Pratt a Manger (13 page)

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.’

‘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.’