The Complete Pratt (92 page)

‘How very depressing,’ said Helen.

‘You’re all right. You’re beautiful,’ said Ginny, with feeling.

‘I won’t be in thirty years,’ said Helen with equal feeling.

‘Deuce,’ said Gordon.

‘Are you trying to excuse sex crimes, Ginny?’ said Helen.

‘Certainly not. I’m trying to explain them,’ said Ginny. ‘The British are very good at condemning results while totally ignoring causes.’

Colin insisted on buying the next round, because he’d have to
rush
home to Glenda soon. Hilary drily expressed surprise on learning that he was married.

‘Well, time I went home to give the wife …’ Ben glanced at Hilary. ‘… some help with putting the children to bed.’

And Colin did rush home to Glenda. Ted raised an astonished eyebrow. Henry was amazed at Hilary’s ability to change things without saying anything.

A trip to the jazz club was mooted. Gordon and Jill exchanged looks and Gordon said, Dunkirk.’ Jill looked puzzled.

‘He means you should make a tactical withdrawal,’ said Ginny. ‘There’s no need to on my account. I’m thick-skinned and hard-bitten.’

‘Good,’ said Jill. ‘I like the jazz club.’

‘Are you coming, Henry?’ said Helen.

‘Yes,’ said Henry, decisively. ‘We are, aren’t we?’ he added, ruining the effect.

Hilary laughed. Everyone must have seen her beauty at that moment. Henry felt proud, and then he realized that Hilary wouldn’t like that, and then he didn’t know what to think.

They walked down Leatherbottlers’ Row into Albion Street, down Albion Street, past the
Chronicle
and
Argus
building, and turned left into Commercial Road. Henry found himself with Helen. Ted was ahead of them, with Hilary. They seemed to be chatting easily. Behind them he could hear Ginny asking Gordon and Jill determinedly casual questions about their plans. Jill was clearly embarrassed. Gordon was finding few opportunities for elegantly coded replies. Ginny sounded totally relaxed.

Helen linked arms with Henry, as they began the gentle climb up Commercial Road. ‘One day when I was feverish with the flu I had a hallucination that you were there in bed with Ted and me,’ she said. ‘I was awfully disappointed to find you weren’t.’

‘For God’s sake, Helen,’ he said. He tried to pull his arm free. She clung on. They walked on, linked and silent.

In the jazz club, Helen said, ‘Hilary’s making a big hit with Ted,’ and Henry couldn’t bear to see her talking to Ted any more, so he went up to them, right in the middle of ‘Basin Street Blues’, and grabbed hold of Hilary, and said, ‘I want to talk to you, darling,’ and Ted hurried back to Helen, smiling, and Henry had an
uncomfortable
feeling that he’d been an unwitting puppet in a charade.

‘How do you like Sid Hallett and the Rundlemen?’ he asked.

‘I’ve heard them before, you know,’ she said. ‘I’m a Thurmarsh girl. Talking of that, your series, “Proud Sons of Thurmarsh”, is pretty male-oriented, isn’t it? How about a follow-up series, “Proud Daughters of Thurmarsh”?’

‘An excellent idea.’ Desire for her swept over him. ‘I want to make love with you,’ he said.

‘I must go and see my parents tonight.’ There was applause. Sid Hallett and the Rundlemen took huge sips of beer, in unison, as if it were written in the score. They embarked upon ‘South Rampart Street Parade’. ‘Let’s go now,’ she said.

‘We don’t want to seem like wet blankets the first time you meet them all. You’ve had a bit of that effect already. Usually they all come.’

‘They should go home to their wives.’

‘I quite agree. But it’s their life, isn’t it?’

‘I can’t hide my feelings,’ she said. ‘I’m awkward, difficult, uncompromising, inconvenient. Do you want to call it off now?’ She went round to them all, saying ‘Good night.’

‘She wants to get home before her parents go to bed. She hasn’t seen them yet,’ explained Henry.

They walked down Commercial Road in silence.

In York Road, near the station, she said, ‘If you want a good sport, you should marry Ginny.’

‘Hilary!’ he said. ‘I thought you liked Ginny,’ he added.

‘I do,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t an insult.’

‘You seemed to like Ted,’ he said.

She didn’t say another word. There were no kisses, that night, in Perkin Warbeck Drive.

They were on a small chain ferry, gently caressing with entwined fingers. They were crossing a placid river. Brown trout trembled against the stream. Weeds bent gently before the lazy current. On the bank, the gnarled trees were heavy with marzipan and nougat.

The ferry scraped to a halt against the chalky stones. The ferryman turned from his winch, straightened his back and
grimaced
. He was vaguely familiar. He began to speak. He told them, with blinding clarity, in less than thirty words, all the secrets of life, of its meaning and its conduct.

He woke up. The words faded. He could hear them but not make sense of them. He asked her if she understood them. She wasn’t there. He was alone, and last night they had parted without a kiss.

Perhaps she wouldn’t come.

She came.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, too,’ he said.

‘That’s all right, then.’

‘Not a very good evening.’

‘We have to put ourselves through a bit more stress than we did at Christmas,’ she said. ‘I’m not your princess. You aren’t my prince. We can’t marry each other while we still seem too good to be true.’

For lunch they had bread and marmalade. He dropped a dollop of marmalade on her stomach, and licked it off. By the time they’d dragged themselves from the crumpled wreck of his narrow bed it was almost dark.

Their love was proof against the relentless rain. Darkness lent enchantment to the shining wet streets.

Cousin Hilda was making supper. She sniffed, and Henry wondered if she could smell sex on them. But the air was full of the aroma of imminent faggots, and her disapproval was for the inopportune timing of their visit.

‘You should have told me you were coming,’ she said. ‘If it was stew I’d make it stretch, but you can’t stretch faggots. Two faggots are two faggots, whichever road you look at them. It wouldn’t be fair to make my businessmen go short, who’ve paid.’

‘We can’t eat, thank you very much,’ said Hilary. ‘We’re expected at home.’

Cousin Hilda sniffed. ‘You could have been expected at this home,’ she said.

‘We didn’t want to be any trouble,’ said Henry.

‘Trouble!’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I suppose you’re above and beyond faggots, now you’re a journalist.’

‘Very much the reverse,’ said Henry. He met Hilary’s eyes and she smiled with the utmost decorum.

‘Hilary and I are engaged, Cousin Hilda,’ said Henry.

Cousin Hilda didn’t attempt to hide her hurt, but she couldn’t quite hide the delight behind the hurt.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Engaged! Well! And I’ve never even met her before. Well!’

Henry kissed her. Then Hilary kissed her. She received these kisses as her due.

‘Well!’ she said. ‘Mrs Wedderburn will be pleased. She’ll be right thrilled. She’s very fond of you.’ There were tears in Cousin Hilda’s eyes. She just managed to finish speaking without breaking down. ‘It’ll make Mrs Wedderburn’s day, will this.’ She hurried off into the scullery. ‘All this talk,’ she said. ‘I’m neglecting my faggots.’

Henry’s eyes were filled with tears too, damn it. And so were Hilary’s. This was intolerable.

‘Can I help?’ said Hilary, hurrying into the scullery.

To Henry’s astonishment, Hilary didn’t reappear. Cousin Hilda allowed her to help. No greater compliment could possibly have been paid by Cousin Hilda. Slowly, shamingly slowly, he was beginning to realize that he’d been blessed with the love of a quite extraordinary person. He was filled with astonishing warmth and joy. He sat and stared at the glowing stove. He could hear them clattering in the scullery. He heard Cousin Hilda say, ‘Mrs Wedderburn’s had a soft spot for Henry ever since she lent him her camp-bed.’ The tears were streaming down his face. He hurried upstairs to the lavatory, to hide this damning evidence of emotion.

Cousin Hilda insisted that they stayed. Hilary must meet her businessmen. She even offered them a cup of tea! So Hilary was introduced to Liam, who adored her instantly, and to Norman Pettifer, who tried to take a jaundiced view of her and failed, and to Mr Peters, who thought she was a fine thing and told her of other fine things to which he had become used. They sat and chatted, as the three men demolished their faggots, their mashed potatoes, their peas, their tinned pears to follow.

Oh joy of youth, it was still raining, and, as they walked to
Perkin
Warbeck Drive, they were able to demonstrate again that rain couldn’t hurt them.

The sight of Howard Lewthwaite brought Henry back to the reality that he’d had to hide from Hilary. How could they lose each other now, after the bonds they had forged that day? And now he made sure that the bonds were even more closely forged. He suggested that they fix the wedding date. They did. Saturday, July 20th. Nadežda cried. Sam asked if they’d had their oats that morning and had it been better than cornflakes? Henry met Howard Lewthwaite’s eye and his look tried to say, ‘Yes. We’ve made love. We love each other deeply and respect each other totally and believe our love is a most beautiful and moral thing.’ Howard Lewthwaite gave him a look which might have meant, ‘I understand and I’m not angry’ but might also have meant, ‘What on earth is that look of yours supposed to mean?’ Henry gave him a look which was supposed to mean, ‘Can you give me any hint regarding the progress of your investigations into the dire matter which hangs over this touching domestic scene like a thundercloud over the sweet cow-dunged water meadows at the end of a midge-mad July day?’ and Howard Lewthwaite gave him a look which might have meant, ‘I haven’t found out anything definite,’ but might also have meant, ‘Since neither of us has the faintest idea what each other’s looks mean, it looks as though we ought to stop giving each other these looks.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ said Auntie Doris through her tears, as the wind rattled the windows of the lounge bar of the White Hart. ‘I’m just a silly, feeble-minded old woman.’

‘Yes, you are,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘So shut up.’

‘Geoffrey!’ said Auntie Doris.

‘Joke!’ said Geoffrey Porringer.

‘Jokes are supposed to be funny, Geoffrey,’ said Auntie Doris.

Over late lunch in the hotel’s deserted restaurant, she wanted to know every detail of their courtship. ‘Italy!’ she said. ‘How romantic! And then the long quest before you met again. Isn’t that a lovely story, Geoffrey?’

Geoffrey Porringer nodded and said, ‘Lovely. Let’s crack another bottle.’

While Geoffrey Porringer cracked another bottle, Auntie Doris said, ‘Does this mean you won’t come to Cap Ferrat?’

‘Do you want me to come?’ said Henry.

‘More than anything in the world,’ said Auntie Doris, who was no stranger to hyperbole.

‘I’ll come for a week,’ said Henry, who was. Auntie Doris looked so gratified that he wished he hadn’t already begun to add, ‘I have to take my third week before the end of March anyway.’

When Auntie Doris went to see a man about a dog, Geoffrey Porringer said, ‘She’s excited, Hilary. I don’t want you to think she’s always like this.’

‘Everything’s fine,’ said Hilary. ‘I’m enjoying myself.’

‘Sometimes when she’s happy, she gets carried away, and doesn’t realize how much she’s drinking,’ said Geoffrey Porringer.

When Hilary went to see a man about a dog, Geoffrey Porringer said, ‘She’s lovely, Henry. She really is. I can’t get over it.’

‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ said Auntie Doris, who always made things worse by protesting about them. ‘It makes it sound as though we wouldn’t expect him to make a decent catch.’

‘Decent catch!’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘He’s landed in the middle of a shoal of mackerel.’

When Henry went to see a man about a dog, he didn’t know what they talked about, but they were all laughing when he returned, and he was a little disturbed to find how richly entertaining life without him was.

‘It’s a nice hotel,’ said Hilary.

‘How the conversation descends to the banal when I return,’ said Henry.

‘I’ll show you the brochure, Hilary,’ said Geoffrey Porringer.

‘Geoffrey!’ said Auntie Doris. ‘Young people in love aren’t interested in brochures. They’ve other things on their minds.’

‘She’s got a tongue in her head,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘Hilary, would you like to see the brochure?’

‘Very much,’ said Hilary.

‘You see!’ said Geoffrey Porringer.

‘She could hardly say, “God, no! How tedious,’” said Auntie Doris.

When Geoffrey Porringer had gone to fetch the brochure,
Auntie
Doris said, ‘Henry had been interceding on my behalf with his Uncle Teddy, hadn’t you, Henry?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Henry. ‘Yes, I had.’

‘Until he was incarcerated in the ruins of his life’s dream,’ said Auntie Doris.

‘I heard about that,’ said Hilary. ‘It was tragic.’