Pratt a Manger by David Nobbs Page A

followed by pork aphelia, with stuffed marrow on the side. None of them had the duck Benedict. They drank five bottles of Argentinian merlot between them.
    It’s amazing how food can cheer one up. It’s amazing how drink can cheer one up. They became chatty and lively. There was laughter. Other customers thought what a great party the funnily dressed people at the big round table were having. It must be a birthday.
    And all the time, every moment of the evening, Henry felt, beneath his other emotions, beneath his genuine disappointment at not finding Benedict, beneath his sorrow at all the suffering he had witnessed, an insistent glow that would not go away, and he heard an insistent, unworthy voice that kept repeating, ‘Jenny thought you were brilliant. She asked for your autograph. You’re going to be all right.’
    Towards the end, he became silent. The glow remained, deep down, but on the surface he was nervous. He had something to say, a difficult question to ask, a very short question, just three words, but three of the hardest words he could ever have said, because his question would not be welcome, and it might sound foolish.
    He stood up and cleared his throat.
    ‘Same time tomorrow?’ he asked.
    There was a shocked silence at the round table.
    ‘I’m on for it,’ said Jack at last. ‘May as well get really behind with work before Christmas.’
    ‘I’ll come,’ promised Kate. ‘The new show’s up and running. If I’m at the theatre, there’ll be a crisis to sort out. If I’m not there to sort it out, there won’t be a crisis.’
    ‘I think it’s been a complete waste of time if we don’t see it through,’ said Camilla.
    ‘It may be warmer tomorrow,’ hoped Guiseppe without much confidence.
    Diana looked at Gunter nervously.
    ‘We’re here till Sunday,’ he said. ‘Even if it’s useless, what are four evenings of our life compared to what he’s been through?’
    ‘I think it’s appalling not to know for certain what’s happened to somebody you loved,’ said Hilary. ‘Even if, as may well be true, he’s dead, I want to know – and I speak as someone who’s never known him.’
    ‘You’re so right,’ agreed Camilla. ‘If he is dead, I want a proper … a proper recognition of the fact. A proper ending. When I’ve read about disasters, and people being so distressed because they haven’t been able to identify or bury their dead, I’ve felt that, while it was very sad, it was perhaps a waste of urgent resources once people were known to be dead. I think now it was pitiful of me not to understand it before.’
    ‘You’re always too hard on yourself,’ commented Guiseppe.
    ‘Well, thank you, all of you,’ said Henry. He poured the remains of the merlot – a sip for everybody. ‘So we’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, and I almost forgot, Camilla. Your father’s joining us.’
    ‘What? I don’t believe it.’
    ‘I … I persuaded him.’
    ‘Well, well done, you. That
is
amazing. I don’t feel as pleased as I should, though. You’re my father now.’
    ‘I can’t tell you how happy I felt when you first said that,’ said Henry. ‘That was wrong of me. It’s flattering, but it’s wrong.’
    ‘You’re all too hard on yourselves,’ said Guiseppe.
    Henry had the last word, as usual.
    ‘I hope you’ve got a satisfactory pension scheme, Gunter,’ he said. ‘Otherwise it’ll be a long night.’
    On Thursday, 19 October, 1995, on a go-kart track in London, thirteen-year-old Prince William completed a circuit in 19.66 seconds, narrowly beating his younger brother Harry (19.79) and easily beating their detectives. The newspapers gave the times achieved at the circuit by other famous people. They included Damon Hill (20 seconds), David Coulthard (20.51) and Barry Sheene (20.75).
    Not ten miles from the go-karting exploits of the young princes, Henry and Hilary Pratt sat at the same round table as the previous evening, and wondered if the others really would