The Complete Pratt (16 page)

Cousin Hilda’s friend’s left stocking developed a ladder which grew slowly longer as the day darkened.

They went for a short walk in the Alderman Chandler Memorial Park. The slit trenches remained. Three or four hardy children were playing on the swings and roundabouts, but the little cluster of animal and bird cages was empty. The glass in the old men’s shelter had been shattered in the Blitz, and had still not been replaced. They went back to Cousin Hilda’s and had tea and Christmas cake and then they played a card game in which you started with the sevens and had to go up to as far as the kings and down as far as the aces. Cousin Hilda’s friend couldn’t quite get the hang of it, but Len Arrowsmith revealed an unsuspected ruthless streak. His father was on his best behaviour. When Cousin Hilda’s friend reached up for her handkerchief, which she kept in her knickers, Henry looked up her thigh to see how far the ladder had got.

‘All over till next year,’ said Cousin Hilda as they left.

Thank goodness, thought Henry.

1946 began quietly. More footwear was promised soon for civilians. In the January clearance sales, boys’ school shirts were offered at 2/1d by the Thurmarsh and Rawlaston Cooperative Society. Gents’ merino vests and trunks were 2/- and half a coupon. There were plans to stamp children’s footwear to prevent parents pawning it, and complaints from housewives about the illogicality of aprons being on coupons when floor mops weren’t.

Henry spent the time quietly with his friends. He had many friends. He particularly liked the boy detectives, Norman and Henry Bones, on ‘Children’s Hour’, and there was an exciting serial called ‘The Gay Dolphin Adventure’ by Malcolm Saville. ‘Nature Parliament’ had begun, with Derek McCullough, Peter Scott and L. Hugh Newman. He loved this, and ‘A Visit to Cowleaze Farm’, although they both opened up a vein of painful nostalgia. But he would listen to anything. When they heard that Ezra’s father had died, Henry was in the middle of a talk on squash rackets, with recorded illustrations, by F. N. S. Creek. In the evenings he liked boxing, comedy and adventure. He listened spell-bound to Arthur Dancha of Bethnal Green v Omar Kouidri of Paris. He laughed at ‘Merry-Go-Round’ from Waterlogged Spa, Sinking-in-the-Ooze, at ‘Music Hall’ with Nat Mills and Bobbie, who said, ‘Well let’s get on with it’ and everybody laughed. They all had their catch phrases. Leon Cortez said, ‘There was this ’ere geyser Caesar,’ and everybody laughed. It seemed a shame to Henry to laugh at Shakespeare, just because he was so much worse a writer than Captain W. E. Johns.

He thrilled to Paul Temple and to ‘Appointment with Fear’.

These were his friends. He had no real-life friends.

Then, one dark, dismal, dank outside as well as in, electric-lit morning in early February, an incident occurred in Mr Gibbins’ class which was to have a profound effect on Henry’s social life.

Although Brunswick Road Elementary School had become Brunswick Road Primary School, it remained a stone, Victorian fortress, with high Dutch-style gables, a steep-pitched roof and green guttering. The walls and windows were high. There were three doors, for boys, girls and mixed infants. Beyond the infant level, boys and girls were still totally segregated.

Mr Gibbins’ classroom had bare walls with peeling plaster. There wasn’t a lot of fungus. The desks were fixed to the floor by iron legs, and the seats were benches fixed to the desks by iron arms. Sharp corners abounded. On each desk there was an ink-well.

Absentees were Chadwick (cold), Erpingham (I forget), Lewis (flu), Barton (death of grandmother – genuine) and Pilling (death
of
grandmother – false – got idea from Barton).

Among those present were Mr Gibbins, Henry, Tommy Marsden, Martin Hammond, Ian Lowson (son of the peripheral Sid) and Chalky White, the West Indian.

They took a test each week, and changed places according to their results, moving to the front if bad, and to the back if good. Henry had risen rapidly to the back of the class.

Mr Gibbins caned them on the hand if they didn’t get seven out of ten for mental arithmetic, but the biggest bee in his bonnet was English grammar.

‘Today,’ he announced, ‘we’ll deal with subjects and objects. You might say that the subject of the lesson is subjects and objects, and the object is to cram as much knowledge into your thick skulls as possible.’

To be honest, the class did not look as if they would be very likely to say that.

‘Joking apart,’ said Mr Gibbins, to their surprise, ‘give me a sentence, Marsden.’

‘Six months,’ said Tommy Marsden from the front row.

‘Six months what, Marsden?’

‘Six months for nicking lead off the church roof.’

‘Come here, Marsden.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Tommy Marsden went forward and held out his hand. Mr Gibbins smacked it three times with the cane.

‘Let that be a warning to you all,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘Give me a sentence, Cuffley.’

Norbert Cuffley, a goody but not a genius, adorned the second row from the back.

‘The teacher asked me to give him a sentence, sir,’ he said.

‘Excellent, Cuffley, if not wildly imaginative.’ Mr Gibbins scraped the sentence agonisingly onto the blackboard. ‘Now, what is the subject of the sentence, Pratt?’

‘You asking Cuffley to give you a sentence, sir.’

‘No. I mean, yes, that is the subject in the sense of what it’s about. I meant, “What is the subject in the grammatical sense?” What word in the sentence fulfils the role that we call the subject? Milner?’

‘Me, sir?’

‘Yes, you. That’s why I said Milner, Milner.’

‘No, sir. I meant “me”. “The teacher asked me.” That “me”, sir.’

‘Why do you say that, Milner?’

A loud fart rent the air. Everybody laughed, except Cuffley.

‘Who did that?’ said Mr Gibbins.

‘Me, sir,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ve got wind.’

‘I choose to believe you,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘I cannot believe that any boy would deliberately waste time, in the most important year in his school life, by breaking wind deliberately.’

‘Exactly, sir,’ said Tommy Marsden.

‘Why is this the most important year in your school life?’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘Because we now have, for the first time, true equality of opportunity in education. At the end of the year you will take the Eleven Plus examination to see which of you are clever enough to win this equality of opportunity. Some of you will go to the grammar school, and the chance of being somebody in life. Others won’t. It’s up to you.’

‘If we all work hard, sir, will we all go to grammar school, sir?’ asked Tommy Marsden.

‘No, of course not. There isn’t room. The best will go,’ said Mr Gibbins.

‘So whether we all work or all do nowt, t’ same people will go, sir,’ said Tommy Marsden.

‘Don’t be silly, Marsden,’ said Mr Gibbins. A thin bead of sweat was glistening on his forehead. ‘Right. Hilarious joke over. Back to education. Milner, why did you say that “me” was the subject of the sentence?’

‘T’ teacher’s like t’ king, sir. So t’ pupils are his subjects.’

‘Ah! Very ingenious, Milner. I’m glad to see you’re thinking, at any rate. It makes a change. Keep at it. You may find you grow to like it. But you’re wrong. Hammond?’

‘Is the subject the noun, sir?’

‘Very good, but which noun?’

‘Teacher, sir.’

‘Very good, Hammond. Why?’

‘Because it comes first, sir.’

‘Well, that’s not really the…’

A loud fart rent the air. Everybody laughed, except Cuffley.

‘Who did that?’ said Mr Gibbins wearily.

‘Me, sir,’ said Booth.

‘Come here, Booth.’

‘I couldn’t help it, sir.’

‘Come here, Booth.’

‘It’s not fair, sir.’

Booth held out his hand. Mr Gibbins smacked it twice with the cane.

‘Let that be a lesson to you all,’ he said. ‘The subject of a sentence, and we did deal with the subject of subjects last week, the subject of a sentence is the nominative, the element in the sentence about which something is predicated. The object is that which is governed by a transitive verb or preposition.’ Mr Gibbins looked at their blank faces and wished he hadn’t started on this. The sweat was beginning to run down into his eyes. ‘In simple terms, the subject is the doer, the object is that which is done to.’

‘What’s a doer, sir?’ said Cuffley.

‘It’s t’ thing in t’ hoil in t’ wall to stop t’ draught,’ said Appleyard.

‘Write out fifty times “I must not make silly remarks in class”, Appleyard,’ said Mr Gibbins.

‘Can’t I have t’ cane, sir?’

Mr Gibbins took a deep breath.

‘The subject of the sentence is therefore the teacher,’ said Mr Gibbins.

A loud fart rent the air. Everybody laughed, except Cuffley.

‘Would your tiny minds laugh however often that happened?’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘Would you still laugh if it happened a hundred times – don’t try it!!!! Right. Who was it that time?’

‘Me, sir,’ said Martin Hammond.

‘You’re an intelligent boy, Hammond,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘You could go far. Sometimes I wish you would. Why do you deliberately break wind and ally yourself with these miserable cretins?’

‘The working class must stick together. That’s what my dad says, any road,’ said Martin Hammond.

Mr Gibbins stared at Martin Hammond wildly.

‘I won’t punish you this time, Hammond,’ he said, ‘because I believe you to be fundamentally sensible.’

‘That’s not fair,’ muttered Tommy Marsden.

‘I heard that,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘Come here, Marsden.’

‘It’s not fair, sir,’ said Tommy Marsden. ‘He makes a loud noise and gets nowt. I whisper one word and get caned.’

‘I didn’t say you were going to be caned,’ said Mr Gibbins, realising that Tommy Marsden had a point, and back-tracking hurriedly. ‘Come here.’

Tommy Marsden walked forward and held out his hand.

‘Point to the subject of the sentence on the board,’ said Mr Gibbins, handing Tommy Marsden his pointer.

Tommy Marsden pointed to the word ‘teacher’.

‘Good,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘It’s the teacher, because it’s the teacher who asked. So what’s the object?’

‘Him, sir,’ said Chalky White.

‘Me, sir,’ said Henry Pratt.

‘No, sir. Me! Me! said Norbert Cuffley.

‘Me,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘Precisely.’

‘How can it be you, sir?’ said Appleyard. ‘You’re the subject.’

‘I didn’t mean me as a person,’ said Mr Gibbins. ‘I meant “me” in the sentence.’

Something approximating to order was gradually restored. Mr Gibbins’ class didn’t want to overthrow the law and order of the classroom, because they wouldn’t have known what to do after they’d done it. A total collapse of discipline would have frightened them. It was a war of attrition, fought on safe ground, renewable every day.

Henry liked it when order was restored. He wanted to learn. Judge then of his discomfiture when he began to feel a genuine need to break wind. He fought against it. He was frightened of the cane. He had no wish to do anything but sit quietly, learn things (if possible) and give the occasional right answer without being a disgraceful goody like Norbert Cuffley.

Desperately he pressed his buttocks against each other. In vain! There emerged a piercing whistle of gargantuan duration. It was so high-pitched that only dogs, bats, all twenty-nine boys and Mr
Gibbins
could hear it.

Everybody laughed, even Cuffley.

Henry could feel his cheeks burning. Then he realised that everything would be all right so long as he pretended that he had done it deliberately.

He grinned.

Mr Gibbins brought the cane down four times on his outstretched hand, but he could hardly feel the pain through the glory.

Henry had been made an honorary member of the Paradise Lane Gang, on account of a single act, the slow emission of a phenomenal amount of wind in the form of a high-pitched scream unique in the anal annals of the West Riding. The gang had never heard of Le Pétomane, but, if they had, they would have believed that the distinguished Gallic farter had a worthy rival in South Yorkshire.

Henry relished the fame uneasily, for he knew he was living on borrowed time.

‘Do it again!’ was the constant command of his new chums.

‘On my birthday,’ he said, and they accepted that. An artist of such rare talent was entitled to choose the stage for his performance.

He had four whole weeks in the gang. There were six members. Tommy Marsden, Billy Erpingham, Chalky White, Martin Hammond, Ian Lowson and Henry. They got on trams without any money, knocked on people’s doors and ran away, pretended to be blind and got helped across roads by kind old ladies, dialled 999 and ran away, painted spots on their faces and went on a trolley bus disguised as an epidemic of chicken pox, gave each other haircuts, bought a bathing cap and some glue, and constructed a wig which they put in Mr Gibbins’ desk.

On Friday, March 8th, Henry listened to Jackie Paterson of Glasgow v Bunty Doran of Belfast.