polite but thorough grilling by the selection committee, he was elected as Liberal candidate for the Parliamentary Constituency of Thurmarsh.
Three days after he’d been elected, he opened the Thurmarsh Morning Chronicle and said, ‘I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it.’
‘What?’ said Diana.
‘They’ve named the Labour candidate. It’s Martin Hammond.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes. A bit embarrassing.’
Five days after Henry had opened the Morning Chronicle and said, ‘I don’t believe it, I just don’t believe it,’ Diana opened the Morning Chronicle and said, ‘I don’t believe it, I just don’t believe it.’
‘What?’ said Henry.
‘They’ve named the Conservative candidate. It’s Tosser.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes. A bit embarrassing.’
14 A Dirty Campaign
ON TUESDAY, APRIL 3rd, 1979, Mrs Thatcher opened the General Election campaign, promising tax cuts and warning the nation not to accept the attempt of James Callaghan, the Labour Prime Minister, to blame Britain’s problems on the world recession.
On Wednesday, April 4th, the BBC admitted that their exclusive film of the Loch Ness Monster had in fact been film of a duck.
On Thursday, April 5th, Henry sat on a raised platform in the Committee Room above the Liberal Club, and listened to Mr Stanley Potts, Chairman of the Thurmarsh Liberals, introducing him to the small gathering of the faithful who had turned up for his adoption meeting.
Suddenly, all the nerves which had plagued him for the last weeks left him and he felt that he could even face the House of Commons without fear.
There were several familiar faces in the audience. Magnus Willis, who had turned out to be his agent. Archie Postlethwaite, the lone councillor. Diana, nervous and embarrassed. Jack, awkward but relaxed. Ron Prendergast, wishing he was downstairs playing snooker. Ginny Fenwick, hoping for fireworks. Eric Mabberley, a lifelong Liberal. Oscar, the redundant waiter from the Pigeon and Two Cushions. Mr Gibbins, six foot two, almost eighty, and as bald as a coot, in whose class, in the days when he’d been six foot four, Henry had emitted a legendary fart. And … it couldn’t be. But it was … Cousin Hilda, who looked … yes … proud!
He stood up, to loud applause.
In a dark suit and orange shirt that matched his rosette, forty-four years old and becoming a bit of a roly-poly, with his hair streaked with grey and a bald patch on the top of his head, Henry was a comforting rather than an impressive figure. But he spoke well and with passion.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I’m grateful to you all for turning out tonight. I am Thurmarsh born and Thurmarsh bred.’ There was applause. His old headmaster, Mr E. F. Crowther, from whom he’d stolen the phrase, had known a thing or two. ‘I promise you that, if I am elected, I will serve the people of Thurmarsh with dedication, but I will not be a purely parochial politician. Better street lighting in the York Road area…,’ he paused, forcing them to applaud, ‘… will sit alongside the economy, the arts, the reform of our constitution and the conservation of our planet.’
He spoke briefly about the party’s policies, about proportional representation, about a federal solution to Welsh and Scottish devolution, about democracy in industry, about replacing the House of Lords with an elected s
econd chamber, about switching taxes from incomes to wealth and expenditure. There was laughter when he spoke of being thrown into the Rundle.
He concluded, ‘I said at the beginning, “If I am elected.” We start from a low base, but I don’t believe that we have no chance. I wouldn’t be standing if I did. I believe that the people of Britain are fed up with the counter-productive shuttle between Conservative and Labour dogmas. I believe that the people are hungry for change. I believe that, if we can make people believe that we believe, our hopes will not be make-believe. If we can inspire this town, we can win. I hate the complacent, easy patriotism of those who say that this is the best country in the world. If it is, with its incompetence and apathy, its prejudice and pettiness, its aggression and selfishness, God help the rest of the world. I suggest to you a greater, more honest, more difficult patriotism. Let’s begin, here today, our battle to rid this country of its weaknesses. Let us say, “If we care enough, if we work together enough, this country can become the best country in the world.”’
There was loud applause. Afterwards, people were warm with their congratulations.
‘We’ve made the right choice,’ said Magnus Willis.
‘It’s just dawned on me. You’re the farter. Well, it’s turned out not to be your only talent after all,’ said Mr Gibbins.
‘While you talked, I could almost believe I could be a political wife,’ said Diana.
‘I was proud of you. The whole market garden will be proud of you,’ said Eric Mabberley.
‘I shouldn’t be out, not with my tubes. I’ve been bronchial since Christmas. But it were worth it,’ said Oscar.
‘It were very nice. I only wish Mrs Wedderburn had lived to see this day,’ said Cousin Hilda.
