by David Nobbs
‘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.’
She removed her hand.
‘You won’t get the answer you want.’
‘Oh.’
‘I think we’re doing very well. I think we really are pretty happy, on the whole, but our past history precludes the possibility of our being perfectly happy.’
It sounded like a sentence from one of her novels.
‘Oh. I see.’
Henry removed his hand from her thigh and for a few moments they lay side by side but not touching each other. A night bus roared past, muffled by the double glazing.
‘Why have we been whispering?’ he whispered. ‘We’re all alone in the house.’
‘I think it’s nice whispering,’ whispered Hilary. ‘It’s sexier.’
She put her hand on his penis again and began to stroke it with rather more determination. Don’t you dare not to respond, said her insistent touch.
*
He arrived at the Café the next morning well before nine o’clock. He planned the dishes of the day, chalked them on to the blackboard, left notes for the staff, and locked himself in his office. Operation Benedict was under way.
Henry’s office, at the back of the Café, was small; his office at the Cucumber Marketing Board had been small. There all similarity ended. That office had been neat, lifeless, dead. His desk had been almost bare. His desk here was cluttered with piles of paper – unpaid bills, paid bills, recipes, memos, invoices, outvoices, guide books. The walls were covered in more recipes, more memos, letters of praise from members of the public, government health warnings. There were further piles of paper on the floor, waiting to be filed. There were papers on the keyboard of his computer. He had to move several letters in order to get to the phone.
He had several phone calls to make. His mood was strange. H
e had done his fourth recording of A Question of Salt. His fictional chef had been a man who opened a chain of fish and chip shops because his headmaster’s handwriting was bad and he had thought that his school report said, ‘Should do batter’. People seemed to like the absurd silliness of his contributions. He seemed to appeal to an innate childishness in the British character. Already his fifth recording was scheduled for the following Tuesday. Two weeks after that, his first appearance on the show would at last be transmitted to an astonished nation. He was feeling increasingly tense about his new career. Operation Benedict had come at a very suitable time, when it would be a most welcome diversion. He was eager, even excited, but he was also reluctant to begin. In the cold light of morning, the project seemed absurd. However, they had checked with Somerset House, and there was no record of Benedict having died. Surely, under British justice, a man was held to be alive until he was proved dead?
Diana and Gunter were on holiday. Gunter had never even met Benedict. It wasn’t fair to involve them.
But Diana had said, ‘Henry, we must rededicate ourselves to the task of finding my son.’
He lifted the phone with sudden resolution. He must catch them before they went out.
‘Could you put me through to the Axelburgers’ room, please?’
He’d had a crush on Diana as a schoolboy. He’d married her in early middle age. He found it very hard to think of her as Frau Axelburger.
‘Hello.’
Gunter’s guttural voice was a harsh intrusion on memories of sexuality.
‘Gunter, it’s Henry. I haven’t woken you up, I hope. I wanted to catch you before you went on your travels.’
‘No. You haven’t woken me, Henry. I’m an early riser. I’ll put you on to Diana.’
Diana had never been an early riser. Was she now? And was Gunter an early riser in more senses than one?
Why did he think these things?
‘Diana, I’ve been thinking about Benedict all night.’
‘All night?’
He recalled the moments that had followed Hilary’s insistent stroking. He recalled the intensity with which he had enjoyed her still lovely body.
‘Well, not perhaps quite all night,’ he admitted.
‘I was thinking of him too, Henry.’
All night. Or had she been enjoying Gunter’s still lovely body? Was his body still lovely? Had it ever been? Why did he think such things? Did other people think such things? Did the Duchess of York and Harold Pinter and Gary Lineker think such things? Why did such images come to his mind unbidden?
Because they had once been close and you can’t switch memories off. Even as they spoke, he tried to. He looked out at the blackened brick buildings that surrounded the sad little yard behind the Café. Carrier bags eddied in the erratic breezes. There were dirty black wheelie-bins with names on the lids – Café Henry, Club Exotica, Ristorante Perugia. There was the bird shit of decades on the ledges. It was a dark, disgusting place which the sun had never reached. It was the arsehole of a city.
‘You said yesterday you wanted to find him. You sounded very determined. Do you still feel like that?’
‘Oh yes, Henry.’
‘We’ve checked with Somerset House. There’s no record of his death.’
‘That’s good. Henry, this may sound silly, but I’m sure he hasn’t died. A mother knows these things.’
‘Well, I feel that too, though not quite as directly, I suppose. Diana, this is a big ask. You’re on holiday; Gunter has never even met Benedict; but I was thinking, maybe this evening we could all meet up and hunt for him. Hilary’s on for it.’
‘I’ve discussed it with Gunter,’ said Diana. ‘He’s on for it too. He says that in committing himself to me he has committed himself to all my past life, not to someone who only existed from the day we met.’
There was pride in her voice, and her pride moved him. It also made him feel more than slightly uneasy. Swiss dentists were meant to be mocked, in the natural order of things. It wasn’t fair that Gunter should prove to be far too decent a human being to mock. It was an outrage against the concept that life is a comedy.
‘We can’t do tonight, though,’ said Diana. ‘We have an engagement that can’t be broken. Tomorrow?’
‘Six o’clock tomorrow, at the Café?’
‘Excellent.’
There was no problem over phoning Camilla. She had been very fond of her brother. She would be up for whatever Henry suggested.
He realised, when he heard the answerphone, how much he had looked forward to talking to Camilla or even to Guiseppe. It wasn’t fair of them not to be in. It was inconsiderate. However, he kept his irritation out of his message.
He got Jack on his mobile. Jack disliked coming to London, but Henry was sure he would want to take part.
However, Jack said, ‘Oh dear. I think you may have to include me out, Dad.’
‘Too busy?’
‘No. Well, yes, but I don’t care about that. No, it’s Flick. She’s got a girls’ night out tomorrow and she’s really looking forward to it and we’ve had a cock-up with our baby-sitter.’
Phoning Kate was slightly more difficult. The theatre never seemed to be able to find her, her mobile never seemed to be switched on, but the greatest problem was that she had run away with Benedict when she was sixteen and the incident hadn’t been mentioned by anyone for more than twenty years. He didn’t know whether there would come a time, during the search, when they would have to mention it, or whether, if they didn’t, the weight of the silence would just grow and grow.
Another answermachine message. Henry watched a puffed-up pigeon attempting unsuccessfully to interest a slim, sleek pigeoness on the ledge opposite. Didn’t it realise that October wasn’t exactly the height of the breeding season?
Henry felt as frustrated as the pigeon. How could Operation Benedict get off the ground if everybody was out?
It also meant that he’d got round to Benedict’s father more quickly than he wanted. He dreaded phoning the man.
He looked up Nigel Pilkington-Brick’s work number on his Filofax, couldn’t find it, then remembered that he’d filed it under T for Tosser.
‘Nigel. Henry here.’
‘Henry?’
‘Henry Pratt.’
‘Ah. Henry. Sorry. It was with you calling me Nigel. You usually … don’t.
‘Sorry.’
‘No, no. Water under the bridge, Henry. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘Well, this is going to come as a great surprise, Nigel, but …’
‘Congratulations.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve seen the light.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a bit late in the day, but it’s never too late. I think we should be able to put together quite a nice little package for you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, pensions, of course. Aren’t you?’
‘No, Toss— Nigel. I’m talking about Benedict.’
‘Benedict?’
For a moment Nigel didn’t seem to remember who Benedict was.
‘Your son,’ prompted Henry drily.
‘Ah. That Benedict.’ He managed to sound as though his was a life over-run by Benedicts. ‘Sorry. It’s been so long and I am rather … in the middle of things. Is there … is there any news?’
‘Oh, no. Nothing like that.’
‘Ah.’
Am I being less than fair, thought Henry, in thinking that his ‘Ah’ sounded suspiciously like relief?
‘Can’t it wait, in that case?’ said Benedict’s father. ‘I’m expecting a client in a few minutes. I need time to prepare.’
‘It needn’t take long,’ said Henry.
‘Well now that you’re on, I suppose we may as well get it out of the way,’ said Nigel gracelessly. ‘What about Benedict?’
The female pigeon flew off. The male pigeon looked comically deflated.
‘I think we should make one last great atte
mpt to find out what happened to him.’
‘It’s very good of you to care, Henry.’
‘Well of course I care.’
‘But he hated you. He resented you. He tried to kill you, damn it.’
‘I don’t resent him for that.’
Henry heard a stifled cry of exasperated incomprehension at the other end of the line.
‘He was very, very ill,’ Henry continued.
‘Exactly. So he’s probably dead.’
‘Very possibly – but he isn’t dead officially, according to Somerset House, and I’d like to find out.’
‘And how do you propose to go about that?’
‘Well, Diana’s in town, with Gunter. We thought we might … I don’t know … traipse the cardboard villages of the homeless, visit hostels … I know. Don’t say it. It sounds a bit forlorn, but … well … I don’t think I personally would feel very happy about things unless we’d done our best.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought Gunter’d be on for that. He’s Swiss.’
‘So?’
‘They’re a nation of gourmets, Henry. He’ll want a good dinner every evening.’
‘Have you ever been to Switzerland?’
‘Good heavens, no. All those cuckoo clocks. They’d drive me up the wall.’
‘Worst place to be if you don’t like cuckoo clocks.’
‘What?’
‘Up the wall. You’d be so close to them.’
‘Don’t waste my time, Henry.’
‘Anyway, we’ve established that your deep knowledge of Switzerland is untainted by any actual experience. Gunter thinks it’s a great idea. He seems to regard Diana’s emotional welfare as more important than a good dinner. It seems as though at last she’s found herself a good man.’
‘That’s a bit insulting to me.’
‘And to me. I include myself. Be honest, Nigel. We both failed her.’
Nigel didn’t reply to that. The male pigeon was peering through the grimy upstairs windows of the Club Exotica. What did he hope to see? Boxes of g-strings? Topless dancers having a topless tea break?
‘Diana and Gunter are joining Hilary and me tomorrow night to hunt for him,’ said Henry. ‘Jack may be able to come, and I’ve left messages for Camilla and Kate.’