The Complete Pratt (14 page)

If Reckitt’s Blue was back, could peace be far behind?

But first there was the bombing of Dresden. Twenty-five thousand people were killed in one night, in a war that had already been virtually won.

Tuesday, May 9th and Wednesday, May 10th, 1945, were declared public holidays. Hitler was dead. Germany had surrendered. Union Jacks fluttered from big house and humble cottage alike. There was a victory peal on the bells of Rowth Bridge Church.

In Skipton there was dancing in the streets, to music relayed by loudspeakers. In Rowth Bridge Parish Hall, a dance was hastily laid on. It was widely agreed that a new piano was one of the first priorities of peace.

The children lit many bonfires. Henry ran around uselessly in great excitement.

Forty people, many of them from as far away as Troutwick, climbed Mickleborough and lit a victory beacon.

Uncle Frank danced with Auntie Kate. Jackie, the land-girl, danced with anybody and everybody. Even Jane Lugg, Pam Yardley and Lorna Arrow bore no grudges that night.

Pools of light. Tinkling of a bad piano. Chunter of assembled Luggs in the Three Horseshoes. Bonfires on all sides, and a ghostly beacon roaring in the wind among the Mickleborough clouds. It was not entirely unrestrained. There was still war in the Far East. People had seen the end of a war to end all wars before. People were tired. But it was victory, and Rowth Bridge did its best. The little village celebrated with pools of light and noise in the dark, silent dale.

Uncle Frank died peacefully in his sleep. It was a dreadful shock for Auntie Kate, of course, but everyone said what a wonderful way it was for Uncle Frank to go. At peace, in victory.

AUNTIE KATE INSISTED
on coming with him, although she had problems enough in keeping the farm going until the sale went through.

A Labour government had been elected. The Cold War had begun. Britain had given her blessing to the dropping of atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Henry was going back to Thurmarsh.

‘I want to stay here, Auntie Kate,’ he’d said.

‘It’s not possible, Henry,’ she’d told him. ‘The farm’s sold. I’m going to live wi’ Fiona in Skipton. It’s not possible.’

He’d done most of his crying at night.

Simon Eckington came on the bus with them. Mrs Eckington and Patrick were there to wave goodbye. So was Billy, the half-wit, who waved furiously, exaggeratedly. Henry said, ‘I hope there’s lots of eggs tomorrow, Billy,’ and Billy said, ‘Nay, t’ hens know tha’s going. T’ hens like thee.’

As Henry clattered out of the village, three girls sat on the hump-backed bridge. They were Jane Lugg, Lorna Arrow and Pam Yardley, whose father had not yet been demobbed. Henry waved. They stuck their tongues out.

And so Henry Pratt, liked by hens, hated by girls, rode out of hill-womb and began the long journey back to world-cobble. His heart was heavy. They rattled through Five Houses. He was glad there was no sign of Sidney Mold.

Miss Candy was at Troutwick Station to see him off. She was fifty-eight now, and even the tuft on her middle chin had gone grey. Miss Forrest had decided to put up with her till she was sixty, for the sake of her feelings.

‘What’s Miss Candy doing here?’ Simon said.

‘I don’t know,’ said Henry. ‘She’s probably meeting a friend.’

‘Miss Candy hasn’t got friends,’ said Simon.

The engine screeched to a halt. Henry didn’t care how many wheels it had.

He hated farewells, and there seemed to be so many of them.

He leant out of the window, smiling inanely.

Henry and Simon, loquacious explorers, vivacious naturalists, enthusiastic pursuers of Huns, were unable to think of a single thing to say to each other.

Miss Candy came to the rescue.

‘Clemmie and Winnie send their love,’ she said.

‘Clemmie and Winnie?’ said Henry.

‘My seals,’ said Miss Candy. ‘I train them for circuses, you know.’

They waved until they were so far away that he couldn’t see Miss Candy’s moustache.

On the train, he closed his eyes and willed it that when he opened them it would be a nightmare and he’d still be in Rowth Bridge. He opened them to see telegraph poles flashing by on a wet July day, traffic on a main road, and the last cows and sheep he would see for many a moon.

They changed trains at Leeds. As the train slipped out of City Station, Auntie Kate said, ‘Tha’s all he’s got now. He’s had five years of fighting. He’ll miss our Ada so it hurts.’

‘Does tha miss Uncle Frank so it hurts?’ he said, as they passed a wet, forlorn Elland Road.

‘Happen I do,’ said Auntie Kate.

‘That’s Elland Road,’ said Henry. ‘Miss Candy took me there. She shouted at t’ ref.’

‘Miss Candy is a strange woman,’ said Auntie Kate.

‘Does tha think Uncle Frank’s up in heaven?’ said Henry.

‘If any man deserves it, he does,’ said Auntie Kate with a sigh.

‘He might meet me mam.’

He didn’t tell her his private theory. There was no God. There was a heaven and there was a hell, but they were on this earth. Heaven was Low Farm, Rowth Bridge, Upper Mitherdale. Hell was number 23 Paradise Lane, Thurmarsh.

His dad was at the station to meet them. They hadn’t expected
him
to look so gaunt and ill, his demob suit hanging off him like wool on a dying sheep. They hadn’t realised that his swift demob had been on medical grounds. They hadn’t expected that he would only have one eye.

‘Grand snoek, this.’

‘I don’t like snoek, Dad.’

‘Well tha’ll have to lump it. There’s a war on.’

‘There isn’t, Dad. It’s over.’

‘Tha wouldn’t think so, would tha? No food. No clothes. No nowt. I mean, did we win or am I deluded?’

‘We won, Dad.’

‘I’m just slipping out to t’ Navigation for a bevvy,’ said Ezra. ‘Will tha be all right?’

‘Course I will. I’m norra kid. I’m ten.’

‘I’ll not be long.’

Please be long, because you don’t belong and I don’t belong, so be long, thought Henry. He had a lot of thoughts nowadays that nobody knew about. It was one of the best things about being a human being.

When his dad was in, Henry often went out. He’d enjoyed wandering around in Upper Mitherdale, in fact it had been a way of life. It was different here. The River Rundle was a sewer, compared to the Mither. The Rundle and Gadd Navigation was only marginally better. The little cobbled streets were mean and nasty. He hated the shared lav in the yard. He hated wiping his backside on squared-off bits of
Reynolds News
. He only liked two things in this environment – the trains and the trams. It was nice to stand on the footbridge, immediately over the trains, so that the smoke roared up behind you and then suddenly it stopped, and a moment later it roared up in front of you.

The best thing about the trams was that they led into Thurmarsh Town Centre, and there was a public library there. Auntie Kate had told him about the libraries they had in the towns, full of proper books, not comics. Just before he left Rowth Bridge, he’d read a Sexton Blake book which was ninety pages long! Everyone had been amazed.

Ezra gave him fourpence a week pocket-money. He spent it all
on
tram fares, to get books. The library was the only thing in Thurmarsh that was better than the worst thing in Rowth Bridge, which was its girls. There were girls in Thurmarsh too, but you ignored them.

His reading was wide and various. He read
Biggles Flies North, Biggles Flies South, Biggles Flies East, Biggles Flies West, Biggles Flies In, Biggles Flies Out and Biggles Sweeps The Desert
. They were written by Captain W. E. Johns, whose main virtue was that he was the greatest writer who ever lived. He had created four magnificent characters, Biggles, Algy, Ginger and Bertie, who defeated cruel Germans, wily orientals, unshaven dagoes and pock-marked mulattos in burning deserts, icy mountains, crocodile-infested swamps and spider-infested jungles, and never a woman in sight. But he read other books as well. He read
Gimlet Flies North, Gimlet Flies South, Gimlet Flies East
and
Gimlet Flies West
. Gimlet books were also written by Captain W. E. Johns and were better than everything in the world except Biggles books. Once he brought home a book called
Hamlet – A Shortened Version
, thinking it was Gimlet. It was rubbish, probably because it wasn’t written by Captain W. E. Johns.

That evening, he found it difficult to concentrate. In the morning, he was starting at Brunswick Road Elementary School. Eager anticipation was not coursing through his veins. Even the works of Captain W. E. Johns couldn’t take him away from his worries. If only they had a wireless.

Ezra returned, a little unsteady on his feet.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I were detained.’

‘Why haven’t we gorra wireless?’ said Henry.

‘We had one before t’ war,’ said Ezra. ‘It’s disappeared into thin air.’

‘Only I were thinking,’ said Henry. ‘I wouldn’t be that worrited if tha stayed a bit longer at t’ Navigation, if we had a wireless.’

High walls noise jostle confusion shouting bleak corridor smell stale greens green paint where to go tidal wave big room hubbub who are you Henry Pratt Henry Pratt? Henry Pratt ah! new boy returning evacuee no! lived with relations same thing how old ten ah! must be Mr Gibbins’ class over there come with me sit here
hubbub
yell silence shuffling feet cough cough silence sing hymn sit let us pray oh God we thank thee for another term like hell we do notices shortages breakages cough cough stand shuffle off corridor smell stale greens green paint classroom big high cold dark damp dank clatter boys sitting don’t know where to go stand small shy forlorn who are you?

He walked forward slowly towards the teacher’s desk. Mr Gibbins was six foot four and entirely bald. How old? Age didn’t come into it. He was Mr Gibbins, a fixture, an ageless chrome-dome.

‘Who are you?’ he repeated.

‘Henry,’ said Henry, determined that there should be no Ezra nonsense here.

‘Henry what?’

‘Henry Pratt.’

There was some laughter.

‘Henry Pratt what?’

‘Just Henry Pratt.’

Thirty-three white boys and one black boy hung breathless on the exchange.

‘Are you new to this school?’

‘Aye.’

‘At your last school, if your teacher had said to you, “What’s your name?” what would you have said?’

‘Ezra.’

It came out before he could stop it.

‘What?????’

‘Ezra.’

‘I thought your name was Henry Pratt.’

‘Aye, but there was another Henry there, and they couldn’t have two Henrys, so they called me Ezra.’

‘I see. Now, Pratt, when you addressed your teacher, did you use a little word as a mark of respect to the teacher?’

‘Oh aye.’

‘Well we believe in respect for authority here at Brunswick Road, Pratt, so I’d like you to use that same word to me. Do you understand?’

‘Oh aye.’

‘Oh aye
what?
’

Henry shrugged, then did what he was told.

‘Oh aye, miss,’ he said.

There was a roar of laughter. He
hated
it when people laughed at him.

That evening, when Henry got home, he found that Ezra had bought a wireless.

The nights drew in. The
Beano
exhorted, ‘We still need salvage, ton by ton – even though the war is won,’ but Henry didn’t read the
Beano
any more.

The only thing there was plenty of was shortages. Even professional men went to work in odd trousers and jackets! Miners threatened to strike due to a shortage of cigarettes. Four tons of dried-fruit slab cake were sent from Capetown. A third of all street lights were switched off. Britain had pawned herself, and there would be hard bargaining before America allowed her to redeem the goods.

The premises of Binks and Madeley Ltd had been destroyed in the Sheffield blitz, and Ezra was forced to swallow his pride, and take work making pocket-knives. The job didn’t last, and he was able to go to the Navigation at dinner time as well.

Uncle Teddy sent Ezra the occasional sum of conscience money, not knowing that Auntie Doris, not knowing that he was sending conscience money, was also sending conscience money. Cousin Hilda, not knowing that either Uncle Teddy or Auntie Doris were sending conscience money, was also sending conscience money, in lieu of taking a closer interest in what was going on. Her Mother, over at Leonard’s, had gone a bit funny, and ignored them completely. Ezra’s father was dying, and his mother had her hands full making sure that love and dignity were at the bedside. Ezra made sure that Henry had enough to eat and went to school looking no less presentable than the other children. Ezra told the customers at the Navigation that Cousin Hilda was looking after the boy. The neighbours at number 25 were old and deaf. At number 21 she was on the game. There was nobody to object. Nobody knew that Henry spent evening after evening on his own, except Henry and Ezra, and neither of them
would
tell.