The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (9 page)

The joyous evening sunlight streamed into the living room. Reggie poured another drink.

‘It’s cooler tonight,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘I’m glad. I sweat very freely. I have very open pores.’

‘Really?’

‘Linda sweats quite a bit too. She’s got very open pores.’

‘I wonder if you’d mind leaving now, Tom. I’ve got a lot of work to do.’

‘No, if you’re sure you’ll be . . .’

‘I’ll be all right.’

Reggie escorted Tom into the hall.

‘Goodbye, Tom. Don’t forget you’re both coming to dinner on Tuesday night.’

‘No. Now you’re sure . . .’

‘Yes. Goodbye.’

Tom drove off. Reggie went out into the garden and lit a bonfire. The whole western sky was aflame. He threw the wedding photos on the fire. Hats curled and blackened. He threw the small-bore rifle team on the fire. Campbell-Lewiston, E.L., curled and blackened. His past went up in smoke, heat and little bits of ash. A bat fluttered weakly round the eaves. There was a screech as Ponsonby caught a mouse.

Reggie rang Joan, then rang off hurriedly. Her husband might answer, and in any case there was nothing to say.

The bonfire went out. The flame of the sky grew more and more subtle. The bat screamed, so high that only other bats could hear it. Reggie heard the Milfords going off to the golf club for a snifter, and in the Wisemans’ house someone was learning the piano.

He rushed upstairs to see if there were any tell-tale traces of Joan. But there weren’t.

The telephone rang. He answered it in the bedroom. It was Elizabeth.

‘Hullo, dear. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Mother’s going into hospital tomorrow morning. I’ll have to stay.’

‘Well, all right, you stay then.’

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Not in the least.’

‘Oh.’

‘Well, I mean I mind. But I don’t mind because I know you’ve got to.’

‘You’ll be all right?’

‘Yes.’

‘The C.J.’s and things are coming on Tuesday.’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps you ought to put them off?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you find the food all right?’

‘Yes. Mark came.’

‘You didn’t lend him anything?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Only it’s bad for him, in the long run.’

‘Yes. And Jimmy called. He’d run out of food again.’

‘Again? It’s getting beyond a joke.’

‘Have you had the rain?’

‘Yes, have you?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you want cocoa there’s some on the shelf where I keep the hot drinks.’

‘Fine.’

‘Now you’re sure you’ll be all right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t leave any windows open when you go to work.’

‘No.’

‘You’ve fed Ponsonby, have you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well – I’ll see you when I see you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good-bye, darling.’

‘Good-bye, darling.’

Reggie went downstairs and fed Ponsonby. It was almost dark and blessedly cool.

He made himself a mug of cocoa and stretched out in an armchair. Ponsonby sat on the settee and watched him.

‘Hullo, Ponsonby,’ he said.

Ponsonby purred.

‘You know, Ponsonby,’ he said, ‘when I was young I looked with envy at grown-ups. People in their forties were solid, authoritative figures. Not for them the pangs of adolescence, the flushing cheeks, the pimples – “shag spots” we used to call them at Ruttingstagg, Ponsonby. I had terrible shag spots in 1942. They were masters of the universe.’

Ponsonby purred.

‘Well now I’m forty-six, Ponsonby. But I don’t feel solid and authoritative. I see the young strutting around like turkey cocks – self-assured, solid, terrifying.’

Ponsonby watched him closely, purring all the time, trying to follow his drift.

‘Now, Ponsonby, the question’s this, isn’t it? Do the young today see me as something solid and authoritative, were the people whom I thought so solid really feeling just like I am now? Or have I and my generation missed out? Have the tables been turned at exactly. the wrong moment for us? What do you think, Ponsonby?’

Ponsonby purred contentedly.

‘You don’t think anything, do you? Good job, too. Or perhaps it’s just me that’s missed out. Old Goofy. Yes, the nasty boys used to call your master Goofy. Goofy Perrin. Coconut Matting Perrin. Weren’t the nasty boys nasty?’

Ponsonby’s purring grew slower and deeper.

‘We never know other people’s secret thoughts, Ponsonby. Does Harold Wilson dream about being a ping-pong champion? Did General Smuts have a thing about ear wax? The history books are silent. So, you see, we never know quite how abnormal we are. Perhaps we’re all terrified we’re abnormal and really we’re all quite normal. Or perhaps we’re terrified we’re normal and really we’re abnormal. It’s all very complicated. Perhaps it’s best to be born a cat, but you don’t get the choice.

‘It’s not very nice getting steadily older all the time, Ponsonby. It’s a bit of a dirty trick. One day I’ll die. All alone. I’ll pay for my funeral in advance, and I’ll get a free wildlife shroud, plus plastic models of twenty-six famous dead people.

‘I don’t altogether like the way the world’s going, if you want the honest truth. But I’m going to fight, Ponsonby. I’m going to give them a run for their money.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll show them, the bastards,’ he shouted.

Scared by Reggie’s shouting and standing up so suddenly, Ponsonby rushed out into the kitchen. Reggie heard the cat door clang behind him as he went out into the garden.

He couldn’t get comfortable that night. There was someone else in bed with him. He switched on the light.

He knew what it was now. It was his right arm. For a moment it had seemed like a separate being, with a mind of its own.

He shivered.

Monday

In his usual compartment, on the eight-sixteen, Reggie turned to the crossword page. He furrowed his brows, then he wrote: ‘I am not a mere tool of the capitalist society.’

Peter Cartwright was surprised by his fast progress. Peter Cartwright was stuck.

Reggie looked up at the grey canopy of the sky. It was cooler and fresher after the storm, with an easterly breeze and a hint of more rain to come.

The door handle seemed very large, out of all proportion. It would be so easy to turn it. All he’d have to do then would be to open the door and step out. So easy. There would hardly be time to feel anything.

It wasn’t that he wanted to die. It wasn’t as simple as that. It was just that there was he, and there was the handle, and there were the rails speeding past, and he could feel their pull.

He smiled at Peter Cartwright. Peter Cartwright smiled at him. Had he noticed anything? Could a man go through such an internal struggle and reveal nothing of it in his face?

Reggie wrote again in the spaces of his crossword. ‘Today I am seeing Mr Campbell-Lewiston,’ he wrote. ‘Mr CampbellLewiston is our new man in Germany. Mr Campbell-Lewiston is going to get a little surprise.’

He folded the paper up and put it in his briefcase.

‘Rather easy today,’ he said.

‘Damned if I think so,’ said Peter Cartwright.

The pollen count was high, and Peter Cartwright had a violent sneezing fit near Earlsfield. The train reached Waterloo eleven minutes late. The loudspeaker announcement attributed this to ‘the derailment of a container truck at Hook’.

Reggie caught sight of an old woman among the crowds on the station forecourt, and he tried to avoid her, but it was too late. She was bearing down on him. She looked about seventy-five, but could equally well have been sixty-five or eighty-five, or even ninety-five. She was gaunt, an old scarecrow, and her legs were covered in thick black hair.

She always asked the same question. It was embarrassing to be caught by her. It made you look a fool in front of the other commuters, so many of whom took pains to avoid her.

‘I wonder if you can help me?’ she said, in a deep, cracked voice like an old rook. ‘I’m looking for a Mr James Purdock, from Somerset.’

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know him.’

He arrived at 9.05. The third floor was still deserted. There were grey-green covers on all the typewriters.

He sat at Joan’s desk for a moment, wondering what it must be like to be her. He looked at his eight postcards of Pembrokeshire – cliffs, golden sands, impossibly blue skies and turquoise seas – and they made him feel sad.

He felt his thighs, imagining that he was feeling her thighs, imagining that he was her feeling his thighs, imagining that he was her feeling her own thighs.

She arrived with Sandra Gostelow and caught him there. He felt embarrassed, although he knew that they couldn’t see into his thoughts.

‘I was just testing the chairs,’ he said, and his blushes gave the lie to his words. ‘We must have our secretaries comfortable.’

He went into his office. Joan followed. She was wearing a dark green dress which he hadn’t noticed before.

‘You’re seeing Mr Campbell-Lewiston at ten,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m seeing Mr Campbell-Lewiston at ten.’

It was as if the events of the previous day hadn’t happened. He couldn’t refer to them. He hoped she would.

‘Don’t forget Colin Edmundes wants to see you about the new filing cabinets,’ she said.

Joan ushered Mr Campbell-Lewiston in. He was wearing a lightweight grey suit and carried a fawn German raincoat. When he smiled Reggie noticed that his teeth were yellow.

‘How are things going in Germany?’ said Reggie.

‘It’s tough,’ said Mr Campbell-Lewiston. ‘Jerry’s very conservative. He doesn’t go in for convenience foods as much as we do.’

‘Good for him.’

‘Yes, I suppose so, but I mean it makes our job more difficult.’

‘More of a challenge,’ said Reggie.

Joan entered with a pot of coffee on a tray. There were three biscuits each – a bourbon, a rich tea and a custard cream.

‘There are some isolated regional breakthroughs,’ said Mr Campbell-Lewiston. ‘Some of the mousses are holding their own in the Rhenish Palatinate, and the flans are cleaning up in Schleswig-Holstein.’

‘Oh good, that’s very comforting to know,’ said Reggie. ‘And what about the powdered Bakewell Tart mix, is it going like hot cakes?’

‘Not too well, I’m afraid.’

Reggie poured out two cups of coffee and handed one to his visitor. Mr Campbell-Lewiston took four lumps of sugar.

‘And how about the tinned treacle pudding – is that proving sticky?’

‘Oh very good. Treacle tart, sticky. You’re a bit of a wag,’ said Mr Campbell-Lewiston, and he laughed yellowly.

Suddenly the penny dropped.

‘Good God,’ said Reggie. ‘Campbell-Lewiston. I thought the name was familiar. Campbell-Lewiston, E. L., Ruttingstagg. The small-bore rifle team.’

‘Of course. Goofy Per . . . R. I. Perrin.’

They shook hands.

‘You’re doing pretty well for yourself,’ said Reggie.

‘You too,’ said E. L. Campbell-Lewiston.

‘You were a nauseous little squirt in those days,’ said Reggie.

E. L. Campbell-Lewiston drew in his breath sharply.

‘Thank heaven for small bores, for small bores grow bigger every day,’ said Reggie.

‘What?’

‘I really must congratulate you on the work you’re doing in Germany,’ said Reggie. ‘Do you remember the time you bit me in the changing room?’

‘I don’t remember that.’

‘I think you’ve done amazingly well with those flans in Schleswig-Holstein,’ said Reggie. ‘And now what I’d like you to do is pave the way for our new range of exotic ice creams. There are three flavours – mango delight, cumquat surprise and strawberry and lychee ripple.’

‘I can’t believe it. I’ve never bitten anyone.’

Reggie stood up and spoke dynamically.

‘Aren’t you listening?’ he said. ‘I’m talking about our new range of ice creams.’

‘Oh, yes. Sorry,’ said E. L. Campbell-Lewiston.

‘I’d like you to try it out in a typical German town,’ said Reggie. ‘Are there any typical German towns?’

‘All German towns are typical,’ said E. L. Campbell-Lewiston.

Reggie sipped his coffee thoughtfully, and said nothing. E. L. Campbell-Lewiston waited uneasily.

‘Is there any particular way you want me to handle the new ice creams?’ he asked at length.

‘Wanking much these days, are you?’ asked Reggie.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘We used to call you the phantom wanker. No wonder you could never hit the bloody target.’

E. L. Campbell-Lewiston stood up. His face was flushed.

‘I didn’t come here to be insulted like that,’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘I’ll insult you like this, then. You don’t clean your teeth properly, you slovenly sod.’

‘Just who do you think you are?’ said E. L. CampbellLewiston.

‘I think I’m the man in charge of the new exotic ices project,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m the man who’s expecting you to take Germany by storm, and I have every confidence you will. I was tremendously impressed by your article on the strengths and limitations of market research in the
International Deep Freeze News.’

‘Oh thank you.’

They stood up and Reggie handed Mr Campbell-Lewiston his raincoat.

‘Yes, I found your analysis of the chance element inherent in any random sample very persuasive.’

‘I hoped it was all right.’

At the door E. L. Campbell-Lewiston turned and offered Reggie his hand.

‘Er . . . all this . . . I mean, is it some kind of new middle management technique?’ he asked.

‘That’s right,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s the new thing. Try it out on the Germans.’

Joan came in, pad in hand.

‘C.J. wants to see you at eleven,’ she said.

‘Stuff C.J.,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday, darling.’

‘It was one of those things,’ she said.

‘It did happen, didn’t it? You did come to my home yesterday?’

‘Well of course I did, silly.’

He held his hand out towards her across his desk and she stroked it briefly. Her skirt was working its way up her leg, but today she didn’t pull it down.

It had begun to rain. A train clattered along the embankment.