The Complete Pratt (54 page)

Last night! Oh no! He sat up abruptly and wished he hadn’t. But he hadn’t run into Cousin Hilda. She hadn’t seen how drunk he was. There was hope.

Then he heard her voice. Fiat. Too upset for anger. ‘He’s been sick on the stairs.’

He crawled out of bed, staggered across the room, opened the window, breathed in the icy morning air and heard her say, ‘He’s been sick on the lawn!’

He vaguely remembered going round the back, not going inside, because he’d felt ill.

She turned, and he moved away from the window.

‘Oh no!’ This time there
was
anger. Icy anger. ‘He’s been sick on the coal!’

She was hunched with hurt as she banged his breakfast down. Liam’s smile froze like condensed breath. Barry Frost stopped humming. A cardboard egg refused to go past the brick in Henry’s throat. Only Norman Pettifer seemed oblivious.

‘It’s going to be a Camembert day today,’ he said. ‘I just know it.’

As the tram clanked along Doncaster Road towards the Alderman Chandler Memorial Park that evening, Henry held his copy of the
Argus
with pride. Other men were merely reading it. He’d helped to produce it.

He read his story again.

Arthur Bollard, aged 27, of Snowdon Grove, Thurmarsh, was struck in the throat by a pair of tongs at work today, and was detained at Thurmarsh Royal Infirmary.

When he fell from a ladder at Johnson and Johnson Rolling Mills, 34 year-old Benjamin Whateley, of Smith Street, Rawlaston, received injuries to legs, back and hand. He was treated at Thurmarsh Royal Infirmary.

Also treated there was Samuel Willis, aged 15, of Derwentwater Crescent, Splutt, who trapped three fingers in a haulage chain at Drobwell Main Colliery.

Not spectacular, perhaps, but even Martin would have to agree that it was good socialist stuff. To anyone with an ability to read between the lines it must be significant that no bosses were injured that day when struck by falling agendas, choking on fillet steaks or burning fingers on cups of scalding coffee. That was the way to turn the paper leftwards – by stealth.

In Cousin Hilda’s basement room the blue stove with the cracked panes roared and crackled. ‘Bring me some men, some stout-hearted men,’ commanded Barry Frost under his breath. Norman Pettifer confirmed that it had indeed been a Camembert day. Cousin Hilda remained silent, stiff with disappointment and accusation. The pork was stringy, the roast potatoes were like bullets, the cabbage was overcooked. Cousin Hilda gave Henry two halves of tinned pears, while everyone else had three. He hurried out before she could get him on his own, and was in the Pigeon and Two Cushions ten minutes before Tony Preece.

While he waited he read that morning’s national papers. Would he ever be working for them?

The big story was the controversy over the government’s sale of tanks and arms to Israel and Egypt. The government had pointed out that the tanks ‘had been so old that they would have no military value’. They were ‘obsolete, ineffective and unreliable for war’. The British government had tried – and would continue to try, as far as lay within its power – to prevent an arms race in the Middle East. By selling obsolete tanks to both sides, presumably. ‘Our tanks don’t work.’ ‘Nor do ours.’ ‘Oh let’s give up.’ But wouldn’t they be angry about being sold useless weapons? thought Henry.

The sniffing waiter – ‘It’s gone to me sinuses now’ – brought them two pints of Hammonds’ best bitter.

‘So, what’s this business matter?’ said Tony Preece.

‘Well … are you still doing your act round the clubs?’

‘Oh yes. I couldn’t give that up. I’m addicted. You wouldn’t recognize the act now, though. I’ve changed it completely.’

‘Oh good,’ said Henry. ‘Sorry,’ he added. ‘Are you still … er …?’

‘Still with Stella, yes.’

‘How is she?’

‘Older,’ said Tony Preece gallantly. ‘So come on. Am I about to earn some extra money?’

‘Well, I can’t actually offer you any money, as such,’ said Henry, ‘but maybe I could give you some publicity, write a feature about your Jekyll and Hyde existence – by day, ordinary drab insurance man – at night, laughter-maker extraordinaire. If you’d … er … be my contact from the world of showbiz.’

He was rather hurt when Tony Preece laughed. Somehow he was getting the feeling that nothing very useful was going to come to him out of his contacts from the worlds of sport, industry and show business. In this he was wrong, but then he was to be wrong about so many things, during his career with the
Thurmarsh Evening Argus
.

SEXUALITY LAID HER
sweet tongue on everything that Henry did next morning. The weather was suitably bright and crisp. He felt a surge of joy as he converted his bed into a sofa. He hummed the ‘Ballad of Davy Crockett’ while he shaved. As he packed with unsuppressed excitement, Eve Boswell was picking a chicken on his wireless. Podgy Sex Bomb Henry picked a chicken with her.

In eleven hours he’d be alone with Lorna, in the Midland Hotel. He must remember that he’d booked the room in the names of Mr and Mrs Wedderburn.

He had no hangover. He could enjoy his breakfast. The egg was rich and runny. He ate it slowly, relishing it. The fried bread was a stern test of teeth. They all ate that slowly. Barry Frost even stopped humming while he tackled it.

Henry tried, for Cousin Hilda’s sake, not to look too delighted about going away, but his body thrilled with anticipation, and he caught her looking at him suspiciously.

Liam hurried off, then Norman. Not wishing to be left alone with Cousin Hilda, Henry hurried through his third piece of toast – two would have seemed too mean, four excessively generous, and Cousin Hilda treated him exactly like her ‘businessmen’, to prevent embarrassment. A great deal of Cousin Hilda’s life was devoted to preventing embarrassment, which might have been why everything turned out to be so embarrassing.

Henry lost his race with Barry Frost, who finished his breakfast
con brio
.

Cousin Hilda closed the door behind Barry Frost, and faced her responsibility resolutely.

‘Four days in journalism, and look at you. It can’t go on,’ she said.

No. It can’t. Say, ‘No. I agree. For both our sakes, dear Cousin Hilda, whom I love, I’d better move out.’ But he couldn’t. All he said was, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I should think so too. When I think what Mrs Wedderburn says about you.’

He closed his eyes, as if he hoped that existence would go away, if he couldn’t see it. What had possessed him to choose Mr and Mrs Wedderburn?

‘She says you’re such a lovely, polite young man. I must be so proud of you. Proud! What would she think if she knew that the polite young man whom she once lent her camp-bed out of the goodness of her heart had been sick on the coal?’

‘I’m sorry about the coal.’

‘It’s not the coal. It’s you. A drunk. Yes, Henry. A common drunk.’

‘No, Cousin Hilda. Well, the first time I
was
drunk, yes. It was meeting all the journalists. It was the first time I’ve ever been drunk.’ He didn’t want to lie, but felt that he had to, for her sake. ‘And the last. The second time it was food. Honestly.’

‘I didn’t think you’d ever lie to me, Henry.’

‘I’m not lying,’ he lied. For her sake.

‘Do you think Mr Pettifer’ll stay if there’s always piles of sick on the stairs? Is that any way for the manager of the cheese counter at Cullen’s to live?’

‘No.’ Just say, ‘I’m sorry, Cousin Hilda. I’ll find a flat.’ But he couldn’t. ‘I’ll never do it again, Cousin Hilda,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

‘I know you mean to be a good lad,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I know it’s difficult without your parents. I do my best.’

He gave her a quick kiss.

‘Give him my best regards,’ said Cousin Hilda, sniffing furiously.

‘Him?’ said Henry. ‘Who?’

‘Well, Paul, of course,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘And you behave yourself with his family!’

At first, Henry thought it a great piece of luck when Terry Skipton said, ‘I want you to interview a Mr Gunnar Fridriksen, from Iceland. I want you to find out his impressions of Thurmarsh. I’ve arranged for you to meet him in the Midland Hotel at three. If you’ve time, come back and do some book reviews.’ Because
Henry
knew that he wouldn’t have time. He’d sit in the foyer, writing up his notes, until it was time to collect his beloved from the station. National service had taught him the art of making a little work go a long way. It was a lesson, forced upon them by the state, that a whole generation of the nation’s manhood would diligently apply to their lives in industry and commerce.

At two minutes to three, he entered the hotel’s huge foyer. What an unlikely venue it was for love. Vast armchairs sagged wearily. Huge, ugly chandeliers hung threateningly. Photographs from the halcyon days of steam trains abounded. The thick carpet, rich dark red like old port, seemed to grab his feet at each step. The male receptionist smiled with smarmy superiority.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘Yes. Could you let me know when Mr Fridriksen arrives?’ His voice sounded small and selfconscious.

‘He’s already here, sir. Mr Fridriksen?’

A tall, thin man, so fair as to be almost albino, disentangled himself from an armchair and approached, smiling.

‘I have Mr Pratt for you, Mr Fridriksen,’ said the smarmy monstrosity. Oh lord, thought Henry, I hope this man isn’t still on duty when I book in as Mr Wedderburn.

They sat in a quiet corner, beneath a photograph of 46231
Duchess of Argyll
steaming through Crewe station past knots of train-spotting schoolboys in baggy, knee-length trousers. Henry’s armchair sagged more than Mr Fridriksen’s, making command of the interview difficult. He ordered tea with insufficient aplomb.

‘I want to ask you your impressions of life here and in Iceland, and how it’s different,’ said Henry.

‘Good. Fire away. I am, as you say, all ears,’ said Mr Fridriksen.

Henry thought about Lorna, sticking her tongue in his ear in four hours’ time. No! Concentrate!

‘You speak very good English, Mr Fridriksen,’ he said.

‘I fear not,’ said Mr Fridriksen. ‘I have only the bare rudiments.’

In four hours’ time I’ll be kissing Lorna’s bare rudiments. No! ‘Er … what’s impressed you most about life in Thurmarsh, Mr Fridriksen?’ Oh, Lorna. Lorna. I want to taste your Lorna-osity. I want to drink from the fountain of your Arrowness. ‘Er … sorry, I … er … I didn’t catch all of that, I … er … I don’t do
shorthand
yet. Could you … er … could you start again, please?’

Mr Gunnar Fridriksen looked at Henry in some surprise, but with infinite politeness. Their tea arrived, and somehow Henry forced himself to concentrate on the interview.

She seemed smaller, here in Thurmarsh, thin rather than slim, as if she were shrinking from the bustle of town life. Her smile was broad, but so nervous that it looked forlorn. They kissed. He was so excited that, the moment the kiss had ended, he had no memory of how it had felt.

They approached the crumbling, turreted bulk of the great stone-fronted railway hotel and, oh god, the smarmy monstrosity was still on duty.

‘I’ve got a double room booked,’ he croaked. ‘Mr and Mrs Wedderburn.’

The smarmy monstrosity raised an eyebrow a quarter of a millimetre, and hunted through the list of bookings.

Henry glanced at Lorna. She was blushing. She’d never looked like a country bumpkin before.

‘Ah yes,’ smarmed the monstrosity. ‘Room 412, Mr Wedderburn.’ He invested the name with just the faintest hint of irony. ‘If you’d just sign the register, Mr Wedderburn.’

Henry signed with shaking hand.

‘Mrs Wedderburn?’

Lorna bowed her head as she signed.

‘Will you be taking dinner, Mr Wedderburn?’

‘Yes,’ said Henry defiantly, as if it had been insinuated that he couldn’t afford it.

‘Would you like an early morning call, Mr Wedderburn?’ said the genius of understated insinuation.

‘Yes, please.’ He glanced at Lorna. ‘Er … eight-thirty.’

‘Very good, sir. A morning paper, Mr Wedderburn?’

‘Yes, please.
The Times
.’

‘Very good, sir. Mrs Wedderburn?’

‘The
Mirror
, please.’

‘
The Times
and the
Mirror
.’ Just the faintest suggestion that this might be the first time in the history of the hotel that this
particular
combination had been ordered. Smarmingtons clicked his fingers with astonishing volume. A page boy, dressed like a cross between a Morris Dancer and a colonel in the New Zealand army, appeared from nowhere. ‘Take Mr and Mrs Wedderburn’s “things” to room 412, Tremlett.’

‘I’ll carry them myself,’ said Henry hurriedly, anxious to avoid the embarrassment and expense of tipping.

‘As you wish, Mr Wedderburn.’

They walked towards the gilt-edged lifts, past the very chairs where Henry ‘I was the first British journalist to witness the searing horror that is Dien Bien Phu’ Pratt had interviewed Mr Fridriksen several centuries ago.