The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (68 page)

‘Sorry. Were you just going out?’ said Reggie.

‘Business trip. Frankfurt. Off to hit the fatherland, score a few exports. I’ll get a later flight. No sweat,’ said Tony. ‘Come in. Great to see you.’

The flat bore evidence of both opulence and poverty. There was a threadbare carpet and a heavy, stained three-piece suite. There was also a colour television set, a cocktail trolley and expensive stereo equipment.

‘Joan at work?’ Reggie asked, installing himself in one of the heavy armchairs.

‘Yeah. She does one Saturday morning in three. I don’t want her to work, but you know what women are.’

‘Things are going well, are they?’ said Reggie.

‘Fantastic. Great. Knock-out.’

‘I came here with a proposition,’ said Reggie. ‘But there doesn’t seem much point in putting it as you’re doing so well.’

‘Well, pretty well. This is Success City, Arizona. But I’ve always been interested in your ideas, Reggie.’

Reggie described the community and offered Tony and Joan jobs.

‘Knock-out,’ said Tony. ‘Absolute knock-out. We’ll let you know.’

When Reggie left, Tony set off with him. The suitcase came open on the stairs and his central-heating brochures cascaded into the hall.

‘OK,’ said Tony. ‘Frankfurt doesn’t exist. But this central heating job’s a knock-out. No basic, but fantastic commission.’

That afternoon Reggie invited himself to tea with David and Prue Harris-Jones.

They had a flat in a new block in Reading. Already the paint on the outside was peeling and the walls on the inside were cracking. Their fourteen-month-old boy was Reggie’s godson. His name was Reggie. David and Prue greeted Reggie with something approaching adoration. Young Reggie greeted him with something approaching an attack of wind.

David said that he was very happy with the building society, and Reading was much maligned. When Reggie offered them jobs, their response was unequivocal.

‘Super,’ they said.

Later, over his second slice of sponge cake, David Harris-Jones did venture a cautious criticism.

‘You know what I think of you, Reggie,’ he said. ‘I look up to you.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Reggie.

‘Well exactly,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘I look up to you as the sort of person who doesn’t expect or want people to look up to him.’

‘I agree,’ said Prue.

‘Well, thank you,’ said Reggie.

‘I mean the community idea is super,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘But I don’t think Prue or I would be happy if you were . . . how can I put it? . . . well, not exactly a cult figure, but . . . er . . . not exactly sort of too big for your . . . but sort of . . . er . . .’

‘Thank you for speaking so frankly,’ said Reggie. ‘If you mean that I’m in danger of becoming self-important, please don’t worry. The community’s the thing. I’ll just be the shadowy catalyst that enables it to function.’

‘Super,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones.

‘What are you going to call it?’ said Prue, crossing her attractive but sensible legs.

‘Perrins,’ said Reggie.

‘Super,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones.

Steady rain was falling as Reggie drove home from Reading. The lights in Lisbon Crescent were out, and the February night was very dark. As he turned into Oslo Avenue, he found himself following the single-decker bus, the W288, which ran through these quiet streets to places with deliriously dull names, gloriously ordinary Coxwell, exquisitely prosaic Spraundon.

This was his world.

When he entered the living-room, he felt as if he had been there for a thousand years. The phone was ringing. It was Tony.

‘We’ll take the job,’ he said. ‘No sweat.’

‘Reggie?’ said Elizabeth next afternoon, as they were about to wash up the Sunday dinner things in the deceptively commodious kitchen.

‘Yes?’

‘What’s happening about the staff? You haven’t told me a thing.’

‘We agreed that the recruiting would be my responsibility and the furniture would be yours,’ he said.

‘Well I haven’t kept the furniture secret,’ said Elizabeth.

‘That is rather different,’ he said. ‘I mean, we couldn’t sit on it if you did.’

He donned the real ale apron and began to stack the dishes in the integrated sink with double drainers. He arranged the dishes in a pyramid so that the water would pour over them like a fountain.

‘Is there some reason why you don’t want to tell me about the staff?’ said Elizabeth, wrapping the remains of the meal in the
Botchley and Spraundon Press (Incorporating the Coxwell Gazette)
.

‘Of course not, darling.’

He turned on the hot water. It gushed on to a dessert spoon and sprayed out all over the floor. He moved the spoon hurriedly, and added a few squirts of extra-strength washing-up liquid.

‘I’ve engaged six excellent people,’ he said.

‘Who?’ she asked. ‘I know their names won’t mean much, but I’d like to know.’

‘Er . . . one or two of the names may mean something. C.J., for instance.’

‘C.J.?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve appointed C.J.?’

‘Yes. He won’t be on top of us all the time, darling. He’ll probably spend quite a lot of his time in his . . . er . . . in his tent.’

There was a pause. Reggie lost his dishmop.

‘In his what?’ said Elizabeth.

‘He’s going to live under canvas,’ said Reggie. ‘Mrs C.J. won’t be with him. She’s no frontierswoman.’

‘Reggie, where is this tent of C.J.’s going to be?’ said Elizabeth.

‘Damn, I’ve broken a cup,’ said Reggie.

He hunted for the remains of the cup in the sud-filled bowl, for, like many a good man before him, he had sadly underestimated the power of the extra-strength washing-up liquid.

During his hunt he found the dishmop. Life is often like that. In hunting for one thing, we find another.

‘Where is this tent going to be?’ repeated Elizabeth. ‘Near here?’

‘Er . . . quite near.’

‘How near?’

‘Er . . . not in the front garden.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that C.J. is going to live in a tent in the back garden?’ said Elizabeth.

‘Right at the back of the back garden,’ said Reggie. ‘Miles from the house, really.’

‘What will he do about food? Open tins of pemmican down by the compost heap?’

‘I thought he’d . . . er . . . have some of his meals with us.’

‘Which meals?’

‘Er . . . breakfast, lunch and dinner.’

‘So we live together, the three of us. That sounds dangerous,’ she said.

‘Good heavens no.
Ménages à-trois
, Bermuda triangles, that would be dangerous. No, they’ll all live here.’

‘All?’

‘All the staff.’

‘So I’m expected to share my house with total strangers?’

‘They . . . er . . . they won’t be strangers.’

‘What will they be?’

‘Well . . . people like Doc Morrissey, Tony and Joan, David and Prue.’

‘All the old mob?’

‘They’ve proved their worth, darling. Look what they did for Grot.’

‘And what about our daughter? Hasn’t she proved her worth?’

‘Linda and Tom too. I was going to ask them next. And Jimmy.’

‘It’s going to get a bit crowded, isn’t it?’

‘That’s the whole point of a community,’ said Reggie. ‘There’s not much point in having a community if nobody’s there.’

‘Am I expected to cook for them?’

‘We’ll employ a cook, darling.’

Reggie advanced towards her. Suds dripped from his green washing-up gloves.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have told you everything. I just didn’t know how you’d take it.’

‘I think it’s all very exciting,’ said Elizabeth.

After they had finished the washing-up, they had their coffee in the living-room. The chairs and settee that Elizabeth had chosen had comfort as their main objective, while not neglecting the aesthetic element. Three pictures of bygone Botchley adorned the walls. The smokeless fuel burned placidly. They sat on the settee, and Elizabeth nestled her head against Reggie’s chest.

‘Did you really mean that?’ said Reggie. ‘Do you really think it’s all very exciting?’

‘After Grot, I’ll never doubt your judgement again,’ said Elizabeth.

It was cosy in the living-room in the fading half-light. Reggie put his arm round Elizabeth.

‘We’re going to have to learn different values,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to forget that an Englishman’s home is his castle. From now on, our home is everyone else’s castle.’

The front doorbell rang.

‘Damn, damn damn,’ he said. ‘Who the hell is that?’

He smiled ruefully.

It was his son-in-law Tom.

‘Oh, it’s you. Come in,’ said Reggie.

‘I’ haven’t come at an unfortunate time, have I, Reggie?’ said Tom.

‘Every time you visit us, Tom, it’s . . . absolutely delightful. Wot, no prune wine?’

Tom had brought some of his usual appurtenances – his beard, his briar pipe – but none of his home-made wine.

‘I’ haven’t had the heart to make any lately,’ he admitted. ‘You’ll have to forgo it.’

‘Oh, what a shame.’

They went into the living-room.

‘This room is surprisingly spacious,’ said Tom, after he had kissed his mother-in-law.

‘Once an estate agent, always an estate agent,’ said Reggie.

Elizabeth went to make some coffee for Tom, who plonked himself down on the settee. His legs stretched out in front of him till they seemed to fill the room.

‘How are things with you, Reggie?’ he asked.

‘Not bad, Tom. I smiled ruefully just before you came. First time I can recall actually smiling ruefully. I’ve read about it, of course. Always wanted to do it.’

I’m not smiling ruefully,’ said Tom.

‘No.’

‘I’m looking lugubrious.’

‘Yes.’

‘Even when I’m wildly excited I look lugubrious, so it’s difficult for people to tell when I actually am lugubrious.’

‘You’ve got no lugubriosity in reserve.’

‘Exactly.’

Tom relit his pipe.

‘Do you remember what a success I was with my adverts for Grot?’ he said.

‘I certainly do.’

‘I was known as the McGonegall of Admass. Well, you may find this difficult to believe, but I’ve been unable to get another job in advertising.’

‘You amaze me. So, it’s back to the estate agent’s boards, is it?’

Tom relit his pipe before replying.

‘I couldn’t go back to that,’ he said. ‘I’ve burnt my boats.’

‘Burnt your boats, Tom?’

Tom stood up, as if he felt that it would relieve the burden of his folly.

‘When I left, Norris asked me if I’d continue to write my witty house ads. I said . . .’ Tom shuddered at the memory. ‘I said: “You can stick your house ads up your fully integrated exceptionally spacious arse unit.”’

Reggie laughed.

‘Yes.’

‘Very good,’ he said. ‘I’m surpri . . . no, I’m not. Why should I be?’

‘He’s told every estate agent from Bristol to Burnham-on-Crouch.’

‘They’ll have forgotten.’

‘Estate agents never forget. They’re the elephants of the professional world.’

Tom sat down again, and managed to achieve the impossible by looking even more lugubrious than he had before.

I popped in at a party last night, at the show house on that new estate at High Wycombe,’ he said. ‘I was snubbed. Even Harrison, of Harrison, Harrison and Harrison, cold-shouldered me. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been Harrison or Harrison. They’re bastards. But Harrison! He was my friend.’

He relit his pipe.

‘I’ve got bitten by the crafts bug,’ he said. ‘Thatching, basket-weaving, coopering. I can’t seem to get a foot in, though. I can’t get any work, Reggie. We’re in trouble.’

‘I’m sorry, Tom.’

Tom shifted nervously in his seat.

‘I’ve never asked for charity, Reggie,’ he began.

‘I’m glad to to hear it,’ said Reggie.

‘I’m not a charity person.’

‘Oh good. That is a relief.’

‘I don’t like having something for nothing.’

”Oh good. For one awful moment there I thought you were going to ask me for help. I misjudged you, Tom. Can you forgive me?’

Tom looked at Reggie in hurt puzzlement.

‘I should have known better,’ said Reggie. ‘I always thought that our daughter had married a real man.’

‘Oh. Thank you, Reggie.’

‘A man with pride.’

‘Oh. Thank you, Reggie.’

They sat in silence for a few moments. Tom looked acutely miserable.

‘I’m also glad you didn’t ask for charity, because you don’t need it,’ said Reggie.

He explained his project, offered Tom and Linda jobs, agreed salaries, and suggested that they sell their house, but not through Harrison, Harrison and Harrison.

Elizabeth brought the coffee, switched on the light, and drew the curtains on the gathering mists of night.

The front doorbell rang again. Early indications were that it was coping splendidly with its role in the smooth running of the household. It was Linda, and she was angry. She swept past her father’s affectionate embrace and confronted Tom.

‘You bastard!’ she said.

Tom stood up slowly.

‘Hello, darling,’ he said. ‘How did you get here?’

I borrowed the Perrymans’ car. You did it, didn’t you? You bastard!’

‘Linda!’ said Elizabeth.

‘To what do I owe the reception of this unmerited description?’ said Tom.

‘Oh shut up,’ said Linda. ‘You did it, didn’t you?’

‘I can’t answer you and shut up,’ said Tom.

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Linda. ‘Well, did you or didn’t you?’

Reggie put a fatherly arm on Linda’s shoulder.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘He came to you and begged,’ she said. ‘I asked him not to. He promised. I can’t stand people abasing themselves and begging. I went down on one knee and cried: “Tom, please if you love me, don’t abase yourself. Don’t beg.” He promised.’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, Linda,’ said Reggie. ‘Come on. Sit down and discuss this sensibly. There’s all this splendid new furniture just waiting to be sat on. Pity to waste it.’

They all sat down except Linda.

‘What have I got wrong?’ she demanded.

‘Tom didn’t beg,’ said Reggie. ‘He obviously took your words to heart, because he rushed all the way over here to tell me . . . now, what was his exact phrase? . . . Yes . . . “I’m not a charity person”.’