The Complete Pratt (36 page)

A train whistled. A dog barked. Henry prayed in the fog.

‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘Forgive me.’

There was no reply. He didn’t expect one. God had told him that He existed. Now, there would be silence until he had Atoned for his Sins.

He knew what he had to do. He understood the nature of symbolic gestures.

He got up, shaking, sweating, even crying, wretched, but happy. He edged his way forward towards the River Rundle, cautiously. It would ruin everything if he fell in.

He sensed the bank rather than saw it. Yes, there the land fell away. He knelt and reached out into the white nothingness with his hand.

No doubt the Ganges was polluted. A river was Sacred because Faith made it so. Otherwise, pilgrims would make only for trout streams, to the fury of angling clubs and water bailiffs.

Henry knew that the River Rundle was Sacred. Therefore, the River Rundle was Sacred. And it was truly an act of Faith, for in the thick fog he couldn’t actually see that it was the river that he was stepping into. It might be the edge if the world.

It was the river. Once again, the foul waters of the Rundle closed over his head, but this time he meant them to. He was Purifying himself in its Holy Waters.

The police brought him home at twenty-five past ten, shaking uncontrollably, dripping wet, with a temperature of a hundred and five. Cousin Hilda had been at her wits’ end, but his appearance was too terrible for her to be angry.

‘Where have you been?’ she said, sniffing only very mildly.

‘Finding God,’ he said.

He was in bed for two weeks. Two weeks in the bed with the sagging springs, which converted into a settee when required. Two weeks with the hiss of the gas fire, in front of which Cousin Hilda placed a saucer of water, in case it should get thirsty. Two weeks staring at the drab wallpaper, its pattern in dark blue and pink so small that from the bed there didn’t seem to be a pattern. Two weeks staring at the massive, carved, slightly orange wardrobe. A signed photograph of Len Hutton stood on the mantelpiece. It was the nearest thing in the room to a personal touch, all the pictures of Patricia Roc having been thrown away, judged too racy for this establishment.

His fever died down, the magic of the fair-haired boy had gone, but the magic of God remained.

Many people never find their true vocation in life. Fortunate indeed is the young man who finds it at the tender age of fifteen.

But Henry has found his vocation before, a sceptic might point out. True, but that was only
a
vocation. This was
the
vocation.

He would devote himself to the service of God.

Cousin Hilda was delighted. She had been a little worried at first. His method of coming to God had been rather too unconventional for her nonconformist tastes. Once there, however, he seemed to be quietening down nicely.

At last he was well enough to go downstairs for his tea.

Liam possibly thought that he wasn’t as much fun as he used to be.

Neville Chamberlain hardly noticed him. He was too busy wondering if he’d been over-impulsive in changing his bank that afternoon. Suffering from pains in the arm, worried that he might be on the verge of a heart attack, he had gone to see his bank manager, to make a will. The bank manager had said, ‘I have here a piece of paper,’ and Neville Chamberlain had almost had a heart attack then and there.

Only on Tony Preece did Henry’s discovery of God make any impact. It was all because of a mouse.

When Tony Preece yawned and said, ‘Sorry. Late night last night,’ Henry had toyed with the idea of making some comment about Loose Living, but had decided against it. Now, however, he could not remain silent.

Cousin Hilda had discovered mouse droppings. She had seen tiny tooth marks. She had put down a trap by the door to the scullery.

‘Got a mouse?’ said Tony Preece.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘It’s probably come over from the park now the cold weather’s come.’

‘I hope the possibility has occurred to you that it might be Len Arrowsmith,’ said Tony Preece.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ sniffed Cousin Hilda.

‘It’s not at all ridiculous,’ said Tony Preece. ‘Where else would he come but here? He always liked it. And you know how he felt the cold.’

He winked at Henry.

‘It’s wrong to mock a sincerely held belief,’ said Henry.

Tony Preece gawped at him, thunderstruck. He looked from
Henry
to Cousin Hilda, then back to Henry again.

‘My God, we’ve got two of them now,’ he said, and he pushed his plate into the centre of the table and stormed out of the room, and Liam’s smile froze on his bewildered face.

When Liam and Neville Chamberlain had gone, Cousin Hilda refused to let Henry go into the scullery, in case his fever returned. So while she washed up, he sat by the blue stove, gazing hypnotically at the glowing fire behind the cracked glass.

Cousin Hilda came and sat at the other side of the stove, with her knitting.

‘Please don’t say things like that to Tony Preece,’ she said. ‘You upset him.’

‘You don’t like him poking fun at reincarnation either,’ said Henry.

‘I know,’ said Cousin Hilda, ‘but he’ll accept it from me. He won’t from you, not at your age.’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Henry.

‘It’s not just that,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I’m his landlady. I’m entitled. I don’t want to lose him, Henry. This is a business, and he’s a good customer, is Tony Preece.’

‘Is he?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think he has Mucky Habits.’

‘Mucky habits?’

‘When he isn’t in to supper,’ said Henry. ‘When he has late nights, like last night. I think he Indulges in Strong Drink and Consorts with Mucky Women.’

Cousin Hilda stared at him in astonishment.

‘I know what he gets up to,’ she said. ‘He gives performances.’

‘Performances, Cousin Hilda?’

‘Tony Preece is summat of a Jekyll and Hyde,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘By day, insurance salesman. By night, stand-up comedian.’

‘Stand-up comedian?’

‘It’s his hobby. Very regrettable, of course, but…I wouldn’t like to lose Tony Preece.’

Henry didn’t feel that he was in a strong position to criticise people for being stand-up comedians. So he kept quiet in Tony
Preece
’s presence after that.

The following morning, in fact, although embarrassed, and unable to meet Tony Preece’s eye, he forced himself to say, ‘Sorry about last night.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Tony Preece.

When Henry did meet Tony Preece’s eye, Tony nodded in the direction of the scullery door, and winked.

The mouse trap had gone.

Mr Quell was worried about Henry. He didn’t like the look of the boy. He had gone extremely pale and puffy. His face was waxy and lifeless. He was beginning to resemble a fish which has been on the slab too long. Either he was masturbating himself to death, or there were major problems.

Mr Quell believed that schoolmasters could often make matters worse by interfering too soon when they sensed the onset of a crisis. He had been careful to leave Henry to himself while he settled back into the life of the school. But you could also delay too long. He had delayed too long in the case of Oberath.

He invited Henry to tea on Friday. Henry was pleased. It would be a wonderful opportunity for talking to Mr Quell about Him.

They drove in Mr Quell’s car. It was an ancient Hillman Minx with a rattling exhaust. Mr Quell drove at twenty-five miles an hour.

‘It’s a miserable month, November,’ said Mr Quell.

‘I quite like it,’ said Henry.

Bad! No boy should wallow in mist and fog.

Their route took them through the town centre, and out onto the York Road.

‘The United are picking up a bit,’ said Mr Quell.

‘Are they?’ said Henry.

Small talk would prove to be a blind alley, thought Mr Quell.

Mr Quell pulled up at a newly installed set of traffic lights. A light rain was beginning to fall. The swish of the windscreen wipers was sad and comforting at the same time.

‘There are certain practices which, if indulged in to excess, can prove very deleterious to health,’ said Mr Quell.

‘I’ve completely given up self-abuse,’ said Henry, ‘if that’s what
you
mean.’

The Quells lived in a detached brick house, on Winstanley Road, near the edge of the town. There was a trolley-bus stop outside, and sometimes people waiting for a trolley-bus would drop sweet papers into their garden. This upset Mr Quell, but not his wife.

Mr Quell had to turn right to enter his drive. He was cautious, and waited a long while for a gap in the oncoming traffic. A queue built up behind him, and a driver hooted.

There was a monkey puzzle tree in Mr Quell’s front garden.

They had tea in the front room, served by Mr Quell. There was a coal fire, with shelves in alcoves at either side of it. The tea was laid out on a trolley. Mr Quell divided up a nest of tables and placed a table beside each of their chairs.

Mrs Quell was small, almost doll-like, and very beautiful. She had small, regular features and dark hair. No lines of stress marred the oval perfection of her face.

Mr Quell served tea. His burly, barrel-chested frame and mass of greying hair seemed at odds with Dresden China ladies on shelves, and a Dresden China wife sitting very upright in the brown Parker Knoll chair. There were neat, thin, quartered slices of bread and butter and two bought cakes – a Battenburg cake and a chocolate cake. The Battenburg cake was stale and the chocolate cake had the consistency of damp sawdust. They drank cheap, unsubtle Indian tea out of tiny cups. Mr Quell could hardly get his gnarled finger inside the fragile handle of his cup.

Mrs Quell asked what colour Henry’s eyes were.

‘Brown,’ he said, embarrassed.

‘Brown!’ said Mrs Quell, as if no other answer would have pleased her.

They asked gently searching questions about Henry’s life at his various homes and schools. He replied precisely, without vitality. He only showed vitality when he explained that he had found God.

Mr Quell nodded when Henry told him this. He wasn’t surprised. It had been one of his theories. He had seen quite a few religious people with this lifeless white puffiness, this soft, introverted righteousness.

Mrs Quell cut her Battenburg cake into four quarters, very carefully. She picked up one of the two yellow squares and took a delicate bite.

‘Yellow,’ she said, when she had eaten it.

‘Correct,’ said Mr Quell.

‘I’ll try for a pink one now,’ she said, after she had finished the yellow square. She touched the second yellow square, then her hand moved on and she picked up a pink piece. She took a small bite and smiled. She ate fastidiously.

‘Think how dull a Battenburg cake would be if I could see,’ she said.

After tea, Mrs Quell left the room unaided. There was silence for a moment.

‘Her face is beautiful because she cannot see how beautiful it is, and so does not worry about it becoming less beautiful,’ said Mr Quell.

Henry couldn’t manage any reply to this.

‘Burrell is tormented by his refusal to admit that he has only one eye,’ said Mr Quell. ‘If only he could look at my wife and say, “Lucky old me. I have an eye that can see.” If only the losing finalist at Wimbledon could say, “Magnificent. I’m the second-best player in the whole world. What an achievement.” You find my comments specious. Didn’t we make an abominable tea?’

‘It was very nice,’ said Henry politely.

‘It was an abysmal repast,’ said Mr Quell. ‘All our food is brought in by Mrs Ellerby, who lives alone. It is quite the biggest thing in her life, buying our food for us. So, you’ve found God?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Less of the sir here, Henry. The name is Eamonn. This finding of God has made a great difference to you, has it, Henry?’

‘Oh yes, sir…Eamonn. I want to devote my life to His Service.’

A trolley-bus hissed to a stop.

‘I was going to be a monk, Henry.’

‘Yes, s. . Eamonn.’

‘I gave up to marry Beth. You would be wrong if you deduced that it was out of pity for her blindness. It was out of lust for her body and love for her soul.’

The trolley-bus resumed its journey.

‘If the people on that trolley-bus could hear us, they’d be amazed,’ said Mr Quell.

He went over to the hearth, lifted a small piece of coal with the tongs and placed it carefully on the fire.

‘I remember thinking when I first knew you, “He’s going to be quite the wag, that one,”’ said Mr Quell, still with his back to Henry.

‘I became very frivolous for a time,’ said Henry. ‘I even wanted to be a stand-up comedian once.’

Mr Quell came and sat opposite Henry and looked straight into his eyes.

‘If you’re going to do an act with God, don’t forget he’s the straight man,’ he said.