The Complete Pratt (135 page)

A few weeks later, Henry and Diana chugged to Monks Eleigh through a golden autumn haze.

When they arrived, Henry saw that Auntie Doris couldn’t remember who he was. ‘Haven’t you got a kiss for your little nephew Henry?’ he prompted, and he saw the panic die from her eyes.

After a supper of tinned mulligatawny soup and Marks and Spencer’s lasagne – neither Auntie Doris nor Uncle Teddy were up to proper cooking any more – they settled down to a good game of Scrabble. Henry found it both endearing and sad (mixed emotions
number
84) to see this old rogue and this ultra-glamorous sexy painted lady getting so excited over a game of Scrabble.

During the game, Auntie Doris proudly produced the word Quonge. After a brief silence, Henry said, ‘Sorry. What’s Quonge?’ ‘A Mexican hat,’ said Uncle Teddy. Diana pointed out that foreign words don’t count. ‘It’s English for a Mexican hat,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘The Mexican for a Mexican hat is
Quonja
.’ With the Q happening to fall on a triple letter square, Auntie Doris established a lead which she maintained to the end. When she’d left the room, Uncle Teddy said, ‘All guff about the hat, of course, but the old girl loves to win. Not a word, eh?’ and Henry said, ‘Oh no. We’ll keep it under our
quonja
, don’t you worry.’ ‘Very good,’ said Uncle Teddy, as Auntie Doris returned. ‘Humour always was your saving grace,’ and Auntie Doris, who still made things worse by protesting about them, said, ‘Teddy! Tact. Don’t remind him that there’s practically nothing else he’s any good at.’

Towards the end of June, 1974, the wife of a market gardener in Country Durham informed Henry that her husband had been in hospital for several weeks, and their cucumbers had widespread rot, which she couldn’t identify, and she didn’t want to worry her husband over it, not with his kidneys.

Henry, who had been getting increasingly office-bound over the years, thought this the perfect excuse for an expedition, and pottered off up the A1.

The market garden was set just inland, north of Hartlepool, and not far from the looming, steaming, throbbing bulk of Blackhall Nuclear Power Station. It sat on heavy soil, in an almost flat, featureless landscape. Mr Wilberforce and his wife, Gertie, were clearly only just making a living in this unpromising spot. Some of their cucumbers were growing out of doors, others in primitive greenhouses. The greenhouses had their windows open on this sultry day.

Henry examined the diseased cucumbers, and to his relief the diagnosis was simple. A lesion had developed at the distal end, and the rot was becoming black as the pycnidia and perithecia of the
pathogen
were produced. Readers with more than a very limited knowledge of diseases of the cucumber will have deduced that this was black stem rot. Henry prescribed reduced humidity as the cure and, just to be on the safe side, took examples of the diseased cucumbers for analysis.

A mile or two down the road, he stopped for a pint of bitter and a sandwich in a pub, and overheard a remark about leukaemia. He began to wonder if there could be a link between the diseased cucumbers and the proximity of the nuclear power station. Excitement gripped him. Supposing he could prove a connection.
BIOLOGISTS IN FERMENT OVER CUCUMBER MAN’S RADIATION AND LESION LINK.

The following morning, he took his cucumbers to Dave Wilkins in the Lab. The Head of Analysis (Practical) had long, unkempt greying hair and a beard that was almost white, even though he was only thirty-six. He had round shoulders and a paunch, and if he’d analysed his tee-shirt, he’d have found traces of fried egg, baked beans and Tetley’s bitter on it. But he was extremely good at his job.

Henry asked Dave to look for evidence of radiation or any other abnormality which might be connected to the proximity of the power station, and which might have caused the black stem rot.

‘Phew!’ said Dave Wilkins. ‘Radiation! We could burn our fingers with this one. I’m not sure it’s within our remit, Henry.’

‘Well whose remit is it within, then?’ asked Henry. ‘We don’t have a Head of Analysis (Radiation).’

‘I just don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes,’ said the Head of Analysis (Practical).

‘Oh God. Well, look, shall I clear it with the Director (Operations)?’ suggested the Chief Controlling Officer (Diseases and Pests).

‘Grateful if you would, Henry.’

Henry suddenly found that it was very difficult to ask to see Timothy Whitehouse to talk about radiation from a nuclear power station. He felt, as he walked down the corridor, that he was walking under the shadow of that vast industrial complex on the Durham coast.

He explained to the Director (Operations) how he’d heard a chance remark about leukaemia. He saw Mr Whitehouse’s lips tighten and realised that he’d made a major error of judgement.

‘I mean obviously I’m not suggesting that eating cucumbers could cause leukaemia,’ he said.

‘I should hope not.’ The Director (Operations) thwacked his braces fiercely. ‘That’d be great publicity. Just what we need. What are you suggesting?’

‘That we check to make sure these cucumbers are absolutely safe to eat. That’s our moral duty, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Right. Absolutely right.’ Mr Whitehouse dialled an internal number. ‘Dave? … I’ve got Henry here, Dave. Obviously it’s vital to eliminate any possibility that licensed growers are selling radiated cucumbers. Check this one very thoroughly, will you? … Do you need written authority? … You’ll have it. Thanks, Dave.’ The Director smiled, and stroked his predatory nose thoughtfully. ‘Your diligence is to be commended,’ he said, but he said it through slightly clenched teeth.

That Saturday, Cousin Hilda arrived round about teatime, unexpectedly. A pile of old mattresses lay on the ground outside the Gleneagles. She gave a heartfelt sniff.

‘What are those mattresses doing?’ she asked.

‘They’re throwing them out,’ said Diana.

‘I should hope so. They look infested,’ said Cousin Hilda.

They sat her down and offered her tea.

‘Well, just one cup,’ she said, ‘and nowt to eat. I don’t want to be a nuisance.’

‘Of course you aren’t a nuisance,’ said Henry. ‘It annoys me when you say that.’

‘Well I were brought up to be polite,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘It’s a disgrace, those mattresses. I couldn’t be doing with it, me. I’d have the council round. They’re probably riddled with fleas. I don’t know what this country’s coming to sometimes. I get right choked up with it when I think on it. There are times when I’m glad Mrs Wedderburn isn’t alive to see it.’

Diana poured tea. Only Cousin Hilda took sugar, and this discomfited her slightly.

‘I’ve come wi’ a request,’ she said. ‘I want to see our Doris.’

Henry and Diana were stunned.

‘But you don’t get on,’ said Henry.

‘Blood is thicker than water. I have more time to think now I’ve not got my gentlemen. I’ve never liked the sound of this Miles Cricklewood. I’ve always thought he sounds a bad lot. And then I thought, “Hilda, tha’s a Christian. Tha shouldn’t pre-judge.”’

‘Have some teacake,’ said Henry, but Cousin Hilda shook her head. He took the piece instead, and savoured every mouthful, like a condemned man eating his last breakfast. How could he tell her about Uncle Teddy? Hilary would have helped him. Diana, splendid though she was, left such things to him. He decided to approach it gently, with subtlety and tact. As often happened, the words that came out weren’t exactly what he planned. ‘Miles Cricklewood isn’t a bad lot,’ he said. ‘He isn’t Miles Cricklewood either. He’s Uncle Teddy.’

There was silence. Diana held a slice of lemon cake towards Cousin Hilda. She shook her head.

How would she react to such momentous news? Henry held his breath. When her reaction came, he was amazed that he hadn’t realised what it would be.

She sniffed.

‘Black stem rot,’ said the Director (Operations), swivelling gently in his chair, and glancing at Dave Wilkins’s report.

‘And?’

‘And nothing. Absolutely normal, thank goodness.’

Mixed emotions number 101 – H. Pratt feels enormous relief tempered with grave disappointment.

The tricks that the human mind plays never ceased to amaze Henry.

Well, the tricks that his mind played, anyway.

He was extremely nervous as the Ford Escort chugged its way
from
Thurmarsh to Monks Eleigh. Several weeks had passed since Mr Whitehouse had told him that the cucumbers were normal apart from black stem rot.

Now, when Kate and Jack had gone to Spain, and Benedict and Camilla were with their father in Mauritius (their only visit to their father that year), it was at last possible to take Cousin Hilda to see Auntie Doris and Uncle Teddy.

Henry cared a great deal about Cousin Hilda. It was awful to think of her living alone, without a friend in the world. She hadn’t moved into the rest of the house. The bed-sitting rooms where her gentlemen had lived and slept and, did she but know it, masturbated, were cold and dank. She inhabited only the basement – her little bedroom, her kitchen and scullery, her immaculate lavatory, and her cosy living room, where the smell of spotted dick no longer lingered but the absence of her gentlemen still seemed like a gaping hole. She went upstairs only twice a week, once to clean rooms that weren’t dirty, and once for her bath. It was awful to think of her seven pairs of pink bloomers on the line every Monday morning, hanging limp in the rain, or fluttering bravely in the sunshine, or being hurled skywards by the gales. It was awful, and yet he loved her.

He cared a great deal about Auntie Doris and Uncle Teddy, alias Miles Cricklewood. It was awful taking packages from Uncle Teddy to Derek Parsonage, and from Derek Parsonage to Uncle Teddy, but he hadn’t the heart to stop. It was awful to witness the slow but inexorable decline in Auntie Doris’s mental powers. It was awful, because it was so touching that it took him to depths of emotion that he didn’t always welcome, being an Englishman and a Yorkshireman, to witness Uncle Teddy’s patience and kindness. It had been awful to be the regular unintended butt of Auntie Doris’s tactlessness, and to be sent away to Brasenose and Dalton because Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris were social climbers and didn’t want to cramp their lifestyle. It was awful, and yet he loved them, especially now that they weren’t bothering to be social climbers any more, and their lifestyle was gin and tonic, smuggled burgundy, wallflowers in a Suffolk garden, and Scrabble.

So Henry was deeply anxious about the coming meeting. Would a decent reconciliation be effected? And, in his search for something to take his mind off these worries, he faced up resolutely to a suspicion that he’d been resisting for two months.

The Director (Operations) and the Head of Analysis (Practical) were lying. The cucumbers had been affected by radiation. He didn’t know quite how he knew. It was a matter of Dave Wilkins’s uncharacteristic unease, and something about Timothy Whitehouse’s smile, and he knew that the two men were in collusion.

Before he could work out the implications of this discovery, they were in Monks Eleigh, and pulling up outside the fairy-tale cottage, and Henry was saying to Cousin Hilda, ‘You’ll find Auntie Doris changed.’

‘What’s happened?’ said Diana. ‘There are no flowers.’

Uncle Teddy hurried down the drive to meet them, past wallflower plants, sunflower plants, sweet william plants, sweet pea plants, lupins and geraniums, and not one of them flowering in the whole garden.

‘She’s picked all the flowers to make the house look lovely for you,’ he said. ‘Not a word, eh? Business as usual. Savvy?’

He bent down to kiss Cousin Hilda, and to Henry’s and Diana’s astonishment, she accepted the kiss with good grace, albeit blushing slightly.

Auntie Doris came rushing out in a wave of scent.

‘Hilda!’ she said, and hugged her.

‘Well I never,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘Well I never.’

‘Exactly,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Jolly good.’

‘Terrific,’ said Henry.

And so, on a tide of meaninglessness, they entered the cottage. There were flowers everywhere, in vases, jars, bowls, glasses, mugs, even eggcups. On window sills and occasional tables and bedside tables they stood in their profusion.

Henry and Diana stared at them in amazement, and Cousin Hilda sniffed.

Oh no, thought Henry.

Cousin Hilda sniffed again.

Don’t be rude, please. She meant it for the best.

Cousin Hilda sniffed a third time.

‘What a lovely scent,’ she said.

Henry and Diana and Uncle Teddy tried to hide their astonishment, and Auntie Doris beamed.

‘You’ve got the house really lovely for us, Auntie Doris,’ said Diana.

‘Thank you, Diana,’ said Auntie Doris, and they were pleased that she hadn’t said ‘Hilary’, but then she said, ‘Don’t just stand there, Geoffrey. Get them a drink.’

Cousin Hilda sniffed at the appearance of every gin and tonic and there was an awkward moment when Uncle Teddy said, ‘What’s all this sniffing, Hilda? Is it hay fever? Are the flowers upsetting you?’

‘You know it isn’t that, Teddy Braithwaite,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘It’s the drink. I can’t change at my time of life.’

‘Nor can we,’ said Uncle Teddy.

‘I don’t think I expect you to any more,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘But I can’t pretend to like it. Shall we make a pact, Teddy? I don’t comment on your drinking and you don’t comment on my sniffing.’