The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (35 page)

‘Morning, Mr Wellbourne,’ said Joan, whose husband had died exactly six months earlier.

‘Seventeen minutes late,’ he said. ‘A defective bogie at Earlsfield.’

On his desk was a pile of questionnaires, in which the staff had expressed their views about life at Sunshine Desserts.

‘Dictation time, Mrs Greengross,’ he said, because Reggie would have said: ‘Take a letter, Joan.’

She crossed her long, slim legs and he felt a shiver of excitement.

He looked away hastily. All that foolishness belonged to Reggie Perrin.

He took another quick peep and felt another shiver of excitement. Briefly, his eyes met Joan’s.

‘To the Principal, the College of Industrial Psychology, Initiative House, Helions Bumpstead. Dear Sir, thank you for your kind inquiry
re
the Reginald Perrin Memorial Foundation. The purpose of these legs is to keep the employees happy

‘Legs, Mr Wellbourne?’

Reggie began to sweat.

‘Sorry. The purpose of the
foundation
is to keep the employees happy, and therefore efficient. We have regular meetings and policy discussions between the two sides, I have a monthly chat with each employee, we have outings, societies and lunch-time concerts in our new social centre, “The Pudding Club”, and . . .’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ he said.

There was another knock.

‘Come in,’ he yelled.

David Harris-Jones entered for his monthly chat.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure whether I heard you say come in or not. So I thought if you didn’t I’d better not, and if you did you’d say it again and I could always come in then.’

‘Sit down, David.’

David sat in the chair made warm by Joan. Reggie envied him.

‘I’ll get you coffee,’ said Joan.

‘Super,’ said David.

When they were alone, Reggie adopted a voice steeped in paternal comfort, as if he were President Roosevelt and David Harris-Jones was America in crisis.

‘Well, David, it’s good to see you,’ he said. ‘How are things in the world of ice creams?’

‘Super. I’m enjoying working on the new Nut Whirl range immensely.’

‘Good. That is splendid news. I see you’ve joined the Sunshine Singers.’

‘Yes, I’m becoming much more … well I suppose it’s not for me to say … maybe I’m not.’

‘Much more what?’

‘Self-confident. I think I’m much more … what can I say? … how can I put it?’

‘Decisive.’

‘Yes.’

‘What about the redecoration of your office?’ said Reggie, glancing at the pictures of Skegness and Fleetwood which the Office Environment Amelioration Committee had given him to brighten up his dreary box. ‘Did you get
SCAB
?’

‘
SCAB
?’

‘The Selection of Colour-scheme Advisory Booklet.’

‘Oh. Yes. I can’t decide whether to go for red for initiative, green for concentration or blue for loyalty. Which do you think I need more of most – initiative, concentration or loyalty?’

There was another knock.

‘Ah, coffee,’ said Reggie.

But it wasn’t coffee. It was Tony Webster, Reggie’s departmental head. He entered the room decisively but not arrogantly.

‘Morning, Martin. Morning, David. How’s it going?’ he said.

‘Fine,’ said Reggie.

‘Super,’ said David.

‘Great,’ said Tony. ‘Won’t keep you long.’ A piece of ash from his large but not ostentatious cigar fell on to the wide but not obtrusive lapel of his modern but not frivolous suit.

‘Work force becoming more contented?’ he asked. ‘Questionnaires proving helpful?’

‘I hope so,’ said Reggie.

‘Great.’

‘Super.’

‘One little fact bothers me,’ said Tony. ‘Production is down one point two per cent.’

‘I see,’ said Reggie.

‘Any theories?’ said Tony.

‘People are too busy filling in questionnaires and wondering what colour to paint their offices and having monthly chats and meeting the other side of industry,’ said Reggie.

‘Super,’ said David.

Tony shot him a withering glance.

‘Sorry,’ said David.

‘One other little fact. Absenteeism and sickness are up three point one per cent,’ said Tony.

‘I see,’ said Reggie.

‘C.J. has got to be told,’ said Tony.

‘Yes,’ said Reggie.

‘The secret of good management is the ability to delegate,’ said Tony. ‘You tell him, Martin.’

Reggie couldn’t tell C.J. that absenteeism and sickness were up, because C.J. was absent sick. Instead he spent the day feeding into the computer the answers which the staff had given to his questionnaires. The results were disturbing.

Elizabeth was on the phone to their daughter Linda when Reggie arrived home. She was sitting in a fluffy white armchair, with her back to the french windows. The fitted carpet was dove grey and there was a faint yellow-green tinge in the patterned wallpaper. On the walls hung pictures of Algarve scenes, painted by Dr Snurd, their dentist. Reggie hadn’t liked to refuse them, for fear Dr Snurd would stop giving him injections.

‘Here’s Reggie,’ she said, as she heard the front door.

‘Are you ever going to tell him that you know he’s Reggie?’ said Linda.

‘I don’t know,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I just don’t know.’

Reggie entered the room rather wearily and Elizabeth said: ‘I must go now, love. Here’s Martin,’ and put the phone down.

‘Did you have a good day at the office?’ she said.

‘Wonderful,’ said Reggie, because if he’d been Reggie he’d have said: ‘No.’

He poured two dry martinis. He hated dry martini, but Martin Wellbourne liked it, so he had to drink them.

‘Are you sure you’re happy?’ said Elizabeth.

‘Deliriously happy,’ said Reggie, as he sank into the brown Parker Knoll.

In the spacious garden the trees were bare and puritanical. In the kitchen a mutton casserole simmered, and a plane drowned their conversation as it descended towards Heathrow. It carried, did they but know it, a party from the Icelandic Bar Association, eager to re-clothe themselves cheaply at C & A’s.

‘What did you say?’ said Elizabeth.

‘I said we’re on the flight path again,’ said Reggie.

Elizabeth served their supper, and Reggie struggled with his mutton casserole.

‘Reggie hated mutton casserole,’ she said.

‘Did he really?’

‘He hated dry martinis too.’

‘Did he really? But then I’m not Reggie, am I?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You aren’t, are you?’

‘Are you absolutely sure you’re happy, Martin?’ said Elizabeth as they lay in bed, listening to the Milfords returning noisily after their snifter at the golf club.

‘Of course I am,’ he said. ‘I’m wonderfully happy.’

They made love, but he didn’t really enjoy it. He was too busy making sure he didn’t do it like Reggie Perrin.

Chapter 2

On the Tuesday morning a watery sun shone fitfully.

‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ said Reggie to the GPO engineer, ‘but I loathe Martin Wellbourne.’

‘That’s all right, chief,’ said the GPO engineer. ‘No bones broken. Who is this Martin Wellbourne anyway?’

‘I am,’ said Reggie.

The GPO engineer stepped away from Reggie, and fell backwards into his hole.

The eight sixteen reached Waterloo seventeen minutes late, due to track relaying at Queen’s Road, and C.J. returned to work.

‘Sit down, Martin,’ he said.

Reggie pulled up a hard chair and sat on it.

‘Don’t trust the easy chairs, eh?’ said C.J. ‘I don’t blame you. I didn’t get where I am today by trusting the easy chairs.’

‘Absolutely not, C.J.,’ said Reggie.

C.J.’s office was large, with a thick yellow carpet and two circular red rugs. C.J. sat in a steel swivel chair behind a huge rosewood desk.

‘There’s something I must tell you, C.J.,’ said Reggie.

‘Work going well, Martin? Keeping everybody’s peckers up?’

‘Yes, C.J., I …’

‘How’s the lunch-time folk club going?’

‘Very well, C.J. Parker from Flans is singing today.’

‘That man could be a second Dylan Thomas,’ said C.J.

A tug hooted on the near-by river.

‘The thing is, C.J. . . .’

’Participation, that’s the name of the game,’ said C.J.

‘It certainly is, C.J. I . . .’

‘I met the firm’s ex-doctor on Saturday. Fellow named Morrissey. Sound chap. I sacked him once.’

‘Absolutely fascinating, C.J. I . . .’

‘I’ve given him his job back. I realize now how important loyalty and happiness are. Loyalty and happiness, Martin.’

‘Exactly, C.J.’

‘Now, what is it?’ said C.J. ‘Spit it out. Proliferation is the thief of time.’

‘Production is down one point two per cent and absenteeism is up three point one per cent,’ said Reggie.

‘I see.’

C.J. strode briskly round the room, examining the pictures on his walls as if for reassurance. The Bratby and the Bacon had been replaced by works more eloquent of happiness -two Lake District scenes, a still life of a lobster and a portrait of Ken Dodd.

‘I’ve had the results of the questionnaires analysed, C.J.’

‘And?’ barked C.J.

‘There are lots of things that lots of people like a lot, C.J.’

‘Good. Splendid. Tickety boo.’

‘Exactly. As you rightly say, tickety boo. But there are a few little things . . .
little
things . . . that a lot of people dislike rather a lot, C.J.’

‘What little things, Martin?’

‘Well . . . er . . . just little things. The . . . er . . . the building, C.J. And the . . . er . . . the offices, and the furniture, and . . . er . . .’

‘And what?’

‘The product, C.J. They just don’t like making instant puddings.’

‘I see,’ said C.J.

He gazed at the Lake District, the lobster and Ken Dodd, and it seemed that he gained new strength.

‘Mere bagatelles, Martin,’ he said. ‘We mustn’t let short-term setbacks obscure the long-term view. Neither Mrs C.J. nor I has ever let short-term setbacks obscure the long-term view.’

‘I imagine not, C.J.’

C.J. leant forward with sudden vehemence. His eyes sparkled.

The results will come,’ he said. ‘Carry on the good work. Don’t forget, in a sense you are keeping Reggie Perrin alive.’

‘I won’t forget, C.J.,’ said Reggie.

‘To the Location of Offices Bureau, South Quay, Tobermory, Mull. Dear Sirs . . .’

He sighed.

‘Are you all right, Mr Wellbourne?’ said Joan.

‘I’m in tip-top form,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s just that this business of making everybody happy is making me miserable.’

‘Owen Lewis from Crumbles is coming for his monthly chat in five minutes.’

‘Oh. Good,’ he said. ‘Because I’m going home.’

But Reggie did not go home. Instead he went to visit his lovely daughter Linda, in her lovely detached house in the lovely village of Thames Brightwell.

Linda broached a bottle of Tom’s sprout wine and seated herself on the chaise longue. Reggie sat in an armchair and leapt up with a yelp. He picked up a peculiarly shaped knife.

‘You’ve sat on the aubergine-peeler,’ said Linda.

‘On the what?’

Tom gave me a set of vegetable knives for Christmas. You get a different tool for each vegetable. An endive-cutter, a courgette-slicer . . .’

‘Oh good. No home should be without a courgette-slicer.’

‘It’s easy for you to mock, dad, but if you want to get on as an estate agent you have to keep up with the Joneses.’

Reggie sat down gingerly.

‘You’re the only person in the world who knows who I am,’ he said.

‘Your secret is safe with me,’ said Linda.

Reggie sipped his wine and grimaced.

‘It’s horrible,’ he said.

‘Nineteen seventy-two was a bad year for sprouts.’

Reggie removed a fluffy wombat from underneath his cushion.

‘Your children have very charming toys,’ he said.

‘Tom refuses to let them have anything violent. He confiscated the working model of the Third Parachute Regiment that Jimmy gave Adam.’

‘I thought Tom believed in freedom.’

‘Freedom and peace.’

‘Principles
are
confusing, aren’t they? Oh, Linda, what am I to do?’

‘Martin Wellbourne will have to leave all his clothes on the beach and reappear as Reggie Perrin.’

‘What, and attend Martin Wellbourne’s Memorial Service and marry your mother for the third time? Be serious. Linda.’

‘Sorry.’

She kissed her father, flinching from the prickles of his Martin Wellbourne beard.

Reggie looked out over the large lawn, which led down to a Gothic stone folly that Tom had built.

‘I was wondering if you could tell your mother the truth,’ said Reggie.

‘Me? If anyone tells her, it’s got to be you.’

‘It might not be very easy,’ said Reggie. ‘She’s got used to me as I am. Sometimes I think she prefers me to me.’

‘She doesn’t prefer you to you,’ said Linda. ‘She much prefers you.’

‘It’s going to be an awful shock to her,’ said Reggie.

‘Maybe not as much as you think,’ said Linda. ‘Tell her, dad. Tell her tonight.’

‘I will,’ said Reggie. ‘I will. My mind is made up. I’ll tell her tonight. Do you really think I ought to tell her?’

‘If you want to,’ said Linda.

She poured Reggie another glass of the greenish-yellow liquid.

‘Dutch courage,’ she said.

‘More like Belgian courage,’ he said.

Adam and Jocasta came running in, closely followed by their father.

‘Hello, Tom. How’s the bearded wit of the Thames Valley house ads?’ said Reggie.

‘Hello, Martin. My God, you aren’t drinking the sprout wine?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s undrinkable. My one and only mistake. You can’t make wine out of sprouts.’

Tom took the remains of Reggie’s drink and poured it down the sink.

Reggie soon left. When he looked back, Adam was slitting the wombat’s throat with the aubergine-peeler.

Linda phoned Elizabeth from the telephone box opposite the church. Icy March winds blew through the panes broken by vandals.

‘Dad’s just been here,’ she said. ‘He’s going to tell you that he’s Reggie.’