by David Nobbs
‘Ours is in Kent, near Tunbridge Wells.’
‘I’m going down there,’ said Henry. ‘Hold the front page.’
‘Real journalism isn’t like the films, Henry,’ said Fergus Horncastle.
It was late afternoon by the time Henry approached the farm in Sussex. He felt very nervous.
He had been duped. He knew he had. Jonathan Cromarty had been a fraud. There was no wife who found Henry cuddly. He felt disappointed about that. How vain he had allowed himself to become. New Henry couldn’t shed all this vanity straightaway. He would have to work at it.
The road dipped into a valley, shimmering silently in the heat.
He knew he’d been fooled, yet he still hoped that everything would be the same on this sultry afternoon as it had been on that fresh early summer morning, before the sun’s breath had become stale.
It was the same. The lane fringed by smart white fencing. The orchards. The fields.
Only the name board at the entrance to the farmyard was different. ‘Martin Wildblood Farms – Organic is our Middle Name.’
He parked in the yard and walked to the front door with crunching steps and a thudding heart.
He half expected the door to be opened by Jonathan Cromarty, or the man who called himself Jonathan Cromarty.
Nobody opened the door.
He went round the side, where the immaculate frontage gave way to chaos – old bits of rusted metal, dogs’ bones, a chewed tennis ball, frayed shirts on a line, an empty fuel drum on its side.
He knocked at the kitchen door and it opened immediately.
It wasn’t Jonathan Cromarty. It was a woman, a farmer’s wife, middle-aged, chunky, cheeks chapped by the wind.
‘Yes?’ she said suspiciously.
‘My name’s Henry Pratt.’
‘Oh?’
It meant nothing to her. He felt a stab of irritation. What was the point of being well-known if nobody had heard of you?
He fought off the irritation. New Henry didn’t think such things. New Henry was modest. New Henry found it refreshing to be unknown. New Henry knew that it was good for him to be brought down to size.
Absurdly, though, he wanted this very real woman to find him cuddly, as the invented farmer’s wife had. He was certain that this woman was not married to Jonathan Cromarty. They didn’t go together.
He told her his story. Her mouth dropped open. She rang her husband’s mobile. He came immediately. His mouth dropped open. Henry took them to the board with the name of their farm. He told them what the board had said on his previous visit. They stared at the board as if it might provide an answer to the mystery.
‘It said “Happy Fields Chickens”?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t understand it.’
They went back to the kitchen. Martin’s wife, whose name was Marie, offered Henry a coffee. She found the jar without difficulty. Martin found the date of Henry’s visit in his diary without difficulty too.
‘We were in Majorca,’ he said.
Marie smiled briefly at the memory, then realised that holidays in Majorca didn’t fit easily with their hardworking image.
‘Just for a week,’ she said. ‘Our first holiday for five years.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Henry. ‘I know how hard farmers work.’
She softened. Henry felt sure she was beginning to find him cuddly.
‘We left our man in charge,’ said Martin.
‘We only have one man now,’ said Marie.
‘There were eighteen at harvest time in that old photo above the settle,’ said Martin. He sighed. ‘I’d have trusted Colin with my right arm.’
‘I wonder how much they paid him,’ said Marie.
‘Can I speak to him?’ asked Henry.
‘He’s in Madeira. Three weeks. We have to give him proper holidays.’
‘What was the man like?’ asked Martin.
‘Very thin,’ said Henry. ‘Very tall. Six five, I’d say.’
‘Don’t know anyone like that.’
‘He called himself Jonathan Cromarty. He couldn’t say his Rs.’
‘Like Jonathan Ross,’ said Martin. ‘We watched him the other day. I fell asleep. Well, I work hard. You enjoyed him, didn’t you, Marie?’
‘You’ve got it, Martin,’ said Marie.
‘What?’
‘He was phoney. Ross and Cromarty used to be a county in Scotland. We were on holiday there once. Must be twenty years ago,’ she added hurriedly. ‘As I say, we can’t find time for many holidays.’
‘I’m not with you,’ said Martin. ‘What are you on about?’
‘He was imitating Jonathan Ross and calling himself Jonathan Cromarty.’ Marie tried not to sound as if she was talking to idiots.
Henry felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.
‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Bloody hell! Jonathan Cromarty! Couldn’t say R! They must think I’m really stupid if they thought I’d fall for something as obvious as that.’
‘But you did fall for it,’ said Marie gently, as to one she found cuddly.
‘Well, I know,’ said Henry. ‘Because I had absolutely no reason to be suspicious. I don’t go through life expecting that everything that happens is going to turn out to be a complete con. No, I’m not so upset at falling for it. What I am upset about is that they knew I’d fall for it.’
*
He drove a couple of miles, then stopped to phone Fergus on his mobile. He explained what had happened. ‘I was duped,’ he said.
Fergus sounded disappointed.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I suppose we have to accept that.’
‘Well, don’t sound so disappointed.’
‘Of course I’m disappointed. What we’d really like to do is expose you as a complete and utter cynical, hypocritical, greedy fraud.’
‘But I’m not.’
‘I know. I’ve accepted that. It’s just a shame, that’s all. You can’t expect me to be pleased.’
‘I know who’s done it, of course.’
‘What???’
‘Forget I said that.’
‘No chance, mate. I don’t forget things. Come on. Who do you think’s doing it?’
‘In the words of my granny, “I’m saying nowt.” ’
‘Bradley Tompkins?’
‘I’m saying nowt.’
‘Thank you, Henry. I find that very revealing.’
‘Oh shit. You are a bastard, aren’t you?’
‘Just doing my job, mate.’
Stealthily, under cover of the heat haze, dark clouds slid into position, ready for a storm.
‘You shit-hole!’ said Henry with petty fury. ‘You sewer in human form.’
‘Thank you,’ said Fergus Horncastle smoothly. ‘Your comments are noted and they endear you to us most warmly – or should that be us to you? We don’t do grammar at the Smear. Clever tactics, Henry, I don’t think. Goodbye.’
Henry switched his mobile off with shaking fingers. Then he realised that he hadn’t even asked the question that he’d rung up about, so he had to phone again.
‘You’re ringing to apologise! Good move!’
‘Well, no, actually … well, I mean, yes, yes I do apologise, but no, what I wanted was to know exactly where your “Happy Fields” farm is, the one you have photos of.’
After Fergus told him, Henry looked at his map, worked out his route, and was on his way just as the storm broke fiercely. The temperature dropped twelve degrees. The rain bounced off the roads and streamed muddily off the fields. Carefully tended grapes were washed off their vines. Cows cowered. Sheep tried to find shelter under the hedges. Dogs barked in panic. Cats shivered.
It ended as abruptly as it had begun. Soon there was sunshine again, and the world was steaming. The steam rose off the roads, off the fields, off the sodden sheep, off the frightened pheasants and the squashed rabbits in the lane.
A young man in a red MG Sports drove through a puddle deliberately, soaking two elderly ladies waiting
for the only bus of the day. His girlfriend laughed.
Fergus would have laughed, thought Henry.
The steaming countryside was beautiful and it smelt succulently of drying grass and drying tarmac.
Then another smell assailed Henry’s nostrils most unpleasantly. It was a fishy, mealy, stale, hot, sulphurous stench, drifting on a sluggish wind.
It was the smell of the farm.
The lane went under the dark arch of an abandoned railway, took an immediate sharp curve to the left, and there it was.
The owners of the real Happy Fields lived in an ugly squat stone bungalow, with no soft edges. It was surrounded and dwarfed by three large sheds. There was a concrete bay big enough to load enormous lorries. In the dull, sterile field behind the barns there stood a vast pylon. It throbbed like an angry monster. The wires that led to the next vast pylon, on the edge of a decrepit wood, hummed ominously, as if the energy trapped within them was grumbling with suppressed fury because it couldn’t escape to pollute the world.
The owners of Happy Fields had ugly squat bodies and ugly stone faces with no soft edges. They were bungalows in human form. On a square table in the square kitchen there was a meal that could not be described as square. It was mean and pitiful.
Henry didn’t like the owners of Happy Fields Limited. The man in him was offended by the ugliness of the woman. The chef in him was offended by the ugliness of their tea. The human being in him was offended by the ugliness of their lives. No, he didn’t like Mr and Mrs Brown, but he did believe them when they said that they had never heard of Jonathan Cromarty, or Martin Wildblood Farms, and had been completely mystified when they’d seen the adverts.
He didn’t ask them for a list of all the people they could think of who might have known of the existence of Happy Fields. It might have saved him a lot of bother if he had.
16 For and Against
‘CLUCKING FOWL PLAY,’ screamed the Daily Smear.
‘Hen Advert Row’ said the billboards rather more lamely.
The Daily Smear quoted Henry’s comment that he knew who had done it, and his refusal to deny that he suspected Bradley Tompkins.
They quoted Bradley’s impassioned expression of complete ignorance about the incident.
Later editions of other newspapers picked up the story. TV blunders were always good copy, so were chickens, and controversy over adverts was an old favourite at thin times for news. Several of the papers quoted Bradley’s furious denials, which included the phrase, ‘I have nothing whatever against Henry Pratt’, which was unfortunate, as people didn’t believe it and, therefore, didn’t believe any of his denial.
In any case, a denial is usually more damaging than an admission.
All the chicken jokes came out again. ‘Henrietta of the free-range eggs was shell-shocked today …’, ‘The yoke’s on Henry, and he doesn’t see the funny side …’, ‘Henry may see himself as hard-boiled, but …’, ‘ “Cock-a-Doodle Don’t”, cries harassed Henry.’
He found it even more difficult to leave the house, especially as there were photographers lurking night and day.
He’d sometimes thought that it must be rather nice to be so famous that you were plagued by paparazzi.
No longer.
Hilary tried to persuade him to continue to behave as if everything was normal, but he couldn’t.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘My courage has gone. I’m a useless person, aren’t I?’
‘Not at everything,’ said Hilary.
But that afternoon, in the master bedroom, with the curtains open lest the paparazzi guessed what they were up to, Henry found that he was no longer up to what the paparazzi might have guessed he was up to.
‘It’s the worry and tension,’ said Hilary. ‘Plus all those bloody photographers.’
‘It’s my age,’ he said.
‘Don’t think I don’t sympathise, darling,’ said Hilary, ‘but I really do draw the line at self-pity.’
The phone rang endlessly. He didn’t answer it. The emails poured in. He didn’t read them.
The nation was laughing at him. He was certain of it. Not with him. At him. Their love of the People’s Chef was very skin deep. He began to feel very resentful of his public. Hilary left him to his despair, and worked at her book. It went quite well. Sometimes, when things weren’t good around one, the need to blot them out produced an inspiring intensity.
Henry began to miss her and made one of his very best fish stews for her. They washed it down with a bottle of white wine from the Greek island of Santorini – his latest discovery.
‘How has it gone today?’ he asked.
She hesitated. She didn’t like to be too enthusiastic when he was down. He could be so prickly then.
But her hesitation didn’t work any better.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Went well but you don’t like to admit it or I’ll get grumpy. Well, I won’t. I promise. I love you.’
‘Do you really?’
‘Well of course I do.’
‘You haven’t said it recently.’
‘It sounds silly after so many years.’
‘It never sounds silly. And I love you too. And it’s gone really rather well, actually.’
‘Great. No, it is. I’m delighted. No, I am. It’s clucking marvellous. Oh shit. I’d actually forgotten for a moment.’
Next morning, Henry trawled through his phone calls. A lot of them were from the press. He ignored those.
One was from Lampo. He said, ‘Priceless!’
He was amazed to get one from Tosser. ‘It’s Nigel here, Henry. Just to say it’s all bollocks. Lie low for a while. It’ll blow over.’ That was surprisingly nice of him.
The one that he valued most was from Sally Atkinson. ‘It’s Sally here, Henry. Not many people know how private you are. I do, so I know this won’t be an easy time for you, so I thought I’d let you know that I’m thinking of you. Take care, darling – oh, and love to Hilary too.’
He went weak at the knees. He played it four times before wiping it. He knew that she could be a bit actressy, but he felt that her ‘darling’ was meant in a different, more personal way – and the reference to Hilary, of course, was an afterthought.
It’s painful to have to report that after listening to Sally’s message, and before listening to the others, he went upstairs, to the loo furthest from the study in which Hilary was working so intensely, and there he succeeded in what he had failed with the previous afternoon in bed.
‘I thought I ought to warn you that Fraser Goldthorpe of the Smear has been on to us about The Pratt Diet,’ said Imogen Clutterworth-Baines on the phone, and, for the first time in Henry’s experience, she didn’t speak enthusiastically.
‘In what context?’
‘They’re questioning whether it’s all a con. They’re questioning whether it’s a diet at all.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t think it’s serious, do you?’
‘Yes, I do, actually.’
‘Oh. Well, I think you’ll have to talk to him.’
He didn’t like to interrupt Hilary when she was working, but he needed to. He had a sense that his whole career was beginning to unravel.
‘Sorry to interrupt, darling,’ he said, ‘but I need help. I need strength.’
She got up from her desk immediately. She looked worried.
‘Only you can give it,’ he said. ‘You’re my rock.’
Her face softened. She looked pleased, despite her worry. He was beginning to be able to say nice things to her in daylight. She went over to him, held him, hugged him. They were close again.
‘What’s happened?’
‘All my life I’ve been expecting that one day I’ll be found out. Now I have.’
‘I don’t want to be unkind, darling, but you’ve been found out before. Mr Redrobe found you out on the Argus. The Liberals found you out in Thurmarsh. The only reason the Cucumber Marketing Board didn’t find you out was because they’d known right from the start.�
��
‘Yes, but this is different. I’m famous now. I’m not funny little Henry Pratt any more.’
‘Yes you are.’
‘I see. Terrific.’
‘I’m not mocking. You’re famous and you’re rich and you’re loved and it’s wonderful, but you’re also still a funny little man and that is part of why you’re rich and loved.’
‘I see. I thought I’d rather transcended all that. I thought that was the whole point.’
‘Oh, Henry.’
‘I thought maybe I’d got to a point where people would stop saying “Oh, Henry”.’
‘Oh, Henry. That isn’t in life’s gift, I’m afraid. It’s what you are. It’s why you can ride this storm, provided you acknowledge it and face it. You faced the press after your fiasco with Helen on the green baize. You can face this.’
‘I just thought I’d given up having to face things.’
‘Yes, I know, and so did I.’
He nodded glumly.
‘I’ll go and ring the Smear,’ he said.
He went to the door, stopped, turned, looked at the modest, serious room, with its computer and printer, its prints of Old Thurmarsh (as if Hilary needed help with not forgetting her roots?) and its piles of notes all over every available space: notes about characters, notes about plot, chapter headings, things that she needed to go back and insert, lists, dates, ages, all the entrails of her complex, subtle new book. He felt so proud of her, so thrilled by the seriousness of her work, so contemptuous of the unimportant nature of his, that he went back and kissed her and ran his tongue into and around her glorious mouth.
How he wished that he hadn’t done what he’d done, less than an hour ago, in the more spacious of the two upstairs lavatories, with Sally Atkinson.
‘Henry Pratt. I believe you’ve been trying to get hold of me.’
‘Got it in one, old boy,’ said Fraser Goldthorpe fruitily. He was a journalist of the old school, hard-drinking, hardliving. ‘I’m our books editor, Henry, and …’
‘Books editor!’ said Henry. ‘You don’t do books on the Smear. You’re the racing correspondent.’
‘Racing correspondent as well. Sadly we don’t cover books as much as I would like, and one has to earn a crust. My wife, who is so addicted to cookery books that she never has any time to prepare meals, says your book isn’t a diet at all. It’s a con.’
