The Complete Pratt (40 page)

‘Mother!’ said Reg Hammond, as if to say, ‘This is man’s talk.’

Martin looked from his father to Henry, refereeing their talk. In the blue corner, God. In the red corner, socialism.

His sister began to cry.

‘Ignore her,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘We’ve got to learn her. In t’ war she’d have given thanks.’

‘The war’s been over six years, Reg,’ said Mrs Hammond.

‘Some wars are never over, mother,’ said Reg Hammond. He turned to Henry, brushing off everything else as irrelevant. ‘God promises a better world in the next world,’ he said. ‘Socialism promises it in this one.’

‘Who’s to say we can’t have a better world in this world
and
the next one?’ said Henry. ‘There’s no contest.’

‘Careful, Henry. Don’t deny him his fight,’ said Martin.

‘The church is all part of the ruling classes,’ said Reg Hammond.

‘Jesus Christ wasn’t exactly a ruling class figure,’ said Mrs Hammond.

Reg Hammond looked at her with a pained expression. She was ruining a straight fight by coming in on Henry’s side.

‘Martin’s on my side, I know,’ said Reg Hammond, openly making it a foursome.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Martin.

‘Why afraid?’ said Reg Hammond.

‘You never say anything I can disagree with,’ said Martin. ‘It’s not healthy. It’s stunting my development.’

Martin’s sister cried on.

‘The Tories are going to get in tomorrow,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘Does tha know summat? I don’t trust them an inch. I wouldn’t put it past them to have lost t’ 1945 election deliberately because they knew whoever got in then stood no chance. 1950, let ’em back with a tiny majority. Get them to start tearing themselves apart, the ever-present curse of the left.’

‘Just listen to his babblement,’ said Mrs Hammond lovingly.

‘Now the Tories’ll nip in and reap t’ benefit of all t’ hard work we’ve done,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘They’ll be in for years. Their hard times are over. Their brief decade of nightmare without servants. Now we’ve entered the decade of the consumer durable, but not too durable. Mechanical servants, made by the same class that used to be the servants. Everything appears to change. Nowt does.’

‘The rubbish he comes out with,’ said Mrs Hammond proudly.

‘I hope it is rubbish,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘I just hope it is.’

He sighed deeply and sank into his chair.

‘Are you really depressed, Mr Hammond?’ said Henry.

‘Aye, lad, I am,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘I hoped that 1945 meant that the middle class were losing their fear of Labour, and Labour would no longer be forced to be the sort of party they had any reason to fear. I hoped we could all go forward together. I really did.’

Martin’s younger sister stopped crying, and ate a tiny corner of fish-cake. There was silence for about five seconds. Then it was shattered by a motor-bike spluttering into violent life in Matterhorn Drive.

‘I said summat about it to that Crowther at t’ grammar school,’ said Reg Hammond. ‘I don’t think he knew what I were on about. Pillock.’

‘Dad!’ said Mrs Hammond. ‘You shouldn’t talk like that about
their
headmaster, not in front of them.’

‘That’s summat that
is
changing, mother,’ said Reg Hammond, springing to his feet. ‘From now on, authority is going to have to earn its respect. Pillocks of the world, watch out.’

‘Criticise him, fair enough,’ said Mrs Hammond. ‘But there’s no cause to call him a pillock. What will Henry and his God think?’

‘God will forgive Mr Hammond,’ said Henry. ‘God will give him his tha what.’

‘Tha what?’ said Reg Hammond, turning at the door, half into his coat.

‘Pardon,’ said Henry. ‘God will give you his pardon.’

Henry grinned.

Reg Hammond gave him an old-fashioned look, then laughed.

‘By heck, Martin. Tha can’t put much over on your Henry Pratt,’ he said.

‘He was brought up in a hard school,’ said Martin.

‘Several hard schools,’ said Henry, but Reg Hammond had gone.

Reg Hammond was right about the election. Labour got the highest vote ever recorded by a political party in Britain, but lost by twenty-six seats.

Henry went to tea at the Hammonds every week after that. One day, as the last of the dusk was lingering, Martin accompanied him down the suburban roads, over the railway and the River Rundle, across the waste ground, over the canal, along the towpath, through the gate into the ginnel, along the ginnel as far as Paradise Lane, along Paradise Lane and across the main road to the tram stop outside Crapp, Hawser and Kettlewell’s. They walked in silence, awed by their memories.

A youth was approaching, jaundiced by the street lights, a snappy dresser, a flashy young man. He carried a football under his arm.

‘By heck,’ he said. ‘It can’t be. It bloody is, though. Martin Hammond. Henry Pratt.’

‘Tommy Marsden!’ said Martin.

‘Bloody stroll on,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘Hey, are we to go for one in t’ Navigation?’

‘We’re under age,’ said Martin.

‘To hell wi’ that,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘Barry Jenkinson’s me mate. I often go up there, sup a bit of stuff.’

‘Not me,’ said Henry. ‘Not a pub. Sorry.’

‘He’s religious,’ said Martin.

‘Oh heck. Bad luck,’ said Tommy Marsden sympathetically. ‘Why does tha think I’ve gorra football?’

‘Why have you got a football?’ said Martin.

‘I’ve been took on by t’ United.’

They looked at him in awe. They were boys. This was a man.

‘Come on, Henry,’ said Martin. ‘Under the circumstances.’

‘Well, all right,’ said Henry. ‘Under the circumstances. I won’t drink, though.’

The smell of stale smoke, stale beer and furniture polish almost knocked Henry over.

He liked it. He fought against liking it, but he couldn’t help it.

Cecil E. Jenkinson greeted them heartily.

‘Evening, gents,’ he said. ‘All over eighteen, are we? Good. I have to ask. Heard about the flasher? Decided not to retire. Going to stick it out another year. He’s upstairs, Tommy.’

‘Line ’em up, Cecil,’ said Tommy Marsden, going to the door marked ‘private’.

‘What’s it to be, lads?’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson, licensed to sell beers, wines and spirits. ‘Pints all round?’

‘Orange squash for me,’ said Henry.

‘Orange squash?’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson.

‘He’s religious,’ said Martin.

‘He’s norra Catholic, any road,’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson, licensed to tell dirty jokes and use foul language. ‘They’re all piss-artists.’

‘Have a beer,’ said Tommy Marsden, returning. ‘To celebrate. Under the circumstances.’

‘Well, all right,’ said Henry. ‘Just a small one. Under the circumstances.’

Cecil E. Jenkinson poured three and a half pints of bitter. Barry Jenkinson joined them. Tommy Marsden paid. They raised their glasses.

‘To Tommy,’ said Henry. ‘I really am thrilled, Tommy.’

Tommy Marsden pretended not to care, but you could see he was pleased.

‘Henry Pratt,’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson. ‘Ezra’s lad.’

‘That’s right,’ said Henry.

‘He was one of my best customers,’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson.

Discretion proved the better part of Henry’s valour. A tart comment would have provided a discordant note at what was, after all, a celebration.

The four under-age drinkers sat in the little snug. The stuffing was peeping out from inside the faded green upholstery. At regular intervals round the little room there were bells for service. On a shelf above the fireplace there were two sets of dominoes, two packs of cards and four pegboards. The window was of fine Victorian smoked glass. The fire was lit. If this was the Hell of Strong Drink, Henry found it surprisingly cosy.

He felt ashamed, but also exhilarated, as he sipped his beer. His conscience was eased by the fact that it tasted terrible.

‘I may not play in t’ first team for quite a while,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘Mr Linacre says he’s grooming me carefully for stardom. He says not to be disappointed if I don’t make progress straight away. He says many a lad’s been ruined by being brought on too fast, and I think he’s right. He says I’m to remain level-headed whatever.’

‘What position do you play?’ said Martin.

‘I’m an inside forward in the Raich Carter mould,’ said Tommy Marsden.

Martin Hammond insisted on buying a round, and must have forgotten that Henry was only drinking halves. There was no point in saying anything. He needn’t drink it all.

‘Is this the same beer?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘It tastes nicer.’

They chatted about old times, in the Paradise Lane Gang.

‘We used to race dog turds in t’ Rundle,’ said Tommy Marsden to Barry Jenkinson.

Henry apologised silently to his maker for Tommy Marsden’s language.

‘I don’t remember that,’ said Martin.

‘It’s the only thing before the war I do remember,’ said Tommy Marsden.

‘What happened to Ian Lowson?’ said Martin.

‘He’s in t’ steelworks, like his dad. I don’t see much of him.’

‘What about Chalky White?’ said Henry.

‘He’s gone down t’ pits, where they’re all black,’ said Tommy Marsden.

‘I thought I saw him,’ said Henry.

‘It’s the pressure to conform,’ said Martin Hammond.

‘Don’t say things like that,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘Barry can’t understand them. He’s thick.’

‘I am,’ said Barry Jenkinson. ‘I’m as thick as pig shit.’

Henry apologised silently to his maker for Barry Jenkinson’s language.

‘What happened to Billy Erpingham?’ said Martin.

‘God knows,’ said Tommy Marsden, and Henry agreed silently that he did. ‘I did hear summat, but I forget.’

A few other customers entered. Barry Jenkinson, not as mean as he was thick, rang a bell, and a waiter in a white coat came out with a tray, and Barry Jenkinson said, ‘Same again, Gordon,’ and Henry hadn’t the energy to protest, and besides, the beer wasn’t having any effect on him, so where was the harm?

‘Is this the same beer?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘It tastes nicer.’

Soon, Tommy Marsden said he must be off. ‘Mr Linacre says self-indulgence has nipped many a promising career in t’ bud, and he’s right,’ he added.

‘I haven’t bought a drink yet,’ said Henry. ‘Must buy a drink for Tommy.’

He borrowed three and eight off Tommy, and bought a round.

‘I’m right glad you lot are pleased,’ said Tommy. ‘I thought tha might be too snotty-nosed.’

‘Snotty-nosed? Are we buggery?’ said Henry, and he forgot to apologise to God.

Their laughter grew boisterous. Cecil E. Jenkinson, licensed to be a crashing bore and have a son who was as thick as pig shit, approached them, and informed them that they had had enough.

‘Banning me like you did me old dad, are you?’ said Henry.

‘Listen, young lad,’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson, licensed to refuse to serve people for no reason whatever. ‘Listen. I liked your dad. Don’t get me wrong. One of t’ finest human beings as ever supped a pint. There was only one thing wrong wi’ him. He used to give the customers the screaming abdads.’

‘You bloody bastard,’ said Henry.

‘Get your drunken friend out of here,’ said Cecil E. Jenkinson. ‘That’s the last time I allow under-age drinking in here.’

He was right, too.

As Henry walked through the little gardens in front of the Town Hall, on his way home from the tram, the enormity of what he had done struck him and he burst into tears, and knelt to pray to God.

‘And what do you think you’re doing?’ said the policeman.

Henry stood up, somewhat unsteadily.

‘Praying,’ he said.

‘Oh aye? And I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ said the policeman.

‘No, I
was
praying,’ said Henry. ‘I was praying for forgiveness.’

‘Why? What have you done?’

‘Tonight,’ said Henry, desperately trying to focus. ‘Tonight I have got drunk and used foul language.’

‘How old are you?’ said the policeman.

‘Sixteen.’

‘Where have you been drinking?’

This was his big chance to avenge his father for the wrongs that had been done to him by Cecil E. Jenkinson.

‘The Navigation Inn,’ he said.

It was several days before Cousin Hilda could forgive him for arriving home drunk.

Cecil E. Jenkinson never forgave him.

Henry wasn’t sure whether God forgave him. He prayed for forgiveness, but received no reply.

He was beginning to have doubts about whether God existed.

He went through all the arguments over and over again. Cosmological. Teleological. Ontological. There must be a God
because
there is no other explanation of why the world began, or indeed of how it began. But what is the explanation of why there is a God and how there is a God and how God began? There are so many signs of order and purpose in Nature that it is inconceivable that there is not an overall creative Mind controlling it. There are so many signs of disorder and chaos in Nature that it is inconceivable that there is an overall creative Mind controlling it. There must be a God, otherwise how would we be able to have the idea of God? Well, there must be nuclear bombs because how else would we be able to have the idea of them? By inventing them. Have we not invented God? Does that make God any less God? Supposing every single person in the world believed in God? It would prove nothing. It’s conceivable that everybody could suffer from the same delusion at the same time. Everything that is said is conceivable. Everything that is conceivable is said, many times. In the end either you plump for a God out of need or temperamental inclination, and that is grotesque, or God is Revealed to you.