The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (81 page)

The mellow weather continued. Arrivals outpaced departures, and the advance booking charts were dotted with names.

McBlane discovered that dry ginger inflamed his dermatitis and reverted to Newcastle Brown. The food remained as delicious as ever.

The social evenings became a permanent and valued feature of life.

One day, Tom announced that he had developed a new concept in sporting non-competition.

‘Solo ball games,’ he explained. ‘You play squash and tennis on your own.’

Squash on one’s own proved tolerable, though tiring. Solo tennis was much less enthusiastically received. Frequent changes of end were necessary to retrieve the balls.

When this complaint was voiced, Tom solved it almost immediately.

‘A load of balls,’ he told the group meeting excitedly.

But even with an adequate supply of balls, the drawbacks of solo tennis proved too great. Each rally consisted of only one stroke. It was a service-dominated sport, and when the weather broke it was abandoned without regret.

Hilary Meadows returned home to the bosom of a family who would no longer take her for granted.

‘My husband’ll send you a cheque,’ she told Reggie. ‘I’ll tell him to send whatever he thinks my happiness and sanity are worth. You’ll get more that way. I hope.’

Reggie came across Bernard Trilling, Head of Comedy at Anaemia Television, putting the finishing touches to a splendid basket that he had woven.

‘So, I’ve woven a basket already,’ he said, no longer hiding his Jewishness under a bushel. ‘If I could weave a television series, I’d be all right maybe.’

And he laughed.

‘My wife’s often said that she could knit funnier series than some you put on,’ said Reggie.

‘I know,’ said Bernard Trilling. ‘Some of our comedy series are a joke.’

He laughed again.

‘Is this hysteria, I ask myself,’ he said. ‘I’d better leave before I answer.’

He gave Reggie a cheque for five hundred pounds, and two tickets for the pilot show of ‘Mum’s the Word’.

On the last day of October, Thruxton Appleby discharged himself reluctantly. He still appeared far too large for the little chair in Reggie’s office, but this time his vast buttocks seemed gentle, apologetic giants.

Two blue tits flitted without fear from branch to branch on the bush outside the window.

The rain poured down. The brief summer was over.

‘This is the moment of truth,’ said Thruxton Appleby, getting his cheque book out slowly. ‘Now, how much?’

‘It’s up to you,’ said Reggie.

‘Well,’ said Thruxton Appleby, ‘you’ve certainly succeeded. I’m likeable, aren’t I?’

‘Thoroughly likeable.’

‘Lovable?’

‘Perhaps not lovable yet. On the way, though. And the more you can get over your natural meanness and learn the pleasures of generosity, the quicker you’ll be lovable.’

‘So I ought to give you a fat sum?’

‘For your own sake,’ said Reggie, ‘I think you should.’

Thruxton Appleby roared with laughter.

‘I like your bare-faced cheek,’ he said. ‘I admire bare-faced cheek.’

And he made out a cheque for a thousand pounds.

‘It’s worth every penny,’ he said. ‘I’m a new man. All I’ve thought about for years is money and business. Money and business.’

Reggie slipped the cheque into the safe that had been installed the previous day.

‘Please don’t start worrying that it’s too much,’ said Thruxton Appleby. ‘It’s tax deductible.’

That night, the wind rattled the double-glazed windows of the surprisingly spacious master bedroom in Number Twentyone. Reggie sighed. Once more Elizabeth put her book down and gave her husband a searching look over the top of her glasses.

‘Still not fully content, darling?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes,’ said Reggie. ‘The money’s pouring in. Cures are being made. New people are arriving. I really am fully content at last.’

He sighed.

‘Then why are you sighing?’ said Elizabeth.

‘Contentment worries me,’ said Reggie.

November took a dismal grip on Great Britain. Fierce winds destroyed three seaside piers, twelve scout huts, and the thatched roof of the garden shed at Number Twenty-one, Oslo Avenue, Botchley. For four days pantechnicons were unable to cross the Severn Bridge. Fieldfares and redwings reached Norfolk from Scandinavia in record numbers, to collapse exhausted on cold, sodden meadows and wonder why they had bothered. A survey showed that Britain had sunk to fifteenth place in the world nutmeg consumption league, behind Bali and Portugal. There were strikes by petrol tanker drivers, draymen at four breweries, and dustmen from eight counties. Twelve-year-old girls were found to be offering themselves to old men for money behind a comprehensive school in Nottinghamshire. Seven hundred and twenty-nine hamsters arrived dead at Stansted Airport from Cyprus, and a Rumanian tourist died after being caught between rival gangs of Chelsea and Leeds fans in West London.

But at Numbers Seventeen to Twenty-five, Oslo Avenue, Botchley, things were far from gloomy. Guests were arriving in steadily increasing numbers. The majority of guests who departed were in expansive mood and gave generously. The engagement between Jimmy and Lettuce was proceeding placidly. The marriages of Reggie and Elizabeth, David and Prue, and Tom and Linda were going smoothly. Young Reggie Harris-Jones was proving a model child, and the behaviour of Adam and Jocasta had improved beyond the expectations of the most sanguine idealist.

Not everything was perfect, of course. The first of Tom’s sloe gin and raspberry whisky was ready for drinking, and the behaviour of Tony Webster still gave cause for concern.

One day, Reggie called unexpectedly at the Culture Room, in the garden shed of Number Twenty-five. The dreary, functional garden was dank and lifeless in the raw November mist. The notice ‘Culture Room: Prop T. Webster,
QCI
’ still adorned the yellow door.

There was a delay before Tony opened the door.

His hair was tousled.

He led Reggie into the Culture Room. The naked breasts had been removed, and the walls were bare.

Diana Pilkington sat on one of the armchairs.

Her face was flushed.’We’ve been rehearsing
Romeo and Juliet
, Act Two, Scene Two,’ said Tony.

And indeed, two copies of French’s Acting Edition lay open on the floor.

‘Excellent,’ said Reggie.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Tony.

‘I wasn’t thinking anything of the kind,’ said Reggie.

‘I haven’t told you what I know you’re thinking,’ said Tony.

‘I know what you think I’m thinking,’ said Reggie.

‘Touché Town, Arizona,’ said Tony.

Reggie flinched, and Diana Pilkington smiled, revealing small white teeth.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he use
the
most dreadful phrases? You’d have thought a bit of Shakespeare would have rubbed off on him by now. No such luck.’

‘Come on, Di,’ said Tony. ‘Let’s really hit Capulet’s Garden.’

And indeed they did give a spirited rendition.

‘Well done, Di,’ said Tony when they had finished. ‘You’re beginning to let it all hang out.’

That evening Reggie went to the George and Two Dragons in search of Tony. He found him chatting up the buxom barmaid, under the jealous glare of the young dragon. It was George’s night off.

Tony brought Reggie a drink.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, when they were settled in the corner beyond the food counter. ‘And you’re right. Di’s a frigid lady, Reggie. She’s got this computer programmer from Alderley Edge sniffing around her, and I’m just warming her up. It’s a hell of a bore, but you’ve got to take your responsibilities to the community seriously, haven’t you?’

‘It’s Joan I’m thinking of, Tony,’ said Reggie.

‘It’s Joany’s idea,’ said Tony.

‘What?’

‘I’m a changed man, Reggie. I have a wonderful wife. Extramarital activity is Outsville, Arizona, with a capital O. Joany trusts me. So, I’m the obvious man to warm up our cold career lady. No sweat.’

The young dragon cleared their table noisily and wiped it with a smelly rag.

‘You never come to our communal evenings,’ said Reggie. ‘You’re never with Joan.’

‘Each in his own way, Reggie. Faith and trust. I’d have left Di to Tom or David, but they couldn’t warm up a plate of custard. And I tell you what, Reggie. It’ll be dynamite when it’s warmed up. Its computer programmer won’t know what’s hit him.’

Four under-age drinkers from the fifth-form debating society of Botchley Hill Comprehensive entered the bar. The young dragon listened to their order. Then, because it wasn’t expensive enough to be worth the risk, she refused to serve them.

‘May I venture a brief word of criticism of your linguistic habits, Tony?’ said Reggie.

‘Sure,’ said Tony. ‘Feel free. Shoot.’

‘Doc Morrissey would no doubt suggest that you’re compensating for the ageing process which you refuse to admit by larding your language increasingly with what you take to be the argot of the young,’ said Reggie.

‘I know what you mean,’ said Tony. ‘And I think you’ll see a dramatic improvement pretty soon.’

‘Oh good. That is encouraging. Any particular reason?’

‘Yeah. OK, I made out I was into culture, but I wasn’t. I’m really into it now, Reggie. Know what changed my attitude?’

‘No,’ confessed Reggie.

‘Shakespeare. He’s a real laid-back bard.’

Soon there were only forty-four basket-weaving days to Christmas.

Tom told a group meeting, ‘I’ve got an idea for a whole new concept of non-aggressive football. Playing with no opposition hasn’t been the answer. We’ve had the occasional good result, like last week’s 32-0 win, but basically it’s boring. So we’ll play in two teams, but we’re only allowed to score for the other side. That should get rid of the worst affects of aggresssion and partisanship.’

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

Soon there were only thirty-nine rethatching days to Christmas.

For the first time there wasn’t a single empty bed. Extra accommodation would have to be found. Reggie and Elizabeth faced the problem fair and square.

‘We can get one extra room by teaming up C.J. and Doc Morrissey,’ said Reggie in bed that night. ‘It’ll mean rejigging the wardenships, but it’s worth it. Every little helps.’

‘They’ll never agree,’ said Elizabeth.

‘I’ll use psychology,’ said Reggie. ‘And you’ll be with me, so that they can’t get too angry.’

The next morning Reggie asked C.J. and Doc Morrissey to come to the secretary’s office. Elizabeth sat behind her desk, and Reggie sat in front of it, with the wall charts behind him.

C.J. came first.

‘These wall charts reveal the expanding state of our business,’ said Reggie.

‘I always knew it would succeed,’ said C.J. ‘Out of the mouths of babes and little children.’

‘We’re going to need more accommodation,’ said Reggie. ‘Everyone is going to have to make sacrifices.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said C.J.

‘You’ll have to share a room with McBlane.’

CJ.’s mouth opened and shut several times, but no sound emerged. At last, he managed a hoarse, piteous croak.

‘I think I know what you’re trying to say,’ said Reggie. ‘You didn’t get where you are today by sleeping with pox-ridden Caledonian chefs.’

C.J. nodded.

‘I didn’t realize you’d feel so strongly,’ said Reggie. ‘All right. You can share a room with Doc Morrissey instead.’

‘Thanks,’ said C.J. ‘Thanks very much, Reggie.’

When C.J. had gone, Reggie smiled triumphantly at Elizabeth.

‘If you’d asked him to share with Doc Morrissey straight off, he’d have gone berserk,’ she said.

‘Exactly. But now he agrees eagerly, in gratitude at being spared the odiferous Scot. Thrill to my shrewdness now, as I try the same trick on Doc Morrissey.’

Doc Morrissey was soon installed in the chair that C.J. had so recently warmed.

‘Psychological side of things still going well?’ said Reggie.

‘Damned well,’ said Doc Morrissey, courteously including Elizabeth in his beaming smile. ‘It’s having a good effect on me, too.’

‘Physician heal thyself.’

‘Quite. Think I could take anything on the chin now.’

‘Oh good. I want you to share a bedroom with McBlane.’

‘What?’

‘We’re getting very crowded, due to our success. I want you to share your bedroom with McBlane.’

Doc Morrissey laughed. Then he smiled at Elizabeth.

‘He had me going for a moment there,’ he said.

Elizabeth smiled nervously.

‘It isn’t a joke,’ she said. ‘We really are awfully crowded.’

‘Well, I know, but.. . McBlane!’

‘He’s a superb cook,’ said Reggie.

‘Red Rum’s a fine horse, but I have no intention of sharing a bedroom with him,’ said Doc Morrissey.

Reggie could hardly conceal his smugness as he made his master stroke.

‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You can share a bedroom with C.J. instead.’

Doc Morrissey fainted.

Two days later, Reggie called a staff meeting in the living-room of Number Seventeen, to outline his plans for increasing the accommodation. Making C.J. and Doc Morrissey share a bedroom no longer featured in those plans. Assorted chairs, from large sagging armchairs to scruffy kitchen chairs, hugged the walls. A row of mugs hung on hooks at either side of the fireplace. Each mug bore the name of a member of the staff.

Reggie outlined their plans. Folding beds would be installed in the staff bedrooms, so that the various activities could be staged in them during the day. Reggie’s office would move to the sun-room of Number Twenty-one and C.J.’s office would be in London, enabling work activities to take place within the context of commuting.

Eight bedrooms, four dining rooms, two studies, two sun-rooms, four kitchens and four garden sheds would be available as double bedrooms for guests. The unusual nature of the accommodation and the sharing of rooms would become an integral part of the exciting social journey on which the guests had embarked.

David Harris-Jones’s hand shot up. Then he realized that he didn’t really want to say what he had been going to say. He lowered his arm as unobtrusively as he could.