The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (45 page)

‘I don’t want you to make bulldog clips,’ said Elizabeth. ‘There are a lot of other things in life apart from bulldog clips.’

He leant forward and stroked her hair.

‘The world is absurd,’ he said. ‘The more absurd you are, the more chance you have of success.’

‘People aren’t complete fools,’ said Elizabeth. ‘They’ll find out our stuff’s rubbish.’

‘They’ll know all along,’ said Reggie. ‘We’ll put a notice in the window: “Everything sold in this shop is totally useless.” We can sell Tom’s wine, Dr Snurd’s paintings, your father’s old books. All rubbish.’

He went to the cardboard-speckled windows and looked out over the grey Bank Holiday afternoon. It had begun to rain.

‘All over the estate, at this moment,’ said Reggie, ‘people are listening to the Radio Two road works report: “There’s a ten-mile tail-back at Gallows Corner.” And they’ll feel all warm inside, because they’re not stuck at Gallows Corner with the masses. “We aren’t sheep,” they’ll all think.’

‘Don’t change the subject,’ said Elizabeth. ‘The point is, why on earth should people buy utter rubbish?’

‘People like rubbish,’ said Reggie. ‘Look at Christmas crackers. People would feel they’d been done if the jokes were funny and the little plastic knick-knacks worked. Look at punk rock. And how many times do you hear people say they must rush home because there’s the worst film they’ve ever seen on the telly? They brought out a silent LP in America. It sold well. People who dislike noise played it on juke-boxes.’

He switched on the radio. There were seventeen-mile jams at Tadcaster and Keswick, and two-hour delays at Tadcaster.

‘Switch it off, darling,’ said Elizabeth.

Reggie switched it off.

‘It’ll be fun,’ he said. ‘We’ll give them a run for their money.’

‘That’s just the trouble,’ said Elizabeth. ‘We’ll be giving them a run for our money.’

‘Don’t worry, darling,’ he said. ‘We’ll make our fortunes.’

He kissed the top of her head.

‘You just see if we don’t,’ he said.

The bank manager was sympathetic. If it was up to him personally, he would lend Reggie money like a shot. Certain things which needn’t be mentioned had happened. A certain ruse concerning credit cards had been perpetrated last year, and as a result credit facilities had been withdrawn. This was now forgotten. There had been the matter of the will of the late Reginald Iolanthe Perrin, who had turned out not to be dead after all. Then there had been a Mr Martin Wellbourne who had opened an account, paid cheques in and out, developed a healthy overdraft and generally behaved like a model client. Nevertheless, he did not exist, and this was against bank regulations. The banks are broad-minded, they will overlook minor peccadillos both financial and moral, especially moral, but there are limits. They cannot permit their clients not to exist. Where would it end if they did? Anybody who was anybody would protest if anybody who was nobody could open a bank account. But even this could be skated over, if it was up to the bank manager personally.

But the manager was responsible to the bank, and they could not at the present moment in time regard Reggie as a man of impeccable financial probity. No doubt they would if it was up to them. But unfortunately it wasn’t up to them. They were responsible to the government. The government were decent chaps at heart, despite what everybody said. If it was up to them, they would turn a blind eye to Reggie’s misfortunes. Unfortunately however it wasn’t up to the government. The government’s hands were tied. They were responsible to the International Monetary Fund, and without actually saying so the manager intimated that the International Monetary Fund was a load of foreign bastards.

The finance companies were no more helpful. When Reggie told them that his plan was to make and sell rubbish, they couldn’t get rid of him quick enough.

He found a small shop on an unprepossessing site off the wrong end of the High Street, between a pet shop and an architect’s office. The seven building societies refused to give him a mortgage. He went to two friendly societies but they were both extremely unfriendly.

C.J. was alarmed to get Reggie’s call. Did it mean that he had found out about Elizabeth?

Reggie’s appointment was for eleven-thirty on 2 September, and C.J. fortified himself with a medicinal brandy.

The knock came promptly on the dot.

‘Come in,’ said C.J. in a masterful voice belied by a slight croak.

Reggie entered. He looked diffident rather than angry, and a wave of relief swept over C.J.

Reggie sat in the Japanese chair.

‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ he said. There’s no sense in beating about the bush.’

‘You’re talking my language,’ said C.J.

‘Yes. I . . . I wondered if you could lend me some money,’ said Reggie.

A cold certainty struck C.J. It was blackmail.

Reggie explained what he wanted the money for. C.J. looked at him in amazement.

‘So what sort of a sum did you have in mind?’ said C.J.

‘It’s up to you, C.J. I was thinking of . . .’ Think big, Reggie. You must think big with C.J. ‘Something in the region . . .’ Pitch it too high and then bring it down. ‘. . . of . . . er . . . thirty . . . er . . .’

‘Thirty?’

‘Thousand pounds.’

‘Thirty thousand pounds!!’

‘Yes,’ rather squeakily.

It was blackmail. Reggie knew all about Godalming, the butler, the bogus papers endlessly sorted by an unsuspecting Elizabeth, the name Bunny. She had told Reggie in all innocence, and he, knowing C.J.’s reputation for ruthlessness and as the ultimate defender of the world against hanky-panky, had recognized the innocent tale for what it was – dynamite.

But he had to be sure.

‘Did you find out anything more about the business of Elizabeth and the . . . er . . . Tony Webster?’ he said.

‘Yes, I did. She wasn’t with Tony Webster at all.’

‘Ah!’

‘It was a chap who was in your neck of the woods, C.J.’

‘Really? Cigar?’

C.J. pushed the box towards Reggie and Reggie took a fat Havana.

‘Godalming,’ said Reggie.

‘Ah, yes, Godalming,’ said C.J. ‘Quite.’

‘She didn’t do anything wrong, of course,’ said Reggie. ‘Ostensibly she’d gone there to work, and that was all she did. But I think really he needed her as female company. I think he felt lonely with his wife so far away in Luxembourg.’

‘Quite.’

C.J. admired the delicacy of Reggie’s approach, the way in which he spared C.J.’s feelings by making out that he was talking about a complete stranger. The man was a gentleman as well as a nutcase.

‘Thirty thousand pounds, you said?’

‘Yes.’

C.J. wrote out a cheque for thirty thousand pounds, and handed it to Reggie. Reggie tried to hide his astonishment as he pocketed it.

‘It won’t bounce,’ said C.J.

‘Of course not,’ said Reggie.

‘No further demands, you understand,’ said C.J.

‘You make it sound as if I’m blackmailing you,’ said Reggie.

Despite her misgivings, Elizabeth helped Reggie prepare for the grand opening of Grot. He spent his days making such alterations as were necessary to the interior of the shop, while she stayed at home, making the things that they would sell.

Dame Fortune, that fickle jade, gave certain indications that she looked kindly upon the venture. Reggie put twenty-five pounds on a horse called ‘R.I.P.’ in the Sanilav Novices Chase at Haydock Park. He won two hundred and thirty-two pounds and eighty-five pence. Emboldened, he put fifty pounds on a horse called ‘Golden Rubbish’ in the Sellotape Handicap Hurdle at Ayr, and won four hundred and sixty-two pounds seventy-seven pence. Further emboldened, he put a hundred pounds on a horse called ‘Reggie’s Folly’ in the Hoovermatic Challenge Cup at Sandown Park, and won nine hundred and eighty-one pounds thirty-three pence.

Tom, who had not been told that the shop was dedicated to the sale of rubbish, was flattered when Reggie suggested using it as an outlet for his home-made wines.

Dr Snurd was equally pleased when invited to part with ten paintings of the Algarve.

The grand opening was fixed for November the twelfth. Soon it was September the twenty-fifth. Not quite so soon it was October the third. A bit later still it was October the twelfth.

One month to go. Feverish alterations. Frantic preparations.

There was still time before the opening for two major incidents to occur.

Chapter 11

The first major incident was set in motion by an article in the
Telegraph
colour supplement, giving details of some of the private armies that were lying low all over Great Britain, waiting for the balloon to go up.

Some of these organizations were formed by fanatical right-wingers, usually in isolated premises on the Celtic fringe. Others were formed by fanatical left-wingers, usually in dilapidated premises in decaying inner cities. One, the Army of Moderation, was run by fanatical middle-of-the-roaders from a council house in Hinckley.

The only one that interested Elizabeth was the one that was run by Colonel Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther and Major James ‘Cock-up’ Anderson ‘somewhere in the West Country’.

A family conference was planned for nine o’clock that evening. The venue was the living-room of Reginald and Elizabeth Perrin’s desirable residence in Coleridge Close, Climthorpe.

Coffee and biscuits were served by the charming hostess.

Reggie freely admitted his prior knowledge of Jimmy’s paramilitary pretensions.

‘He offered me a job in it,’ he said.

‘You might have told me,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Darling, he swore me to secrecy.’

‘Maybe we could have stopped him.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘We could have tried.’

Tom stood by the french windows. The curtains were drawn.

‘Reggie’s right,’ he said. ‘Even though Jimmy’s army is a violation of everything we hold most dear, Reggie’s right. In our non-violent fight against it, we must always put individual morality before the common good. That is the only weapon we have.’

‘You have been listening to “Individual Morality and the Estate Agent”,’ said Reggie. ‘Next week’s programme in our series,
Morality and the Professions
, is entitled: “Chartered Accountants and the Humanist Quandary.”’

‘This is serious, Reggie,’ said Elizabeth.

‘He told me he was working for the Ministry of Defence,’ said Linda.

‘When?’ said Tom.

‘That day I went out on my own in Cornwall.’

‘You never told me,’ said Tom.

‘He swore me to secrecy.’

‘I do think you might have told me.’

‘You said it was right for Reggie not to tell,’ said Linda.

‘Yes, but I’m your husband.’

‘So what? Mum’s Dad’s wife.’

‘I’m sure we’re all very grateful for being reminded of these relationships,’ said Reggie. ‘It could prevent quite a few muddles.’

‘Please!’ said Elizabeth. ‘Please! We’re supposed to be talking about my brother, who’s made a complete fool of himself. There it is in the paper. James “Cock-up” Anderson. I’m going down there to bring him back.’

‘He won’t come,’ said Reggie.

‘I know how to deal with him.’

‘You’ll have to deal with Clive “Lofty” Anstruther as well.’

‘We must go there straightaway,’ said Elizabeth.

‘I can’t go now,’ said Reggie. ‘The shop’s opening in less than a month.’

‘Hang the shop,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He’s my brother.’

‘Linda’s the one to go,’ said Reggie. ‘I don’t know if you know it, Linda, but Jimmy’s got a soft spot for you.’

‘I know it,’ said Linda.

‘Where Linda goes, I go,’ said Tom, who was still standing by the curtains, as if to emphasize that he wasn’t one of the immediate family.

‘Reggie and I’ll go,’ said Elizabeth. ‘There’s plenty of time to work on the shop later. Do we know where Jimmy’s headquarters are?’

‘We went for a walk on the golf course,’ said Linda.

‘Was that when it rained?’ said Tom.

‘Rained?’ said Linda.

‘You remember. You got soaked to the skin,’ said Tom.

‘Oh yes. Yes, it poured.’

‘We didn’t have a drop at the hotel,’ said Tom. ‘Of rain, I mean. I wrote to the met office about it. They said it must have been an isolated local shower and thanked me for my vigilance. They said the individual can be part of a world-wide network of observations that include satellites, weather ships and meteorological balloons.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Reggie. ‘How dull my correspondence is by comparison. I must write to Dale Carnegie and take a correspondence course to improve my correspondence.’

‘May I continue my story about the golf course?’ said Linda.

‘Please do,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Riveting so far,’ said Reggie. ‘The bit about the sudden shower was the best bit.’

‘Come on. Finish your story, Plobblechops,’ said Tom from his safe vantage point.

Linda swung round and glared at him. The lights blinked to a distant flash of lightning.

‘Are you insinuating that the delays are my fault?’ she said.

‘I’m not insinuating anything,’ said Tom. ‘I’m pointing out that you have the floor.’

‘I don’t. You’re still talking,’ said Linda.

‘I’m only talking to tell you that you have the floor,’ said Tom. ‘I was just trying to hurry things up.’

‘You’re slowing things down, Tom.’

‘Will you both shut up and then we can hear Linda’s story,’ said Elizabeth.

‘How can we hear her story if they’ve both shut up?’ said Reggie.

‘Jimmy and I made love on the eleventh green,’ said Linda.

Everyone was silent. Tom gawped. Elizabeth turned pale.

‘Not really,’ said Linda. ‘But I had to get your attention somehow. No, the only thing that happened was that he pointed inland, roughly north-west I should think, and said their place was over there.’

‘We’ll leave in the morning,’ said Reggie.

Reggie and Elizabeth set off for Cornwall early the next morning in unsettled October weather, and pulled up in the spacious car park of the Fishermen’s Arms five minutes before lunch-time closing.

Reggie ordered a pint of real ale and a gin and tonic. Only then, having established them as typical pub customers, did he make inquires about Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther and James ‘Cock-up’ Anderson.