Pratt a Manger (36 page)

He thought better of opening the front door, and locked it hurriedly. He switched on the outside light, and went out by the side door. As he rounded the corner of the house, he gasped. There was a huge mountain of the stuff.
It
covered the front door completely and reached up almost to the landing. It covered most of the windows of the sitting room and dining room. Hundreds of horses must have evacuated their bowels for Bradley Tompkins. The smell, which might have been vaguely reassuring in the country, was sickening here off Clapham Common.

He just stood and stared. He was barely aware of a click and a flash as a paparazzo took a picture.

Hilary came out and joined him. She was shivering. She looked horrified. Homes are wombs for women. They feel outrages against them more keenly, more emotionally, than men.

‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘How very predictable.’

‘Bradley
is
predictable. That’s one of the many things he can’t stand about himself.’

Hilary made a
cafetière
of good, strong coffee, and they sat at the kitchen table with the Yellow Pages in front of them. There were several pages of ‘Waste Disposal Services’. No one firm struck the eye. There was no ‘Manure Mountain Removal Company’. They wrote down the phone numbers of the likelier sounding companies, but in the event it was Tuesday before anyone could do the job.

‘It’s terrifying to be hated so much,’ said Henry. ‘It’s humiliating. It’s awful.’

The story was a gift to the national press at a quiet time for news.

‘Foal Faeces Fuel Food Feud’ was merely the most alliteratively ambitious of the headlines.

The bottom half of the front page of the
Daily Smear
showed a picture of the People’s Chef, standing beside the
great
pile of manure, mouth open in shock and disbelief. The top half of the page was covered by just two words, two words containing a total of six letters, two words in vast, black, bold type, just two words from the great rich language of Shakespeare and Keats and Dickens and Trollope and P. G. Wodehouse.

OH SHIT!

Henry’s fury knew no bounds. He was happy to give a press conference accusing Bradley. He waved the letter and read it to the massed journalists called to a press conference beside the offending pile.

‘I’ve been to three party political conferences,’ commented one journalist, ‘and, even so, this is the biggest amount of shit I’ve ever seen in one place.’

Even in his fury, Henry didn’t reveal Bradley’s double identity, but he couldn’t resist saying, ‘Beware of freaks bearing gifts.’ When asked what he meant by ‘freaks’, he said, ‘Don’t you think a man who hates another as much as this is a freak?’

When he was asked why he thought Bradley hated him, he ascribed it to jealousy. ‘I do what I do better than him.’

Next day Bradley told the press that he was entirely innocent, the letter was a forgery, he would sue Henry ‘for every penny he’s got’, and sue any newspaper which had been unwise enough to do more than quote Henry, for the grievous damage done to the reputation of an innocent, honest man.

The day after that, Henry received a cold, brief, businesslike letter from Bradley’s solicitor.

That night he didn’t sleep. Could Bradley possibly be innocent? He had made bad mistakes before. Had he now made his worst and most costly mistake of all?

It had to be Bradley. Who else hated him that much?

It had to be Bradley. The man had signed the letter.

It could be a forgery.

He was ruined.

It had to be Bradley. There was nobody else.

The clock struck four. Half the bloody night still to go.

On Thursday, 20 March, 2003, twelve marines became the first British casualties in the war against Iraq; hundreds of thousands took to the streets around the world to protest about the war; a magician announced that he intended to spend two days encased in a six-foot chunk of mature Cheddar cheese in a shopping centre in Weston-Super-Mare equipped only with a mobile phone and a jar of pickle ‘in case I have to eat my way out’; and a surprising visitor entered the Café Henry in Frith Street.

It was a busy morning. Henry’s recent controversies had stimulated a surge in visits by celebrity spotters, but there was a difference now. Some of them still gawped in admiration at a sighting of the great man, but others looked at him as if he was a traffic accident.

One of the customers, a shy, awkward young man, used sympathy as a device to get into conversation with Henry, in order to get the chance to talk about himself. This was not a clever move. Henry didn’t want sympathy from strangers. He wasn’t used to it.

‘I have my problems too,’ said the awkward, shy young man.

‘Oh?’ said Henry very cautiously.

‘I’m a writer …’

‘Oh bad luck,’ said Henry sympathetically.

‘… and I’ve had this fantastic sitcom idea and the BBC have turned it down flat. How can they not see it’s funny, with some of the things they put on? I’ll tell you my idea and you’ll see how incredible it is.’

Henry looked round for some urgent task that he could do. He couldn’t see one.

He braced himself.

‘It’s a remake of
Dad’s Army
, but gay.’

Henry tried to stop his mouth dropping open, but it was too strong for him.

‘People think there weren’t any gays in the good old days. There were. There always have been. Look at the dandies.’

‘Well, you have a point, but wouldn’t it be stretching credibility to have every man in the unit gay?’

‘No! That’s the whole point. They’re attracted because of discrimination elsewhere – and I have a great catchphrase. “They love it up them.” In the first episode …’

‘You’re right,’ said Henry. ‘It is incredible.’

‘Thank you. In the first episode …’

‘You must excuse me,’ said Henry. ‘I’m needed in the kitchen.’

He made his escape. He was too tired, after another sleepless night, to cope with that sort of thing. God, he was tired.

Not all the customers knew of the horse shit affair. Several were foreigners. The Café Henry was on all the
tourist
lists. That lunchtime there were two big cheeses from the Gruyère Chamber of Commerce, with their big wives; three Greek musicians; two men of French letters; a New Zealand archivist on her way to the British Museum; and the editor of a French underground magazine called
Metro
with his journalist friend and lover, the editor of a gay German magazine called
Mein Kamp
.

But most people did know of the incident, and there was a communal gasp, followed by an eerie silence, when the surprising visitor strode in at nine minutes to two.

Only Greg, with his huge insensitivity and his rare talent for being oblivious, was unaffected by the atmosphere.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘What about the schoolchildren, eh? Thousands of them have streamed out of school to join the protests. Is it just an excuse or do they really care? And what about that cheddar mountain and that magician, eh? We have reasons here to be careful about big mountains. What is worse, eh, cheddar or horse … Shit, it’s you!’

‘Yes, it’s me,’ said Bradley Tompkins, ‘and if you’ve finished the one o’clock news bulletin I wonder if I could speak to Mr Pratt?’

‘Of course, sir. No problem. He’s in the kitchen.’

‘Straightaway, please.’

‘Got you.’

Henry hurried out of the kitchen, where he had been busy pretending to be busy.

‘Bradley! What can I get you?’

‘I’ll have a glass of red wine, please, Henry.’

Bradley Tompkins held out his hand. Henry thought
about
refusing to shake it, then relented. His heart was like a steam hammer.

‘Here’s a list of the ones we do by the glass, Bradley, but of course I’ll open anything specially for you.’

How polite they were about the nuances of their trade!

‘No, no,’ said Bradley. ‘No, these are fine. I’ll … er … have a glass of the tempranillo, I think, if I may.’

‘Jolly good.’ Henry winced. He never said, ‘Jolly good’, a Northern lad like him. It was nerves.

Henry also took a glass of the tempranillo, and they settled themselves at the only vacant table, beside the salad counter. Conversation had returned to normal in the Café, and so they could be totally private in the middle of the hubbub.

‘Have you got the letter?’ asked Bradley.

‘Your letter?’

‘No.
The
letter. I didn’t write it. You’re being duped. I’m being framed. We’re both being made to look ridiculous. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

They clinked glasses, to the astonishment of nearby tables, and drank.

‘Mmm,’ said Henry. ‘Do you taste hyacinths?’

‘Hyacinths! No. More a faint … just the faintest … suggestion of … raspberry.’

‘Really??’

‘I didn’t come to see you after your original comments in the
Smear
,’ said Bradley in a low voice, ‘but I was pretty miffed, I can tell you.’

‘I didn’t actually accuse you. I just said, “I know who did it.” Big mistake. I back-tracked hurriedly.’

‘Because you don’t?’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t know who did it.’

‘Don’t I?’

‘No, Henry. You don’t. I did none of it. Why do you assume that I did? How could you be so conceited? Mmm. This
is
delicious. Very well balanced. Lovely soft tannins.’

‘Another?’

‘Why not?’

Henry made ‘two more of the same’ gestures to the new girl. She didn’t understand. Thick as a fish kettle. He signalled to her to come to the table. She didn’t like it.

‘Two more of the same, please, and I’m sorry to have offended you, but owning the sodding place does give me some privileges.’

She reddened and walked off as slowly as she dared. He smiled at Bradley.

‘Can’t get the staff.’

‘I know how you feel.’

‘What do you mean, Bradley – “How could you be so conceited?”?’

‘To think I hate you enough to do these things.’

‘You do hate me.’

‘Well, are you surprised?’ Bradley began to look less friendly. ‘I’m a real pro, worked at it all my life. You’re an amateur. This is a café. Oh, it’s nice enough, but you shouldn’t be a star. Of course I resented you – but why should I waste time and energy on you? You aren’t worth it.’

The new girl brought their glasses of wine, as slowly as she dared.

‘It’s from a new bottle. Do you want to taste it, sir?’

‘Did somebody ask you to say that?’

‘No, sir, but I thought it might not be like the other one. It might be corked.’

Far less thick than a fish kettle. Henry was irrationally pleased.

‘She understands, Bradley,’ said Henry. ‘Hundreds of restaurants don’t understand that. She does. Well done.’

He gave the girl a radiant smile, and she blushed again.

She wasn’t unattractive. He wondered what she would say if he took her into his office and …

Henry!

It was the tension. The tension of all this. Down, boy.

He gestured to Bradley that he should taste it. Bradley shook his head politely. The girl poured Henry a sipful. He swirled it round his glass and sniffed it, then tasted it thoughtfully.

‘Yes. Fine. Thanks.’ He raised his glass to Bradley. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers. Why should I go to such lengths? I have a life of my own.’

‘Two lives of your own,’ said Henry softly.

‘Well, yes, quite. Thank you, incidentally, for not saying a word about that.’

‘A promise is a promise.’

Henry was surprised at the turn the conversation was taking. Bradley seemed almost friendly. Now, however, he returned to the attack.

‘I repeat, Henry. Why should I go to such lengths?’

‘To destroy my reputation.’

‘Which it hasn’t – well, not entirely and only
temporarily
– because it was soon revealed that you’d been duped rather than dishonest. If I had done it, I’d have been a bit more thorough than that. And even if it did destroy your reputation – you don’t think this new bottle
is
corked, do you? – why should I care enough to go round fixing farm notices and gathering vast mountains of horrid, steaming horse shit? I’m fastidious, Henry.’

‘Maybe you’ve become blinded by hatred, Bradley. Besides – no, I don’t think so. I think it tastes a bit sharp when it’s first opened. Give it five minutes. If we still don’t like it, we’ll change it.’

‘This is what I mean. You’re conceited in your estimation of how important you are in my life. “Blinded by hatred”! You must think I think of you an awful lot. I suppose you think I can’t sleep at night because I think of you, seething with envy, loathing your success, envying your orgasms while I pull my flaccid cock without response. I need to see the letter, Henry, and take a copy, so that I can prove it isn’t my handwriting.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘My lawyers have sent you a letter, Henry. I’m very serious about this. If I don’t get a total and handsome apology I
will
sue you for every penny I can get. You’re destroying my reputation. I will destroy you. You’re right. It isn’t corked. It just needed air. It’s going to be delicious.’

‘Good. It certainly sells well.’

‘It deserves to.’

Henry took an olive, chewed it, sighed deeply.

‘This is terrible.’

‘The olive?’

‘No, no. Not the olive. Well, I mean, it isn’t actually very good, but no, I meant … you and me … sitting here … I suddenly find … this is really dreadful, Bradley … I mean, we’ve never actually talked at all, have we? Not properly …’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘I’m … I’m actually rather enjoying sitting here chatting to you. I’m finding …’

Bradley gave a faint smile. There was the suspicion of a gleam in his beady little eyes, sardonic, perhaps, but no longer hostile.

‘… that you like me?’

‘Well, no. Not as bad as that. But … that I want to like you. That’s almost as bad. Damn it, Bradley, I’m beginning to want to believe you. I’m beginning to think that maybe … but if not you, who? Who else hates me?’

‘Only one enemy, Henry? That sounds most unlikely. Haven’t you investigated at all?’