The Complete Pratt (82 page)

It was almost closing time when Mr Matheson entered with a thick-set, grey-haired man with a long nose and a heavily lined face. Could he be the council official? Henry’s heart was pumping. He offered Ginny and Gordon another drink. ‘I buy the drinks tonight,’ he said. ‘To show how happy I am for you.’

‘Game, set and match to Pratt H.,’ said Gordon.

Henry almost blushed. How he wished that were his real reason, rather than the only way he could think of for meeting Mr Matheson’s contact without arousing the curiosity of his two colleagues.

‘Hello, Mr Matheson,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to stop meeting like this.’

Mr Matheson looked as if nothing would please him more. Then his good manners took over. ‘Henry Pratt!’ he said. ‘Hello!’

‘I’m a reporter on the
Argus
,’ said Henry to the grey-haired man, in a tone which he hoped would sound a little threatening if he was corrupt, but not too rude if he wasn’t.

‘Howard Lewthwaite,’ said the grey-haired man.

‘Hilary’s father! Good lord!

‘
Councillor
Lewthwaite,’ said Mr Matheson.

Councillor Lewthwaite smiled at Henry as if to suggest that he would never dream of pulling rank.

Henry felt disappointed. The man was a councillor, so he couldn’t be the corrupt official.

‘Hilary’s father?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Good Lord. What a coincidence.’

‘Not really,’ said Mr Matheson. ‘It’s through our friendship that our daughters met.’

‘I met Hilary and Anna in Siena,’ explained Henry to Mr Lewthwaite.

‘Yes. Hilary mentioned it,’ said Mr Lewthwaite. ‘I think she liked you.’

‘Good Lord,’ said Henry and Mr Matheson.

Henry felt insulted that Mr Matheson had also said, ‘Good Lord!’ But Mr Lewthwaite explained.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t have a good word for many men.’ He sighed. ‘She’s a problem.’

As Henry bought his round, he had to fight against his desire to accept that, because Mr Lewthwaite was not a corrupt council official, Mr Matheson was innocent. And this because the man had smiled at him twice! Pull yourself together, he told himself. Fight his charm. Never trust a man who smiles too much. Otherwise, you won’t be worthy of being called Henry ‘The man nobody muzzles’ Pratt.

Henry began to realize how difficult it is to conduct an investigation when your employer, your colleagues, and – most difficult of all – the objects of your investigations mustn’t know about it.

A minor inspiration attended his next move, however. He met Ben Watkinson in the Blonk, after the match, in which Thurmarsh beat Workington 3–1 with goals from MUIR, AYERS and GRAVEL, who didn’t look, respectively, yellow, thick and knackered. Indeed, they all had better games than Tommy. The
embers
of hero-worship were cooling, as surely, if more slowly, than they had cooled for Tosser Pilkington-Brick.

The Blonk was a large, brick-built road house at the junction of Blonk Lane and Doncaster Road. It was a cold, bare cathedral of booze. Yet sometimes, before matches, when it was thick with smoke and laughter and the good humour of the visiting supporters, it was possible to sense, in that badly heated barn, a throbbing vitality, a good-natured tolerance, a sharpness of cheerfully cynical humour which still made Britain, at times, to Henry, in 1956, an exhilarating place in which to live.

There was a hint, in the air, of the cruel power of a northern winter, but the memory of victory kept the supporters warm as they attacked the smooth, silky Mansfield bitter.

‘Name all the Club’s directors and their occupations,’ said Henry.

Ben’s eyes lit up. ‘Clive Woodriffe, solicitor,’ he said. ‘Ted Teague, funeral director.’

‘Correct,’ said Henry, who had no idea whether it was.

‘Laurie Joyce, road haulage contractor. Colin Gee, property developer.’

Ah! ‘Correct.’

‘Sid Kettlewell, steel baron. Roland Padgett, cutlery magnate. One more.’ Ben stared at his beer, brow furrowed in concentration. ‘Sorry. It’s gone. Put me out of my misery.’

This was awkward. ‘I can’t.’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘No. No! What I mean is … I don’t want to see you defeated. I’ll give you five minutes.’

For four minutes they both suffered. ‘It begins with G,’ moaned Ben. ‘I know it begins with G.’ Then his eyes shone with triumph. ‘Fred Hathersage, property developer.’

Oh no! There were two property developers.

They met in the Liberal Club, of which Tommy was an honorary member. Henry bought two glasses of bitter. They sat in a quiet recess, below a portrait of Asquith. They could hear the clunk of snooker balls from the back room. The carpet couldn’t decide whether to be orange or green.

Henry said he thought Muir, Ayers and Gravel had played well.

‘One swallow doesn’t make a summer,’ said Tommy.

No, thought Henry, but three swallows make an empty glass. ‘Same again?’ he said.

‘No,
I’ll
get
you
a drink,’ said Tommy.

‘Oh. Thanks.’ Henry tried not to sound surprised.

Tommy didn’t move.

‘About that business you were telling me about,’ said Henry. ‘Which bit of Thurmarsh is Colin Gee getting his hot little hands on?’

‘It isn’t Colin Gee,’ said Tommy. ‘He’s all right, Colin.’

So it was Fred Hathersage. Henry felt ashamed of his ruse, now that it had succeeded so easily. Magnanimous in victory, he said, ‘Same again, is it?’

‘I’ve said … I’ll get you a drink,’ said Tommy.

‘So which bit of Thurmarsh is Fred Hathersage getting his hot little hands on?’ said Henry.

‘I’ve told you too much already,’ said Tommy Marsden.

Henry couldn’t bear their empty glasses any more.

‘Look, let me get the drinks,’ he said.

‘I’ve told you. I’m getting you a drink,’ said Tommy.

A middle-aged man emerged from the snooker room, with two empty glasses. His eyes lit up as he saw Tommy.

‘Tommy Marsden!’ he said. ‘By ’eck, that were a cracker you scored against Oldham. What are you having?’

‘Oh. Ta very much, Mr Grout,’ said Tommy. ‘I’ll have a pint of bitter. And so will my friend Henry.’

Tommy Marsden smiled.

‘Told you I’d get you a drink,’ he said.

There were at least 49 obstacles blocking the Suez Canal, and almost as many obstacles blocking a political solution of the crisis. The Prime Minister cancelled all engagements, due to overstrain. In Hungary, the régime was having great difficulty in persuading a hostile populace to go back to work.

Henry telephoned Fred Hathersage from a telephone box in Market Street, opposite Howard Lewthwaite’s drapery shop. Not that he had any interest in Hilary, having no great yen for screwed
up
, repressed, high-minded, mentally ill problem girls with horrible bodies.

‘I’ll see if Mr Hathersage can speak to you,’ said his secretary. ‘He
is
in conference.’

Henry noticed two gaping holes on the eastern side of Market Street, both quite close to Lewthwaite’s. You don’t go up to somebody with several teeth missing and say, ‘My word! Your remaining teeth are magnificent!’ The gaps discredit the whole mouth. So it was with the eastern side of Market Street.

‘Mr Hathersage could see you next week,’ said his secretary.

A young woman of about Hilary’s height emerged from Lewthwaite’s and crossed the road. But it wasn’t her.

‘Would that be all right?’ said Mr Hathersage’s secretary.

‘Fine. I’ll see him then, then,’ he said.

He had to ring back to find out that his appointment was for 3 p.m. next Wednesday. Could the sight of a girl who might have been Hilary throw him into such confusion? That was ridiculous.

The first Hungarian refugees arrived in Britain. Petrol was to be rationed to 200 miles a month from December 17th. The Prime Minister left for three weeks’ complete rest in Jamaica, on doctor’s orders.

It was not without trepidation that Henry ‘The man nobody muzzles’ Pratt approached Construction House, an unprepossessing raw concrete block set back off Doncaster Road, and fronted by an area of dead, sodden grass, pitted with worm casts. He was faced again with the recurring problem that he couldn’t ask the questions he wanted to ask without revealing that those were the questions that he wanted to ask.

Fred Hathersage’s office was on the third floor. ‘Mr Hathersage is in conference,’ said his secretary, who had scarlet nails. She flashed him his ration of smile – three-quarters of a second.

After seven minutes, during which nobody emerged, Henry was ushered into a large room from which there was no other exit. Fred Hathersage was alone, seated behind a huge, heart-shaped desk. It seemed that, after their conference, his colleagues must have been lowered to the ground by window-cleaner’s cradle.

Fred Hathersage was bulky and bald. When he stood up, Henry
couldn
’t quite hide his surprise at finding that he was only five foot two. Fred Hathersage couldn’t quite hide his displeasure at the surprise that Henry hadn’t quite hidden. But he said, ‘Mr Pratt!’ as if Henry’s appearance in his office was the culmination of a lifetime’s ambition. The handshake was vicious, though.

Henry sat in a chair which dwarfed him.

‘I’m … er … planning a series of articles called “Proud Sons of Thurmarsh”,’ he said. ‘I wanted to produce a dummy article first.’

‘And you thought I’d be a suitable dummy.’

‘Yes. No! I mean … I thought you’d make a good guinea-pig. I mean, an article on you would help sell the series to the editor.’

Fred Hathersage was flattered. He talked freely. He’d begun life on a building site. (Childhood was discounted entirely, since it had earned him nothing.) He’d worked his way up, founded his own company, gone into armaments. Regretfully, he’d decided that his skill in making armaments would be more use to his country in war than his less proven ambition as a fighting man. After the War he’d made it his mission to help repair the damage caused by the Luftwaffe. A new Thurmarsh. A better Thurmarsh, rising from the ashes like a phoenix, he said, waving his arms excitedly in the direction of a photograph of the south elevation of the controversial new Splutt ambulance station, which had risen from the ashes like a controversial new ambulance station. If he could die feeling that he’d embellished Thurmarsh and its environs, he’d die a happy man.

When he stopped – he was panting considerably, and probably
had
to stop, for medical reasons – Henry took a deep breath, stared at a photograph of the north elevation of the controversial new headquarters of the Thurmarsh and Rawlaston Building Society, which couldn’t possibly embellish any environs, and said, ‘Do you have any large-scale plans with regard to Thurmarsh town centre, Mr Hathersage?’

‘Nothing concrete,’ said Fred Hathersage.

‘Oh good,’ said Henry. ‘I don’t like concrete.’

Fred Hathersage glared at him.

‘It was a joke,’ said Henry.

Fred Hathersage exploded into a condemnation of youthful cynicism, of lack of respect for authority, of louts who defaced
controversial
ambulance stations. When he stopped – he was panting considerably, and probably
had
to stop, for medical reasons – Henry apologized and asked again if he had plans for the town centre.

‘Nothing definite,’ said Fred Hathersage. ‘But, should urban renewal become desirable in certain areas, I’d like to hope that local people, who understand Thurmarsh, would be entrusted with it. What would outsiders be interested in? Profits. Money. LSD. Pounds, shillings and pence. Lolly. Ackers. Lucre. Shekels. The old spondulicks.’ Fred Hathersage realized that he was getting quite excited at discovering how many words there were for money. He changed the subject. ‘I’d like to see a city of the future rise up on the banks of the Rundle. A city of magic. A city of glass.’

‘What about our old buildings, our heritage?’ said Henry.

‘I like old buildings,’ said Fred Hathersage. ‘But they’re old. Does the future lie in the past? Does it?’

‘No.’

‘Precisely! Listen. My ambition is to provide work so that there’ll never be another depression. Lasting, decently paid work. The working people of Thurmarsh are very close to my heart.’ Fred Hathersage thumped himself inaccurately, to illustrate this. It seemed to Henry that the working people of Thurmarsh were actually very close to Fred Hathersage’s wallet.

‘But do you not have a Rolls-Royce, and a huge pseudo-Gothic mansion above Thurmarsh Lane Bottom?’ said Henry, who’d done his research.

‘I have to,’ said Fred Hathersage. ‘Regrettably, we live in a world where appearances matter. I’m a plain man, Mr Pratt. I’m proud to say I prefer tinned salmon to the real thing. Why not? It’s nature improved by technology. But could I drive up to the Midland Hotel in an old Austin Seven and order tinned salmon with bottled mayonnaise? It’d be, “Hey up, old Hathersage must be on t’rocks.” Such comments in the business jungle can be self-fulfilling. So, it’s fresh salmon and lobster thermidor, when I long for fish and chips. It’s a sacrifice I have to make. I’m a prisoner of my success.’