The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (88 page)

‘No.’

‘Know why? Because they aren’t sub-humans cunts. Listen. The way I look at it is this. Right? When his naffing lordship bleeding philosopher and I were kids, we were both in prams wetting our bleeding nappies and crapping all over the bloody place, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Now he’s a philosopher and I’m a football hooligan, right?’

‘Right.’

‘They have philosophy conferences and that, all expenses paid, white-haired geezers giving these talks and that, right?’

‘Right.’

‘They don’t have conferences of elderly football hooligans, all expenses paid, right?’

‘Right.’

‘When we’re fighting, we reckon we’re proving a point, know what I mean?’

‘You’re showing society that you don’t give a damn for the established order of things, right?’

‘Right. But it isn’t society that’s the bleeding loser, right?’

‘Right.’

‘I reckon it’s a mug’s game, being a sub-human cunt. Help me, Mr Perrin.’

The third guest to face Reggie across the sun-room desk shook hands briskly, flashed his white teeth, and said, ‘I’m the nignog’.

‘I’m sorry about that advert,’ said Reggie. ‘But I wanted it to stand out. I really do want to get some coloured people in. It’s in danger of becoming a kind of therapeutic Cotswolds. Your name?’

‘Clyde Everton Frank Johnson.’

‘Ah!’ said Reggie. ‘Named after the three Ws, eh? Walcott, Weekes and Worrell. What a team that was. Stollmeyer, Rae …’

‘I hate cricket,’ said Clyde Everton Frank Johnson. ‘I hate the way you talk to us about it all the time, as if that’s the only contact we make. As if we’re children. Black people are lovable when they’re children. Cricketers and jazz singers remain so. Shit.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Reggie.

Snodgrass scrabbled at the window with her paws, uttering plaintive supplementary miaows.

‘What a lovely non-white cat,’ said Clyde Everton Frank Johnson.

Reggie let Snodgrass in. She leapt on to Reggie’s chair and he had to tip her off before he could sit down. She gave an injured squawk and settled down on the floor by the filing cabinets.

‘You know why you all think we’re lovable as cricketers, don’t you?’ said Clyde Everton Frank Johnson.

‘Tell me,’ said Reggie.

‘Because cricketers wear white flannels,’ said Clyde Everton Frank Johnson. ‘Garbage. Do you know what I do for a living, Mr Perrin?’

‘How could I?’

‘Guess.’

‘Well … bus conductor?’

‘Schoolmaster.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s just that …’

‘Many of us have to do jobs which are below the level of our intellectual attainments?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘The joke is this, Mr Perrin. I’m doing a job which is above my level of intellectual attainment. I ought to be sacked. But I’m not. You know why?’

‘I imagine it’s difficult to sack a teacher,’ said Reggie.

‘It’s because I’m black. They’d have asked me to leave long ago if I was white. Man, I’m really bugged with all this prejudice. Hasn’t a black man even got the right to be sacked in this damned country?’

Reggie drummed on his desk with his fingers.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he said.

‘Teach me not to hate,’ said Clyde Everton Frank Johnson. ‘Help me, Mr Perrin.’

‘Have you heard of the Fraternity of Universal Love?’ asked Mrs Enid Patton, from Trowbridge.

‘No,’ admitted Reggie.

Her lips worked even when no words emerged. Her hair sagged listlessly under the crushing burden of life.

‘Two months ago I was expelled,’ she said, ‘For inviting into my kitchen a woman who wasn’t a member of the Fraternity of Universal Love.’

A roar shattered the silence of that blustery morning in early March. A pneumatic drill was probing the surface of Oslo Avenue.

‘You were expelled for that?’ said Reggie.

‘My family aren’t allowed to speak to me. They’re still members, you see,’ said Enid Patton.

‘After what happened to you?’

‘The community’s their life, Mr Perrin. My husband’s a Regional Reaper. The elder boy’s a Group Leader and the younger boy’s an Elder.’

Reggie walked over to her, and put an arm on her shoulder. She had begun to sob.

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘You’ve lost your family and your faith. I can’t help you with the family, but I will say this about the faith. I believe that every virtue praised by religion, with the single exception of worship itself, is just as valid in the name of humanity if there’s no God and no purpose in life.’

Mrs Patton turned a tear-stained face towards him.

‘You shouldn’t say such wicked things,’ she said. ‘May God have mercy upon you.’

‘You mean you … you still … er …’ said Reggie.

‘God’s road has many turnings,’ sobbed Mrs Patton. ‘Help me, Mr Perrin.’

Last of the five came the man who had crossed his path before.

It was none other than Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther, best man at the wedding that never was, Jimmy’s partner in staccato speech and his secret army, who had vamoosed with all the weapons and money.

Reggie greeted him neutrally. He felt that it would be a betrayal of Jimmy to show friendliness and a betrayal of Perrins to show hostility.

Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther was tall and sinewy. No irony attended his nickname. He lit a cigar which, like him, was long, thin, brown and showing signs of age.

‘Permission to smoke?’ he said, after taking a luxurious puff.

‘Certainly,’ said Reggie.

‘Well done,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.

‘Why are you here?’ said Reggie.

‘Remorse. Fear of death. Conscience. All that palaver,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.

He sighed.

‘Like to pay poor old Jimmy back,’ he said. ‘Hoping I might run into him some time.’

‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Reggie. ‘He’s here.’

Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther seemed as near to turning pale as he would ever be.

‘Here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Working here, for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Splendid. Well done.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’

‘Help me, Mr Perrin.’

Jimmy was out all that day, on an expedition that involved the use of no less than six bus routes, so it wasn’t until evening that the touching reunion took place.

Reggie invited both men to the Botchley Arms for a preprandial snifter.

The saloon bar was awash with furniture. Chairs and tables abounded. The walls had erupted with swords, plates and horse brasses. Shelves were covered with Toby jugs. The carpet was fiercely patterned. The only thing that could be said in its favour was that it was the best bar in Botchley.

Reggie sat in a corner, underneath a mauve wall lamp, a tank full of mouldy goldfish, and a warming pan of no distinction. He sipped his Guinness nervously. This was the ultimate test of his community. If Jimmy could make his peace with the man who had so grievously wronged him, there was no limit to what Perrins could achieve.

He had asked Jimmy to arrive fifteen minutes before Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther, in order to prepare him.

At last he arrived.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Cock-up on the back collar stud front.’

Reggie bought him a large whisky and reflected on the old-fashioned nature of the old soldier’s attire. Where other men simply slipped on a shirt and tie, Jimmy had two collar studs, two cuff-links and a tie-pin to contend with each evening. He changed for dinner every night, out of one shirt with frayed cuffs into another shirt with frayed cuffs. Reggie suspected that he also had a shoe-horn, shoe-trees and his personal pumice stone, but this wasn’t the time to ask. There were bigger fish to fry.

‘I’ve got you here to meet someone,’ said Reggie, when they were both seated. ‘I hope you’re in no hurry.’

‘No. Lettuce is making herself beautiful. Be an hour at least.’

‘Yes.’

‘No slur intended, Reggie.’

‘Jimmy, would you describe yourself as a charitable and forgiving man?’ said Reggie.

‘Other cheek, mote and beam, that sort of crack?’

‘Yes.’

‘Goodwill to all mankind, that kind of caper?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, I would, Reggie. Every time.’

‘Would that include Tim “Curly” Beamish?’

Jimmy’s mouth dropped open. His left eye twitched.

‘Ah! That bastard. Ah well, that’s different,’ he said.

‘It’s goodwill to all mankind except Tim “Curly” Beamish?’

‘Could put it that way. Johnny did me down, Reggie.’

A thought struck Jimmy, an event so unusual that it caused his hand to lurch and his whisky to spill.

‘Not here to meet Tim “Curly” Beamish, am I?’ he asked.

Reggie shook his head, and Jimmy relaxed.

‘No,’ said Reggie. ‘Clive “Lofty” Anstruther.’

More whisky sloshed on to the table. In the tank, a fish abandoned life’s uphill struggle. The other fish ate it. Jimmy gazed at the scene as if it was tenderness itself, compared to the emotions that he was feeling.

‘He arrived this morning, to join our community,’ said Reggie. ‘He’s had a change of heart. He wants to pay you back.’

‘Think so, too,’ said Jimmy.

Reggie put his hand on Jimmy’s arm.

‘I expect the highest standards,’ he said. ‘This is your supreme test. This is Australia at Lord’s. This is Everest. This is your Rubicon.’

Jimmy breathed deeply, and forced a ghastly parody of a smile.

‘Message received and understood,’ he whispered faintly.

He downed the remainder of his whisky in one gulp, before he had a chance to spill any more.

Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther stepped anxiously into the bar. His face was tense. He approached them. He too tried to force a smile.

‘Hello, Jimmy,’ he said, holding out his hand.

There was a perceptible hesitation before Jimmy clasped the proffered extremity.

‘Anstruther,’ he said hoarsely.

‘What are you having?’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.

‘Large whisky, please, Anstruther,’ said Jimmy.

‘Well done,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.

The former con man towered over the other customers at the bar. Reggie smiled at Jimmy.

‘Well done,’ he said.

‘Just don’t expect me to call him Lofty, that’s all,’ said Jimmy.

‘Cheers,’ he said.

‘Cheers,’ said Reggie.

‘Cheers,’ said Jimmy, after another slight hesitation.

‘Long time, no see,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.

‘Not surprising,’ said Jimmy.

Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther cleared his throat.

‘Jimmy?’ he began.

‘Yes?’

‘Bastard business, that thing. Rotten show. Rifles and so forth.’

Jimmy swallowed hard and looked at Reggie.

Reggie nodded encouragingly. ‘Everest,’ he mouthed.

‘Oh well,’ said Jimmy. ‘Water under bridge, Anstruther.’

‘Never in army,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.

‘Can’t all be,’ said Jimmy. ‘Funny old world if everyone in army.’

‘Pack of lies from start to finish.’

‘Oh well.’

‘What happened to all the . . . er . . .?’ asked Reggie.

‘Weapons? Sold them. Dribs and drabs. Not a fighter. Yellow streak,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.

‘Bad luck,’ said Jimmy.

‘Rotten through and through,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.

‘Drew a lousy hand, that’s all,’ said Jimmy. ‘All the other babies, two hearts, three no trumps, that sort of crack. You, no bid. Rotten luck.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Drink?’

‘Thanks.’

Jimmy bought three large whiskies.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Pay you back,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther. ‘Weekly instalments.’

He hunted in his pockets, found two grubby notes, and handed them to Jimmy. Jimmy stared at them.

‘Harbour?’ he said. ‘Castle? What are these?’

‘Guernsey notes,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther. ‘Legal tender.’

Jimmy put them in his wallet very carefully, as if he didn’t trust them not to disintegrate.

‘Remember the wedding you didn’t turn up at?’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.

‘Yes,’ said Jimmy. ‘Bad business, that.’

‘Don’t blame you,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther. ‘She looked like the back end of a bus.’

‘Married her just before Christmas,’ said Jimmy.

‘My God, is that the time?’ said Reggie.

‘Oh my God. Awfully sorry,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.

‘Don’t worry. Lofty,’ said Jimmy. ‘I like buses.’

They walked back up Bonn Close, and turned left into Oslo Avenue. Reggie felt a warm glow in his heart. The world was wending its way to his door, and saying, ‘Help me, Mr Perrin.’

Many of their problems were difficult, but if he could reconcile Jimmy and Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther, he could solve them all.

Yes, there were the good times.

There would never be such good times again.

7
The Difficult Days

The crocuses appeared. So did a petty thief.

His existence came to light at a sex symposium presided over by David Harris-Jones in the sex clinic, alias his bedroom.

The double bed had been folded against the wall, and ten people sat round in a circle. Apart from David Harris-Jones, there were eight guests and Reggie, who was holding a watching brief.

The eight guests were Mr Winstanley; a depressed police Superintendent; the extremely shy vet, who appeared to be too shy to leave the community; a scientist who believed that scientific progress would eventually destroy mankind; an automation consultant, who believed that mankind would have succeeded in rendering itself surplus to requirements long before it was destroyed; a football hooligan from Sheffield who felt that, with United and Wednesday both down the plughole, being a football hooligan in Sheffield was a declining industry; a Highways Officer from Botchley Borough Council; and a British Rail traffic manager, who arrived seventeen minutes late, due to alarm clock failure.

The symposium began with a game of ‘Sexual Just A Minute’. The guests had to talk for one minute on any subject connected with sex. They must not hesitate or repeat themselves or deviate from the subject. The aim of the exercise was to break down inhibitions.