The Complete Pratt (112 page)

‘Right.’

They moved into a two-up, two-down stone terrace house in an attractive but crumbling Victorian terrace in Newhaven Road, off the top end of York Road. The Rawlaston and Splutt Building
Society
were worried by the condition of the house and thought the asking price of £3,250 excessive, but liked the security of Henry’s position, and gave them their mortgage after careful consideration.

They invited Cousin Hilda for tea on their very first Saturday. That morning Henry banged a new name plate into position on the gate. Hilary bandaged his thumb, and they stood back and looked at the name with pride.

Cousin Hilda was less impressed.

‘Paradise Villa!’ she sniffed.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ said Henry.

‘Putting on airs,’ said Cousin Hilda.

The living room had no carpets or curtains, and no furniture or decorations except for the art deco clock, a second-hand three-piece suite, a hard chair, and a very cheap nest of tables. A gas fire hissed gently.

Cousin Hilda gave the suite a dirty look, and plonked herself, legs akimbo and bloomers at half-mast, in the hard chair.

‘“Paradise” is an echo of the back-to-back where I was born, of which I’m not ashamed,’ explained Henry.

‘“Villa” is meant to be humorous,’ said Hilary. ‘Anyone can see it isn’t really a villa, but it also reflects the fact that Henry is thankful to have such an improvement on what his parents had.’

‘Aye, well, I just hope Mrs Wedderburn’ll be able to read all that into it,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I wouldn’t want her to think you’re putting on airs.’

Henry spread the nest of tables round the room, and Hilary brought in a tray of tea, crumpets and ginger cake.

‘Oh no, nothing to eat, thank you. I must have an appetite for my gentlemen,’ said Cousin Hilda.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Henry.

‘I owe it to my gentlemen to eat heartily,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘If I just picked at my food, they’d think there was something wrong with it. I am, in my small way, a public figure. It carries responsibilities.’

‘You must have something,’ said Hilary. ‘You’re our very first guest.’

‘We chose the house because it’s nearer to you than the flat,’ said Henry.

Cousin Hilda went pink, and Henry wondered how a lie could be bad, when it brought so much pleasure.

‘Well all right,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘Just one crumpet.’

She ate her crumpet with deliberation and concentration.

‘Very palatable,’ she said primly.

‘Have you ever thought of using cucumbers?’ asked Henry.

‘I can’t,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I share all my meals with my gentlemen. They know what to expect. They expect to know what to expect. I can’t make changes. There’d be ructions.’

The art deco clock struck four. Kate stirred, opened her eyes, yawned, and gave Cousin Hilda a beautiful smile.

‘She’s smiling at you,’ said Henry. ‘She likes you.’

‘Ee!’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘Mrs Wedderburn would love to see her. She’d be right thrilled to hold her.’

‘Does that mean you’d like to hold her, Cousin Hilda?’ asked Hilary, and Henry held his breath, and an amazing thing happened. Cousin Hilda smiled and said, ‘Aye, well, I would.’ So Kate was passed over to her very carefully, and Cousin Hilda held her with grim concentration, and tickled her chin selfconsciously, and said to her, ‘Who’s a pretty baby, then?’ Henry and Hilary looked at each other and smiled with their eyes, and there was a long silence, as nobody dared disturb the mood, and then Henry said, ‘Do you think your gentlemen would like to see her?’

So Henry slipped home early on the following Thursday, and they took Kate to tea at Cousin Hilda’s, and Kate slept as they ate their roast pork and tinned pears, and Mr O’Reilly said, ‘There’s a bit of you in her, Henry. And a bit of you, Miss Hilary, oh yes. She’s a lovely little thing, that she is,’ and Brian Ironside mumbled, ‘She certainly is,’ and Norman Pettifer said, ‘Adrian had no Stilton at all today. Gorgonzola, Roquefort, Bleu de Bresse, Danish Blue, and no Stilton. There isn’t an ounce of patriotism in that boy’s body.’

That Saturday they took Kate to Troutwick to see Auntie Doris and Geoffrey Porringer. Auntie Doris said, ‘Can I hold her, please?
Oh
, isn’t she gorgeous, love her?’ And Geoffrey Porringer said, ‘There’s none of you in her at all, Henry,’ and Auntie Doris said, ‘Teddy!’ and Geoffrey Porringer said, ‘The name is Geoffrey, Doris. And why are you Geoffreying me anyway?’ and Auntie Doris, who always made things worse by protesting about them, said, ‘Because you’re tactless, Geoffrey. I said she was gorgeous, and you said there’s none of Henry in her at all, and you know how sensitive he is about not being good-looking.’

Auntie Doris seemed to Henry to be growing larger by the month and to be laughing almost too much now. He sensed that there was something rather desperate about her laughter and her drinking and about this deeply successful performance that she was giving as the landlady. He felt that if she didn’t stop she would go on expanding until she exploded into little bits all over the antiques in the lounge bar one crowded Saturday night.

And, as Auntie Doris grew larger, it seemed that Geoffrey Porringer was growing smaller, hiding in her shadow. Henry could no longer dislike him enough to call him slimy.

He caught Auntie Doris pretending to pour herself a double gin. While she drank heavily, she didn’t have quite the Rabelaisian capacity that she claimed. Geoffrey Porringer, on the other hand, pretended to be a moderate man, but slipped spirits into his beer at every opportunity, from whatever bottle happened to be most handy. Henry had the impression that, if something didn’t change, the pub’s popularity would kill them both.

They took Kate to Perkin Warbeck Drive. Nadežda said, ‘I don’t intend to do this business of saying whom she takes after. She’s lovely, she’s healthy, and she’s herself.’ Howard Lewthwaite said, ‘We mustn’t rest until we give this girl, and millions like her, true equality of opportunity.’ Sam said, ‘God, she’s ugly!’

Donald Campbell achieved a world record 248.62 miles per hour on Coniston Water, the Preston by-pass became Britain’s first stretch of motorway, and autumn slid irrevocably into winter.

Henry found himself increasingly desk-bound as the weather closed in. He sent letters to market gardeners who grew cucumbers,
market
gardeners who didn’t grow cucumbers, farmers who might grow cucumbers, shops that sold cucumbers, shops that didn’t sell cucumbers, restaurants that used cucumbers and restaurants that didn’t use cucumbers. All these letters were typed by Andrea in the typing pool. When he discovered that Andrea was known as Deputy Head of Services (Secretarial), Henry realised that everybody in the Cucumber Marketing Board had a title, and there wasn’t anything special in being the Assistant Regional Co-ordinator, Northern Counties (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed).

One wild wet window-rattling, dustbin-lid-tormentor of a morning, Mr Whitehouse called Henry into his office, blew his predatory nose, and said, ‘You’re sending an awful lot of letters.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Henry. ‘I’m aiming at blanket coverage.’

‘M’m. There are two ways of looking at everything, Henry,’ said the Director (Operations). ‘On the one hand there is blanket coverage. On the other hand, there is saturation point. Point taken? Good. I’m delighted with your enthusiasm, Henry. Delighted. The fact is, though, because we all have to live in the real world, you’ve exceeded your budget.’

‘I didn’t even know I had a budget,’ said Henry.

‘Oh dear,’ said the Director (Operations). ‘Oh dear. I would never run a colleague down behind his back, not my style, not the Timothy Whitehouse way, but between you, me and the mythical G.P., Roland Stagg is getting a bit lax in his old age.’

Mr Whitehouse leant back in his chair, pulled his braces out, and let them fizz back into his chest. I wonder if he likes bondage, thought Henry.

‘You did tell me to be my own man, stick to my guns and be fearless. I took that as an invitation to independence,’ said Henry.

‘I did indeed. A fair point. I sit rebuked.
Mea culpa
.
Mea culpa
! I should have told you to be your own man, stick to your guns and be fearless
within the budget
. Point taken, Henry?’

‘Point taken, Mr Whitehouse.’

As Henry set off to return to Room 106, Roland Stagg shambled out of his office on the second floor, crumpled trousers hanging low over his obscene paunch, and said, ‘I warned you, Henry. A low profile.’

‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘but he told me to be fearless and stick to my guns.’

‘And I told you to take his advice with a pinch of salt.’

‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘but he told me to take your advice with a pinch of salt.’

‘Yes, but I’m right and he’s wrong. That’s why he’s the Director (Operations) and I’m only the Regional Co-ordinator, Northern Counties (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed).’

Henry staggered, somewhat bemused, into his office, and sat behind his familiar desk, listening to the rain gushing from drainpipes of many styles. The telephone shrilled petulantly, and he jumped.

‘Tubman-Edwards. I need to see you.’

Henry dragged himself to the office of the Head of Establishments.

Mr Tubman-Edwards looked at him sadly.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

So far so good! Henry had no problem in obeying the simple instruction.

‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Tubman-Edwards. ‘Sid Pentelow is upset.’

‘Sid Pentelow?’

‘Director (Financial Services). He hates people exceeding their budget. As you’re my appointee, it reflects badly on me. You’ve let me down, Henry.’

The rain was beating against Mr Tubman-Edwards’s windows like furious bees.

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Henry, ‘but I didn’t even realise I had a budget.’

‘There are budgets for everything. Postage, telephones, travel. My son’s coming up next weekend. I know you weren’t close chums, but I think you got on pretty well, didn’t you?’

‘Oh yes. Pretty well.’

‘Tremendous. Well, we’d like it if you and your wife came to dinner next Saturday, if you aren’t too busy getting ready for Christmas.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Henry, appalled. ‘We’d love to.’

‘Excellent. These budgets are so generous that I simply never dreamt that anybody could exceed them. But you …’ He looked at Henry sadly. ‘You’re a human dynamo.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘No, not within reason. But you must always remember that we are given finite tasks to perform. If we perform them too well, there’s a danger that one day our work will be over. We’ll have worked ourselves out of a job. None of us would want that, would we? Till next Saturday, then. Shall we say seven thirty for eight o’clock?’

The wind was playing badminton with fish-and-chip papers. A pigeon was tossed over the Queen’s Hotel like a rag-doll. A taxi ploughed through a puddle and drenched Henry. His throat was sore and he thought he might be starting a cold. He only just caught the train and had to stand until Normanton. When he got home, Kate had colic and was screaming, and the stew had stuck and was slightly burnt. When the phone rang, he just knew it would be bad news.

‘It’s me,’ said Helen Plunkett, née Cornish. ‘Ted’s away, and I’ve just had a bath, and I’m completely naked, and slightly pink all over from the heat, and I thought it was high time you came round and I did that interview about those cucumbers.’

Henry felt extremely nervous as his noisy wipers swished and screeched their way to Ted and Helen’s flat in Coromandel Avenue.

He hadn’t really wanted to go, but Hilary had insisted.

‘She’ll try to seduce me,’ Henry had said. ‘I know her.’

‘Exactly. And you will not be tempted. I know you. We love each other utterly, don’t we?’

‘Of course we do.’

‘Well, then. An ideal opportunity to re-dedicate our love.’

As he pulled up outside the unloved, leaf-sodden garden of number 12, Coromandel Avenue, and rushed up to the porch with its stained glass windows at either side of the door, Henry steeled himself to be strong against temptation.

It was a relief that Helen was no longer naked. Indeed, she was wearing a long, loose grey dress which did nothing for her body.

Large photographs of Helen and Ted at their wedding, of Ted’s parents, of Helen’s parents and of her sister Jill, yet another young woman after whom Henry had lusted, sat in silver frames on the heavy, ornate sideboard. The suite was brown leather. Helen made coffee, and plonked herself briskly and unsexily into a chair, leaving Henry alone on the settee.

‘Right. To work,’ she said, to Henry’s relief. ‘Why didn’t you get on to me about the article? It’s been months.’

‘Because you didn’t seem remotely keen.’

‘I’m not. So, excite me. Persuade me. Where’s my angle?’

‘I just thought … a piece about how unjustly the cucumber is neglected,’ said Henry as limply as an old salad.

‘So why is it unjust?’ She wrote busily in her elegant shorthand. Henry began to wish that she was looking a
bit
more seductive, so that he had something to fight against.

‘Well … I mean … cucumbers are very nice. How’s Jill?’