Pratt a Manger (22 page)

It might all have seemed sentimental and trite, had it not been said by Ben after his particular experiences, and in a tone that was neither trite nor sentimental, and had he not talked openly, with extraordinary frankness and extraordinarily good taste, about the pleasures of homosexual love.

He made an impassioned plea to the young. You only have one body. It’s very complex and delicate, and it’s the most important possession you’ll ever have. Don’t abuse it.

‘We’re getting all emotional,’ said Henry at one point. ‘There won’t be a dry sherry in the house.’

Darren refused to take part, for fear that he’d be praised, but Ben became, for one evening, a star. Then he returned to what he really enjoyed – stacking supermarket shelves.

Hilary was used to occasional fan letters – very occasional, it has to be said – but Henry had been very excited when they had begun to trickle in for him. Gradually, the trickle had become a healthy tinkling stream.

Now, however, with the success of
Hooray, It’s Henry
, the stream became a flood. Perhaps this was inevitable, because it was the personal nature of the programme that gave it its edge. The edition with Diana and Hilary produced sack-loads, and the one with Ben brought in even more. Ben revelled in his moment of fame, but was pleased that it was brief.

Henry, however, faced the daunting prospect of one of Europe’s greatest envelope mountains. He employed a part-time secretary, Mrs Daventry, mother of three and glad of an occasional escape. She had the perfect personality for the job, since she was as straight as a Roman road and not much sexier, and as a secretary she was brilliant. She sorted the letters into categories and created standard replies in forms loose enough to permit a little individuality here and there.

Some of the letters were easily dealt with. There were requests for signed photographs and for autographs. There was straightforward praise. Some of the writers were even thoughtful enough to say that they didn’t expect a reply.

One of Mrs Daventry’s categories was ‘surname
enquiries’.
It was surprising how many Pratts, and how many people who knew Pratts, hoped to claim kinship with Henry for themselves or for the Pratts whom they knew.

‘My name is Gwenda Pratt. I am an orphan and cannot trace my parents, though I believe they lived “up North”. I am of similar age to you, and wonder if we might be related. I am known throughout Hitchin for my “drop scones”, so, who knows, maybe cooking is “in the blood”.’

‘Do you know if you are related to Thaddeus Pratt, the Victorian railway missionary?’

‘I once lodged with a man called Gordon Pratt. He had alopecia and halitosis, and, sadly, was run over by a steamroller in Uttoxeter. If he had lived, he would be ninety-three. I wondered if he was an uncle of yours.’

‘Please help an old codger. I have bet my mate Tim that you are related to Larry Pratt, serving a life sentence in the Scrubs for murder. You have very similar features.’

Never once did Henry find himself related to anyone about whom there was an enquiry. Not that he would have admitted it if he had. Until …

Dear Mr Pratt, I am 88 years old, but in the thirties I worked in the Sheffield cutlers, Binks and Madeley (long gone). Among my collugues was a man called Ezra Pratt. I remember him telling me that on the night his son was born he strangled his parrot because it imitated his wife’s cries over her labur pains. Mind you, he wus a bit of an odd fish. He had a bright green snap tin and allus ate brawn sandwiches. My wife tells
me
I’m stupid, no son of Ezra Pratt would ever been famous, but I can’t help wundering. Can you enliten me?

Henry’s eyes filled with tears, which he tried to hide from Mrs Daventry.

‘You’re quite right,’ he dictated. ‘That was my father. A child accepts what he sees as normal, he knows nothing else, but yes, I suppose he was an odd fish. I loved him, though, and I would be very grateful for any anecdotes that might bring him back to life for me.’

He did not receive a reply.

Many of the letters were from women who fancied him. Mrs Daventry always pursed her lips as she handed these over. They ranged from proposals of marriage to naughty suggestions.

‘I am a widow and I have double glazing throughout. I would make you very comfortable.’

‘Not a day passes but which I dream of you on. Not a meal is cooked but which I cook for you. Please, please, make me the happiest woman in Droitwich.’

‘I live very near Junction 42 of the M1, so if you ever fancy a quick blow job on your journeys round Britain, please do not hesitate to call.’

He sent a standard reply to these letters, informing the writers how happily married he was, but just occasionally he couldn’t resist a flourish. To the M1 lady, he replied, ‘Sadly, I will not be able to take advantage of your most generous offer, as I always use the A1.’ Mrs Daventry looked disapproving at this, but he said, ‘If we can’t have a bit of fun, we may as well be dead.’

He laughed at these letters, and he was flattered by them, but he was also saddened – very saddened. It seemed that there were vast wells of loneliness and frustration out there. Sickness, too. Some of the letters he received were so sick and depraved that they had to be unceremoniously binned.

There were even one or two letters from men who fancied Henry. One of them wrote, ‘It is clear from your every appearance that you are gay and fighting it. Wake up. Come out of the closet. It’s dark in there.’

And of course there were begging letters. He sent a standard reply to these, stating that he sympathised greatly with their cause, but had his own charitable arrangements in place.

In fact he contributed generously to two causes – help for the homeless, because of his experiences with Ben, and research into Alzheimer’s, because of his experiences with his Auntie Doris, who had helped to bring him up after the death of his parents, and over whom the mists had gathered remorselessly.

The success of
Hooray, It’s Henry
soon caught the eye of Nigel Clinton.

‘Nigel Clinton here, Henry. Hilary’s editor.’

‘I do remember.’

‘I really love your new programme.’

‘Thank you.’

‘How about a book?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Of course. I rang Hilary first She thinks it’s a great idea.’

‘She would, Nigel. She’s very generous.’

‘Yes. I wouldn’t be dealing with it, we don’t do cookery books, but another imprint here at Consolidation House does. I thought I’d check how the land lay first, but if you are receptive, I could set up a meeting with a lovely lady called Carmel Sloane.’

‘Terrific.’

‘You’ll adore Carmel.’

Henry managed not to say ‘terrific’ a second time. It might well not be terrific. He didn’t like being told that he’d adore somebody. It sounded rather like an order. It could be the kiss of death.

Carmel was nervous, edgy, and a great deal older than she claimed. She took him to the Ivy. She had a pale face which had been lifted at least once and not very well. Her smile died at the edges. She had long, straight hair, dyed jet black. She was slim and flat-chested, and she moved her food around on her plate more than she actually ate it, to an extent that got on Henry’s nerves, so that he longed to say, ‘For God’s sake, woman, either eat it or leave it.’ She wasn’t lovely, and he knew that he wouldn’t adore her, but she was far too vulnerable to dislike, and he felt that they would get on well together.

‘I want this book to be different,’ she said.

‘Right.’

‘I want it to be more than the series.’

‘Right.’

‘I take my starting point from your … Hello, Melvyn … from your own phrase, well, no, I think it was Clive Porfiry’s – “an autobiography in food”.’

‘It was my phrase, actually.’

‘Even better. A recipe book primarily, of course … Morning, Nick … and one with fabulous photos, I think – I have a wonderful photographer lined up. Mohammed is absolutely brilliant – but, threading its way through the recipes … Morning, Harold … implicit even in the photos, is the story of a life. Your life,’ she added unnecessarily. ‘A bit of a revolution in cookery books, which is … Morning, Sir Tom … why I felt we needed to be discreet. I initially thought of the Groucho, but it’s crawling with media.’

‘Who is this Mohammed?’ asked Henry over his tartlet.

‘Mohammed El Bashir, simply the best food photographer in the universe.’

‘A Muslim? Very little of my food has any Oriental influences.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, Henry,’ said Carmel, toying with her salad, moving bits of avocado round her plate like a listless sheepdog rounding up its flock. ‘Mohammed is British. Mohammed is a one-man triumph for integration. He’s multi-culturalism in human form. He’s ace. He’s wicked. He’s awesome. He’s the incarnation of globalisation.’

‘You like him, do you?’

‘Like him? Like him, Henry? I should have thought I’d made that pretty obvious. If I told you that his “Yorkshire Pudding at Sunset” won first prize in an England in Spring competition in Hull, perhaps you’ll begin to realise what we’re talking about.’

‘Do you mind if I pour myself another glass?’ asked Henry.

‘No, no. Of course. So sorry. I don’t drink much, so I
forget.
No. Help yourself. Order more. Please.’ She lowered her voice to bring him the momentous news, which she spoke with awe, as if the Ivy was a cathedral, which in a way it was. ‘I’ve been allowed to spend as much on you as on Minette Walters.’

‘I’m impressed. Sunset? A Yorkshire pudding at sunset?’

‘Yes. It has a slight crimson tinge, faintly visible in the rich yellows and browns of the pudding, just hinting at what’s going on outside in the wider world. That’s what you get from Mohammed. The food
and
the wider world.’ Carmel Sloane was getting very excited, so excited that for several minutes she didn’t even look round the restaurant to see if there was anybody else she knew. ‘And that’s what your series is giving us. Cookery within the wider world. In your cooking, Henry, I see a deep love of animals and of people, I see a concern for the environment, I see sympathy for the Third World, I see passion about poverty, I see concern over obesity.’

‘Not many people can find all that in a fish terrine.’

‘Exactly! But you can, and Mohammed can, and that’s why it’s all so exciting.’

Everything in Henry’s life, and in his temperament, led him towards mockery of Carmel Sloane, and many people would later laugh at his disloyal impressions of her, but that day, over that lunch, he actually began to believe that there was something in what she said, that his book would be a cookery book, but also more than a cookery book.

‘I’ve really enjoyed this. Thank you,’ he said, and he meant it.

‘Oh, so have I,’ said Carmel. ‘It’s been absolutely … Goodbye, Melvyn … exhilarating. Sometimes my spirits droop at the start of a project. This time they’ve soared. I’m in a room … Goodbye, Nick … with lots of talented people, but I can honestly say that I would rather work with you than with … Goodbye, Harold … any of them. We’ve got on so well that I haven’t really been aware that there’s been anybody else in the … Goodbye, Sir Tom … room. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?’

This was too much for Henry to take.

‘Goodbye, Hans,’ he said to a very surprised tourist.

‘Who’s he?’ asked Carmel Sloane.

‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Henry. I just felt like saying “goodbye” to somebody.’

11 A Difficult Relationship

A HUGE CHUNK
of the Larsen B ice shelf in Antarctica broke off; Pol Pot, leader of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, held responsible for the murder of a million civilians, died; so did Frank Sinatra; Amnesty International released its annual report detailing human rights abuses in a hundred and forty-one countries; President Clinton was subpoenaed to testify before a Federal Grand Jury regarding his relationship with Monica Lewinsky; and Henry’s food was photographed with enormous thoroughness by Mohammed El Bashir.

Henry knew from the beginning that it was going to be a long process. He chose simple dishes for the first photographic session, beginning with a starter which he had named Prawn Pippins. The recipe consisted of grating an apple, submerging it in lemon juice to retain its colour, shallow frying very fresh, top quality prawns in butter with salt and pepper, letting them cool, removing the shells and leaving the tails for decoration, then draining the grated apple, placing it on the plate as a bed, putting the prawns on the bed of apple in a decorative manner, spooning over the prawn and apple a vinaigrette consisting of one tablespoon of white wine vinegar, one tablespoon of olive oil and one tablespoon of the apple juice produced from the grating process, then sprinkling the dish with chopped dill. The result was pretty, tasty, refreshing and stimulating to
the
appetite. It was a little gem of a dish, but nevertheless it was in essence a simple starter. Mohammed took three and a quarter hours to film it.

‘How come it took so long?’ asked Henry, when it was finished at last.

‘I just wasn’t happy with it. It didn’t sit up and say “apple” to me. The problem was to get it as appley as it was prawny.’

‘And it’s saying “apple” now?’

‘Loud and clear.’

A few days later, Mohammed upset Henry considerably. He asked him to add some cayenne pepper to his chicken paprika.

‘I don’t use cayenne,’ protested Henry. ‘Any other pepper except hot paprika distracts from the purity of the flavour I’m trying to achieve. Often, in cookery, more means less.’

‘This isn’t cookery. This is photography. Paprika just isn’t paprika-coloured enough. It’s too dull, too matt. Photography needs sharpness.’

‘But it won’t be authentic.’

‘I don’t want to boast, Henry, boasting’s not my line, but my “goulash sur l’herbe à côté de Lac Balaton” won second prize in Budapest. In Budapest, Henry, world capital of goulash. I used cayenne. Nobody complained.’

‘I’m just disappointed that you cheated,’ said Henry. ‘I want my book to be truthful.’

‘My dear man! You’re living in the past. As we approach the digital age there’s no point in photographs being truthful. Anything can be faked. Nobody will be able to trust a photograph ever again.’