From Chapter 11 of "Brotherly Loathe", a third volume of memoirs

There was the question of food. My normal caterer was unavailable as it transpired that Ms Kettering was staying at a vegetable worshiping commune in Wales for the week and her assistant Graham didn’t think he could cope alone. He offered me some other names and numbers and I spent the first hour of my working day on the telephone.

“Ruddles Food ?” said the first number. It wasn’t actually the number talking of course – it was someone employed but the owner of the number. If, that is, numbers can be said to be owned at all – that is a big debate in the mathematical community right now (and if it isn’t it jolly well ought to be).

“Hello” I said honestly “My name is Benson and I am having a dinner party tonight.” The line went dead at this point. No backbone some people. I rang the second number.

“Tuttles Finest Cooking Service, how may I help you ?” This was more promising.

“My name is Benson and I am having a little dinner party this evening and my caterers have let me down. I was wondering if you could help me.”

“How many are you expecting ?”

“Sixteen.”

“So about sixteen then ?”

“No – exactly sixteen. When I invite someone to my home I expect them to turn up. And English man’s home is his castle and when he offer hospitality in my castle it is quite an honour.”

“And the address ?” he asked.

“Ah – I don’t know yet” I confessed.

“Is this a crank call ?” asked the lad. I admit my answer didn’t inspire confidence of verisimilitude.

“No.”

“But that is what you would say if it was.”

“No it isn’t. I am an honest chap – if this were a crank call I would come out and say it.”

“But your refuting of my allegation of lying might also be a lie.”

“But in this case it isn’t. I am having a dinner party but I don’t know the address – is that so hard to understand.”

“But if we don’t have an address, we won't know where to send the food. And if we don’t have an address then we can't be sure it is genuine and I will lose my job.”

“If you agree to fulfil my order then I will ring back with my address as soon as I possibly can.”

“How do I know that ? I might set the wheels in motion and fall into your prankish trap.”

“I don’t have a prankish trap.”

“But I don’t know that. Part of your prank might be denying that there is a prank. So if I fall for the first part of the prank – making food that isn’t needed – then I am also falling right into the second part of the prank – that there isn’t a prank. Fool me once, shame on you but fool my twice, shame on me. And on you frankly.”

“Look – I will give you my telephone number and you can ring me back to make sure I am where I say I am.” This sounded fair to me but he disagreed.

“If you are a really hard core prankster, you might have broken into someone’s office and be using their phone. I ring you back, you answer and where does that leave me ? I might as well just throw a few boxes of ingredients into the rubbish mightn’t I ?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then you admit you are playing a joke ? I wouldn’t mind if you just told me you were – I’ve got a heck of a good sense of humour.”

“I am not playing a joke. I will give you any information you want if you will just take my order.”

“I saw a film last week where computer hackers stole a person’s identity – how do I know you haven’t done that ? You could give me every detail of your life but you might have taken it by illegal means. You might be an uber-prankster and I have been hand picked as your uber-victim. You might even be using this phone call as a decoy while you hack into our computer systems.”

“Is there anything worth stealing ?” I asked out of curiosity.

“There is my top secret coulee recipe… why am I telling you this ? I am opening us up for a massive computer fraud.”

“Look – I am not a computer hacker. I barely know which of the boxes in my office is the computer. I think it is the grey one but it might be the fax machine.”

“This still might be a bluff.”

“Look, where are you – I could come over in person to talk to you.”

“What if you are a burglar and you want me to give away our location.”

“Is it a secret ?”

“We don’t go around telling burglars where we are, no.”

“I am not a burglar. I am not a prankster and I am not a computer hacker. I am a civil servant, I have a dinner party tonight and I want some one to make some food.”

“I must say that does sound vaguely believable. What is a X486 ?” he asked suddenly.

“A paperclip reorder form” I said without thinking. It was a reflex move and it surprised me greatly. I never knew I knew that.

“Correct. I used to be in the Service myself before I left for pastures new. If you know that then you must be on the level. How can I help you ?”

“You mean to say you left the Civil Service to become a chef ? What kind of person would do that ?”

“I didn’t go from one to the other. I was a runner in the DTI and left to deliver pizzas.” Ah ha – I thought I recognised the twisted logic. A memory stirred and now, some years on, I am better able to remember that this was the pizza boy sent round to me by Belevedere all those years before. Gosh – what a coincidence. The sort that gets situation comedies the world over universally disliked.

“Putting all that to one side, I am having sixteen people for dinner and I need someone to cook for me. Can you help ?”

“So that would be seventeen people all together ?”

“I just said sixteen.”

“You said you were having sixteen people over.”

“Yes. Sixteen – not seventeen.”

“Yes but sixteen people plus yourself equals seventeen.”

“There will only be sixteen people eating dinner.”

“So you aren’t eating at your own party ? What are you planning to poison them ? Because I am not having my food implicated in a mass murder. Lucricia Borga had nothing on you.”

“I will be one of the sixteen.”

“So there will be one of your guests not eating ? Maybe he is planning to poison you. He might have arranged the whole party and manipulated you into holding it specifically to deflect attention away from him. You better watch yourself – people trying to kill you can really cast a shadow over your day.”

“There will be sixteen people at the event and all sixteen of us will be eating. Is that clear enough for you ?”

“Right – now we are getting somewhere. I do wish customers would be a little clearer in what they want. What would you like for a first course ?” I gave him the roughly sketched menu I had prepared during his logic-fest. Boring people have a use – you can use conversations with them to get paperwork done.

“We can't do sixteen of those” he said, poo pooing my prawn cocktail idea.

“Why not ?”

“It is a question of cold storage.”

“Isn't it always. Well what about this” and I gave him three more suggestions. He rejected the first as too expensive, the second was (he assured me) an acquired taste and the third made the most awful mess and should only be served to people one knew to be absolutely guaranteed not to spill. I asked him to make a suggestion.

“I recommend the haddock” he said.

“Haddock ? As a starter ?”

“It is all the rage in restaurants all over Europe.”

“Really ?”

“No but it would be if people weren’t so prejudiced. Do you have a number for that fax of yours ?” he asked suddenly. I was unprepared and, like the X486 question, I spat out a number without knowing it. “I’ll fax through my full menu – as recommended by gourmets from Emma Forbes to Eamon Holmes – and a list of prices. Do you want any garlic bread ?”

“Excuse me ?”

“Flash back to Speedy-Pizzas. Sorry.”

“Right.”

“Anything else I can do for you ?”

“Just one thing – how does this fax machine work actually ?” He sighed down the phone line and went through a complicated list of suggestions. Sure enough they worked and ten minutes later I had a full menu with which to toy. I grimaced at his suggestions – I wouldn’t feed this stuff to my worst enemies (literally) – and went to the next number on the list.

“Simon ?” said the voice at the other end of my enquiry. I hadn’t had time to utter a single word when I was accused of baring the name Simon.

“I…” I began.

“Simon is that you ? I have been so worried.”

“I…” I tried again.

“When they said they had found your shoes on a beach I feared the worst.”

“I…” third time lucky I hoped.

“And then when your clothes were washed up in Cornwall I knew you must have drowned.”

“I…” still not luck.

“Part of me wanted to believe you weren’t dead – I really did – but I knew I had to be realistic. You were gone and no amount of crying would bring you back.”

“I…”

“When they declared you dead I took control of your business and remarried your brother Bret. I am sorry Simon – you are no longer part of my life.”

“I….”

“You must come to terms with it – you can't just go off and get drowned and then come back without a scratch and still expect to have a thriving business and an eager wife. You expect too much Simon. I have nothing more to say to you.”

“My name isn’t Simon” I said in one mouthful between her flow of words.

“Oh. Sorry. Piffle-Bendiwack Catering Services – Tania speaking – how may I help you ?”

“I think I have the wrong number” I said, not wanting to be drawn any further into her madness.

“It is you Simon – you always were a coward” and she thumped the receiver down. That was happening a lot to me at that time. I think my voice lacked dominance.