Pratt a Manger

by David Nobbs

  It was one of the most prolonged happy times in his life. Let’s forget the world’s troubles for a few moments and enjoy it with him.

  Every Sunday, Henry prepared dishes, cooked dishes, let others cook dishes, discussed the notices which covered the walls of the Café, added new notices and generally had fun with food. Hilary appeared in every show, acting as hostess to their friends, and sometimes helping with the cooking. Her publishers were thrilled. Her sales increased dramatically.

  Very few of the guests in the first series were well known. The exceptions were Denise Healey, who after all had been responsible for getting Henry into the business in the first place, Simon Hampsthwaite, who was still his team captain on A Question of Salt, and Sally Atkinson. It was a joy to spend a day with Sally under these circumstances, in Hilary’s presence, so that there was no possibility of any flirtation. It established, Henry thought, that they were not potential lovers, but real good friends, and good friendship, he told himself, was far more valuable than love affairs.

  Why did he not quite believe himself?

  Henry’s favourite editions of the programme were the ones that involved members of his family. A favourite with viewers was the one he did with Gunter Axelburger about Swiss food. Gunter agreed to appear on one condition – that there were no cheesy jokes about Swiss food being full of holes. The programme gave Henry an idea for a fictional chef for A Question of Salt – the sexy Swiss actress-cum-chef Jane Fondue – but it also made some serious points about there being much, much more to Swiss food than fondue, and, above all, it entranced the viewers, who were heartened and inspired by seeing his wife and his ex-wife getting on so well with each other and with him.

  Kate featured in an edition on vegetarian food. She brought along members of the staff of the Umbrella Theatre and the cast of her new play, Simpkins of the Argus, adapted by her from her mother’s novel. Mother and daughter charmed the audience with their shared nervousness over the project, a nervousness born out of great love. Vegetarians responded gratefully in their hundreds to Henry’s defence of those who became vegetarians out of their concern for animals and his contempt for those who thought them merely faddy. They responded also to his condemnation of the lack of imagination shown by most restaurateurs in creating vegetarian options. ‘If I sat in my office for a day to create vegetarian dishes I’d have several hundred by half past five,’ he said.

  Luckily nobody ever challenged him to do it.

  Another edition featured the staff of the Café Henry. Michelle spoke of the qualities needed to be Manageress of such a café. They included the wisdom of Solomon, the patience of Job and the strength of Giant Haystacks.

  Greg spoke of the difficulties he had faced over doing Front of House, and told how Henry had helped him to learn the principles of small talk.

  Starring on the programme went to Greg’s head somewhat, and his small talk began to become less and less small.

  Starring on the programme brought the burly Manageress seventeen fan letters. Sixteen were from lesbians. ‘I’ve no prejudice against lesbians,’ she said, ‘but why do people assume I’m lesbian just because I’m built like a brick shithouse?’

  She made a date with the seventeenth fan, and, three months later, married him.

  Henry, after much soul-searching, decided to invite Bradley Tompkins on to the show. Something in Bradley’s personality must have drawn Henry to inverted commas. His email read, ‘Dear Bradley. I would be absolutely delighted if you could be a guest on my series, Hooray, It’s Henry. I know that we have “crossed swords” a bit in the past but I would like to “bury the hatchet”. Guests are welcome to participate in the cooking if they want to, and are certainly expected to participate in the eating! I await your reply “with bated breath”. The following Sundays would be fine if you can manage any of them …’

  Bradley replied, ‘Hi. Read your email with astonishment. I understand from the publicity, plastered everywhere, that the accent is on your friends. I am not a friend of yours, and have no wish to contribute to the inevitable success of your series in any way. But thank you for asking me. I would like to return the compliment by asking you to appear on my series, but since my long-running, ground-breaking, serious cookery programme, Bradley on the Boil, was cancelled by a pregnant seventeen-year-old lesbian feminist graduate who decided that I had gone off the boil, I have not had a series.’ Henry found himself wondering how the seventeen-year-old had got pregnant if she was lesbian. ‘However, if there ever are plans for a new series, probably called “Oh Bugger, It’s Bradley”, I will seriously consider you.’

  There were other rejections, too, which disappointed Henry, but didn’t really upset him.

  Tosser declined the invitation to appear with Felicity. ‘Food isn’t Felicity’s forte,’ he announced, more alliteratively than usual. ‘She’s very … picky. But thank you for asking us. The gesture is appreciated.’

  Another refusal was from Ginny Fenwick, his former colleague on the Thurmarsh Evening Argus. She had never realised her two ambitions – to become a war correspondent and to find a good man. Henry knew only too well that she had had her moments, though. Her ardent couplings had caused him many sleepless nights when he’d had a flat directly under hers in Thurmarsh two hundred years ago.

  He learnt a lesson from this episode. It’s fine to be sorry for people, but you must never let them suspect that you are.

  His invitation – disastrously – was for a projected edition on the theme of ‘Cooking For One’.

  ‘There is no way I am going to appear as a lonely old spinster for you,’ she replied. ‘The public might even think I was a sad old virgin. I wish I was a virgin in view of my choice of men to be shagged by, but there you go. I wouldn’t be able to resist telling the audience that I’ve had my moments, so I don’t think I’d be very suitable for “before the watershed”. Thank you also for inviting me to come and stay with you and Hilary. Again, sorry, no. If you ever want to marry me – ha ha! – I’m yours. Otherwise, fuck off.’

  Henry was shocked by the savagery of those last two words, but had she meant them savagely? Had they, perhaps, been an attempt not to sound pathetic or spinsterish (was there such a word?)? Had there been a bit of a glint in those bloodshot eyes, above that unfortunate, squashed nose?

  Lampo and Denzil declined the invitation to debate the issue of ‘Is there such a thing as gay food?’ on the grounds that, while they were in no way ashamed of their sexual predilections, they were a private matter and not to be paraded before the nation.

  He was also turned down by his old chum from the Paradise Lane Gang, Martin Hammond, now the Labour Member of Parliament for Thurmarsh. Martin had been resentful of Henry, believing, with some cause, that Henry had caused his defeat as Labour candidate in 1979. Martin had not been blamed by the party, and had got in next time, with a massive majority, but he claimed that the years which he’d lost had been instrumental in denying him the early promotion which would have led eventually to high office. He had seemed to want to be friends again at the time of Henry’s marriage to Hilary, but now that he had at last become a junior minister his natural pomposity reasserted itself. His reply came on House of Commons note paper:

  My dear Henry,

  It was very kind of you to invite me on to your little show, which is no doubt very amusing and will, I feel certain, be much enjoyed by those who have time to watch it.

  Regrettably, as I am sure you will appreciate, that rules me out.

  Much as I might wish to ‘wax nostalgic about racing dog turds in the River Rundle’, as you put it, I don’t think that it would be helpful except in the context of a serious debate about matters of public health, the inadequacy of recreational facilities for the young, and all sorts of major issues.

  Food is not an interest of mine. It is an irritating necessity which can keep me from more pressing matters. Frankly, the design of the digestive system is one of the many things – world poverty, earthquakes and the design of the
reproductive system are others – which lead me at times to doubt the existence of an Almighty. The whole process of ingesting roast beef and ejecting turds is not pleasant to reflect upon. Were it the other way round, food might be even less enjoyable, but at least one would have more respect for the processes of the body. I happen to believe that there is an unhealthy obsession with food in our country today. It all comes from the continent and is the direct result of our joining the EU with all those guzzling Belgians etcetera. I believe that there are far too many food programmes on TV. It’s what I call public disservice broadcasting.

  Turning from the body human to the body politic, I have to say that at this moment in time, with world poverty and starvation such pressing issues, it would not be seemly for me to take up any position that seemed to be in any way friendly to the concept of gastronomy. It might be stimulating for me to attack the whole premise of your show, but I fear that I would do it so well that viewers would desert you in droves. I cannot wish that upon you.

  I would not wish to end this letter on an unfriendly and churlish note, so may I say that, given that we have a glut of food programmes, I am at least pleased that some of the benefit is going to you and not to abominations like Bradley Tompkins.

  I’m sorry this letter is so brief, but public duty is a hard taskmaster and I have much work to do, even though I have not been considered for high office, perhaps due to my late arrival at the Palace of Westminster.

  It only remains, on behalf of Mandy and myself, to wish the very best of health and happiness for you and Hilary.

  Your old friend

  Martin Hammond M.P.

  An edition of the programme that gave Henry particular pleasure was the one with Celia Hargreaves as guest. James very kindly went into a respite care home for the weekend, so that she could do it. Paul and Christobel would have had him to stay, had it not clashed with a snatched week in Barbados.

  Mrs Hargreaves was well into her eighties now, but still carried, like a second rainbow, a faded aura of how lovely she had once been. She was as spry and elegant as ever. Under her expert guidance Henry produced the jellied beef consommé and the cold chicken in tarragon cream with which she had delighted him on so many summer occasions. It gave him enormous pleasure to bring a touch of cheer and glamour into her difficult life as a carer, and if an element of that pleasure was the satisfaction of being in control of her, after all the times when he had danced inelegantly to her tune, well, that was only human, wasn’t it?

  When he did an edition on Italian food, the guests included Camilla and Guiseppe. Guiseppe proved forceful in his condemnation of the ‘You wanna black pepper?’ school of Italian restaurants in England. There was an amusing discussion on the phallic symbolism of pepper mills – ‘those dark satanic mills’, as Guiseppe called them – and an impassioned debate on whether restaurants should remain true to the origins of pasta and serve it only as a starter.

  Camilla amused everybody with her tale of Guiseppe’s scorn when she had fed him that dish which does not exist in Italy except for tourists – spaghetti Bolognese. ‘In the world of food, only one instance of two words put together fills me with more horror than spag. bol.,’ said Guiseppe. ‘What are they?’ asked Henry innocently. ‘Bradley Tompkins,’ said Guiseppe. Henry tried to get this exchange cut out. The director, Sean Cassock, thought Henry’s bottle was going. Henry insisted that he didn’t want to be a party to gratuitously insulting remarks about Bradley. Sean pointed out that Henry hadn’t made the remark, it was just the honest opinion of a guest. Henry insisted. Sean promised that the offending remark would be cut out. It wasn’t. Sean said that he had been overruled by the BBC’s head of food. Henry said, ‘I didn’t even know there was a head of food.’ ‘That’s how the BBC operates,’ said Sean. Later Henry discovered that there wasn’t a head of food.

  None of the programmes produced a more positive response than the one that featured Ben. Henry told the story of his lost and found step-son whose ruined digestion meant that his diet could no longer be prodigal.

  Ben talked about the joy of food, about honesty in food, about simplicity in food, about nourishment in food, about the need for healthy sustenance, about the social pleasure of breaking bread together, about the senselessness of consuming things that took away your self-control and blunted your senses.

  He talked, as he helped Henry with a straightforward but tasty, herby, slightly spicy shepherd’s pie, about the simple pleasures that he had at last learnt to enjoy – garden birds, the excitement of breathtaking sunsets. He talked with awe about the loveliness of the countryside. He talked about the beauty of dragonflies, and asked, ‘Are their lives of no value, just because they are so brief?’

  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 h
e 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.’