The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (99 page)

They did. That’s what matters,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Yes, but . . . aerosols! I’ll phone them at eleven. I mustn’t sound too eager.’

Father Time, the bearded tease, moved slowly towards that hour.

‘My name’s Perrin,’ he told Mr Fennel’s secretary.

‘Ah. Yes. When would it be convenient for you to come and see Mr Fennel, Mr Perrin?’ she asked, in a brisk but sexy voice.

‘Let me see . . . just having a look through my diary . . . yes. Tuesday or Wednesday afternoons would suit me best, as late in the afternoon as possible, especially if it’s the Wednesday.’

‘Thursday week at nine thirty.’

‘Splendid.’

At last the fateful Thursday dawned.

Elizabeth brushed Reggie’s suit with the brush which she had bought for that very purpose the previous day at Timothy White’s.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.

She handed him his umbrella.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.

He kissed her good-bye.

‘Good luck, darling,’ she said.

The hazy blue sky was teeming with insect life, and swallows and swifts darted joyously over Reggie’s head as he walked down Leibnitz Drive. He turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise, then left into Schopenhauer Grove. This led him on to the main road which wound uphill past Goffley Station. He struggled up the hill, feeling his age. The day was warm, still, sticky. The haze was thickening, and Reggie felt that it might rain.

He followed the crowds along the subway to platform three. A fast train roared above their heads, frighteningly close. Nobody turned a receding hair.

Would he soon be doing this day after day, he wondered.

Did he want to do this day after day, he wondered.

What could he do, day after day, if he didn’t do this, day after day, he wondered.

Would he wonder the same thing, day after day, he wondered.

Opposite him, on platform four, there was a poster advertising the French railways. The gleaming train was gliding past the blue sea of the Cote D’Azur like a sleek snake. An observation car bulged on the snake’s back like an undigested rat.

The eight eleven wasn’t like a sleek snake. It was like a grubby blue worm with a yellow clown’s face. It was also fourteen minutes late.

Do you, Reginald Iolanthe Perrin, take British Rail, Southern Region, to be your awful dreaded life, for better for worse, for fuller for dirtier, in lateness and in cancellation, till retirement or phased redundancy do you part?

I do.

I have to.

Place the ring of dirt around your collar. It will be there every day.

The train arrived at Victoria twenty-two minutes late. The loudspeaker announcement blamed passengers joining the train and alighting.

Reggie arrived at Amalgamated Aerosols at twenty-eight minutes past nine. It was a gleaming affair of glass and Portland stone. Two window cleaners were busy on cradles above the main entrance.

Reggie entered the foyer. It was all rubber plants and soft music. The receptionist had a soft, musical, rubbery voice. She told Reggie to go to the third floor, where Mr Fennel’s secretary would meet the lift. Mr Fennel’s secretary was twenty years older than her telephone voice, and no slouch where meeting lifts was concerned. She led Reggie along a central corridor. The walls were of glass from four foot upwards, affording a view of an open-plan rabbit warren where people worked and idled in full view of each other and everyone else.

Mr Fennel’s office was right at the end of the corridor. He stood up and smiled broadly at Reggie, extending a welcoming hand. He was almost tall, with receding fair hair and an anxious air. He was fifteen years older than his secretary’s voice.

‘Bonjour,’ he said. ‘Bienvenu à Londres.’

‘Bonjour,’ said Reggie, surprised.

‘Asseyez-vous,’ said Mr Fennel.

‘Merci beaucoup,’ said Reggie, feeling capable of playing this kind of executive game until the vaches came home.

Outside, beyond the wall-to-wall glass, a splendid, delicately elegant Wren church was dwarfed by massively inelegant prestige office developments.

‘Est-ce que que vous fumez?’ said Mr Fennel in execrable rather than executive French, holding out a silver cigarette case initialled J.A.F., and filled with Marlboros.

‘Non, merci,’ said Reggie.

‘Seulement les gauloises, n’est-ce pas?’ asked Mr Fennel.

‘Non. Je ne fume pas,’ said Reggie.

Mr Fennel lit a cigarette.

‘Bon,’ he said ‘Maintentant. A les affaires. Le temps et les courants de la mer attendent pour personne.’

‘I don’t understand. Je ne comprends pas,’ said Reggie.

Time and tide wait for . . . you’re English?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

There’s no possible doubt about it.’

‘You aren’t Monsieur Duvavier?’

‘No.’

‘Oh hell. Well who are you?’

‘Reginald Perrin.’

‘Oh hell.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Not your fault. Is it Friday?’

‘No. Thursday.’

‘Damn! I’ve got tomorrow’s files. Why the hell did you answer in French?’

‘I thought it was some kind of executive game.’

Mr Fennel laughed.

As soon as Reggie joined in, Mr Fennel’s laughter died abruptly.

‘Now, what exactly did you want to see me about?’ said Mr Fennel.

‘You wanted to see me.’

‘What? Oh. Yes. Ah. Bit stymied without my files. Millie’ll be back in a moment. I’m a bit lost here. We were on the second floor. Now, what do I want to see you about?’

‘I don’t know. I presumed from your letter you were planning to offer me a job.’

Mr Fennel looked out of the window, as if he expected a passing sky-writer to remind him. London shimmered in darkening haze.

‘You must be the bod F.J. wants to see,’ said Mr Fennel at last.

‘F.J.?’

‘Our managing director.’

‘Your managing director’s called F.J.?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Perrin! Grot?’

‘Yes.’

‘You
are
the bod F.J. wants to see. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t know I was the bod F.J. wanted to see.’

Reggie tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. Mr Fennel had three pens in his breast pocket. Reggie didn’t like men who had three pens in their breast pocket and he didn’t much care for being called a bod.

‘F.J. seems to think you’re the kind of bod we want,’ said Mr Fennel.

‘Oh good,’ said Reggie. ‘I’d certainly like to work in a high-growth, rapid-yield, multi-facet industry like aerosols.’

‘Save that guff for F.J.,’ said Mr Fennel.

‘Come!’ called F.J.

Reggie entered F.J.’s office. It was huge, and had large picture windows. The glass was tinted brown.

F.J. advanced to meet him.

‘Perrin!’ he said. ‘Welcome!’

F.J. pumped his hand vigorously.

‘I believe you know my brother C.,’ he said.

Reggie felt his head swimming.

‘So you
are
C.J.’s brother,’ he said. ‘I did wonder. I . . . er . . . didn’t know there was a third brother.’

F.J. sat down behind his vast desk. Its tinted glass top matched the windows.

He looked rather like C.J., but a bit slighter. More tidy and self-contained.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get where I am today without being C.J.’s brother.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Reggie. ‘I mean . . . you say that too.’

F.J. laughed heartily.

‘No,’ he said. ‘That was my little joke.’

‘Oh. Thank God,’ said Reggie.

‘I’m very different from C.,’ said F.J.

‘Oh. Thank God,’ said Reggie.

‘Do sit down,’ said F.J., indicating a low white leather chair shaped like a coracle.

Reggie sat down. The chair blew a raspberry.

F.J. roared.

‘Good gimmick, eh?’ he said. ‘C. copied it. Didn’t carry it through, though. My brother’s too soft.’

‘Soft?’

‘All mouth and no trousers. You never let his manner fool you, I hope?’

‘No! What? I should say not.’

‘You weren’t frightened of him?’

‘Frightened of C.J.? Huh. Pull the other one.’

‘Good. Now I am hard. Cigar?’

‘Thank you.’

Reggie reached forward, but the chair was too far from the desk. He had to stand. He took a huge cigar from the large box on F.J.’s desk, and sat down.

The chair blew a raspberry.

F.J. laughed.

‘Light?’

Reggie thrust himself out of the chair again, held his cigar to the flame offered by F.J., and sat down again.

The chair blew a raspberry.

F.J. laughed.

Thoroughly discomfited, the hopeful employee quakes,’ he said.

‘Absolutely,’ said Reggie.

‘Do you fancy working here?’ said F.J.

‘I certainly do,’ said Reggie. ‘I’d like to work in a high-growth, rapid-yield, multi-facet industry like aerosols.’

‘Save that guff for Fennel,’ said F.J. ‘He’s the one who does the hiring and firing.’

‘I’ve seen Fennel,’ said Regie.

‘You’ve seen Fennel?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah!’

F.J. leant forward and glared at Reggie through slitted eyes.

‘Nozzles?’ he said.

‘Pardon?’

‘Nozzles. Views on. Think on your feet.’

‘Well, I . . . er . . . they’re those things you press on aerosol cans, but you can’t see the arrow properly, so you point it the wrong way and cover yourself with freshener.’

‘I like a man who can think on his feet,’ said F.J.

He swivelled slowly round in his chair.

‘Our laboratories in Boreham Wood are on the verge of a nozzle breakthrough that’ll do for the aerosol canister what the apple did for gravity,’ he said. ‘Whichever way you point the canister, the spray will always emerge pointing away from you.’

‘That’s fantastic’.

‘Is it not?’

Large drops of rain began to splatter against the windows.

‘You and your good lady must come to Leatherhead and have dinner one day, Perrin,’ said F.J.

‘Thank you, F.J.’

‘My good lady cooks an amazing lobster thermostat.’

‘Oh. Really? That sounds . . . amazing.’

‘You have to be very careful at what temperature you serve it. Hence the name.’

‘Really?’

‘No.’

‘What?’

There’s no such thing as lobster thermostat. It’s lobster thermidor.’

Reggie began to sweat.

‘I know,’ he said.

‘Then why the hell didn’t you say so?’

‘Well, I . . .’

‘You thought I was a pretentious
nouveau riche
ignoramus who’d got it wrong.’

‘Well, F.J., I . . . er . . .’

‘And fell headlong into my executive trap.’

‘I certainly did, F.J.’

‘Huh huh huh.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You’re not just another yes man, are you?’

‘No, F.J.’

The rain began in earnest. It was quite dark outside and the lights in all the tower blocks shone brightly.

‘May I ask you a question, F.J.?’ asked Reggie.

F.J. regarded him sadly.

‘Why have I got these flaps at either side of my face?’ he asked. ‘To help me fly?’

‘No, F.J.’

Those are my ears, Perrin.’

They certainly are, F.J.’

They’re for listening. So, if you have a question, ask it. Don’t waste time asking if you can ask it.’

‘Sorry, F.J. The question is, F.J., did C.J. recommend me to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good gr . . . oh good.’

F.J. lifted one of his phones.

‘Get Fennel please, Ingeborg,’ he said.

He put the phone down. Almost immediately it barked. He lifted it.

‘Fennel?’ he said. ‘I have your chap Perrin here . . . You thought he was
my
chap? No, no. He’s your chap, I assure you. What do you think of him? . . . Well, it’s not up to me . . . Well, I happen to believe he has a flair for unusual invention and is just the man for us, but that’s irrelevant . . . You agree? Well, I hope for your sake you’re right. It’s your decision. Fennel.’

F.J. replaced his telephone on its cradle lovingly.

‘You start on Monday fortnight,’ he said. ‘You’ll be working in our air freshener and deodorant division.’

The fine weather returned, and the days passed slowly.

Elizabeth took a secretarial job with a firm of solicitors in Goffley, to start the week after Reggie.

Every morning they called for a drink at the Bald Faced Stag. Often they’d accompany it with a ham sandwich or a portion of gala pie with pickle.

They visited the Goffley Carpet Centre and stared in bewilderment at rolls of hideously patterned material. Eventually they settled on a carpet for the living-room. The price was astronomical.

They went for walks among the quiet yet subtly varied streets around their home. Often they walked down Sartre Rise and Wittgenstein View to the golf course. Between Wittgenstein View and Nietzsche Grove an old windmill survived from the days when all this had been open farmland. It had no sails. It was called John Stuart Mill, in memory of John Stuart, a Goffley landowner of bygone days. It was sad to look at the windmill and dream of the days when these gentle hills had been open fields.

One afternoon, as they crossed the golf course on footpath number seventy-eight, which followed the Piffley Brook to East Franton, the wife of a quantity surveyor hooked her seventh at the short twelfth, and the ball struck Reggie on the backside before she had remembered what you were supposed to shout to warn people.

But for the most part they were quiet times.

The first day of employment began.

Elizabeth brushed Reggie’s suit, removing a minuscule crumb of toast from the lumbar region in the process.

She handed him his new briefcase, engraved with his initials ‘R.I.P.’.

Thank you, darling,’ he said.

She handed him his umbrella.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.

She kissed him good-bye.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.

‘Have a good day at the office,’ she said.

‘I won’t,’ he said.

Was this pessimism premature? Only time would tell.

Reggie walked down Leibnitz Drive, turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise, then left into Schopenhauer Grove. High in the summer sky a commuting heron flapped lazily towards the Surrey ponds. Reggie walked up the punishing slope to Goffley Station, showed his new season ticket, and stood on platform three, opposite the poster for the French railways.