The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (49 page)

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.

She watched him as he set off down the garden path, between the rose bushes which he had pruned so ruthlessly that autumn.

Mr Milford was just getting into the Ford Granada provided by his firm.

‘Morning, Reggie,’ he sang out, and his breath produced clouds of steam in the sharp air. ‘Can you and Elizabeth come to dinner on Saturday and meet the Shorthouses?’

‘Awfully sorry, Dennis,’ said Reggie. ‘It sounds tempting, we’d love to meet the Shorthouses, but I’ve got a prior engagement.’

‘I understand. It was short notice,’ said Mr Milford.

The prior engagement consisted of having a bath and watching
Match of the Day
in his dressing-gown.

He walked down Coleridge Close, turned right into Tennyson Avenue, then left into Wordsworth Drive, and down the snicket into Station Road. There were white gates across the roads on all the entrances to the Poets’ Estate, to bar all vulgar and unnecessary traffic.

He stood at his usual place on the platform, in front of the door marked ‘Isolation Telephone’.

Several people greeted him warmly.

A hoarding on the down platform bore simple but effective witness to his success.

‘GROT,’ it said. ‘Branches throughout North and South London.’

The eight forty-six reached Waterloo twenty-two minutes late. The loudspeaker announcement blamed black ice at Norbiton.

Reggie set off southwards along the Waterloo Road. A brisk ten-minute walk through grey, inelegant streets brought him to Head Office.

He walked towards the characterless glass and concrete box. Above the main entrance large letters proudly announced: ‘
ERRIN PRODUCTS
.’

He made as if to open the doors, forgetting as always that they slid noiselessly open at his approach.

He smiled in answer to the cheery and respectful ‘Morning, Mr Perrin’ from the receptionist, and took the lift up to the second floor.

His secretary was already there, in his outer office. Her name was Miss Erith and she was neither pretty nor ugly. She had a figure that was perfect without being attractive, and she was neither young nor old.

Reggie hadn’t the enthusiasm to say to her: Twenty-two minutes late. Black ice at Norbiton.’ There was nothing in her personality to encourage such intimacy.

He entered his inner sanctum and hurled his umbrella at the hat-stand. It missed by a foot and a half.

On his desk there were three telephones, and outside the window there was a window-box, which throughout the summer months had been a riot of colour.

He lifted the red phone.

‘Get me Mr Bulstrode, please, Miss Erith,’ he said.

He put the phone down and looked at his diary.

Ten thirty. David Harris-Jones.

Eleven thirty. Planning meeting – conference room B.

He smiled. On the surface life was quite similar to the old days at Sunshine Desserts, not much more than a mile away. But there was one enormous difference. He was the boss now. All this was his.

The green phone buzzed.

‘Mr Bulstrode on green,’ said Miss Erith.

He knew Mr Bulstrode was on green. He had just picked up the green phone, hadn’t he?

If only Joan were his secretary.

‘Hello, Bulstrode,’ he said. ‘Listen, there’s a “P” missing over the main entrance.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mr Bulstrode. ‘I’ll have a “P” up there within the hour.’

Reggie laughed. The staff were quite used to his laughing from time to time, and took no notice of it.

In Reggie’s office there were two awful paintings of the Algarve by Dr Snurd, two abysmal paintings of Siena by Dr Underwood – Reggie called them burnt Siena and unburnt Siena – and two horrendous paintings of Ramsey, Isle of Man, by Dr Wren, his osteopath.

The yellow telephone rang.

‘David Harris-Jones on yellow,’ said Miss Erith.

‘Hello, Reggie,’ said David. ‘I just rang to say I may be a minute or two late.’

‘Good,’ said Reggie. ‘Better ring off now or you may be three or four minutes late.’

Reggie asked Miss Erith to provide a bottle of champagne on ice. She looked disapproving.

Promptly at ten thirty-one-and-a-half David Harris-Jones arrived. He stuttered across the thick pile carpet, clutching a sheaf of papers. Reggie realized that it was David’s lot in life to stutter across thick pile carpets towards large men behind big desks, and say: ‘I’ve got those figures you asked for.’

‘I’ve got those figures you asked for,’ said David.

‘Champagne, David?’ he said.

‘Champagne? What’s this in aid of?’

‘Because I could think of no possible reason for having it.’

Reggie handed him a glass of the bubbling liquid.

‘Super,’ he said.

Reggie summoned Miss Erith.

‘Get yourself a glass,’ he said.

‘Oh no, thank you,’ she said.

‘Come on. Let your hair down,’ he said.

‘Thank you, no. I’m on a diet,’ said Miss Erith, and she closed the door behind her with the optimum firmness commensurate with quietude.

‘Why are women with perfect figures always on diets, and why are female dieticians always sixteen stone?’ said Reggie.

‘I don’t know,’ said David.

‘Because the world is absurd,’ said Reggie.‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Not sorry you came to work for me?’ said Reggie.

‘I’ll say not,’ said David. ‘When C.J. made me redundant like that, just before my wedding and everything, it took away. all my self-confidence. Did I ever tell you what happened then?’

‘Yes,’ said Reggie.

‘I read about your success, I thought: “Why don’t I write?”’

‘I know.’

‘Eighteen times I drafted letters.’

‘I know.’

‘Eighteen times I tore them up.’

‘I know. Finally Prue made you write. She’s a wonderful girl.’

‘Oh. You know.’

‘Yes. Let’s see those figures then.’

‘We’re up in twenty-five shops, down in ten, and virtually level-pegging in the other nine.’

Reggie studied the detailed figures briefly.

‘Not too bad, I suppose,’ he said.

‘Climthorpe’s down rather badly. There’s evidence of mismanagement there.’

‘Maybe I’d better put a new man in. Top you up?’

‘Super.’

Reggie filled David Harris-Jones’s glass to the brim.

‘Thank you, C.J.,’ said David, and blushed in deep confusion, as if calling a man C.J. was the worst insult you could give him. ‘Sorry, Reggie.’

Reggie laughed.

‘I hope I’m not getting like C.J.’

‘No. Perish the thought.’

‘Do you think when they made you redundant it was for economy reasons or were they dissatisfied with your work?’

I’m nothing special, Reggie. No, don’t deny it. Oh God, you weren’t going to. No, I’m nothing special, but I like to think I’m adequate. I like to think it was purely for economy reasons.’

Reggie stood at the window and looked out over another office building similar to his own. All the lights were on, despite the bright winter sunshine.

He raised his glass to the other office building.

‘Cheers, Amalgamated Asbestos,’ he said.

He turned to face David.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Sunshine Desserts may be in trouble.’

‘I think it’s possible,’ said David.

‘Interesting,’ said Reggie.

When David Harris-Jones had left, Reggie telephoneed C.J. and asked him out to lunch the following day.

Present at the planning meeting were Reggie, David Harris-Jones, Morris Coates from the advertising agency, and Esther Pigeon from Market Research.

David related the details of the profits of the various shops. Reggie nodded sagely.

Esther Pigeon began to read her findings. She talked in a mechanical voice as if she were an answering machine.

Forty-three per cent thought that the silent LP,
Laryngitis in Thirty Lands,
had been good and would be prepared to buy a sequel. Several pub landlords regularly used it as background silence and found it very popular.

Reggie nodded sagely.

The empty book
Blankety Blank,
which contained 246 blank pages, had sold well in categories
B
,
C
, and
D
, but less well in categories
A
,
AB
,
DE
and
E
.

Reggie interpolated at this point.

‘I’m planning two sequels,’ he said.
‘It Shouldn’t Happen to a Blankety Blank
and
Let Sleeping Blankety Blanks Lie.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Morris Coates. ‘Like it.’

‘Super,’ said David Harris-Jones.

‘Ridiculous,’ said Reggie.

‘Pardon?’ said Morris Coates.

‘Nothing,’ said Reggie.

‘With you,’ said Morris Coates.

‘Super,’ said David Harris-Jones.

In front of each person there was a blotter, and a glass of water. David Harris-Jones was drawing childish little steam-engines all over his blotter.

‘We analysed reaction to the idea of the harmless pill that has no effect whatsoever,’ said Esther Pigeon. ‘32 per cent in the Wirral and 2.1 per cent in the Gorbals found the idea interesting, 17 per cent and 1.6 per cent respectively found it worth consideration, and 21.4 per cent and 66.7 per cent found it difficult to swallow. 26.9 per cent of replies from the Gorbals were rejected by the computer, which suffered two fuses and a blow-out.’

‘Why should people buy a pill that they know doesn’t do them any good?’ said David, looking up momentarily from his engines.

‘For many reasons,’ said Reggie. ‘For comfort, because they’re allergic to medicine, because it’s safe, because since it has no effects it can have no side effects either, because Catholics can use it, and because you don’t have to keep it out of reach of children. It’s wonderful.’

Miss Erith brought them sour looks and coffee.

‘Thank you, Miss Erith,’ said Reggie, passing the cups round the oblong table. ‘Any thoughts on advertising, Morris?’

‘What about – off the top of the head, toss it in the seed tray, see if the budgie bites – what about “Perrin’s Pills – they don’t look good – they don’t taste good – and they don’t do you any good?”’ said Morris Coates.

‘Not bad,’ said Reggie. ‘Not bad at all.’

If looks could speak, Morris Coates’s would have said: ‘Well, don’t sound so surprised!’

‘OK,’ said Reggie. ‘We go for the harmless pills and powders. Perrin’s Powders has a ring about it – and how about Perrin’s Insoluble suppositories as well?’

‘Like it,’ said Morris Coates.

‘You thought Perrin’s Pills were bad,’ said Reggie. ‘Now try Perrin’s Insoluble Suppositories, and hit rock-bottom.’

‘Like it,’ said Morris Coates.

‘Get those designed, David,’ said Reggie. ‘Very serious and medical looking – lots of instructions – take three times daily after meals etcetera. Powders in two colours, suppositories in three, pills in four.’

‘Super,’ said David Harris-Jones.

‘Get those adverts rolling, all media,’ said Reggie.

‘Will do,’ said Morris Coates.

They considered several other ideas, deciding in favour of a range of useless pottery including cruet sets with no holes in them, egg-cups so large the eggs couldn’t be eaten, and ceramic fruit that was going rotten.

They rejected a nest of tables, built so that the two smaller tables wouldn’t come out from beneath the largest. While it was useless as a nest of tables, it could prove useful as a single table, albeit an expensive one.

‘I think it falls between two stools,’ said Reggie.

Everyone agreed that it fell between two stools.

‘And we mustn’t lose our integrity.’

Everyone agreed that they mustn’t lose their integrity.

But then everyone agreed with everything that Reggie said.

‘I believe you did a survey on the attitude of the public to our prices. Miss Pigeon,’ said Reggie.

‘We did, Mr Perrin,’ said Esther Pigeon.

‘Would you kindly favour us with the findings of your survey, Miss Pigeon?’ asked Reggie.

‘Certainly, Mr Perrin,’ said Esther Pigeon. ‘While 24 per cent of the 43 per cent of people under twenty-five in Staines who used Grot shops felt that prices were “about right”, 68 per cent of the 82 per cent of over-sixty-fives in Nottingham who had never been to a Grot shop thought the prices were too high.’

‘Could you kindly sum up your findings for us, Miss Pigeon?’ said Reggie, when Esther Pigeon had at last finished and silence had fallen around the half-finished coffee-cups in the smoky conference room.

‘Certainly, Mr Perrin,’ said Esther Pigeon. ‘78 per cent of the public think your prices are excessive.’

Thank you, Miss Pigeon,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s clear that we have to establish a greater aura of exclusivity for Grot. Our imprint should be redesigned in gilt letters, and we’ll put all our prices up 50 per cent.’

It was already beginning to freeze as Reggie walked home through the Poets’ Estate.

The elder Warbleton boy waved cheerily as he sped past in his filthy white MG. It was his seventh car in two years. Some one had written ‘Disgusting’ with his fingers on the muddy boot.

Reggie smiled. It had been a good day.

He kissed Elizabeth and she gave him a gin and tonic.

‘Nice day?’ he said.

‘Highly exciting. I shopped this morning, did a bit of designing for Grot, had the remains of the lamb, did some more designing. I watched
Emmerdale Farm
– Henry Wilks has met an old flame. Hardly what I expected when we described ourselves as a partnership. Sitting at home and getting fobbed off with the odd designing job.’

‘Fobbed off? You’re our think-tank. Those four games with no rules that you designed are brilliant. In hundreds of thousands of homes, families are having endless fun working out how to play them.’

Elizabeth sighed.

‘Oh, and these came,’ she said.

There were invitations to dinner in Swinburne Way and Anon Avenue, and to talk about careers in industry to the Queen Charlotte School for Girls.

‘The burdens of success,’ said Reggie.

Chapter 15