by David Nobbs
Henry knew that he had to get serving, yet he couldn’t snub Denzil.
It was at this moment that he saw the great moon face of Tosser Pilkington-Brick, set in a grim expression as the man strode to the bar in his financial services suit and ghastly Old Daltonian tie.
‘Oh God. Sod’s Law is alive and well and living in Frith Street,’ said Henry.
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Oh, Denzil, I’m sorry.’
‘You know where the bastard is, don’t you?’
‘No idea.’
‘In Siena, with that man of his. In Siena, Henry, seducing him with its beauty, doing what he failed to do with you. In Siena, our Siena, sullying the memory of our first meeting.’
‘How do you know he is?’
‘I got a postcard this morning. How’s that for tact? The only postcard in the history of tourism ever to arrive from Italy before the sender gets home. Apologising for having misled me. Says he loves me. Says he loves me, Henry.’
‘Well he does.’
‘He’s a funny way of showing it. If the postcard had come yesterday, I wouldn’t have made a fool of myself on the phone.’
‘Sod’s Law again. Look, Denzil, I usually try to pop home round about three. Hang around and come back with me and we’ll have a proper chat. I just have to go now.’
Henry hurried towards the bar.
A middle-aged woman approached him, matronly, on the stout side, beaming and unstoppable.
‘It’s Henry, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ (Do I know you? he thought. If not, it’s ‘Mr Pratt’, if you don’t mind. This was a woman made to provoke such a reaction. Her unstoppability was barely tolerable.)
‘I knew it was! I said to Anne-Marie, “That’s him!” Anne-Marie’s my friend.’
‘Excellent!’ (What’s excellent about it? Adjectives should be banned.)
‘Only we saw you on the telly on that programme and we like you.’
‘Thank you.’ (Oh God. I’ve just realised that I’m going to have to be polite to everyone from now on.)
‘We think you’re what I call “rib-tickling”.’
(Dear God.) ‘Thank you!’
‘Normally we go to a nice little place in Old Compton Street. Of course you get some odd people in that street nowadays, but not so much in the café, and they do a nice pasta.’
‘Excellent.’ (Madam, I do not have all day. Can you not see that I am caught on the horns of a triangle whose angles are explosions of human misery and need?)
‘But I said to Anne-Marie, “Anne-Marie,” I said … (Good God, woman. Isn’t it bad enough that she has two names without your having to say both names twice?) … “We can have a pasta any time. Any day of the week.” (Repetition. Get on with it.) “Let’s go and see what nice Mr Pratt can tempt us with.” (Nothing. Sod off. Is fame worth this?) “We might even catch a glimpse of him.” (You have. Now move it.)’
‘Lovely! Excuse me, but …’
‘You wouldn’t sign a book for me, would you? I mean, I’m sorry it’s not one of yours, but …’
‘I haven’t written any.’
‘What? You must have. You’re a chef. It’s actually by another chef. Robert Carrier. They don’t make them like him any more. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course not, madam!’ (Smile and get it over with, be good-humoured, crack a joke.) ‘He always cooked game very well.’ He added ‘and Henry Pratt’ beneath ‘Best of luck, Monica, from Robert Carrier’. ‘You must try his Carrier Pigeon some time.’ (She doesn’t get it. She thinks I’m rib-tickling, but she doesn’t get it. Thick as a tournedos Rossini.) ‘There! Now excuse me. Sorry.’
At last he reached Tosser.
‘Tosser! What a privilege.’
He hadn’t meant to say ‘Tosser’. Not today. It was all the fault of that bloody woman, irritating him.
‘Yes,’ said Tosser. ‘I noticed how you rushed to get to me.’
‘I tried! I couldn’t help it. I was waylaid.’
‘Are they in?’
‘I would think so. It’s their day off.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m here. One of my clients employs Darren, would you believe? Ben hasn’t spoken to me once, you know. Not once. I want to see him, Henry. I know I’ve let him down, but I am human and I do want to see him.’
‘I understand. Go up, if you want to.’
Ben and Darren had believed that they wouldn’t be able to lead their lives in the house off Clapham Common, but the flat on the top floor of the Café had been a different proposition. When Hilary thought of it, neither she nor Henry could believe that it hadn’t occurred to them before. Ben and Darren had jumped at the idea, delighted to live in the middle of Soho. They had insisted on paying rent. Ben wasn’t selling the Big Issue any more: he couldn’t cope with much more rain falling on his frail body. He was stacking supermarket shelves. Darren had a job as a courier. He charged round London on a Yamaha.
Tosser went upstairs, and Henry hurried over to Bradley.
‘Tosser and I go back even further than Denzil,’ he said. ‘I fagged for him at school. We were both married to the same woman … not at the same time, I hasten to add. His son lives upstairs.’
‘You don’t have to apologise to me,’ said Bradley. ‘I know that I come at the bottom of the pecking order. It’s natural. Believe me, I’m very happy just to sit here and soak up the atmosphere of your little place, while I’m waiting to be served. I know that freshly cooked food takes time. I’m not complaining about the delay.’
‘I’ll go and chase it up,’ said Henry.
Tosser banged on the door of the flat. There was no reply. He knocked more loudly.
‘Let me in. I know you’re in there,’ he shouted.
There was a shouted reply from quite a long way inside the flat.
‘No.’
‘I’m your father, damn it.’
‘Are you visiting the Café?’ shouted Ben. ‘What are you having for lunch? I’m having Darren. Very tasty. I might have seconds.’
‘You’re depraved. Let me in.’
‘You wouldn’t like it. I’m up his bum.’
‘Disgusting.’
‘Then piss off. You aren’t my father. Henry’s my father now.’
*
Bradley’s food was just about ready. Henry hurried over to him with a basket of bread.
‘It’s on its way, Bradley.’ He put the basket on the table. ‘Our bread today is bread flavoured.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I don’t go in for exotic breads. I believe that simple good bread is the perfect accompaniment. If the food is sufficiently flavoured and complex, the bread should be simple. Exotic breads can add confusions of taste, I believe.’
Greg hurried over with Bradley’s hake Lampo. Henry was only too aware of Denzil sitting there, waiting for his meal, looking old and broken, but then Tosser entered, very slowly, with a face as grim as a quarry. His sadness drew Henry to him.
‘He wouldn’t speak to me.’
‘I’m sorry. Have a drink.’
‘I can’t think of drink at a time like this.’
‘On the house.’
‘I suppose a glass of claret might go down all right. He said that you’re his father now.’
‘I’ve done nothing to make him think like that, Nigel.’ Henry hadn’t the heart to call him Tosser at that moment.
‘Oh, I believe you. I’ve no quarrel with you.’
‘Good. I’ve tried to get him to see you. There you are. Cheers.’
‘Cheers. He’s stacking supermarket shelves, Henry.’
‘He enjoys it. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? He says it’s not nearly as boring as you might imagine.’
‘No, but, I mean, the fruit of my loins, stacking supermarket shelves.’
Henry tried not to grimace. He didn’t like to think about Tosser’s loins.
‘I find it humiliating.’
‘Nigel, that’s silly.’
‘What does Diana think?’
‘She’s just pleased that he’s happy for the first time in his life. They’ve been over to stay twice.’
‘Gunter doesn’t mind?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘I find that hard to believe. He’s Swiss.’
‘I’m sorry, Nigel, but I’m going to have to go. We’re getting busy. Will you stay to eat?’
‘I couldn’t. I wouldn’t digest it, with the thought of them doing things up there. He was very rude, Henry. Really very rude.’
‘He’s very bitter. You can’t expect anything else.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Why did you come?’
‘It was stupid, I know. I … I do have a conscience, Henry. I am human. I … did love Benedict. Once upon a time. I wanted to see him. I wanted … some kind of relationship.’
‘I don’t think it’s possible. You’ve closed the only relationship that would be meaningful to him. I’m sorry, Nigel, but you can’t have it both ways.’ Their eyes met. ‘Yes, I know. He is, but don’t even think about that. Have another glass.’
‘Better not, Henry. I have to drive. Some of us have to work.’
‘What do you think I’m doing? Having lunch?
‘Actually, I’m retiring in three weeks. Just time to take out a pension at a very favourable rate.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You do that small thing.’
Tosser walked out, wearily.
Trade remained brisk. Service remained slow. Greg had never quite caught up.
‘Will our food be long?’ asked matronly Monica loudly as Henry passed her table.
‘Hours,’ said Henry. ‘It’s chaos in there. You should have gone for that pasta.’
‘Well!’ said Monica. ‘And to think we came here because we liked you! Come on, Anne-Marie.’
Monica stormed out, unstoppably. Anne-Marie, who was hungry, was sucked out in her slipstream. Never ever do that again, Henry. You can’t afford to. Things get around. Reputations are destroyed. There are always some pleasures that one has to deny oneself.
As the two women left, in came Geoff Little, who formed half of the decidedly filthy double act of Little and Often, closely followed by Peter Stackpool, who, after much careful thought, said, ‘I can’t resist the pull of the ham salad today.’ What with one thing and another, Henry didn’t get a chance to speak to Bradley again until he came out of the Gents and went up to the bar to pay his bill.
‘What a show-off!’ he said.
Henry assumed that Bradley was referring to a photograph showing Henry’s head on the body of Michelangelo’s David, which had been mocked-up up in a studio run by one of his regular customers, and which now adorned the Gents.
‘A little bit of self-mockery, Bradley. I try not to take myself too seriously,’ said Henry, and immediately wished that he hadn’t. Bradley’s mouth gave a tiny, tense twitch.
‘My bill, please,’ he said.
‘No, no,’ Henry insisted. ‘It’s on the house. I’m just sorry I couldn’t spend more time with you. It’s been one of those mornings.’
The phone rang. Henry didn’t want to break off his farewell to Bradley, so he asked Fran, the work experience girl, to answer it.
‘Well, thank you,’ said Bradley Tompkins.
There was a brief silence, into which Henry might have inserted a question such as ‘I hope everything was to your satisfaction’ or Bradley might have volunteered something like ‘It was very good’, but neither did. Nevertheless, Henry felt afterwards that everything might have been all right if Fran hadn’t held out the phone and said, ‘It’s for you’, adding the unnecessary details ‘It’s Protein Films. They want you to appear on Here’s One I Made Earlier.’
Henry took the phone from her.
‘Hello,’ said a breathless girl who spoke too fast. ‘I’m …’ He couldn’t catch her name. ‘We’re very impressed with what you’re doing on A Question of Salt. We’d love you to be on the show, if you’re interested.’
‘Very much so.’
Bradley just stood there, with a strange half-smile, half-smirk on his face.
‘You know the format, do you?’ said the girl.
‘I’ve seen it. It’s a kind of competition between two chefs, isn’t it? Each one brings a dish of their own, and there’s a vote on which is better.’
‘That’s right. We just wondered – we always ask this – if there’s anybody you wouldn’t want to do the show with.’
Henry couldn’t stop his neck swivelling, so that he could have a quick, anxious look at Bradley.
‘Er … that’s an awkward one,’ he said. ‘I … I might need to think about that.’
He was almost certain that Bradley realised what he’d just been asked.
‘That may not be necessary,’ said the girl, ‘because we’ve got a suggestion. We thought we might put you up against Sally Atkinson. We thought the dynamics of that might work rather well.’
‘Yes, I … yes, I think the … er … the dynamics of that might work very well. Yes, she’d be fine.’
His heart was thudding. How it thudded! He shook with the intensity of his desire for Sally Atkinson. He knew in that moment that he had never really wanted Nicky, he’d only thought he had.
He was convinced that Bradley could hear the thudding of his heart; Cousin Hilda’s sniff certainly could. It came loud and clear.
Bradley Tompkins nodded strangely, turned abruptly and walked briskly to the door. He raised one arm in farewell. He didn’t turn round. The effect was contemptuous.
Henry felt as if he was going to pass out. There was an ache in his balls. He had to grab hold of the bar counter for support. He was sweating. Then his funny turn passed off. He poured himself a glass of the tempranillo and joined Denzil for a moment.
‘One question,’ said Denzil. ‘I wouldn’t dare ask it if I wasn’t getting a bit pissed.’
‘What is it, Denzil?’
‘Did you know Lampo’d retired?’
‘No.’
‘You weren’t invited to his farewell party?’
‘That’s two questions.’
‘It’s all one question. Are you my friend or are you in cahoots with him?’
‘I’m never quite certain what a cahoot is, and whether there can ever be just one of them, but I’m certainly not in two or more of them, whatever they are. In fact he once asked me for two tickets for one of the shows. I told him what I thought of his treachery, and refused.’
‘Thank you, Henry. I’m glad of that. I’m sorry I had to ask. Misery distorts the mind.’
Ben and Darren emerged dozily from their love nest, their bodies heavy from sleep and sex.
Ben admitted – almost shame-facedly, but not quite – what he had said to his father.
Henry sat them with Denzil, who looked put out at no longer having Henry’s undivided attention. Henry cracked open another bottle of wine and joined them. Ben and Darren breakfasted at twenty past two on navarin of lamb, Ben eating with careful enjoyment of every mouthful, as if he had to catch up on fifteen years of lost delight. As he ate, he talked about his job stacking supermarket shelves.
‘It’s not boring at all,’ he told Denzil, revealing slightly too much half-chewed lamb as he talked. ‘Not at all. I mean, it’s fascinating what people buy and what they don’t buy. Take apricots. I am here to tell you that I do not work in an apricot-loving area. Take mulligatawny soup. On a Wednesday, I’ll be putting out thirty or forty tins. On a Thursday, zilch. Why does nobody buy our mulligatawny soup on a Thursday? Monday, John West tuna goes faster than our brand. Tuesday, a very different story. It’s fascinating.’
Henry couldn’t remember when he had last seen somebody less fascinated than Denzil, but Darren couldn’t take his eyes off Ben, listening adoringly to his every word.
Actually, Henry found it curiously fascinating, this secret world of supermarket preferences, but it disturbed him, he couldn’t tie it
in with the arrogant golden boy of Ben’s youth.
Denzil flinched almost imperceptibly when Darren laid down his knife and fork and placed his hand firmly on Ben’s thigh.
‘Are you homophobic?’ asked Darren, who missed nothing.
‘He can’t be,’ said Henry with a smile. ‘He’s gay.’
‘Dear dear Henry,’ said Denzil sadly. ‘Dear dear boy. How you do crave simplicity. I am gay, yes, but that doesn’t mean I like other gays. Thank you for the kind offer of tea with the delectable Hilary. I rather think the time has passed, don’t you?’
He picked up his elegant stick, stood up and limped out into the afternoon sunshine with dignity.
Henry invited Darren and Ben instead, but they never had their tea, because, when Henry got to his car, he found that all his tyres had been slashed. He could see Bradley doing it, almost as clearly as if he’d caught him in the act.
It wasn’t the act of vandalism itself that upset Henry. That was a nuisance, but no more. The dreadful thing was that the slashes were so deep and vicious: he felt certain that, as Bradley was doing it, the tyres weren’t tyres at all. They were Henry’s face.
9 Here’s One I Made Earlier
BEFORE TOO MANY years had passed, Henry would be steeped in controversy and catastrophe. The summer of 1996, however, was an unusually peaceful time in his life.
Between 2 May, when his tyres were slashed, and 11 September, when he recorded an edition of Here’s One I Made Earlier with Sally Atkinson, Henry didn’t hear Cousin Hilda’s posthumous sniff once. He began to hope that he had shaken it off for good.
The memory of the viciousness of those slashes to his tyres faded. He allowed himself to believe that it had been a one-off incident.
When it had been suggested that he should do the show with Sally, Henry had been taken off guard and had discovered that he could hardly cope with the extraordinary extent of his desire for her.
All that summer he had thought about her, and prepared himself for their meeting. He forced himself to control his emotions. He prepared himself for a day of professional friendship, during which he would let drop no hint of the feelings he might have allowed himself if he hadn’t made these preparations.
