Pratt a Manger by David Nobbs Page B

come.
    They
did
all turn up, and it
was
a long night, even though Nigel didn’t actually mention pensions once. He came in his idea of casual dress – cord trousers, a vicuna sweater and a Crosby overcoat. He looked as if he was modelling clothes for the mature man.
    ‘Nigel,’ said Henry – he wouldn’t call him Tosser once this evening, in gratitude for his having turned up – ‘you can go with Camilla and Guiseppe.’
    ‘So my coming here isn’t actually achieving anything,’ grumbled Nigel. ‘We won’t be covering any extra ground because of me.’
    ‘Wouldn’t you call having my dad at my side when I search for my lost brother achieving anything?’ asked Camilla.
    Nigel looked at his beautiful daughter, and Henry saw that he was at a complete loss how to behave with her. He had forgotten how to be a father. He had forgotten how to be human. Being human was a bit more difficult than riding a bicycle. You needed to keep practising at it.
    It would have seemed like a nice evening to most people – dry and pleasantly mild. However, when you were out in it for four hours, you knew that it was getting slowly, steadily, remorselessly colder. There was a dank damp windless chill in the meaner streets of London. Henry and Hilary tried to avoid breathing in the fumes from methssodden human wrecks, tried to continue to see each person as a tragedy rather than a statistic, tried to respect these ruined souls, tried to be patient, tried not to give up hope.
    The areas around King’s Cross and Euston stations in the north, and Charing Cross, Waterloo, Cannon Street and Blackfriars in the south were among the districts they explored that night.
    Big strong Jack grew tired and was amazed by Kate’s stamina. Nigel sighed from time to time, but otherwise remained grimly stoical in his suffering. Gunter was cheery, calm and bright, especially when Diana’s resolve faltered.
    Many eyes looked at the photos of the beautiful boy that Benedict had been: bloodshot eyes, misty eyes, drunken eyes, deep miserable eyes, paranoid eyes, psychopathic eyes, eyes rimmed with despair, defeated eyes, angry eyes, scornful eyes, nearly sightless eyes. None of them showed any recognition.
    Henry was not asked for his autograph, but the glow remained, fainter, cooler, but resilient. ‘This is a nightmare, but it will end. Great times are coming for you,’ said that faint glow.
    By the time they got back to the Café even Jack was shivering deep inside himself. Nigel looked as if he had just trekked to the North Pole.
    ‘Duck Benedict!’ he exclaimed.
    Henry explained his motives and the nature of the dish.
    ‘He wouldn’t be able to eat all that now,’ said Nigel. ‘His digestive system will be shot to pieces. Assuming he’s still alive.’
    There was silence round the table. Nobody welcomed these depressing thoughts.
    ‘Face facts, Henry,’ said Nigel. ‘Stop being a sentimental fool.’
    ‘Henry,’ said Guiseppe, ‘when I got home last night I thought, “Where’s the Henrygraph?”’
    The Henrygraph was a sculpture, a rather unflattering caricature of Henry, with a large screen where his large stomach should have been. It was sculpted by Guiseppe, who was a caricaturist as well as a serious sculptor. Henry had made up competitions, and the results had been shown on the screen. It had been a talking point, but Henry had grown tired of it.
    ‘Yes, I’m really sorry, Guiseppe,’ he said. ‘I … I should have told you. I … er … I decided it was too gimmicky. I … I thought it a bit self-conscious. I don’t like the cult of personality. I’m very modest at heart, you know. Too modest for my own good, perhaps.’ He recalled the pleasure he’d felt from being asked for his autograph, and felt uneasy. There was a brief silence, which suggested that others might be uneasy as well. ‘I am, Hilary!’
    ‘I didn’t say anything,’ said Hilary.
    ‘You didn’t need to. I saw your look.’
    ‘You did your job too