The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (67 page)

On the fifth day, his travels took him to a fringe cinema in North London. A few earnest young people were waiting to see a double bill of
avant-garde
West German films. One of them was called
L
and the other one was called
The Amazing Social, Sexual and Political Awakening of the Elderly Widow Blumenthal
. The
avant-garde
youngsters appeared to be mean, impecunious, and sound judges of music. None of them put any money in the cloth cap of the middle-aged man who was strumming his banjo so insensitively, and singing, stiffly and very flat, the following unusual words:

‘Love and marriage,
Love and marriage.
They go together like a horse and carriage.
Dad was told by mother:
I didn’t get where I am today without knowing that you
can’t have one without the other.’

‘It’s good to see you, Reggie,’ said C.J., when they were settled in the Lord Palmerston round the corner.

‘Really?’ said Reggie.

‘Of course,’ said C.J., downing his whisky rapidly. ‘You know what they say. Absence is better than a cure.’

‘Prevention makes the heart grow fonder,’ said Reggie.

‘In a nutshell, Reggie,’ said C.J. ‘Same again?’

‘I’ll get them.’

‘Please!’ said C.J. ‘It’s my round. A few people have been kind enough to reward my efforts with some pennies, enough to buy a whisky and a half of Guinness, anyway.’

Reggie smiled as he watched C.J. at the bar, trying to look dignified in his beggar’s rags. A woman with large holes in her tights thought he was smiling at her, and he stopped smiling rapidly.

‘Cheers’, said Reggie on C.J.’s return.

‘Bottoms up,’ said C.J.

Reggie’s lips felt carefully through the froth to the cool, dark, smooth beer below.

‘So, you’ve stuck at being a tramp, then?’ he said.

‘When I do a thing, I do it thoroughly,’ said C.J. ‘I see it through.’

‘You certainly do, C.J.’

C.J. glanced round the drab, run-down pub as if he feared that the three Irish labourers standing at the bar might be CIA agents.

‘I’ve had enough, Reggie,’ he said quietly. ‘Busking isn’t really my bag.’

‘I imagine not, C.J.’

Reggie took a long sip of his Guinness. He laid the glass down and looked C.J. straight in the eye.

‘I want to offer you a job,’ he said.

‘What is it this time? Another mad idea like Grot? More humiliations for your old boss? More farting chairs?’

‘Grot was a success, C.J., and you had a good job. But even that will be as nothing compared to your future work.’

A young man won the jackpot on the fruit machine.

Reggie described the community that he was going to form.

‘Where will it be? Some sunny off-shore island?’ asked C.J. hopefully.

Twenty-one, Oslo Avenue, Botchley.’

‘Oh.’

The barman came over to their table. He seemed angry.

‘You gave me the wrong money,’ he told C.J. scornfully. ‘You gave me thirty-five pee, three pesetas, two pfennigs and a shirt button.’

C.J. managed to find the correct money, and handed it to the barman.

‘You want to be careful of these types,’ the barman warned Reggie.

Thank you, I will,’ said Reggie.

C.J. pocketed the pesetas, the pfennigs and the shirt button.

‘Mean bloody unwashed long-haired louts,’ he grumbled.

That’s not the way you should talk about them, if you’re joining my community,’ said Reggie.

‘Oh. How should I talk about them if I’m joining your community?’

‘Fascinating, somewhat misguided, rather immature, socially confused excessively serious but potentially highly creative and absolutely delightful mean bloody unwashed long-haired louts,’ said Reggie.

He bought another round, the better to further his persuasion of C.J.

‘What sort of job do you have in mind for me?’ said C.J.

‘I’m not sure yet,’ said Reggie. ‘But I promise you it’ll be worthy of your talents. Come and give it a try. After all, the proof of the pudding is caviar to the general.’

That’s true,’ said C.J. That’s very true. I’m not sure if it’s my line of country, though.’

‘You’ll have board and lodging and a salary of eight thousand pounds a year.’

‘On the other hand, no doubt I could soon adjust to it,’ said C.J.

They shook hands, and Reggie bought another round.

‘When I’ve got my staff together,’ he said, ‘there’ll be a period of training,’

‘Training, Reggie?’

‘We’ll all have to learn how to be nice.’

‘Oh.’

C.J. gazed morosely at his whisky.

‘I didn’t get where I am today by being nice,’ he said.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Reggie. ‘Once you are nice, you’ll find that it’s really quite nice being nice.’

‘This free board and lodging, Reggie, where will that be?’

‘Erm . . . with us.’

‘With you? Ah!’

‘There won’t be room for everyone actually in the house,’ said Reggie. ‘Some of you’ll have to live under . . . er . . . canvas.’

CJ.’s hand shook slightly as he lifted the whisky to his lips.

‘Under canvas? You mean . . . in a tent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good God.’

‘Yes.’

‘Eight thousand pounds?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not that I’d mind, Reggie. It’s Mrs C.J. She’s a different kettle of fish.’

‘She certainly is,’ said Reggie. ‘And you feel that she might be a different kettle of fish out of water?’

‘Exactly. By no stretch of the imagination can Mrs C.J. be described as a frontierswoman.’

‘No.’

‘She’s wedded to her creature comforts, Reggie.’

The eyes of the two men met.

‘I seem to recall that she has friends in Luxembourg,’ said Reggie.

‘Yes. Delightful people.’

‘Luxembourg
is
delightful.’

‘Absolutely delightful.’

‘All the charms of European civilization in microcosm.’

‘Well put, Reggie.’

Reggie smiled faintly.

‘Perhaps it would be a rather nice gesture if you were to sacrifice your marital pleasures and let her stay in Luxembourg for a while,’ he said.

‘What an excellent idea, Reggie. Just for a few months till we get things straight. You’re on. Consider me recruited.’

‘You’re the first person I’ve come to,’ said Reggie.

‘Ah!’

‘Start at the top.’

‘Quite! Thank you, Reggie.’

‘After Everest, the Mendips.’

‘Absolutely. What? Not quite with you, Reggie.’

‘Perfectly simple,’ said Reggie. ‘If I can make you nice, I can make anybody nice.’

The next intelligent, mature, kind and trustworthy recruit to be signed up by Reggie was Doc Morrissey.

It wasn’t difficult to trace the ageing ex-medico of Sunshine Desserts. Reggie soon discovered that he had installed himself in a bed-sitter in Southall.

The bed-sitter turned out to be above a shop that sold Indian spices, next door to a launderette. Asian women of indeterminable age and inaccessible beauty were setting off with Tesco carrier bags from houses that had been built for Brentford supporters and old women who liked a bottle of stout before the pubs filled up on a Saturday morning.

Over the road the Gaumont, designed for films with Richard Todd in them, had gaudy posters for a double bill of romances from the sub-continent.

Beside Doc Morrissey’s door there were three bells. Above each bell, untidily secured with Sellotape, there was a name. The names were Patel, Mankad and Morrissey. Reggie rang Doc Morrissey’s bell.

The air was full of the scents of cumin, garam masala and Persil.

There was no reply. He tried the bell marked Patel. Mr Patel had a chubby face and told Reggie that he would probably find the Professor in the park.

The park was small and bleak. The grass was thin and patchy. The backs of the surrounding houses were shabby and blackened. Grot’s erstwhile Head of Forward Planning was sitting on a bench, feeding crumbs of poppadum to sceptical starlings.

‘Reggie!’ he said, a smile of heart-warming delight spreading across his weatherbeaten face.

‘Morning, Professor,’ said Reggie.

Doc Morrissey gave an abashed grin.

‘It goes down well in these parts,’ he said. ‘I’ve set myself up as an English teacher.’

‘How’s it going?’ said Reggie, sitting beside him on the bench.

‘Extremely well.’

‘How many pupils have you got?’

‘These are early days, Reggie.’

‘How many pupils?’

‘One. I’m not unhappy here, Reggie. I suppose that since I’m one of nature’s exiles, I’m better off where it’s natural for a white man to feel an exile.’

It was the middle of February. The weather was still quite mild, but a keen wind was sending occasional reminders about loneliness gusting across the park.

‘Old age must be rather depressing for a doctor,’ said Reggie. ‘Knowing exactly what’s happening to your body.’

‘Yes it must,’ said Doc Morrissey.

He flexed the fingers of both hands.

‘Why are you doing that?’ said Reggie.

‘Preventing the onset of arthritis in the joints.’

The starlings, their glorious plumage dulled by the city grime, had deserted Doc Morrissey and were exploring the lifeless ground around a derelict swing.

Two crows and a blackbird joined them.

‘Even the birds are black here,’ said Doc Morrissey.

‘Are you depressed?’ said Reggie.

‘No. No. Southall’s a million laughs. And I find a certain consolation, Reggie, in the knowledge that by being the worst doctor in England I have saved somebody else from that ignominy. No man’s life is entirely pointless.’

‘Oh good,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m glad you’re not depressed.’

He trailed his arm over the back of the bench and turned to face Doc Morrissey.

‘This is no chance meeting,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to offer you a job.’

Doc Morrissey gawped.

‘Again?’ he said.

Reggie explained about the community and its aims.

‘It sounds marvellous,’ said Doc Morrissey excitedly. ‘What sort of role do you have in mind for me?’

‘A medical role,’ said Reggie.

‘Oh. Isn’t there anything else I could do?’

‘A different branch of medicine, though. You’ll be our psychologist.’

‘Oh!’

‘It’s your undiscovered metier, Doc.’

‘It is?’

‘Psychology is your nettle and I’m confident that you’ll grasp it.’

‘You are?’

‘You will have a salary of . . . five thousand pounds, plus board and lodging.’

They went to the pub to celebrate. They drank pints of bitter and ate gala pie with brinjal pickle.

‘I’m no expert, you know,’ said Doc Morrissey.

‘The experts have had their chances,’ said Reggie. ‘They have failed. It’s precisely your lack of expertise that excites me.’

‘Oh.’

On the nineteenth of February, Reggie and Elizabeth moved into Number Twenty-one, Oslo Avenue, Botchley.

Vans brought the furniture that Elizabeth had chosen from the great furniture emporia of London Town.

Men came to connect up the gas and electricity.

The neighbours offered them cups of tea. These olive branches were not spurned.

The houses of the neighbours were smaller than Number Twenty-one. They only had three bedrooms.

The neighbours at Number Twenty-three were Mr and Mrs Penfold.

The neighbours at Number Nineteen were Mr and Mrs Hollies.

Mrs Penfold talked little and seemed neurotically shy. Her tea was too weak.

Mrs Hollies talked a great deal and seemed obsessively extrovert. Her tea was too strong.

The exceptionally mild weather continued. The snowdrops were on the rampage in front gardens. The crocuses were swelling expectantly and sticky buds were forming on the trees.

Mrs Hollies had never known anything like it. But then we didn’t get the seasons like we used to. Everything had gone absolutely haywire. Mrs Hollies blamed the aeroplanes. People could scoff, but it stood to reason that all those great big things up there disturbing the atmosphere must make everything go haywire.

The views of Mrs Penfold on the subject were a closed book.

That evening Reggie and Elizabeth explored their neighbourhood. They walked down Oslo Avenue, past pleasant detached residences, several of which had mock-Tudor beams and bay windows. They turned right into Bonn Close. The timing devices of the street lamps were on the blink, and the lights were pale pink and feeble. Bonn Close brought them to the High Street.

They visited the Botchley Arms, where Reggie had two bottles of diabetic lager while his partner opted for two medium sherries.

They walked down Botchley High Street, past supermarkets, shoe shops, betting shops and dress shops, past the George and Dragon, until they came to a parade set back from the High Street. Here there were three restaurants – the New Bengal, the Golden Jasmine House, and the Oven D’Or. They dined at the Oven D’Or. They were the only diners.

Before returning home they sampled the delights of the George and Dragon. It was run by a small man with a large wife and an even larger mother. The locals called it the George and Two Dragons.

Their route home took them along Nairobi Drive, and round Lisbon Crescent to the other end of Oslo Avenue. A right turn brought them back to their new home. They stood by the garden gate and looked at the placid, commonplace frontage of their surprisingly spacious dwelling. Soon it would be bursting with life and love and hope.

A light rain began to fall. Reggie lifted Elizabeth up and staggered in over the threshold.

The work of recruitment continued. The targets were Reggie’s old colleagues at Sunshine Desserts and Grot. He felt about them as he felt about his ageing pyjamas. They might not fit, they might be somewhat torn in vital places and permanently stained in other vital places, but a man felt comfortable with them.

He called next at the flat occupied by Tony Webster and his wife Joan. It was in the Lower Mortlake Road. It was ten fifteen on a Saturday morning. Reggie was disappointed to find that his former secretary was out. It fact he only just caught Tony. He was sporting a brown suit and matching suitcase, and carried a lightweight topcoat over his arm.