by David Nobbs
After the run-through he showered and changed. He did things properly now. He lingered over them, so that he wouldn’t have time to drink too much. He cleaned his teeth extremely thoroughly, so that he could kiss Nicky confidently, even though it wouldn’t lead anywhere.
‘I am mature,’ he told himself as he stood in the lift that would take him to the floor for the Green Room.
‘I am mature. I love my wife,’ he told himself as he entered the room and strolled insouciantly towards the other chefs. Nicky was among the group. His heart leapt.
He half expected Cousin Hilda’s sniff.
Nicky approached him and kissed him on the cheek. There were more blemishes on her skin than he’d remembered, and he’d thought that her breasts were bigger, but that didn’t matter, especially as they weren’t going to do anything. He was not only mature, he had too much style to force his body on a young woman. The age gap was too great. Her kiss was extremely friendly, though.
‘Is Hilary coming?’ she asked.
‘Not this time. She’s out to dinner with some booksellers.’
‘Ah.’
He wasn’t sure what to read into her ‘Ah’. He met her eyes. He wouldn’t have known what the expression in them meant, had it been important to him, which it wasn’t.
‘I’ll leave you to relax,’ she said. ‘You’re looking very smart. A man with dress sense!’
‘Thank you.’ He didn’t tell her that Hilary had chosen his complete outfit.
She kissed him again.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘For being you. You’re my protégé, and you’re shining on the show. I took a bit of a punt on you, and it’s come off. You’re a bit special to me, naturally.’
‘Oh!’
He wouldn’t have known how much she meant by that, had it been important to him, which of course it wasn’t.
He only had two drinks before the show. It was all he had time for.
Just after he’d taken his first drink, Bradley Tompkins entered. Determined to be friendly, Henry approached him.
‘I thought you didn’t come in here before the show,’ he said, lightly, pleasantly, careful not to seem in any way challenging.
‘What is this – an interrogation?’
‘I was just taking an interest. I was just wondering what had happened to the shit, shave and shower routine.’
‘I’ve speeded it up, if you must know. I’ve decided a drink might help on these occasions.’
Bradley Tompkins moved off, then returned.
‘Oh, and if you need it for your records,’ he said sarcastically, ‘I had the shit before the shave today.’
Fury swept over Henry. He would never, never ever, try to be friendly to the little bewigged bastard again.
Denise Healey drifted over, and said, ‘I think I ought to mark your card. Bradley’s really getting to dislike you.’
‘I’m beginning to realise that.’
‘The thing is, he can be pretty vicious. Not a nice man.’
‘What do you suggest I do?’
‘Just be careful, that’s all. Don’t provoke him.’
‘I won’t. Don’t you worry.’
‘The other thing is, the producer is going to use any of the hostility he can get. If you ever glare at Bradley, or don’t laugh at one of his jokes, there’ll be a close-up.’
‘And vice versa.’
‘And vice very versa.’
The programme was all so easy for Henry now. Oh, he was a little nervous, he was bound to be, you had to be if you were to be sharp, but he relished it. The warm-up man described him as an up and coming star, asked how many of them had seen him the previous week. Henry couldn’t see how many hands went up, but he got detectably warmer applause than on his previous appearances.
The studio went tense. The opening credits rolled. The hateful signature tune was played on monitors dotted around the studio.
‘Good evening, and welcome to another edition of A Question of Sport. Oh shit!!’ said Dennis Danvers.
The audience, who had no idea that he said this every week, roared and roared. The mistake relaxed them, it got them on Dennis’s side, showed them that he was no better than they were. Henry saw why Dennis did it, but … dear God … how he loathed it.
During the recording, while taking care never to be caught ‘miles away’, Henry kept telling himself, ‘I do not fancy Nicky. I am a happily married man. I will make it clear to her after the show that I do not fancy her.’
Bradley Tompkins’s fictional chef was a Greek, called Harry Toffeenose. He put a lot of emphasis on the ‘Toffee’ and Henry realised to his dismay that it was a deliberate reference back to his moment of shame. He also realised that it was a pun on Aristophanes to an audience who had never heard of him. It was so obscure that Bradley had to explain it to the audience. It was so bad that to have called it a schoolboy pun would have been an insult to schoolboys.
Too late, Henry registered that his incredulity at this pathetic offering had been transmitted to the whole nation in close-up.
Henry’s effort was all about Keith Floyd’s fictional brother Pink, the singing chef, composer of ‘Amazing Grapes’ and other hit songs.
The nation was treated to the spectacle of Bradley reacting to this flight of fancy like Queen Victoria on a bad day.
The show went well. As the final credits rolled, and everybody smiled, Henry was telling himself, beneath the smile, ‘I do not fancy Nicky. I am a happily married man. I will be good tonight.’
He would say to Nicky, straightaway, ‘I think you’re very pretty. I’d ask you out if I was younger and not happily married.’
He entered the Green Room and went straight up to her. Nicky, you’re so very …
‘Hello,’ she said, before he had time to speak. ‘Brill. You were brill. Come and meet my boyfriend.’
Henry was dismayed. Not dismayed because he hadn’t been able to say what he had intended to say. He was mightily relieved not to have made a monumental fool of himself. And not dismayed because she had a boyfriend. Not even dismayed because her boyfriend was young and handsome, with designer stubble, and a designer shirt (Paul Smith) loosely open at the neck, revealing great strands of designer hair on his designer chest.
He was dismayed not by the man’s hirsuteness, his evident virility, his extreme laid-back confidence, not even by the fact of the man’s existence, but by the fact that he had been so unaware of the man’s existence, that he had read more into Nicky’s ritual flirtatiousness and pleasant playfulness than she had intended. It was a shock to his pride to think that he had ever had enough false pride to believe that at sixty he could be an object of real sexual desire to young women. He resolved, with fierce determination, never again to dream, even in the privacy of his lavatory, of his body on top of or indeed underneath the body of a lovely young woman, never to touch pretty women unnecessarily with desire masquerading as affection, never to peer down the cleavages of the famous or the obscure, never to give swift, barely detectable glances at the crotches of young women at parties, weddings, funerals, anything. Never to grope, never to hope, never to risk the shame of anybody ever regarding him, even for a moment, as a dirty old man.
He saw Bradley Tompkins watching and smirking as he was introduced to Nicky’s boyfriend. Then Bradley approached him, smirk fading, and at last made the accusation that had been festering in his mind.
‘You set me up over Anonymous Borsch, didn’t you?’
‘No! I was naïve. I didn’t even realise you were trying to pinch anything off me.’
‘I don’t believe you. You fed me a load of garbage and I was the naïve one not to realise that.’
‘Ignoring the fact that whatever interpretation you put on it, the whole Anonymous Borsch incident only happened because you pinched my material.’
‘I was desperate, Henry, and you took advantage.’
‘I didn’t, Bradley.’
Simon Hampsthwai
te came over to them.
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘What are you doing to my team mate, Bradley?’
‘Finding out the truth. Fuck off out of it,’ said Bradley Tompkins. ‘That’s the language you understand, isn’t it?’
‘You should never believe what you read in the papers,’ said Simon wearily.
‘Thanks, Simon,’ said Henry, ‘but it’ll be all right.’
‘Sure?’
‘It’s better.’
‘OK.’
Simon wandered off, back to the other chefs by the table which served as a bar, leaving Henry and Bradley facing each other with all the wary caution of judo experts.
‘You knew I was going to use Anonymous Borsch,’ said Bradley Tompkins. ‘Otherwise why would you have had the Cannelloni routine up your sleeve?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Henry. ‘I was going to do Anonymous Borsch. I thought it was funny.’
‘You didn’t. Nobody could.’
‘You did.’
‘I have no sense of humour. Everybody knows that.’
‘Then why do you do these things?’
‘Vanity, Henry. I like being well known – and I was considered good at it until that stupid fictional chef question came on. That won’t last long and then I’ll be all right again. It’s good for business. We all need business. You’re not going to tell me you made up all that Cannelloni stuff off the cuff, are you?’
‘Honestly. Off the cuff, not up the sleeve.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Henry shrugged and walked away. There was no reason why he should feel humiliated, but he did.
On Thursday, 2 May, 1996, Lady Blatch, a Home Office Minister of State, announced that Michael Howard had agreed that the word ‘immigrant’ should be removed from legislation curbing bogus asylum seekers in an attempt to avoid offending minorities; the Head of the Meteorological Office had to hand back a £2,200 bonus payment because of the weather forecasters’ poor performance; at Cardigan Magistrates’ Court a brown hen, Gloria, was refused permission to appear as a character witness in the case of a dog said to have harassed chickens, when the magistrates ruled that evidence from farmyard animals was inadmissible – but nobody could stop Gloria laying an egg in the witness waiting room; and Sod’s Law, that bane of the catering industry, operated in no uncertain fashion in the Café Henry in Frith Street.
Ask any publican or restaurateur about Sod’s Law. You are inexplicably busy when you have a shortage of staff, and seriously quiet when the full complement are on duty. Everyone arrives early when you are late, and late when you want to close early.
Three of the most important men in Henry’s life visited the Café on that balmy, sunny, pavement-café spring morning. These men all wanted to speak to Henry, and Henry needed to speak to them all. It was Sod’s Law that they all arrived within a few minutes of each other, and that Henry was working in the kitchen that day. These men didn’t want to speak to Greg, even to a Greg who believed that, under Henry’s patient tuition, he was beginning to master the art of small talk.
‘Good afternoon, sir. I see it says men are safer than women with supermarket trolleys, would you believe? What can I get you, sir?’ said Greg to the first of the three.
‘What red wines have you got by the glass?’ asked Bradley Tompkins.
‘We’ve got a Chilean merlot, an Argentinian cabernet sauvignon, an Australian shiraz and a Spanish tempranillo, sir.’
‘I’ll try the tempranillo.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘I’ve seen you on the telly, ’aven’t I?’
‘Very possibly.’
‘Great. It’s a good show.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Pleased to have you with us, sir, on this balmy Mediterranean morning.’
‘Thank you. Boss not in?’
‘He’s cooking today, sir.’
‘Oh, how wonderfully hands on. Would you tell him I’m here?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Greg handed Bradley Tompkins his glass of wine and hurried off to the kitchen.
‘That cunt off your TV show is here,’ he said rather more loudly than Henry would have wished.
‘Greg!’
‘Sorry. But, honestly, what a …’
‘Yes, yes. Yes, yes. Damn damn. I’d better have a word with him, I suppose, or he’ll complain I’m ignoring him.’
Henry rehearsed a smile, sighed, squared his shoulders, thought of England, and strode into the Café in his full chef’s regalia.
‘Bradley! How nice of you to visit!’
‘Thought I ought to see what all the fuss is about,’ growled Bradley Tompkins.
Henry had made four more recordings of A Question of Salt since Christmas. He was becoming a regular. He was becoming a favourite. He had been sounded out by Simon Hampsthwaite about replacing him as team captain in 1997 when Simon’s contract ended.
Bradley, on the other hand, had made only one further recording. His star was on the wane. No wonder, thought Henry, that he growled. I’d growl, he thought, if I was him.
‘It’s a shame that I’m in the kitchen today,’ he said. ‘We could have …’
Denzil limped in, his walking stick banging sharply on the floor. He looked older than ever, and he smelt of ointment.
‘Denzil!’ said Henry.
‘I need a shoulder to cry on,’ said Denzil.
Oh God!
‘Bradley, this is an old friend of mine, Denzil Ackerman,’ said Henry. ‘We go back a long way. Denzil was a colleague on the Thurmarsh Evening Argus.’
‘I do so love the provinces,’ said Bradley. ‘It’s a shame I never seem to get to them.’
Greg hurried up to Denzil.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘I see it says men are safer than women with supermarket trolleys, would you believe?’
‘Change the tape,’ muttered Bradley.
‘What can I get you, sir?’ asked Greg to Denzil.
‘A glass of red wine, please. Have you a merlot?’
‘Greg, this isn’t going to work this morning,’ said Henry, as Greg poured Denzil’s wine. ‘You’ll have to chef today.’
‘Difficult changing halfway through. I need to have a feel for the ingredients. I need to psych myself into it like. Can’t just go in and do it stone cold like.’
‘I know, I know, but it can’t be helped. We have to. I just have to talk to these people.’
‘Got you,’ said Greg reluctantly.
As Henry was taking off his apron, he heard Denzil say, to Bradley, ‘I know you, don’t I?’
Good old Denzil. If he could charm Bradley … but then, unfortunately, Denzil continued, ‘Do you work in the men’s department at Peter Jones?’
‘You’ll have seen Bradley on A Question of Salt, Denzil,’ said Henry hastily.
‘Oh yes! Of course! I remember you now,’ said Denzil. ‘All that amusing stuff you did about Hieronymus Bouillabaise. Will you go back on the show, do you think?’
‘I’ve been on fourteen times over the years,’ said Bradley sniffily.
‘Oh,’ said Denzil. ‘Sorry. Lampo and I don’t watch much telly. We prefer Scrabble. Henry, is there any chance of a couple of minutes before you get busy?’
‘It’s pretty busy already,’ said Henry. ‘Let’s get your orders sorted out first, shall we? The dishes of the day are navarin of lamb, veal escalope marsala, hake Lampo, and the vegetarian dish is rata marseillaise.’
‘I’ve never heard of hake Lampo,’ said Bradley.
‘No. It’s a dish I created specially for a friend called Lampo Davey.’
‘ “Friend”!’ said Denzil. ‘Some friend.’
‘It’s on a bed of crushed garlicky broad beans with a sharp soy and sherry sauce,’ said Henry.
‘I cook that,’ said Denzil.
‘Yes, Lampo told me. I created it for him on his birthday, if you remember.’
‘I’ll never cook it again.
The bastard!’ said Denzil.
‘Oh dear. So, gentlemen, what’s it to be?’
‘What’s the rata marseillaise?’ asked Denzil.
‘It’s a spicy, saffrony vegetable casserole with hard-boiled eggs and couscous.’
‘I don’t fancy the sound of it.’
Henry frowned at Denzil, trying to get him to be more positive in his attitude to the food in the presence of Bradley. It didn’t do any good.
‘Is the veal humanely reared?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll have the navarin of lamb.’
Henry turned to Bradley and smiled. This was what catering led you into – frowning at people you loved, smiling at people you hated.
‘I’ll have the hake Lampo,’ said Bradley.
Henry handed the orders to a waiter, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Bradley, it’s so good to see you here, but I think Denzil needs a word with me.’
‘Please, Henry, don’t even think about it,’ said Bradley with a thin-lipped smile. ‘I enjoy my own company. I have to. I get so much of it.’
Unbeknown to its owner, who hated this mawkish self-pity, Henry’s left arm took it upon itself to give Bradley Tompkins a brief, sympathetic touch. Oh God.
Henry poured himself a large glass of the tempranillo and sat with Denzil in the window, in the glow of the sunny Frith Street morning.
‘This’ll have to be brief, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘So what’s up?’
‘Lampo has retired.’
‘What?’
‘Finished with work two weeks ago.’
‘Good God! He might have told me.’
‘He might have told me.’
Henry gawped at him.
‘What??’
‘Exactly. He’s away, Henry. An international conference on forgery, in the Channel Isles. He’s always forbidden me to ring him at work, except in emergencies. Our boiler’s blown. We’ve no hot water. I think that’s an emergency, and I’m a bit beyond dealing with such things. I phoned. “Hello. This is Denzil Ackerman here, Mr Davey’s partner. I wonder if you could give me a contact number in the Channel Isles for him.” “I’m afraid not. I don’t know it, sir.” “Well you must have a number for the conference.” “What conference?” “The international conference on forgery.” “I think you must be confused, sir. There is no conference, and Mr Davey retired a fortnight ago.” I felt such a fool, Henry. Such a dreadful fool. The humiliation! “You must be confused, sir.” The smarminess of that voice will haunt me to my grave, or till next Thursday, whichever is the sooner.’
