The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (72 page)

‘Too early,’ said Joan.

They decided to decide democratically what time their group sessions would start and end. They decided to have a vote on it. Then they debated democratically what form the vote should take. Then they voted on what form the vote should take. Then they voted.

The consensus of opinion was that they should begin at nine thirty and break for lunch at twelve thirty. By that time it was twelve thirty. They broke for lunch.

‘It’s been an excellent first morning,’ said Reggie.

Life at Number Twenty-One, Oslo Avenue, Botchley, began to settle into a pattern.

Twice a week they held a meeting to discuss their group meetings.

The rest of the time they discussed their problems with Doc Morrissey and their sex lives with David Harris-Jones, wove baskets with Prue, painted with Linda, sang with Joan, sported with Tom, were cultural with Tony, and entered into simulated work situations with C.J.

At first some of these activities were not very successful, while others were worse.

At the third group meeting they decided to set up a rota system for doing the various household activities like dusting, hoovering, helping McBlane and answering the door.

At the fourth group meeting Doc Morrissey suggested that each day they should select a different word, and try to live in accordance with it. He explained that this would be an excellent form of self-discipline and would help to weld them into corporate entity.

They each chose ten words. The hundred words were put into a hat. Each evening the hat was shuffled, and the next day’s word was drawn by a member of the staff.

The member of the staff who would choose the word was chosen out of another hat.

The scheme began on May the second. The word was Courtesy, and it was Tom’s turn to answer the door.

‘Good morning, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘Wonderful to see you. What an unexpected pleasure. What a bonus.’

Jimmy stared at him in amazement.

‘Courtesy’s our word for the day,’ said Tom.

‘Oh, I see. That explains it,’ said Jimmy. ‘Jolly good. Like to see Reggie privately. Personal. My car. Case nothing comes of it.’

Reggie went outside and sat in Jimmy’s rusty old Ford. There were two dents in the off-side.

All the street lights were on due to a failure in the timing devices.

‘This army of yours going well?’ said Jimmy, when they were settled inside the car.

‘Very well indeed,’ said Reggie, nodding to the milkman, who was returning to the depot on his float.

‘Offer of a job still open?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Reggie, surprised.

‘On beam ends.’

‘But, Jimmy. The narrow boats.’

‘Sold out, Reggie. Cut losses. Kaput.’

Jimmy was tapping the steering wheel nervously.

‘Let down,’ he mumbled.

‘Tim “Curly” Beamish?’

Jimmy nodded miserably.

‘His share of money. Stolen,’ he said. ‘Ran up debts. Casanova Club, Wolverton. Copacabana Club, Bletchley. Paradise Lost, Milton Keynes. Women. Gambling. Paid for equipment with dud cheques. Our names mud from Daventry to Hemel Hempstead. Clive “Lofty” Anstruther all over again. Bastard!’

Jimmy sank his head in misery and the horn shattered the stillness of the domestic morning.

‘What the hell is that noise?’ he said.

‘You’re leaning on the horn,’ said Reggie.

Jimmy sat up hastily.

‘Funny thing. Wasn’t working earlier,’ he said.

He switched the ignition off. He seemed marginally cheered by the revival of his horn.

‘Don’t expect you’ll have me now,’ he said.

‘Of course I’ll have you,’ said Reggie. ‘You did sterling work for Grot. I have no doubt you’ll do sterling work here.’

‘What as?’ said Jimmy.

‘Leader of expeditionary forces,’ said Reggie. ‘Helping old ladies across road, clearing litter, whatever you like. A sort of commando unit for good works.’

‘Thanks Reggie,’ said Jimmy. ‘Kiss you if we were French.’

Thank God we aren’t, then,’ said Reggie.

‘Yes. Postman might think we were bum-boys.’

They got out of the car, and Jimmy locked up carefully.

‘Cock-up on the judgement of men front,’ he said. ‘Always choose the wrong chap. My Freudian heel.’

‘Achilles heel.’

‘You see. Wrong chap again. Useless. No wonder army made me personnel officer.’

Next day, a fourth tent appeared on the lawn.

On the following day, the word of the day was Quietude. The peace was shattered at seven o’clock when Jimmy emerged from his tent and blew ‘Come to the cookhouse door, boys’ on his bugle. Reggie took him quietly to one side before breakfast. They sat in the study, looking out over the pebble-dashed side wall of Number Twenty-three.

‘Jimmy, today’s word is quietude,’ whispered Reggie.

‘Damn,’ whispered Jimmy. ‘Slipped my mind. Get the picture. No bugle till tomorrow.’

‘When I said I was running a sort of army,’ whispered Reggie, ‘I didn’t mean it literally.’

‘Very literal cove,’ whispered Jimmy. ‘Leave imagination to you brain boxes.’

‘I was using a figure of speech,’ whispered Reggie.

‘Ah! Figures of speech not my line. Not many metaphors in Queen’s Own Berkshire Light Infantry. Hyperbole exception rather than rule in BFPO thirty-three.’

‘No doubt you see what I’m driving at,’ whispered Reggie.

‘Never see what people are driving at, Reggie.’

‘Ah! What I’m driving at is this, Jimmy. I don’t think that blowing “Come to the cookhouse door, boys” on your bugle is quite our style.’

‘I see.’

‘Besides, what will the neighbours say?’

‘Ah! Admit it. Forgot the neighbours. Great boon of army life, no neighbours. “Guns one to eight, fire!” “Excuse me, sir?” “Yes, Smudger, what is it?” “Won’t we wake the neighbours, sir?” “Good God, so we will. Cancel the firing. We’ll have some cocoa instead. Good thinking, Smudger.” Doesn’t happen. World might be different if it did. Thought?’

‘It certainly is, Jimmy.’

But neighbours there assuredly were in Oslo Avenue, Botchley, and shortly after breakfast on the Saturday morning they made their presence felt. The weather was showery.

Mr Penfold, from Number Twenty-three, was the first to arrive. Prue, whose turn it was for answering the door, ushered him into the living-room. He had a small head and stick-out ears.

‘I’d like to have a word with you if I may, Mr Perrin,’ he said.

‘Certainly,’ said Reggie. ‘Would you like coffee? My wife makes excellent coffee.’

Doc Morrissey served coffee and biscuits. When he had gone Mr Penfold said, ‘Er . . . excuse me, but this place is a little unusual, and unusual things are really quite usual these days. So . . . er . . . well . . .’

He swallowed hard.

‘That wasn’t your wife, was it?’ he said.

Reggie laughed heartily.

‘No,’ he said. ‘That was my Doc Morrissey. We share all duties in our community.’

‘Community?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah. I really must . . . er . . . lovely coffee . . . I really must put my foot down. Well, it isn’t really me. It’s Mrs Penfold.’

‘You really must put Mrs Penfold’s foot down.’

Mr Penfold sat perched on the edge of his chair, taking his coffee in tiny sips.

‘After all, Oslo Avenue isn’t the King’s Road, Chelsea,’ he averred.

‘It isn’t the Reeperbahn in Hamburg,’ agreed Reggie.

‘I’m glad you see it my way,’ said Mr Penfold.

‘It isn’t the red light district of Amsterdam either.’

‘Precisely.’

‘It’s a pity, isn’t it?’

Careful, Reggie. You need these people on your side.

Mr Penfold leant forward so far that he almost toppled off the chair.

‘Not to me, it isn’t,’ he said. ‘Mrs Penfold is not a well woman, Mr Peirin. I’m afraid that all this

‘All this, Mr Penfold?’

Mr Penfold waved his arms, including the french windows, the three pictures of bygone Botchley and the standard lamp in the environmental outrage that was being perpetrated on him.

The doorbell rang again, and Prue ushered in Mrs Hollies, from Number Nineteen.

Doc Morrissey produced an extra cup, and Mrs Hollies’s verdict on the coffee reinforced that of Mr Penfold.

‘Don’t worry. That’s not his wife,’ said Mr Penfold, when Doc Morrissey had gone.

‘What?’ said Mrs Hollies.

‘That man who served coffee. He’s not Mr Perrin’s wife.’

Mrs Hollies looked at Mr Penfold in astonishment.

‘Do we owe the pleasure of your visit to any particular purpose?’ Reggie inquired pleasantly.

‘It’s Mr Hollies,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘Mr Hollies has to take things very easily. The slightest disturbance to his routine, and Mr Hollies goes completely haywire. It’s his work. These are perilous times in the world of sawdust.’

‘Sawdust?’ said Reggie.

‘Mr Hollies is in the sawdust supply industry,’ said Mrs Hollies.

‘What exactly does that mean?’ asked Reggie.

‘He supplies sawdust.’

‘I see.’

‘To butchers, bars, zoos, furriers, circuses.’

‘Where sawdust is needed,’ said Reggie, ‘there is Mr Hollies.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Do I deduce that thing’s aren’t good in the world of sawdust?’ said Mr Penfold.

‘Not what they were, but then, what is?’ said Mrs Hollies.

‘You can say that again,’ said Mr Penfold.

Mrs Hollies spurned the invitation. Instead, she said: ‘In and out like the tide. Up and down like Tower Bridge. These biscuits are delicious. Where do you get them?’

‘Finefare,’ said C.J., passing through with the hoover.

There were pretty blue flowers round the edge of C.J.’s pinny.

‘They share everything here,’ explained Mr Penfold.

‘Some share more than others,’ said C.J. darkly, and with that ominous thrust he departed.

‘I must admit that I came round to . . . er . . . inquire what exactly is going on here,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘I don’t mind myself, an Englishman’s home is his castle, but it’s Mr Hollies’s nerves.’

‘What exactly are you complaining about?’ said Reggie politely.

Tents in the garden,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘It isn’t natural.’

‘Babies crying at all hours. Comings and goings,’ said Mr Penfold.

‘Goings and comings,’ said Mrs Hollies.

‘That’s the same complaint twice,’ said Reggie. ‘One man’s coming is another man’s going.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Mr Penfold.

‘Just testing,’ said Reggie.

Careful, Reggie.

‘Anything else?’ said Reggie.

‘Cars parked outside the house,’ said Mr Penfold. ‘You probably think that’s petty, but it’s Mrs Penfold.’

‘Mr Hollies is the same,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘Me, you could park juggernauts outside.’

‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Mr Penfold, ‘you could have a line of pantechnicons stretching from Beirut Crescent to Buenos Aires Rise.’

‘But it’s Mr Hollies,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘Mr Hollies is very jealous of his front view. Cars parked in front of our house, they prey on his mind.’

‘Mrs Penfold’s exactly the same,’ said Mr Penfold. ‘Cars parked in front of our verge, they’re a red rag to a bull.’

‘It’s the number of people you have here,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘It’s the uncertainty.’

‘I mean, this is a residential street, let’s face it,’ said Mr Penfold.

‘It’s wondering what you’re up to, with the tents and the bugle and that,’ said Mr Hollies.

Reggie stood up.

‘I’m in a position to set your minds at rest,’ he said. ‘First, the bugle. I can give you a unilateral assurance that there will be no more bugling.’

‘Oh well. You can’t say fairer than that,’ said Mr Penfold.

‘So far as it goes,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘But what about everything else?’

‘Secondly, everything else. You are privileged to live next to an amazing and historic development. In this road, hitherto barely known in Botchley, let alone in the great wen beyond, you are going to see the formation of an ideal society.’

‘A Utopia, you mean?’ said Penfold.

‘I suppose you could call it that,’ said Reggie.

‘If you wanted a Utopia, you’d have done better to take one of those big houses in Rio De Janeiro Lane,’ said Mr Penfold. ‘They’ve got forecourt parking, you see.’

‘The people here at present are my staff,’ explained Reggie. ‘They’re in the middle of their training, learning how . . .’

Tom burst in from the direction of the kitchen. He had a bucket of water and a chamois leather.

‘C.J. has accused me of not pulling my weight,’ he said. ‘Either he goes or I do. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had visitors.’

‘Tom, these are our neighbours, Mr Penfold and Mrs Hollies. This is Tom, our sports wizard,’ said Reggie.

Tom fixed Mrs Hollies with an intense gaze.

‘Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I’m just not a pulling my weight person,’ he told her.

‘Where was I?’ said Reggie, sitting down again after Tom’s departure. ‘Oh yes. These people are in the middle of training, learning how to be happy, generous, perfect people.’

Mrs Hollies produced a thinly veiled sneer.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Reggie. ‘Well, yes. We all have a long way to go. That’s what makes it fascinating. Who’d bother to climb Everest if it was flat?’

‘Mrs Penfold and I,’ said Mr Penfold. ‘It’d be just about our mark.’

‘People will flock to this place, as soon as it’s open to the public,’ said Reggie. ‘Casualties of our over-complicated society will seek help in their hundreds.’

Mr Penfold and Mrs Hollies turned pale.

‘I hope I’ve set your minds at rest,’ said Reggie.

The next day was Sunday. It rained on and off. There was only play in one John Player League cricket match. The word of the day was Knowledge.

Reggie sat in his study, reading an encyclopedia. The door handle slowly turned. It was Jocasta, bringing him a cup of coffee. Not all of it had spilled in the saucer.

He thanked her gravely.

‘Adam’s got a willy and I’ve got a hole,’ she said.

‘What a satisfactory arrangement,’ said Reggie.

‘I wouldn’t want a willy.’

‘Quite right.’

‘Has C.J. got a willy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you seen it?’

‘No.’