The Complete Pratt (55 page)

And there, walking towards them, was Colin Edgeley.

‘Hey up, our kid,’ he said. ‘So you’re the famous Lorna. Welcome to Thurmarsh, kid.’ He gave Lorna a kiss. ‘Smashing,’ he said. ‘You’re a belter. We’re all in the bar.’

‘What?’ Oh god, why did I tell him?

‘We thought we’d give you a surprise. It’s made a change to get out of the Lord Nelson.’ He kissed Lorna again. ‘Smashing.’ And he padded off across the carpet which, unlike the port it resembled, had not improved with age.

‘Oh God,’ said Henry.

‘What?’

‘I don’t want to go in there and drink with them.’

‘Are you ashamed of me?’

‘Course I’m not! Lorna! I don’t want to go in there because a) I’ve been awash with drink all week and b) …’ He lowered his voice. What he was going to say didn’t sound like the sort of thing Mr Wedderburn would say to Mrs Wedderburn. ‘… I want to make love to you in room 412. I want to kiss you all over.’

‘We don’t have to stay long.’

‘True.’

‘I
am
a bit thirsty. I’m a bit nervous too about … you know … here. A drink might help.’

He let out a little sigh of tension. She pounced on it.

‘You
are
ashamed of me.’

‘No!’

‘Going out with a country girl who works as a waitress. You think I’m not good enough for you.’

‘Lorna! I’ve experienced enough snobbery to know how much I loathe it. And anyway, they don’t need to know you’re a waitress.’

Lorna snorted. Oh not another woman snorting. She didn’t understand. It wasn’t that he lacked confidence in her. He lacked confidence that his new friends had the eyes to see the loveliness and warmth beneath her undeniably rustic manners.

They entered the bar. It had a plum carpet, faded velvet curtains, brown leather upholstery with gold studs, and two more chandeliers. There they all were, sitting at a round table in a large alcove. Ted and Helen and Colin. Ben. Gordon. Neil. The outrageous Denzil. Only Ginny was missing. They looked like a selection board interviewing Lorna for the position of Henry’s girlfriend. He tried to avoid the gravitational pull of Helen Cornish’s sparkling eyes. In vain. She gave him one of the cool, challenging looks which had been his lot ever since he’d spurned her in the Shanghai. He was shattered by his desire for her, and hurriedly moved his eyes upward, to a large photograph of a Patriot class engine pulling a mixed freight out of Carlisle Upperby Yard in light snow. As a diversion, it was a failure. Men who are interested in women are rarely fanatical about trains. He answered Ted as in a dream. ‘Glass of bitter, please.’ Lorna ordered sweet cider! I hate myself, thought Henry. Lorna Arrow, you were a dream. A dream that sustained an unhappy soldier through two years in the Royal Corps of Signals. A pin-up that outshone Petula Clark and Patricia Roc inside a young man’s locker, and touched the reality of his life barely more than they did. It isn’t fair to turn a person into a dream.

‘Nice to meet you, Lorna,’ said Neil Mallet, who that morning had echoed the views of Crossbencher in last Sunday’s
Express
– that the future for Anthony Eden would be even sunnier than the past. The doubters and moaners would be routed.

‘So you’re a country girl. Well done,’ said Denzil. Henry thought this the most meaningless remark he’d ever heard. ‘Passion among the cowpats. I love it.’ Henry doubted if Denzil had ever seen a cowpat.

‘Where are you from, Lorna?’ said Ben Watkinson.

‘Rowth Bridge. It’s in Upper Mitherdale, near Troutwick.’

‘
Lovely
country,’ said Helen.

Henry usually preferred the laconic understatement of country people to the hyperbole of city folk, but he’d have welcomed a stronger reply from Lorna than, ‘It’s not bad.’ He hadn’t realized how strong her Mitherdale accent was. Not that he was ashamed of it. It was lovely. He just wished it wasn’t quite so strong.

‘Troutwick are in the Wensleydale League, aren’t they?’ said Ben.

‘I don’t know,’ said Lorna. ‘I know they’re in summat.’

‘What do you do, Lorna?’ said Neil Mallet.

‘Yes, what is there to do in the country? I’ve often wondered,’ said Denzil.

‘I meant, what job does Lorna do?’ said Neil.

‘I knew what you meant, old dear,’ said Denzil. ‘I was trying to save you from your conversational banality. Your question sounded like matron checking items on a laundry list.’

Neil flushed at the reference to laundry, then remembered that Denzil was outrageous, and smiled bravely. Henry was pleased at the diversion. It meant that Lorna wouldn’t have to answer Neil’s question.

‘I’m a waitress at the White Hart in Troutwick. It’s a hotel run by Henry’s Auntie Doris,’ said Lorna.

There was a brief silence.

‘So how did you meet our young lady-killer, Lorna?’ said Helen, in the extra friendly voice she used to women she didn’t like. Ted smiled darkly at Henry. ‘I always love hearing how people met.’

‘We were at school together when Henry was evacuated to Rowth Bridge.’

‘I wasn’t evacuated,’ said Henry. ‘I was staying with relations.’

‘That’s a good one,’ said Ted. ‘Next time I’m in hospital, if they ask if I’ve evacuated my bowels, I’ll say “No, they’re staying with relations.”’

‘They don’t ask if you’ve evacuated your bowels,’ said Neil. ‘They ask if you’ve moved them.’

‘I’ll say, “Yes. I used Pickfords. Never again. Terribly expensive,’” said Denzil.

Lorna looked from one to the other in some astonishment at
this
conversation, and the slightly hysterical laughter that it produced.

‘I gather Henry’s a great one for reading,’ said Denzil. ‘Do you read together in bed, Lorna?’

Henry blushed.

‘What books do you like, Lorna?’ said Ted.

‘I like
Woman, Woman’s Own
,’ said Lorna.

Henry knew her family referred to magazines as books. Why did it matter so desperately?

‘Smashing,’ said Colin.

Denzil bought a round. ‘You have a sweet tooth, Lorna,’ he said. ‘I have actually,’ she said. ‘No wonder you like Henry, then. I think he’s awfully sweet,’ said Denzil, and Henry said, ‘I thought you went to London at weekends,’ because it had just occurred to him, but it came out so like an accusation that everybody laughed, and Henry pretended that he’d meant it to be funny, and Denzil said, ‘So sorry to burden you with my presence, callow youth.’ He lowered his voice. Homosexual acts of love were still illegal. ‘My friend is arriving on the 8.15. He wishes to see The North.’

The headwaiter approached, in evening dress, his lips pursed. He carried two enormous menus.

‘Mr Wedderburn?’ he said.

There was a revealing pause before Henry said, ‘Oh. That’s me.’

‘You’re dining, sir?’

‘Er … oh … yes … I … yes.’

‘All of you?’ The headwaiter’s alarm was ill concealed.

‘No,’ said Henry. ‘Just me and my … er … wife … unless any of you … er … I mean …’ He looked round the gathering. Heads were hurriedly shaken. Ted said, ‘Not me. Life’s too precious.’ ‘Just me and my … wife,’ said Henry.

The headwaiter handed Helen a menu.

‘No. Not me,’ she said, smiling triumphantly. ‘The other young lady.’

‘Ah!’ said the headwaiter. ‘Madam?’ He handed Lorna a menu, and retired as hastily as decorum permitted.

‘Mr and Mrs Wedderburn!’ said Denzil. ‘You have a delicious gift for ornamentation, Henry.’

‘It’s all in a foreign language,’ said Lorna.

‘French,’ said Helen.

‘What a snobbish country this is,’ said Neil.

‘You can talk,’ said Ted.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Neil.

‘You drink in the back bar of the Lord Nelson. Your brother drinks in the front bar.’

‘The snobbery isn’t ours,’ said Neil. ‘It’s all the other reporters and compositors who don’t mix. I’m not a snob, Ted. I’ve never hidden my lower middle-class origins.’

‘I must get home,’ said Colin, looking at his watch. ‘Same again, everybody?’

‘I’ve just got time,’ said Ben. ‘Then I must go and give the wife one.’

‘Pink gin. Removed,’ said Denzil to the waiter. ‘You what, sir?’ said the waiter. ‘The bitters, man. Removed, not left in.’ ‘Ah. Yes, sir. Only I’m new here,’ said the waiter. ‘So am I, I do assure you,’ said Denzil.

Lorna’s menu was unpriced. Henry’s wasn’t. Sometimes, when he visited Troutwick, Auntie Doris pressed money into his hand when Geoffrey Porringer wasn’t looking. Quite a lot, sometimes. Twenty pounds even. She did it out of guilt, so he had to accept, for her sake. He had saved some of it, but he still couldn’t afford this. Why had he said they’d be dining?

‘What’s “es-car-gotts”?’ said Lorna.

‘Snails,’ said Neil.

‘Ugh!’ said Lorna, so unselfconsciously that everybody laughed.

‘Quite right, kid,’ said Colin. ‘Thee and me’s Yorkshire. We can’t eat snails.’

‘You two are going to experience the worst French meal you’ve ever had,’ said Denzil.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Neil. ‘I’ve eaten here. I liked the bouillabaisse.’

‘I thought they were in the French Second Division,’ said Ben.

Helen translated the menu for Lorna with barely a soupçon of condescension. Henry struggled with his schoolboy French, but found himself unable to seek help.

The headwaiter approached. Ted said, ‘I’ll tell you what to order, Lorna.’ He leant across Helen, brushing himself against her
chest
, and whispered something into the ear of the more flat-chested Lorna.

‘What’s going on, Ted?’ said Helen.

‘Trust me,’ said Ted.

‘Have you decided, madam?’ said the headwaiter.

Lorna gave Ted an assessing look. ‘Have you got any
merde
?’ she said.

‘Madam!’ said the headwaiter.

‘Ted!’ said Helen, and she kicked him.

‘Ow!’ said Ted.

‘You bastard,’ said Henry.

‘Below the belt,’ said Gordon. ‘Final warning.’

‘
Merde
is French for … er … well … shit,’ said Neil, blushing.

‘Many a true word,’ said Gordon.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Lorna to the headwaiter, ‘but he told me to ask for it.’

A faint grin appeared at the edge of the headwaiter’s mouth. He wiped it off with the invisible napkin of his professionalism.

Lorna plumped for tomato soup and a well-done fillet steak. Henry wished that she’d been more adventurous. He decided that, if he was paying a fortune, at least he’d have something exciting.
Pamplemousse
sounded exciting. So did steak tartare. The headwaiter had gone before Henry realized that he hadn’t asked how he’d like it cooked.

‘You sod, Ted,’ he said.

‘Give over,’ said Lorna. ‘It were just a joke.’

‘It wasn’t a bloody joke,’ said Henry. ‘That was no joke, Lorna.’

‘We can take a joke where I come from,’ said Lorna. She turned to Ted. ‘I thought it might be summat rude,’ she said, ‘but I thought “Oh. What the ’eck? Waiter looks as if ’e needs a bit of life pumped into im.”’

‘Good for you, kid. Smashing,’ said Colin.

Henry was pleased to see that Ted looked somewhat abashed. And he was pleased to see that Helen looked rather glad that Ted looked somewhat abashed.

When he went to the Gents, Colin followed.

‘She’s a smashing kid, kid,’ he said. ‘I could give her one meself.
Now
you listen to me. You hang onto her. And stop looking at that other bloody one.’

What good judges men can be of other men’s women.

Silence hung over the cavernous dining-room, as if the amount that was being spent on indifferent food was a source of shared grief between customers and waiters. The tables were enormous, and Henry and Lorna could hardly have rubbed their legs together, under the table, had anything so friendly been in their thoughts. They were cowed by the atmosphere. Customers were almost outnumbered by waiters, and the youngest of the other diners seemed about forty years older than them.

Behind them, Royal Scot No. 46164
The Artist’s Rifleman
was passing through Bushey troughs with the up
Mid-Day Scot
.

Henry’s legs ached. He longed for his food with the hunger of a psychotic obsessed with a displacement activity. All the world was drab, save for the exotic promise of
pamplemousse
.

‘She’s pretty, isn’t she?’ said Lorna in a low voice.

Henry fought desperately against blushing, and almost managed it.

‘Who?’ he croaked.

‘Helen, of course. Who else was there who’s pretty? Denzil?’

‘Well … yes … yes, I suppose she … I hadn’t really … er…’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Lorna!’

Had the dreadful word stirred the over-starched tablecloths? Certainly, somewhere, as if in shock, a spoon scraped noisily against a plate. Had arthritic necks craned to see the source of this verbal outrage, unparalleled in the history of the restaurant of the Midland Hotel, Thurmarsh, in those days before pop groups?