The Complete Pratt (47 page)

Inside, the barn was dark and sweet with rotting crops.

‘We should have brought comics wi’ us,’ chuckled Lorna.

‘I don’t want to read tonight,’ protested Henry.

‘There’s better things to do,’ grinned Lorna.

‘Oh, Lorna,’ he gasped.

‘Which would you prefer?’ she queried. ‘A fortnight’s coach tour of Finland with the W.I., or me taking all my clothes off?’

She removed what few clothes she had on with all the grace with which a female gazelle would remove its clothes, if it wore any.

Henry undressed hurriedly, clumsily, and she laughed.

Her body was long, pale and exquisite in the dim light.

She put her bare feet on his, and pressed her naked body against his.

‘You’re hurting,’ he cried urgently.

‘Sorry,’ she whispered softly.

‘You’re lovely,’ he mouthed gently.

‘Oh, Henry,’ she lisped breathily.

‘Oh, heck,’ he ejaculated prematurely.

Breakfast at the Crown Inn, Troutwick, was an affair of mixed emotions, although George and Edna were hospitality personified.

Henry’s emotions were of satisfaction, relief and pride. After
their
unfortunate start, events in the barn had proceeded much more successfully. He had lost his virginity at last. The first of two long journeys was over, and he could face the second, that of adult life itself, with more confidence than had at one time seemed possible.

Paul was disgruntled, because Stefan had been so wild, and Simon so quietly rural, and Martin so grumpily political, and Henry had deserted him.

Martin was disgruntled, because he had been driving his father’s car, and he was a responsible young man, and so he had had to remain sober, and Stefan had been so wild, and Simon so quietly rural, and Paul so infuriatingly detached and complacent, and Henry had deserted him.

The waitress handed them their egg, bacon, sausage, fried bread and tomato.

‘That’ll put hairs on your chest,’ she said.

Paul stared at her in astonishment.

‘If you found out that waitress’s hours and wages, you’d be shocked,’ said Martin.

Paul groaned and imitated the winding up of a gramophone.

‘It’s all right for people like you,’ said Martin angrily. ‘Your father gets more in a week than these people earn in a year.’

‘It’s not my fault,’ said Paul.

‘Echoing the parrot cry of the German people,’ said Martin.

‘Please don’t mention parrots,’ said Henry.

‘People like you make me sick,’ said Martin, and he tipped his breakfast plate over Paul and strode from the room.

Paul sat immobile, deathly white, his dignity ruptured, as a fried egg slid slowly down his face.

The waitress returned.

‘I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of an accident,’ said Henry, and the waitress agreed.

George and Edna were tolerance personified.

Paul left, to clean himself up, and Martin returned, shamefaced.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘He got on my nerves. You agree with me, don’t you?’

‘I believe brain surgeons should get less money than dustmen,
because
their job is more rewarding in itself,’ said Henry.

‘My God. You’re more leftwing than I am,’ said Martin.

‘I don’t believe you should make a fool of yourself and me by throwing breakfast over my friend,’ said Henry.

He was furious with them both, for destroying his mood of complacent well-being.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Martin. ‘I get none of the fun, that’s all, because of the driving.’

‘We’ll stay in Troutwick tonight,’ said Henry.

Paul returned, white-faced, clean-shirted.

‘I’m very sorry, Paul,’ said Martin.

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Paul airily. ‘These things happen.’

‘If you’re so unwise as to consort with the lower orders,’ said Martin.

‘I didn’t say that,’ said Paul. ‘Do you want a breakfast over you?’

‘Shut up,’ screamed Henry. ‘We’ve only got one week, and it’s falling apart.’

‘That’s why it’s falling apart,’ said Paul.

Stefan appeared, comically hung-over, a parody of bloodshot vulnerability.

‘What happened last night” he said.

‘You bet ten bob that Jane Lugg was a boy,’ said Martin.

Stefan groaned.

‘She undressed on the bridge,’ said Paul. ‘You lost.’

‘Narrowly,’ said Martin. ‘After a recount.’

‘Give over,’ said Henry. ‘I like Jane Lugg.’

He could afford to be generous. Suddenly roles were reversed. He was a man, and they were behaving like children.

Stefan laughed.

‘I really am terrible,’ he said. ‘I must get a grip on myself. No more drinking. What are we doing tonight?’

‘Pub crawling in Troutwick,’ said Henry.

‘Fantastic,’ said Stefan Prziborski.

They started their pub-crawl at the White Hart, the two-star hotel on the main square. The eponymous beast stood proudly upon a handsome Georgian porch.

They ended their pub-crawl at the White Hart.

The reason why they spent the whole evening in the White Hart was the landlady. She was Auntie Doris.

It couldn’t be.

It was.

She smelt like a perfume factory.

She was staring at him, her sunburnt face going as white as it ever could.

‘Auntie Doris!’

‘I dreaded this might happen,’ she said.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘It’s a long story, perhaps best not told.’

Auntie Doris poured their drinks. She still looked glamorous. She was unvanquishable. But there was a difference. She looked as if she had suffered.

‘Is Uncle Teddy here?’ he asked.

Auntie Doris shook her head.

‘Stay on and I’ll explain everything,’ she said.

Everything?

A tall man with a long face and bags under his eyes joined Auntie Doris behind the bar. He was dourness personified.

‘When did you come back from Rangoon?’ said Henry.

‘Rangoon?’ said the dour barman. ‘Rangoon?’

‘This is my nephew, Henry, Bert,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘I just want to have a word with you about something.’

She practically pulled Bert out of the bar.

Everybody looked at Henry in astonishment. He spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he said.

They played darts. The room was bare, basic, unlovely. Tomorrow he would see Lorna again. Today he should be enjoying a pub-crawl. But sands were shifting under his feet. How could he relax?

‘Let’s move on,’ said Stefan.

‘I can’t really,’ he said. ‘It’s all right here.’

‘It’s dreadful,’ said Martin. ‘It’s as if they thought they ought to have a public bar, for ordinary people, but it isn’t worth any bother.’

‘The chip on your shoulder’s showing,’ said Paul.

‘I’m about fed up with you two,’ said Henry. ‘Now come on. If you want to go somewhere else, go. I’ve got to stay here.’

‘Ask your aunt how much barmaids get paid,’ said Martin.

Stefan bought four more beers. The dour barman served him. A rather desultory game of 301 proceeded on the badly maintained darts board. The darts were blunt.

‘Henry Pratt! Let me look at you!’

A large, shapeless, elderly woman filled the doorway. A tuft of grey hair sprouted from her middle chin, and her moustache was grey as well. She held a glass of pink gin.

Paul, Martin and Stefan gawped.

‘Miss Candy!’

She advanced, and enveloped him briefly in a mighty embrace.

‘I was in the lounge. Doris told me about her nephew Henry, who went to school at Rowth Bridge. I thought, “That’s my Henry Pratt.” Well well. Well well.’

Miss Candy examined him. Was it just his imagination, or was she disappointed by what she saw?

‘It’s your throw, Henry,’ said Martin.

‘I’ll just finish my game,’ said Henry. ‘Then I’ll join you in the lounge.’

Miss Candy departed.

‘What is this strange magic you have over women, Henry?’ said Stefan.

After the game (another defeat!), Henry joined Miss Candy in the lounge, which looked like a cross between a bar and an antique shop. She bought him a drink.

‘This is my corner,’ she said, plonking herself onto an old settle with some difficulty. ‘Here I merge into all the other antiques. I’m retired now, but I still have my motor-bike.’

He told her the story of his life, and of his exam results, which had been slightly above average. His inexplicable feeling that he was failing her persisted.

He bought her a pink gin. They reminisced about war-time life in Rowth Bridge, and their visit to Leeds v Bradford at Elland Road. He told her about Tommy Marsden.

‘Do you remember that I asked you what people said about me?’ said Miss Candy.

‘Yes. It was pretty awful,’ said Henry.

‘I know, but I needed to know,’ said Miss Candy. ‘I needed to know, you see. I remember everything you said. How fervently I wish that most of it had been true.’ She caught him glancing at her glass, and shook her head. ‘No. I don’t drink a bottle of gin a day. Not quite. I can’t afford to. But I did love a Yank, who went home and left me broken-hearted. Well, she’s returned.’

He looked at her in surprise. Her eyes were moist with tears.

‘The one unusual thing about my whole life is that I am a Lesbian, and you missed it,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you even knew what a Lesbian is. Anyway, she’s come back, and I’m so happy.’

Miss Candy began to cry. Henry had noticed that people often did cry, when they said they were happy.

Miss Candy blew her nose and apologised.

‘My friend’s waiting for me,’ she said. ‘My friend doesn’t like pubs. I must go. My friend is very particular about time. It’s something to do with her being from the New World, I think. Well, dear Henry, that was a surprise, to…er…see how you’ve turned out. Yes.’

‘How long has Auntie Doris been here?’ said Henry.

‘Oh. I don’t know. Two years? Three years? Ask her.’

Miss Candy went back to her friend. Henry went back to his friends. Two years? Three years? Shifting sands became quick-sands. The pub filled up. Auntie Doris was too busy to speak to him. But she must speak to him.

At closing time Auntie Doris boomed, ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Your empties now, please, my lovelies.’

‘You can all stay,’ Auntie Doris told the four boys, ‘but in the lounge. I have to talk to Henry.’

‘We haven’t got a key to get in,’ said Martin.

‘Where are you staying?’ said Auntie Doris.

‘The Crown.’

‘No problem. I’ll invite George and Edna over. They’re sociability personified.’

Martin, Paul and Stefan brought a set of dominoes into the lounge. Auntie Doris told them which table they could use. It was the only one that wasn’t an antique. Martin had hiccups. Stefan
seemed
to have exhausted his wildness.

Four residents and two other locals stayed on. The dour barman remained, and Auntie Doris took Henry to the alcove, beside the great hearth.

Henry had drunk quite a lot of beer, but he felt as sober as an undertaker’s tie.

‘Miss Candy says you’ve been here two or three years,’ he said.

Auntie Doris sighed.

‘I have,’ she said.

‘But what about Uncle Teddy? What about Rangoon?’

‘We never went to Rangoon. Uncle Teddy’s in prison,’ she said in a low voice.

‘Prison?’

‘S’sssh! I’m sorry.’ Auntie Doris blushed. ‘I’m sorry. It must sound awfully hypocritical. Nobody here knows, you see.’

‘Prison? What for?’ he whispered.

‘Business offences.’

‘Business offences?’

‘You know. Tax evasion. Evading currency restrictions. Fraud. Theft. Receiving stolen goods. Business offences.’

Auntie Doris almost lurched in her seat, and Henry realised that she was drunk.

‘He didn’t want you to know,’ she said. ‘He was terribly ashamed of himself, in front of you.’

Now it was the turn of Auntie Doris’s eyes to fill with tears. He thought he had cracked the problem of women at last, and now here they were bursting into tears all around him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped.

He looked up and saw the three dominoes players peering in his direction. He tried to quell their curiosity with a look. Martin still had hiccups.

George and Edna arrived. Auntie Doris got them a drink, refilled Henry’s and her glasses and hurriedly explained that she was having a private talk with Henry, her nephew. George and Edna were understanding personified.