Free The Complete Pratt by David Nobbs Page A

education is wasted, because we have not laid any real foundation for our educational system….’
    Nobody would ever read the educational theories of Miss Florence Candy. Her wise saws would hang on no one’s bedroom wall. No international seminars of educationalists would ever hang breathless on her words. She looked ridiculous. She lived in a world which judges men partially and women almost entirely by appearance. The junior classroom at Rowth Bridge Village School was therefore her pinnacle. Her satisfaction was that she was achieving as much as could possibly be achieved by a woman of her appearance, in a classroom split up into five different groups of children who had not been to nursery schools, in a tiny village school with holes in the ground for lavatories, under a head teacher who disapproved of her, insisted that the children marched into school in lines, and would try to get rid of her as soon as the war was over.
    It is time to reveal another of Miss Candy’s secrets. She had always believed that one day one of the human seeds that she had helped to nurture would grow into a plant that would make her life worthwhile. One day she would have a pupil through whose reflected glory her work would live on.
    She had a hope, just a faint hope, that she had found that pupil at last.
    On Sunday mornings, as Henry got ready for church, cleaning shoes, brushing hair, he listened to the repeat of Tommy Handley in ‘It’s That Man Again’ on the kitchen wireless. He didn’t understand it very well but the grown-ups laughed a lot, and he was determined not to be left out.
    This Sunday he didn’t laugh. Henry Dinsdale, né Cyril Dinsdale, had not been to school for three days. Ezra Pratt, né Henry Pratt, remembered a prayer made in a utility room. Please, God, kill Henry Dinsdale, so I don’t have to be an Ezra.
    He was terrified that God had answered his prayer.
    When they all knelt, in the little, squat-towered church beside the Mither, he prayed fervently.
    Please, God, he prayed, it’s me again. Tha knows I axed thee to kill Henry Dinsdale. I didn’t really mean it. Bring him back to life, will tha, like tha did thy kid?
    He had the utmost difficulty in eating his dinner that day.
    After dinner, they listened to the gardening advice given by Roy Hay. Uncle Frank kept up a running commentary. ‘I disagree!…Not up here, tha won’t!…Never wi’ our soil!’
    The day dragged endlessly. Henry didn’t sleep that night.
    In the morning, Henry Dinsdale still wasn’t at school. God had failed him.
    He toyed listlessly with his plasticine.
    ‘What’s up, Ezra?’ Miss Candy asked.
    ‘Nowt, miss.’
    In the break he longed to ask Miss Candy about Henry Dinsdale but he didn’t dare. Patrick Eckington punched him in the tummy for no reason, and he didn’t care.
    His turn came to read out loud. Usually he liked that. Not today . The words danced in front of his eyes. ‘The young blind is not only hedgehog born, but deaf.’
    He didn’t even bother to scratch Pam Yardley’s hand when she put it on his knee under his desk.
    When dinner-time came, Miss Candy asked him to stay behind.
    ‘What’s wrong, Ezra?’ she said.
    ‘Nowt, miss.’
    ‘You must tell me, Ezra.’
    ‘I prayed to God to kill Henry Dinsdale, cos I didn’t like being called Ezra, and now he’s dead, miss.’
    ‘Henry Dinsdale has measles, Ezra,’ said Miss Candy.
    Henry Pratt’s measles came on the Wednesday. He lay, feverish and aching, in a darkened room, listening to the snow dripping off the roof. Outside, the country sounds were unusually sharp. Sam barking. A cow mooing. Billy the half-wit laughing. Jackie the land-girl sneezing. Henry pretended that Belinda Boyce-Uppingham was in the bed, having measles with him.
    As a treat, while he recuperated, they bought him the
Beano
and the
Dandy
. He couldn’t read them very well yet, especially the stories, but he managed to make sense of most of the cartoons. He liked Big Eggo, the