The Complete Pratt (6 page)

Henry wasn’t so frightened as the train chugged out. All along the train, men with fixed smiles leant out of the windows and waved. On the platform, little groups of relations clutched each other helplessly. His dad waved until he was just a speck among many specks waving, and then the last carriage disappeared round the corner of the carriage sheds, and they walked away through the cruel August sunlight. Ada walked in the middle, with Her Mother on her left and Henry on her right. It was the first time that Henry had ever been exposed on one of life’s flanks, the first time he had been required to give support, not receive it. He was tiny, and solemn, and frightened, as they waited for the tram home.

When they got home, Ada cried very briefly, and then busied herself mightily about her tasks. She gave him an extra portion of brawn as a treat. He asked the question that he could not contain within himself.

‘Where’s Kates?’ he said.

‘Kate’s?’

‘Aye. Where’s Kates?’

‘I’ve never heard of it,’ she said.

‘There’s no such place,’ said Her Mother.

‘Only Kate’s I know is your Great Aunt Kate’s,’ said Ada. Her mouth dropped open. ‘Was tha listening last night?’

‘No,’ he said. Too late he added, ‘What to?’

‘Kate’s our Ezra’s father’s sister,’ said Ada. ‘She married a farmer. They live on a lovely farm with cows and sheep and green hills all around. It’s a grand life there. Come on, get thesen agate of that brawn. Was tha standing there, on t’ stairs?’

Henry nodded miserably.

Ada raised her cup of tea to her lips, then lowered it without drinking.

‘Happen it’s best out,’ she said. ‘Ezra made me promise.’

‘Promise what?’ said Her Mother. ‘Promise what, Ada?’

Ada’s eyes avoided Her Mother’s.

‘To take Henry to Kate’s.’

‘To take Henry to Kate’s? For how long?’

‘Just for t’ duration.’

‘Just for t’ duration?’

‘I reckon I’ve got me parrot back again.’

‘I don’t want to go to Kate’s,’ said Henry. ‘I ’ate Kate.’

‘What about me?’ said Her Mother. ‘Did tha forget about me, or what?’

‘Tha’ll come wi’ us,’ said Ada. ‘Tha lives wi’ us, doesn’t tha?’

‘I’m not going there,’ said Her Mother. ‘I’ve lived all me life in Thurmarsh. I can’t be doing wi’ countryside, me.’

‘It’s a right nice place, mother. There’s lovely hills and that.’

‘Hills? They’re nobbut lumps of muck. I’ll go to our Leonard’s. Now he’s working.’

‘Mother!’

‘I’m not upset,’ said Her Mother. ‘I’m not hurt. T’ lad comes first, and that’s as it should be. I’ve had my life.’ She sighed, thinking about it. ‘It wouldn’t matter if a bomb fell on my napper tomorrow. Nobody’d care. I wouldn’t blame them. It’s natural when tha’s getting old.’

‘Mother!’

‘If Hitler doesn’t oblige, I’ll go and live wi’ Leonard. It’s all settled.’

‘I feel awful now,’ said Ada.

‘Nay, luv, don’t take on,’ said Her Mother. ‘I don’t want to upset thee, not when tha’s so upset. Countryside’s safest for youngsters. I don’t like t’ countryside. Our Leonard’s my son, and
it
’s about time I lived wi’ ’im. Let’s leave it at that.’

‘Well what about our Doris? She’s got more room than Leonard.’

‘I wouldn’t impose on her.’

‘If anyone has thee, it should be Doris.’

‘I’d never axe our Doris for owt. I wouldn’t demean mesen.’

Ada took a sip of tea.

‘I don’t like to see Doris getting away wi’ it,’ she said.

‘Not doing her stint at putting up wi’ me, does tha mean?’ said Her Mother. ‘Tha makes me sound like an air raid, not her mother.’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Ada. ‘I just meant Doris allus wriggles out of doing her bit.’

‘I’m her bit now, am I? I’m summat unpleasant has to be undergone in line of duty, for t’ war effort.’

‘I don’t want to go to Kate’s,’ said Henry. ‘I ’ate Kate.’

‘Mother!’ said Ada, almost sobbing. ‘I just know what Doris’ll do. She’ll wait till tha’s settled wi’ Leonard, then say, “You should have asked to come to us. We’d have been happy to have you, wouldn’t we, Teddy?”’

Henry wondered if he had become invisible and inaudible at the same time. He made another plea for attention.

‘I won’t go,’ he said. ‘I won’t go.’

‘It’s all settled. I’m not going to Doris,’ said Her Mother. She took a piece of bread, and spread an ostentatiously thin scraping of margarine on it. She managed to make the gesture into a criticism of Teddy and Doris’s whole lifestyle. This is my final word on the subject, said her eloquent knife.

Henry tried to be good, and reconcile himself to going to Kate’s. He tried to support his mother, helping her scour the steps with the donkey stone, trying to carry the aspidistra out when it rained and everybody took their aspidistras out to stand on the causer edge. He went with her to the corner shop, holding her hand to reassure her. Her at the corner shop refused to take a slurpy halfpenny, because she couldn’t see Britannia. Ada said, ‘Some folk don’t know there’s a war on,’ and almost cried, and Henry squeezed her hand.

They grew used to life without Ezra. For a week, Ada couldn’t bring herself to mention him to Henry, for fear that she’d break down. Then she broached the subject that could not be avoided.

‘Come here, Henry,’ she said gently.

It was afternoon. Four pairs of stockings were drying on the clothes-horse in front of the range. Three of the stockings were laddered. Her Mother was over at Leonard’s, discussing her room.

‘That night, our Ezra’s last night, upstairs,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t trying to strangle me.’

She had to tell him that much, in fairness to Ezra.

‘What
were
he doing, mam?’

She sighed. She’d known he’d ask it, of course. Why not describe the act in detail? He’d be as bored as he was bemused. He’d think it ridiculous. He’d have a point. But no, she couldn’t tell him.

‘Summat men do to women when they’re grown up. Summat that happen tha’ll do thysen one day.’

‘What?’

‘That’s enough now. I just wanted tha to know that thy dad’s a good man. He’s gone to fight t’ war so we can be safe.’

‘What’ll I do one day, mam?’

‘We’ll see.’

When Her Mother returned, she was well pleased with the room she had been allotted. ‘It faces north, but it’s got a nice outlook,’ she said. ‘I said to our Leonard, “It’ll do, but tha can get shut of yon alablaster bust.” He said, “That’s Lord Hawke.” I said, “I don’t care if it’s Lord Muck. It’s going.” He said, “Aye, but Lord Hawke were doyen of Yorkshire cricket.” I said, “Aye, and he’ll be doyen of bloody dustbin an’ all in a minute. Get shut of him or I will.”’

German bombers blitzed London and the Midlands. Allied bombers carried out night raids on German towns. There were fierce dog-fights in the skies over south-east England. The railings in front of the Georgian town houses behind the Alderman Chandler Memorial Park were ripped down and sent to join the war. Her Mother went to live with Leonard. ‘It’s a bit of a squeeze,’ she said, ‘but they can cope. She’s quite nice when tha gets to know her. Me room faces north, but how much sun do we
have
any road? It’ll be nice to have an inside toilet for a change, even if it has got an alablaster bust of Lord Hawke in it. So don’t feel badly about it, Ada. It’s my choice. I don’t feel unwanted. I don’t feel neglected.’

Their belongings were all packed and standing by the door of the little house. Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris had insisted that everything be ready by the time they arrived.

‘They said they’d be here early doors,’ said Ada. ‘Some folk have a funny idea of early doors.’

Soon there would be evacuees in the house. Moving had proved no problem. Him at corner shop didn’t mind where his rent came from, provided it came.

Henry wanted to cry, but he was determined not to.

Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris arrived at last.

‘Cup of tea?’ enquired Ada.

‘No, no,’ said Uncle Teddy hastily, and then he tried to soften the refusal with explanation. ‘We’ve a long way to go, and there’s the blackout.’

‘I wish mother’d asked to come to us,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘We’d have been happy to have her, wouldn’t we, Teddy?’

‘Is this all there is?’ said Uncle Teddy, surveying their meagre baggage.

‘Teddy!’ said Auntie Doris.

‘Well there’s not much, to say they’re going for the duration,’ said Uncle Teddy.

‘Tact,’ mouthed Auntie Doris.

‘Tact?’ said Uncle Teddy.

‘Don’t rub it in that some folk haven’t got as much as others,’ hissed Auntie Doris, who always made things worse by protesting about them.

‘Oh. Right,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Travelling light, eh? That’s the ticket. The rest’ll be quite safe here.’

There was ample room for their luggage in the boot of the Armstrong-Siddeley ‘Twelve Plus’ Four-Light Saloon De Luxe.

And then Henry knew that he couldn’t go.

‘Don’t want to go,’ he whimpered.

Uncle Teddy gave Ada a sharp glance.

‘It’s nice there, Henry,’ said Ada.

‘I ’ate Kate,’ said Henry.

‘Don’t be silly. Tha’s never met her,’ said Ada.

Henry began to scream.

‘We’ll be in the car,’ said Uncle Teddy grimly. ‘Come on, Doris.’

Henry screamed and screamed and screamed. At first he screamed because he was terrified of leaving this cobbled, terraced, canal-side womb. Then he screamed because he was upset with himself for giving way to his fear. Then he screamed because he was angry with life because he was a helpless thing about which other people made decisions, and he had no choice about being put into positions where he had to scream. Then he was empty of fear and anger and shame, and he screamed because he couldn’t think of a way of stopping screaming without looking ridiculous.

In the end he stopped out of sheer exhaustion.

Ada closed the door for the last time, and led Henry to the waiting car. The top half of the headlights had been blacked out.

‘I thought it best if we were out of the road,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘I thought it might get it over with quicker if the performance was mainly for our benefit.’

‘It wasn’t a performance,’ said Ada.

‘Now you’ve not forgotten anything, have you?’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘We’re late. We’ve been delayed. I’m not turning back.’

‘He never turns back,’ said Auntie Doris, whose perfume filled the car.

‘I’ve not forgotten owt,’ said Ada.

Uncle Teddy handed Ada a paper bag.

‘In case he’s carsick,’ he explained.

‘You didn’t have to say what it’s for. It’s obvious. You could just have handed it to her. You’ve made things worse,’ said Auntie Doris, who always made things worse by protesting about them. ‘You’ve put the idea of being carsick into his head.’

‘You won’t be carsick, will you, Henry?’ said Uncle Teddy.

‘No, Uncle Teddy,’ said Henry in little more than a whisper.

‘Let’s gerron wi’ it,’ said Ada.

‘He has to have his little argument,’ said Auntie Doris.

‘I do not have to have my little argument,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘I do not have to have my little argument, Doris.’

‘Don’t clench your teeth at me,’ said Auntie Doris.

‘Tha can go now,’ said Ada. ‘T’ whole street’s seen her fur wrap.’

‘I’ll put that down to tension and ignore it,’ said Uncle Teddy, crashing angrily into first gear and setting off with a jerk.

Henry Pratt had lived at number 23 Paradise Lane for five years and almost six months. Never, in the rest of his life, would he remain in one home for so long.

The nearest that he would come to it would be at Low Farm, near the village of Rowth Bridge, in the spectacular landscape of Upper Mitherdale.

But I anticipate. They weren’t there yet. There were problems on the long journey from womb-cobble to world-hill.

The first problem was petrol. Or rather, the lack of it. ‘He always leaves it too late,’ said Auntie Doris, as Uncle Teddy trudged back into the distance with his can, towards the garage at which he had declined to stop because he ‘didn’t like the cut of its jib’.

The second problem was the signposts. Or rather, the lack of them. Most of them had been taken down, and the others had been pointed in the wrong direction, to confuse the Germans. It confused Uncle Teddy.

‘It’s lucky I know my county,’ he said. ‘I might get lost otherwise.’

The third problem was Uncle Teddy’s war effort. Or rather, the lack of it. It came to the surface just after they had found themselves lost for the third time.

‘Who are we supposed to be fighting, the Germans or ourselves?’ said Uncle Teddy.

‘Nobody, in your case,’ said Ada.

Uncle Teddy slammed the brakes on. The car slewed to a halt across the road, almost catapulting Auntie Doris through the windscreen.

‘I have flat feet,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘I have very flat feet. I have fallen arches. I have very fallen arches. My worst enemy couldn’t
say
that I am a man not to face the music when the chips are down. I want to do my bit. With my feet, I’ve no chance. No chance.’