The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (101 page)

‘Did you have a good day at the office?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Very good,’ he said.

He enjoyed his lemon sole meuniere and rhubarb crumble. He slept the troubled sleep of a condemned man. He ate a hearty breakfast.

Elizabeth handed him his brand new briefcase, engraved with his initials ‘R.I.P.’.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.

She handed him his umbrella.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.

She kissed him good-bye.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.

‘Have a good day at the office,’ she said.

‘I will,’ he said.

Why did you do it, he asked himself as he walked down Leibnitz Drive.

You’re a lucky man, he told himself as he turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise. You live in a peaceful country.

You’re free to walk through pleasant residential streets, he told himself, as he turned left into Schopenhauer Grove.

You’re walking up the hill to Goffley Station. Trains have been invented. You’re not ill. You have a roof over your head, clothes on your back and food in your belly. It isn’t raining. Your credit rating will improve with time. Here comes the train. It’s only twenty minutes late. You have a seat. Your newspaper is not a lackey of the government. You earn a good salary. You’re reasonably personable and can make friends without extreme difficulty. Iris Hoddle is pleasant and helpful. Muscroft and Rosewall are marvellous, terrific people. You’re happy.

Why did you do it?

The wheels were saying, ‘You can still get away with it. All is not lost.’

He believed the wheels, because he was an older and wiser man.

‘Something rather extraordinary seems to have happened at the smelling,’ said C.J.

‘Really? How extraordinary,’ said Reggie.

‘Normally nothing extraordinary happens at them,’ said C.J. ‘But yesterday it did. Cigar?’

Reggie took a cigar.

C.J. handed him the lighter.

Reggie knew that C.J. was looking to see if his hand was shaking.

He fought hard to keep it steady. At last the cigar was lit.

‘What sort of extraordinary thing, C.J.?’ he asked.

The computer has processed the results of the smelling,’ said C.J.

‘Ah!’

‘Exactly. “Ah!”, as you so rightly say. This is what smell number one reminded its smellers of, Reggie. Mountains, five people. Snow, three people. Fresh water, two people. Larch forests, two people. Scotland, one person. Camping, one person. Bolivian unicyclist’s jockstrap, one person.’

‘Good lord, C.J. That is extraordinary,’ said Reggie.

‘Smell number two,’ said C.J. ‘Herbs, eight people. One person each for rockery, lavender, thyme, marjoram, spice factory, heather and Bolivian unicyclist’s jockstrap.’

‘This is astonishing, C.J.,’ said Reggie.

C.J. picked up the sheet of paper from which he had been reading, and waved it violently at Reggie.

‘Smell number three,’ he said. ‘Roses, fourteen people. Bolivian unicyclist’s jockstrap, one person.’

‘I can hardly credit it,’ said Reggie.

‘The same sorry story occurs with regard to all ten smells, Reggie.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

‘I didn’t get where I am today by having everything smelling of Bolivian unicyclists’ jockstraps, Reggie.’

‘I can believe it, C.J.’

C.J. gave Reggie a long hard look.

‘Can you suggest any explanation, Reggie,’ he said.

‘I certainly can, C.J.’

‘Ah!’

‘A fault in the computer.’

‘It seems a strange fault for a computer, Reggie. It doesn’t have an electronic ring about it.’

‘I grant you that, C.J.’

‘Do you have any other suggestions, Reggie?’

Reggie returned C.J.’s gaze levelly.

‘It looks as if somebody’s playing silly buggers,’ he said.

‘It looks that way to me too,’ said C.J. ‘Who could it be, do you think?’

‘I’ve no idea, C.J,’

A shaft of sunlight broke through the morning cloud and lit up the narrow steeple of the Wren church.

‘I don’t like it,’ said C.J. ‘Neither Mrs C.J. nor I has ever played silly buggers.’

‘Perish the thought, C.J.’

‘I intend to find out, Reggie. There will be an investigation.’

‘An excellent idea, C.J.’

‘Who do you think will head that investigation?’

‘I don’t know, C.J.’

‘I do, Reggie.’

‘Who, C.J.?’

‘You, Reggie.’

‘Me, C.J.?’

‘You, Reggie. Good-bye.’

Reggie walked slowly towards his connecting door.

‘Be thorough, Reggie,’ said C.J. ‘Leave no worm unturned.’

‘I’ll get to the bottom of it, C.J.,’ said Reggie.

‘I like your attitude,’ said C.J.

Reggie entered his mean little office and sank into his chair.

Why did you do it, Reggie?

C.J. knows. C.J. knows that I know that he knows. I’m trapped.

I can still get away with it.

I don’t want to get away with it.

He lifted the red phone.

‘Perrin on red,’ he said. ‘Come in, Miss Hoddle, please.’

His heart began to thump.

His pulse began to race.

His ears began to buzz.

Damn it, he would not lie and evade the issue any more.

Miss Hoddle entered. He smiled at her.

‘Sit down, Miss Kettle,’ he said.

‘Hoddle,’ she said.

‘I thought I’d call you Kettle for a change.’

Reggie!

‘Take a saucepan, Miss Hoddle.’

Letter!

‘Saucepan, Mr Perrin?’

‘I meant letter. Miss Kettle.’

‘Hoddle.’

I seem to be calling things by the names of household utensils. It’s out of the frying pan into the colander.

Not colander. Fire.

Oh what the hell. May as well be hung for a sheep as a baking tin.

Miss Hoddle’s looking at you, wondering. She’s worried. She’s a nice girl, and you’re upsetting her.

Get it over with.

‘To all present at the smelling yesterday,’ he began. ‘At the smelling yesterday somebody played silly buggers, and wrote that every single air freshener smelt of Bolivian unicyclists’ jockstraps.’

Miss Hoddle stared at him in astonishment.

‘That somebody was me,’ he continued. ‘I did it, and I’m not ashamed. I want you all to know why I did it. I did it because I believe that the whole thing is absolutely fish slice. Not only that. It is totally and utterly egg whisk.’

Silence filled the little office. Reggie smiled reassuringly at Iris Hoddle.

‘Find out the times of trains to the Dorset coast, would you, please?’ he said.

^*
Note: It is believed that this book mentions Godalming more than any other book ever written, including
A Social, Artistic and Economic History of Godalming
by E. Phipps-Blythburgh. Ed.