The Complete Pratt (5 page)

The line up on the footbridge was Martin Hammond (Labrador), Tommy Marsden (Alsatian), Billy Erpingham (I forget), Chalky White (Cocker Spaniel) and Henry Pratt (Whippet).

Tommy Marsden lowered his left arm. Five tiny turds fell through the air. Henry’s dropped into a dark corner under the bridge. He leant over to watch its early progress. Maybe he leant too far in his excitement. Maybe Tommy Marsden pushed him. He followed the dog turds into the filthy water.

He went into the Rundle head first. It was not the last river into which he would fall, but it was definitely the least prepossessing.

The foul waters met over his head. He took a great gulp of untreated sewage and chemical waste. He was choking, bursting, dying. Tommy Marsden’s frail craft brushed his cheek. He struggled upwards, broke surface for a second, then sank again.

Then hands were underneath him, he was being lifted out of the water.

He was on the bank, upside down, gasping, heaving, retching, too concerned with survival yet to wail.

Slowly he recovered. The other four children had disappeared, as children will, given the slightest opportunity.

His two rescuers took him home. They were Fred Shilton, the lock-keeper, and Sid Lowson, that adequate domino substitute, suddenly proving less peripheral than expected.

His mouth tasted foul, his left knee was bleeding, his clothes were dripping, he was filthy and soaking and cold, he was crying from delayed shock, but he was alive.

The two men led him across the waste ground, over the canal, along the towpath, through the gate, and down the footpath until they came to Paradise Lane.

Neville Chamberlain’s voice could be heard from the proliferating wirelesses: ‘… no such undertaking has been received…cannot believe there is anything more or anything different I could have…no chance of expecting that this man will ever give up…know that you will all play your part with
calmness
and courage.’

Fred Shilton knocked on the door of number 23.

‘Now, may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against.…’

The door opened. Her Mother stood before them.

‘There’s been a bit of a to-do,’ said Fred Shilton.

‘Aye. I know,’ said Her Mother. ‘Hitler has not responded to our ultimatum. We’re at war with Nazi Germany.’

‘No,’ said Sid Lowson. ‘Your Henry’s fallen in the Rundle.’

‘
I’VE DECIDED TO
volunteer,’ said Ezra.

‘Volunteer?’ said Ada.

‘Volunteer,’ said Ezra.

‘Don’t look at me,’ said Her Mother.

Henry sat on the floor and looked from one face to another, forgetting his game, in which an empty tin of Parkinson’s Old-Fashioned Humbugs, brought by Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris on a rare visit, had represented a Thurmarsh Corporation tram. He sensed that this was important.

‘Volunteer?’ repeated Ada incredulously.

‘Aye…well…’ said Ezra. ‘Let’s face it, mother. It isn’t a reserved occupation, isn’t penknives.’

The month was May, the year 1940. Hitler had not invaded Thurmarsh. The Paradise cul-de-sacs had suffered only two casualties during the Phoney War. They were Archie Halliday and his goldfish. Archie Halliday had been knocked down by a car which hadn’t seen him in the blackout. His goldfish had frozen to death during the long, hard winter.

‘I’ve got to serve my country,’ said Ezra. ‘We all have. Think on, mother. What would tha reckon to me if I let t’ others do all t’ fighting?’

‘There’s ways to serve thy country baht volunteering,’ said Ada.

‘I know. I’ve tried ’em,’ said Ezra

‘I’m saying nowt,’ said Her Mother.

Henry’s life had hardly been affected by the war. He had his Mickey Mouse gas-mask, which he liked. A white circle had been painted on the wall of number 1 Paradise Lane. Ezra had explained that the letters inside the circle were an S and a P. They indicated that number 1 Paradise Lane, had the stirrup pump for the street.

‘Look at him,’ said Ada, pursing her lips. ‘Is he fighting material? If Hitler’s crack Panzer divisions see a scranny feller like him coming towards them, will they panic?’

‘All right,’ said Ezra. ‘They may fail me, but I can try.’

‘Pigs may fly,’ said Ada.

The Phoney War was coming to an end. Hitler had invaded the Low Countries. Holland had fallen. Belgium was fighting for her life.

‘I thought tha liked being an air raid warden,’ said Ada. ‘Tha looks just grand wi’ t’ helmet and navy blue pullover wi’ yellow stripe.’

‘Navy blue suits him,’ said Her Mother. ‘I’ve allus said that.’

Ezra stood up, drew himself up to his full five foot three, and glared down at the two large women in his life. Henry clutched his empty tin of Parkinson’s Old-Fashioned Humbugs tightly. A railway engine whistled furiously, and a dog barked.

‘I’m talking about resisting t’ evil territorial demands of t’ fascist dictator, not helmets,’ said Ezra. ‘I’m talking about survival of human freedom, not navy blue pullovers wi’ yellow stripes. They don’t want us part-timers any more any road, now they’ve got their paid officials. They complain we can’t work eight-hour shifts because of us jobs. They say it upsets their rostering. Thus is the common man’s idealistic spirit constantly thwarted by petty officialdom. That’s what Reg Hammond says, any road.’

‘Reg Hammond!’ said Ada, as if that explained everything. ‘Reg Hammond! He’s allus got plenty to say for hisself. Is he volunteering?’

‘He can’t,’ said Ezra. ‘He’s in a reserved occupation.’

‘Nobody can make thy mind up for thee,’ said Her Mother. ‘That’s what my Herbert used to say, any road.’

Henry couldn’t sleep. Sleep was funny. There wasn’t any way of making yourself fall asleep, so when you couldn’t sleep you couldn’t understand how you ever could.

It was a hot night in August. The Battle of Britain was in full cry. Germany had occupied the Channel Isles. The invasion of mainland Britain was expected at any moment. Her Mother said parachutists had landed at Rotherham. In the morning, Ezra would join the war. They hadn’t failed him. They had failed Sid Lowson, who looked twice as fit as Ezra, but they hadn’t failed Ezra. This surprised Ada, but not Henry. It was common knowledge that his father had strangled a parrot. Henry was still
rather
vague about the war, but he knew that the object of it was to kill Germans, and supposed that his father must be going to take a pretty exalted role in the strangling section of the British army.

Henry was frightened of his father, but he didn’t want him to go off to the war. For one thing, his mother didn’t want him to, and Henry loved his mother. For another thing, all change frightened him.

For many weeks the atmosphere in the terrace house had been tense. Production of brawn, that local barometer of stress, had increased dramatically. Now the moment had come. The night was stifling. Her Mother had gone to bed early, making a point of leaving Ezra and Ada alone together on their last night, displaying her tact so coyly that it became tactlessness. Henry could hear her snores from the front bedroom. He slept in his parents’ room. There was barely room for the two beds. Normally he slept soundly, and didn’t hear them come to bed.

That night it seemed to him that they would never come to bed. He couldn’t bear it alone any longer. He would go downstairs, and tell them that he couldn’t sleep.

As he got to the top of the stairs, he could hear their low voices, the hum of grown-up night-talk, from which he was always excluded. He knew straight away that they were talking about him, and he decided that he must hear what they were saying.

He crept carefully down the bare, narrow staircase. His legs were still too little to miss out a step. He trod softly on the seventh stair, which creaked, and on the ninth, which groaned.

Their voices continued. They hadn’t heard him.

He pressed himself against the wall and listened.

‘Take him to Kate’s,’ his father was saying. ‘Get him away from here.’

‘Become evacuees, does tha mean?’

‘Not evacuees, mother. It’s not evacuees, isn’t staying wi’ relations. I want to know he’s safe, mother. In front line, fighting Jerry, I want to know our kid’s safe.’

Conflicting emotions gripped Henry. It was nice to know that you were talked about when you weren’t there. It provided reassuring evidence that you existed. It provided reassuring evidence that you were important to folk. But it was disturbing to
hear
your destination being discussed as if you were a parcel. It brought home to you how powerless you were. And it was worrying to learn of the prospect of massive change.

‘We won’t be any safer up there if there’s an invasion,’ she said.

‘Course you would,’ said Ezra. ‘And there won’t be one, any road.’

‘Mother reckons it’s imminent.’

‘That’s what I say. There won’t be one. There’ll be bombing, though.’

‘They won’t bomb civilians.’

‘We won’t. We’ve said we won’t. They will. They’re ruthless killers. Look at London.’

‘London’s London. They won’t bomb us.’

‘They’ll bomb steelworks, mother. They’ll bomb t’ canal and railway. They’ll try and cripple t’ munitions industry and t’ lines of communication. That’s what Reg Hammond reckons, any road. There’ll be stray bombs, Ada. There’s forced to be. It isn’t pin-point accuracy, isn’t aerial bombardment.’

‘Reg Hammond!’ she said. ‘Tha doesn’t want to believe all he says. Him at chippy reckons he’s a fifth columnist.’

‘Him at chippy! Portions he serves, I reckon he’s the fifth columnist. Go, Ada. It’s best.’

‘Will she want us?’

‘Course she will. She likes having folk around her.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s all right.’

‘What about t’ house?’

‘Evacuees can live here.’

‘Evacuees?’

‘Evacuees.’

‘Why should evacuees want to live here?’

‘Because it’s safer.’

‘So why are we going?’

‘Evacuees come from London and Liverpool and Channel Isles and that, because it’s safer here. We go to Kate’s because it’s safer still there. That’s t’ principle of evacuation, mother. That’s how it works.’

Henry was in a quandary. He wasn’t interested in the finer points of evacuation. His mind was whirling with the terrible possibility that he was going into the unknown, to Kates, wherever that was. He wanted to rush in and ask them about it, to beg them not to go. But that would reveal that he had been spying. He had done that once, and punishment had resulted.

‘Ada?’

His father’s tone of voice was different, softer.

‘I’ve gorra headache.’

‘Headache? It’s me last night. I may never come back.’

‘Ezra! Don’t say that.’

‘It’s a possibility, mother. It’s got to be faced.’

‘I’m not making excuses, father. I have gorra headache.’

Henry decided to go back to bed. This business about headaches was boring.

‘Is it a bad headache?’

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘It’s me last night, mother.’

‘Go on up. I’ll just make t’ door.’

Up? His father was coming upstairs? Henry had begun to creep carefully up the stairs. Now he increased his pace. The stair which groaned groaned. The stair which creaked creaked. He prayed that the bedroom door wouldn’t squeak. It didn’t.

He snuggled down into the dark, warm womb of his bed. He pulled the bedclothes over his head. The bed smelt pleasantly of himself. It was dark, warm and wonderful down there. If only he could stay there for ever.

He heard his father come upstairs. He heard the groan and the creak of the two errant steps. He pretended to be asleep. It was hard work pretending to be asleep, especially when your head was whirring with thoughts and worries. Perhaps if he pretended to be asleep hard enough he would find that he was asleep, except that you couldn’t find that you were asleep, because when you were asleep you were always asleep, so you never knew you were asleep.

He heard his mother’s heavier tread. The errant steps protested loudly. The house shook. He breathed deeply, rhythmically. He heard them getting into bed. He essayed a light snore. Their bed-springs were creaking. His father was grunting. His mother
was
groaning. What on earth was going on?

His father was strangling his mother!

He leapt bravely from his womb and rushed over to the writhing, twisting couple. His mother was putting up brave resistance, but his father’s strength belied his size, and she was definitely going under.

He grabbed his father with his frantic, podgy arms.

‘Stop it! Stop it, dad! Give over!’ he screamed. ‘Don’t do that to mam.’

‘Hell’s bells,’ said his father. ‘Hell’s bells, Henry.’

They saw his father off at Thurmarsh (Midland Road) Station. The platform was crowded. Henry was frightened when the train roared in. It was packed. There were many soldiers. Ezra couldn’t find a seat.