The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (78 page)

The five suburban houses in Oslo Avenue, Botchley, were alive with activity.

Reggie wandered proudly around, watching the guests at their various activities.

In the Art Room he admired the work of Diana Pilkington, who painted as Monet would have painted if he’d been totally devoid of talent. The work of the VAT inspector from Tring was very different, however. He painted as Lowry would have painted if
he’d
been totally devoid of talent.

He listened with pleasure to the distortions of Gilbert and Sullivan that came from the Music Room.

‘Keep it up,’ he told the probation officer from Peebles. ‘Any genius can sing like Tito Gobbi. It takes a real talent to persist when he sings like you.’

He attended group meetings, watched the progress of the thatching and went on expeditions with Jimmy. All the time he fought against a desire to take a more active part in things.

When he burst in unannounced upon Doc Morrissey, he fully intended to take a back seat.

Lying on the couch in the study of Number Nineteen was Bernard Trilling, Head of Comedy at Anaemia Television. Only the haunted expression in his eyes revealed the inner torment of the man.

Outside, the moisture hung from the trimmed privet hedge in the front garden, but the rain had stopped at last.

‘Carry on,’ said Reggie. ‘My job is just to watch.’

‘Let’s try some simple word associations,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘Mother.’

‘Comedy,’ said Bernard Trilling.

‘Ah!’ said Reggie.

‘Please don’t interrupt,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘I want to go on and on, associating freely till we reach a totally uninhibited level of association. If we stop after each association, our future associations are affected by what we associate with the past associations.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt. It was just the way he came out with the mother/comedy association.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Doc Morrissey impatiently. ‘He resents his job and he resents his mother. Child’s play.’

‘I love my mother,’ said Bernard Trilling.

‘All right,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘We may as well explore this area now. The thread’s been broken.’

He glared at Reggie.

‘Sorry,’ said Reggie, moving his chair right back into a dark corner. ‘Carry on. Behave as if I’m not here.’

‘Why do you think you associated mother with comedy?’ said Doc Morrissey.

Bernard Trilling was lying with his hands under his head. He glared at the ceiling.

‘We’re planning a situation comedy about a happy-go-lucky divorced mother who tries to bring up her three happygo-lucky children by writing books,’ he said gloomily. ‘It’s called “Mum’s the Word”.’

He turned his face to the wall and uttered a low groan.

‘I started in documentaries,’ he said. ‘What went wrong?’

‘Right. Let’s start again,’ said Doc Morrissey.

Reggie looked out of the window. A Harrods van drove past. He tried to let his mind go blank, in the hope that he would find some interesting associations with the Harrods van.

It reminded him of Harrods.

Perhaps I’m imaginatively under-nourished, he thought.

He forced himself to concentrate on the events that were going on in the little room. He didn’t want to miss anything.

Gradually he became aware that there was nothing to miss.

Nothing was going on in the little room.

Bernard Trilling lay hunched up on the couch.

Doc Morrissey was staring intently into space.

‘Sorry,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘My mind’s going a blank. It’s you, Reggie. You’re unsettling me.’

‘Please,’ said Reggie. ‘Take no notice of me. I’m not here.’

‘But you are,’ said Doc Morrissey.

‘Make yourself believe I’m not,’ said Reggie. ‘Mind over matter. It’s all psychological.’

‘I know,’ said Doc Morrissey glumly. ‘Right. Here we go.’

There was silence for fully a minute.

‘It’s the enormity of the choice that’s inhibiting me,’ said Doc Morrissey.

‘I don’t want to interfere,’ said Reggie. ‘But shall I suggest one or two things, just to get you over your blockage?’

‘All right,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘But once you’ve started, don’t stop.’

‘Right,’ said Reggie. ‘Here we go. Farmhouse.’

‘Comedy,’ said Bernard Trilling.

‘Egg-cup,’ said Reggie.

‘Comedy,’ said Bernard Trilling.

‘It’s pointless if you’re just going to say “comedy” all the time,’ said Reggie.

Bernard Trilling sat up.

‘It’s all I ever think of,’ he said. ‘Every news item, every chance remark in the pub, I think, “Could we make a comedy series about that?” I’m on a treadmill. The nation must be kept laughing. I need just one successful series, and I’d be laughing. Well no, I wouldn’t. I’ve no sense of humour.’

‘You must try and think of other things or Doc Morrissey can’t help you,’ said Reggie.

‘I’ll try,’ promised Bernard Trilling.

‘Right,’ said Reggie. ‘Here we go again. Or would you rather do it. Doc?’

Doc Morrissey shrugged resignedly.

‘Right,’ said Reggie. ‘Taxidermy.’

‘Comedy,’ said Bernard Trilling.

‘Oh Bernard!’ said Reggie.

‘We’re planning a new comedy series about a happy-go-lucky taxidermist,’ said Bernard Trilling. ‘It’s called “Get Stuffed”,’

The W288, grinding along Oslo Avenue on its slow progress towards Spraundon, sounded very loud in the ensuing silence.

‘It. . . er . . . it sounds an unlikely subject,’ said Reggie.

‘It’s what we in the trade call the underwater rabbi syndrome,’ said Bernard Trilling.

‘Ah!’ said Doc Morrissey, with a flash of his former spirit. ‘You dislike Jews?’

‘It just means that in our desperation we’re hunting for ever more unlikely subjects,’ said Bernard Trilling. ‘The unlikeliest we can think of is an underwater rabbi.’

‘It needn’t have been a rabbi, though,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘It could have been an underwater Methodist minister. The fact that it’s a rabbi suggests prejudice, albeit unconscious. It’s what we call a psycho-semitic illness.’

Doc Morrissey smiled triumphantly, then frowned, as if vaguely aware that he had got it wrong.

‘I’ve got nothing against Jews,’ said Bernard Trilling. ‘Some of my best friends are Jews. My parents are Jews.’

He blushed furiously.

An extremely noisy lorry drove by, carrying a heavily laden skip.

‘I was born Trillingstein,’ admitted Bernard Trilling. ‘I’m not ashamed of being Jewish. Very much the reverse. I just felt that if I was a big success people would ascribe it to my Jewishness. “Of course he’s clever. He’s a Jew.” And I wanted them to say “Of course he’s clever. He’s Bernard Trilling.” Some hope I should have that anyone should say I was clever.’

He smiled.

‘I feel better already,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept that secret for fourteen years. And you’ve unlocked it. You’re a wizard, Doc.’

‘Me?’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘I did nothing.’

‘Well it wasn’t me,’ said Reggie. ‘I wasn’t there.’

It was the same when he looked in on David Harris-Jones at the Sex Clinic, which was yet another garden shed, at Number Nineteen. Outside, it appeared to be an ordinary, rather tumbledown wooden shed. Inside, there was a carpet, a desk and hard chair, and three armchairs. The walls and ceiling had been painted in restful pastel shades as recommended in Weissburger and Dulux’s
Colour and Emotional Response
.

Reggie moved his armchair back, out of the limelight.

David sat behind his desk.

Hilary Meadows, the housewife from Tenterden, sat in the armchair. She was in her mid-forties, her face crinkled but attractive, her sturdy legs crossed.

‘Now, Hilary,’ said David, ‘as I was saying before Reggie . . . er. . .’

‘Don’t mind me,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m not here.’

‘As I was saying there’s no need to feel. . . er. . . er . . .’

‘Nervous,’ said Reggie.

‘Yes,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘That’s what I was going to . . . er . . . but I’m a little . . . er . . .’

‘Nervous,’ said Reggie.

‘Yes. Maybe if you didn’t. . . er . . .’

‘Interrupt.’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry. I won’t interrupt any more. It’s just that you go so . . . how can I put it. . . er . . .’

‘Infuriatingly slowly.’

‘Yes.’

‘I know. I just seem to sort of go to pieces when you’re here, Reggie.’

‘You’ll have to get over that, David,’ said Reggie, ‘because I won’t always be here to pick up the pieces.’

Hilary Meadows uncrossed her legs, and watched the two men with amusement.

‘Carry on, David. I’ll leave it all to you,’ said Reggie.

David Harris-Jones fiddled with the papers on his desk.

‘As I was saying, Hilary,’ he said, ‘there’s no need to be nervous.’

‘I’m not,’ she said.

‘I want you to feel completely . . . er . . . oh good, you’re not. Super.’

He moved to the third armchair.

‘No need to be formal,’ he said. ‘Now the subject I deal with, Hilary, is . . . er . . .’

‘Sex,’ said Hilary Meadows.

‘Yes. As it were.’

As he talked, David Harris-Jones’s eyes moved restlessly round his restful den.

‘Lots of people . . . er . . .’ he began. ‘At times, anyway. After all, life’s full of. . . well not problems exactly. Difficulties. And . . . er . . . there’s nothing to be . . . er . . . I mean . . .’

‘Oh for God’s sake David,’ said Reggie. ‘What David is trying to say, Hilary, and we must remember that he had an unusually sheltered upbringing in Haverfordwest and its environs, what David is trying to say, in his nervous, roundabout way, and he’s probably going about it in a roundabout way because he’s nervous, after all you are only the second woman that he’s ever . . . er . . . talked to in this way, what as I say he’s trying to say is . . . well, I mean everybody at some time or other . . . in some degree or other . . . and there’s no disgrace in that.’

‘I have no sexual problems at all,’ said Hilary Meadows.

‘So if you . . . er . . . no se . . . se . . . oh good. Good.’

‘Super.’

‘My husband and I have it very happily at what I understand is roughly the national average.’

‘Oh you do. Good. Good.’

‘Super.’

Hilary Meadows crossed her legs.

‘Well, that’s got that off our chests,’ said Reggie. ‘That’s got that out in the open.’

‘Yes, but when we talk about . . . er . . . sex,’ said David Harris-Jones, ‘we don’t just mean . . . er . . .’

‘Sex,’ said Hilary Meadows.

‘Exactly. Modern . . . er . . . psychology, as you know . . . I mean the gist of it is that . . . er . . . sex, and our attitude towards it, rears its ug . . . let me put it another way. Much of our life is influenced by sex,’ said David Harris-Jones.

‘And much more of it isn’t,’ said Hilary Meadows. ‘You poor unimaginative creatures. You can’t imagine any problems except sexual ones. Let me tell you why I’m here. Because I’m bored out of my not so tiny mind. I’m bored with having my cooking taken for granted, not being listened to by my husband, not being helped and thanked by my children. Bored with not going out to work. Bored with cleaning the house so that the cleaning woman won’t leave. Bored with slow check-out girls at unimaginative supermarkets and time-killing conversations at coffee mornings and playing golf with other women with thick calves and thin white elderly legs and garish ankle socks. Bored, bored, bored.’

‘Splendid,’ said Reggie. ‘Well, I think we can help you there.’

‘I don’t need help,’ said Hilary Meadows. ‘I’ve only come here for a change. I couldn’t go to the Bahamas or my family wouldn’t feel guilty. You poor men. You look so disappointed. No nice cure to do. No little toys to play with.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you two to it,’ said Reggie. ‘You’re doing absolutely splendidly, David.’

Next day there was watery sunshine at last. Very slowly, the sodden gardens began to dry out.

At the long, crowded breakfast table, Reggie told C.J. that he’d like to see how his work on people’s attitude to their work was progressing.

‘Excellent,’ said C.J. through a mouthful of McBlane’s rich, creamy scrambled egg. ‘We’ve got a pretty little role-playing session lined up for this morning. Arthur Noblet is applying to Thruxton Appleby for increased fringe benefits at the Hardcastle Handbag Company.’

‘Excellent,’ said Reggie. ‘I’ll just sit and watch.’

‘You have to play a role too,’ said C.J. ‘According to Doc Morrissey, everyone has to play a role.’

‘It’s against my policy,’ said Reggie. ‘I don’t like to trespass on my staff’s preserves.’

‘Talking about trespassing on the staff’s preserves, could I have the marmalade?’ said the insurance salesman who had lost his motivation.

Reggie passed him the marmalade.

‘You can be holding a watching brief for the industrial relations research council, Reggie,’ said C.J.

‘Wonderful,’ said Reggie. ‘What role will you be playing?’

‘I’ll be Thruxton Appleby’s secretary,’ said C.J.

Tony Webster choked in mid-toast.

‘What’ll I be called?’ said Reggie.

‘Perrin,’ said C.J. ‘I stick to the facts as far as possible.’

‘What’ll you be called then?’ said Reggie.

C.J. glanced at Tony.

‘Cynthia Jones,’ he said.

Tony spluttered again.

‘There’s nothing ludicrous about it,’ said C.J. ‘It’s a valuable exercise. But I couldn’t expect you to see that. You know what they say. Small minds make idle chatter. How people change. It’s hard to believe that you were once my golden boy at Sunshine Desserts.’

After breakfast they walked along Oslo Avenue in the pale sunshine.

At the gate of Number Seventeen, Reggie stopped.

‘I don’t want to interfere,’ he said. ‘But wouldn’t this be a more valuable exercise if Arthur Noblet played the boss and Thruxton Appleby played the worker.’

‘How come?’ said C.J.

‘Well,’ said Reggie. ‘They might learn something about the them and us situation which bedevils British industrial relations so tragically.’

‘I didn’t get where I am today by learning about the them and us situation which bedevils British industrial relations so tragically.’

‘You certainly didn’t, C.J. Maybe it’s about time you did. But, as I say, it’s entirely up to you.’