Pratt a Manger

by David Nobbs

  ‘You’re out to get me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not particularly. Nothing personal. Rather like you, actually. However, the powers that be believe you to be ripe for character assassination. They just love to destroy TV stars. Couldn’t do it before. People liked you too much. Now the seeds of doubt have been sown, and we can begin to cut you down to size. Just doing our job. Just filling our readers’ sad, empty, vengeful lives.’

  ‘The dictionary’s first definition of a diet is “the food and drink habitually consumed by a person or animal”,’ said Henry. ‘The word doesn’t necessarily mean a regime designed for weight loss.’

  Fraser Goldthorpe treated Henry’s arguments as if they were horses, describing them as ‘lame’ and ‘nonstarters’. In the next day’s paper, he savaged Henry’s book as a con. ‘If you really want to spend £16.99,’ he said, ‘you’d do better to back Random Dancer in the 3.30 at Redcar.’

  The question of whether The Pratt Diet was a con was taken up by other newspapers. Henry was asked to appear on the popular TV magazine show, Food for Thought. He was taken to the BBC in a limousine with darkened windows and rushed into the building with his raincoat hiding his face, like a mass murderer entering a courthouse. He was interviewed by Candy Beasley, sometimes known as Candid Candy and sometimes as Beastly Beasley. Her hair was jet-black, her eyes were dark and deep, her smile was supercilious, and she spat accusations like an angry cat. Off stage she was charming and delightful, but being beastly was her career. Henry thought that he would have liked her more if she was nasty through and through.

  His publicist at Consolidation House had been confident that Henry could handle Beastly Beasley, but her confidence was misplaced. He was nervous. He knew that the next five minutes could be extremely important for his career.

  ‘People are saying that The Pratt Diet, your number one best seller …’ began Candy Beasley after the introductions.

  ‘Thank you,’ interrupted Henry unwisely.

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t a compliment,’ said Candy Beasley.

  ‘Ah!’ said Henry. ‘You mean that popularity is proof of mediocrity. I have more faith in the British public than that.’

  Candy Beasley ignored him.

  ‘People are saying that The Pratt Diet is in fact not a diet at all,’ she said.

  ‘Are they? One or two people in the media may be. I don’t think the general public are.’

  ‘I’ve read your book …’

  ‘I’m amazed.’

  No, Henry. Wrong!

  ‘… and I couldn’t detect any scientific basis or any specific nutritional theory behind it.’

  ‘Ah. Well. There’s a reason for that. There isn’t any.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Be decisive, Henry. Be strong.

  ‘I’ve never claimed that there was,’ he said. ‘I am presenting a concept of eating varied food, in modest quantities, and eating it without worry, without guilt; so that even if one doesn’t lose weight – and I make no specific claims about losing weight – one will be healthier and happier than if one … er … didn’t eat the food in my book.’

  He was painfully aware that, after a confident start, his little speech had ended very lamely.

  ‘So the question is,’ said Candy Beasley, ‘when is a diet not a diet?’

  ‘When it’s the legislative assembly of Japan.’

  Oh God!

  ‘It wasn’t a riddle, Mr Pratt.’

  ‘Sorry. I can never resist being silly.’

  ‘So it would appear,’ said Candy Beasley icily. ‘I believe that there are serious issues of credibility here, Mr Pratt. Serious issues about one’s responsibility to one’s public. I don’t think one should be silly about that.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He was on the back foot now. He had to be more assertive.

  ‘A diet only means what people eat,’ he said. ‘Many diets are conceived as aids to slimming, but diet could be for putting on weight. We talk about varied diets, an interesting diet …’

  ‘That’s perfectly true but in book terms, Mr Pratt, in book terms, a book with the title The Pratt Diet would be assumed to have a basis in controlled, well thought out dietary considerations. People will have a right to expect, if they follow your diet, that they will lose weight.’

  ‘I’m not really very interested in what people have a right to expect,’ said Henry. ‘I believe …’

  ‘The People’s Chef, who has such faith in the British people, isn’t really interested in what the public has a right to expect,’ interrupted Candy Beasley. ‘How very fascinating. Henry Pratt, thank you so much for talking to us tonight.’

  It was over almost before it had begun. He had had no time. His shock and anger were very evident as the interview ended.

  ‘And now,’ said Candy Beasley, ‘a man who eats nothing but limpets, and has survived to be ninety-three.’

  *

  Next morning, when he woke up, he couldn’t believe how badly he had done. He couldn’t believe that he had been silly enough to mention the legislative assembly of Japan. He couldn’t believe that suddenly the whole world didn’t love him.

  Some people did, though and thank God that included Hilary.

  In fact people took sides. There were letters in the Radio Times. There were discussions on chat shows. There were telephone votes about whether The Pratt Diet was a good thing, and whether Henry was a good thing. He had become public property.

  If any conclusion could be drawn, it was that he had been seriously damaged, but not destroyed.

  His publishers were cautious about the long term, and said that they would ‘put the idea for your next book on ice, just till the controversy dies down’.

  The BBC were less equivocal. They cancelled a proposed third series of Hooray, It’s Henry. A spokesperson put her personal spoke in and said, ‘This decision has absolutely nothing to do with the current controversy. It was felt that the series should go out on a high and that it would be difficult without repetition to maintain the standards of the first two series. We have continued faith in Henry Pratt as a TV cookery personality and will be exploring different formats for possible future shows.’

  Henry had a strong fear that this was executive-ese for ‘Goodbye’.

  Among the newspaper headlines on Friday, 11 October, 2002, were ‘Poll Countdown for Tory “Quiet Man”’; ‘Archer Faces Loss of Prison Pay over Diaries’; ‘Major Evades Questions of Affair’ and ‘Book Chain Withdraws Pratt Diet’.

  Henry always enjoyed his occasional weekends in his country retreat, but he had never looked forward to one quite as keenly as to this one. The peace and quiet would mend his tormented soul.

  His spirits rose the moment he stepped into the Land Rover. Well, he was at least in part a countryman now, so he needed a four by four: he couldn’t afford, with all his commitments, to be cut off, even though this was unlikely, since the only land he ever had to rove over were the twenty-eight yards of gravel from the garage to the road, and in any case it had hardly snowed, in Grayling-Under-Witchwood, for more than a decade.

  It wasn’t perhaps surprising that, with all the controversy, he should forget, for the first time, to warn Bradley Tompkins that he was visiting The Old Manor House.

  He decided that here in the country, where people were friendly but respected your privacy, he wouldn’t hide away from the public as he had recently done in London. On his first evening there, he would go to the pub.

  There were two pubs in the village, one at each end. The Crown was an example of Henry’s bête noir – the Gastropub. An ugly word and, in his opinion, an ugly concept. Every table was laid ready for meals. There were no stools at the bar. He didn’t regard it as a pub at all. The food wasn’t bad, but it was over-priced and uninspired. They employed migrant workers because they were cheap. When the Polish barman put angostura bitters instead of tabasco into his Bloody Mary, Henry said, ‘It’s not your fault, Piotr, but I am going now and never coming back.’

&
nbsp; The Coach and Horses, on the other hand, was a fine example of that declining species, the Village Pub, where people from different walks of life could meet and talk and laugh and listen and learn. Young and old, rich and poor, men and women, believers and atheists, Manchester United and Tottenham Hotspur supporters, Conservatives and Socialists, artists and plumbers could mingle and realise that what they had in common was more important than what separated them. It was a great tradition, envied by the world, and like other traditions envied by the world it was slowly, agonisingly dying in a fragmented land.

  Regulars gravitated, in the Coach and Horses, to a rather windy bar opposite the main entrance. This was known for miles around as Rodney’s Back Passage. Rodney Merganser, the landlord, was a character. He didn’t like cyclists, people who ordered tap water, or people who ate baguettes. He smiled at least twice every year, and if you were in trouble he would always help you.

  The moment Henry entered The Coach, as it was known locally, he knew that it was the pub for him. There was a large sign in the porch – ‘No Norwegians or Hockey Players’. When Henry asked Rodney about this, he said that it was completely arbitrary. He hoped to be arrested and become a martyr to the absurdities of political correctness.

  He was going on about things as Henry entered that evening.

  ‘I believe,’ he was saying, ‘that there should be establishments for men only, for women only, for whoever you like only. Personally I would like there to be a bar for golfers only, where they could bore themselves into mass graves with tales of their iron shots.’

  Lovely, prejudiced man. Henry’s heart warmed to him.

  There was a good crowd in. Bomber Walsh – Henry had a theory that every good pub had a customer called Bomber – was arguing passionately about the uselessness of wasps with Tina Benson, who stood and drank pints while her husband Ewan was at home cooking the supper. Michael Ewart, the world’s least likely tax inspector, was drinking large glasses of the Spanish red, very quickly, and laughing, very loudly, at almost anything anybody said. The Merricks had brought their Slovenian au pair, who was very pretty. It promised to be a vintage Friday evening.

  And then in he/she came. Mrs Scatchard in a grey green sweater that emphasised her artificial breasts, and a long velvety dress that looked as if it had been made out of abandoned curtains.

  It was the first time Henry had seen him/her in there. His heart sank.

  If Mrs Scatchard’s heart sank, he/she concealed it well.

  ‘Mr Pratt! My neighbour!’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Scatchard. What are you having?’

  ‘A pink gin, if I may. One of my little peculiarities.’

  Oh God. It was going to be a farce. Why did farce pursue him like a lovesick stalker?

  He wasn’t going to be able to confront Bradley. He had promised that he wouldn’t reveal his double identity, and damn it, there could be honour even among chefs.

  He handed Mrs Scatchard her pink gin and heard himself say, ‘So, what are your other little peculiarities?’

  ‘Ah. That would be telling. Bottoms up.’

  ‘Bottoms up.’

  ‘To continued good neighbourliness.’

  ‘To continued good neighbourliness.’

  ‘You’ve been in the news a lot recently, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I … I have … haven’t I?’

  ‘Difficult for you?’

  ‘Pretty much so.’

  ‘Somebody got it in for you, do you think?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘I thought you thought you knew who it was.’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘My brother?’

  ‘I … er … I don’t want to be specific.’

  ‘Afraid he’ll sue?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘How could he ever find out what you’re saying in an out of the way place like this?’

  ‘Well, how indeed? Unless you told him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t betray a confidence.’

  They stood on the edge of the Friday crowd, unnoticed. Henry was popular enough, but nobody quite knew what to say to him under the present circumstances, and nobody ever knew quite what to say to Mrs Scatchard. The general view was that she was harmless but strange.

  ‘Well, come on, then, Henry,’ said Mrs Scatchard, eyes glittering. ‘Spill the beans. Let a simple rustic into the secrets of the world of metropolitan intrigue.’

  ‘Well, let me put it this way,’ said Henry. He would have to be careful. It didn’t look as if anyone was listening, but you never knew. Oh God, how this was spoiling the glorious simplicity of his planned evening. ‘I think somebody is very jealous of me. Your brother might be such a person. He hasn’t been very nice to me.’

  ‘Have you been very nice to him?’

  ‘Well, no, I suppose I haven’t.’

  ‘He’s always struck me … I don’t see him very often, you know, we aren’t close, considering we’re twins, so it isn’t always easy to know … same again?’

  ‘Please. Thank you.’

  Why on earth did I accept, Henry asked himself as Mrs Scatchard edged his/her way uneasily to the bar.

  When he/she returned, he/she said, ‘Where was I?’

  ‘About to tell me how your brother strikes you.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Bradley Tompkins. ‘He strikes me … seen mainly from a distance … as all mouth and no trousers. Might dream of doing such a thing. Wouldn’t actually have the bottle to go through with it. All sauce and no steak. Could be wrong.’

  ‘Well, yes … yes.’

  ‘Have to be very sure, wouldn’t you, before you went around openly accusing him?’

  ‘Oh absolutely. Yes. Absolutely. Oh yes. Cheers.’

  17 An Unwelcome Gift

  SLOWLY, GENTLY, FIRMLY, exquisitely, truly, madly, deeply he entered Sally Atkinson.

  There was a sudden loud crash of something hitting the window. He sat up with a start. Where was he? Where was Sally?

  He realised, with a sharp intense stab of relief and regret, that he’d been dreaming.

  He thought he was in The Old Manor House, and reached for the bedside light, but he was in the Clapham house, and the light was above his head, so he knocked his glass of water all over the sheet. One moment, glorious sex. The next moment, wet sheets, but not for the right reason. He swore.

  Hilary switched on the light.

  ‘What was that noise?’ she said.

  How lovely she looked, even when she was awakening from a deep sleep. How could he even have thought of dreaming of sex with Sally?

  ‘A bird flying into the window?’

  ‘At half past three in the morning?’

  ‘An owl?’

  He padded across the carpet, and pulled back the curtains. A smashed egg was still slithering slowly towards the sill.

  Hilary came and stood beside him. He ran his hand gently over her buttocks.

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘I’ll take a look.’

  He hurried into a pair of jeans, both legs in one leg for a moment, and Miss Candy flashed through his mind, saying, ‘Mr Hurry was late for his wedding.’ He grabbed the previous day’s shirt from the laundry bag hanging on the door, put on a pair of outdoor shoes, and hurried along the corridor, down the wide stairs, into the spacious entrance hall with its two large dark paintings – one of Siena, the other of coq au vin.

  There was an envelope on the floor. He ricked his back slightly as he picked it up.

  ‘To Whom It Might Concern’. He ripped it open.

  My Dear Henry,

  Life is too short for enmity, so I have left you a little present. Well, quite a large present, actually. I didn’t want to wake you in the middle of the night, so I’ve left it in the porch. A lot of thought went into it, and I hope you’ll agree that it is most appropriate.

  With very best wishes

  Bradley.

  He began to unlock the front door.

  He could smell it. The warm, sweet, stifling, curi
ously nourishing smell of horse shit.

  He thought better of opening the front door, and locked it hurriedly. He switched on the outside light, and went out by the side door. As he rounded the corner of the house, he gasped. There was a huge mountain of the stuff. It covered the front door completely and reached up almost to the landing. It covered most of the windows of the sitting room and dining room. Hundreds of horses must have evacuated their bowels for Bradley Tompkins. The smell, which might have been vaguely reassuring in the country, was sickening here off Clapham Common.

  He just stood and stared. He was barely aware of a click and a flash as a paparazzo took a picture.

  Hilary came out and joined him. She was shivering. She looked horrified. Homes are wombs for women. They feel outrages against them more keenly, more emotionally, than men.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘How very predictable.’

  ‘Bradley is predictable. That’s one of the many things he can’t stand about himself.’

  Hilary made a cafetière of good, strong coffee, and they sat at the kitchen table with the Yellow Pages in front of them. There were several pages of ‘Waste Disposal Services’. No one firm struck the eye. There was no ‘Manure Mountain Removal Company’. They wrote down the phone numbers of the likelier sounding companies, but in the event it was Tuesday before anyone could do the job.

  ‘It’s terrifying to be hated so much,’ said Henry. ‘It’s humiliating. It’s awful.’

  The story was a gift to the national press at a quiet time for news.

  ‘Foal Faeces Fuel Food Feud’ was merely the most alliteratively ambitious of the headlines.

  The bottom half of the front page of the Daily Smear showed a picture of the People’s Chef, standing beside the great pile of manure, mouth open in shock and disbelief. The top half of the page was covered by just two words, two words containing a total of six letters, two words in vast, black, bold type, just two words from the great rich language of Shakespeare and Keats and Dickens and Trollope and P. G. Wodehouse.

  OH SHIT!

  Henry’s fury knew no bounds. He was happy to give a press conference accusing Bradley. He waved the letter and read it to the massed journalists called to a press conference beside the offending pile.