The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (92 page)

‘No,’ said Doc Morrissey.

All eyes turned to Doc Morrissey. He was sitting on a hard chair pushed back slightly out of the circle to Reggie’s right.

‘She got up on the couch,’ he said. ‘She seemed very tense and vulnerable I just put my arm round her.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Oh. I was on the couch as well. I didn’t want to be in an analyst-patient situation, with the inequality that that entails. I thought she would feel better, professionally, in an analyst-analyst situation, or patient-patient situation, whichever you like. Let’s call it a person-person situation, if you prefer.’

It seemed that Jimmy didn’t prefer, for he let out a thunderous snore from the depths of his shabby armchair. Lettuce kicked him gently from the adjoining chair, whose springs hung down like a prolapsed uterus. He jerked to life with a moan.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Must have nodded off.’

‘He’s not been sleeping since that business with Clive “Lofty” Anstruther,’ said Lettuce.

‘Sorry,’ said Jimmy. ‘Morale shot to ribbons. Bad show. What’s meeting all about? Rather missed that bit.’

‘It’s about low morale,’ said Reggie.

‘Ah! Treacherous chap, low morale. Depressing sort of cove.’

Reggie banged on the card table with his gavel.

‘Order,’ he said. ‘Finish your story, Doc, and then maybe we can move on from this woman.’

‘She told me she had sexual problems,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘I’m afraid I . . . I forgot myself as well. She flung me off the couch. I practically broke my . . . er . . . well anyway it’s still pretty painful.’

‘Were you able to make an assessment of her character?’ said Reggie.

‘Yes,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘She’s a cow.’

‘My community psychologist, and that is your considered opinion. She’s a cow. I despair,’ said Reggie. ‘Anyway, Doc, enough of all this nonsense. Do you have any suggestion for improving morale?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘Get rid of Deborah Swaffham.’

Reggie groaned.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I want a woman’s view next. Maybe then we’ll begin to get some sense. Any ideas, Joan?’

‘Get rid of Deborah Swaffham,’ said Joan.

‘Oh my God,’ said Reggie. ‘Joan! You haven’t been taking your clothes off with Deborah Swaffham as well have you?’

‘No, but Tony has.’

‘Is this true, Tony?’

‘No.’

‘He’s doing
Antony and Cleopatra
with her,’ said Joan. ‘She suggests going back to her room. What does my faithful husband say? “O’oh! Knock-out!” He’s really into Deborah Swaffham. She’s where it’s at.’

‘But she isn’t,’ said Tony. ‘That’s the whole point.’

‘Children!’ said Reggie. ‘Why can’t you be like David and Prue?’

‘Please. Leave us out of it,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones.

They were sitting in identical armchairs, holding hands. They were wearing brown trousers and navy-blue sweaters.

‘Self-satisfied prigs,’ said Joan.

‘Please,’ said Reggie, banging his gavel. ‘Can’t we do anything except squabble and talk about Deborah Swaffham and fall asleep?’

‘Jimmy can’t help it,’ said Lettuce. ‘He’s worked his heart out for you, and he’s taken this Clive “Lofty” Anstruther business very hard. Haven’t you, darling?’

Jimmy launched himself into a fierce snore. Lettuce kicked him with gentle affection.

Jimmy looked round the room in puzzled surprise.

‘Some sort of meeting, is it?’ he said.

‘We’re discussing the fact that you keep falling asleep,’ said Reggie.

‘Sorry. Missed that bit. Must have dropped off,’ said Jimmy.

Reggie buried his head in his hands and groaned.

‘Please. Let’s move on, away from Deborah Swaffham,’ he said.

‘Hear hear,’ said Tony. ‘It’s Prick Tease City, Arizona, that one. OK, so I did go back to its room. The cow wasn’t even there.’

‘No, I’m not . . . er . . . I’m not . . . er . . . not sure what I was going to say,’ said Tom. ‘Sorry. Carry on.’

‘Tony would have,’ said Joan. ‘Pretending he was ill and not wanting any dinner. As if that would fool anyone.’

A vivid flush spread over the few bits of Tom’s face that weren’t covered by his beard.

‘Tom!’ said Linda. ‘Oh my God. So that’s why you said you were ill.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Reggie. ‘Not you too! Perrins? Sodom and Gomorrah, more like.’

‘She . . . er . . . she played football the other day,’ said Tom. ‘She’s not a bad little striker actually. Pretty good distribution. She put through some fairly shrewd ...’

‘Balls!’ said Linda.

‘Exactly,’ said Tom. ‘I went to her bedroom to discuss tactics before the hailstorm. That’s all. No, Poggle chops, nothing happened.’

‘No, she wasn’t there, you poor sap.’

Reggie banged the gavel down on the table. It broke.

‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘Even the bloody gavel doesn’t work.’

He hurled it across the room. It struck the mug marked ‘Reggie’, breaking it.

‘A symbolic moment,’ he said. ‘Perrins is finished.’

Elizabeth stood up.

‘I’m disgusted with you all,’ she said. ‘Haven’t we better things to do than insult each other?’

‘Exactly,’ said C.J. ‘Out of the mouths of babes and little children.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ said Elizabeth.

‘It’s obvious,’ said C.J.

‘It’s meaningless, you stupid fool,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Darling!’ said Reggie.

Elizabeth stood in the middle of the room, and glared at them all in turn.

‘You’re behaving like fools,’ she said. ‘We’ve had a run of bad luck, that’s all. A few petty thefts. One act of violence from our chef. And a cow who makes a fool of you. So are we to expel her because she’s awkward? This nation is full of doctors who refuse to have patients on their lists because they’re sick or old. It’s full of homes for difficult children which refuse to take children because they might be difficult. Is it asking too much to hope that here we have somewhere which can actually cope with the people for whom it’s intended? I suggest that tomorrow Deborah Swaffham goes to the sex clinic. It’s what it’s there for. I suggest that we fight all the harder for the success of this project we believe in, and reveal these set-backs for what they are. Pin-pricks. And now, could we at last have some sensible suggestions?’

She sat down. Reggie smiled proudly at her.

There was a moment’s silence. It was broken at last by Jimmy.

‘Well, why don’t you have Red Rovers, you stupid Maltese bugger?’ he said. ‘Oh. Sorry. Dreaming.’

In the morning, Mr Cosgrove of the Highways Department called round.

‘You’re using a residential street to park cars for business purposes,’ he said. ‘The police could get you on obstruction. This is a bus route, Mr Perrin, and the magistrates are very protective towards bus routes. A purge on bald tyres also suggests itself. We only have to give the word.’

Reggie spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

‘I know very little about these things,’ he said. ‘We’re very unworldly here.’

‘People have been laying off you,’ said Mr Gosgrove. ‘You’ve friends in the Town Hall. But your friends may not be able to help you much longer. The vultures are gathering over Oslo Avenue.’

The bed had been folded away. David Harris-Jones sat on a hard chair, behind a desk, and Deborah Swaffham curled foetus-like on the settee with her long legs tucked under her.

‘I’m off-putting to men,’ she said.

‘Maybe it’s because when they visit you, your room is empty,’ said David Harris-Jones.

‘That’s awful of me, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘But when I was inviting those men back to my room and things, I didn’t intend to get all frightened and leave the room empty. It’s just they give off this aura of sexual aggression. I bet people like Tony had hundreds of pre-marital conquests before they were married. And there’s something a bit sinister in the way those older men go about it, Doc and D.J. and things.’

‘C.J.’

‘I’m hopeless with names. Oh God, what a mess.’

Deborah Swaffham began to cry. Real salty tears trickled from her grey-green eyes.

David Harris-Jones didn’t intend to walk across to the settee and sit beside her. He didn’t intend to put his arm around her. And he certainly didn’t intend that the limb in question should fondle her consolingly.

Yet all these things happened.

Deborah Swaffham tried to smile. David Harris-Jones handed her a tissue and she blew her nose.

‘I don’t think I’d be frightened with you,’ she said.

David Harris-Jones closed his eyes and felt himself sinking.

‘You don’t give off an aura of sexual aggression.’

‘Oh, thank you. Thank you very much.’

‘I bet you had hardly any pre-marital conquests before you were married.’

‘Hardly any,’ he agreed. ‘It wasn’t easy to be a Casanova in Haverfordwest.’

‘I bet you get premature ejaculation and dementia praecox and things.’

‘Well, I . . . er . . . thank you very much. Super.’

‘Come to my room at lunchtime, David, and teach me not to be frightened.’

‘Well, I . . . er . . . thank you very much. Super.’

David Harris-Jones went round to her room at lunchtime.

It was empty.

He stalked out angrily and found Prue standing grimly by the garden gate.

‘Good-bye,’ she said.

‘Well, I . . . er . . . oh God. Oh God.’

At lunch Reggie noticed the absence of David and Prue Harris-Jones. He knew that Deborah Swaffham, at that moment chatting animatedly to a newly arrived yobbo, had seen David that morning.

He hurried round to Number Twenty-three.

He met them coming down the stairs. Prue was carrying a suitcase and little Reggie.

‘We’re splitting up,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones.

Reggie felt as if he’d been hit by a sandbag filled with lumps of old iron.

A taxi drew up, and Prue stepped into it, taking young Reggie with her. Nothing Reggie or David Harris-Jones said could persuade her to change her mind. David stared after the disappearing taxi with vacant eyes.

‘She’s gone,’ he said.

He began to whimper.

‘Prue!’ he said. ‘Prue!’

He stared at the forsythia bush.

‘Prue!’ he said. ‘Oh Prue!’

No miracle happened. The bush did not turn into his wife.

Reggie put his arm on David’s shoulder, felt David’s knees begin to buckle, and hastily removed his arm.

‘How can I live without Reggie, Reggie?’ said David Harris-Jones.

Reggie stalked the litter-free streets of Botchley angrily. Along Oslo Avenue he went, and down Bonn Close to the High Street. The purpose of his walk was to control his anger and direct it towards its natural target. Deborah Swaffham.

It began to rain, a sharp shower on a merciless wind. Large spears of rain.

There was just time for a drink at the Botchley Arms before closing time. Reggie ordered a pint of bitter and a whisky chaser. There weren’t many people in the bar, just a few businessmen angling for some after-hours drinks, and two housewives chatting animatedly over their toasted sandwiches. They looked at Reggie as at some monster from outer space. This was the fiend who’d torn up Mrs Blythe-Erpingham’s petition.

Anger welled up in Reggie.

Anger at Deborah Swaffham.

Anger at his staff.

Anger at himself.

Anger at Botchley.

Anger at the nation.

Anger at the Northern Hemisphere.

Anger at the whole damned, stupid world.

But anger above all at Thomas Percival Crankshaft, licensed to sell beers, wines and spirits.

Because at that very moment the landlord pushed his long, gaunt face towards Reggie and said, These cold wet days are bad for trade. People have sandwiches in their offices, in the dry.’

‘What a miserable, mean, boring, petty-minded prick you are,’ said Reggie.

He hastened home to beard Deborah Swaffham in her den.

He must treat her as a human being and try to help her.

It wouldn’t be easy.

At that time she ought to be taking part in one of the manifold activities which were still continuing, despite the traumas. Whenever she ought to be in her room, she wasn’t. Perhaps now, when she oughtn’t to be, she would be.

She was.

Reggie sat in an old wicker chair that Elizabeth had picked up in one of the leading antique shops in Botchley.

‘Anyone can be frightened of men, Deborah,’ he said.

Deborah Swaffham walked casually round the room. She glanced at the print of bygone Botchley. Suddenly she pounced on the door, and locked it. She removed the key.

‘I’m not frightened of men,’ she said. ‘All that was a blind to get to see you. You’re the man with the power and things round here, and power fascinates me.’

‘Give me that key, Debbie,’ said Reggie.

Deborah Swaffham dropped the key between her breasts.

‘Come and get it,’ she said.

‘I will not come and I am not going to get it,’ said Reggie.

Deborah Swaffham sat on the bed and began to unzip her dress.

‘Please, Deborah!’ implored Reggie.

‘Call me Debbiekins, Reggie.’

Reggie closed his eyes and counted ten.

‘I’m not going to call you Debbiekins, and you will please call me Mr Perrin, Miss Swaffham,’ he said.

He opened his eyes.

She had removed her dress. Her legs were long and shapely.

‘You can’t help being what you are,’ said Reggie. ‘But you can help me to help you to become different from ...’

‘You don’t find me attractive,’ said Deborah Swaffham. ‘Nobody does.’

She began to take off her tights. Reggie hurried over to the window.

‘You are attractive,’ he said. ‘You’re gorgeous.’

He undid the sash and tried to lift the lower half of the window. It had stuck. He pushed desperately and at last it opened.

He breathed in the bracing spring air, and looked down at the flower bed in the front garden below.

Deborah Swaffham advanced towards him.

‘I put you off, don’t I?’ she said.

‘You’re lovely,’ he said, shoving her backwards on to her bed as gently as he could.

He ran to the window and began to climb out.

‘You just don’t fancy me,’ he heard her sob. ‘You hate me.’