Pratt a Manger (8 page)

‘No problem! Coming up! Will you be lunching with us today, sir?’

‘Er … possibly.’

‘Salads in the cold counter, sir. Dishes of the day on the blackboard.’

‘Tremendous.’

Denzil wished that he hadn’t said ‘tremendous’. There was nothing tremendous about the dishes of the day being on the blackboard. He deplored what he called ‘the decadent adjectival gigantism of our times’.

All that was forgotten when he saw the words ‘pigeon Denzil’.

‘Pigeon Denzil?’

‘It’s pigeon breast, sir, served pink, with black olives and Madeira. It’s a dish what he invented for some old geezer what he’s sorry for.’

‘Is it indeed?’

‘We serve it with red cabbage spiked with juniper berries.’

‘Do you indeed?’

‘You’d love it, sir.’

‘Would I indeed? I’d better have it, then, hadn’t I?’

‘Fantastic.’

Denzil flinched.

‘Er …’ he began, ‘… is our eponymous hero in today?’

‘I’m not with you, sir.’

‘Henry. The Henry of the Café Henry.’

‘Ah. Got you. He’s cooking today, sir.’

‘Well, will you tell him that an old friend of his is in?’

‘No problem, sir.’

‘Tell him it’s an old geezer what he’s sorry for.’

‘Got you, sir. No prob— Oh no! You ain’t … Denzil?’

‘I am indeed.’

‘When I said an old geezer I meant …’

‘A word of advice from an old timer, young man. When you’re in the shit, shut up. Don’t dig a deeper hole, which will only fill up with more shit, since that is the nature of holes.’

‘Got you. Chips or mash, sir?’

‘Which do you recommend?’

‘Oh, mash. It soaks up the juice somethink lovely.’

‘Right. Pigeon me, then, with red cabbage and mash.’

‘ “Pigeon me”?’

‘No, not pigeon you. Pigeon me. Pigeon Denzil, which is me. I was … trying to lighten the moment with a touch of humour, to ease your evident embarrassment.’

‘Oh! With you, sir. Got you. Thank you, sir. Brill.’

‘Oh, and … could you tell Henry that I’d … that if at all possible … any time, if he’s busy, I’m not going anywhere … I’d appreciate a little word … in confidence … about a subject that’s … rather intimate.’

‘Got you, sir. No problem. Terrific. Tremendous.’

Denzil flinched twice.

It was half past two before Henry had a chance to sit in a corner with Denzil, who was on his fifth glass of pinot grigio.

Denzil had a strange, rather distant smile on his face.

‘Why have you got that strange, rather distant smile on your face?’ asked Henry.

‘Because I don’t feel remotely in the mood for laughing today, but you can’t not,’ said Denzil. ‘Your barman!’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Somebody was saying something about some problem with an ECG and he burst into the conversation and said, “We should never have joined. We’re an island.” ’

‘Oh God. He has terrible trouble with acronyms. I just wish I didn’t have to expose him to the public.’

‘Yes. So do I. He said pigeon Denzil was named after some old geezer you were sorry for.’

‘Oh dear. Sorry. I’ll have a word.’

‘No. Don’t. Leave it. I don’t want to sound like an embittered old man.’

He raised his glass, rather shakily.

‘I’m getting pissed,’ he said. ‘Lampo hates me getting pissed. He’s a control freak. He hates the word “pissed” too.
So
inelegant. I think that secretly he thinks my biscuit tins are slightly common, though he’d never dare say so.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘He’s having an affair.’

‘What???’

‘There’s no need to try to sound so surprised. I can tell that you know. I can tell that you’ve known what I’ve come about. You walked towards me with a dread that can only have been born of knowledge.’

‘Well I knew you had a problem. You told Greg. And I didn’t like the thought of your having a problem. So I dreaded it, yes.’

Henry couldn’t bring himself to say that Lampo had confessed. It seemed wiser to wait.

‘I imagined that it was your knowledge of Lampo’s affair that caused you to be sorry for me. So, if you really didn’t know, why
are
you sorry for me?’

‘I don’t think those were my exact words to Greg, Denzil. I suppose … I probably said something like … you were a bit old.’

‘And failing?’

‘No.’

‘I am, though.’

‘Denzil!’

‘Yes. And do you know what really bugs me?’

‘No.’

‘My biscuit tins. What on earth was the point of spending so much time collecting biscuit tins unless I was immortal? When I’m gone he’ll auction the lot at bloody Sotheby’s.’

‘He’s too respectful to do that.’

‘Then he’ll have to look at the bloody things for ever, and he hates them. What a legacy.’

‘Not for ever. He’ll die too.’

Denzil brightened for a moment.

‘There is that.’

‘He might die before you.’

‘Only if I poison him.’

‘Do you think he knows that you know?’

‘No. He’d hate to know that I’ve said it, but he’s not sensitive.’

‘Have you come here to ask for my advice?’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘Another wine?’

‘I’ve had too much already, and it’ll only make me morbid and him angry. Yes, please, but could I have red? I go acid with too much white.’

Henry ordered a bottle of the house claret.

‘So what should I do?’ asked Denzil.

‘I think you should confront him. Have it out.’

‘Oh no. I couldn’t do that.’

‘Then you should leave him.’

‘Hardly practical. It’s my house.’

‘Well, in that case, throw him out.’

‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t live without him.’

‘Well, what do
you
think you should do?’

‘I don’t think I should do anything. I think we should carry on as before. I think I should turn a blind eye.’

‘Well, why don’t you do that, then?’

‘Thank you. Thank you, Henry. That’s good advice. I knew I could count on you.’

They sat in their corner for most of the afternoon. Late drinkers mingled with cake eaters, and Denzil talked affectionately about the man who was cheating on him.

‘He’s only protecting himself. Only cushioning the blow in advance. He still loves me, don’t you think?’

‘I’m sure he still loves you.’

‘That’s what I think. I think he loves me very much. Which is why he just can’t face the prospect of my death.’

‘He can’t handle it.’

‘Exactly. You’ve got to be a bit sorry for him really.’

‘He’s a pathetic figure. An emotional cripple.’

‘Right. Absolutely right.’

*

Next day the choices of main course were beef stifado, lamb with apricots, lemon sole in chablis sauce and eggs Benedict.

‘Excuse me, guv,’ said Greg, ‘but eggs Benedict, it ain’t that substantial, not for a main course. I mean it’s quite rich, but not substantial.’

‘Then we’ll have to make it substantial.’

‘Couldn’t it be a starter?’

‘It might not work if it was a starter.’

‘I’m not with you.’

They were sitting on stools at the bar counter. It was five past ten and the first customers had not arrived yet.

On the counter was the blackboard, on which Henry had just written ‘Eggs Benedict’.

‘Do you know what ESP is, Greg?’

‘Yeah. I do. It’s the starting prices for the Tote.’

‘It’s extrasensory perception, Greg.’

‘You mean like the supernatural, like?’

‘Well, sort of, yes. You remember we had hake Lampo on the menu.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Lampo came in.’

‘Christ, he did, yeah.’

‘And yesterday we had pigeon Denzil on.’

‘And your other mate turned up! Hey! Uncanny. Wow. Not sure I like it.’

‘Well, it
is
odd. So I thought, if I put eggs Benedict on, maybe he’ll turn up.’

‘Who’s this Benedict when he’s at home?’

‘Ah, well, that’s the whole point about him. He isn’t at home. He’s my step-son, by my second wife, Diana, and
her
first husband, a man called Tosser Pilkington-Brick.’

‘ “Tosser”?’

‘Very much so.’

‘Say no more.’

But Henry did say more. He told Greg the whole story of Benedict.

‘He may be dead. He may be alive but out of his skull. He may not be. I can’t dismiss the thought that, incredible though it seems, maybe some force beyond our comprehension will tell Benedict to come here today. What do you say?’

Henry wished that he hadn’t said, ‘What do you say?’ He knew what Greg would say, and he did.

‘Got you,’ said Greg.

It was Henry’s turn to do front of house. A lot of people came into the Café that day, the majority of them people he would never set eyes on again, including a small party of Swedish therapists over for a conference; an American lawyer and his wife; two cardiologists; a designer of zoos; five shop assistants; a French poet; three publicans; a confectioner from Trondheim; a condom quality controller; a Scottish make-up artist and a Welsh dresser from a production team in nearby Wardour Street; a man called Geoff Little, who formed half of a thoroughly filthy double act called Little and Often; and a German composer with his English wife.

The German composer introduced himself. ‘My name is Sigmund Halla and this is my wife Val.’ Henry wondered if he’d married her for love or for her name.

The condom quality controller, Geoff Little and Mr and Mrs Halla all ordered the eggs Benedict, but of Benedict himself there was no sign.

He was dead. Henry knew it.

‘Can I make a point, guv?’ asked Greg next morning.

‘Sure. Of course.’

‘The eggs Benedict.’

‘What about them?’

‘Hake Lampo. You created it for your friend. Pigeon Denzil. You created it for your other friend.’

‘Your point, exactly?’

‘Well, you created them like what you thought they might like, like, know what I mean?’ ‘Yes, I … yes.’

‘Eggs Benedict. There wasn’t like much thought in it. It was just eggs Benedict. The recipe. Nice, but … bog standard. Do you see where I’m coming from?’

Henry frowned. He hated that phrase, but it didn’t matter – and he did see where Greg was coming from.

‘You need to create a dish that shows your, I don’t know, your like love and feeling for Benedict, like you think it’s the kind of thing he might like, like.’

‘Greg, you’re a genius.’

‘Thanks, guv.’

‘What’s duck Benedict?’

‘It’s a roulade of duck stuffed with lobster in champagne and caviar sauce, served with fried
foie gras
.’

‘Thank you. I’ll have the wild mushroom risotto, please.’

It was the following Monday morning, and that was typical of the reaction of customers to the first appearance of duck Benedict on the menu. Henry wasn’t surprised. It was altogether too much. It was on the menu solely to attract Benedict through forces that we cannot understand.

Trade was brisk again. The Café Henry was visited by two Latvian health and safety officers; a pop record producer; three insurance agents; an obituary compiler; two Cambodian monks; a puppet-maker from Stuttgart; two schizophrenic jewellers, who ordered four glasses of dry white wine; a lesbian schoolmistress and her Madagascan lover; a one-legged librarian; and a Swiss dentist and his wife, but not by Benedict.

Henry’s face shone with delighted surprise at the arrival of the Swiss dentist and his wife. He kissed Diana and pumped Gunter’s hand.

‘We wanted to surprise you,’ said Diana.

Henry gave them glasses of wine on the house. They told him that they were in London for a week’s holiday. He explained that there were salads in the cold counter and dishes of the day on the blackboard. He felt a frisson of excitement as he waited for Diana’s comment.

Suddenly she went very pale.

‘Duck Benedict?’

He told them the story. Diana burst into tears and hugged him, and he burst into tears too. Gunter smiled his bewildered dentist’s smile, and knew that he could never provide for Diana what Henry had provided, but he also knew that Henry couldn’t provide it either now, and that Diana no longer wanted it, so they had a happy lunch –
though
neither of them could face the duck Benedict. As trade slackened off after two o’clock Henry managed to snatch ten minutes with them.

‘There must be a
bit
of ESP working,’ said Diana. ‘It may not have brought Benedict …’

‘So far,’ said Gunter.

‘So far. But it’s brought me. Henry, we must rededicate ourselves to the task of finding my son.’

‘If he isn’t dead,’ said Henry.

‘Even if he is,’ said Diana.

5 Big Issues

IN THE MIDDLE
of the night, in the warm womb of their double bed, in the safety of their love, Henry listened carefully to Hilary’s breathing and decided that, like him, she was finding it difficult to sleep.

‘Are you awake?’ he whispered.

‘Yes.’

‘I was thinking about Benedict. Wondering if he has a bed to sleep in.’

‘I know,’ she whispered.

‘I’m going to try to find him. Really try. I’ve been telling myself that I’m not his real father, I’m no longer married to his mother, he isn’t my responsibility. It doesn’t work.’

‘I know.’

Hilary reached over and squeezed his arm, then ran her hand up the inside of his legs.

‘I can’t remember if you’ve even met him,’ he whispered.

‘Only once. At the Hargreaveses’ one evening. He was only a baby and so were you that night. You were so rude.’

‘Don’t.’

She slipped her hand on to his penis and stroked it, but in a friendly way rather than sexily. She didn’t expect any response, and she didn’t get any.

‘This needn’t concern you,’ whispered Henry. ‘It isn’t your battle.’

‘Of course it concerns me,’ she whispered. ‘If it’s your battle, it’s mine.’

He put his hand on the top of her thigh and stroked her soft sweet skin absent-mindedly.

‘We’re very happy, aren’t we?’ he whispered.

‘Yes,’ she breathed.

‘Are we as happy as we were first time round?’

‘I don’t think that’s a sensible question to ask,’ she whispered.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to ask it anyway.’