The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (13 page)

‘What’s that?’ said Reggie.

The pink spots reappeared on her cheeks.

‘I thought I saw a mouse,’ she said lamely.

These bowls are lovely,’ said David Harris-Jones hastily. ‘There’s a thatching scene on this one.’

‘These old country crafts are dying out,’ said Tom.

‘Not before time,’ said C.J.

‘We can’t agree with you there, can we, Lindyplops?’ said Tom.

‘All this nostalgia for the past. What this country needs is a bit of nostalgia for the future,’ said C.J.

‘I buried her in Ponders End,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

‘I thought as it’s a nice evening it might be warm enough in the garden,’ said Reggie.

Their hearts leapt. Food!

Reggie led them out into the garden. There was no sign of any preparations for a meal.

Gallantly they admired his garden. The absence of damp mould, dry scourge, leaf rash, red blight and horny growth was warmly praised. Uncle Percy Spillinger walked with the assistance of Davina’s slender left arm.

‘You’ve got green fingers, Reggie,’ said C.J.

‘I once bought a finger off a chap I met in a pub in Basingstoke,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

An aeroplane was leaving a white trail right across the sky.

‘I thought in the event of accident a spare finger might come in handy,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

‘Do you have a nice garden?’ said David Harris-Jones.

‘We think so,’ said Linda. ‘We’ve gone in for shrubs rather than flowers.’

‘We’re shrub people,’ said Tom.

The albino blackbird flew into the garden, saw the crowd, pinked with alarm, and flew back into the Milfords’ garden.

‘I mean some chap might have said to me: “It’s a blasted nuisance. I seem to have lost a finger,”’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘And I’d be able to say: “Say no more. I’ve got just the thing for you back at the hotel. I could let you have it for a couple of quid.”’

‘Gorgeous,’ said Davina.

Tom took Linda to one side by the compost heap and whispered, ‘You said it was dinner.’

‘I thought it was,’ said Linda.

‘It doesn’t look like it.’

‘Well we can’t go until we’re sure it isn’t.’

‘I’m starving.’

‘So am I.’

By the potting shed Mrs C.J. whispered, ‘Is it dinner?’

‘I don’t know,’ said C.J.

‘You said it was.’

‘I thought it was.’

‘What do we do?’

‘Try not to put your foot in it, if it’s possible. Leave it to me. I’ll find out.’

‘I think we may as well go in now,’ said Reggie.

Mrs C.J. offered Uncle Percy Spillinger the assistance of her plump arm.

‘Perfectly capable of walking,’ he said gruffly.

Reggie offered them more drinks. C.J. and Mrs C.J. declined.

‘Bit awkward for you, your wife being away when you’ve got everything to get ready for us,’ said C.J.

‘Not really,’ said Reggie.

There was a pause. In the distance a passing goods train mocked them with its eloquence.

‘Well, this is nice,’ said Mrs C.J.

‘Mind if I take my coat off?’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

‘Not at all,’ said Reggie.

Reggie handed round twigs and crisps. Everyone took as large a handful as decency permitted.

‘What was your line of country, Spillinger?’ said C.J.

‘Oh, this and that,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger, who was wearing purple braces. ‘Sometimes more this than that, sometimes more that than this. I dug tombs in Egypt. I dived for pearls in the China Seas. I worked in an off-licence in Basingstoke. I got in a rut, you see. It was change, change, change all the time. It got very monotonous.’ He smiled at C.J., then turned to David Harris-Jones. ‘Are you in this stupid pudding caper too?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘I mean, no. I mean, I am -but it isn’t stupid – it’s a very challenging and exciting and rapidly expanding field.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs C.J. helplessly, ‘this is all very nice.’

‘Super,’ said Davina.

‘Well it certainly isn’t supper,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘Joke,’ he explained.

Reggie smiled.

‘Let’s have another drink and take it into the dining room,’ he said.

They all accepted another drink, in their relief.

Reggie led the way into the dining room. It was a dark, dignified room, with an oval walnut table and dark green striped wallpaper. It smelt of disuse. The table wasn’t laid, and there was no food to be seen.

‘I thought you’d like to have a look at it,’ said Reggie.

‘Oh – er – it’s – er – very nice,’ said Mrs C.J.

‘Are these pictures by Snurd as well?’ said C.J.

‘Yes,’ said Reggie.

‘I don’t think there’s going to be any food at all,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

‘Oh, are you hungry? You’d better eat all these things up,’ said Reggie.

He led them back into the living room, piled a bowl high with onions, twigs, olives and crisps, and gave it to Uncle Percy Spillinger.

Reggie insisted on giving them all one for the road.

‘Your tits remind me of the third Mrs Spillinger,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger to Davina.

Davina blushed. C.J. frowned, and Mrs C.J. said hurriedly, ‘What a lovely vase,’ and then realized that there wasn’t a single vase in the room. C.J. glared at her.

‘She died in 1938. A road safety poster fell off the back of a lorry and killed her,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘She was spared the outbreak of war, so it was a blessing in disguise.’

David Harris-Jones hiccupped.

‘Sossy,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I mean sorry.’

Everyone watched Uncle Percy Spillinger as he wolfed down his bowl of cocktail delicacies.

‘Been fishing much this year, C.J. old bean?’ said David Harris-Jones suddenly.

‘Not much. I’ve got my annual fishing contest this weekend, though,’ said C.J.

‘Who’s going from the firm this year?’ said Reggie.

That idiot Doc Morrissey,’ said C.J. ‘I forget who else.’

‘I’m not going,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘Am I, C.J., old bean? The face doesn’t fit, that’s why.’

C.J. looked at David Harris-Jones with eyes that went straight through him.

‘If the face doesn’t fit, don’t wear it,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘And I’ll tell you something else, C.J., old bean. What’s grist to the mill is nose to the grindstone.’

C.J. sat still for a moment, trying to work out whether David Harris-Jones’s proverb made sense or not. Reggie poured gin into everyone’s glasses, regardless of what they had been drinking before.

Uncle Percy Spillinger moved closer towards Davina on the sofa.

‘Am I a wicked old man?’ he said.

‘You’re a darling,’ said Davina. ‘You’re lovely. Everything’s lovely. This is a lovely house. Isn’t it a lovely house, C.J.? But then I suppose you’ve got an even lovelier house. But Reggie’s house is very lovely.’ She leant across towards the Parker Knoll chair and said in a loud whisper to Mrs C.J., ‘C.J. doesn’t like women in industry. He thinks they talk too much.’

‘Do you like old beans, old bean?’ said David Harris-Jones, and he roared with laughter.

‘Your lips remind me of the sixth Mrs Spillinger,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

‘How many wives have you had?’ said Davina.

‘Five,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

Davina kissed Uncle Percy Spillinger on the forehead.

‘You’re a darling,’ she said.

‘Hey, don’t I get a kiss?’ said David Harris-Jones.

Davina kissed David Harris-Jones, who was sitting on the piano stool.

‘You needn’t kiss C.J.,’ said Mrs C.J. ‘No doubt you’ve done that often enough already.’

‘Kate!’ said C.J. ‘My wife finds company difficult,’ he explained.

‘We must be off,’ said Linda.

‘Me too,’ said Davina. ‘I could eat a horse.’

‘I had horse once,’ said Tom. ‘It was surprisingly good. Marinade it in wine and coriander seeds, then . . .’

‘Shut up, Tom,’ said Linda.

David Harris-Jones fell off the piano stool and lay motionless on the carpet.

‘Your kiss upset him, my dear,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

‘My kiss? Why?’

‘Wrong sex. He’s a nancy-boy. A/c-D/c. He reminds me of a purser I knew on the Portsmouth-Gosport ferry. Wore coloured pants.’

‘They don’t have pursers on the Portsmouth-Gosport ferry,’ said C.J.

‘I wouldn’t know about that, but he wore coloured pants. I bet you £50
he’s
wearing coloured pants,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

‘You’re on,’ said C.J. ‘Ladies, avert your eyes.’

He laid David Harris-Jones down on the settee. C.J. undid David Harris-Jones’s zip and opened his trousers. The male members of the party watched as C.J. pulled David HarrisJones’s trousers down.

‘They’re not exactly coloured,’ said C.J.

They’re not exactly plain, though, are they?’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

David Harris-Jones’s underpants were plain white, but they were embroidered with the face, in blue cotton, of Ludwig van Beethoven.

The bet is null and void,’ said C.J.

‘I agree,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

Take me home, Tom,’ said Linda.

‘Just a moment,’ said Reggie. ‘I think I’d better tell you why there was no food. It’s because we’re all greedy. There’s not enough food in the world yet we all have dinner parties, Tom talks of nothing but food, it’s about time something was done about it. You would have had paté, red mullet, fillet steak, lemon meringue pie and cheese. Instead I’m sending the money to Oxfam. Here’s my cheque for £20. You would all have to invite us back, so instead you can all write out cheques for Oxfam as well.’

C.J. drove slowly, because he knew he had had too much to drink.

‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘What use is that to Oxfam? We could have had a damned good dinner and sent twice as much to Oxfam.’

‘But you wouldn’t have done,’ said Mrs C.J.

‘Your remark about the Letts-Wilkinson was inexcusable,’ said C.J. There’s absolutely no excuse for saying something as inexcusable as that.’

His engine hummed expensively. His headlights emphasized the mystery of woods and hedgerows. But C.J. had no eyes for mystery.

‘I don’t know what’s come over you these days,’ he said.

‘Don’t you?’ said Mrs C.J.

‘No, I do not,’ said C.J.

Then it’s about time you did,’ said Mrs C.J.

C.J. pulled up with a squeal of brakes.

‘Get this straight,’ he said. ‘Make a public exhibition of yourself at home if you must, but not in public. I cannot afford to have you letting the side down. I didn’t get where I am today by having you let the side down.’

‘Where are you today?’ said Mrs C.J. scornfully.

Tom drove slowly, because he knew he had had too much to drink.

‘I’m worried about your father,’ he said.

‘Well don’t you think I am?’ said Linda.

A tawny owl flew across the road.

‘Tawny owl,’ said Tom. ‘Did you see the tawny owl?’

‘Bugger the tawny owl,’ said Linda.

Tom drove on in silence. A stoat ran in front of the car, but he refrained from comment.

‘Why did you tell me to shut up?’ said Tom.

‘You were being a bore.’

‘What?’

‘You’re a boredom person, Tom.’

Tom ground his teeth and drove slower still to annoy Linda, but he said nothing. He had an ideal marriage, and he wasn’t going to let his own wife spoil it.

Davina Letts-Wilkinson shared Uncle Percy Spillinger’s hired car, at Uncle Percy Spillinger’s insistence.

‘To Abinger Hammer, by way of Putney Heath,’ he said.

‘Cost you, guv,’ said the driver.

‘Expense is no object,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. He put his right hand on Davina’s left knee, in the dark privacy of the back seat. They were going fast, along a dual carriageway.

‘When I said you had lips like the sixth Mrs Spillinger, I was proposing marriage,’ he said, and the driver swerved suddenly into the middle lane, causing an outburst of hooting from behind.

‘I know,’ said Davina.

‘I know I’m not an ideal catch,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘I’m eighty-one. For all I know I may not be capable.’

The driver swerved again and almost hit the central reservation.

‘We have to face these things,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. The spirit is willing but the flesh is an unknown quantity.’

The driver had moved over to the slow lane. Now he turned left and pulled up in a side road.

‘Do us a favour,’ he said. ‘Finish your conversation before I drive on. I can’t concentrate.’

These are intimate matters, not for your ears,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

‘I can’t help hearing if you shout.’

‘I’m slightly deaf,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘It comes to us all.’

‘Cor blimey, all right, I’ll go for a flaming walk,’ said the driver, and he got out of the car and began walking up and down the pavement.

Davina kissed Uncle Percy Spillinger on the lips.

‘I’ll give you my answer in the morning,’ she said. ‘I’ve had too much to drink tonight.’

‘There is one thing,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘It’s only fair to mention it.’

‘What is it?’

‘Not every woman wants to be buried at Ponders End.’

‘Ponders End?’

‘All my wives are buried at Ponders End.’

‘Oh.’

‘But I won’t insist on that, if you insist I don’t. There’s got to be give and take in marriage.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tomorrow, then.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘You do like me a little bit, don’t you?’

‘You’re a darling.’

‘We’d better get that driver chappie in before he gets pneumonia.’ He wound down the window and shouted out, ‘Driver!’

The driver got in the car and slammed the door.

‘Lead on, Macduff,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

‘I’m not Macduff. I’m Carter,’ said the driver.

‘I spoke figuratively,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

‘Macduff’s got ‘flu,’ said the driver.

David Harris-Jones was lying on the settee. Reggie had pronounced him unfit to drive home.

‘What did I say?’ he asked.

‘You kept calling C.J. “old bean”.’

‘What?’

‘You said: “What’s grist to the grindstone is nose to the mill.”

‘What?’

‘You said: “Do you like old beans, old bean?”’