The Complete Pratt (73 page)

‘Get drunks in.’

‘Luggs,’ said Auntie Kate.

‘Drunk Luggs,’ said Fiona.

‘Is that serious, drunk Luggs?’ said Geoffrey Porringer.

‘Geoffrey!’ said Auntie Doris. ‘We’re going on our honeymoon.’

‘I’m not saying we aren’t,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘I’m only saying, not being acquainted with drunk Luggs, is it serious? Should we recruit extra staff?’

‘It
is
serious,’ said Henry. ‘You
should
recruit extra staff. I’ll come.’

There was silence. It seemed that the prospect of the availability of Henry to deal with hordes of drunk Luggs didn’t remove entirely the worries of Geoffrey Porringer and Ollie Renishaw.

‘The more hands, the better,’ said Henry. ‘I’d like to help you, Geoffrey.’

Geoffrey Porringer looked surprised. But pleased. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘I accept, young sir.’

Cousin Hilda sniffed loudly.

‘What’s that supposed to mean, Hilda?’ said Auntie Doris.

‘What’s what supposed to mean,’ said Cousin Hilda.

‘That sniff. One of your loudest.’

Cousin Hilda sniffed. ‘“One of my loudest”?’ she said. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Doris.’

‘At moments of disapproval you sniff, Hilda. Probably you don’t realize you’re doing it. I wondered to what particular disapproval we owed that snorter?’

‘To me working behind a bar,’ said Henry. ‘But I won’t be working, Cousin Hilda, because I won’t be paid. I’ll be helping Auntie Doris, who helped bring me up – as you did, of course, and thank you – by letting her go on her honeymoon with an untroubled mind.’

‘I thought you were coming home with me,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘We were going to have supper with Mrs Wedderburn. I’ve left cold for my businessmen.’

‘I’ll just have to forgo Mrs Wedderburn for the greater good,’ said Henry.

Cousin Hilda sniffed.

‘Promise you won’t refuse to serve me because I’m under age,’ said Geraldine Porringer.

‘I’m afraid I’d have to,’ said Henry. ‘Even though in your case it’d be unnecessary, because you’re so mature.’

‘Geraldine’s squiffy,’ said Stephen.

‘Am not, prick,’ said Geraldine.

There was non-vintage port, with the cheese.

‘What’s the time?’ said Cousin Hilda, as soon as she decently could. ‘I’m thinking about my trains.’

‘Twenty-two minutes past two,’ said Henry.

‘I hope Graham won’t forget to ring the bell for last orders,’ said Ollie Renishaw.

Ollie Renishaw drove back, in his rusting blue van, as if convinced that Graham would have missed a smouldering fag end, which would reduce the White Hart to rubble. Brief beams of sunlight were breaking through the dark canopy of the clouds, lighting up the occasional sycamore, a distant stone barn, the corner of a field
on
the far hills. It was as if lace curtains were briefly parted, to allow a vision of a beautiful woman.

The van screamed to a frenzied halt, beside the unburnt hotel. It had started to rain again.

Henry’s motives in offering to help man the bar were not entirely unselfish. He didn’t really expect trouble. He believed that the Luggs became involved in frequent fights because, since they had a reputation for becoming involved in frequent fights, people frequently picked fights with them, accusing them of frequently picking fights with people. Tonight, in the comparative gentility of the White Hart, nobody would pick on them.

His real motive was to visit the reception of Mr and Mrs Eric Lugg.

He walked slowly across the square, between the stalls, in his only suit, still wearing the buttonhole from the other wedding. He had bemoaned the frequency of weddings that summer, and now here he was on his way to yet another one, to which he hadn’t even been invited.

He approached the Crown with increasing reluctance. There was a great roar of talk and laughter. But he must go on, now that he had come this far.

He entered the pub, and said, ‘Hello’ to Edna, the landlady. She remembered him, and escorted him to the function room.

The room was awash with rustic good humour. There were the remains of a sit-down ham tea, but the lads in their bursting suits were congregating once more at the bar, cradling pints in their great outdoor hands.

Lorna looked at him in astonishment and turned as white as her virginal dress. ‘Henry?’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

He was unwelcome. Well he would be. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

‘Auntie Doris and Mr Porringer got married today.’

‘My God!’

‘I know. And I thought, as I’m here, well, I couldn’t miss the chance of wishing you every happiness.’

‘Thanks.’

In her relief, she kissed him warmly. He wondered what she had thought he’d come for. How thin she was.

Eric Lugg hurried up. How huge he was.

‘You remember Henry?’ squeaked Lorna.

‘Oh aye. I remember Henry,’ said Eric Lugg. ‘I called him the evacuee squirt.’

‘Lorna and I were good friends once,’ said Henry. ‘Before your time, of course.’

‘“Before my time”?’ said Eric Lugg. ‘What does tha mean “Before my time”? There never was a time before my time.’

‘No. No,’ said Henry. ‘Oh no. No. No, I just meant, I liked Lorna. She liked me. We liked each other. And I thought, Well, I know what those Luggs are like. Friendly. If Eric Lugg ever found out that an old friend of Lorna and of his sister Jane had been in Troutwick and hadn’t come in to drink to their happiness, he’d be one angry insulted Eric Lugg.’

Eric Lugg digested this speech slowly. ‘Have a pint,’ he said at last.

‘Right,’ said Henry, deeply relieved. ‘Thanks.’

He couldn’t talk to Lorna on her own. He felt a million miles away from her. He was deeply upset that she was marrying Eric Lugg, an instructor in the catering corps. He was deeply upset that he was deeply upset that she was marrying Eric Lugg, an instructor in the catering corps. He grinned at Eric Lugg and allowed himself to be embraced almost to the point of strangulation by a very drunk Jane Lugg, whom he had once courted, till she had nits. It crossed his mind that she might have been a better choice for England than Tosser Pilkington-Brick. He nodded and chatted with his old friend Simon Eckington, with his old tormentor Patrick Eckington, with Simon’s wife Pam, whom he had once courted, till she had nits. He chatted with Lorna’s parents, with Luggs known and Luggs unknown. He chatted and laughed with everybody except Lorna, his first consummated love. He insisted on buying a large round of pints, which he couldn’t afford, in lieu of a wedding present. He clinked glasses with Eric Lugg.

Eric Lugg clasped him in a hugely affectionate embrace. ‘You’re one of us,’ he said.

Oh no, thought Henry, as he grinned his sheepishly pleased apparent agreement. Oh no, Eric. One of somebody I may be, although I haven’t found out who yet. One of you, that I most definitely am not.

‘
THERE’S BEEN A
mistake, sergeant,’ said Henry desperately, peering out from under the slightly damp sheets and gently festering blankets, and looking up at the hard, threatening face of Sergeant Botney. ‘I’ve done my national service.’

‘Well now you’re doing it again, laddie,’ said Sergeant Botney. ‘And it’s three years this time.’

‘You can’t do national service twice, sergeant.’

‘You can if the authorities say so, son. And they say so. They’ve decided they need you. Gawd knows why.’

‘But I have a budding career as a reporter, sergeant.’

‘Well now you’re going to have a budding career as a soldier, sunshine. Who are
you
??’

This question was barked at Signalman Brian Furnace, who had just popped up from under the sheets.

‘Signalman Furnace, sarge,’ said Signalman Furnace.

‘Two soldiers in one pit!’ thundered Sergeant Botney. He pulled back the bedclothes and stared down at the naked intertwined bodies of Henry and Signalman Furnace. ‘Two naked signalmen in one pit! I’ve never seen anything like it. What’s going on?’

‘We love each other,’ said Signalman Furnace.

‘You what?? You love each other?? This is the British army. You’re on a charge. Filthy and idle and stark bollock naked on parade. Get down to the charge room.’

‘As we are, sarge?’

‘As you are. No! As you were. Get dressed, you dirty little buggers.’

‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhh!’ shrieked Henry. He pointed towards the ceiling. The inert body of Signalman Burbage was swinging gently in the draught.

‘Come down from there, Burbage!’ shouted Sergeant Botney. ‘Committing suicide on duty. I’ll have you for this.’

‘Sorry, sarge,’ said the dead signalman. He whipped a knife from his pocket and cut the rope that was holding him. His inert body dropped across Henry’s. Henry screamed. And woke up.

He was drenched in sweat. Oh, thank goodness, oh sweet and wonderful life, it had been a dream.

Where was he?

He was lying on a palliasse, on a groundsheet, in a large tent. Rain was drumming on the canvas. There was a smell of wet grass, and damp rubber, and male feet, and male sweat, a vaguely disgusting goulash of damp and perspiration. Men were snoring, breathing congestedly, farting in their sleep. The charm of mankind. As opposed to womankind. He couldn’t believe that a tent full of women could have been so repulsive.

He was in the army! It hadn’t been a dream! He hardly dared look up.

No inert body was swinging there. No naked signalman’s body was intertwined with his.

Of course. He was back in the army, for a fortnight, for the first of his three annual territorial reserve camps. He was on the Pennine moors, not more than thirty miles from Rowth Bridge.

They’d be waking up soon, this rag-bag of strangers. Strangers! He’d hoped to meet Michael Collinghurst. He’d hoped and feared that he’d meet Brian Furnace. He’d hoped to see at least some of his old muckers – Taffy Bevin, Lanky Lasenby, Geordie Stubbs. Even Fishy Fisk, who smelt of herrings.

Reveille reverberated over the sodden moors. A curlew trilled defiant rivalry. Men stirred, groaned, swore, farted, belched. The charm of mankind, shamed by a curlew’s trill. Nobody hurried. Discipline was lax. The old fears had died down. It was a shambles. It was raining. Nothing to hurry for.

At Richmond Station, in September 1953, at the beginning of it all, Henry had said, ‘I’m a man.’ Sweat streamed off him at the thought of that grotesquely premature boast.

If he’d been a man, he wouldn’t have joined in the destruction of Burbage. Burbage was clumsy. Timid. Shy. Not intellectually brilliant. A little odiferous. There’s no point in idealizing him because he’s dead. He was a clumsy, smelly, hopeless case. Hopeless. Dead. Hanged himself.

Sergeant Botney had made them laugh at him by numbers. ‘Squad will laugh at Signalman Burbage, squad…wait for it… squad … at Signalman Burbage … laugh!’ And all together they had shouted, ‘Signalman Burbage smells two three ha two three ha two three ha ha ha.’ Man’s natural inhumanity to those weaker than himself had been tempered by unease, by a sense of their own weakness, by the knowledge that they weren’t being beastly to Burbage of their own free will but because they were under orders, they were only one rung above him on the ladder of humiliation. Afterwards they’d told Burbage that they hated doing it, didn’t mean it, only did it because they had to.

They’d still done it. Henry too. He’d not said, ‘I refuse to laugh at Signalman Burbage, sergeant. It’s cruel and humiliating and I’d rather go to military prison in Colchester.’ He’d said, ‘Ha two three ha two three ha ha ha.’ And Burbage was dead. Hanged himself.

People were getting up. Armpits of tangled hair were appearing and being wearily scratched. The charm of mankind.

Henry went through the deepening mud to the ablutions. He thought about Flanders, and didn’t complain. He endured breakfast. He thought about Eric Lugg, and
did
complain. Back to the tent, waiting. A shambles. There were no wireless sets here, so he couldn’t employ the only craft the army had taught him. Some days they were shown things. Today, somebody was supposed to show them flame-throwers. Nothing happened. They mooched in a damp tent. Gus Norris approached him.

‘Pratt? You’re an educated sort of geezer, ain’t yer?’

‘I can’t demur.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No, I mean, you are, ain’t yer? Educated. Well, more than me, like.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘They can’t keep us ’ere, can they? Only it’s me dad’s shop, see.’

‘What?’

‘… ’e’s goin’ into ’orspital, i’n’ ’e? Next munf. I’n’ ’e? Bleeding backside’s bleeding bleeding. Got to ’ave a hoperation, ’asn’ ’e?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I gotta run the shop ’cos it’s me mum’s nerves with me nan ill an’all. ’aven’ I?’

‘Well, yes, Gus, I suppose you have.’

‘They can’t make us do anuvver two years, can they? I mean, because of the crisis and all that and everything. In the Middle East and that. Can they?’