Pratt a Manger (17 page)

‘Greg, this isn’t going to work this morning,’ said Henry, as Greg poured Denzil’s wine. ‘You’ll have to chef today.’

‘Difficult changing halfway through. I need to have a feel for the ingredients. I need to psych myself into it like. Can’t just go in and do it stone cold like.’

‘I know, I know, but it can’t be helped. We have to. I just have to talk to these people.’

‘Got you,’ said Greg reluctantly.

As Henry was taking off his apron, he heard Denzil say, to Bradley, ‘I know you, don’t I?’

Good old Denzil. If he could charm Bradley … but then, unfortunately, Denzil continued, ‘Do you work in the men’s department at Peter Jones?’

‘You’ll have seen Bradley on
A Question of Salt
, Denzil,’ said Henry hastily.

‘Oh yes! Of course! I remember you now,’ said Denzil. ‘All that amusing stuff you did about Hieronymus Bouillabaise. Will you go back on the show, do you think?’

‘I’ve been on fourteen times over the years,’ said Bradley sniffily.

‘Oh,’ said Denzil. ‘Sorry. Lampo and I don’t watch much telly. We prefer Scrabble. Henry, is there any chance of a couple of minutes before you get busy?’

‘It’s pretty busy already,’ said Henry. ‘Let’s get your orders sorted out first, shall we? The dishes of the day are navarin of lamb, veal escalope marsala, hake Lampo, and the vegetarian dish is rata marseillaise.’

‘I’ve never heard of hake Lampo,’ said Bradley.

‘No. It’s a dish I created specially for a friend called Lampo Davey.’

‘ “Friend”!’ said Denzil. ‘Some friend.’

‘It’s on a bed of crushed garlicky broad beans with a sharp soy and sherry sauce,’ said Henry.

‘I cook that,’ said Denzil.

‘Yes, Lampo told me. I created it for him on his birthday, if you remember.’

‘I’ll never cook it again. The bastard!’ said Denzil.

‘Oh dear. So, gentlemen, what’s it to be?’

‘What’s the rata marseillaise?’ asked Denzil.

‘It’s a spicy, saffrony vegetable casserole with hard-boiled eggs and couscous.’

‘I don’t fancy the sound of it.’

Henry frowned at Denzil, trying to get him to be more positive in his attitude to the food in the presence of Bradley. It didn’t do any good.

‘Is the veal humanely reared?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll have the navarin of lamb.’

Henry turned to Bradley and smiled. This was what catering led you into – frowning at people you loved, smiling at people you hated.

‘I’ll have the hake Lampo,’ said Bradley.

Henry handed the orders to a waiter, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Bradley, it’s so good to see you here, but I think Denzil needs a word with me.’

‘Please, Henry, don’t even think about it,’ said Bradley with a thin-lipped smile. ‘I enjoy my own company. I have to. I get so much of it.’

Unbeknown to its owner, who hated this mawkish self-pity, Henry’s left arm took it upon itself to give Bradley Tompkins a brief, sympathetic touch. Oh God.

Henry poured himself a large glass of the tempranillo and sat with Denzil in the window, in the glow of the sunny Frith Street morning.

‘This’ll have to be brief, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘So what’s up?’

‘Lampo has retired.’

‘What?’

‘Finished with work two weeks ago.’

‘Good God! He might have told me.’

‘He might have told
me
.’

Henry gawped at him.

‘What??’

‘Exactly. He’s away, Henry. An international conference on forgery, in the Channel Isles. He’s always forbidden me to ring him at work, except in emergencies. Our boiler’s blown. We’ve no hot water. I think that’s an emergency, and I’m a bit beyond dealing with such things. I phoned. “Hello. This is Denzil Ackerman here, Mr Davey’s partner. I wonder if you could give me a contact number in the Channel Isles for him.” “I’m afraid not. I don’t know it, sir.” “Well you must have a number for the conference.” “What conference?” “The international conference on forgery.” “I think you must be confused, sir. There is no conference, and Mr Davey retired a fortnight ago.” I felt such a fool, Henry. Such a dreadful fool. The humiliation! “You must be confused, sir.” The smarminess of that voice will haunt me to my grave, or till next Thursday, whichever is the sooner.’

Henry knew that he had to get serving, yet he couldn’t snub Denzil.

It was at this moment that he saw the great moon face of Tosser Pilkington-Brick, set in a grim expression as the man strode to the bar in his financial services suit and ghastly Old Daltonian tie.

‘Oh God. Sod’s Law is alive and well and living in Frith Street,’ said Henry.

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Oh, Denzil, I’m sorry.’

‘You know where the bastard is, don’t you?’

‘No idea.’

‘In Siena, with that man of his. In Siena, Henry, seducing him with its beauty, doing what he failed to do with you. In Siena,
our
Siena, sullying the memory of our first meeting.’

‘How do you know he is?’

‘I got a postcard this morning. How’s that for tact? The only postcard in the history of tourism ever to arrive from Italy before the sender gets home. Apologising for having misled me. Says he loves me. Says he loves me, Henry.’

‘Well he does.’

‘He’s a funny way of showing it. If the postcard had come yesterday, I wouldn’t have made a fool of myself on the phone.’

‘Sod’s Law again. Look, Denzil, I usually try to pop home round about three. Hang around and come back with me and we’ll have a proper chat. I just have to go now.’

Henry hurried towards the bar.

A middle-aged woman approached him, matronly, on the stout side, beaming and unstoppable.

‘It’s Henry, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ (Do I know you? he thought. If not, it’s ‘Mr Pratt’, if you don’t mind. This was a woman made to provoke such a reaction. Her unstoppability was barely tolerable.)

‘I knew it was! I said to Anne-Marie, “That’s him!” Anne-Marie’s my friend.’

‘Excellent!’ (What’s excellent about it? Adjectives should be banned.)

‘Only we saw you on the telly on that programme and we like you.’

‘Thank you.’ (Oh God. I’ve just realised that I’m going to have to be polite to everyone from now on.)

‘We think you’re what I call “rib-tickling”.’

(Dear God.) ‘Thank you!’

‘Normally we go to a nice little place in Old Compton Street. Of course you get some odd people in that street nowadays, but not so much in the café, and they do a nice pasta.’

‘Excellent.’ (Madam, I do not have all day. Can you not see that I am caught on the horns of a triangle whose angles are explosions of human misery and need?)

‘But I said to Anne-Marie, “Anne-Marie,” I said … (Good God, woman. Isn’t it bad enough that she has two names without your having to say both names twice?) … “We can have a pasta any time. Any day of the week.” (Repetition. Get on with it.) “Let’s go and see what nice Mr Pratt can tempt us with.” (Nothing. Sod off. Is fame worth this?) “We might even catch a glimpse of him.” (You have. Now move it.)’

‘Lovely! Excuse me, but …’

‘You wouldn’t sign a book for me, would you? I mean, I’m sorry it’s not one of yours, but …’

‘I haven’t written any.’

‘What? You must have. You’re a chef. It’s actually by another chef. Robert Carrier. They don’t make them like him any more. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Of course not, madam!’ (Smile and get it over with, be
good-humoured,
crack a joke.) ‘He always cooked game very well.’ He added ‘and Henry Pratt’ beneath ‘Best of luck, Monica, from Robert Carrier’. ‘You must try his Carrier Pigeon some time.’ (She doesn’t get it. She thinks I’m rib-tickling, but she doesn’t get it. Thick as a tournedos Rossini.) ‘There! Now excuse me. Sorry.’

At last he reached Tosser.

‘Tosser! What a privilege.’

He hadn’t meant to say ‘Tosser’. Not today. It was all the fault of that bloody woman, irritating him.

‘Yes,’ said Tosser. ‘I noticed how you rushed to get to me.’

‘I tried! I couldn’t help it. I was waylaid.’

‘Are they in?’

‘I would think so. It’s their day off.’

‘I know. That’s why I’m here. One of my clients employs Darren, would you believe? Ben hasn’t spoken to me once, you know. Not once. I want to see him, Henry. I know I’ve let him down, but I am human and I do want to see him.’

‘I understand. Go up, if you want to.’

Ben and Darren had believed that they wouldn’t be able to lead their lives in the house off Clapham Common, but the flat on the top floor of the Café had been a different proposition. When Hilary thought of it, neither she nor Henry could believe that it hadn’t occurred to them before. Ben and Darren had jumped at the idea, delighted to live in the middle of Soho. They had insisted on paying rent. Ben wasn’t selling the
Big Issue
any more: he couldn’t cope with much more rain falling on his frail body. He was stacking supermarket shelves. Darren had a
job
as a courier. He charged round London on a Yamaha.

Tosser went upstairs, and Henry hurried over to Bradley.

‘Tosser and I go back even further than Denzil,’ he said. ‘I fagged for him at school. We were both married to the same woman … not at the same time, I hasten to add. His son lives upstairs.’

‘You don’t have to apologise to me,’ said Bradley. ‘I know that I come at the bottom of the pecking order. It’s natural. Believe me, I’m very happy just to sit here and soak up the atmosphere of your little place, while I’m waiting to be served. I know that freshly cooked food takes time. I’m not complaining about the delay.’

‘I’ll go and chase it up,’ said Henry.

Tosser banged on the door of the flat. There was no reply. He knocked more loudly.

‘Let me in. I know you’re in there,’ he shouted.

There was a shouted reply from quite a long way inside the flat.

‘No.’

‘I’m your father, damn it.’

‘Are you visiting the Café?’ shouted Ben. ‘What are you having for lunch? I’m having Darren.
Very
tasty. I might have seconds.’

‘You’re depraved. Let me in.’

‘You wouldn’t like it. I’m up his bum.’

‘Disgusting.’

‘Then piss off. You aren’t my father. Henry’s my father now.’

*

Bradley’s food was just about ready. Henry hurried over to him with a basket of bread.

‘It’s on its way, Bradley.’ He put the basket on the table. ‘Our bread today is bread flavoured.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I don’t go in for exotic breads. I believe that simple good bread is the perfect accompaniment. If the food is sufficiently flavoured and complex, the bread should be simple. Exotic breads can add confusions of taste, I believe.’

Greg hurried over with Bradley’s hake Lampo. Henry was only too aware of Denzil sitting there, waiting for his meal, looking old and broken, but then Tosser entered, very slowly, with a face as grim as a quarry. His sadness drew Henry to him.

‘He wouldn’t speak to me.’

‘I’m sorry. Have a drink.’

‘I can’t think of drink at a time like this.’

‘On the house.’

‘I suppose a glass of claret might go down all right. He said that you’re his father now.’

‘I’ve done nothing to make him think like that, Nigel.’ Henry hadn’t the heart to call him Tosser at that moment.

‘Oh, I believe you. I’ve no quarrel with you.’

‘Good. I’ve tried to get him to see you. There you are. Cheers.’

‘Cheers. He’s stacking supermarket shelves, Henry.’

‘He enjoys it. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? He says it’s not nearly as boring as you might imagine.’

‘No, but, I mean, the fruit of my loins, stacking supermarket shelves.’

Henry tried not to grimace. He didn’t like to think about Tosser’s loins.

‘I find it humiliating.’

‘Nigel, that’s silly.’

‘What does Diana think?’

‘She’s just pleased that he’s happy for the first time in his life. They’ve been over to stay twice.’

‘Gunter doesn’t mind?’

‘Not a bit.’

‘I find that hard to believe. He’s Swiss.’

‘I’m sorry, Nigel, but I’m going to have to go. We’re getting busy. Will you stay to eat?’

‘I couldn’t. I wouldn’t digest it, with the thought of them doing things up there. He was very rude, Henry. Really very rude.’

‘He’s very bitter. You can’t expect anything else.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Why did you come?’

‘It was stupid, I know. I … I do have a conscience, Henry. I am human. I … did love Benedict. Once upon a time. I wanted to see him. I wanted … some kind of relationship.’

‘I don’t think it’s possible. You’ve closed the only relationship that would be meaningful to him. I’m sorry, Nigel, but you can’t have it both ways.’ Their eyes met. ‘Yes, I know.
He
is, but don’t even think about that. Have another glass.’

‘Better not, Henry. I have to drive. Some of us have to work.’

‘What do you think I’m doing? Having lunch?

‘Actually, I’m retiring in three weeks. Just time to take out a pension at a very favourable rate.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘You do that small thing.’

Tosser walked out, wearily.

Trade remained brisk. Service remained slow. Greg had never quite caught up.

‘Will our food be long?’ asked matronly Monica loudly as Henry passed her table.

‘Hours,’ said Henry. ‘It’s chaos in there. You should have gone for that pasta.’

‘
Well!
’ said Monica. ‘And to think we came here because we liked you! Come on, Anne-Marie.’

Monica stormed out, unstoppably. Anne-Marie, who was hungry, was sucked out in her slipstream. Never ever do that again, Henry. You can’t afford to. Things get around. Reputations are destroyed. There are always some pleasures that one has to deny oneself.

As the two women left, in came Geoff Little, who formed half of the decidedly filthy double act of Little and Often, closely followed by Peter Stackpool, who, after much careful thought, said, ‘I can’t resist the pull of the ham salad today.’ What with one thing and another, Henry didn’t get a chance to speak to Bradley again until he came out of the Gents and went up to the bar to pay his bill.

‘What a show-off!’ he said.