Pratt a Manger (29 page)

I know you’re very busy, but the Head of Domestic Services (Excluding Berwick-on-Tweed) and I do hope to see you, and please give our very best wishes to Margaret.

Always your friend

John Barrington, FGMY

‘Who’s Margaret?’ asked Hilary.

‘You are. Or Diana is. And this from a man who prided himself on his command of detail.’

‘What does FGMY stand for?’

‘I very much fear it stands for “Former Gherkin Man of the Year”.’

‘Oh Lord. Are we going?’

‘No. I can’t face it after Thurmarsh. I’ve had enough funerals for one year.’

Unfortunately we can’t decide when there have been enough funerals, and there was one more to come. This was undoubtedly the saddest of them all.

It’s natural for children to lose their parents, but it’s desperate when parents lose their children.

Not that Ben was actually their child, but they almost forgot that.

It was particularly sad, particularly cruel of God, if there was one, which they didn’t believe, or of Fate, if that was a meaningful word, which they doubted, to take him away from them so soon after they had found him.

Henry and Hilary didn’t know how to console each other. To have hunted for him, to have found him, to have nurtured him, to have brought him back into the family, spent patient hours trying – with limited success, it must be said – to fill in the gaps in his memory, and then for him to go – it put the tin lid on a sad year.

The fact was that his body was knackered from abuse. He picked up another dose of pneumonia and died from a mixture of that and liver failure.

Diana and Gunter came over from Switzerland; Jack and Flick came down from Thurmarsh; Camilla and Guiseppe cut short a holiday in Italy; but Henry had an enormous shock when he rang Tosser.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ Tosser said. ‘I hope it goes well.’

‘What? Aren’t you coming?’

‘Why should I? He’s your son now.’

‘Nigel! This is so important that I promise never to call you Tosser again if you come. You must come.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re Camilla’s father. She needs you.’

‘She has you.’

‘Nigel, this is nonsense. He
was
your son. Fact. You
will
regret it. Fact. You’re in danger of excluding yourself from the human race. Nigel … if you hadn’t retired I’d buy a pension off you, if only you’d come.’

‘It’s easy to say that.’

‘All right. Find some colleague who sells pensions and can give you a cut, and I’ll take out a pension with him.’

There was a long pause.

‘There’ll be no need for that,’ said Nigel. ‘You’re right, of course. I’ll come. I … I don’t know whether Felicity will. She’s … er … up and down, Henry. Up and down.’

In the end Felicity did go, and Henry was pleased. He was also pleased to see Lampo, but shocked by how sad he looked.

There was a contingent from the Streatham Asbo, and Michelle and Greg and the kitchen staff all went, and Kate of course, and Darren in a daze, and even one or two customers who had come to know Ben.

It was a humanist ceremony, with readings and poems that Ben had liked, some of them very spiritual, but none of them specifically religious.

Henry gave the funeral address, and he did so without notes.

‘I came to think of Ben as my son,’ he said, ‘and I came to be very proud of him. We did what we thought was our
best
for him in an earlier life, but I think now that perhaps we could have done better.

‘When we hunted for him, and found him again, we hoped that he would have a long and a full life. He hasn’t, but let nobody dare say that it was all a waste of time. In every day of Ben’s relatively brief new life he gave pleasure to those around him and, even more important, those around him gave pleasure to him. There was a lot he couldn’t do, but what he did he did with enthusiasm and style.

‘Nobody could have seen the love between him and Darren and remained homophobic. I must praise our dear friend Darren, who has been magnificent. I know, Darren, I’m embarrassing you. Sorry. I hate tattoos and I don’t like nose studs.’ He saw Felicity flinch. ‘Darren has both, and I wish he didn’t, but the point is that we shouldn’t let these things influence our judgement of character. Darren, mate, you’re one of the good guys, and there’ll always be a home for you at the Café Henry.

‘I am now hugely successful, something that I never expected. Ben stacked supermarket shelves. That doesn’t necessarily make me a better person than him or happier than him.

‘We didn’t discuss death with Ben. There wasn’t any need to. I think he’d known for a long while that he wouldn’t live to a ripe old age. I remember something he said when he was on my programme – and what a memorable edition he gave us. He talked about the beauty of dragonflies, and asked, “Are their lives of no value, because they are so brief?” We must all take comfort from the fact that his answer to his own question was clearly so positive.

‘The family have decided to give Ben a woodland burial, near The Old Manor House, which he loved. We think this is what he would have wanted.

‘I won’t say any more about Ben’s character. Everyone’s character is praised at funerals, which might devalue anything I could say.

‘In fact, I won’t say anything more, except … goodbye, Ben.’

They held a reception at the Café, which was closed for the day.

Henry talked to everybody, and everybody talked to him, and he drank rather too much, as did most of the guests, and in the morning he could only remember three of his conversations – with Darren, with Lampo, and with Felicity.

‘I hope you’ll stay friends with us, Darren,’ he said.

‘No. Sorry.’

‘What?’

‘I can’t. Sorry. Can’t face it. Can’t stay here without Ben.’

‘No, but in time …’

‘No. Sorry. I have to move on. There was this politician, he said, “On your bike.” I don’t see why people should have to do that because some berk tells them to, but in my case, yes, it suits. I’m off – on me bike.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, but … take your time.’

‘No. I’m going now. Can’t stand it here without him. I’ve got to find a new life. Maybe abroad. I may find somebody and he may even be as good as Ben, who knows? Won’t be better, though. Love you, love Hilary, she’s
fantastic,
love the Café, love the food, love the wine list, but … time to piss off. On me bike. Bye.’

He walked upstairs, to collect his gear. Henry didn’t see him leave. In fact, he never saw him again.

‘Thank you for coming, Lampo.’

Lampo shook his head.

‘Don’t thank me,’ he said. ‘I came because I can’t bear to be alone.’

‘Alone?’

‘Alone. I put Denzil through all that for nothing, Henry. For nothing.’

‘It’s over, is it, your …’

‘It’s over. He wanted me for odd moments. Snatched moments. He didn’t want me for life. He didn’t want me to grow old with him, as Denzil had grown old with me. We had a row. I told him what I thought of him. He got very savage and hit me.’

‘Oh, Lampo.’

‘What fools we are to let our pricks rule our heads. Oh, Henry. At first, Henry – you’ll think this pathetic, what a sad old man – at first I talked to Denzil every day after he died, but I can’t talk to him any more. I’m so ashamed. I forgot, in my fury, that I’d given the vindictive little bastard a key to the house. He came and took all Denzil’s biscuit tins. Every one.’

‘Thank you for coming, Felicity.’

‘Well … I’m sorry we didn’t do more, Henry, but you know what Nigel’s like. And then … well … he seemed so happy here.’

‘He was.’

‘I bought two of your curd tarts in your Tyke Treats range at the Kingston Asbo, Henry.’

Henry’s mouth dropped open at this change of subject.

‘And …?’

‘They were very dry and crumbly.’

‘You’re saying this to me now, here, today?’

‘Well, I never see you, and I thought you ought to know. I’m not complaining, Henry. I’m marking your card. You have a reputation. They aren’t doing your reputation any good whatsoever. I thought you should know.’

‘Thank you, Felicity. Thank you very much.’

Was there no escape from the demands of fame?

13 Will Success Spoil Henry Pratt?

HENRY AND HILARY
were having that rarest of luxuries – a quiet evening at home. They didn’t have the energy to play Scrabble. They didn’t even have the energy to watch television. They lingered, lazily, at the kitchen table, over a bottle of sound red wine.

But Henry couldn’t relax entirely. He had to make plans.

‘I think we should do something in memory of Ben,’ he said.

‘We give to the homeless. Why don’t we just give more?’

‘I’m not sure money is enough. It’s too easy. I think we should open a soup kitchen. A mobile soup kitchen. The Ben Pilkington-Brick Soup Kitchen.’

‘You’re getting to love grand gestures, aren’t you?’

‘Not grand gestures, no. Action. Symbolism, if you like. Inspiration by example. It’s so easy to become selfish.’

The phone shrilled. It sounded particularly obtrusive on so peaceful an evening.

‘Damn damn damn!’

‘Don’t answer it.’

But he did. He always did.

‘Henry Pratt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘What?’

‘I so hoped you wouldn’t be there. We have two hundred people here, Mr Pratt, who have paid good money to hear you talk.’

‘Oh shit. I mean … I’m sorry … who are you?’

‘We’re raising money for research into Alzheimer’s. You’ve supported us regularly. You’ve always said it’s close to your heart. When we suggested you spoke to us, you jumped at it. You said you’d speak for nothing. We arranged it weeks ago.’

‘I’m so sorry. There’s no excuse. I forgot.’

Henry didn’t think that the second series of
Hooray, It’s Henry
was as good as the first. It was no longer an autobiography in food, he had told most of his personal stories, it was more like other programmes. Most of the guests were no longer known to him, they were people who fitted the theme of the week – but the viewing public didn’t seem to notice, and the ratings were as good as ever.

Life was now so busy that there was very little time to think about Ben, but Henry and Hilary were both determined that, painful though it was, they must keep his memory alive, in their daily life as well as in grand gestures. It was Hilary’s suggestion that, on Sundays, they should turn up at the Café half an hour before the programme began, and have moments of quiet reflection in the top-floor flat, which had lain empty since Darren had roared off.

Sometimes other people who had known Ben joined them – Camilla and Guiseppe obviously, and Diana
whenever
she was in England, and they talked to and about Ben in ways that gave them great sadness but also much consolation. These moments were now more precious to Henry and Hilary than the programme itself, which had become less of a thrill and more of a routine.

Hilary noticed that Henry was developing a didactic streak. It was born out of enthusiasm, and for that reason seemed to be regarded as endearing – good old Henry, the People’s Chef, with another bee in his bonnet – but it worried her. Was he starting to take himself too seriously?

In one edition he spoke passionately about the need to have a space in one’s house for eating meals together. It shocked him profoundly that some modern houses had nowhere at all for eating meals. ‘I hope you aren’t watching this while eating ready-made meals off a tray,’ he told his viewers sternly. He moralised about the needs of people to break bread together, as had been done, he said, ‘in every society in every age in every part of the world’. Hilary didn’t ask him how he knew this. ‘Mrs Thatcher said that there was no such thing as society,’ he told his viewers. ‘You are in danger of proving her right. You must eat together as a family, not necessarily every day, but a few times every week. If you don’t, don’t grumble if your family becomes dysfunctional. It’ll be your fault.’

There were letters for and against Henry in the
Radio Times
and the newspapers. Hilary felt just a little uneasy.

In another edition he told his audience that houses where no proper cooking was done felt and smelt dead. ‘It’s a joy to enter a house with the smell of fried onions or an honest soup,’ he said. ‘The whole house develops
vitality
and joy. Don’t be lazy. Cooking is fun. I’d rather you cooked and enjoyed it than watched me do it.’

Hilary
and
the BBC felt just a little uneasy about this. The producer, Laurence Pangbourne, told Henry that ‘the powers that be’ wanted to warn Henry not to give the viewers hostages to fortune by telling them they shouldn’t be watching.

‘I think I know what I’m doing,’ he said.

In another edition he fulminated against factory farming. ‘Nobody has any right to condemn anyone else for cruelty to animals until they give up eating battery chickens,’ he roared, almost out of control with what his fans called passion and his detractors called self-righteousness.

A BBC memo congratulated him on his passion and commitment, but warned him not to return to the subject too often. There were mutterings from the powerful farming lobby and the food industry.

‘Your craven memo almost encourages me to repeat myself,’ he replied, ‘but, sadly, I can’t. People who repeat themselves are bores. Also, I am only too well aware that people who repeat themselves are bores, which is why you have only almost encouraged me to repeat myself, despite your craven memo.’

Another controversial outburst was about the need for people to be taught how to eat. It was no use chefs creating imaginative dishes if their customers weren’t adventurous too. It was a wasted effort for a chef to create subtle masterpieces if people wolfed them down in seven minutes while discussing the sales figures for China and Japan. It was fatuous for a chef to create complex dishes
out
of disparate ingredients if people put seven different ingredients on their fork at once and pitched them all into their mouths like farmers forking hay.

Hilary ventured a word of warning.

‘Darling, I think you should be careful not to insult your audience too much,’ she said.