The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (63 page)

‘I don’t want to talk about cruet sets.’

‘But I do. Because a pretty little proposition now awaits us. We posit an object which is useful
as a cruet set with no holes
. We may then say of all other cruet sets: “What a useless cruet set with no holes. It’s got holes. See, the salt and pepper are trickling out. What kind of a cruet set with no holes is that?”’

‘Mr Perrin!’

‘Perhaps my quest for true uselessness is useless,’ said Reggie. ‘Perhaps the pursuit of uselessness is the only truly useless thing.’

‘Reginald Perrin, thank you,’ said Peregrine Trembleby.

The reaction to Reggie’s television appearances appalled him. People shook him by the hand and said it was about time those TV interviewers were taken down a peg or two.

At Perrin Products several people thought it was all a splendid publicity gimmick.

Early on Friday evening, trudging home wearily through the Poets’ Estate, Reggie suggested to Elizabeth that they stop for a quick one at the Ode and Sonnet.

The Ode and Sonnet was mock-Tudor outside and reproduction furniture inside. They were hailed by several members of the early evening Climthorpe crowd who were discussing the death of their MP.

‘I wonder who we’ll get to replace him,’ pondered the branch manager of a finance company.

The usual bag of dum-dums, I expect,’ put in a history master noted for his cynicism towards anyone born after 1850.

‘I had a lot of time for Simon Watkins,’ admitted the managing director of a clock factory.

‘He wasn’t a Winston Churchill,’ opined a solicitor. ‘He wasn’t an Aneurin Bevan. He wasn’t even a Barbara Castle. But he was a good constituency man.’

‘When he first got in everybody thought he was a dumdum,’ recalled Reggie.

‘That’s politics,’ declared the history master.

‘Why don’t you stand, Reggie? You’ve got the gift of the gab,’ suggested an ear, nose and throat specialist.

‘What would he stand as?’ posed Elizabeth.

‘Independent. We need a bit less of the party line in this country,’ averred a systems analyst. ‘We need a few individuals.’

‘Stand as the party of the individual,’ agreed the branch manager of the finance company. ‘Give them all a run for their money.’

‘Why not?’ said Reggie.

Chapter 25

Reggie decided that if he was to have any chance of destroying his empire he must sack the four men whom he had appointed in order to destroy it.

He arranged to see them all in his office at hourly intervals, on Monday, October the eighteenth.

Tom came first. He sat down, glanced with ill-concealed distaste at the paintings by Drs Snurd, Underwood and Wren, and waited confidently, ignorant of the storm that Reggie was intending to break over his head.

‘Well, Tom,’ said Reggie. ‘You’re having quite a success.’

‘I’m amazed,’ said Tom. ‘I had no idea I was a publicity person.’

‘Nor did I,’ said Reggie. ‘Yes, you’ve done very well. It’s a pity you aren’t happy.’

‘I am happy, Reggie.’

‘You’re a man of conscience, Tom, a man of integrity. You’re miserable in your work.’

‘I’m not.’

‘I assure you that you are, Tom.’

‘I’ve never been happier in my life, Reggie. Linda and I – we always tried to conceal it from you, but we went through some bad times. We’re happy now, Reggie.’

‘This happiness is a cloak, Tom, with which you hide your misery.’

‘I’ve never heard such nonsense,’ said Tom.

‘I’ll give you a golden handshake.’

Tom stared at him in astonishment.

‘I don’t want a golden handshake,’ he said. ‘I don’t want anything for nothing. I’m just not an anything for nothing person. I want to work here, Reggie. Anyone could have done my job at the estate agent’s, but I doubt if there’s a single person in the whole world who could do my job here quite like I do it.’

‘No,’ said Reggie. ‘I doubt if there is.’

He would sack the other three, but he couldn’t sack Tom, for Linda’s sake.

Jimmy came next. The grey on the unfrocked warrior’s hair was spreading steadily, but his back was still ram-rod straight.

‘Well, Jimmy,’ said Reggie. ‘Still hankering after the smell of cordite and the rumble of distant guns?’

‘Fighting days over,’ said Jimmy. ‘Learnt my lesson. Lüneburg Heath, tactical exercise, captured Fidel Castro single-handed. Not really Fidel Castro of course. Second Lieutenant Jelly. Represented Fidel Castro. Proud moment, though. Never thought I’d be as happy. Am.’

‘I see.’

‘Clive Anstruther, thing of past. Wound healed. No bitterness. May he rot in hell. I’ve a new life here, Reggie. Alongside you. Alongside big sister.’

He couldn’t sack Jimmy, for Elizabeth’s sake.

He would sack the other two, but he couldn’t sack members of his own family.

With Doc Morrissey he tried a different tack.

‘I’ve got the Doc’s report. Doc,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

Reggie had persuaded Doc Morrissey to undergo a medical examination.

‘It doesn’t mean a lot to me,’ said Reggie. ‘You were a doctor. You’ll understand it.’

‘Yes,’ said Doc Morrissey without conviction.

‘You have advanced carconic deficiency of the third testicle and incipient nephritic collapse. Your hydrophylogy is weak and there’s faint pullulation of the sphynctular crunges.’

‘I see,’ said Doc Morrissey, shifting nervously in his chair.

‘As I understand it, these symptoms are not necessarily grave individually, but the combination is pretty serious. But you don’t need me to tell you that.’

‘Well, I’m a bit vague about some of these terms,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘There are a whole lot of new parts of the body since I was at medical school. It … er … it doesn’t sound good.’

‘No.’

Doc Morrissey stood up. Suddenly he looked old. If Reggie hadn’t known that there was no such thing, he would have thought the ex-medico was suffering from incipient nephritic collapse.

And Reggie realized how much he liked his old friend, how deep was the bond formed by their changing fortunes.

‘I made all that up,’ he said wearily.

‘What?’

‘You’re in excellent health for your age. All that stuff about testicles was balls.’

Doc Morrissey sat down again. He gave a sigh of relief and mystification.

‘I didn’t want to tell you this,’ said Reggie. ‘I employed you because I thought you’d be a failure.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you? I wanted to destroy all this. You’ve let me down, all of you. You’ve been successful.’

Doc Morrissey grinned ruefully.

‘I surprised myself,’ he said.

‘I can’t sack you,’ said Reggie. ‘Have a cigar?’

Doc Morrissey took the ritual cigar. His hands were shaking.

‘I seem to have a natural talent for overall strategy,’ he said. ‘You were right, whether you meant to be or not.’

‘I’ll give you a ten per cent rise,’ said Reggie, ‘if you’ll try not to be quite so brilliant in future.’

‘It’ll be difficult,’ said Doc Morrissey, ‘but I’ll try.’

He would sack Seamus Finnegan, but he couldn’t sack old friends.

There was a gleam of sharp intelligence in Seamus Finnegan’s eyes. Reggie would have noticed it when they first met if it hadn’t been dulled by drink.

‘What do you think of my pictures?’ said Reggie, noting the Limerick wizard’s glance.

‘Novices,’ said Seamus Finnegan. ‘They will fall at the first fence.’

‘How are the reorganizations coming along?’ said Reggie.

‘Very well, sir. A little too well for you, I think.’

‘What can you mean by that?’

‘Well, sir, I think when you employed me and some of the other eejits you were thinking you would bring the company to its knees.’

‘Why on earth should I want to do a ridiculous thing like that?’ said Reggie.

He knew then that he would never sack anybody.

The employment of C.J. had also turned out to be a mistake. Not only was he running the European side of things too efficiently, but he was mooning over Elizabeth. It had become so obvious of late that even the tea-lady had noticed.

A mention of this might perhaps persuade C.J. to leave.

‘Come,’ said C.J. with a residue of his erstwhile hauteur.

Reggie entered.

‘Ah, Reggie. Welcome to my modest den.’

Reggie sat in the chair provided. C.J.’s office was a drab symphony of window, filing cabinet and dingy brown paint, much like Reggie’s office of yore.

‘You’re in love with my wife,’ said Reggie.

‘What?’ said C.J., turning pale.

‘Will you go to the trade fair on the ninth?’

‘Oh … er … yes. For one moment I … what trade fair?’

Reggie met C.J.’s eyes and smiled pleasantly.

‘You gaze at her like a love-lorn moose,’ he said.

‘I … er … I’m sorry,’ croaked C.J.

‘Milan,’ said Reggie. ‘I think it’s about time we tried to break into the Italian market. Turin, Milan, Florence, Rome.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ said C.J. ‘Certainly in the north.’

‘If you find the situation embarrassing and want to leave, I shall understand,’ said Reggie.

‘Yes, I … I … yes. I’ll bear that in mind,’ said C.J.

‘Good. Well, perhaps you’d like to go on a four-day Italian recce, then.’

‘I’m sorry, Reggie,’ said C.J. with difficulty. ‘Nothing like that has ever happened to me before, and it won’t happen again. I didn’t get where …’

‘… you are today …’

‘… by being in love with…’

‘… my wife.’

‘Perish the thought, Reggie.’

‘Goodbye, C.J.’

Mr Milford had set up a committee to organize Reggie’s election campaign. Bar takings at the golf club were down two point three per cent.

Reggie would make his first election speech on Saturday. Encouraging support had been promised. The venue was the Methodist Hall in Westbury Park Road. There was no hall on the Poets’ Estate. It had never occurred to anyone that the inhabitants could possibly want to meet each other.

A loudspeaker was being fitted on to Mr Pelham’s car, and Reggie would tour the shopping areas on Saturday.

Leaflets and posters were the responsibility of Climthorpe Football Club through their usual printers, G. F. Fry (Printers) of Hanwell.

FITTOCK, CLENCH
(2) and
PUNT
had all promised votes.

Reggie had seen the photographs of the Conservative, Labour and Liberal candidates. All three looked like dumdums.

Even so, it was a surprise, on opening the
Evening Standard
on Thursday, October the twenty-first, to read the results of the first opinion poll.

Thirty-four per cent said they would support Reggie.

‘My God,’ he said, as they turned out of Wordsworth Drive into Tennyson Avenue. ‘I’m going to get into Parliament now.’

Elizabeth squeezed his arm.

‘I’m so proud of you,’ she said.

Chapter 26

Friday, October the twenty-second dawned bright but windy. Breakfast was perfect. Ponsonby was listless. The newspapers were gloomy. Reggie’s motions were adequate.

The post brought nine invitations. They were flooding in, following his TV appearances and the announcement that he would stand as the Individual Party candidate for the Parliamentary constituency of Climthorpe.

He was asked to appear on the panel of the Climthorpe Rotary Club’s Charity ‘Just a Minute’ evening. He was implored to talk to the Hemel Hempstead Flat Earth Circle on ‘Dissent in the Age of Conformity’, at a reception to mark the launching of their first and last single: ‘It’s Love that Makes the World go Flat.’

It was even proposed that he should deliver the L. De Garde Peach Memorial Lecture in Chipping Campden Corn Exchange.

Reggie and Elizabeth set off for work together as usual.

Reggie was feeling a turmoil of claustrophobia and frustration. He had grown to hate going to Perrin Products as much as he had grown to hate going to Sunshine Desserts. He must destroy his reputation soon. He would make great efforts today. Yes, today he would really go to town.

Elizabeth was thinking that they had better prune the rose bushes before the election campaign really got going.

Neither of them knew that they were taking their walk for the last time.

They turned right into Tennyson Avenue for the last time, then left into Wordsworth Drive, and down the snicket into Station Road.

They stood by the door marked ‘Isolation Telephone’ for the last time, and reached Waterloo twenty-two minutes late for the last time. The loudspeaker announcement blamed an escaped cheetah at Chessington North. If they had thought, they might have known that this excuse could never be topped.

Reggie asked Joan into his office, missed the hat-stand with his umbrella for the last time, and smiled at Joan across his desk.

‘How are things going with Tony?’ he said.

‘Very well.’

‘Good. I’m glad.’

He went over to her and kissed her hard and full on the mouth. He flinched, expecting a slap across the cheek that never came.

‘Thank you, Mr Perrin,’ she said.

‘You don’t mind?’ he said.

‘Why should I mind?’ she said. ‘I find you attractive.’

‘Ah! Take a letter, Joan. To the Manager, Grot, Shrewsbury. Dear Sir, it has come to my notice that you are serving Welsh people in your shop. I did not think it necessary to mention this. I want no Welsh people served from now on.’

Joan took the letter down without protest.

‘You find that letter perfectly all right, do you, Joan?’ he said.

‘I’m learning to have faith in your judgement,’ said Joan. ‘Besides, I understand how you feel. I once had a horrid evening with a boy from Clun.’

At twelve o’clock he interviewed a Mr Herbert who had applied for the post of manager of Grot’s Retford branch.

Mr Herbert was anxious, naturally nervous. He had receding black hair, with heavy dandruff.

They shook hands.

‘Have to get rid of that dandruff,’ said Reggie.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Mr Herbert, sitting uncomfortably.

There’s a chap in Switzerland, clears dandruff in a fortnight. Painful course. Starvation and electrolodes. But I will not have dandruff in this firm.’