Pratt a Manger (7 page)

‘He is well known, of course, for his paintings of the Grand Canal. There are two Cannellonis hanging in the town hall of my native Thurmarsh. What is less well known is that he produced pasta models of Venetian landmarks. His Rialto Bridge stuffed with spinach and ricotta was sensational, he really was an expert stuffer, in fact he had six children, one of whom introduced cheese to pasta and was known as Macaroni Tony. Unfortunately he had a weakness – women.’ Henry lowered his voice like a newsreader approaching bad news. ‘His wife strangled him with five hundred yards of tagliatelle in 1782.’

There was a good round of applause. The Chipometer registered seven out of ten. Bradley Tompkins glowered.

4 Eggs Benedict

IT WAS THE
strange affair of the pigeon Denzil that gave Henry the idea.

The need to create a special dish for his old colleague and friend came to Henry after a rather difficult dinner at Denzil and Lampo’s elegant little mews house in Chelsea, shortly after the recording of
A Question of Salt
.

As they sipped their pre-prandial white wine in the tiny sitting room, choc-a-bloc with bric-a-brac, Henry asked them if they would like to witness the recording of another edition of
A Question of Salt
. They declined politely.

When Lampo went out to get more olives, Denzil said in a low voice, ‘I would have liked to, but it’s all a bit beneath La Lampo. She only breathes very rarefied air, Henry. She’s too precious to live. She looks down on anything to do with television.
So
common.’

When Denzil went to finish off the vegetables, Lampo said, ‘I would have loved to come. It’s so sublimely awful as almost to be brilliant, but poor old Denzil … between you and me and several gateposts … has
no
sense of humour, no love of the absurd, no relish for the incongruous.’

It wasn’t difficult to deduce that relations between Lampo and Denzil were not at their smoothest. Henry felt sad that he had created a special dish for Lampo, the deceiver, but not for Denzil, the deceived. He longed to
confront
Lampo over his deceit on the day of his sixtieth birthday, but the moment didn’t seem right, and he contented himself with saying, in a low, urgent voice, ‘Lampo, don’t hurt him, will you?’

Lampo raised his eyebrows.

‘Henry feels responsible for your relationship,’ said Hilary, ‘because he brought you together in Siena.’

‘On that memorable day on which he also first met you,’ Lampo reminded her. ‘It’s all so long ago. How banal time is. All it can ever think to do is pass. Pass, pass, pass, second after second, minute after minute, and always at the same rate.
So
tedious.’

‘Yours was love at first sight,’ said Henry. ‘We took a little longer. But no, I suppose I do feel responsible.’

‘Ridiculous,’ said Lampo. ‘How you do overestimate your importance in the scheme of things.’ He looked at his watch. ‘He’s slower than ever these days.’

‘Shouldn’t you be helping?’ asked Hilary gently. ‘Don’t you think it’s all getting a bit beyond him?’

‘He can’t bear having me in his kitchen,’ said Lampo, ‘and when he can’t manage it on his own any more, it’ll be a dreadful blow. I have to be cruel to be kind. I never lift a finger, much as I might want to. It’s a sacrifice I have to make.’

At last Denzil was ready. They had smoked salmon and pork casserole and all the time, as they talked, Henry felt the presence of the shadow of his knowledge of Lampo’s duplicity.

The opportunity to speak about it arose while Denzil was clearing away the main course and preparing the dessert. It had seemed wrong to launch into the subject
before
the meal, but now, well into the evening and mellow with wine, Henry felt that he could avoid it no longer.

‘Lampo?’ he said in a low voice.

‘Oh dear! Ominous change of tone,’ said Lampo. ‘H.E. Pratt (Orange House) is going into serious mode.’

‘Do shut up and listen. Lampo, I know that on the night of my sixtieth you didn’t go to an auction.’

Lampo didn’t reply. His mouth opened slightly, and his skin looked as if it couldn’t decide whether to go white or to blush.

‘I phoned Christie’s, and there was no auction.’

‘Your deep interest in the details of my life flatters me, Henry. I happen to work at Sotheby’s.’

‘I rang Sotheby’s too, Lampo.’

‘Oh.’

‘There was no auction there either.’

‘No.’

Lampo poured a little more Fleurie into their glasses, carefully, immaculately, ascetically. Their glasses had been far from empty, so it was obviously a displacement activity.

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I really am most dreadfully sorry that you’ve found out. It must have hurt. Your sixtieth too, and I was very, very sorry to miss it. But it was quite unavoidable.’

‘I’m not talking about my sixtieth, Lampo. I’m not talking about me.’

‘Henry isn’t that self-centred, Lampo,’ put in Hilary.

There was a loud crash from the kitchen.

‘Not as steady as he used to be,’ said Lampo. ‘Hurry up in there,’ he shouted. ‘We want our pud.’

‘Don’t evade the issue, Lampo,’ said Henry.

‘Oh, I’m not,’ said Lampo. ‘I’m buying us more time. The more I tell him to hurry, the longer he takes. His desire to infuriate me is what’s keeping him alive.’

‘Perhaps he senses that something’s up,’ said Hilary very softly. ‘Perhaps he suspects.’

‘No,’ said Lampo firmly. ‘No, I’m very careful.’ He lowered his voice still further. ‘I will never hurt Denzil. Never. But I have to think of my future … after … after he goes. I have to … prepare the ground. Death is difficult for gays.’

‘It’s not exactly a doddle for the rest of us.’

‘No, but we tend to be lonelier. We have no families.’

‘Your choice.’

‘Henry! You know perfectly well that choice doesn’t come into it.’ He lowered his voice even more, and Henry had a sudden, disturbing vision of Sally Atkinson, lowering her voice in the Green Room. God, she’s lovely, he thought, to his surprise.

He realised that this was
his
displacement activity. All this was very painful to him, the secrecy, the tension, with poor Denzil slowly, innocently preparing his dessert in their tiny kitchen.

‘I … er … well, you may as well know,’ said Lampo, ‘I have a friend. A young man. Well, young to me. He’s thirty-six.’

‘Young to me too.’

‘He’s …’

‘I don’t think we need to know who or what he is, Lampo, thank you very much.’

Lampo looked hurt. They realised that he wanted to talk about his lover.

‘Besides, Denzil may live for years, Lampo.’

‘I don’t think so. He’s failing. I will be very careful, Henry, I promise. He doesn’t suspect a thing, and he never will. My opportunities are therefore very limited. Hence the night of your sixtieth, when my friend happened to be on the eve of departing for Kuala Lumpur, and I knew Denzil would be having a happy time and wouldn’t check up. Ah!’

Denzil entered with the pudding.

‘Something I’ve never made in my life,’ he said. ‘Not my usual style at all. Spotted dick.’ Hilary looked across the table at Henry. The steamy smell of it transported them back to Cousin Hilda’s.

Cousin Hilda sniffed loudly. But was it her, or was it just her sniff? Can a sniff sniff loudly?

Henry shivered. He knew what the sniff meant. It meant, ‘Eat it up, there’s a good boy. There are people starving in India who’d be glad of some spotted dick.’

Many things happened in the great world outside the Café Henry. President Clinton announced that the United States would re-establish full diplomatic relations with Vietnam; two of Saddam Hussein’s sons-in-law were given political asylum in Jordan after fleeing Iraq with their wives; and on the fiftieth anniversary of Japan’s surrender Prime Minister Tomiche Murayama apologised for the nation’s aggression in World War Two.

In the tiny world of the Café Henry, however, nothing much changed. Food was cooked and served, customers came and went, but this no longer seemed quite enough for Henry. Had he already been corrupted by his very first
touch
of celebrity? Did
A Question of Salt
seem more real to him than the Café Henry? Had the insidious power of television infected his blood?

Every day he hoped that Nicky would ring and offer him another appearance. Every day he hoped that customers would enter the Café and tell him that they had come because of his irresistible performance in the recording.

And then at last the phone call did come.

‘It’s Nicky, Henry.’

His heart began to pump furiously. This was ridiculous.

‘Well, hello. How are you?’

‘
Very
well. How are you?’

‘Very very well.’ Why did he have to compete and be even more well than her? ‘Very busy. Very, very busy.’

He hoped that she could hear the buzz of conversation, the satisfied murmuring of a happy, well-fed crowd, so different from the day of her visit.

‘Good. Listen, can you come on the show next Tuesday?’

Yes, yes, yes, cried his heart. So why did he hear his voice saying, ‘That’s short notice.’

‘We’ve been let down. I immediately thought of you.’

‘I see. Well I don’t know that I’m thrilled to be second choice, Nicky.’

‘Oh God, Henry, you aren’t taking offence, are you? I didn’t think you were like that.’

He sighed. He knew he was being petty.

‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘Not really.’

‘You’re my discovery,’ said Nicky. ‘I didn’t want to
push
for you too hard too soon. I … I have a bit of a problem with the producer.’

‘You refuse to go to bed with him.’

‘How on earth did you guess that? You are clever.’

‘I don’t think it took much brain power, frankly. Most men would want to go to bed with you.’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice sounded warm for a moment, then she became brisk and businesslike. ‘Anyway, if you come on as a favour, and do well, we’ll be halfway to establishing you as a regular.’

He didn’t reply. Now that the proposition was actually presented to him, he wasn’t sure if he wanted it. He looked round his little domain, and liked what he saw – the happiness of it, the even tenor of it.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m still here, Nicky.’

‘Wouldn’t you want to be a regular?’

Would I? Would I? How can I say that I would positively not want to rise to the challenge? Have I a choice?

‘Of course I would.’

He hadn’t a choice.

The second recording went well. Henry was relieved not to cross swords with Bradley Tompkins again, but disappointed, unreasonably disappointed, not to come across Sally Atkinson.

A third recording followed a fortnight later. Again, there was no Bradley. Again, there was no Sally. Again, he felt the relief and the aching disappointment.

But still no customers announced that they had come because they had been in the studio audience and had
loved
his performance. Henry didn’t think of himself as a vain man, but he did feel very disappointed. Was it possible that he hadn’t been quite the star he had felt himself to be?

If only the transmission of the series would begin. Then he would know.

On Wednesday, 11 October, 1995, Trevor McDonald, the ITN newsreader, was appointed to head a campaign to improve English in schools; rail fares between Exmouth and Paignton were increased by fifty-six per cent because the trains were too full; Duncan Ferguson, the Everton and Scotland footballer, was gaoled for three months for head-butting a player during a match; and Henry Pratt introduced pigeon Denzil on to his menu for the first time.

It was also Greg Pink’s first day doing front of house. Tall, gangly, gauche and clumsy, Greg was a cockney lad who had left school at fifteen with an impressive breadth of ignorance over a wide spectrum of life. All he knew about was food. He cooked like an angel.

Greg was dreading doing front of house, and Henry was dreading Greg doing it, but there was no alternative if Henry was going to be able to spend more time in the kitchen. Michelle did front of house in the evenings, but at the moment Greg was his only option at lunchtime.

The main courses were chicken Marengo, pigeon Denzil, plaice
Dieppoise
and cashew nut moussaka. Henry took Greg carefully through them, so that he would be able to describe them to the customers.

He explained that pigeon Denzil had been named as a tribute to an elderly journalist who had been a friend for forty years and was beginning to fail.

‘Got you,’ said Greg.

‘I suggest that you try to make some anodyne remark about the weather to put the customers at their ease,’ said Henry.

‘Anodyne!’ said Greg. ‘My mum used to put that on cuts, when I fell over.’

‘No, no,’ said Henry. ‘I’m just using the word to mean harmless, not causing offence, putting the customer at his ease. I’m probably not using it correctly. I just meant, say something safe and harmless.’

‘Got you,’ said Greg.

Trade was brisk but not overwhelming that morning. Greg served, although he didn’t know it and never would, several out-of-work actors; a writer; a deep-sea diver; a nozzle technician; two Belgian auctioneers; a struggling private detective with his lover; an international lacrosse player; a manufacturer of plastic boats with long swans’ necks; and four members of a Welsh male-voice choir who drank in unison.

At twenty past one he served an old man who looked really weary. Denzil plonked himself on a bar stool and sighed.

‘Morning, sir. It can’t make up its mind, can it? Have you made up
your
mind yet?’ said Greg.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It was like a link, sir, like what the disc jockeys do. I just meant, “What would you like?”, like. That’s probably what I should have said. I’m new. Well, I say “new”. New
to
front of ’ouse. Know what I mean? I mean I’m not new here, but I’m new to front of ’ouse, like.’

‘I’ll … er … I’ll have a glass of dry white wine, please,’ said Denzil.

‘Got you. Pinot grigio, chardonnay or sauvignon blanc?’

‘Er … pinot grigio, please.’