The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (66 page)

‘Ah, but it is my business, innit?’ said the broken nose. ‘This gentleman ‘ere ‘as waited just as long as what you have, and then, lo and behold, you barge in in front of him, you great fat pig.’

‘Please, it’s all right,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s raining outside, so why hurry?’

‘What did you say?’ said the florid man with icy anger.

Reggie swung round to face him.

‘I said, “It’s raining outside, so why hurry?” ’ he said.

‘Not you. You keep out of this,’ said the florid man.

‘Next,’ said Mr F. R. Bostock, who now had an empty window.

‘Thank you for standing up for me,’ said Reggie to the broken nose. ‘I’m very grateful, but let’s forget it.’

‘I won’t bleeding well forget it,’ said the broken nose. ‘If you won’t stand up for yourself, I will.’

‘You called me a fat pig,’ said the large, florid man.

‘Come on, come on, who’s next?’ said Mr F. R. Bostock.

‘I do not like being called a fat pig and I’ll ask you to kindly keep your hideous broken nose out of my business,’ said the large man, who was growing steadily more florid.

The small man, who had no comparable chance of growing steadily more leathery, grabbed hold of Reggie and used him as a screen against the florid man.

‘Oh, it’s aspersions on my wonky hooter now, is it?’ he said, prodding the florid man with Reggie. ‘It’s down to personal abuse, is it? Well sod off, you fat drunken pig.’

‘You started it. You called me a fat pig,’ said the florid man, prodding Reggie to emphasize his point.

‘You are a fat pig,’ said the broken nose, thumping Reggie’s back.

‘Please,’ said Reggie, shaking himself clear of the two men.

‘Will somebody come and get served?’ said Mr F. R. Bostock.

‘If you’re in a tearing hurry, do go ahead,’ said Reggie, to the florid man.

‘I’m not in such a hurry that I’ll allow a pipsqueak short-house with a nose as bent as West End Lane to call me a fat drunken pig and then accuse me of using personal insults,’ said the florid man.

‘You did,’ said the broken nose. ‘A broken nose, that’s a personal disability, allied to your squints and your ‘are-lips. Being a fat drunken pig, that’s your bleeding character, innit? That’s having too many double brandies down the bleeding golf club.’

‘Please, gentlemen,’ said Reggie.

‘Sling your hook, you,’ said the broken nose. ‘My quarrel’s with alcoholics anonymous here.’

‘Come outside and repeat that,’ said the florid man.

‘With pleasure,’ said the broken nose.

Reggie, who had been feeling more and more like a United Nations Peace Keeping Force, suddenly stopped whirling dizzily about. He smiled broadly.

Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said.

He shook them both warmly by the hand.

Thank you once again,’ he said.

They stared at him in astonishment, their quarrel momentarily forgotten.

‘Please,’ pleaded Mr F. R. Bostock. ‘Will somebody come and get served.’

‘Shut up,’ said Reggie.

He walked briskly out of the bank. He knew now what he had to do.

He hummed gaily as he walked through the Oxford Street drizzle towards the shoe shop.

Then he remembered that he’d forgotten to draw out any money.

He returned to the bank and joined the back of Mr F. R. Bostock’s queue.

Reggie and Elizabeth just had time for a corned beef sandwich and a drink before closing time. The big-eared landlord opined that the weather was bad for trade. It was the worst pre-Christmas trade since he’d moved from the Plough at Didcot.

They sat in the corner by the grimy window. Elizabeth showed Reggie her new shoes. In vain. He was far, far away, in the land of his plans. But how could he tell Elizabeth? How could he persuade her to spend the rest of her life in the way he wanted? Not here. Not in this inhospitable hostelry. Tonight, in an intimate restaurant, over the last of an excellent burgundy.

‘You aren’t listening to a word I say,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was thinking. What were you saying?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Darling, I’m not one of those male chauvinist pigs who think that the conversation of women consists largely of idle chitter-chatter. I’m sure it was well worth hearing and I’d like to hear it. Now, what did you say?’

‘I said these corned beef.sandwiches aren’t too bad.’

‘Oh. No they aren’t, are they? Not too bad at all. Well, mine isn’t anyway. I can’t speak for yours. But if mine’s nice, it’s hardly likely that yours will be repulsive. Especially as you say it isn’t.’

It was three o’clock. The landlord opened both doors wide. Raw, damp air poured in.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Elizabeth.

‘I’ve had an idea,’ said Reggie. ‘This isn’t the time to tell you about it.’

It was one minute past three. The landlord switched the Xpelair fans on. Cold air blew down their necks.

‘When is the time?’ said Elizabeth.

‘Tonight, after a good dinner,’ said Reggie.

‘That sounds ominous,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Am I going to be so hostile to it?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Tell me now, then.’

Reggie swallowed nervously.

‘In the bank just now there was an argument,’ he said. ‘I started to think about all the unnecessary hatred and anger and violence in the world.’

‘Come on you lot, haven’t you got homes to go to? What do you think it is? Christmas?’ yelled the landlord.

‘Thank you, landlord,’ Reggie called out. ‘An apt intervention!’

‘Well, go on,’ said Elizabeth. ‘What was your idea?’

Reggie swallowed again.

‘I intend to set up a community, where middle-aged, middle-class people like us can learn to live in love and faith and trust,’ he said.

‘I think that’s a marvellous idea,’ said Elizabeth.

‘People will be able to come for any length of time they like,’ said Reggie over the aforementioned burgundy, at the end of an excellent dinner in Soho. ‘They’ll be able to use it as a commune where they can live in peace and happiness, or as a therapy centre where our staff can help them to find the love and goodness that lurks inside them.’

Their brandies arrived.

‘Where will it be?’ said Elizabeth.

‘Cheers,’ said Reggie.

‘Cheers. It could be anywhere, I suppose.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘An old country house. An island. The Welsh hills. Anywhere.’

Reggie stretched his hand out under the table and patted Elizabeth’s knee affectionately. She had taken the idea of the community better than he had dared to hope, but this was going to be a bitter pill for her to swallow.

‘I’m sorry, old girl,’ he said. ‘But I want to live in an ordinary suburban house in an ordinary suburban street.’

‘Thank God for that,’ said Elizabeth. ‘So do I.’

2
The Recruitment

It didn’t take Reggie and Elizabeth long to realize that Number Twenty-One, Oslo Avenue, Botchley, was the ideal setting in which to begin their immense task. It was, in the eloquent words of Messrs Blunstone, Forrest and Stringer, a spacious detached residence of unusual desirability even for this exceptionally select area of Botchley.

‘Listen to this, darling,’ said Reggie as they entered the hall. ‘ “Accustomed as we are to inspecting three or four properties a day, we were, nevertheless, very greatly surprised on entering this residence to find such an astonishing sense of space, particularly within the Principal Reception Room, the Added Conservatory, the Master Bedroom and the Kitchen Area.” ’

‘Do you have to read from that thing?’ said Elizabeth. ‘Can’t we just look at it for ourselves?’

They walked briskly through the Genuine Hall, pausing only to observe the timbered wainscoting and double-doored integrated cloaks hanging cupboard, and entered the Principal Reception Room.

‘My word,’ said Reggie, ‘this room affords an unrivalled view over the terraced gardens, fringed by a verdant screen of trees that endows the said gardens with a sense of peacefulness which bestows the final accolade on this exceptionally characterful property.’

‘Reggie!’ said Elizabeth.

They admired the integrated double-glazed windows, noted the modern power circuitry with four conveniently sited power access points, and were impressed by the handsome integrated brick fireplace.

Then they entered the Dining Room.

‘Stap me!’ said Reggie. ‘More modern power circuitry, and if this isn’t an intimate yet surprisingly spacious setting for formal and informal dining, I’m the Queen of Sheba’s surprisingly spacious left tit.’

‘Reggie! Please!’ said Elizabeth. ‘I thought you were excited about buying the house.’

‘I am,’ said Reggie. ‘Almost as excited as Messrs Blunstone, Forrest and Stringer.’

They paused briefly to admire the low-level Royal Venton suite and integrated wash-basin in the spacious Separate Downstairs WC, the amply proportioned Study, the splendid Added Conservatory, and the exceptionally commodious kitchen with its Scandinavian-style traditional English fully integrated natural pine and chrome storage units and work surfaces.

Then they went upstairs to the Master Bedroom.

‘Here we find the same impression of spacious living as is afforded throughout the ground floor,’ said Reggie. ‘This handsome room enjoys integrated double-glazing with sliding units, and it is patently obvious that the unusually tasteful decorations are in absolutely pristine order, affording an elegant background to Scandinavian or traditional English sex activities both anal and oral with fully integrated manking about and doing exceptionally spacious naughty things.’

‘It doesn’t say that,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Of course it doesn’t.’

They laughed. Their lips met. A feeling of happiness and tenderness ran through them. For all they cared, the double-floored fully integrated floor-to-ceiling wardrobe units might not have existed.

It was approaching the end of January, and the weather was unseasonably mild. Fruit farmers felt the balmy winds morosely and worried about spring frosts. The going at Market Rasen and Plumpton was ‘good to firm’.

Reggie and Elizabeth took up residence in a relatively cheap hotel in one of the less fashionable parts of Hendon while they waited to move to Botchley.

‘We must husband our resources. I want to pay my staff good salaries,’ Reggie explained over their tagliatelle bolognese in one of the best Italian restaurants in Hendon.

‘What sort of staff are you looking for?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘People who are intelligent, mature, kind and trustworthy,’ said Reggie.

‘How will you find them?’ said Elizabeth.

‘Personal contacts,’ said Reggie. ‘Leave all that to me.’

‘And me?’ said Elizabeth. ‘Where do I come in?’

Reggie poured a little more of the rough carafe wine into Elizabeth’s glass. It was a placatory gesture.

‘I want you to be secretary,’ he said. ‘It’s a very important job. Taking bookings, allocating rooms, handling correspondence. A highly responsible post.’

Their escalopes and chips arrived. On top of each escalope there were three capers and half an inch of anchovy fillet. They each had fifteen chips.

‘I’ve always thought of secretaries of institutions as cool, hard, efficient, grey-haired, sexless,’ said Elizabeth.

‘You’ll be the exception that proves the rule,’ said Reggie.

‘You mean I’m not efficient?’ said Elizabeth.

‘No!’ said Reggie hastily.

She laughed. Both the other customers turned to look. The proprietor beamed.

‘I’m teasing you, darling,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Teasing?’ said Reggie.

‘I’d love to be secretary,’ she said.

Reggie’s recruitment of his first intelligent, mature, kind and trustworthy member of staff had been concluded.

He popped a caper into his mouth.

The recruitment of the second intelligent, mature, kind and trustworthy member of staff took longer.

It was C.J.

Reggie’s former boss at Sunshine Desserts lived at Blancmange Cottage, Godalming. Reggie phoned him from the only un -vandalized phone box in Hendon. It was outside the cemetery. Mrs C.J. answered.

‘I haven’t seen him since October,’ she said. ‘I understood he was last seen dressed as a tramp.’

‘Yes. You mean he . . . he hasn’t been . . . he’s still. . . good God!’

‘Yes. I had a letter from him at Christmas. Shall I read it to you?’

‘Please.’

‘Hang on.’

Light rain fell. A pale, harassed woman came out of the cemetery and stood anxiously outside the phone box. She looked at her wrist although she had no watch. Reggie shrugged. The pips went. He inserted l0p. The woman opened the door.

‘I won’t be long,’ he said.

‘But you aren’t talking,’ she said.

‘The person on the other end has gone to fetch something,’ said Reggie.

‘Only I’m ringing my friend, and she goes out.’

‘I won’t be long,’ said Reggie.

‘Only she’s not well.’

‘I’m very sorry.’

‘No, but it’s her leg, you see.’

‘I’m sorry about her leg, but what can I do?’

‘She’s not well, you see,’ said the woman.

The woman closed the door and waited impatiently. The pips went. Reggie inserted l0p. The woman made an angry gesture and set off down the road.

‘Hello,’ said Mrs C.J. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ said Reggie.

‘Sorry to keep you. He says “Dear Mrs C.J. This is to wish you a happy Christmas. I wish I could send you something, but times are hard. I make a bit working the cinema queues. I haven’t much to say. Least said, soonest forgotten. With love, C.J.” ’

‘I see. Good . . . er . . . Good God!’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you tried to find him?’

‘No.’

‘Did you have a happy Christmas?’

‘Wonderful. I spent it with my friends in Luxembourg.’

When Reggie rang off, the harassed woman started to walk back towards the phone box.

A smooth young man got out of a taxi and stepped into the phone box just before she could reach it.

For four days Reggie trudged round the West End cinema queues. The buskers were most varied, but all had one thing in common. They weren’t C.J.