The Complete Pratt (90 page)

‘People in the public eye, you say? I’m intrigued. I can hardly wait.’

But Mr Andrew Redrobe had to wait. Henry managed to type his letter, signed ‘Angry Schoolmaster’. He managed to walk to the tram stop. He managed to undress himself and get into bed. He stayed there for more than a week.

The cold war between Russia and the United States intensified. The winter in England remained mainly mild. In Cyprus there was widespread trouble between Greeks and Turks after a Turkish policeman was killed in a bomb attack. At Cardiff Arms Park England, minus Tosser Pilkington-Brick, narrowly defeated Wales.

Every day, Ginny tried to interest Henry in food. Almost every day she sang out, with false brightness, ‘Another letter from Durham!’ As he began to recover, he gave her letters to post to Durham. The better he felt physically, the more his indebtedness to Ginny irked. He hoped she’d catch the flu, and become indebted to him, but she didn’t. She told him that Ted and Helen had matching flu, and Gordon had it. ‘He’s been over-exerting himself, I expect,’ she said. ‘We’ll see how
she
handles two households of invalids. I don’t see her as Edith Cavell.’

Hilary’s letters were full of incident and vitality. When he thought back to the drab, lifeless girl he’d met in Siena, he knew he should feel delighted. And yet … here was he, feeble and damp-haired in a tiny room that stank of his own sweat, and there was she, striding vivaciously around Durham. How long, he felt after each letter, before she tired of him, found somebody better, some gigantic student whose intellect matched his frame. So, as he waited for each letter, he grew more and more nervous. When they came, he longed to tear them open but had to wait till Ginny had gone. And always they were so full of love for him that he was reassured, until … until it all began again. And, because he
could
hardly say, ‘On Monday I lay in bed and sweated. On Tuesday I lay in bed and sweated again,’ he found himself forced into the sentence by sentence school of letter writing. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed the lecture on John Donne. I’m very pleased Mr Tintern liked your essay. I share completely your views about Selwyn Lloyd.’ Supposing she replied, ‘I’m glad you’re glad I enjoyed the lecture on John Donne. I’m very pleased you’re very pleased Mr Tintern …’ Supposing their love ground to a halt in bad letters.

At the end of each letter, he swore his undying love in explicit descriptions of what he’d like to do – oh god, supposing they died in a crash and Cousin Hilda found his collected love-letters, tied by an elastic band that any decent person would have reserved for jam jars.

As he began to get better, he felt deeply sexy, in that sweaty fug of a bedroom. Desperately, he listened to the wireless. The music programmes transported him back to his childhood at Low Farm, outside Rowth Bridge. Sandy Macpherson, Rawicz and Landauer, Harold Smart and his electric organ, Ronald Binge, Max Jaffa, Reginald Leopold and his players, out it poured. His childhood seemed a long way away, and he got depressed about Lorna Arrow and Eric Lugg.

The comedy programmes rolled off the assembly line too.
The Goon Show, Take It From Here, Ray’s A Laugh, Life With The Lyons, Midday Music Hall
with the Song Pedlars, Barry Took, Lucille Graham and Vic Oliver. Every time he laughed, he wished Hilary was there, to laugh beside him.

He listened to everything from schools talks on the Lapps of Scandinavia and Neutralism and the Spirit of Gandhi to Jean Metcalfe visiting Vera Lynn’s home, from Mrs
Dale’s Diary
to an investigation into whether social mobility between the classes had been achieved in our society (‘Ask Belinda Boyce-Uppingham,’ he shouted. ‘Ask any bloody snob.’ He added, in a low moan, ‘Ask me.’), from
Science Survey
on the problem of vibration to
Naturalist’s Notebook
, which included a contribution on oil contamination, and a recording of a striped hawk moth, which was the best recording of a striped hawk moth he had ever heard on the wireless. And still he felt sexy. He couldn’t fantasize about Hilary,
who
belonged to reality. That left him feeling sexy about almost everybody–Jean Metcalfe, Vera Lynn, Mrs Dale, Mrs Archer, the Lapps of Scandinavia, even Gandhi. He returned hurriedly to thoughts of Hilary.

Ginny returned halfway through the recording of the striped hawk moth, so he never heard how it finished.

‘Nice evening?’ he asked.

‘Marvellous.’

‘You met a nice man!’

‘No. Gordon’s still ill.’ She gave him a shrewd glance. ‘You’re better!’ she said. She sounded as if his improvement was the only blot on a splendid day.

‘I wish you had met a nice man,’ he said. ‘You deserve one.’

‘Presumably that’s why you ruled yourself out of the running.’

‘
Touché
.’

‘You
are
better. My job is done. Good night,’ said Ginny.

He
was
better. Next day, he telephoned Howard Lewthwaite, and arranged to meet him for lunch on Tuesday.

John Foster Dulles said that, if the United States became involved in a Middle East war, he would rather not have British or French troops alongside them. Only 2 out of 19 wrecks in the southern section of the Suez Canal had so far been removed by the UN salvage team.

A virulent letter from an angry schoolmaster appeared in the
Thurmarsh Evening Argus
. Its author sat in a secluded corner of the vast, scantily filled restaurant of the Midland Hotel, beneath a photograph of Stanier Pacific No. 46207
Princess Arthur of Connaught
, passing through Rugby with the down Welshman, consisting of fourteen bogies.

‘It
is
good to see you. Are you better?’ said Howard Lewthwaite.

‘Much better, thank you. Before we start on the main business, Mr Lewthwaite, I’ve been asked to do you for “Proud Sons of Thurmarsh”.’

‘Oh! I’d be honoured, Henry.’

The waiter handed them menus.

‘Let’s get the ordering out of the way, shall we?’ said Howard Lewthwaite.

They studied the vast menus.

‘Do you ever get criticized, as a socialist, for spending a lot on meals in public?’ said Henry.

‘I never thought of that,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘I was going to order a good burgundy. I think we’d better have the house carafe. And there’s not a bad choice on the
table d’hôte
, is there? I like cod mornay.’ They ordered their meals. Howard Lewthwaite leant forward and said across the huge table, ‘Right. What are these things you’ve found out?’

‘The burning of the Cap Ferrat was arson,’ said Henry. ‘The death of its owner was murder.’

Howard Lewthwaite went white and sat very still. Henry met his glance and knew. Howard Lewthwaite knew that he knew. They held the gaze. Neither wanted to be the first to be seen to be unable to bear the awfulness of that moment. Henry’s flesh crawled. His scalp itched. Hilary seemed very far away.

‘You’re part of it,’ he said flatly.

‘Not part of murder and arson,’ said Howard Lewthwaite vehemently.

The elderly wine waiter brought what looked like a sample bottle. It contained what looked like a sample. He poured a quarter of an inch of wine. Howard Lewthwaite sniffed it. ‘Yes yes,’ he said. ‘Absolutely revolting. Pour away.’

Henry raised his glass.

‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’

‘What on?’

‘Winning the Nobel Prize for Naïvety.’

‘Henry!’

How quiet the room was.

‘You’re a friend of Peter Matheson,’ said Henry. ‘You’re a friend of the chief planning officer. You invite both of them to your party. You try to put me off by telling me you’re convinced nothing illegal has happened. I should have guessed.’

The brown Windsor soup arrived. Those were the halcyon days of brown soups.

‘How could you do it, Mr Lewthwaite?’

Howard Lewthwaite smiled. His smile was as thin as the soup. He looked older.

‘Lewthwaite’s is failing,’ he said. ‘Naddy’ll die if I don’t take her to live in a hot, dry climate. You’re quite right. There is a development plan for the whole area between Market Street and the river. I’m not ashamed of that. It needs redevelopment. We call it the Fish Hill Complex. A gleaming new shopping centre, Henry. Thurmarsh needs it. Tower blocks by the Rundle, with grass in between. Using the river. What views. Higher than anything in Sheffield or Leeds. Mixed housing, right in the centre. A good plan.’

‘Those are nice streets.’

‘Henry! They’re run-down. They’re clapped-out.’

‘They’re being deliberately run-down so the poor conned townsfolk can be told, “They’re run-down. They’re clapped-out.”’

Howard Lewthwaite didn’t reply.

‘All this secrecy. Fred Hathersage. Anthony Eden denied collusion with France and Israel. Do you deny collusion? Are there back-handers flying about?’

The cod mornay arrived.

‘A bit of everything, gentlemen?’ said the waitress.

‘A bit of everything,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.

Henry didn’t know how he could still eat. But anything was better than thinking. Thinking about Hilary. Thinking about Howard Lewthwaite as a father-in-law.

‘You feel I’ve let you down,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.

‘I feel you’ve let Hilary down.’

Howard Lewthwaite’s eyes met Henry’s again.

‘You’re going to suggest I drop the matter,’ said Henry.

‘You’ll be losing that prize for naïvety.’ Howard Lewthwaite smiled. His smile was as tired as the broccoli.

Henry looked across the restaurant to the table where he’d sat with Lorna. This room wasn’t redolent of happy memories for him.

‘You seem to be forgetting the arson and murder,’ he said.

‘Today’s the first I’ve heard of arson and murder,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.

‘Murder of the man who took me in as his son.’

‘What?’

‘The owner of the Cap Ferrat was my uncle.’

‘I didn’t know that, Henry. Oh my God, what a business.’

‘Yes. The burning of the Cap Ferrat was so convenient for you. Didn’t you ever suspect it might be arson.’

‘Did you?’

‘I’m front runner for the Nobel Prize for Naïvety. You’re a politician. Dirt’s your natural environment.’ No! This is your father-in-law to be.

‘I think I did have a little wonder, to be honest,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘I think I closed my mind to the possibility fairly rapidly. Something unpleasant that I didn’t want to admit to myself. Can it be true, Henry? Arson, possibly. Murder? Thurmarsh isn’t Chicago.’

‘That’s what Stan Holliday said.’

‘Did he? Oh dear. In that case it probably is Chicago. Where does Stan Holliday come in?’

‘He was overheard by my source, which I can’t reveal, saying it was arson and murder. I challenged him. He denied it far too vehemently.’

‘That’s all you’re going on, is it? No proof?’

‘No proof, no.’

They ate in silence for a few moments.

‘How’s your cod mornay?’ asked Howard Lewthwaite.

‘Disgusting. Another sauce that should never have been revealed.’

‘Look. Perhaps it
was
arson, but your uncle could still have died accidentally. I mean … why should anybody murder him?’

‘So there’s no owner of the club to pay the insurance money to. So there’s no owner of the club to suspect that it was arson.’

‘Your nomination for the Nobel Prize is withdrawn,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘Will you give me a week to try and find out what I can, Henry?’

He had to agree. Hilary was coming down that weekend. He couldn’t bear to spoil the weekend. But he couldn’t resist making Howard Lewthwaite wait for a few long seconds for his reply. He hadn’t often had that kind of power.

‘One week,’ he said.

They both plumped for the apple pie. Henry got out his notebook.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s time to start another interview in my series, “Great Criminals and Hypocrites”, alias “Proud Sons of Thurmarsh”.’

‘We don’t need to do this if you don’t want to,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.

‘I have to. Editor’s orders. Otherwise it’ll look as if he’s biased towards the Conservatives.’

‘He is.’

‘Precisely. That’s why he can’t be seen to be. Mr Lewthwaite, how old are you?’

‘This morning I was 49. Now I’m 93.’

‘What made you enter politics?’

‘I wanted to serve the Labour Party, and the wider community. My fellow citizens of Thurmarsh, I suppose.’

‘No thought of personal gain?’

‘Financial, no. I … I can’t go on with this.’

‘We have to. I repeat, “No thought of personal gain?”’

‘Financial, no. Glory? Power? Self-satisfaction? We all seek those a bit, don’t we? I don’t dwell too much on motives. I prefer to dwell on achievements.’ Howard Lewthwaite reached out across the table. He just managed to clasp Henry’s hand. ‘Henry?’ he said. ‘I promise you. If arson and murder are proved, I’m with you, whatever it costs. Even if it costs … Naddy’s life. Even if it costs …’

Henry finished it for him.

‘… our marriage.’