Pratt a Manger

by David Nobbs

  ‘Exciting?’ he said. ‘It’s crap. I wish I hadn’t invited anybody. It’s worthless. I wish I could do serious media stuff like you.’

  ‘My god, Mum, he’s got the bug,’ said Kate.

  Hilary made a ‘you know what he’s like’ face.

  ‘I’ve got a writer working on a play idea which is basically about Ben,’ said Kate. ‘Am I awful? Am I a parasite?’

  ‘It depends whether you’re using and abusing him or doing something passionate, worthwhile and with integrity, of which he could approve,’ said Hilary, who hadn’t been able to bring herself to end sentences with prepositions since she’d become a professional writer.

  ‘He’s coming tonight, with a friend,’ said Henry.

  ‘Oh, great. How’s he doing, do you know?’

  ‘We’ve seen him a couple of times. I mean it’s less than two weeks. You can’t expect miracles,’ said Hilary.

  ‘He’s remembered one or two things,’ said Henry. ‘Some of it’ll come back.’

  ‘We can’t force him,’ said Hilary. ‘We have to leave it all to him.’

  It was past a quarter to six. Where were they all?

  ‘Tonight will be his first meeting with his dad,’ said Hilary. ‘The truth is, with Diana being in Switzerland and Nigel being what he is, he’s already starting to think of us as if we were his parents.’

  ‘How ironic,’ said Kate. ‘Oh, the agony of all that unnecessary hostility. Have you found out what happened to him between King’s Cross and now?’

  ‘Not really. We have to be very careful not to seem to be prying,’ said Hilary. ‘Clearly people did care for him. Probably there was one person in particular. He’s bringing a friend tonight. Maybe it was her.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll ever really know,’ said Henry. ‘These people don’t boast about what they achieve. Only people who’ve achieved nothing boast. Obviously he was taken in hand, dried out, introduced to Alcoholics Anonymous, helped off drugs – massive achievements by Good People Anonymous and … er … the rest is history, as they say. He lives in a squat in Willesden now.’

  He looked at his watch. It was five forty-nine. Where were they all? He took a quick refill, only half a glass, no harm in that.

  At five fifty-one the doorbell rang. Henry went to the door eagerly, and tried to hide his disappointment when he saw Paul and Christobel Hargreaves standing there. He could have done without them tonight. They were experts in synchronised sarcasm. He’d only invited them out of politeness. Why did he still feel the need to be polite, at sixty?

  ‘Hello!’ he said, over-brightly. ‘Great to see you.’ Then he cut through his own false bonhomie. He was unable to resist asking, ‘How are things at Bedsyde Manor?’

  They indulged in a quick burst of synchronised frowning. The ‘Bedsyde Manor’ gag irritated them intensely. He hadn’t intended to use it, but their very togetherness, their air of two successful medics joined at the hip, got under his extremely porous skin.

  ‘Ignore him, darling,’ said Paul. ‘He may go away.’

  ‘Unlikely, darling,’ said Christobel, ‘since he lives here.’

  Paul handed Henry a very good bottle of Gevrey Chambertin – 1986 no less – and Christobel handed Hilary a bunch of spectacular irises that must have cost a fortune in November.

  ‘So,’ said Paul, raising his glass. ‘Showbiz at last. The culmination of your dreams.’

  ‘What??’

  ‘You used to plaster our study at school with cuttings from Picturegoer. You got yourself off, when at last you cottoned on to the idea, on fantasies of Patricia Roc and Petula Clark. Now you’re moving into that world.’

  ‘What nonsense.’

  Hilary decided that this was as good a moment as any in which to check on things in the kitchen, and Kate scurried off to join her. Paul and Christobel were blessedly unaware that they were emptying the room.

  ‘No, we’re actually awfully pleased for you. Mother’s terribly excited,’ said Paul. ‘She always had a soft spot for you, you know.’

  ‘And I for her.’

  ‘God, yes.’ Paul turned to Christobel. ‘When we were on holiday in Brittany, and he saw Mummy in her bathing costume for the first time he had to bury himself in the sand to hide his erection.’

  ‘You knew??’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Did she know?’

  ‘I expect so. One didn’t discuss such things with one’s parents in the fifties.’

  ‘I should hope not. Oh my God.’

  In less than forty minutes he would endure total humiliation in front of guests whom he had chosen to invite. Why was he worrying so much about a humiliation more than forty years ago?

  Next to arrive were Tosser and Felicity. Nigel had become Tosser again, his Nigelhood banished, perhaps for ever, after his telephone conversation with Camilla on the evening they found Ben.

  Tosser was wearing a smart business suit and Felicity looked pretty in pink.

  Tosser took Henry aside almost immediately, and said, ‘A word in your ear. We may have to leave fairly early. Felicity thinks she may be starting one of her migraines.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Henry. ‘Oh, by the way, Ben’s coming.’

  He kept his eyes on Tosser’s face as he said this. Tosser barely flinched. Henry sensed that he had been prepared for this.

  ‘Great,’ said Tosser. ‘Great. Fantastic. Splendid.’

  ‘With his “friend”. We’ve never met her.’

  ‘Terrific. Oh, great. Well, that is good.’

  Denzil arrived next. He looked frail and tired, and smaller. Age was consuming him. Henry had a sharp, dismaying fear that Lampo had gone off with his lover again. It took courage to ask, ‘Where’s Lampo?’

  ‘Parking. Making a mess of it. He’ll end up miles away. I can’t walk far any more. I told him it was madness to drive – I can’t drive now, I’m not steady, my nerve’s gone – but he hates spending on taxis, he has a surprisingly mean streak, resents every penny I fork out on my biscuit tins, and he won’t use the tube. He says it’s because he’s frightened of terrorists, but it’s actually because his fastidious nose can’t stand the smell of the public.’

  ‘Denzil! Please! He is my friend. I know things are difficult, but …’

  ‘Oh, I love him to bits, Henry. More than ever, damn it.’

  When Lampo did arrive, he said, ‘I need a word in your ear later, Henry.’

  Henry took him straight over to Tosser.

  ‘Well well well,’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought that forty-four years on from Dalton you two study mates would be turning up to watch your old fag’s debut on TV. More champagne, Tosser?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Henry. The name is Nigel. Felicity hates Tosser. Things upset her, Henry. She’s easily upset. She’s not resilient. She’s … ultra-sensitive. Please be careful.’

  Henry poured Tosser some more champagne and gave himself a top-up. Only a small one. No harm in that.

  Camilla and Guiseppe arrived next. Within seconds, Guiseppe had fallen into the fashion of the evening.

  ‘A word in your ears,’ he said, taking Henry to one side.

  ‘Ear,’ said Henry. ‘It’s ear. You can’t whisper into both sides of a man’s face.’

  ‘My English is not yet idiomatic, sadly, Henry. It’s about Camilla. Take special care of her tonight, will you, there’s a good man?’

  ‘ “There’s a good man”! Not idiomatic! You sound more English every day.’

  ‘Yes, yes, never mind that. It’s … I have never known Camilla so upset, Henry. That phone call to her father, it has hurt her deeply. To find that you despise your father – and this is the first time they’ll have met since it – she’s feeling very emotional. People think she is cool. Just painting horses. So detached. Not so. She is hot, Henry. Red hot. Be very loving to her tonight. You are her father now.’

  ‘This is not what I wanted.’

  ‘I’m afraid what you wanted doesn’t carve much snow.’
r />   ‘Cut much ice. Though I like the image of carving snow. Hilary could use that.’

  ‘They won’t sit next to each other, will they?’

  ‘Guiseppe! What do you take me for?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The atmosphere in the large sitting room, comfy rather than elegant, was slightly awkward, a little too polite. Nobody was sitting down. Everyone felt that, since they would soon be sitting to watch A Question of Salt, it was inappropriate to sit at this stage.

  Camilla went straight up to the cluster of well-dressed folk with their glasses of champagne, kissed her father, and said, ‘Hello, Dad.’ Everyone in the room knew that this was play-acting, that it was her only way of coping. Tosser knew it too. Within seconds they were at opposite ends of the room, and managed, without making it look obvious, not to say another word to each other all evening.

  Henry had begun to think that Ben wasn’t coming, but at six twenty-two he arrived.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We got lost. This is Darren.’

  It was a surprise to Henry to find that Ben’s friend was a young man in a T-shirt with a stud in his nose and a tattoo of an anchor on his right arm.

  ‘Darren doesn’t do posh,’ warned Ben, ‘but he’s a sweetie.’

  The arrival of Ben and Darren into the sitting room created a sudden silence followed by too much conversation.

  Ben went straight up to Tosser and said, ‘So! You’re my elusive dad, Dad. Can’t mistake that moon face, seen it in photos.’

  ‘Ah! Ha! Yes. Well … well … hello, old son.’ Tosser took Ben’s painfully thin body to his great frame and gave it an awkward hug, so falsely warm that it might have been medically dangerous. Henry almost waited for the noise of Ben’s brittle bones being crunched.

  ‘I’ve got my family tree in my pocket,’ said Ben. ‘I’m still not quite clear who everybody is.’

  ‘No. No. Quite. Difficult. Problem.’

  ‘This is my friend Darren.’

  ‘Hello, Darren. Jolly good. Yes. Er … excuse me, must go and see if my wife’s all right. She’s … er … not very good in crowds.’

  Hilary approached Ben, kissed him, shook hands with Darren, gave Ben a glass of nettle cordial and asked Darren, ‘Are you allowed to drink?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Darren so fervently that Ben laughed and Hilary flinched at the prospect.

  ‘Champagne, Darren?’ she asked. ‘Or would you prefer a beer?’

  ‘Oh champers, please. Any time,’ said Darren.

  ‘Good man,’ said Hilary, hiding her surprise.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said Ben.

  ‘How are the memories coming on, Ben?’ asked Henry while Hilary fetched the champagne.

  ‘Dunno, really,’ said Ben in his new, semi-cockney voice so far removed from his old posh tones. ‘Dunno. I’ve been told such a lot in such a small amount of time that I’ve realised that it’s going to be very difficult to know how much I’m actually remembering and how much I’m remembering what I’ve been told.’

  ‘You’ll be all right as long as you’re aware of that.’

  ‘Yeah, but, the thing is, if I ever really remember what I was like, I don’t think I’m going to find that I’ve got much in common with myself.’

  ‘Well … yes … but … it’s what you are now that matters, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it? Really? To you?’

  ‘Of course. Of course, Ben.’

  It was time to get everybody seated, to watch the programme. In fact it was past time and Henry found himself getting very edgy. He noticed that his glass was suddenly empty. He filled it. He’d need some support during the next half hour. One glass in half an hour wouldn’t harm him.

  The TV was switched on, the sound was adjusted, chairs were moved, the lights were dimmed, people were still getting settled in their seats when the infantile signature tune erupted into the darkened room, and the opening credits rolled.

  Oh God, that music! Mrs Hargreaves will hate it, thought Henry.

  It was even worse than he had expected. Why on earth had they invited all these people?

  His first shock was seeing Sally Atkinson on the screen. His heart almost stopped and he could feel his prick hardening. He gasped. Hilary heard his gasp and, luckily, misunderstood it. She clutched his hand. He might have had some explaining to do if she had grabbed his penis, as she could have done with everyone’s eyes on the screen. But it was his hand that his darling wife clutched, and she pressed it lovingly as he stared at Sally’s open, weary, sexy face and felt quite, quite dreadful and quite, quite exhilarated.

  Then he saw himself. Sixty. Podgy. Greying. Giving a ghastly, stiff, tense smile. His prick shrivelled like a leaking balloon. And then the audience laughed at his name. He’d forgotten that. And there was a dreadful silence in the sitting room.

  The first round of questions began. It seemed an age before his question arrived. His body strained and urged Dennis Danvers to get there quickly, to get the dreadful moment over, but it also strained and urged him never to reach it. Quicker, slower, quicker, slower, please!

  What did it matter? It was all crap.

  It arrived. Dennis Danvers asked him, ‘Henry Pratt, a nice easy one to start with.’ That was the bit he hadn’t heard. ‘What culinary product is used in the expression, “As keen as …”?’

  Then there was a close up of Henry’s face, utterly blank, totally unaware that he’d been addressed. His former colleagues on the Thurmarsh Evening Argus and the Cucumber Marketing Board would be watching this. He could see them all, pitying him, laughing at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said on the screen. ‘I was miles away.’

  He heard the audience laugh. He hadn’t realised how deeply his humiliation had amused them. And there was laughter in the room too. He heard Tosser give a kind of subdued laugh that turned into a growl as he realised that it was tactless.

  ‘I was speaking to you, Mr Pratt,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘After all, you are, are you not, the only Pratt here?’

  He hadn’t realised that the audience had been in near hysteria. He sensed that people were near hysteria, politely repressed, in his sitting room off Clapham Common.

  Here was the question again.

  ‘What culinary product is used in the expression, “As keen as …”?’

  He closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see his blank face again.

  The pause seemed to go on for ever. He put his hands over his ears. It was no use.

  ‘Toffee.’

  With the great roar from the studio audience, he wasn’t able to be utterly sure that the audience in the room were laughing as well, but he sensed that they were. The bastards! The bitches! His friends!

  He had to say something. He couldn’t just let this ignominious moment pass in silence.

  ‘It gets better,’ he said.

  He watched Bradley Tompkins’s Anonymous Borsch routine in horror. The man deserved to die a death, but Henry couldn’t enjoy it. He actually felt a touch of warmth for the man. After all, he had saved him. But for him it would be Henry dying on his arse there.

  His Cannelloni routine was even better than he’d remembered. He’d completely forgotten Macaroni Tony.

  He’d also completely forgotten his Lady Windermere gag, which he’d suddenly thought of and dragged in shamelessly.

  Dennis Danvers had asked him the searching question, ‘How many things do you need to wash when you cook a lentil curry with brown rice?’ and he’d thought that, having answered three questions seriously since his Cannelloni routine, it was time to be silly again.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he had said, ‘but I do know who said, “You’re an absolute belter, Lady Windermere”. It was Lady Windermere’s fan.’ He could imagine dying a death with a silly joke like that, but on that night, said by him with great solemnity, and in answer to a completely different question, it got a good laugh.

  ‘Incorrect,’ Dennis Danvers had said, not quite managing to keep a straight face. ‘I can offer it to Deni
se’s team.’

  Bradley Tompkins had leapt in, once the school swot, always the school swot.

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘The lentils and the rice.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Dennis Danvers had said. ‘I can offer it back to Simon’s team.’

  ‘You aren’t allowed to do that,’ Bradley Tompkins had complained.

  ‘I can do what I like,’ Dennis Danvers had said. ‘I’m the boss. Simon’s team, anyone know the answer?’

  ‘Three,’ Henry had said. ‘The lentils, the rice, and your hands.’

  ‘Correct.’

  There had been a good round of applause. The camera had cut back to Bradley Tompkins.

  Henry shivered as he sat in his sitting room and saw the expression on Bradley Tompkins’s face. The burgeoning hatred in his little eyes was there for all the nation to see. Henry felt very uncomfortable. He didn’t need that.

  Hilary squeezed his hand again. She had sensed his hatred of Bradley’s hatred. He took a sip of champagne and his mind began to wander to some of his teachers long ago – the palindromic Mr A. B. Noon B.A, at Brasenose, the hypocritical Mr E. F. Crowther at Thurmarsh Grammar, the hypercritical Droopy L and the absentminded Foggy F at Dalton, the compassionate Mr Quell at Thurmarsh Grammar, and, before them all, the eccentric Miss Candy at Rowth Bridge, who had thought that he might turn out to be something special.

  What would they all have thought if they had seen him tonight?

  Oh, Henry.

  *

  Suddenly the programme was over. Everybody was standing up. His foot had gone to sleep. He had pins and needles. His legs were heavy from the tension, and his head felt light from its release. Nobody could blame him for taking just one more glass of champagne, after that ordeal.

  Everyone wanted to talk about it.

  ‘Remarkable,’ said Paul.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said Christobel.

  Henry smiled inwardly at the careful ambiguity of their adjectives. So Paul. So Christobel.

  He preferred Darren’s honesty. Darren and Ben came up to him together, just before they sat down to eat.

  ‘Did I used to like you?’ Ben asked.