Pratt a Manger (21 page)

Later, when the series was commissioned and recorded, and proved a success, Clive Porfiry claimed the credit for every suggestion that Henry had made.

Henry didn’t protest, for fear that he would never be given another lunch.

Clive Porfiry was
very
good at lunch.

Paul McCartney was knighted; the Queen opened the royal website; Labour won the 1997 General Election with a majority of a hundred and seventy-seven; William Hague succeeded John Major as Leader of the Conservative Party; Tony Blair announced that the Government would no longer supply free university education in Great Britain; Diana, Princess of Wales, and her friend Dodi were killed in a car crash in a Paris highway tunnel; Mother Teresa died; the exchange rate of the Malaysian ringgit reached a twenty-six-year low; the Little Mermaid was decapitated in Copenhagen; President Clinton said, ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman’; and all the time Henry Ezra Pratt was
involved
in the preparing and making of twenty-six editions of
Hooray, It’s Henry
.

It was one of the most prolonged happy times in his life. Let’s forget the world’s troubles for a few moments and enjoy it with him.

Every Sunday, Henry prepared dishes, cooked dishes, let others cook dishes, discussed the notices which covered the walls of the Café, added new notices and generally had fun with food. Hilary appeared in every show, acting as hostess to their friends, and sometimes helping with the cooking. Her publishers were thrilled. Her sales increased dramatically.

Very few of the guests in the first series were well known. The exceptions were Denise Healey, who after all had been responsible for getting Henry into the business in the first place, Simon Hampsthwaite, who was still his team captain on
A Question of Salt
, and Sally Atkinson. It was a joy to spend a day with Sally under these circumstances, in Hilary’s presence, so that there was no possibility of any flirtation. It established, Henry thought, that they were not potential lovers, but real good friends, and good friendship, he told himself, was far more valuable than love affairs.

Why did he not quite believe himself?

Henry’s favourite editions of the programme were the ones that involved members of his family. A favourite with viewers was the one he did with Gunter Axelburger about Swiss food. Gunter agreed to appear on one condition – that there were no cheesy jokes about Swiss food being full of holes. The programme gave Henry an
idea
for a fictional chef for
A Question of Salt
– the sexy Swiss actress-cum-chef Jane Fondue – but it also made some serious points about there being much, much more to Swiss food than fondue, and, above all, it entranced the viewers, who were heartened and inspired by seeing his wife and his ex-wife getting on so well with each other and with him.

Kate featured in an edition on vegetarian food. She brought along members of the staff of the Umbrella Theatre and the cast of her new play,
Simpkins of the
Argus, adapted by her from her mother’s novel. Mother and daughter charmed the audience with their shared nervousness over the project, a nervousness born out of great love. Vegetarians responded gratefully in their hundreds to Henry’s defence of those who became vegetarians out of their concern for animals and his contempt for those who thought them merely faddy. They responded also to his condemnation of the lack of imagination shown by most restaurateurs in creating vegetarian options. ‘If I sat in my office for a day to create vegetarian dishes I’d have several hundred by half past five,’ he said.

Luckily nobody ever challenged him to do it.

Another edition featured the staff of the Café Henry. Michelle spoke of the qualities needed to be Manageress of such a café. They included the wisdom of Solomon, the patience of Job and the strength of Giant Haystacks.

Greg spoke of the difficulties he had faced over doing Front of House, and told how Henry had helped him to learn the principles of small talk.

Starring on the programme went to Greg’s head
somewhat,
and his small talk began to become less and less small.

Starring on the programme brought the burly Manageress seventeen fan letters. Sixteen were from lesbians. ‘I’ve no prejudice against lesbians,’ she said, ‘but why do people assume I’m lesbian just because I’m built like a brick shithouse?’

She made a date with the seventeenth fan, and, three months later, married him.

Henry, after much soul-searching, decided to invite Bradley Tompkins on to the show. Something in Bradley’s personality must have drawn Henry to inverted commas. His email read, ‘Dear Bradley. I would be absolutely delighted if you could be a guest on my series,
Hooray, It’s Henry
. I know that we have “crossed swords” a bit in the past but I would like to “bury the hatchet”. Guests are welcome to participate in the cooking if they want to, and are certainly expected to participate in the eating! I await your reply “with bated breath”. The following Sundays would be fine if you can manage any of them …’

Bradley replied, ‘Hi. Read your email with astonishment. I understand from the publicity, plastered everywhere, that the accent is on your friends. I am not a friend of yours, and have no wish to contribute to the inevitable success of your series in any way. But thank you for asking me. I would like to return the compliment by asking you to appear on my series, but since my
long-running, ground-breaking, serious
cookery programme,
Bradley on the Boil
, was cancelled by a pregnant seventeen-year-old lesbian feminist graduate who decided that I had gone off the boil, I have not had a series.’
Henry
found himself wondering how the seventeen-year-old had got pregnant if she was lesbian. ‘However, if there ever are plans for a new series, probably called “Oh Bugger, It’s Bradley”, I will seriously consider you.’

There were other rejections, too, which disappointed Henry, but didn’t really upset him.

Tosser declined the invitation to appear with Felicity. ‘Food isn’t Felicity’s forte,’ he announced, more alliteratively than usual. ‘She’s very … picky. But thank you for asking us. The gesture is appreciated.’

Another refusal was from Ginny Fenwick, his former colleague on the
Thurmarsh Evening Argus
. She had never realised her two ambitions – to become a war correspondent and to find a good man. Henry knew only too well that she had had her moments, though. Her ardent couplings had caused him many sleepless nights when he’d had a flat directly under hers in Thurmarsh two hundred years ago.

He learnt a lesson from this episode. It’s fine to be sorry for people, but you must never let them suspect that you are.

His invitation – disastrously – was for a projected edition on the theme of ‘Cooking For One’.

‘There is no way I am going to appear as a lonely old spinster for you,’ she replied. ‘The public might even think I was a sad old virgin. I wish I was a virgin in view of my choice of men to be shagged by, but there you go. I wouldn’t be able to resist telling the audience that I’ve had my moments, so I don’t think I’d be very suitable for “before the watershed”. Thank you also for inviting me to come and stay with you and Hilary. Again, sorry, no. If
you
ever want to marry me – ha ha! – I’m yours. Otherwise, fuck off.’

Henry was shocked by the savagery of those last two words, but had she meant them savagely? Had they, perhaps, been an attempt not to sound pathetic or spinsterish (was there such a word?)? Had there been a bit of a glint in those bloodshot eyes, above that unfortunate, squashed nose?

Lampo and Denzil declined the invitation to debate the issue of ‘Is there such a thing as gay food?’ on the grounds that, while they were in no way ashamed of their sexual predilections, they were a private matter and not to be paraded before the nation.

He was also turned down by his old chum from the Paradise Lane Gang, Martin Hammond, now the Labour Member of Parliament for Thurmarsh. Martin had been resentful of Henry, believing, with some cause, that Henry had caused his defeat as Labour candidate in 1979. Martin had not been blamed by the party, and had got in next time, with a massive majority, but he claimed that the years which he’d lost had been instrumental in denying him the early promotion which would have led eventually to high office. He had seemed to want to be friends again at the time of Henry’s marriage to Hilary, but now that he had at last become a junior minister his natural pomposity reasserted itself. His reply came on House of Commons note paper:

My dear Henry,

It was very kind of you to invite me on to your little show, which is no doubt very amusing and will, I feel
certain,
be much enjoyed by those who have time to watch it.

Regrettably, as I am sure you will appreciate, that rules me out.

Much as I might wish to ‘wax nostalgic about racing dog turds in the River Rundle’, as you put it, I don’t think that it would be helpful except in the context of a serious debate about matters of public health, the inadequacy of recreational facilities for the young, and all sorts of major issues.

Food is not an interest of mine. It is an irritating necessity which can keep me from more pressing matters. Frankly, the design of the digestive system is one of the many things – world poverty, earthquakes and the design of the reproductive system are others – which lead me at times to doubt the existence of an Almighty. The whole process of ingesting roast beef and ejecting turds is not pleasant to reflect upon. Were it the other way round, food might be even less enjoyable, but at least one would have more respect for the processes of the body. I happen to believe that there is an unhealthy obsession with food in our country today. It all comes from the continent and is the direct result of our joining the EU with all those guzzling Belgians etcetera. I believe that there are far too many food programmes on TV. It’s what I call public disservice broadcasting.

Turning from the body human to the body politic, I have to say that at this moment in time, with world poverty and starvation such pressing issues, it would not be seemly for me to take up any position that
seemed
to be in any way friendly to the concept of gastronomy. It might be stimulating for me to attack the whole premise of your show, but I fear that I would do it so well that viewers would desert you in droves. I cannot wish that upon you.

I would not wish to end this letter on an unfriendly and churlish note, so may I say that, given that we have a glut of food programmes, I am at least pleased that some of the benefit is going to you and not to abominations like Bradley Tompkins.

I’m sorry this letter is so brief, but public duty is a hard taskmaster and I have much work to do, even though I have not been considered for high office, perhaps due to my late arrival at the Palace of Westminster.

It only remains, on behalf of Mandy and myself, to wish the very best of health and happiness for you and Hilary.

Your old friend

Martin Hammond M.P.

An edition of the programme that gave Henry particular pleasure was the one with Celia Hargreaves as guest. James very kindly went into a respite care home for the weekend, so that she could do it. Paul and Christobel would have had him to stay, had it not clashed with a snatched week in Barbados.

Mrs Hargreaves was well into her eighties now, but still carried, like a second rainbow, a faded aura of how lovely she had once been. She was as spry and elegant as ever. Under her expert guidance Henry produced the jellied beef
consommé
and the cold chicken in tarragon cream with which she had delighted him on so many summer occasions. It gave him enormous pleasure to bring a touch of cheer and glamour into her difficult life as a carer, and if an element of that pleasure was the satisfaction of being in control of her, after all the times when he had danced inelegantly to her tune, well, that was only human, wasn’t it?

When he did an edition on Italian food, the guests included Camilla and Guiseppe. Guiseppe proved forceful in his condemnation of the ‘You wanna black pepper?’ school of Italian restaurants in England. There was an amusing discussion on the phallic symbolism of pepper mills – ‘those dark satanic mills’, as Guiseppe called them – and an impassioned debate on whether restaurants should remain true to the origins of pasta and serve it only as a starter.

Camilla amused everybody with her tale of Guiseppe’s scorn when she had fed him that dish which does not exist in Italy except for tourists – spaghetti Bolognese. ‘In the world of food, only one instance of two words put together fills me with more horror than spag. bol.,’ said Guiseppe. ‘What are they?’ asked Henry innocently. ‘Bradley Tompkins,’ said Guiseppe. Henry tried to get this exchange cut out. The director, Sean Cassock, thought Henry’s bottle was going. Henry insisted that he didn’t want to be a party to gratuitously insulting remarks about Bradley. Sean pointed out that Henry hadn’t made the remark, it was just the honest opinion of a guest. Henry insisted. Sean promised that the offending remark would be cut out. It wasn’t. Sean said that he had been overruled by the BBC’s head of food. Henry said, ‘I didn’t
even
know there was a head of food.’ ‘That’s how the BBC operates,’ said Sean. Later Henry discovered that there wasn’t a head of food.

None of the programmes produced a more positive response than the one that featured Ben. Henry told the story of his lost and found step-son whose ruined digestion meant that his diet could no longer be prodigal.

Ben talked about the joy of food, about honesty in food, about simplicity in food, about nourishment in food, about the need for healthy sustenance, about the social pleasure of breaking bread together, about the senselessness of consuming things that took away your self-control and blunted your senses.

He talked, as he helped Henry with a straightforward but tasty, herby, slightly spicy shepherd’s pie, about the simple pleasures that he had at last learnt to enjoy – garden birds, the excitement of breathtaking sunsets. He talked with awe about the loveliness of the countryside. He talked about the beauty of dragonflies, and asked, ‘Are their lives of no value, just because they are so brief?’