The Complete Pratt (139 page)

Nor would he have believed, as he crawled out of the bed from which his wife had long departed, and staggered ashen and ashamed into the bathroom, where he took twice the recommended dose of paracetamol, turned on the stiff cold water tap with great difficulty, and drank seven toothbrush mugs of fluoride and chlorine into which a little water appeared to have filtered accidentally, that within a week he would have been offered a job for which he hadn’t even applied.

And, as he attempted to find in his right wrist enough strength to turn
off
the stiff cold-water tap in the ugly cold bathroom of his new and unloved home, he certainly wouldn’t have been able to guess what the job would entail, and, if he had guessed, he’d have been astounded if he could have foreseen that he’d accept it.

A new and unloved home? Financial circumstances had forced them to sell the large, crumbling house in Lordship Road and buy a much smaller characterless box in Splutt Prospect, high above Commercial Road. What town other than Thurmarsh could possibly boast a street that afforded a view of Splutt?

A bed from which his wife had long departed? Diana had gone to bed white with anger and had fizzed out of bed like a firework while he was still pretending to be asleep. She’d said nothing unpleasant to him throughout his long fruitless search for a decent job. She’d supported his rejection of the post of attendant at the magnificent new gents’ toilet in the bus station. She’d accepted, with quiet misery, that a bedroom for Benedict was no longer a necessity and they must move to a smaller house. It might have been easier if
she
’d fulminated furiously against her humiliation. Henry knew that she’d never allow her parents, or Paul and Christobel, to see 22, Splutt Prospect. She was becoming even more of an exile from her family.

Ashen and ashamed? All the frustrations and agony of his disappointments had come to the surface last night. Henry had wept – oh God, it was all coming back. He’d told her he’d have more respect for her if she showed anger – oh God, it was all coming back, that had been so unfair. He’d eaten all the Brie and practically demolished the bottle of calvados that Paul and Christobel had brought them from France. Oh God, it was all coming back. He hurried to the ugly cold bathroom and got there just before it all came back.

A bedroom for Benedict was no longer a necessity? Nothing had been heard of him by anybody. His disappearance was with them every day.

Kate was sad but staunchly supportive. ‘Cheer up, Dad,’ she’d say. ‘Surroundings don’t matter. Being a happy family is what matters.’

Jack had left school at sixteen, was working for a builder, learning the trade, and Henry hadn’t the heart to blame him if he spent more time in the Golden Ball than in Splutt Prospect.

Camilla hadn’t left Benningdean or changed her name to Pratt. She loved her mother and Henry. She didn’t love Splutt Prospect. She loved Tosser’s splendid house in Virginia Water. She didn’t love Tosser or Felicity. She had a boyfriend in Chichester. She loved Chichester. Tosser paid for her to travel to Thurmarsh and school and Virginia Water, but not to Chichester. Her boyfriend’s father was a butcher.

Kate had gone to Brian’s for New Year’s Eve, and Camilla to Chichester. Jack had been at a party. Joe and Molly Enwright had invited Henry and Diana to a party, but they couldn’t face social gatherings just then. The Blairs had cooled towards them since Henry’s resignation. Every life crisis attracts its unexpected defections.

It was twelve o’clock before Henry felt well enough to stagger downstairs.

Diana looked at him sadly over her mug of coffee.

‘I’m very, very sorry,’ he said. ‘A new year. Shall we make it a new start?’

‘I think we’ll have to,’ said Diana.

It was Henry’s habit, in those long days without work, to trudge the streets of Thurmarsh every afternoon. A few days into January, as he was struggling up Commercial Road with a cruel easterly blowing him homewards and lifting the flap of what Jack called his ‘flasher’s mac’, Henry met Derek Parsonage struggling down the hill but into the wind.

‘Henry Pratt!’ said Derek Parsonage. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘It’s half past three. They’re closed,’ said Henry.

‘I’m a member of a drinking club.’

‘Well I really ought to be getting home,’ gasped Henry, the wind plucking the words from his mouth.

‘Not yet sunk to drinking with villains?’ said Derek Parsonage.

Any suggestion of priggishness was anathema to Henry, and within minutes he was being signed in, in almost pitch darkness, to a basement den called the Kilroy Club, in Agincourt Lane.

The bar room of the Kilroy Club was only slightly lighter than the lobby. Thick, dark curtains covered the windows. The lights were dark red and feeble. This was a room for those who were allergic to daylight.

There were only three customers, a villainous-looking trio seated in a corner with pints of John Smiths.

Henry recognised the owner immediately. He was Cecil E. Jenkinson, formerly of the Navigation Inn. He was badly shaven, had bloodshot eyes, a thin strand of greasy grey hair on an otherwise bald pate, a gap in his teeth and a huge paunch. He’d gone to seed.

But his brain was still sharp. ‘Henry Pratt, may the gods preserve us,’ he said.

‘Yes. Sorry,’ said Henry.

Cecil E. Jenkinson had banned Henry’s father because he upset the other customers by going on about the war. Later, Henry had
shopped
him for allowing under-age drinking, and he’d banned Henry as well.

‘Oh, what the hell?’ he said. ‘That’s water under the bridge. What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?’

‘Something you can’t provide, but while we’re dreaming about it we’ll have two large whiskies,’ said Derek Parsonage, whose blackheads were worse than ever.

Cecil E. Jenkinson handed them their whiskies with a smile, but his eyes told Henry that he would never be forgiven.

‘I’ve seen one of those men in the corner before,’ said Henry in a low voice.

‘Police,’ said Derek Parsonage. ‘Watching.’

‘Watching?’ said Henry.

‘Villains,’ said Derek Parsonage. ‘Most of the villains in Thurmarsh get in here.’

‘They look like villains themselves,’ said Henry.

‘Camouflage,’ said Derek Parsonage.

‘Camouflage?’ said Henry.

‘So that they look like villains and blend into the background.’

‘There aren’t any villains.’

‘If there were they’d look like them and blend into the background.’

‘Henry Pratt,’ said one of the policemen.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Henry.

‘Bloody hell, everybody knows him,’ said Derek Parsonage, seeming put out by this phenomenon.

‘I took you home when you’d immersed yourself in the Rundle,’ said the policeman.

‘Oh yes!’

‘Barely out of short trousers, you were, and very religious. But the second time I took you home you were a piss-artist.’

‘How are the mighty fallen!’ said a second policeman.

The three policemen laughed.

A huge man with orange hair and a scar down his cheek entered.

‘A villain,’ mouthed Henry.

‘Police,’ whispered Derek Parsonage.

The huge man sat at the other side of the bar from the trio.

‘Why aren’t they talking to each other?’ whispered Henry.

‘They’re at loggerheads,’ whispered Derek Parsonage. ‘He’s Rotherham. They’re Thurmarsh. There’s bad blood. Will you take a very important package to Teddy on Saturday?’

‘Derek! The place is crawling with police!’

‘Don’t worry. They wouldn’t recognise a crime if it leapt up and bit them in the arse.’

‘Oh all right. I suppose so.’

‘Good man.’

Bill Holliday entered.

‘Henry Pratt, or I’m a Dutchman,’ said the scrap king.

‘Bloody knows everybody,’ grumbled Derek Parsonage.

‘It’s called personality,’ said Henry.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Bill Holliday. He slapped Henry on the back, bought him a double whisky, and lit a big cigar.

‘I thought you were trying to kill me once,’ said Henry.

‘So I was told,’ said Bill Holliday. ‘I laughed. Thought I’d die. I’m not one of the real villains, am I, Derek? We all know who they are.’

Derek Parsonage flushed.

‘Please, Bill,’ mumbled Derek Parsonage. ‘This place is crawling with police.’

‘Spice of life, a bit of danger,’ said Bill Holliday.

A red-faced, rather bloated man entered. Henry knew that he knew him, but he didn’t know how he knew him.

‘It’s Henry Pratt,’ said the bloated man.

‘Bloody hell, I don’t believe it,’ said Derek Parsonage.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ said the bloated man.

‘No. Sorry,’ admitted Henry.

‘Market Rasen Market Garden,’ said the bloated man. ‘Eric Mabberley. You’re with the Cucumber Marketing Board.’

‘Was’ said Henry. ‘I resigned on a matter of principle.’

‘Good for you,’ said Eric Mabberley. ‘What are you doing now?’

‘Drinking,’ said Henry.

‘Nice one,’ said Eric Mabberley. ‘Have a whisky.’

‘Well, thank you.’

‘Large whisky for my friend Henry,’ said Eric Mabberley.

‘Quite a character, our Henry,’ said Bill Holliday. ‘Knows everybody who’s anybody.’

Derek Parsonage sulked.

Henry’s head began to swim, but it was nice to be a bit of a character. Life was strange. Sometimes you were a nobody, and knew nobody, and sometimes you turned out to be a bit of a character, who knew everybody who was anybody.

‘Fancy a job with us?’ said Eric Mabberley.

‘Are you serious?’ said Henry.

‘Very much so. We’ve just bought Market Weighton Market Garden, we need new staff, and I like the cut of your jib.’

‘Well, that’s very nice of you.’

‘Besides, you have the one thing we lack.’

‘Oh,’ said Henry, pleased. ‘What’s that?’

‘Knowledge of cucumbers,’ said Eric Mabberley. ‘We need a cucumber man.’

So Henry was reunited with the only things that he knew about – cucumbers. But it was pleasant work, with plenty of fresh air, and there was the challenge of the opening of the Market Weighton Market Garden, and it was pleasant to be a member of a smaller and less bureaucratic organisation.

They moved from 22, Splutt Prospect after only a year, buying a pleasant if simple stone cottage on the outskirts of Nether Bibbington, a hamlet to the east of Thurmarsh. ‘We’ll be able to invite your parents here,’ said Henry to Diana, and she smiled, grateful that this was the nearest he’d ever come to acknowledging that she’d been ashamed for them to see 22, Splutt Prospect. The cottage’s setting scarcely justified its name of Waters Meet Cottage, the meeting waters being little more than wet ditches, but the prospect was infinitely more pleasant than that of Splutt.

Kate could still get to Thurmarsh quite easily, and Jack lodged with his boss during the week and came back for weekends. In the summer he played cricket for Upper Bibbington, and there were
riding
stables nearby, and Camilla took up riding again in the school holidays.

It was a wonderful summer. The temperature reached the nineties on more than one occasion, and they often ate outside. Kate took her A levels on magnificent summer days, the like of which Britain rarely sees. There was a water shortage, and it was a trying time for cucumber growers, but the Cucumber Marketing Board stepped in with subsidies to prevent the price becoming uneconomic. Henry’s attitude to the Board was much more positive now that he was on the growing side of things. He realised at last how right the Board was to be more on the side of the growers than of the public.

There was still no news of Benedict, and when they visited Monks Eleigh they lost heavily at Scrabble, Auntie Doris being able to make several unusual words, including Crunk, Yaggle, Zomad and Anquest, but all in all it was a good summer for the Pratts. And yet …

And yet, things weren’t quite the same between Henry and Diana. There were no more serious arguments, there were happy times, but the closeness never quite came back. Their relationship had become a framework within which their separate lives could flourish, rather than being the centre into which all their other activities flowed.

Kate got her three A levels and was accepted by Bristol University. Diana took bridge and needlework lessons. Henry, never before a pub husband, became part of the early evening crowd at the Lamb and Flag in Upper Bibbington. Often, he’d get home just as Diana was going out to her evening class. It wasn’t a bone of contention, and yet …

And yet Henry knew that there was something missing from his life, and when Martin Hammond suggested that he put his name forward as a Labour candidate for the Rawlaston Ward of Thurmarsh Borough Council, he accepted without hesitation.

‘It’s just a formality, of course, but there’ll be an interview.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Henry. ‘I hope in the Labour party it’s what you know and not who you know that counts.’