The Complete Pratt (58 page)

I can imagine you in court, thought Henry, with your sallow cheeks, your long, thin nose and your determined mouth, but I cannot imagine you in bed with Paul.

‘How come?’ he said lamely.

‘Well, you replied “Very much, thank you” instead of “Not at all, you stupid twit, can’t you see I’m covered in cold grease?”’

‘I’d have been on a charge.’

‘Precisely. So you took refuge in a cowardly lie.’

‘Cowardly lie? What you’re suggesting would have been suicidal idiocy,’ said Henry. ‘All right. I amend what I said. I’d have hated to be an officer and been forced to force people like me to say stupid things like I was forced to say.’

Mr Hargreaves gave Henry a tiny nod, acknowledging a good point scored. Henry didn’t want to score points. He wanted to give his deeply felt views. He knew he should stop. He couldn’t.

‘I’ll make you a prediction,’ he said. ‘In twenty years’ time, national service will have been abolished, authority and discipline will be breaking down and Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells will be saying “Bring back national service. Give them some discipline.” Well, I believe that one of the reasons why authority and discipline will be breaking down will be because a whole generation will have learnt to say “Thank you very much, sir,” while meaning “Oh sod off, you stupid twit.” They’ll also, incidentally, have become deeply imbued with every four-letter word except work.’

There was a loud silence, then Mrs Hargreaves said, ‘There’s a very interesting exhibition of Portuguese art at the Royal Academy. One knows so shamefully little about Portuguese art,’ and Henry wanted to laugh. Suddenly he felt in a good mood. He would redeem himself. ‘This sea bass is delicious,’ he said, and then he remembered that talking about food while eating it was not considered good form in the Hargreaveses’ circle, as he’d discovered when he’d said, ‘This stew’s nice,’ when it was
boeuf bourgignon
anyway, and the memory of
that
humiliation swept over
him
, and he no longer felt in a good mood, and Mr Hargreaves said, ‘Do you think Wales will beat the French?’ and Diana said, ‘Northern Fiji is highly populated, I hear,’ and everybody stared at her in astonishment; and she said, ‘The last four remarks were about sodding twits, Portuguese art, sea bass and rugby, so I assumed this was the new style of witty table talk, with every sentence on an entirely new subject,’ and Henry looked at her in astonishment – was it possible that she was on his side? – and he said, ‘Oh, I agree. Double glazing’s the thing of the future,’ and she said, ‘Ah, but
are
the Peruvian Indians happy?’ and he said, ‘Well, let’s put it this way, a masochist is a person who likes bashing himself against a wall because it’s so nice when it starts,’ and Henry and Diana laughed but nobody else did, and what might on another occasion have been an amusing conversational fancy was edged with tension. Mr and Mrs Hargreaves looked as if they were being asked to play a new game but hadn’t been told the rules. Paul and Judy knew that it wasn’t a game and Henry, knowing that he was being foolish, said, ‘Being an officer has changed you, Paul. You look as if you’d like to arrest me for conduct prejudicial to good restaurant order and discipline, filthy and idle while eating a sea bass,
sir
,’ and after that, although the zabaglione passed off without incident, it clearly wasn’t possible to ask Mr Hargreaves for fifty pounds that night.

His bedroom door was opening. It squeaked slightly. He sat bolt upright.

‘It’s me,’ whispered Diana.

‘Good God,’ he said.

‘S’sh!’ she whispered as she closed the door.

She removed her dressing-gown and slipped naked into his bed.

‘Move up,’ she whispered.

He moved up. He was putty in her hands.

‘You’re tense,’ she whispered. ‘Relax.’

Yes, yes. Come on, Henry. Rise to the occasion. As it were. It’s what you’ve always wanted. Yes, but not now. If only it wasn’t the night after I’d decided I’m no good at the only thing I’m good at. If only it wasn’t at the end of the day on which I decided to give
women
up for ever, for their sakes as well as mine. If only I hadn’t had so much to drink yet again. If only she hadn’t had so much garlic. There was something to be said, perhaps, for the gastronomic desert that was Thurmarsh. If only they weren’t in the room next to her parents.

‘Relax,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t wriggle. What’s wrong?’

‘They’ll hear.’

‘Oh, Henry. You sounded so rebellious tonight. Was all that just talk?’

‘No, but … your family … I mean …’

‘Do you want to be like Paul and Judy, carefully not sleeping together tonight out of good manners?’

‘No.’

‘Everyone does it these days. This is 1956.’

‘I know.’

He pressed himself against her naked body. She put her tongue in his mouth. He ran his hands over her warm, chunkily generous body.

‘You’re lovely,’ he said. ‘You’re so beautiful.’ He found himself responding to his own words. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I love you with all my heart, darling. Oh, Diana, Diana, I love you.’ Slowly, and entirely forgetting to be quiet, he began to rise to heights of feeling and desire, on a tide of words which he didn’t mean.

It was clear, in the olive-green dining-room, over the bacon and kidneys – eggs would have been too obvious – that they all knew. It was also clear, despite their politeness, that they disapproved.

Diana came in late, still kissed by sleep, and said, ‘Morning, everybody,’ with a determined brightness that verged on defiance.

‘Did you sleep well, Diana?’ said Paul, meaningfully avoiding sounding meaningful.

‘Very well indeed,’ said Diana, ditto. ‘How did you and Judy sleep?’

‘I slept very well,’ said Paul. ‘Did you sleep well, Judy? Was your room quiet?’

‘Very quiet,’ said Judy. ‘I slept very well. Did you sleep well, Henry?’

‘I slept very well, thank you, Judy.’

Mr Hargreaves smiled. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘It sounds as though everyone slept as well as could be expected. We shall be able to issue a very satisfactory communiqué.’

Diana still hadn’t given Henry a direct look. He wished she would.

‘And what are you young people planning to do this morning?’ said Mrs Hargreaves.

‘I’m going to show Henry round the heath,’ said Diana rather shrilly.

Henry felt that he could have been exultant that morning, if he hadn’t told Diana that he loved her, if he hadn’t got to ask Mr Hargreaves for fifty pounds, if he hadn’t got to explain to the Midland Hotel why he’d walked out without paying, and if he hadn’t got to explain to Cousin Hilda why Paul had rung to invite him for a weekend for which he had already departed.

The sunshine grew steadily hazier, until the sun was just a vague diffusion of yellow light in a dull and darkening mist. There was a smell of snow. Hampstead Heath that Sunday morning seemed alive with interesting people. In Henry’s imagination they were philosophers and painters, socialist intellectuals, Middle European exiles, eccentrics and poets. Probably quite a few of them were actually plumbers and insurance brokers.

The path took them out of the trees, onto a bare grassy knoll. Several people were flying kites in the freshening wind. To the south the great city was dimly visible through the thickening murk. The light was growing faintly purple.

‘Henry?’

She was finding it difficult to look at him. He didn’t like it.

‘What?’

‘I wish I hadn’t come to your room last night.’

That jolted him. ‘Oh. May I ask why?’ There was no reply. ‘I thought you … er … enjoyed it.’

‘This morning,’ she said, ‘thinking of what you said … I had no idea. That you loved me.’ She forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘I could never love you, Henry.’

Wonderful. It let him off the hook completely. So why did he feel as if a heavyweight boxer had just hit him in the stomach?
Ego
? He tried to look blank. He didn’t want her to see him with ego on his face.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘so why, if I may ask, did you come to my room?’

‘I like you very much and I find you …’ Why did she have to search so long for an adjective? ‘… appealing.’

He kissed her. Now why did he do that?

‘No!’ she said. ‘Please!’

He held her tight and pressed his crutch into hers, in the midst of all the kite fliers. He kissed her long and slowly on the mouth. Now why did he do that? And she kissed him back, her lips working diligently, until their faces were slimy with each other’s saliva. Now why did she do that?

At last the kiss ended. ‘You see,’ she said. ‘It’s very simple. I like sex. I’m probably over-sexed.’

‘Ah,’ he said.

‘What do you mean, “ah”?’ she said indignantly. ‘Is that an adequate response to such an incredible admission?’

‘I wasn’t sure whether to say “congratulations” or “bad luck”.’

‘I know. I mean, I’m not promiscuous. Not really. I’d never do it with somebody I didn’t like a lot or know really well. But I do enjoy going to bed with men I like. And once not a man. Does that shock you?’

‘No. I … er … don’t think I have any right to be shocked by that.’

‘Oh? Really? Interesting. Anyway, when you said you loved me, I felt awful. You could never be that important to me.’

‘Well, that’s … wonderful.’

‘What?’

‘I … er … you’re so lovely, Diana, so attractive, such a nice person, that I said things I didn’t mean. I don’t love you.’

‘Oh.’

‘I like you very much. Perhaps I feel all the feelings of love towards you except love itself.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s all right, then.’

‘Yes.’

And they walked back slowly, under a bruised sky, both let off the hook, both feeling offended when they should have felt relieved. Ah, youth! How very like middle and old age it is.

They realized that everyone was wondering what had taken place on their walk. They decided, without needing to consult each other, to play the situation up. Every now and then, during lunch, they gave each other intense glances.

They had fish soup and medallions of rare beef in red wine sauce. Henry wondered, with shame but also with love, what Paul must have thought of Cousin Hilda’s meals.

‘Were there any paintings out up Heath Street?’ said Mrs Hargreaves.

‘Oh yes, quite a few,’ quipped Henry sparklingly.

‘I think you found them very interesting, didn’t you, Henry?’ said Diana. ‘I mean, you don’t get a lot of open-air paintings in Thurmarsh.’

Henry was appalled to hear himself say, in betrayal of his whole heritage, ‘You don’t get a lot of anything in Thurmarsh.’

‘Except spittle,’ said Judy.

There was an amazed silence. Paul flushed. Even Judy looked horrified. But she had to enlarge on it now.

‘Paul tells me people keep spitting up there. On the pavements,’ she said.

Paul glared at her. Clearly this was a breach of confidence.

‘They do,’ said Henry. ‘It’s because there’s such a lot of pneumoconiosis.’

‘I think that’s a beautiful word,’ said Judy.

‘Extremely beautiful,’ said Henry. ‘It must be a great consolation to people who’re dying of it.’

‘Henry! For Christ’s sake!’ said Paul.

‘Well I’m sorry, but it isn’t funny, you see,’ said Henry.

‘I thought it was parrots, anyway,’ said Diana.

‘Sorry? You thought what was parrots?’ said Paul.

‘Pneumoconiosis.’

‘That’s psittacosis,’ said Mr Hargreaves reluctantly.

‘What’s psoriasis, then?’ said Paul.

‘A skin disease,’ said Mr Hargreaves reluctantly.

‘Please! People!’ said Mrs Hargreaves. ‘What
has
happened to your idea of table talk?’

‘Could parrots have psoriasis as well as psittacosis?’ said Diana.

‘Diana!’ said Mrs Hargreaves.

‘I wonder if anybody’s ever given a parrot an enema for eczema in Exeter,’ said Diana.

‘You’re in a very silly mood today, Diana,’ said Mrs Hargreaves. She gave Henry an involuntary look, and he knew that she blamed him for Diana’s silly mood. He exchanged intense looks with Diana.

The conversation continued in more subdued vein. On the surface everybody was very civil, but he knew that, while acceptable as a friend, he was not regarded as suitable for marrying Diana, and the fact that he had no intention of marrying her didn’t make this any more palatable. He was finding out how unpleasant it is not to be thought good enough, and that provoked unpleasant reflections on his own behaviour towards Lorna.

And he still had to ask to borrow fifty pounds. He’d thought it would be easy to ask for money from the rich. He was realizing that they are the hardest of all to ask.

At last, the gastronomically exquisite, socially unbearable meal came to an end.

‘Er …’ he began, over coffee, in the faintly Chinese drawing-room on the first floor. ‘I … er … I wonder if I could …’ Oh god, he was blushing. ‘I wonder if I could have a word in private, Mr Hargreaves?’

There was an eloquent silence. Henry realized that everybody except Diana thought that he was going to ask Mr Hargreaves for his daughter’s hand in marriage. He could hardly suppress a smile at the thought that he could ever bring himself to do anything as feudal as that.