The Complete Pratt (81 page)

AT 9.28 ON
the evening of Thursday, November 8th, 1956, Henry Pratt entered the large lounge bar of the Winstanley. He was alone and listless.

At 9.29 his spine tingled. Martin Hammond had said that a councillor had arranged to meet a council official in a pub that was something to do with Dr Livingstone. Livingstone had met Stanley. Could he have meant the Winstanley?

He asked Martin from the public phone opposite. ‘That’s it,’ Martin said. ‘I knew it was summat to do with Livingstone. Why? Interested at last, are you?’ ‘I’m beginning to get a gut feeling about it,’ said Henry. ‘We journalists work on gut feelings. This could end up even bigger than the canary.’

As he returned to the bar, Henry saw Mr Matheson ordering a drink. His spine tingled again, and both the hairs on his chest stood on end. His brain was working at last.

Mr Matheson was a councillor, and he drank in the Winstanley! Henry knew, with that gut feeling of his, that Mr Matheson was
the
councillor. He was looking at Henry strangely. Why was he looking at Henry strangely?

Because Henry was looking at
him
strangely. He tried not to look strange, and approached Mr Matheson.

‘Are you all right?’ said Mr Matheson.

‘I had a terrible pain,’ said Henry. ‘Indigestion. I’m all right now.’

Mr Matheson didn’t look convinced. ‘I thought you looked happy,’ he said. ‘Almost triumphant.’

‘I like pain,’ said Henry. ‘I love indigestion. I went to a public school and became a masochist. I belonged to the indigestion society.’ Oh god. Would he never behave normally in the presence of this man?

Mr Matheson looked a little alarmed, then switched his full charm on Henry, who found himself smiling as he accepted a drink. He felt absurdly grateful. This worried him. Perhaps, if Mr
Matheson
bought him enough drinks, he’d lose the will to expose his corruption.

‘I understand you met Anna and didn’t quite hit it off,’ said Mr Matheson. ‘What a shame. She needs careful handling, Henry. We’ve probably sheltered her too much. Cheers!’

Henry Pratt, investigative journalist, was in a determined mood. Nothing would stand in the way of his investigations. Never again would he allow himself to become entangled with, or humiliated by, a woman.

His determination lasted until 6.37 on the following evening, when Helen’s sister Jill entered the back bar of the Lord Nelson, blushing shyly. Her youthful confusion and sexuality overwhelmed him. Her physical vulnerability, her air of barely controlled emotion, aroused him deeply. He felt as if he’d gone over a hump bridge too fast.

It had been, until Jill’s arrival, a rather listless Friday evening. Gordon had said ‘
Ennui
’ and Henry didn’t think he’d been referring to a French playwright, though with Gordon you couldn’t be sure. Colin had announced he must get home to Glenda. Ben had said it was time to give the wife one. But now they all accepted a drink off Ted. ‘Oh, we’re staying, are we?’ said Ginny, and Gordon said, ‘Frail craft. Tidal waves.’ Henry tried to go home, but found himself buying a round. He tried to hide his feelings for Jill. He knew he’d failed when Helen pressed her thighs against him.

Another drink came. He was powerless to leave. When Ted said they were going to show Jill the jazz club, he said he’d go for half an hour.

And all the others went too.

The smoky upstairs room at the Devonshire was packed and noisy. Ginny was sullen. She didn’t look attractive when sullen. Henry tried to concentrate on the music of Sid Hallett and the Rundlemen. They were playing ‘Basin Street Blues’.

Helen said ‘Don’t you still fancy me at all?’ during a particularly loud burst of trumpet. ‘You’re married,’ he said. ‘I’m disappointed in you. You’re getting boring,’ she said. ‘I know. Utterly boring.
So
, please, Helen, be bored by me, and leave me alone,’ he said. She didn’t hear him.

He stood close to Jill, almost touching her. After all, it was possible that her remark that she didn’t find him attractive had been a subconscious reaction to her fear of the deep feelings he was stirring up in her.

At last he spoke. ‘Do you like jazz?’ was his sparkling opening remark. She didn’t hear him, because ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ cannot be played softly. ‘They’re loud, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘What?’ she said. ‘They’re loud, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘Sorry?’ she said. ‘It isn’t worth repeating,’ he said. ‘What?’ she said. ‘I said it isn’t worth repeating,’ he said. ‘What isn’t worth repeating?’ she said. ‘What I said,’ he said. ‘What did you say?’ she said. ‘They’re loud, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘I can’t hear you. They’re too loud,’ she said.

Ben interrupted. ‘Guess the first thing the wife will say to me tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Oh, shut up, Ben,’ said Henry. ‘Correct,’ said Ben.

When Jill left the room, Henry followed her. He hovered by the top of the stairs, between the bar and the toilets, among the people arriving and departing. When she returned, he said, ‘Jill? You remember I asked you out at the wedding?’ She blushed and said, ‘Yes. I’m sorry. I was a bit rude.’ He said, ‘Please! I asked for it. Er … Jill? You’re so incredibly lovely.
Will
you come out some time?’ ‘You’re asking for it again,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to. I think you’re horrible. Leave me alone.’ Helen walked past and heard! Jill returned to the crowded bar. Helen gave him an angry look. His cheeks blazed.

All he had to do was walk down the stairs and go home. But he couldn’t run away. Pride demanded that he went in and finished his drink. Then he’d make his escape.

‘We’re going to the Shanghai for a curry afterwards,’ said Ted. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Count me in,’ he said.

They met in the Labour Club, of which Tommy was an honorary member. Henry bought two halves of bitter. They sat in a discreet corner, beneath a portrait of Ramsay MacDonald. They could
hear
the clunk of snooker balls from the back room. The carpet was red.

Tommy unveiled his second scoop. The team was going to make a record, to play to a small boy who was in a coma.

‘Terrific,’ said Henry. ‘Who says footballers have no heart?’

Tommy Marsden looked at him suspiciously.

‘I may have another scoop an’ all soon,’ he said.

‘What sort of a scoop?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say anything yet.’

‘Give over, Tommy,’ said Henry. ‘We’re friends. Former members of the Paradise Lane Gang. You can trust me.’

Tommy looked at him doubtfully.

‘Have a drink,’ said Henry.

He bought two glasses of bitter.

‘I may be going on t’transfer list,’ said Tommy. ‘You’ll be t’first to know if I do.’

‘Leave Thurmarsh?’ said Henry.

‘Can Muir and Ayers give me the through balls I need if I’m to utilize my speed? Can they buggery? I’ve got the scoring instincts of a predatory panther, and I’m being sacrificed on the altar of mid-table mediocrity.’

‘You’ve been reading too many press reports.’

‘You what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I’ve got a lethal left foot.’

‘Your right arm’s not too bad either.’

‘You what?’

‘Nothing. Have a drink.’

Henry bought two glasses of bitter.

‘What about loyalty to the team that made you?’ said Henry. ‘What about loyalty to the town that took an urchin off the streets and turned him into a star?’

‘You’ve been reading too many press reports,’ said Tommy. ‘Listen. Only last night I heard about one of t’directors, who’s buying up half t’town centre dirt cheap so he can redevelop it at vast profits. Loyalty to Thurmarsh? Don’t make me laugh.’

‘Which director?’ said Henry.

‘I’ve told you too much already,’ said Tommy.

Henry bought two glasses of bitter. This time it didn’t work.

It didn’t matter. His spine had tingled again. He had his gut feeling again. This tied up with Mr Matheson and the corrupt council official, or he wasn’t Henry ‘The man nobody muzzles’ Pratt.

In Hungary there were acute food shortages. Ten million people refused to go to work. The future of the Soviet puppet régime of Mr Kadar hung in the balance.

It would take months to clear the ships that were blocking the Suez Canal. The Anglo-French forces and the Israelis refused to retreat until a United Nations peace-keeping force was installed. Colonel Nasser refused to behave as if he’d been defeated.

On the evening of Thursday, November 16th, Henry ‘The man nobody muzzles’ Pratt installed himself in a corner of the large, over-furnished, over-decorated, surprisingly Caledonian lounge bar of the Winstanley, in the hope that Mr Matheson was a creature of habit, and would again meet the corrupt council official after the council meeting.

He sipped his beer slowly, and read Anna’s letter for the fifth time. It belonged to the ‘anyway’ school of letter-writing.

Dear Henry [she’d written]

Thank you for your letter, and I’m sorry I’ve taken so long to reply. You know how things are. Anyway, I’m writing at last.

Frankly, I think I must have had a bit too much to drink that night. Anyway, I’m sorry I did what I did and I certainly don’t blame you for what happened. Or didn’t happen! Thank you for taking me out and for asking me out again.

Anyway, I’m afraid I’ll have to say no, because something has cropped up. A man I’ve known for some time has asked me to live with him. He’s quite a bit older than me, but very kind, and I like him. Anyway, after much soul-searching I’ve decided to go. Who knows if it’ll work, but then I’m not sure if I’m ready for marriage and babies and all that just yet. If ever! Squealing brats I call them. Anyway, we’ll see.

Anyway, Henry, there’s one thing I’d seriously like to say. It’s none of my business, of course, but I honestly think you
went
for the wrong one that day in Siena. Old Hillers is pretty desperate for a man, though unfortunately she doesn’t realize it. She’s very serious and high-minded but I think you are too. You’re both fairly screwed up (in the nicest possible way!) and I think your repressions might be made for each other. I hope you don’t mind me saying this.

Anyway, all the very best for the future, and I’m still glad I met you and that you asked me out.

Lots of love

Anna

PS If you run into my parents, please don’t tell them all this. They think I’m staying with my pen-friend, a dreary girl who wants to become a nun! Ugh!

The thought of pale, repressed, mentally ill Hilary, with her horrible body, appalled him. Anyway – oh god, Anna’s style must be catching – he resented being described as screwed up and regarded as a last resort for lost girls who were desperate for a man.

The bar was filling up steadily, with the pipe-smoking, dog-owning populace of the neighbourhood. Ginny Fenwick and Gordon Carstairs entered. They joined him, which was awkward, but he could hardly object. Besides, he was always happy to be in close proximity to Ginny. She might yet become his lover when she finally accepted that Gordon would never leave his wife.

‘May I tell Henry?’ she asked.

‘Burgess and Maclean,’ replied Gordon.

Ginny interpreted this as meaning ‘yes’. ‘Gordon’s wife has left him,’ she said.

Henry felt absurdly depressed by this news. And he didn’t know what to say. ‘Congratulations,’ seemed unfair to Hazel. ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ was clearly inappropriate. He settled on ‘Ah!’ There was a pause, as if they expected more. They weren’t going to get it. After all, he didn’t even know if he was supposed to know that Gordon had been intending to leave her. And already his mind was whirring with the possible implications on his domestic peace. Would there be more or less amorous couplings above his head?

‘Er …’ he said. ‘Will you … er … er … live in your house, then, Gordon?’

‘No,’ said Gordon. ‘Kippered walls.’

‘He means it’s dripping with evidence of marital bitterness,’ said Ginny. ‘The walls are stained with smoked fish thrown in anger.’

‘Ginny’s got it!’ said Gordon.

‘So, you’ll … er … live in the flat, then?’

‘Tick tock,’ said Gordon. ‘Tick tock.’

‘My flat is a place of clock-watching, of snatched moments, soured by tension and insecurity,’ explained Ginny.

‘Ginny’s got it!’ said Gordon.

Henry was forced to say, yet again, ‘I hope you’ll both be very happy.’ He added a mordant rider: ‘I always thought Ginny’d make somebody a very good interpreter.’

Gordon laughed, said, ‘Fifteen, love!’ and chalked up a score on an invisible blackboard.

‘So you’ll find somewhere else to live?’ Henry asked.

‘Somewhere that’s totally ours,’ said Gordon with surprising clarity.

Ginny smiled proudly. Suddenly Henry no longer felt crabby and jealous. He kissed her warmly and said, ‘I hope you’ll be very happy, love,’ in a voice that only just avoided cracking.

He bought them a drink.