The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (69 page)

That’s right,’ said Tom.

‘And I offered him a job,’ said Reggie.

He squeezed up towards Tom, making room for Linda to sit on the other end of the settee.

He put his arm round her shoulder and explained about the project and the jobs he had offered them and how he wanted them to come and live at Perrins. When he had finished Linda burst into tears.

‘It’s not as bad an idea as all that, is it?’ said Reggie.

Everyone played their part in cheering Linda up. She blew her nose, Elizabeth poured her a brandy, Reggie squeezed her affectionately, and Tom remained silent.

Reggie’s squeeze meant: ‘We love you so much. You’re all we’ve got now that our son is lost to us.’

They had last heard from Mark almost three years ago, after he had been kidnapped by guerillas while presenting
The Reluctant Debutante
to an audience of Angolan mercenaries. They had drifted into silence about him. His absence was a constant presence which they never acknowledged. Reggie hoped that Linda would understand his squeeze.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘What do you think of my idea?’

‘I learnt my lesson over Grot,’ said Linda. ‘I’m never going to criticize your ideas again.’

A car horn began to blare outside.

‘What’s that rudely disturbing the calm of our suburban Sunday?’ said Reggie.

Linda leapt up.

‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘I left Adam and Jocasta in the car.’

She rushed outside.

Tom relit his pipe.

‘Oh, my God,’ said Reggie. ‘Adam and Jocasta will be living with us as well.’

Reggie felt a lurking sadness that his friends, relatives and colleagues weren’t meeting with more success in their various lives.

Surely somebody would stand out against him and his purse? It didn’t seem likely. Only Major James Gordonstoun Anderson remained.

Since Elizabeth’s elder brother had been made redundant by the Queen’s Own Berkshire Light Infantry on the grounds of age in his forty-sixth year, success had not courted him assiduously. He had been divorced from his first wife, Sheila. His marriage to his second wife Lettuce had failed to survive his non-arrival at the church. His secret right-wing army had collapsed when his colleague, Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther, had vamoosed with all the funds and weapons. His brief career as Head of Creative Thinking at Grot had ended when the organization had been disbanded.

An inquiry at his old bed-sitter revealed that he had moved to a house near Woburn Sands. It was called Rorke’s Drift.

What could Jimmy be doing in the Woburn area? Army recruiting officer for Milton Keynes? Chief Giraffe Buyer for the Duke of Bedford?

There were pools of water at the roadside, after the overnight rain. Heavy yellow clouds hung over Dunstable Downs, and it was still very mild for March.

Rorke’s Drift turned out to be a small, unprepossessing modern bungalow that stood like a tiny corner of some seaside suburb in a clearing surrounded by fine woods. It was deserted. No smoke rose from its rustic chimney. A brief ray of sunshine lit up the clearing, then died away.

A large woman marched fiercely along a track that led out of the woods past the bungalow. She was towing a reluctant and severely over-stretched chihuahua.

‘Looking for the colonel?’ she barked, perhaps because she knew that the little dog was too exhausted to do so.

‘The . . . er . . . yes.’

‘He’s out. At work.’

‘Ah! Do you . . . er . . . do you happen to know where he works?’

‘Sorry. Can’t oblige. Come on, Rastus. Chop chop.’

She led the exhausted chihuahua remorselessly towards fresh pastures. Trees against which it would have loved to cock its little legs were glimpsed like pretty villages from an express train.

At equal speed from the opposite direction came a mild and tiny woman being pulled by a huge Alsatian.

‘Looking for the colonel?’ she managed to gasp.

‘Yes.’

‘Narkworth Narrow Boats. Outskirts of Wolverton.’

And then she was gone.

Reggie was happy to leave this strange place. There was more than an air of
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
about the silent woods, the nasty bungalow in the little clearing, and the women with their wildly unsuitable pets. What grotesque pair would arrive next? A dwarf pulled along by a lion? A giant, exercising his field mouse?

The clouds were breaking up rapidly. The sun gleamed on the puddles.

Reggie found Narkworth Narrow Boats without difficulty. It was situated on a long straight stretch of the Grand Union Canal. He parked in a heavily rutted car-park and picked his way gingerly between the puddles into a small yard surrounded by workshops and store-rooms. A smart sign-board carried the simple legend ‘Reception’. It pointed to a newly painted single-storey building.

Jimmy sat at the desk, almost hidden behind a huge pot of flowers. His face broke into a delighted smile.

‘Reggie!’

They shook hands. Jimmy’s handshake was a barometer of his circumstances and now it had the unrestrained vigour of his palmiest days.

‘Nice to see you, Colonel,’ said Reggie.

‘Nice to see . . . ah! Yes. You’ve . . . er . . . you’ve met some of my neighbours. A harmless deception, Reggie. Practically a colonel. Should have been, by rights.’

Reggie sat down, and faced Jimmy round the edge of the flowers.

‘Running this show,’ said Jimmy. ‘Excellent set-up. Landed on my feet.’

‘I half thought you might be running another secret army,’ said Reggie.

‘No fear. Once bitten, twice shy. Bastard took the lot.’

‘Clive “Lofty” Anstruther?’

‘Lofty by name and Lofty by nature,’ said Jimmy mysteriously. ‘If I ever run into him . . .’

What he would do was evidently beyond expression in mere words.

He led Reggie on a tour of inspection, while Reggie described his community persuasively.

‘It’s a kind of army,’ he said. ‘An army of peace. Fighting together, living together, messing together. Living under canvas. Think of the camaraderie, Jimmy.’

Jimmy stood in the yard, thinking of the camaraderie.

Then he shook his head.

‘Two months ago, jumped at the chance,’ he said. ‘Good set-up here, though. Leisure explosion. Canals booming.’

‘Good. Good. Is there a Narkworth, incidentally?’

‘Cock-up on the marital front. Kraut wife.’

Jimmy had never forgiven the Germans for losing the war before he was old enough to fight.

‘Sold out, dirt cheap, fresh start, sad story,’ said Jimmy.

The sun was beaming now from a cloudless sky.

‘Care for a spin?’ said Jimmy.

All along the canal there were bollards, and fifteen narrow boats of various lengths were tied up. They were all painted green and yellow. In some of them, renovation was in progress beneath waterproof sheeting.

Jimmy chose a full-length seventy-foot converted butty boat, and they chugged slowly up the cut. Little blue notices abounded by the towpath. They carried messages such as ‘Shops, 700 yards’, ‘Next Water Point, 950 yards’, thus ensuring that those who came to get back to nature were reassured that it had been thoroughly tamed in their absence.

Cows stopped chewing the cud to watch their slow progress. They disturbed a heron, which flapped with lazy indignation ahead of them.

‘How do you turn round?’ said Reggie.

‘Winding hole two pounds up the cut,’ said Jimmy.

‘Pardon?’

‘There’s a widened bit after we’ve been through two locks.’

‘Ah!’

‘Good life,’ said Jimmy. ‘Only one bugbear.’

‘What?’

‘Johnny woman.’

‘You’ve got woman trouble?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s the trouble?’

‘No women.’

‘Ah!’

‘Renewed vigour. Indian summer. Bugbear, no Indians.’

‘What about the doggy ladies near your cottage?’

”Odd chat,’ said Jimmy. Time of day. Haven’t clicked.’

He negotiated a sharp bend with skill. Ahead was a pretty canal bridge.

‘Should have married Lettuce,’ he continued. ‘Poor cow.’

A black and white Friesian lowed morosely.

‘Not you,’ said Jimmy. ‘Nice woman. Lettuce. Fly in ointment, bloody ugly.’

‘She isn’t that ugly,’ said Reggie.

‘Yes, she is. Got her photo, pride of place, bedroom. Felt I owed it to her.’

They ducked as the boat chugged peacefully under the mellow brick bridge. On the other side there was an old farmhouse. Lawns swept down to splendid willows at the water’s edge. Muscovy ducks paddled listlessly in a reedy backwater. Reggie stood up again, but Jimmy remained in his bent position.

‘Reggie?’ he said, in a low voice.

Reggie bent down to hear.

‘Yes?’

‘Something I want to confess.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Started to do something. Something I’ve never done before.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Jimmy, what?’

Jimmy lowered his voice still further, as if he feared that a passing sedge-warbler might hear. Little did he know that the sedge-warblers were far away, wintering in warmer climes.

‘Self-abuse,’ he whispered hoarsely.

‘Well for goodness’ sake,’ said Reggie. ‘At your age that’s a cause for congratulations, not remorse.’

‘Never done it before,’ said Jimmy. ‘Not in regimental tradition.’

‘I should hope not, overtly,’ said Reggie. ‘I don’t know, though. It’s quite a thought. The new recruit up the North West Frontier. “One thing you should know, Hargreaves. Friday night is wanking night. And Hargreaves, you can’t sit there. That’s Portnoy’s chair. Oh, and a word of advice. Don’t have the liver.”’

‘Not with you,’ said Jimmy.

‘Literary allusion,’ said Reggie.

‘Ah! Literature. Closed book to me, I’m afraid.’

‘I really can’t see why masturbation should be frowned upon by a nation that’s so keen on do-it-yourself,’ said Reggie.

‘Thing is . . .’ began Jimmy.

But Reggie was never to learn what the thing was, because at that moment, with both men bent below the level of the engine casing and unable to see ahead, the narrow monster ploughed straight into the bank.

They walked forward over the long roof, and stepped off on to the towpath. The boat was firmly wedged in the bank, and there was damage to the bows.

‘Damn!’ said Jimmy. ‘Cock-up on the bows front.’

They pulled and heaved. They heaved and pulled. All to no avail.

A Jensen pulled up by the bridge and two men in gumboots and cavalry twill walked along the towpath.

‘Having trouble, brigadier?’ said one.

‘Er . . . yes.’

With three men shoving and Jimmy throwing the engine into full reverse, they managed to shift the boat.

‘Thanks,’ said Jimmy.

‘No trouble,’ said the first man.

‘Regards to Beamish,’ said the other.

Jimmy picked Reggie up at the next bridge, and they chugged on towards the winding hole.

‘Brigadier?’ said Reggie.

‘Might have been eventually, if I hadn’t been flung out.’

‘Beamish?’

‘My partner. Tim “Curly” Beamish. Wish you could meet him. Sound fellow. Salt of earth. Top drawer.’

Reggie’s next quest was for a chef. He placed adverts in the catering papers.

He received replies from George Crutchwell of Staines, Mario Lombardi of Perugia, and Kenny McBlane from Partick.

He invited all three to Perrins for interviews.

George Crutchwell spoke with great confidence in an irritatingly flat voice. He was unemployed – ‘resting’, he called it – but had wide experience. He was reluctant to give a reference but eventually named the Ritz.

Mario Lombardi was good-looking and smiled a lot. He assured Reggie that Botchley was more beautiful than Perugia, and told him that they didn’t have houses like Twenty-one, Oslo Avenue in Umbria. He gave a reference willingly.

Kenny McBlane might have been good-looking if it hadn’t been for his spots, and didn’t smile at all. Reggie had no idea what he said because his Scottish accent was so broad. He gave a reference willingly, writing it down to ensure that there was no misunderstanding.

Reggie soon received the three references.

The Ritz had never head of George Crutchwell and Reggie crossed his name off the list.

Mario Lombardi’s reference was excellent. If praise for his culinary skills was fulsome, the lauding of his character was scarcely less so. He sounded like a cross between Escoffier and St Francis of Assisi.

Kenny McBlane’s reference was a minor masterpiece of the oblique. It didn’t actually state that he was a bad cook, and it didn’t actually say anything specifically adverse about his character. It just left you to deduce the worst.

Reggie showed Elizabeth the two references.

‘Which do you think?’ he asked.

‘It’s obvious,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Lombardi.’

‘I’d say it was obviously McBlane,’ said Reggie. ‘Lombardi’s employers want to get rid of him. McBlane’s want to keep him.’

He appointed the thirty-three-year-old Scot.

The remainder of March was a time of preparation.

Tom and Linda sold their house, and made arrangements for Adam and Jocasta to go to school in Botchley. Adam was seven now, and Jocasta six. They had decided not to have any more children, as they weren’t ecological irresponsibility people.

David and Prue Harris-Jones sold their flat in Reading.

Tony and Joan sold their flat and had a ceremonial burning of three thousand central heating brochures.

Doc Morrissey borrowed every book on psychology that Southall library possessed. He read them both avidly, long into the cumin-scented night.

C.J. returned to Blancmange Cottage, Godalming. He told Mrs C.J. of his new job, and suggested that it might be better, for the time being, if she were to visit her friends in Luxembourg. He was surprised by the speed with which she acceded to this proposition.

Elizabeth bought three tents.

March gave way to April, and the mild winter proved to have a sharp sting in its tail.

The great day approached.

McBlane arrived three days before the others. Reggie had booked him into the Botchley Arms. He was dark, tense and slim, with a hint of suppressed power. His spots had got worse and there were three boil plasters on his neck.