by David Nobbs
‘Well, all right.’
Ben handed his pile of Big Issues to Gunter, Gunter handed Ben a ten-pound note and a two-pound piece, and Diana rang Henry on the mobile.
Henry and Hilary got to the Café first. Henry was all for ordering champagne, but Hilary suggested that it might be wiser to wait till they saw how things went.
All six of them were excited, but they were also, in varying degrees, apprehensive. It was dawning on them that finding Ben was not the end of the matter. It was only the beginning.
It was a solemn moment when Gunter and Diana led her lost son into the Café.
Henry, who had been confronted by him on King’s Cross Station, thought how amazingly well Ben looked. The others all thought how ill he looked.
He stared at them, utterly bemused.
‘Benedict!’ breathed Camilla.
‘He calls himself Ben now, don’t you, Ben?’ said Diana. She hadn’t intended to sound as if she was talking to a half-wit. She wasn’t surprised that he frowned.
Camilla went to hug Ben, but he shrank away.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
Camilla looked across at Diana, who nodded and then shook her head all in one continuous movement.
‘He doesn’t remember a lot,’ said Diana. ‘This is your sister Camilla, Ben.’
‘She’s my sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fucking arseholes!’
‘Absolutely,’ said Henry meaninglessly. ‘Come on, Ben. Sit down.’
They made room for him. Diana and Gunter sat down too. The Café was fairly full, and some of the other customers were looking across at their table and wondering what was going on.
‘What would you like to drink, Ben?’ asked Henry.
‘I’m not allowed alcohol.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘One drop could kill me. My liver’s shot to buggery.’
‘Oh dear. Well, we’ll none of us have any alcohol, then,’ said Henry.
Seven people valiantly attempted, with varying degrees of success, to hide their horror at this statement. Henry realised, in that moment, that in more moderate degrees they were as addicted to alcohol as Ben had been. And to never be able to drink a drop of it again!
‘I don’t mind you all drinking,’ said Ben. ‘It’s not difficult for me any more, because I know it will kill me. I don’t know who you all are but you seem very nice and I’d like you all to enjoy a drink.’
‘No,’ said Henry. ‘I don’t think it would be appropriate tonight. Besides, we do a lovely elderflower cordial. Now, who are we all? Well, you’ve met your mum and Gunter.’
‘Mr and Mrs Mouthful.’
‘Yes. Ha! Absolutely.’ No. Don’t be too eager to please. It’s patronising. ‘And you’ve met Camilla.’
‘I can’t believe she’s my sister. Wow! I mean, she’s beautiful. Really beautiful.’
‘Thanks, Ben.’ Camilla blew her nose hastily.
‘I’m … er … I’m Henry,’ said Henry. ‘I … I was married to your mother.’
‘You’re my father!’
‘No.’
‘Well where is my father?’
‘He’s not here.’
Henry nodded to Camilla meaningfully, and she slipped out to phone Nigel.
‘She’s my sister!’ repeated Ben. ‘I can’t get over it. She’s … I’ve forgotten so much. It’s …’
He began to cry. He blew his nose with a very grubby handkerchief.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry.’
Henry put his arm round Ben, very diffidently, but he didn’t seem to mind. He squeezed Ben affectionately, then withdrew the hand.
‘Take your time,’ he said.
They were all looking at Ben and half smiling encouragingly. It suddenly struck Henry how odd this was. In their past lives, none of them had got on with him.
But was this Ben? It was Ben’s body, much changed, but … what was the essence of a person? Did Ben have any Benishness left? If not, was he Ben in any sense but name?
The elderflower cordial arrived. They all raised their glasses to Ben and said, ‘Cheers’. Bemused, he raised his glass and said, ‘Cheers’ too.
‘Have I met her?’ he said, pointing at Kate.
‘Yes,’ said Kate, blushing slightly.
‘I thought so.’ He was pleased with himself.
‘I’m your half-sister.’
‘What?’
‘Your dad and your mum had two children. You and Camilla. Things didn’t work out, the way they sometimes don’t …’ There has to be a play in this scenario. No. Get away, greedy thought. ‘… and … er … your dad and your mum parted and … er … your mum married Henry … and Henry already had two children of his own by Hilary … well, I mean, Hilary had two children by Henry, and they were me and Jack there …’
‘Hi, Ben.’
‘Hi, Jack. Hey, that’s funny, isn’t it? Hi-jack!’
They all laughed a little too much.
‘… and things didn’t work out,’ continued Kate, as if the little joke had never happened, ‘the way they sometimes don’t. Henry and Hilary parted, and Henry married your mum, and things didn’t work out …’
‘… the way they sometimes don’t?’
‘Exactly. The way they always haven’t, I suppose, and that’s the family history.’
‘Right. And who are you?’ Ben asked Hilary.
‘I’m Henry’s wife. I’m Hilary.’
‘I thought you parted.’
‘We did, but we’ve married again. This must be difficult for you. It isn’t that easy for us.’
‘Would it help …?’ asked Guiseppe. ‘I’m Guiseppe, by the way. I’m Camilla’s husband. Would it help if I wrote out a family tree?’
‘More like a diseased elm,’ said Henry. ‘Great idea, though, Guiseppe.’
As Guiseppe began to draw his diagram, Camilla slipped back in.
‘No reply,’ she said.
‘Rather a long “no reply”,’ said Henry.
Camilla gave him a stern look, and signalled to him to follow her to the bar.
‘What’s up?’ asked Ben, his suspicions easily aroused, as Henry stood.
‘Nothing,’ said Henry hastily. ‘Just ordering more drinks.’
He hurried to the bar, where Camilla unburdened herself rapidly, in a low voice but not caring if Greg heard or not. She looked shocked and her voice almost broke once or twice. Henry knew that she was on the verge of tears.
‘Henry, darling, it was dreadful. One of the most dreadful moments of my whole life. I told him that we’d found Ben alive and well, and there was a silence. It didn’t last long, just a second or two, but it was the loudest silence I’ve ever heard. My dad was horrified at the fact that his son was alive and he would have to deal with him. It was a moment of shattering truth. I had goose-pimples all over. He hid it, of course, with a volley of “terrific”s and “Thank God”s, but I knew, and I should think that even he is sensitive enough to know that I knew.’
Henry touched her arm sympathetically, ordered another round of soft drinks, and returned to their table with the shocked Camilla.
Guiseppe handed Ben the family tree, and he kept it in front of him for the rest of the evening. He checked on it several times.
‘We’d better order some food,’ said Henry. ‘Everybody must be starving. Now, there are four main dishes of the day. Carbonnade of beef, hazelnut rissoles, spicy marlin and … er … duck Benedict.’
‘Duck Benedict!’ exclaimed Ben.
‘Yes. Yes. Yes, we … well, I … I … er … well, we’ve been hunting for you … because … because we’d lost you and because … because we didn’t want to have lost you.’
‘You’ve all been out hunting for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Yes. And … er … I thought … I thought it would be rather nice to create a dish for you … specially … in case we found you … which we have.’
‘I don’t call myself Benedict any more.’
‘I know, but we didn’t know that. Maybe … Michelle!’
The burly, much-muscled manageress bore down on them like an avalanche.
‘Michelle, could you do me a favour? Could you rub “edict” off the blackboard?’
‘Sorry, I’m not reading you,’ said Michelle.
‘Could you rub “edict” off Benedict. That is my edict.’
‘What?’
‘It was a play on words. Probably a mistake at this moment, but I was attempting to lighten a … well, not a heavy atmosphere, exactly. A serious moment. An attempt to leaven a serious moment with humour. A flop.’
‘Do shut up, Dad,’ said Jack, and Ben checked the family tree to see if Henry was his dad and seemed reassured by what he saw.
‘Benedict calls himself Ben now, Michelle,’ explained Hilary, ‘so could you change his name on the board from Benedict to Ben?’
‘Duck Ben? It doesn’t have a ring to it,’ protested Michelle.
‘I don’t care if it has a sodding ring to it. Just do it,’ snapped Henry. ‘Please,’ he added, but too late.
Michelle gave him a look. I’m Manageress, not a skivvy, said her look, and I’m built like a brick shithouse, and you aren’t, so just watch it.
She strode across the Café like a footballer wrongly sent off, and returned a moment later, still bristling, to change duck Benedict to duck Ben on the board.
‘So what are you going to have, Ben?’ asked Henry. ‘Duck Ben?’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s … it’s roulade of duck stuffed with … with lobster in …’
It was difficult to continue in the face of Ben’s blatant disbelief.
‘… in champagne and caviar sauce with … er … pan-fried foie gras.’
‘Bloody hell. I couldn’t eat that poncy muck,’ said Ben.
‘No … well … good … but, you see, it’s the sort of thing you used to like.’
‘Is it? Oh my God. Perhaps it’s just as well I don’t remember anything, eh?’
Henry smiled, but didn’t speak.
‘No, look, sorry, it was nice of you to create that for me,’ said Ben, ‘but, thank you, I won’t have it. I’ll have the beef thing.’
Five of them chose the beef thing, two of them plumped for the marlin thing, Kate settled for the hazelnut thing, and Gunter said, ‘Well I’m going to tackle the duck Ben. Somebody has to.’
Michelle came over and took their order. When she had finished, Henry said, ‘Michelle, I’m sorry I snapped at you. Nerves are a bit frayed tonight.’
Michelle smiled.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘and I should have taken that into account. I’m going to be docking myself a few decimal points for insensitivity on my self-assessment form tomorrow.’
‘What?’
‘I assess my performance for the week every Sunday. I want to improve. It won’t happen again.’
Henry had a mental picture of Michelle at Sunday breakfast, her huge frame encased in a vast dressing gown, solemnly assessing her performance. He found it hard not to laugh.
Ben went round the table again, reminding himself who everybody was.
Then Henry showed him some photographs of himself in his youth: Benedict with Camilla, Benedict with Nigel and Diana, with Henry and Diana and Kate and John, at Brasenose College and Dalton College.
‘Those are me?’ he said. ‘Christ.’ He shook his head in disbelief, whether at what he had been or at what he had become or at both. ‘Christ.’
Their food arrived. They were very hungry. Ben suddenly realised that there was alcohol in his dish.
‘Don’t worry, Ben,’ said Henry. ‘It’s been boiled off. We won’t kill you, I promise.’
Ben thought, then nodded, then ate.
‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘Wicked. Magic.’
Gunter pronounced his duck Ben ‘not at all bad, actually rather good’.
Greg pronounced the zabaglione ‘zagalobine’, but they knew what he meant.
As the crowd began to thin out, Henry’s sensitive antennae picked up hints of a kerfuffle in the kitchens.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, and raced through.
Michelle was standing at the door to the yard, panting and holding a button. Greg entered from the yard, also panting and looking very disappointed.
‘What on earth is going on?’ asked Henry.
‘Ceris was just putting the dishwasher on,’ explained Michelle, ‘when she heard a noise outside. I went out and I looked over at the waste bit where you park your car and there was a man bending over it and I think he was going to let the air out of your tyres so I rushed at him and grabbed him by the coat, but he managed to get free. This button came off in my hand.’
‘Ceris shouted to me and I went out and I chased him, but I lost him,’ said Greg. ‘I can’t believe it. All my life I’ve wanted to chase somebody and when I get my chance I go and lose the sod.’
Henry went out and checked his tyres. They seemed intact. When he went back in, Michelle handed him the button.
‘That’s evidence,’ she said.
When Henry went back to the table and told them the story, Hilary said, ‘You should do something about it.’
‘Like what?’ said Henry. ‘Tell the police? I can just see them saying, “Drop everything! We’ve got a button off the jacket of a yob who might have let some geezer’s tyres down if he hadn’t been so rudely interrupted by a restaurant manageress built like a brick shithouse.” ’
Henry’s sarcasm was no doubt justified, but the fact remained, as he realised much later, that if he had been able to identify the owner of the button, a series of unpleasant events might have been avoided in the months and years to come.
‘It’s Henry Pratt, isn’t it?’
A party of four stopped by the table on their way out.
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘We were in the audience for your show the other night. You were very good.’
‘Oh, thank you.’
‘Great.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So we thought, we’ll give your café a try.’
‘Oh good. Thank you.’
‘We’re glad we did.’
‘Oh good. Thank you.’
Henry was so tired that he could hardly drive home that night. It had been an emotional day, and he still felt a keen mixture of joy and disappointment.
Joy that they had found Benedict.
Disappointment that Benedict was so frail and that so much of his past life had been wiped from his memory.
Joy that the party of four had thought that he’d been great in the recording of A Question of Salt.
Disappointment that they hadn’t asked for his autograph.
7 Words in Henry’s Ear
ON WEDNESDAY, 1 November, 1995, John Major revealed that he would vote against measures forcing MPs to declare outside earnings; a study by the Independent Television Commission revealed that the British public had problems with nudity in adverts, especially male nudity – naked bottoms and men ‘glimpsed with legs spreading’ caused particular offence; Sir Cliff Richard was designated ‘too raucous’ for Radio Two; a woman in Massachusetts who received silent phone calls every ninety minutes day and night for six months discovered that they weren’t from a sex freak but from an abandoned oil tank in Maryland programmed to warn an oil company when its level was low; and Henry and Hilary Pratt gave a supper party to celebrate the transmission of Henry’s debut appearance on A Question of Salt.
The programme was on at half past six, so they invited their guests for half past five, to give them plenty of leeway in the rush-hour traffic.
Those who had accepted invitations were Kate Pratt, Camilla and Guiseppe Lombardi, Denzil Ackerman and Lampo Davey, Paul and Christobel Hargreaves, Nigel and Felicity Pilkington-Brick, and Ben Pilkington-Brick and his friend, whose name they had not been given.
Those who had not accepted were
Jack and Flick Pratt (baby-sitter problems), Diana and Gunter Axelburger (Gunter’s work), and James and Celia Hargreaves (James’s deteriorating health).
Henry had been amazed to find how disappointed he was that Mrs Hargreaves, whose beauty had aroused him so much in his younger days, would not be there, so that he could witness her excitement at seeing Paul’s clumsy, podgy, clueless school friend transmogrified (‘transformed’ wasn’t good enough for Mrs Hargreaves) into a suave television star.
‘A suave television star’? That wasn’t how he felt as the great evening was upon him. He felt sick with apprehension. He felt ashamed to have been excited by his participation in this pathetic TV quiz. He dreaded the moment when he would have to sit through the sight of himself failing to answer the question ‘What culinary product is used in the expression “as keen as …”?’ Thank goodness Celia Hargreaves wouldn’t be there. He didn’t want to be cruel, he liked James Hargreaves, but Henry hoped that the man would have a funny turn at a vital moment and prevent Celia from seeing his humiliation.
At twenty-five to six, when nobody had arrived, Henry felt so nervous that he decided to open the first bottle of champagne.
Hilary entered and he poured her a glass. She looked lovely, in a long, very pale mauve evening dress, elegant yet simple.
‘My God, you’ve done yourself up pretty thoroughly,’ said Henry. (‘You look gorgeous’ might have gone down better.)
‘It’s a great night. Your showbiz launch.’
‘ “My showbiz launch”. It’s a piece of crap.’
‘Don’t drink too much tonight, will you, darling?’ pleaded Hilary.
‘Darling! Please! Do you mind? I’m sixty. I shall be charming and dignified.’
‘Good. It’s just that I know how nervous you are. You can’t hide it from me.’
By twenty to six Henry was convinced that nobody was coming. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry about this.
Kate was the first to arrive. She was wearing a purple dress with a green sweater. Henry couldn’t remember when he had last seen her in a dress. She had good legs, too.
He knew better than to comment on that, contenting himself with the ‘You look gorgeous’ that he should have said to Hilary.
She clinked glasses with them both.
‘Good luck, Dad,’ she said, absurdly, really, since the programme had been recorded and it was too late now. ‘This is very exciting.’
