Pratt a Manger

by David Nobbs

  ‘He seems easily shattered.’

  ‘He is. People think he’s so strong. Like a tree. I’m the strong one, Henry, and even I am swaying in the gale. Davina’s the arty one. God knows where she gets it from. She plays in an orchestra. Viola, would you believe? Oh, by the way, we were sorry to hear you and Di had split up.’

  ‘Well, it was painful, but we’ve landed on our feet. I’ve married my wonderful first wife again …’

  ‘Yes, but poor Di’s ended up with some Swiss dentist.’

  ‘He’s lovely.’

  ‘Possibly, but he’s a dentist.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? They’re practically doctors.’

  ‘ “Practically”. Precisely. That speaks volumes. Would you like to marry somebody who stares into people’s mouths all day? Exactly. You wouldn’t. Besides, he’s Swiss.’

  ‘He’s a lovely man, Belinda. Lots of Swiss people are lovely.’

  ‘Ah, well. Robin feels that their farmers get unfair subsidies because the EU thinks they all live on top of an Alp, so probably we’re biased. So, what are you up to these days?’

  ‘I … I have a little café in Soho.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The Café Henry.’

  ‘Sweet.’

  ‘And I appear on TV.’

  ‘You do??’

  ‘On cookery programmes. You … you may have seen me.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t watch cookery programmes. I’m a very plain cook.’

  Belinda said this proudly, as Englishwomen so often do.

  ‘So, what are the programmes?’

  ‘Well, there’s a quiz called A Question of Salt and a cookery programme called Here’s One I Made Earlier and now I have my own series called Hooray, It’s Henry.’

  ‘No, not heard of them. We’re probably very out of touch in our rural retreat. Well, good for you.’

  She moved on, and Henry realised how vain he had been even to consider that there could be a moment when he wasn’t patronised by the Boyce-Uppinghams of this world. That had been decided when he was born, and nothing he could do in his mere life could change it.

  He realised, to his horror, that despite his dislike of all the inappropriate references to his fame, he was decidedly miffed that Belinda of all people hadn’t heard of it.

  The sixteen-year-old great-great-nephew of one of James’s old colleagues came up to him and asked him for his autograph.

  What should he do?

  It was so inappropriate.

  It was in such bad taste.

  It would give the lad such pleasure.

  Sometimes one just has to be unselfish. He signed with pleasure, and he saw Belinda looking across the room with an astonishment that was almost comical. He wondered if, until that moment, she had believed a word he had said.

  Despite all his successes, Henry still felt surprised at every new expression of interest in him. He was astounded when Ammonia Productions asked if they could film him for a new series called A Month in Their Life.

  They didn’t propose to film every single minute. No cameras would follow him to the lavatory. No cameras would intrude into his bedroom. They would not film any particular portion of his life every day, but, over a month, they would cover a representative selection of his activities, and he would be bound by his contract to inform them of all these activities and give them access, should they desire it.

  He was very doubtful about agreeing to this, flattering though it was. He said that he would have to ask his family and friends.

  Greg and Michelle in the Café were all for it. It would be good publicity for the business, and for them.

  Kate unashamedly suggested that if he visited the Umbrella Theatre it would help her put bums on seats.

  Ben was now helping in the kitchen when he was fit enough, because he was no longer strong enough to hold down a proper job. He felt that it would give him another great platform on which to warn young people of the dangers of drugs.

  Everyone, except Hilary, agreed that in the twenty-first century there was no such thing as bad publicity.

  Nigel Clinton was very anxious for Hilary to agree. He said that the sales department might take a dim view if she turned down what might be a great opportunity to publicise her books.

  In the end, Henry persuaded Ammonia to incorporate in the contract that the final cut of the programme would include scenes of him discussing Hilary’s new book with her and a scene at the Umbrella Theatre. They were reluctant, but he was adamant, and in the end they had to agree.

  Most of the month went very smoothly. Greg and Michelle in particular played up to the cameras.

  The very fact of the filming caused changes to their plans. Jack and Flick brought the family down so that the children could be seen on television. A weekend visit to the Old Manor House was cancelled because Henry didn’t want the viewers to be able to identify it. Hilary broke off her work to prepare snacks for Henry more frequently than normal.

  But one major problem cropped up during the month. Henry received a rather shattering phone call.

  ‘It’s Ginny, Henry.’

  For just a moment, a tiny, awful moment, she caught him on the hop.

  ‘Ginny Fenwick, Thurmarsh Evening Argus.’

  ‘I realise that, Ginny,’ he lied. ‘I was just taken by surprise. It’s been so long – and, yes, I know it’s partly my fault. I should have kept in touch more than I have.’

  ‘Why should you? You escaped. Why should you revisit the zoo?’

  ‘Ginny! I don’t feel like that. Surely you know I’m not like that?’

  ‘Henry, there’s some news. I thought you ought to know. It’s not good, I’m afraid. Helen’s dead.’

  The shock pierced his heart. He gasped.

  ‘No! She can’t be. Not Helen.’

  ‘I know. I think we all feel a bit like that.’

  Images of Helen Plunkett, née Cornish, whipped through Henry’s mind.

  ‘I didn’t even know she was ill.’

  Helen at the Thurmarsh Evening Argus, exciting even when writing about what women wore next to their skin. Helen, playing games, pressing thighs, teasing pricks.

  ‘I think Ted wanted to keep her to himself towards the end. He’d found it so difficult to do so during the rest of their life.’

  ‘I can understand.’

  Helen inviting him back home, getting him all excited, and there was Ted all the time. Games. Bitch. Dead? No!

  ‘When’s the funeral?’

  The image that he couldn’t recall, because he had been too drunk to remember anything, but he’d heard it so often that he almost felt he did remember it. Rather like some of Ben’s ‘memories’, probably.

  ‘Sorry. I was just checking the time. Monday. Thurmarsh Crematorium. Eleven thirty.’

  Helen, naked beneath him on the green baize. His biggest ever break, it had seemed at the time. He had told her that she had the most beautiful legs he had ever seen. He couldn’t remember them.

  ‘We’ll be there.’

  Poor Ginny. She only had two ambitions.

  ‘How are things with Hilary?’

  To find a good man and to become a war correspondent.

  ‘Fine. Things are great.’

  She never fulfilled either of them.

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’

  The editorial team at Ammonia Productions grew very excited when they heard about the funeral.

  ‘That’s great news. That’ll give the programme some real bite,’ said one.

  ‘A real focus,’ added another

  ‘Absolutely. A real focus,’ agreed a third.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Henry told them. ‘There’s Helen’s family to consider. There’s her friends. There’s my friends. We’ll have to ask them.’

  ‘It’s in your contract. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, I won’t go, then. The contract says you have to be able to go where I go. It doesn’t say I have to agree to go where you want me to go.’

 
He rang Ginny and told her that, devastated though he was not to be able to pay his last respects to Helen, he wasn’t going. He told her why.

  She rang back and told him that she had spoken to all the relevant people and they were all happy to have the cameras there.

  ‘They lead dull lives, Henry. It’ll be an excitement, and Helen would be thrilled. You know that.’

  Reluctantly, he agreed.

  It was strange to return to Thurmarsh, the town of their birth, the uncompromising, undistinguished town of their childhood, the town which formed them and which held so many memories, good and bad.

  Hilary snuggled beside him as the early morning train snaked through the shires.

  ‘Thank you, darling, for something I’ve never mentioned,’ she said. ‘Thank you for never mentioning it.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  But he knew. Amazingly, before she mentioned it, he knew.

  ‘I walked out, after you had suspected me of having an affair with Nigel.’

  ‘I deserved it.’

  ‘I’m not speaking of that, and you know it.’ She looked out of the window. They were passing a field with several horses prancing about, made frisky by the train. Behind them was a huge tyre dump. They were approaching a town. ‘I left my children.’

  ‘You were ill.’

  ‘I was ill later. My pride in my integrity was so great that when it was offended I walked out and left Kate and Jack. Sometimes I think I must have been a monster.’

  ‘Ridiculous. It’s not as if you abandoned them.’

  ‘No. It was actually a remarkable vote of confidence in you, I like to think. I was confident they would be in good hands, even at the moment when you had behaved so badly that I couldn’t live with you. What a prig I was.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  The train was going irritatingly slowly. They began to get tense, urging it on with their bodies, willing it on with their minds.

  Henry knew that Hilary hadn’t finished what she wanted to say, but this time he had no idea what was coming.

  ‘I wouldn’t be like that now, if you …’

  She stopped.

  ‘If I what?’

  ‘Accused me of having an affair.’

  ‘I wouldn’t. You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  She squeezed his hand and looked away again.

  ‘I wouldn’t necessarily leave you now if you had an affair,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect anybody to be perfect any more.’

  He could hardly breathe.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I was thinking about Helen. You always fancied her.’

  ‘Oh God. I was a fool.’

  ‘It’s a hard ask, expecting a man never to be a fool.’

  Don’t talk like that, Hilary. Please. I need all the help I can get.

  ‘I have no intention of cheating on you,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’

  She gave him a quick kiss.

  Suddenly, after the kiss, they became conscious that a camera had been on them all the time. At last they had grown so used to it that they had forgotten it. At last the editorial team had some real footage, unaffected by their presence. As a result, the footage wasn’t high-powered enough, and none of it made the final cut.

  They didn’t talk much for the rest of the journey, partly because of their awareness of the cameras, and partly because they were busy with their memories.

  Henry had been, in popular estimation, very close to being, if not actually being, the worst reporter in the long history of the Thurmarsh Evening Argus.

  Hilary had suffered her worst moments in the town. It was here, in her teens, that she had been raped. She had taught, briefly, and given birth to two children, and found a way into Cousin Hilda’s heart, but she had made no real mark. It was here that she had walked out of her marriage.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Ted,’ said Henry as they gathered outside the crematorium on a suitably cloudy, dank morning.

  ‘Me too,’ said Hilary.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ted. ‘The point is, she’s left it too late. Who’ll have me now?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Henry. ‘You’re still a fine figure of a man.’

  He kissed Ginny warmly and squeezed her hand.

  ‘Great to see you again, even in these circumstances,’ he said.

  She had become distinctly large, and slightly lame.

  She hugged him and said, ‘Welcome back, and congratulations on everything’ loud enough for the Ammonia sound man to capture.

  Helen’s sister Jill arrived. When she saw the camera, she stopped just out of its range, in order to check her make-up and tidy her hair. She had never been beautiful, but she had been sexy. She was seriously over-weight now. Henry could hardly recognise her. She came up and kissed him enthusiastically. When he had fancied her she had shrunk from him. Now that he didn’t fancy her she was all over him, irritatingly tactile. Her husband, Gordon Carstairs, was the man with whom Ginny had kept Henry awake during the long South Yorkshire nights. The years had treated him more kindly than his wife. He still looked craggily sexy.

  ‘Henry!’ he said, embracing him. ‘Hilary!’ He kissed her. ‘Chocks away! Rhubarb!’

  Hilary raised her eyebrows at Henry, and he shook his head imperceptibly. Gordon had always been enigmatic, but now he was incomprehensible.

  They moved into the waiting room, out of the lazy breeze. They wondered how many more were coming.

  Colin Edgeley was next to turn up, hair white and straggly, still a gap between his teeth, frail, a ghost of the man called Colin Edgeley, with whom Henry had once drunk.

  Terry Skipton, his old news editor, fearsome then, old and harmless now, was wheeled in by his wife Violet, whose moustache had gone entirely white.

  ‘Henry!’ said Terry Skipton. ‘We have followed your every move with pride.’

  ‘Aye, our kid,’ agreed Colin Edgeley hurriedly. ‘Fantastic. Great. Always knew you had it in you.’

  ‘Kiss me, Hardy!’ said Gordon Carstairs.

  Henry didn’t think that many of Gordon’s gnomic utterances would make it to the final cut.

  They filed into the chapel. Apart from the journalists there were a few cousins and nephews and nieces, and the odd neighbour, but it was a sad end for a sparkling woman.

  The service began. The undertakers brought in the coffin. The cameras turned. At least, thought Henry, she was in the spotlight at the last.

  The vicar was straight out of Central Casting. This was his audition, his performance and his credit. He even introduced himself by name. His thunderous sing-song resounded round the sparsely filled chapel like a fart in a compression chamber. Henry hoped fervently that the man wouldn’t make the final cut.

  Afterwards, there was a brief reception in a local hotel, a glass of wine and a few sandwiches. The sandwiches, like the function room, were sparsely filled. Hard though Henry tried not to be, he found himself at centre stage. He was the sun, and people were cheered by his glow. ‘We are honoured by your presence,’ intoned the vicar, who was on orange juice, in case the bishop happened to see the programme.

  After the sad reception the journalists went to a sad pub for a sad drink. The camera did not accompany them. The producer felt that he had enough footage of the event.

  Without the camera, everything changed. Now the tribute to Henry’s success became resentment. Ted scowled. Colin, who never went out any more and so got drunk on a few pints, said, ‘I suppose you think you’re still my fucking friend because you send a fucking Christmas card every fucking year.’

  ‘New balls! Baghdad!’ exclaimed Gordon Carstairs.

  ‘Do you remember Neil Mallet?’ Henry asked, desperate for silence not to fall. ‘Always going off home to do his laundry.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ said Ginny. ‘I have to get to the dry cleaners by five.’

  Henry gave up after that.

  The party soon broke up, by silent consent.

  ‘Those were our be
st days,’ said Ted, as he left rather unsteadily. ‘They were our halcyon days. If only we’d known it at the sodding time.’

  Henry’s eyes met Hilary’s, and he knew that they were both thinking the same thing. They still had their rampaging days. They still had their halcyon days.

  Later, in a radio interview, Henry gave his opinion of A Month in Their Life.

  ‘Everything was affected by the camera,’ he said. ‘Nothing remained utterly true. To call any non-fiction “reality television” is to admit that we are a society that has lost respect for language and for the rigours of definition and meaning. I think we’re in danger, therefore, of removing all meaning from our lives.’

  ‘Pretentious bastard,’ muttered Ted to his shaving bowl, in the emptiness of his home, when he heard it.

  It was no surprise when Denzil went: he’d been failing for years. Henry couldn’t bring himself to write to anybody on the paper to tell them. It was all too far in the past. It was over.

  There was a reasonable turn out at Mortlake Crematorium. Quite a few people from Denzil’s local – Lampo hated pubs but Denzil popped into one every Saturday morning; one or two of Lampo’s former colleagues at Sotheby’s; two or three collectors; a biscuit-tin enthusiast; Henry and Hilary and Kate and Camilla and Guiseppe; Mrs Hargreaves; Tosser; two neighbours; and five assorted relatives, two of whom Lampo had never met.

  ‘They think there may be money,’ Lampo whispered to Henry in the chapel. ‘Little do they know there are only biscuit tins, and he’s left them and the house to me.’

  There was a small party afterwards at Lampo’s. Everybody went except one of the collectors.

  ‘I won’t be able to stay, Lampo,’ Tosser said to his old schoolmate. ‘I’d like to, but … Felicity, you know. At the moment she’s … edgy. She has these edgy times.’

  Henry and Hilary invited Mrs Hargreaves out to dinner at a restaurant of her choice near her home on the following Tuesday. She said that none of them were any good, but they could tell that she was thrilled.