Free Pratt a Manger by David Nobbs

tins. What on earth was the point of spending so much time collecting biscuit tins unless I was immortal? When I’m gone he’ll auction the lot at bloody Sotheby’s.’
    ‘He’s too respectful to do that.’
    ‘Then he’ll have to look at the bloody things for ever, and he hates them. What a legacy.’
    ‘Not for ever. He’ll die too.’
    Denzil brightened for a moment.
    ‘There is that.’
    ‘He might die before you.’
    ‘Only if I poison him.’
    ‘Do you think he knows that you know?’
    ‘No. He’d hate to know that I’ve said it, but he’s not sensitive.’
    ‘Have you come here to ask for my advice?’
    ‘Yes. Sorry.’
    ‘Another wine?’
    ‘I’ve had too much already, and it’ll only make me morbid and him angry. Yes, please, but could I have red? I go acid with too much white.’
    Henry ordered a bottle of the house claret.
    ‘So what should I do?’ asked Denzil.
    ‘I think you should confront him. Have it out.’
    ‘Oh no. I couldn’t do that.’
    ‘Then you should leave him.’
    ‘Hardly practical. It’s my house.’
    ‘Well, in that case, throw him out.’
    ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t live without him.’
    ‘Well, what do
you
think you should do?’
    ‘I don’t think I should do anything. I think we should carry on as before. I think I should turn a blind eye.’
    ‘Well, why don’t you do that, then?’
    ‘Thank you. Thank you, Henry. That’s good advice. I knew I could count on you.’
    They sat in their corner for most of the afternoon. Late drinkers mingled with cake eaters, and Denzil talked affectionately about the man who was cheating on him.
    ‘He’s only protecting himself. Only cushioning the blow in advance. He still loves me, don’t you think?’
    ‘I’m sure he still loves you.’
    ‘That’s what I think. I think he loves me very much. Which is why he just can’t face the prospect of my death.’
    ‘He can’t handle it.’
    ‘Exactly. You’ve got to be a bit sorry for him really.’
    ‘He’s a pathetic figure. An emotional cripple.’
    ‘Right. Absolutely right.’
    *
    Next day the choices of main course were beef stifado, lamb with apricots, lemon sole in chablis sauce and eggs Benedict.
    ‘Excuse me, guv,’ said Greg, ‘but eggs Benedict, it ain’t that substantial, not for a main course. I mean it’s quite rich, but not substantial.’
    ‘Then we’ll have to make it substantial.’
    ‘Couldn’t it be a starter?’
    ‘It might not work if it was a starter.’
    ‘I’m not with you.’
    They were sitting on stools at the bar counter. It was five past ten and the first customers had not arrived yet.
    On the counter was the blackboard, on which Henry had just written ‘Eggs Benedict’.
    ‘Do you know what ESP is, Greg?’
    ‘Yeah. I do. It’s the starting prices for the Tote.’
    ‘It’s extrasensory perception, Greg.’
    ‘You mean like the supernatural, like?’
    ‘Well, sort of, yes. You remember we had hake Lampo on the menu.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Lampo came in.’
    ‘Christ, he did, yeah.’
    ‘And yesterday we had pigeon Denzil on.’
    ‘And your other mate turned up! Hey! Uncanny. Wow. Not sure I like it.’
    ‘Well, it
is
odd. So I thought, if I put eggs Benedict on, maybe he’ll turn up.’
    ‘Who’s this Benedict when he’s at home?’
    ‘Ah, well, that’s the whole point about him. He isn’t at home. He’s my step-son, by my second wife, Diana, and her first husband, a man called Tosser Pilkington-Brick.’
    ‘ “Tosser”?’
    ‘Very much so.’
    ‘Say no more.’
    But Henry did say more. He told Greg the whole story of Benedict.
    ‘He may be dead. He may be alive but out of his skull. He may not be. I can’t dismiss the thought that, incredible though it seems, maybe some force beyond our comprehension will tell Benedict to come here today. What do you say?’
    Henry wished that he hadn’t said, ‘What do you say?’ He knew what Greg would say, and he did.
    ‘Got you,’ said Greg.
    It was