The Complete Pratt (140 page)

‘You’re speaking my language,’ said Martin Hammond.

The interview took place in the committee room of the Labour Club. Henry found himself sitting at a long trestle table, facing two men and a woman. Behind them was a portrait of Harold Wilson. The painter wasn’t awfully good at people, but did pipes wonderfully.

Henry hadn’t done much preparation for the interview, partly because he knew that it was a formality, and partly because something which he didn’t quite understand was preventing him from giving serious consideration to his political views. His answers, therefore, were as much of a surprise to him as to anybody.

‘You knew my old deputy, Howard Lewthwaite, didn’t you?’ said the Leader of the Council, Walter Plumcroft.

‘Yes. I was married to his daughter,’ said Henry.

A grave wave of longing for Hilary swept over him. Oh God, how he missed her. And now he’d missed a question.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I missed that. I was thinking about her. How … er … have you any … er … perhaps afterwards, Mr Plumcroft, we could have a chat?’

‘Certainly. No problem,’ said Walter Plumcroft, who was a sewage works manager. ‘A few questions. Just a formality. Are you sound on unilateral nuclear disarmament?’

‘Well, no, I’m not sure that I am,’ said Henry. ‘I think it would be obscene ever to use nuclear weapons first, but no, I’m not sure if we should concede all our strength at the negotiating table.’

There was a stunned silence.

‘Are you steadfast against being in Europe?’ ventured Len Pickford, no relation of the removals people.

‘Well, no, I’m not,’ said Henry. ‘I don’t think you can ever defy geography successfully. We’re part of Europe and we have to be in there, shaping it.’

The silence deepened. Janey Middleton, who was a school meals superintendent, was the first to rally.

‘We aim to nationalise a third of British industry in the next Parliament. Don’t tell us you aren’t in favour of that,’ she said.

‘Well, no, I’m not,’ said Henry. ‘I believe all our services should be nationalised, but none of our production.’

A wren’s alarm call shattered the deep silence that followed this reply.

‘Are you in favour of replacing the traffic lights at the end of Market Street with a mini-roundabout?’ asked Walter Plumcroft.

‘I don’t know enough about it to have an opinion,’ said Henry.

‘I think you’d better tell us what you do believe in,’ said Len Pickford.

‘I believe in moderation and compromise,’ said Henry. ‘I believe in a balance between unions and management, between planning controls and the free market, between men and women.’

A bicycle bell, rather fiercely rung out in the street, caused Walter Plumcroft to jump.

‘You aren’t a Socialist,’ said Janey Middleton. ‘You’re a wishy-washy Liberal.’

‘I know,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve only just realised it. I’m awfully sorry for wasting your time.’

After the interview, Henry went to the Globe and Artichoke with Walter Plumcroft. The pub was next door to the playhouse and on the faded red walls there were signed photographs of theatrical luminaries, notably Dickie Henderson, Francis Matthews and Marius Goring.

As he sat at a corner table with Walter Plumcroft, Henry could feel his heart going like a pump at Mr Plumcroft’s sewage works.

‘So … er … are you … er … are you in contact with the Lewthwaites?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes. Yes,’ said Walter Plumcroft.

‘How are they?’

‘Naddy’s pretty poorly, I think. Spain’s given her a few extra years, but it can’t be long now. It’s very sad.’

‘Very sad. And … er … how’s Hilary?’

‘Fine, as far as I know. I don’t know if she does a lot, but, yes, fine.’

‘Is there … er … would you happen to know if there’s … er … anybody in her life at all?’

‘I couldn’t say. I could ask.’

‘Well, if you are in touch, that would be very kind. Obviously I care a lot about her, and I hope there is.’

Well, if he was thinking of going into politics, he might as well get used to lying.

The more Henry thought about it, the more he liked the idea of being a Liberal. He liked underdogs. He’d always felt a rapport with cucumbers because he saw them as underdogs, the Henry Pratts of the salad. The Liberals seemed to him to be the cucumbers of British politics. They would form a useful underdog triumvirate – the Liberal Party, cucumbers, and Henry.

He telephoned the Liberal Club and told them he wanted to join. They took his name and suggested he call in for a drink.

At the Club he was introduced to a committee member, Ron Prendergast, of Prendergast and Dwomkin, funeral directors. They sat in the bar, in a quiet recess, below a portrait of Asquith. They could heard the clunk of snooker balls from the back room. Henry had once thought that the carpet couldn’t decide whether to be orange or green. Now he liked it. How our perspectives change, he thought. How little absolute truth there is.

‘I looked you up in our records,’ said Ron Prendergast cheerfully. ‘You gave us the privilege of burying your father. Everything satisfactory, was it?’

‘Well it
was
over twenty years ago,’ said Henry, ‘and I was only eleven at the time.’

‘So you want to join the club? Splendid. We have a nice snooker room. We’re open seven days a …’

‘No, no. Well I mean, yes, I will join, but no, what I meant I wanted was to be involved politically.’

‘Ah!’ said Ron Prendergast. ‘Well, I’ll give you a form and you can fill in what you’re prepared to do – address envelopes, man polling stations, canvass …’

‘No, no. I mean, yes, yes, I’m happy to do those things but I
meant
that I actually wanted to get involved. I’d like to become a councillor.’

‘Oh! Well! That’s tremendous! We only actually have one councillor at the moment. South Yorkshire’s a bit of a Liberal black spot, truth to tell. I mean, we’re always looking for candidates. Well, you know, grand.’

‘I’m not … to tell you the truth this has all come as a bit of a spur-of-the-moment job … I’m not actually terribly
au fait
with our current policies.’ He liked the use of ‘our’. It made him feel a Liberal already. ‘Could we discuss policies a bit?’

‘Ah!’ said Ron Prendergast. ‘Policies aren’t really my forte. I’m more on the snooker side of things. Archie Postlethwaite would be your man for policies. He’s our councillor.’

Two days later Henry met Archie Postlethwaite, who worked for an insurance company. He was small and sallow and had a grey goatee beard faintly tinged with orange, as if it had dipped into tinned tomato soup. They sat under Joe Grimond, and Archie Postlethwaite seemed as bemused as Ron Prendergast by his question about policies.

‘My policy is to give satisfaction on local issues. Find out what people want, and fight for it. Democracy in action.’ He clearly liked that phrase, so he repeated it. ‘Democracy in action. We build our power base from the local issues upwards. That’s the secret of our success.’

‘But we don’t have much success.’

‘Not in Thurmarsh. Thurmarsh is a black spot.’

A white-haired old man with a stick hobbled to the bar and ordered a pint of bitter and a whisky chaser.

‘So what about our policies at national level?’

‘I leave that to the boys in London. That’s the beauty of the Liberal Party. You don’t have all the political baggage to carry around with you. Look at the trouble the other two parties have got into by having policies.’

The white-haired old man hobbled over to them.

‘It is!’ he said. ‘It’s Henry Pratt!’

It was the blackheads that did it. Without them, Henry would never have recognised Geoffrey Porringer.

‘Geoffrey!’ he said. ‘Well well well!’

The very fact that one hasn’t seen somebody for a long time can lead to a reunion begun with unsustainable warmth and enthusiasm. Seeing Henry and Geoffrey Porringer greeting each other like long-lost brothers, Archie Postlethwaite hurriedly eased himself away from further awkward questions about policies.

‘So how long is it?’ said Geoffrey Porringer.

Henry worked out that it was more than thirteen years.

‘Thirteen years! Is it really? And you haven’t changed a bit, young sir.’

Henry couldn’t bring himself to say that Geoffrey Porringer hadn’t changed, so he said, ‘Oh! I have.’ He patted his stomach. ‘A bit more there.’

‘Well, maybe,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘Oh, it is good to see you.’

Henry thought this a bit odd, since the last time they met, Geoffrey Porringer had said, ‘End of chapter. That particular album closed. I’d be happier if I didn’t see any of Doris’s family any more.’

‘It’s amazing that we should run into each other here,’ he said.

‘Not really. I come every day. Very set in my ways now. I didn’t realise you used it.’

‘I don’t. I want to become involved in Liberal politics.’

‘Are you mad? Keep out of politics, young sir.’

‘I never liked you calling me “young sir”. Now that it’s so obviously untrue I like it,’ said Henry.

‘You’re young to me.’ Geoffrey Porringer took a sip of his whisky and winced.

‘Pain?’ said Henry.

‘It’s nothing. How’s Hilary?’

Henry winced.

‘Pain?’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘Are none of us immune?’

‘Mine’s emotional.’ He gave Geoffrey Porringer a brief résumé of his emotional life.

‘Oh well, life goes on,’ was Geoffrey Porringer’s considered comment on all the anguish and joy through which Henry had lived.

‘I deduce you’re no longer at the White Hart.’

‘Oh no. Sold that years ago. Well, it almost killed me. Made me an old man.’ A bitter tone was creeping into Geoffrey Porringer’s voice. ‘Doris, you see. I couldn’t fill her shoes. Nobody could. Everything was as good as ever. I promise you it was. But would those twat-arses acknowledge it? Never. “You should have seen it in Doris’s day.” If I had a fiver for every time I heard that I’d be a rich man. All said in front of me, as if because I’m on the other side of the bar I can’t hear, or because it doesn’t matter because I’m not a real person. Twat-arses, customers, apart from a few. Twat-arses.’

Henry bought a round. Silence fell between them. The false warmth of their reunion was evaporating, and there was still the subject of Miles Cricklewood to broach.

‘Cheers,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘Well … tell me, young sir … how is the old girl? Still with that bloody vet, or has she found greener pastures?’

‘She isn’t like that.’ He longed to tell him that Miles Cricklewood was Uncle Teddy. ‘She’s … er … she’s in a bad way.’

‘Oh?’

‘Her memory’s going. She’s going slowly senile.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘It’s a very trying situation, but Miles is immensely patient.’

‘Is he really? Good old Miles.’ Geoffrey Porringer let out a long sigh that was almost a whisper. ‘Well well well.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve grieved over Doris for years, and all the time I should have been counting my blessings. I’ve had a lucky escape.’

‘Oh no,’ said Henry. ‘It’s she that’s had the lucky escape.’

Henry wrote to the Liberal Headquarters in London, announcing his desire to become actively involved in Liberal politics ‘at grassroots level’, because he thought that phrase would go down well. He got a nice letter back, assuring him that he was on file. He knew that he ought to pop in for an occasional drink at the Liberal Club, but he couldn’t face another meeting with Geoffrey Porringer. It would untidy his curtain line.

One evening, as he returned from the Lamb and Flag in Upper Bibbington and met Diana leaving the house for her bridge, he heard the telephone ringing and got there just in time.

‘Walter Plumcroft here.’

‘Oh yes?’ Who the hell was Walter Plumcroft? Oh yes! Labour Leader of the Council.

‘You asked me to ring you if I found out anything.’

What? What about? Oh!! Hilary!

‘Yes. Yes, I did. About Hilary.’

‘Yes. It’s good news.’

‘Oh good.’ His heart was thumping. She was free. She loved him.

‘I spoke to her myself. She’s in a relationship and it’s very very stable. All’s well.’

Henry’s heart sank.

‘Are you still there?’ asked Walter Plumcroft. ‘Have we been cut off?’

‘No, no. No, no. Oh, that’s terrific. Oh, that’s a great relief.’

‘Thought it would be.’

So that was that.

Henry took a week’s holiday at the end of October, and went down south with Diana. A whole week together. Maybe their sex life would resume its former glory. But their Ford Escort was ageing, travelling was tiring, and it never quite did.

They stayed with the Hargreaveses for a few days. Mr and Mrs Hargreaves were sailing elegantly into the sunset together in a glory that was fading only slowly. Mrs Hargreaves contrived to make the lines on her face enhance her beauty. Mr Hargreaves remained handsome and serene. At the end of a dinner of baked aubergine and roast turbot, as they left the olive-green dining room, Mr Hargreaves hung back, and Henry realised that he wanted a word with him. ‘I just wanted to say,’ he said, ‘that when you told me you were going to marry Diana I had my reservations. When you took her up north I had my reservations. I have none now. My daughter has never been as happy as she is with you.’ Henry felt as if he’d
been
sandbagged. Why couldn’t Mr Hargreaves have said that in the years when Henry had made Diana truly happy, instead of now, when he knew that her happiness was just a pretence?