The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (74 page)

‘You answer, David,’ said Reggie. ‘Why don’t you think it’s fair?’

‘Well, I think our marriage is happy because we agree about so much,’ he said.

‘I agree,’ said Prue. ‘I think it would be pointless to have to find things to disagree about in order to prove that you could agree to disagree.’

‘I agree,’ said David. ‘Anyway, we sometimes disagree.’

A flash of forked lightning illuminated the room.

‘I mean; when we first discussed which side of the bed we like to sleep on, we both said the right side,’ said David.

‘That was agreeing,’ said Prue.

‘I disagree,’ said David. ‘I think it was disagreeing. Because we couldn’t both sleep on the right side. To agree would have been to disagree about our favourite side, so that we’d have slept on different sides. As we in fact do, by agreement.’

‘Well, it does seem as if, so far as you are concerned, everything’s going amazingly satisfactorily,’ said Reggie.

‘I agree,’ they said.

On Wednesday there was great excitement. A Mr C. R. Babbacombe wished to visit the community.

His travel instructions were sent, and he was advised to arrive between three and six on Sunday. The floodgates were open.

It was Elizabeth’s turn to have her assessment interview.

‘I can’t assess you,’ said Reggie. ‘Give us a kiss.’

‘Sexy beast,’ said Elizabeth.

Reggie went over to her chair, sat on her lap and kissed her. He kissed her again, harder. The chair tipped over backwards and they fell to the floor.

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I love you too,’ she said.

Reggie kissed her. Neither of them heard the tentative knock on the study door.

Nor did they see Jimmy come in.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen anything. Best thing, slope straight out, say nothing.’

Reggie and Elizabeth disentangled themselves, and stood up, dishevelled and embarrassed.

‘What did you say?’ said Reggie.

‘I said, “Haven’t seen anything. Best thing, slope straight out, say nothing”.’

‘Ah!’

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean it to come out loud.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Reggie. ‘Elizabeth was just having her assessment interview.’

‘Ah!’

‘Sorry to barge in,’ said Jimmy awkwardly, when Elizabeth had gone. ‘Didn’t mean to catch you . . .’

‘
In flagrante delicto
.’

‘Is it? Ah! Never mind. Want to ask a favour, Reggie. Go AWOL, Friday lunch,’ said Jimmy, pacing nervously up and down.

‘Stop marching, Jimmy.’

‘Oh. Sorry. Nerves.’

Jimmy sat down stiffly.

‘Remember a girl called Lettuce?’ he said.

‘Of course. We talked about her on the canal.’

‘Built like a Sherman tank.’

‘I wouldn’t say that exactly,’ said Reggie. ‘More a Centurion.’

‘Not turning up at church like that,’ said Jimmy. ‘Being here, niceness everywhere. Realized pretty rotten thing to do to a girl. Want to do the decent thing.’

‘The decent thing, Jimmy?’

‘Marry her.’

Reggie began to pace around the room, then remembered that he had told Jimmy not to, and sat down again.

‘Remember the cove I told you about on the canal?’ said Jimmy.

‘Tim “Curly” Beamish?’

‘No. Self-abuse. Images spring to mind. Erotic. ATS parades, Kim Novak, that sort of caper. Yesterday morning, Reggie, I . . .’

‘Self-abuse?’

‘Yes. Dear old Lettuce sprang to mind, Reggie.’

‘And this image proved er . . . not unconducive to . . . er . . .?’

‘Enemy position stormed and taken, Reggie, no casualties. With me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anyway, long story short, rang her people, posed as insurance agent, white lie, wheedled address, gave her tinkle, public phone, George and Two Dragons, back bar: “Lettuce? Jimmy here. Remember our wedding? Rotten show. Sorry and all that. Suppose dinner’s out of the question?” Surprise, surprise, by no means. Now. Here’s the rub. Friday night. Lettuce, Greek Islands, month, on tod. Only time free, short notice, Friday lunch.’

‘And you want to get your claim in before she goes?’

‘In nutshell, Reggie. Strike while iron’s hot.’

‘Faint heart never won Sherman tank. Of course you can go, Jimmy.’

On Thursday, there were no more applications to join the community.

The floodgates had not opened.

Reggie held his final assessment with Tom and Linda.

They seemed happier than he could ever remember seeing them.

‘Tom did a wonderfully nice thing last night,’ said Linda.

‘Congratulations,’ said Reggie.

‘I found a bottle of my sprout wine that we overlooked,’ said Tom.

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I drank the whole lot myself, Reggie.’

‘Well done.’

Reggie also held his final assessment interview with C.J.

C.J. seemed happier than he could ever remember seeing him.

It was one of the few warm days of that dreadful summer, so they walked through the quiet streets of Botchley.

C.J. clasped his hands behind his back and took long strides.

This beats orgies into a cocked hat,’ he said.

‘You’re settling in now, are you?’ said Reggie.

‘In the early days,’ said C.J., ‘I felt like leaving.’

‘You did terrible things, C.J. That helping old women across roads expedition of Jimmy’s. Terrible.’

‘I helped her across the arterial road.’

‘You helped her half-way across, C.J.’

Their walk had taken them into Rio De Janeiro Lane, known in Botchley as Millionaire’s Row. Here there were many-gabled Mock Tudor fantasies. Here the nobs hung out.

‘Then I realized that you have me by the short and goolies,’ said C.J.

‘Curlies.’

‘What?’

‘The expression is “curlies”.’

‘All right then. I thought, “He has me by the curlies and goolies. I’ll make the best of it.”’

‘Well. . . good.’

‘I’ve done two unselfish things, Reggie,’ said C.J. ‘I laughed at one of Tom’s jokes, and I’ve told Mrs C.J. to stay six more months in Luxembourg.’

‘Well done,’ said Reggie.

On Friday there were again no applicants, and Reggie felt a twinge of fear.

Jimmy felt more than a twinge as he walked towards his rendezvous in Notting Hill Gate.

The weather was fine and sunny.

Good stick, Lettuce, he thought. Looks aren’t everything. Looks fade.

But does ugliness?

No miracle. Still ugly. Not horrendous, though. No means as bad as feared. On credit side, not horrendous.

‘Hello, Lettuce,’ in odd-sounding voice.

‘Hello, Jimmy.’

Presence of traffic overwhelming, strangely far away yet absurdly near.

‘Right. Wop nosh party fall in.’

No! Control nerves. No military jargon.

They walked to the La Sorrentina in silence, handed in their coats as in a dream, found themselves sitting with drinks in their hands and a large menu at which they stared without seeing.

The tables were too close together but as yet the restaurant was empty.

‘Well!’ said Jimmy.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, well!’

‘Yes.’

More silence.

‘About wedding,’ said Jimmy. ‘Sorry. Cock-up.’

‘Please!’

‘Sorry. Greek islands, then?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Blue sea. Dazzling white houses. Olive groves. Music. Wine. Informal. Joyous. Spot-on.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘No.’

The waiter loomed.

‘Bit rusty on my Itie nosh,’ said Jimmy, smiling at him. ‘Ravioli. Those are the envelope wallahs, aren’t they? Lasagne? Aren’t they those long flat green Johnnies?’

‘Lasagne verde, sir. Excellent.’

‘Ah! Well then! There we are.’

Soon they had ordered. The wine arrived, and Jimmy talked about Reggie’s project until the arrival of the lasagne verde.

‘M’m,’ he said. ‘Excellent. Theory. Bad soldier, good cook. Your average Frenchie, magnificent coq au vin, come the hostilities, buggers off to Vichy. Ities, tanks with four gears, all reverse. Pasta magnifico. English, spotted dick and watery greens. Fights till he drops. Reason. Nothing to live for. Waffling. Evading issue. Nerves.’

Lettuce smiled.

‘Please don’t be nervous,’ she said. ‘The wedding’s forgotten.’

She shovelled a forkful of pasta into her mouth.

‘Marry me,’ said Jimmy.

Lettuce stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment. Then she remembered that her mouth was full of lasagne and she hastily stared at him in closed-mouth astonishment.

‘Meant it,’ said Jimmy, clasping her hand under the table. ‘Thoroughly good stick.’

Two middle-aged women entered. They were on a shopping spree. They had the reckless air of women who have already spent too much and now see no obstacle to spending far too much.

Although there was plenty of room, the waiter put them at the next table to Lettuce and Jimmy.

It is rare for the English to live with such intensity that they are unaware of the table next to them, but Jimmy and Lettuce were unaware of it now. The result was a great treat for the two shoppers.

‘Thank you for calling me a thoroughly good stick,’ said Lettuce. ‘That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said of me. But you don’t want to stare at my ugly mug every morning.’

‘I do,’ said Jimmy. ‘I do.’

The implications of this remark flashed transparently across his honest face.

‘Not that your mug’s ugly,’ he added hastily.

Lettuce smiled, and took another mouthful of lasagne. Immediately she wanted to talk. She ploughed through the mouthful as hastily as she could, but it resisted, as mouthfuls are wont to do at such moments.

‘Shall I tell you the story of my life?’ she said, and the two shoppers nodded involuntarily. ‘As a girl I was big and gawky. I felt extremely visible. I became shy. Later I learnt, painfully, to seem less shy, although I was just as shy really. I was emotionally frustrated. I ate too much, in compensation. I became larger still. Now I drink too much in compensation as well. Soon I’ll look haggard as well as large. You don’t want to marry me.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Jimmy stoutly. ‘Won’t pretend you’re a raging beauty. No Kim Novak. Got something that’s worth all the Kim Novaks in the world, though. Character. A beauty? All right, maybe not. A damned handsome woman? Yes, every time.’

Suddenly, oblivious of the watching shoppers, he began to cry.

‘Lonely,’ he said. ‘So bloody lonely.’

Lettuce stared at him in horror.

‘Jimmy, don’t cry. Don’t cry, my darling.’

She lent him a hankie and he blew a trumpet voluntary.

She held his hand under the table.

‘I hate to see men cry,’ she said.

It seemed that in this respect her views differed from those of the lady shoppers.

‘Marry me,’ he said.

‘I’m middle-aged and ugly,’ said Lettuce. ‘And my name is Lettuce. If I was a character in a novel, I’d be a figure of fun.’

‘Horsewhip the author personally if you were,’ said Jimmy. ‘Bastards. Read some. E. M. Forster? Wouldn’t give him house room. Virginia Woolf? Some drivel about a lighthouse. Wouldn’t have lasted long in my regiment, I can tell you. No, Lettuce, nobody’s a figure of fun, in my book. You least of all.’

‘I couldn’t bear it if . . . if . . .’

‘If I didn’t turn up at church again? No fear of that. Jilted at altar twice? Not me. Marry me. Lettuce.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Lettuce. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Duck, sir?’ said the waiter.

Jimmy stared at his duck with uncomprehending astonishment. He felt as if he had ordered it a thousand years ago.

Jimmy and Lettuce lingered. They had brandies after the meal.

The two shoppers left the restaurant before them. When they got out into the bright sunshine, one of the women sighed deeply.

‘I know just what you mean,’ said the other. ‘When I get home tonight, Ted won’t believe a word of it.’

‘Ronald won’t even listen.’

On Saturday there was one letter in the mail. It informed them that a new restaurant was to open in War Memorial Parade. It was called the Thermopylae Kebab House. They could have twenty-five per cent off a bill for two on presenting the enclosed voucher. No voucher was enclosed.

The study of Number Twenty-one had been transformed into the secretary’s office. On the walls, Elizabeth had pinned several sheets of paper. They revealed the full nature of the accommodation that was available.

There were eight bedrooms, four kitchens, four dining-rooms and two living-rooms as bedrooms for guests. Seven of these had been fitted out as double rooms, so there was accommodation for twenty-five guests.

Reggie had worried that it wouldn’t be sufficient.

At the moment it was sufficient.

There was only one name on the charts: Mr C. R. Babbacombe.

‘Oh my God,’ said Reggie. ‘What have we done?’

‘You felt like this at the beginning of Grot,’ said Elizabeth. ‘And look where that ended up.’

‘Yes, but what’s Mr C. R. Babbacombe going to think when he finds he’s got to face the lot of us on his own?’

It began to rain. The two-day summer was over.

Reggie’s expression brightened.

‘Perhaps he won’t turn up,’ he said.

4
The Early Days

But Mr C. R. Babbacombe did turn up. He arrived, small, neat, shy, shiny and eager at twenty-five past three on Sunday afternoon.

‘Hello. I hope I’m not the first,’ he said in a thin, metallic voice.

‘You’re certainly in good time,’ said Reggie.

He led Mr Babbacombe to Number Twenty-three, where he would have the room next to the Harris-Joneses.

David Harris-Jones opened the door.

‘Oh. Ah. You must be Mr . . . er . . .’

‘Babbacombe,’ said Mr Babbacombe. ‘Must be difficult for you to remember all our names.’

‘Er . . . yes,’ said Reggie.

‘Yes, well . . . er . . . come in and I’ll show you to your . . . er . . .’ said David Harris-Jones.

He led the way up the narrow stairs.

‘. . . room,’ he said, when everyone had forgotten that he still had a sentence to finish.

‘Pardon?’ said Reggie.

‘I said I’d . . . er . . . show Mr Babbacombe to his . . . er . . .’