Pratt a Manger

by David Nobbs

  There was a loud crash from the kitchen.

  ‘Not as steady as he used to be,’ said Lampo. ‘Hurry up in there,’ he shouted. ‘We want our pud.’

  ‘Don’t evade the issue, Lampo,’ said Henry.

  ‘Oh, I’m not,’ said Lampo. ‘I’m buying us more time. The more I tell him to hurry, the longer he takes. His desire to infuriate me is what’s keeping him alive.’

  ‘Perhaps he senses that something’s up,’ said Hilary very softly. ‘Perhaps he suspects.’

  ‘No,’ said Lampo firmly. ‘No, I’m very careful.’ He lowered his voice still further. ‘I will never hurt Denzil. Never. But I have to think of my future … after … after he goes. I have to … prepare the ground. Death is difficult for gays.’

  ‘It’s not exactly a doddle for the rest of us.’

  ‘No, but we tend to be lonelier. We have no families.’

  ‘Your choice.’

  ‘Henry! You know perfectly well that choice doesn’t come into it.’ He lowered his voice even more, and Henry had a sudden, disturbing vision of Sally Atkinson, lowering her voice in the Green Room. God, she’s lovely, he thought, to his surprise.

  He realised that this was his displacement activity. All this was very painful to him, the secrecy, the tension, with poor Denzil slowly, innocently preparing his dessert in their tiny kitchen.

  ‘I … er … well, you may as well know,’ said Lampo, ‘I have a friend. A young man. Well, young to me. He’s thirty-six.’

  ‘Young to me too.’

  ‘He’s …’

  ‘I don’t think we need to know who or what he is, Lampo, thank you very much.’

  Lampo looked hurt. They realised that he wanted to talk about his lover.

  ‘Besides, Denzil may live for years, Lampo.’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s failing. I will be very careful, Henry, I promise. He doesn’t suspect a thing, and he never will. My opportunities are therefore very limited. Hence the night of your sixtieth, when my friend happened to be on the eve of departing for Kuala Lumpur, and I knew Denzil would be having a happy time and wouldn’t check up. Ah!’

  Denzil entered with the pudding.

  ‘Something I’ve never made in my life,’ he said. ‘Not my usual style at all. Spotted dick.’ Hilary looked across the table at Henry. The steamy smell of it transported them back to Cousin Hilda’s.

  Cousin Hilda sniffed loudly. But was it her, or was it just her sniff? Can a sniff sniff loudly?

  Henry shivered. He knew what the sniff meant. It meant, ‘Eat it up, there’s a good boy. There are people starving in India who’d be glad of some spotted dick.’

  Many things happened in the great world outside the Café Henry. President Clinton announced that the United States would re-establish full diplomatic relations with Vietnam; two of Saddam Hussein’s sons-in-law were given political asylum in Jordan after fleeing Iraq with their wives; and on the fiftieth anniversary of Japan’s surrender Prime Minister Tomiche Murayama apologised for the nation’s aggression in World War Two.

  In the tiny world of the Café Henry, however, nothing much changed. Food was cooked and served, customers came and went, but this no longer seemed quite enough for Henry. Had he already been corrupted by his very first touch of celebrity? Did A Question of Salt seem more real to him than the Café Henry? Had the insidious power of television infected his blood?

  Every day he hoped that Nicky would ring and offer him another appearance. Every day he hoped that customers would enter the Café and tell him that they had come because of his irresistible performance in the recording.

  And then at last the phone call did come.

  ‘It’s Nicky, Henry.’

  His heart began to pump furiously. This was ridiculous.

  ‘Well, hello. How are you?’

  ‘Very well. How are you?’

  ‘Very very well.’ Why did he have to compete and be even more well than her? ‘Very busy. Very, very busy.’

  He hoped that she could hear the buzz of conversation, the satisfied murmuring of a happy, well-fed crowd, so different from the day of her visit.

  ‘Good. Listen, can you come on the show next Tuesday?’

  Yes, yes, yes, cried his heart. So why did he hear his voice saying, ‘That’s short notice.’

  ‘We’ve been let down. I immediately thought of you.’

  ‘I see. Well I don’t know that I’m thrilled to be second choice, Nicky.’

  ‘Oh God, Henry, you aren’t taking offence, are you? I didn’t think you were like that.’

  He sighed. He knew he was being petty.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘Not really.’

  ‘You’re my discovery,’ said Nicky. ‘I didn’t want to push for you too hard too soon. I … I have a bit of a problem with the producer.’

  ‘You refuse to go to bed with him.’

  ‘How on earth did you guess that? You are clever.’

  ‘I don’t think it took much brain power, frankly. Most men would want to go to bed with you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Her voice sounded warm for a moment, then she became brisk and businesslike. ‘Anyway, if you come on as a favour, and do well, we’ll be halfway to establishing you as a regular.’

  He didn’t reply. Now that the proposition was actually presented to him, he wasn’t sure if he wanted it. He looked round his little domain, and liked what he saw – the happiness of it, the even tenor of it.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m still here, Nicky.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you want to be a regular?’

  Would I? Would I? How can I say that I would positively not want to rise to the challenge? Have I a choice?

  ‘Of course I would.’

  He hadn’t a choice.

  The second recording went well. Henry was relieved not to cross swords with Bradley Tompkins again, but disappointed, unreasonably disappointed, not to come across Sally Atkinson.

  A third recording followed a fortnight later. Again, there was no Bradley. Again, there was no Sally. Again, he felt the relief and the aching disappointment.

  But still no customers announced that they had come because they had been in the studio audience and had loved his performance. Henry didn’t think of himself as a vain man, but he did feel very disappointed. Was it possible that he hadn’t been quite the star he had felt himself to be?

  If only the transmission of the series would begin. Then he would know.

  On Wednesday, 11 October, 1995, Trevor McDonald, the ITN newsreader, was appointed to head a campaign to improve English in schools; rail fares between Exmouth and Paignton were increased by fifty-six per cent because the trains were too full; Duncan Ferguson, the Everton and Scotland footballer, was gaoled for three months for head-butting a player during a match; and Henry Pratt introduced pigeon Denzil on to his menu for the first time.

  It was also Greg Pink’s first day doing front of house. Tall, gangly, gauche and clumsy, Greg was a cockney lad who had left school at fifteen with an impressive breadth of ignorance over a wide spectrum of life. All he knew about was food. He cooked like an angel.

  Greg was dreading doing front of house, and Henry was dreading Greg doing it, but there was no alternative if Henry was going to be able to spend more time in the kitchen. Michelle did front of house in the evenings, but at the moment Greg was his only option at lunchtime.

  The main courses were chicken Marengo, pigeon Denzil, plaice Dieppoise and cashew nut moussaka. Henry took Greg carefully through them, so that he would be able to describe them to the customers.

  He explained that pigeon Denzil had been named as a tribute to an elderly journalist who had been a friend for forty years and was beginning to fail.

  ‘Got you,’ said Greg.

  ‘I suggest that you try to make some anodyne remark about the weather to put the customers at their ease,’ said Henry.

  ‘Anodyne!’ said Greg. ‘My mum used to put that on cuts, when I fell over.’ />
  ‘No, no,’ said Henry. ‘I’m just using the word to mean harmless, not causing offence, putting the customer at his ease. I’m probably not using it correctly. I just meant, say something safe and harmless.’

  ‘Got you,’ said Greg.

  Trade was brisk but not overwhelming that morning. Greg served, although he didn’t know it and never would, several out-of-work actors; a writer; a deep-sea diver; a nozzle technician; two Belgian auctioneers; a struggling private detective with his lover; an international lacrosse player; a manufacturer of plastic boats with long swans’ necks; and four members of a Welsh male-voice choir who drank in unison.

  At twenty past one he served an old man who looked really weary. Denzil plonked himself on a bar stool and sighed.

  ‘Morning, sir. It can’t make up its mind, can it? Have you made up your mind yet?’ said Greg.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It was like a link, sir, like what the disc jockeys do. I just meant, “What would you like?”, like. That’s probably what I should have said. I’m new. Well, I say “new”. New to front of ’ouse. Know what I mean? I mean I’m not new here, but I’m new to front of ’ouse, like.’

  ‘I’ll … er … I’ll have a glass of dry white wine, please,’ said Denzil.

  ‘Got you. Pinot grigio, chardonnay or sauvignon blanc?’

  ‘Er … pinot grigio, please.’

  ‘No problem! Coming up! Will you be lunching with us today, sir?’

  ‘Er … possibly.’

  ‘Salads in the cold counter, sir. Dishes of the day on the blackboard.’

  ‘Tremendous.’

  Denzil wished that he hadn’t said ‘tremendous’. There was nothing tremendous about the dishes of the day being on the blackboard. He deplored what he called ‘the decadent adjectival gigantism of our times’.

  All that was forgotten when he saw the words ‘pigeon Denzil’.

  ‘Pigeon Denzil?’

  ‘It’s pigeon breast, sir, served pink, with black olives and Madeira. It’s a dish what he invented for some old geezer what he’s sorry for.’

  ‘Is it indeed?’

  ‘We serve it with red cabbage spiked with juniper berries.’

  ‘Do you indeed?’

  ‘You’d love it, sir.’

  ‘Would I indeed? I’d better have it, then, hadn’t I?’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  Denzil flinched.

  ‘Er …’ he began, ‘… is our eponymous hero in today?’

  ‘I’m not with you, sir.’

  ‘Henry. The Henry of the Café Henry.’

  ‘Ah. Got you. He’s cooking today, sir.’

  ‘Well, will you tell him that an old friend of his is in?’

  ‘No problem, sir.’

  ‘Tell him it’s an old geezer what he’s sorry for.’

  ‘Got you, sir. No prob— Oh no! You ain’t … Denzil?’

  ‘I am indeed.’

  ‘When I said an old geezer I meant …’

  ‘A word of advice from an old timer, young man. When you’re in the shit, shut up. Don’t dig a deeper hole, which will only fill up with more shit, since that is the nature of holes.’

  ‘Got you. Chips or mash, sir?’

  ‘Which do you recommend?’

  ‘Oh, mash. It soaks up the juice somethink lovely.’

  ‘Right. Pigeon me, then, with red cabbage and mash.’

  ‘ “Pigeon me”?’

  ‘No, not pigeon you. Pigeon me. Pigeon Denzil, which is me. I was … trying to lighten the moment with a touch of humour, to ease your evident embarrassment.’

  ‘Oh! With you, sir. Got you. Thank you, sir. Brill.’

  ‘Oh, and … could you tell Henry that I’d … that if at all possible … any time, if he’s busy, I’m not going anywhere … I’d appreciate a little word … in confidence … about a subject that’s … rather intimate.’

  ‘Got you, sir. No problem. Terrific. Tremendous.’

  Denzil flinched twice.

  It was half past two before Henry had a chance to sit in a corner with Denzil, who was on his fifth glass of pinot grigio.

  Denzil had a strange, rather distant smile on his face.

  ‘Why have you got that strange, rather distant smile on your face?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Because I don’t feel remotely in the mood for laughing today, but you can’t not,’ said Denzil. ‘Your barman!’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Somebody was saying something about some problem with an ECG and he burst into the conversation and said, “We should never have joined. We’re an island.” ’

  ‘Oh God. He has terrible trouble with acronyms. I just wish I didn’t have to expose him to the public.’

  ‘Yes. So do I. He said pigeon Denzil was named after some old geezer you were sorry for.’

  ‘Oh dear. Sorry. I’ll have a word.’

  ‘No. Don’t. Leave it. I don’t want to sound like an embittered old man.’

  He raised his glass, rather shakily.

  ‘I’m getting pissed,’ he said. ‘Lampo hates me getting pissed. He’s a control freak. He hates the word “pissed” too. So inelegant. I think that secretly he thinks my biscuit tins are slightly common, though he’d never dare say so.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘He’s having an affair.’

  ‘What???’

  ‘There’s no need to try to sound so surprised. I can tell that you know. I can tell that you’ve known what I’ve come about. You walked towards me with a dread that can only have been born of knowledge.’

  ‘Well I knew you had a problem. You told Greg. And I didn’t like the thought of your having a problem. So I dreaded it, yes.’

  Henry couldn’t bring himself to say that Lampo had confessed. It seemed wiser to wait.

  ‘I imagined that it was your knowledge of Lampo’s affair that caused you to be sorry for me. So, if you really didn’t know, why are you sorry for me?’

  ‘I don’t think those were my exact words to Greg, Denzil. I suppose … I probably said something like … you were a bit old.’

  ‘And failing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am, though.’

  ‘Denzil!’

  ‘Yes. And do you know what really bugs me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My biscuit tins. What on earth was the point of spending so much time collecting biscuit tins unless I was immortal? When I’m gone he’ll auction the lot at bloody Sotheby’s.’

  ‘He’s too respectful to do that.’

  ‘Then he’ll have to look at the bloody things for ever, and he hates them. What a legacy.’

  ‘Not for ever. He’ll die too.’

  Denzil brightened for a moment.

  ‘There is that.’

  ‘He might die before you.’

  ‘Only if I poison him.’

  ‘Do you think he knows that you know?’

  ‘No. He’d hate to know that I’ve said it, but he’s not sensitive.’

  ‘Have you come here to ask for my advice?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  ‘Another wine?’

  ‘I’ve had too much already, and it’ll only make me morbid and him angry. Yes, please, but could I have red? I go acid with too much white.’

  Henry ordered a bottle of the house claret.

  ‘So what should I do?’ asked Denzil.

  ‘I think you should confront him. Have it out.’

  ‘Oh no. I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Then you should leave him.’

  ‘Hardly practical. It’s my house.’

  ‘Well, in that case, throw him out.’

  ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t live without him.’

  ‘Well, what do you think you should do?’

  ‘I don’t think I should do anything. I think we should carry on as before. I think I should turn a blind eye.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you do that, then?’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you, Henry. That’s good advic
e. I knew I could count on you.’

  They sat in their corner for most of the afternoon. Late drinkers mingled with cake eaters, and Denzil talked affectionately about the man who was cheating on him.

  ‘He’s only protecting himself. Only cushioning the blow in advance. He still loves me, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m sure he still loves you.’

  ‘That’s what I think. I think he loves me very much. Which is why he just can’t face the prospect of my death.’

  ‘He can’t handle it.’

  ‘Exactly. You’ve got to be a bit sorry for him really.’

  ‘He’s a pathetic figure. An emotional cripple.’

  ‘Right. Absolutely right.’

  *

  Next day the choices of main course were beef stifado, lamb with apricots, lemon sole in chablis sauce and eggs Benedict.

  ‘Excuse me, guv,’ said Greg, ‘but eggs Benedict, it ain’t that substantial, not for a main course. I mean it’s quite rich, but not substantial.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to make it substantial.’

  ‘Couldn’t it be a starter?’

  ‘It might not work if it was a starter.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  They were sitting on stools at the bar counter. It was five past ten and the first customers had not arrived yet.

  On the counter was the blackboard, on which Henry had just written ‘Eggs Benedict’.

  ‘Do you know what ESP is, Greg?’

  ‘Yeah. I do. It’s the starting prices for the Tote.’

  ‘It’s extrasensory perception, Greg.’

  ‘You mean like the supernatural, like?’

  ‘Well, sort of, yes. You remember we had hake Lampo on the menu.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Lampo came in.’

  ‘Christ, he did, yeah.’

  ‘And yesterday we had pigeon Denzil on.’

  ‘And your other mate turned up! Hey! Uncanny. Wow. Not sure I like it.’

  ‘Well, it is odd. So I thought, if I put eggs Benedict on, maybe he’ll turn up.’

  ‘Who’s this Benedict when he’s at home?’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s the whole point about him. He isn’t at home. He’s my step-son, by my second wife, Diana, and her first husband, a man called Tosser Pilkington-Brick.’

  ‘ “Tosser”?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Say no more.’

  But Henry did say more. He told Greg the whole story of Benedict.