Fred Pratt

The first in a series of anecdotes. All true.

Many years ago I used to work as a van driver. For a while I had a job delivering cigarettes for Dunhill, from their factory out in Brentford. Working with me was my van boy. My 63 year old van boy, whose name was Fred Pratt (I kid you not). Fred's nickname to all at Dunhill was "Bullet". Fred thaught this had something to do with a resemblance to Steve McQueen, but it was in fact a bit of rhyming slang - "Bullet in the head - Fred". Anyway, one day Fred and I had to drive into the country to Rothmans somewhere near Aylesbury. "Can we stop at my brother's on the way back?" asked Fred. I agreed of course. After a very nice lunch at the Rothman's canteen, Fred directed me to his brother's house, also somewhere near Aylesbury. It was a sunny day, and I sat on the front of the van having a smoke (I smoked in those days) while Fred knocked on the door. A woman came out and Fred talked to her. From where I was I could hear nothing, but Fred returned a few minutes later. "What happened, Fred?" I asked. "He doesn't live there any more" said Fred. Blimey, I thought, fancy your brother moving and not telling you. I mean I knew Fred was a bit of a pratt (as it were), but still. "When did he move?" I asked. "I don't know Dave. That woman says she's lived there for five years and she's never heard of him". I began to feel puzzled. "But... When did you last speak to him?" I asked. "Oh, about 14 years ago" said Fred, matter-of-factly. We headed back to the M40 and drove in silence back to Brentford.