The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (90 page)

‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘Why are you smoking a large cigar?’

‘It’s a psychological ploy,’ said Reggie. ‘It’ll give me an air of authority and opulence which will help to re-establish an aura of confidence and well-being.’

He drew on the cigar luxuriantly, and sighed contentedly.

‘I hate the bloody things,’ he said. ‘But it’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make, for the sake of the community.’

Buds began to appear on the trees, daffodils bloomed in the gardens, and all over Botchley men oiled their lawn mowers.

The clock went forward, providing an extra hour of daylight in the evenings.

The March winds grew angry at mankind’s presumptuousness. We’ll show them whether winter’s over, they howled. They hurled themselves against roofs, rattled upon double-glazing, sported with carrier bags and old newspapers, and sent daffodils reeling.

A container ship carrying thousands of tons of Worcester sauce from Immingham to Nagasaki crashed on to the jagged rocks off the west coast of Guernsey and was severely holed. Spicy brown tides roared up the holiday beaches. The rocks from Pleinmont to L’Ancresse were awash with vinegar, molasses, sugar, shallots, anchovies, tamarinds, garlic, salt, spices and natural flavouring. It was the worst Worcester sauce slick in modern mercantile history.

Six novelists began books about the incident. Five of the books were called
Worcester Sauce Galore
and the sixth was called
The Fall and Rise of Lea and Perrins
.

Deborah Swaffham arrived at the community.

Jimmy continued the endless task of clearing Botchley of litter all over again. It was an ecological Forth Bridge. He removed a sodden copy of the
Botchley and Spraundon Press (Incorporating the Coxwell Gazette)
from the bars of a gate in Reykjavik View, where it had been flapping in impotent anger. He began to read it, for other people’s newspapers are always more interesting than one’s own. His eye alighted on an article by ‘The Gourmet’. ‘In the gastronomic treasure house that is War Memorial Parade,’ the article began, ‘no jewel shines more brightly than the wittily named Oven D’Or.’

Jimmy had just reached: ‘My companion plumped for the prawn cocktail and pronounced it as delicious as it was ample,’ when a bloodcurdling yell came from round the corner.

He abandoned his reading, and led his expeditionary force into action for the first time.

Three youths were attacking a smaller youth in Lima Crescent.

Jimmy’s six-man force rushed in, with the exception of the philosopher, who hung back as much as he dared.

Jimmy tore into the midst of the fray, grabbed two of the youths, and banged their heads together before they knew what was happening.

‘Take that, you bastards,’ he shouted, bringing his knee up into the larger one’s groin.

Four members of the expeditionary force were not far behind him, while the philosopher faffed around ineffectually on the edge of the fight.

The three youths were soon overcome.

‘Love and peace, you bloody louts,’ Jimmy shouted at them, as they limped sullenly off along Lima Crescent. ‘Love and peace, do you hear? Reckoned without Major James Anderson, didn’t you?’

One of the youths turned, and intimated, though not in those exact words, that retribution might be expected.

Jimmy turned to the rescued youth.

‘On your way, lad,’ he said.

The rescued youth set off equally sullenly in the opposite direction, without a word of thanks.

‘Ungrateful sod,’ said Jimmy.

The middle-aged expeditionary force stood panting in the road, regaining its corporate wind.

‘Right,’ said Jimmy, the flint dying reluctantly from his eyes. ‘Back to clearing litter.’

‘Leloipe,’ cried the philosopher. ‘My God! My God!’

‘Know what you’re thinking,’ said Jimmy.

‘I very much doubt that,’ said the philosopher.

‘Can’t all be men of action,’ said Jimmy, putting a consoling arm round the philosopher. ‘Rum bag of tricks if we were.’

‘No, no, no,’ said the philosopher irritably. ‘When you fought, I was thinking that here we have war and history in microcosm.’

‘Microcosm, eh?’ said Jimmy blankly.

‘Violence to stop violence. A peace-keeping force is a contradiction in terms. Fighting for peace is as absurd as making love for virginity. And suddenly that led me on and I saw a fatal flaw in my solution. I’m wrong. All my life’s work – wrong!’

‘Bad luck,’ said Jimmy.

‘It’s wonderful, you fool,’ said the philosopher. ‘I’ve lost everything.’

‘Leloipe,’ he cried again, and the wind hurled his triumphant cry of failure along Lima Crescent towards the Arctic.

Later that afternoon, as the winds spent themselves slowly, the philosopher saw Reggie in the sun-room.

His face was exultant.

‘I haven’t solved all the problems of ethics, mathematics, logic and linguistics after all,’ he said. ‘In fact I haven’t solved any of them. Isn’t it wonderful news? Aren’t you happy for me?’

‘Delirious,’ said Reggie.

‘My quest can begin again,’ said the philosopher. ‘The long search resumes. Please accept a cheque for four hundred pounds. I wish it could be more, but philosophers aren’t millionaires.’

‘I haven’t earned it,’ protested Reggie.

‘You’ve flung me back into the exquisite cauldrons of doubt and speculation,’ said the philosopher gratefully.

On her first day, Deborah Swaffham had been upstaged by Jimmy’s little fracas.

On the Tuesday, she was upstaged by the petition. It was delivered at three thirty in the afternoon by Mrs E. Blythe-Erpingham, of Windyways, Number Eighteen, Bonn Close. It had been signed by one thousand two hundred and seventy-six residents.

The purport of the petition was that the presence of Perrins in the midst of Mrs E. Blythe-Erpingham and her friends was ‘inconsistent with the character of this predominantly residential area’.

Reggie greeted Mrs Blythe-Erpingham courteously, and studied the petition carefully.

‘Photostats have been sent to the leader of the council, our MP, and to the
Botchley and Spraundon Press,’
she said.

‘Incorporating the Coxwell Gazette,’
said Reggie. ‘I do apologize for interrupting, but I think we should remember our friends in Coxwell. We’re all brothers and sisters under the skin, are we not, Lady Blythe-Erpingham?’

‘Mrs
Blythe-Erpingham,’ said Mrs Blythe-Erpingham.

‘Lady Blythe-Erpingham to me,’ said Reggie.

Mrs Blythe-Erpingham simpered.

‘I thought it would be courteous to bring you a photostat,’ she said. ‘And I would like to assure you, Mr Perrin, that this is only because of the parking, the punctures, the publicity, and the undesirable types that your excellent project attracts. There is nothing personal in this whatsoever.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Reggie. ‘There’s nothing personal in
this
either.’

He tore the petition into little pieces and dropped them over Mrs Blythe-Erpingham’s head like snow.

In the early evening, in the late sunshine, Reggie strolled around the streets of Botchley, marshalling his thoughts.

Why did I tear the petition up?

Why was I rude to Mr Linklater?

I can’t afford these gestures. They can destroy my work.

I shouldn’t want these petty triumphs.

He entered the Botchley Arms and ordered a pint of bitter. The landlord had a long, gaunt face and a long, pointed nose beneath which a brown moustache bristled acidly.

‘These fine evenings are bad for trade,’ he said. ‘People pop out to the country when they see a bit of sun.’

Reggie felt an impulse to make a thoroughly rude reply.

No, no, no.

‘I daresay it’s as long as it’s broad,’ he said.

‘That’s exactly the way I look at it,’ said the landlord. ‘You’ve got to in this trade.’

On the Wednesday, it was the financial problems of Perrins that occupied Reggie, and enabled those posed by Deborah Swaffham to remain undetected. Elizabeth asked him to come and see her in the secretary’s office. She was wearing a pair of severe horn-rimmed glasses which she affected when she wished to look businesslike rather than wifely. Her eyebrows rose at his large cigar, but she made no comment. Instead she gave a concise summary of their financial position.

‘Our expenses have been enormous and have used up almost all our capital,’ she said. ‘During January and February we were full, and still only just exceeded our costs. We are now not full. We can’t guarantee to be full all the time. We must therefore make economies.’

‘I think those are long-tailed tits at the bottom of the garden,’ said Reggie.’

‘Reggie.’

‘Sorry, darling, I missed some of what you said. I missed that bit about the finances.’

‘Reality won’t go away because you don’t look at it, you know.’

‘You’re absolutely right, darling, but those tits are lovely.’

Concentrate, Reggie.

Elizabeth repeated her pithy summary of their financial position.

Reggie puffed his cigar thoughtfully.

‘We’ll have to make economies,’ he said.

Those cigars can go for a start,’ said Elizabeth.

‘But not short-sighted economies,’ he said. ‘I mustn’t lose my authority, darling, much as I might wish to. What are our major expenses?’

‘Salaries and food. Salaries you can’t cut down on. McBlane is extravagant.’

‘You’re suggesting that I go and see McBlane and tell him that we must make economies?’

‘Frankly, yes.’

‘Man to man, straight from the shoulder?’

‘Frankly, yes.’

‘Are you absolutely certain we need to economize?’

‘Frankly, yes. Are you frightened of McBlane, darling?’

‘Frankly, yes.’

Reggie walked slowly through the living-room, bracing himself for his confrontation with McBlane.

The kitchen was filled with the pleasant aroma of prawns provençale. The pustular wizard of the pots was seated at the kitchen table pouring white powder over his left foot.

‘Morning, McBlane,’ said Reggie. ‘Prawns provençale. Yum yum.’

McBlane grunted.

‘Keeping the old feet in good condition, eh?’ said Reggie. ‘Splendid.’

McBlane replied. For all Reggie knew, he might have said anything from, ‘Yes, I’m a bit of a stickler for pedicure’, to ‘Mind your own business, you Sassenach snob’.

‘Splendid,’ said Reggie, taking a calculated risk, for if McBlane had said, ‘I have an incurable dose of McAllister’s Pedal Gunge and will be bed-ridden ere Michaelmas’, Reggie’s reply of ‘Splendid’ would have been distinctly inflammatory.

‘Splendid food all week,’ said Reggie, as McBlane drew a thick woollen sock over his powdered foot. ‘So good, McBlane, that a thought occurs to me. A chef of your calibre doesn’t need expensive ingredients all the time. Any chef can make a delicious meal of parma ham with melon, crayfish thermidor, and syllabub. Only a genius like you could make a delicious meal of, shall we say, leek and potato soup and scrag end of lamb. In others words, McBlane, were I to say to you that a degree of economy was needed, just a degree, you understand, then a chef of your brilliance and subtlety might see that as a challenge. Point taken, McBlane?’

‘Guidy and airseblekkt ooter her whee himsel obstrofulate pocking blae ruitsmon.’

‘Jolly good. We’ll say no more about it, then, McBlane.’

On the Thursday afternoon, in the Culture Room, alias the Websters’ bedroom, Tony was instructing Deborah Swaffham in the dramatic arts. More precisely, they were studying
Antony and Cleopatra
, with particular reference to the relationship between the eponymous duo. Tony was taking the part of Antony while it was Miss Swaffham’s task to portray the sultry temptress of the Nile.

Tony was feeling a certain lassitude, possibly as a result of his superb lunch of Parma ham with melon, crayfish thermidor, and syllabub.

Deborah Swaffham had long blonde hair, full lips with a suspicion of a pout, a good figure and long legs covered in a golden down. All Tony’s lassitude disappeared when she said, ‘How do you think Cleopatra would have kissed?’

‘I really don’t know,’ said Tony. ‘I’ve never given it much thought.’

‘I think she probably used lots of tongue and things, rather slowly and thoughtfully,’ said Deborah Swaffham.

‘Perhaps you’d better show me,’ said Tony.

And so, Deborah Swaffham and Tony sat in an armchair in the Culture Room on that quiet afternoon at the end of March in Oslo Avenue, Botchley, and were transported back through two thousand years of history.

After Deborah Swaffham had shown Tony how Cleopatra would have kissed, Tony showed her what he thought Antony’s attitude to breast fondling would have been.

When Tony put his tongue in Deborah Swaffham’s mouth, she gave it a little bite, like the remnants of natural aggression in a sleepy domestic cat.

‘I couldn’t do this as myself. It’s only because I’m Cleopatra,’ she said.

‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Tony.

‘Honestly, Tony. I’m very inhibited as me. If you came to my room and things, when I was me, I wouldn’t be like this. But then you wouldn’t want to come.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’m unattractive to men. I have this frigid element which turns them off.’

‘Rubbish.’

Deborah Swaffham looked into Tony’s eyes.

He held her gaze.

‘If you came to my bedroom in Number Seventeen, I’m lucky, I’ve got a proper bedroom and no room-mate, if you came there during dinner, because food is pretty draggy, isn’t it?’

‘Food is Dullsville, Arizona.’

‘If you came this evening, would you still be able to feel attracted enough to me to try and help me get over my inhibitions and things?’

‘I could try,’ said Tony.

That evening Tony complained of indigestion – ‘probably the crayfish, I’ve never really been into crayfish’ – and told Joan that he’d miss dinner. As soon as she’d gone to eat, he sped along the road to Number Seventeen. He was awash with greedy waves of desire.

Outside Deborah Swaffham’s bedroom, he paused to tidy his hair. Then he knocked and strode in, masterfully, without waiting for a reply.