The Wilt Alternative: Read online

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Tom Sharpe

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Tom Sharpe was born in 1928 and educated at Lancing College and Pembroke College, Cambridge. He did his national service in the Marines before going to South Africa in 1951, where he did social work before teaching in Natal. He had a photographic studio in Pietermaritzburg from 1957 until 1961, and from 1963 to 1972 he was a lecturer in History at the Cambridge College of Arts and Technology.

  He is the author of sixteen novels, including Porterhouse Blue and Blott on the Landscape which were serialised on television, and Wilt which was made into a film. In 1986 he was awarded the XXIIIème Grand Prix de l’Humour Noir Xavier Forneret and in 2010 he received the inaugural BBK La Risa de Bilbao Prize. Tom Sharpe died in 2013.

  Also by Tom Sharpe

  Riotous Assembly

  Indecent Exposure

  Porterhouse Blue

  Blott on the Landscape

  Wilt

  The Great Pursuit

  The Throwback

  Ancestral Vices

  Vintage Stuff

  Wilt on High

  Grantchester Grind

  The Midden

  Wilt in Nowhere

  The Gropes

  The Wilt Inheritance

  The Wilt

  Alternative

  Tom Sharpe

  to Bill and Tina Baker

  1

  It was Enrolment Week at the Tech. Henry Wilt sat at a table in Room 467 and stared into the face of the earnest woman opposite him and tried to look interested.

  ‘Well, there is a vacancy in Rapid Reading on Monday evenings,’ he said. ‘If you’ll just fill in the form over there …’ He waved vaguely in the direction of the window but the woman was not to be fobbed off.

  ‘I would like to know a little more about it. I mean it does help, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Help?’ said Wilt, refusing to be drawn into sharing her enthusiasm for self-improvement. ‘It depends what you mean by help.’

  ‘My problem has always been that I’m such a slow reader I can’t remember what the beginning of a book was about by the time I’ve finished it,’ said the woman. ‘My husband says I’m practically illiterate.’

  She smiled forlornly and implied a breaking marriage which Wilt could save by encouraging her to spend her Monday evenings away from home and the rest of the week reading books rapidly. Wilt doubted the therapy and tried to shift the burden of counselling somewhere else.

  ‘Perhaps you would be better off taking Literary Appreciation,’ he suggested.

  ‘I did that last year and Mr Fogerty was wonderful. He said I had potential.’

  Stifling the impulse to tell her that Mr Fogerty’s notion of potential had nothing to do with literature and was more physical in its emphasis – though what the hell he could see in this earnest creature was a mystery – Wilt surrendered.

  ‘The purpose of Rapid Reading,’ he said, going into the patter, ‘is to improve your reading skills both in speed and retention of what you have read. You will find that you concentrate more the faster you go and that …’

  He went on for five minutes delivering the set speech he had learnt by heart over four years of enrolling potential Rapid Readers. In front of him the woman changed visibly. This was what she had come to hear, the gospel of evening-class improvement. By the time Wilt had finished and she had filled in the form there was a new buoyancy about her.

  There was less about Wilt. He sat on for the rest of the two hours listening to other similar conversations at other tables and wondering how the devil Bill Paschendaele managed to maintain his proselytizing fervour for An Introduction to Fenland Sub-Culture after twenty years. The fellow positively glowed with enthusiasm. Wilt shuddered and enrolled six more Rapid Readers with a lack of interest that was calculated to dishearten all but the most fanatical. In the intervals he thanked God he didn’t have to teach the subject any longer and was simply there to lead the sheep into the fold. As Head of Liberal Studies Wilt had passed beyond the Evening Classes into the realm of timetables, committees, memoranda, wondering which of his staff was going to have a nervous breakdown next, and the occasional lecture to Foreign Students. He had Mayfield to thank for the latter. While the rest of the Tech had been badly affected by financial cuts the Foreign Students paid for themselves and Dr Mayfield, now Head of Academic Development, had created an empire of Arabs, Swedes, Germans, South Americans and even several Japanese who marched from one lecture room to another pursuing an understanding of the English language and, more impossibly, English Culture and Customs, a hodge-podge of lectures which came under the heading of Advanced English for Foreigners. Wilt’s contribution was a weekly discourse on British Family Life which afforded him the opportunity to discuss his own family life with a freedom and frankness which would have infuriated Eva and embarrassed Wilt himself had he not known that his students lacked the insight to understand what he was telling them. The discrepancy between Wilt’s appearance and the facts had baffled even his closest friends. In front of eighty foreigners he was assured of anonymity. He was assured of anonymity, period. Sitting in Room 467 Wilt could while away the time speculating on the ironies of life.

  In room after room, on floor above floor, in departments all over the Tech, lecturers sat at tables, people asked questions, received concerned answers and finally filled in the forms that ensured that lecturers would keep their jobs for at least another year. Wilt would keep his for ever. Liberal Studies couldn’t fail for lack of students. The Education Act saw to that. Day Release Apprentices had to have their weekly hour of progressive opinions whether they liked it or not. Wilt was safe, and if it hadn’t been for the boredom he would have been a happy man. The boredom and Eva.

  Not that Eva was boring. Now that she had the quads to look after, Eva Wilt’s enthusiasms had widened to include every ‘Alternative’ under the sun. Alternative Medicine alternated with Alternative Gardening and Alternative Nutrition and even various Alternative Religions so that Wilt, coming home from each day’s lack of choice at the Tech, could never be sure what was in store for him except that it was not what it had been the night before. About the only constant was the din made by the quads. Wilt’s four daughters had taken after their mother. Where Eva was enthusiastic and energetic they were inexhaustible and quadrupled her multiple enthusiasms. To avoid arriving home before they were in bed Wilt had taken to walking to and from the Tech and was resolutely unselfish about using the car. To add to his problems, Eva had inherited a legacy from an aunt and since Wilt’s salary had doubled they had moved from Parkview Avenue to Willington Road and a large house in a large garden. The Wilts had moved up the social scale. It was not an improvement, in Wilt’s opinion, and there were days when he hankered for the old times when Eva’s enthusiasms had been slightly muted by what the neighbours might think. Now, as the mother of four and the matron of a mansion, she no longer cared. A dreadful self-confidence had been born.

  And so at the end of his two hours Wilt took his regi
ster of new students to the office and wandered along the corridor of the Administration Block towards the stairs. He was going down when Peter Braintree joined him.

  ‘I’ve just enrolled fifteen landlubbers for Nautical Navigation. What about that to start the year off with a bang?’

  ‘The bang starts tomorrow with Mayfield’s bloody course board meeting,’ said Wilt. ‘Tonight was as nothing. I tried to dissuade several insistent women and four pimply youths from taking Rapid Reading and failed. I wonder we don’t run a course on how to solve The Times crossword puzzle in fifteen minutes flat. It would probably boost their confidence more than beating the track record for Paradise Lost.’

  They went downstairs and crossed the hall where Miss Pansak was still recruiting for Beginners’ Badminton.

  ‘Makes me feel like a beer,’ said Braintree. Wilt nodded. Anything to delay going home. Outside, stragglers were still coming in and cars were parked densely along Post Road.

  ‘What sort of time did you have in France?’ asked Braintree.

  ‘The sort of time you would expect with Eva and the brood in a tent. We were asked to leave the first camp site after Samantha had let down the guy ropes on two tents. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the woman inside one hadn’t had asthma. That was on the Loire. In La Vendée we were stuck next to a German who had fought on the Russian front and was suffering from shell-shock. I don’t know if you’ve ever been woken in the night by a man screaming about Flammenwerfern but I can tell you it’s unnerving. That time we moved on without being asked.’

  ‘I thought you were going down to the Dordogne. Eva told Betty she’d been reading a book about three rivers and it was simply enthralling.’

  ‘The reading may have been but the rivers weren’t,’ said Wilt, ‘not the one we were next to. It rained and of course Eva had to have the tent in what amounted to a tributary. It was bad enough putting the thing up dry. Weighed a ton then, but moving it out of a flashflood up a hundred yards of bramble banks at twelve o’clock at night when the damned thing was sodden …’ Wilt stopped. The memory was too much for him.

  ‘And I suppose it went on raining,’ said Braintree sympathetically. ‘That’s been our experience, anyway.’

  ‘It did,’ said Wilt. ‘For five whole days. After that we moved into a hotel.’

  ‘Best thing to do. You can eat decent meals and sleep in comfort.’

  ‘You can perhaps. We couldn’t. Not after Samantha shat in the bidet. I wondered what the stench was sometime around 2 a.m. Anyway let’s talk about something civilized.’

  They went into The Pig In A Poke and ordered pints.

  *

  ‘Of course all men are selfish,’ said Mavis Mottram as she and Eva sat in the kitchen at Willington Road. ‘Patrick hardly ever gets home until after eight and he always has an excuse about the Open University. It’s nothing of the sort, or if it is it’s some divorcee student who wants extra coition. Not that I mind any longer. I said to him the other night, “If you want to make a fool of yourself running after other women that’s your affair, but don’t think I’m going to take it lying down. You can go your way and I’ll go mine.”’

  ‘What did he say to that?’ Eva asked, testing the steam iron and starting on the quads’ dresses.

  ‘Oh, just something stupid about not wanting it standing up anyway. Men are so coarse. I can’t think why we bother with them.’

  ‘I sometimes wish Henry was a bit coarser,’ said Eva pensively. ‘He always was lethargic but now he claims he’s too tired because he walks to the Tech every day. It’s six miles so I suppose he could be.’

  ‘I can think of another reason,’ said Mavis bitterly. ‘Still waters etcetera …’

  ‘Not with Henry. I’d know. Besides, ever since the quads were born he’s been very thoughtful.’

  ‘Yes, but what’s he been thoughtful about? That’s what you have to ask yourself, Eva.’

  ‘I meant he’s been considerate to me. He gets up at seven and brings me tea in bed and at night he always makes me Horlicks.’

  ‘If Patrick started acting like that I’d be very suspicious,’ said Mavis. ‘It doesn’t sound natural.’

  ‘It doesn’t, does it, but that’s Henry all over. He’s really kind. The only thing is he isn’t very masterful. He says it’s because he’s surrounded by five women and he knows when he’s beaten.’

  ‘If you go ahead with this au pair girl plan that will make six,’ said Mavis.

  ‘Irmgard isn’t a proper au pair girl. She’s renting the top-floor flat and says she’ll help around the house whenever she can.’

  ‘Which, if the Everards’ experience with their Finn is anything to go by, will be never. She stayed in bed till twelve and practically ate them out of house and home.’

  ‘Finns are different,’ said Eva. ‘Irmgard is German. I met her at the Van Donkens’ World Cup Protest Party. You know they raised nearly a hundred and twenty pounds for the Tortured Tupamaros.’

  ‘I didn’t think there were any Tupamaros in Argentina any more. I thought they had all been killed off by the army.’

  ‘These are the ones who escaped,’ said Eva. ‘Anyway I met Miss Mueller and mentioned that we had this top flat and she was ever so eager to have it. She’ll do all her own cooking and things.’

  ‘Things? Did you ask her what things she had in mind?’

  ‘Well, not exactly, but she says she wants to study a lot and she’s very keen on physical fitness.’

  ‘And what does Henry have to say about her?’ asked Mavis, moving closer to her real concern.

  ‘I haven’t told him yet. You know what he’s like about having other people in the house, but I thought if she stays in the flat in the evenings and keeps out of his way …’

  ‘Eva dear,’ said Mavis with advanced sincerity, ‘I know this is none of my business but aren’t you tempting fate just a little?’

  ‘I can’t see how. I mean it’s such a good arrangement. She can baby-sit when we want to go out, and the house is far too big for us and nobody ever goes up to the flat.’

  ‘They will with her up there. You’ll have all sorts of people coming through the house and she’s bound to have a record player. They all do.’

  ‘Even if she does we won’t hear it. I’ve ordered rush matting from Soales and I went up the other day with the transistor and you can hardly hear a thing.’

  ‘Well, it’s your affair, dear, but if I had an au pair girl in the house with Patrick around I’d want to be able to hear some things.’

  ‘I thought you said you’d told Patrick he could do what he liked?’

  ‘I didn’t say in my house,’ said Mavis. ‘He can do what he likes elsewhere but if I ever caught him playing Casanova at home he’d live to regret it.’

  ‘Well, Henry is different. I don’t suppose he will even notice her,’ said Eva complacently. ‘I’ve told her he’s very quiet and home-loving and she says all she wants is peace and quiet herself.’

  With the private thought that Miss Irmgard Mueller was going to find living in the same house as Eva and the quads neither peaceful nor quiet, Mavis finished her coffee and got up to go. ‘All the same I would keep an eye on Henry,’ she said. ‘He may be different but I wouldn’t trust a man further than I could throw him. And my experience of foreign students is that they come over here to do a lot more than learn the English language.’

  She went out to her car and drove home wondering what there was about Eva’s simplicity that was so sinister. The Wilts were an odd couple, but since their move to Willington Road Mavis Mottram’s dominance had diminished. The days when Eva had been her protégée in flower-arranging were over and Mavis was frankly jealous. On the other hand Willington Road was definitely in one of the best neighbourhoods in Ipford and there were social advantages to be gained from knowing the Wilts.

  At the corner of Regal Gardens her headlights picked Wilt out as he walked slowly home and she called out to him. But he was deep in thought and didn’t he
ar her.

  *

  As usual, Wilt’s thoughts were dark and mysterious and made the more so by the fact that he didn’t understand why he had them. They had to do with strange violent fantasies that welled up inside him, with dissatisfactions which could only be partly explained by his job, his marriage to a human dynamo, the dislike he felt for the atmosphere of Willington Road where everyone else was something important in high-energy physics or low-temperature conductivity and made more money than he did. And after all these explicable grounds for grumbling there was the feeling that his life was largely meaningless and that beyond the personal there was a universe which was random, chaotic and yet had some weird coherence about it which he would never fathom. Wilt speculated on the paradox of material progress and spiritual decadence and as usual came to no conclusion except that beer on an empty stomach didn’t agree with him. One consolation was that now Eva was into Alternative Gardening he was likely to get a good supper and the quads would be fast asleep. If only the little buggers didn’t wake in the night. Wilt had had his fill of broken sleep in the early years of breast-feeding and bottle-warming. Those days were largely over now and, apart from Samantha’s occasional bout of sleepwalking and Penelope’s bladder problem, his nights were undisturbed. And so he made his way along the trees that lined Willington Road and was greeted by the smell of casserole from the kitchen. Wilt felt relatively cheerful.

  2

  He left the house next morning in a far more despondent mood. ‘I should have been warned by that casserole that she had some bloody ominous message to impart,’ he muttered as he set off for the Tech. And Eva’s announcement that she had found a lodger for the top flat had been ominous indeed. Wilt had been alert to the possibility ever since they had bought the house but Eva’s immediate enthusiasms – gardening, herbalism, progressive play-grouping for the quads, redecorating the house and designing the ultimate kitchen – had postponed any decision about the top flat. Wilt had hoped that the matter would be forgotten. Now she had let the rooms without even bothering to tell him Wilt felt distinctly aggrieved. Worse still, he had been outwitted by the decoy of that splendid stew. When Eva wanted to cook she could, and Wilt had finished his second helping and a bottle of his better Spanish burgundy before she had announced this latest disaster. It had taken Wilt several seconds before he could focus on the problem.