"The Amazing Career of Rodney Pratt' - By Richard Riding

Photo: Howard Grey

Rodney Pratt (known as ‘Pratt by name, pratt by nature’) was born on the pavement outside Barclays Bank, Enfield on 1 April 1946. His mother, Hilda the Axewoman, already 15 months pregnant, was doing a job with the Shuttlecock brothers when she ‘come over queer’ and gave birth to Rodney in a groin-shuddering scream on the kerbside as the trio made their getaway from the bank in a stolen horse-driven hearse. A passing Alsatian, on his way to take another mouthful out of the local postman’ remaining leg, picked up the still steaming baby in its slobbering jaws and carried it into a nearby fish shop with the intention of returning later to consume such an opportune snack.

As the dog ran out of the shop a passing welder’s mate spotted Rodney just inside the doorway. Tucking her half-consumed bottle of gin into her ample bosom she put the baby into a copy of the New Chronicle newspaper and took it to the counter. Boris, the one-eyed fishmonger, put it on the scales, gave the contents a second look, scratched his head to release a shower of dandruff and said, “I’m not charging you for that, love, it looks disgusting.” Atilla, for that was her name, hurried out of the shop, boarded a moving tram and took a seat on the top deck. When she opened the newspaper people sitting opposite began throwing up and moving away. Looking down at her lap Atilla was confronted by the ugliest infant she had ever clapped eyes on, and she’d seen many ugly babies in her time, mostly at pre-war Most Beautiful Baby contests held in her home town of Pontefract. The baby, its face creased with wind and its little bottom writhing with non-stop flatulence, bleated like a lamb as it struggled to avoid the gin bottle the nurse constantly pressed to its lips in an effort to keep it quiet.

Lighting a damp Woodbine cigarette Atilla blew a cloud of dense smoke into the baby’s face and considered the situation. When the babe had stopped coughing another woman sat down next to Atilla and engaged in conversation, mostly with herself. After a few moments the woman stood up, broke wind, wiped her nose with Atilla’s sleeve and said “I’d wouldn’t eat that if I were you, I’d take it back to the fishmonger, its disgusting.”  Feeling a damp patch spread across her plus fours Atilla carefully wrapped the newspaper into her string shopping bag, stood up, lurched along the gangway and fell down the tram stairs in body-wrenching bumps, coming to rest outside on the grass verge a few yards or so before the tram was due to stop. Her shopping bag tumbled across the grass and was picked up by a scruffy lad, who scurried off with it through some undergrowth into the adjoining park. Atilla, who was scrabbling on the ground looking for her false teeth, called out “Come back you thieving little bastard, I’ve got my husband’s truss in that bag, he’ll kill me if I don’t give it ‘im back”. But her uncouth shouts and gestures were to no avail. The bag, the boy and her teeth had gone. 

(to be continued)