by David Nobbs
Everything was normal, yet nothing was normal. There he was, dictating away, apparently in full command of himself, and yet everything was different. There was no longer anything to prevent his doing the most outrageous things. There was nothing to stop him holding a ceilidh in the Dispatch Department. Yet he didn’t. Very much the reverse.
He felt an impulse to go down to C.J.’s office, walk up to C.J.’s desk, and expose himself. One pull on his zip, and, hey presto, a life’s work undone. That was power.
‘Are you all right?’ said Joan.
‘Of course I am. Why?’
‘We’re in the middle of a letter, and you haven’t spoken for ten minutes.’
He felt he owed her an explanation.
‘Sorry. I’m rather full of ravioli,’ he said.
He finished the letter. Joan was looking a little alarmed.
‘One more letter,’ he said. ‘To the Traffic Manager, British Rail, Southern Region. Dear Sir, Every morning my train, which is due at Waterloo at eight fifty-eight, is exactly eleven minutes late. This is infuriating. This morning, for reasons which I need not go into here, I caught a later train, which was due in at nine twenty-eight. This train was also exactly eleven minutes late. Why don’t you re-time your trains to arrive eleven minutes later? They would then be on time every morning. Yours faithfully, Reginald I. Perrin.’
Reggie had four whiskies at the Feathers. Davina stood very close to him. Owen Lewis from Crumbles told three dirty stories. Reggie went to the ‘gents’ and before he had started Tony Webster came in and stood at the next urinal. There was a slot machine on which was written: ‘The chocolate in this machine tastes of rubber.’ Reggie couldn’t go. He never could when Tony Webster was standing beside him. He pretended that he’d been, shook himself as if to get the last drips off, did up his zip, and left the ‘gents’.
When Tony Webster came out of the ‘gents’ Reggie tried not to look embarrassed. He bought a bacardi and coke for Tony’s dolly bird. She was wearing a mini-skirt that was short but not too short, and a thin lace blouse that you could almost see through. She had a flat chest and artificial blonde hair. Reggie didn’t imagine that Tony Webster had any problems in bed.
He walked home the long way, across the park. There were cricketers practising in the nets, and he watched some children clambering over a brightly coloured tubular dragon erected for them by the Parks Department.
He plunged into the quiet jungle of the Poets’ Estate. He sauntered along Masefield Grove. How was it that his legs kept going forward like this, even though he wasn’t telling them to? He looked down at his legs, and they seemed to be separate beings, strolling along down there. It was lucky they weren’t keen on mountaineering, dragging him up Annapurna on their holidays.
The pollen count was high, and he could hear Peter Cartwright sneezing inside Number 11, Tennyson Avenue.
He walked slowly up Coleridge Close. His neighbours at Number 18, the Milfords, were watering those parts of their front garden which were already in shadow. Later they would go for a snifter at the golf club.
His neighbours at Number 22, the Wisemans, had been told that the golf club had no vacancies.
‘You’re late,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I missed the train,’ he lied.
‘I don’t mind, but it’s all dried up,’ she said.
He hadn’t the energy to explain that man had only existed for a minimal proportion of this earth’s history, Britain was only a small island, he was just one insignificant speck which would be gone for ever in another thirty years, and it really didn’t matter if two small lamb chops were all dried up.
He ate his dried-up lamb chops in the back garden, on the ‘patio’, underneath the laburnums. A magpie fluttered hesitantly over the garden, and small birds whose names he didn’t know were flitting from bush to bush.
‘I thought we might go for a run tomorrow,’ he said.
‘That would be nice,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I thought we might take Tom and Linda and the kids, seeing that they haven’t got their car.’
That would be nice,’ she said.
Their daughter Linda had married an estate agent, who had just driven his car into the wall of one of his firm’s properties, a house valued, until the accident, at £26,995. They had two small children.
‘I thought we might run over to Hartcliffe House and see what that new game reserve’s like,’ he said.
‘That would be nice,’ she said.
He rang Linda and Tom. The plan was accepted with enthusiasm.
Over his coffee he studied his maps, working out a route that would avoid the traffic.
‘You remind me of your father, sitting there like that with your maps,’ said Elizabeth.
Reggie’s father was always poring over maps and saying: ‘Right, then, what’s the plan of action?’ and then telling you what the plan of action was.
‘You’re getting more like him every day,’ said Elizabeth.
She meant it kindly, so Reggie didn’t show that he was hurt.
‘Right, then, what’s the plan of action for Sunday?’ he said. ‘We drive down to see your mother in the morning, right?’
Elizabeth smiled with relief, because he hadn’t called her mother a hippopotamus.
Saturday
A long line of steaming cars growled sinuously into the Hartcliffe Game Reserve. They were queuing to get in, and soon they would be queuing to get out. It seemed as if the whole world was on safari in Surrey.
Behind them, hidden by a discreet ridge, was the stately home itself. On their left were the toilets and a souvenir stall. On their right was the Tasteebite Cafeteria.
They paid their £1.50, and got their souvenir programme. Ahead of them the newly-built road wound over the grassy slopes in a gentle switchback. Above them the sun glinted on Vauxhalls and Fords. Below them the sun glinted on Fords and Vauxhalls. Here and there, among the cars, a few confused animals could be seen.
‘Look, Adam, giraffe,’ said Reggie’s daughter Linda.
‘Gifarfe,’ said Adam, her three-year-old son.
‘Look, Jocasta, zebra,’ said Linda’s husband Tom.
‘Szluba,’ said Jocasta, their two-year-old daughter.
Reggie and Elizabeth sat in the front, and Tom and Linda sat with their children in the back. A merciless pseudo-African sun beat down on the pleasant English parkland.
Reggie pulled up on the hard shoulder, the better to observe a yak.
‘Look. Yak,’ said Elizabeth.
They stared at the yak. The yak stared at them. Nobody spoke. There isn’t much to say about a yak.
Reggie gazed at the scene malevolently. The lower branches of fine old oak trees had been denuded by giraffes. The trees looked like huge one-legged women wearing green skirts. On the right, on the tired over-worked grass of Picnic Area ‘A’, a few young zebra were lost among the picnickers. On the left, beyond the yak, some llamas were neatly parked in rows, sated with safety and food. Beyond the parked llamas the great herds of Fords and Vauxhalls roamed, their hungry cameras ready to pounce.
Reggie drove slowly on, past the yak, past the llamas.
‘What’s that?’ said Adam, pointing excitedly.
‘A waste-paper basket,’ said his father Tom.
Reggie had been in a good mood all morning, but it was hot in the car, it smelt of children and garlic, and his good mood had gone.
‘What did you have for supper last night?’ he asked.
‘Squid, provençale style,’ said Linda. ‘Why?’
‘I just wondered.’
Tom was highly regarded in the Thames Valley. He put witty house adverts in the local papers, brewed nettle and parsnip wine, smoked a briar pipe, made the children eat garlic bread, had a beard which stank of tobacco, home-made wine and garlic, and had built a stone folly in his back garden.
They crawled slowly past the new Ministry of Transport sign for ‘Caution: Elephants crossing’. A herd of okapi came into view, a
nd they stopped to watch those charming central-African ruminants. Hartcliffe has the largest herd of okapi in the Northern Hemisphere.
‘Look. Okapi,’ said Elizabeth.
‘They come from central Africa,’ said Tom.
‘What’s that?’ said Adam, pointing to a small bird.
‘A starling,’ said Reggie grimly. You brought them all this way to see the largest herd of okapi in the Northern Hemisphere, and all they were interested in were bloody starlings. That was what came of being progressive parents, and having bright red open-plan Finnish playpens, and not insisting on fixed bedtimes.
Reggie moved on again. Ahead was lion country.
‘You are approaching lion country,’ said a notice. ‘Close all windows. If in trouble, blow your horn and wait for the white hunter.’
A high wire fence separated the lions from the more reliable beasts. They drove into the lion enclosure under a raised gate. Above them in his watch tower the white hunter scanned the horizon with watchful eyes.
‘Lions soon,’ said Linda, who was running to fat and often walked around her home stark naked, so that the children wouldn’t grow up with inhibitions.
‘Lines,’ said Adam. ‘Lines. Lines. Lines.’
‘That’s right. Lions,’ said Tom.
Jocasta was picking listlessly at the ‘We’ve been to Hartcliffe’ sticker on the back window.
‘Are the windows all shut?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Windows all shut,’ said Tom.
The cars ahead had reached the lions, and traffic came to a standstill. It was sweltering. The damp patches under Linda’s armpits were spreading steadily.
‘Why are lines?’ said Adam.
‘Why are lions what, dear?’ said Linda.
‘Why are lines lines?’
‘Well they just are, dear.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they come from other lions.’
‘Why aren’t lines ants?’
‘Because they don’t come from ants’ eggs.’
‘Why?’
‘Why lines lines?’ said Jocasta.
‘Why am I me?’ said Adam.
‘Why I me?’ said Jocasta.
‘Shut up,’ said Reggie.
‘Reggie!’ said Elizabeth.
‘Father, please. I must ask you not to speak to them like that,’ said Linda.
The children shut up.
The line of cars moved forward another ten yards, then stopped.
‘Are you sure the children can’t get at those windows?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Don’t nag, mother,’ said Linda.
It was growing hotter all the time. Rivulets of sweat were running down inside Reggie’s vest and pants, and the non-stick wheel-glove Adam had given him for Christmas was getting horribly sticky. The car smelt of sweat, garlic, children and hot engine. Jocasta began to cry.
They passed a fat lazy jaguar. The jaguar animal stared at a Jaguar car without recognition of brotherhood.
‘I done biggies,’ said Adam proudly. ‘I done biggies.’
‘I’ve done biggies,’ corrected Elizabeth.
‘Let them talk as they want to, mother,’ said Linda.
‘They should be helped to speak correctly. They may want jobs with the BBC one day,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Please, mother, it is up to us,’ said Linda.
‘Yes. We don’t count these days,’ said Reggie.
‘It’s just that we have our own ways of bringing up the children,’ said Tom. ‘We try as far as possible to treat them not as children, but as tiny adults.’
‘Oh shut up, you bearded prig,’ said Reggie.
‘Reggie!’ said Elizabeth.
‘No,’ said Linda grimly. ‘If father feels like that, it’s best that he should get it out of his system.’
‘I done poopy-plops in my panties,’ said Adam.
‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘And I wonder if you really think that was a good idea, Adam. It’s going to get a bit uncomfortable for you later on, you know.’
‘For God’s sake!’ said Reggie. ‘This is supposed to be an outing.’
‘I think on reflection the game reserve wasn’t a very good idea,’ said Tom.
‘Oh, thank you. That’s very helpful,’ said Reggie.
The cars in front moved on a few yards.
‘Move on, darling,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I’ll move on when people start enjoying themselves,’ said Reggie. ‘All right. I shouldn’t have brought you here. I’m a failure. Everything I plan’s a failure. But we’re here now – and I’m not moving on until you bloody well start enjoying yourselves.’
The car behind started hooting. Reggie wound down the window.
‘Shut up!’ he shouted.
‘Stop making a spectacle of us,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Yes, you hate that, don’t you?’ Reggie turned round and gave two fingers to the driver in the car behind.
‘Father, not in front of the children,’ said Linda.
‘They aren’t children. They’re tiny adults,’ said Reggie.
‘Well not in front of the tiny adults then,’ said Linda.
‘Please, darling, move on,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Not till you enjoy yourselves.’
‘We are,’ said Linda. ‘We’re enjoying ourselves very much.’
‘It’s interesting,’ said Tom. ‘It’s sociologically fascinating.’
‘It’s a marvellous outing,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Oh all right,’ said Reggie angrily.
He took the clutch off too quickly and the car stalled.
‘Oh blast the bloody thing. I hate cars. I hate bloody machines,’ said Reggie.
He started up again, drove off very fast and came to a halt violently a few inches from the car in front. Jocasta began to cry again. Nobody spoke.
‘Look. There are the lions,’ said Elizabeth at last.
‘Look. Lions,’ said Linda.
Two mangy lions were lying listlessly on the grass. They looked sheepish, as though they knew they were out of place. More a shame of lions than a pride.
‘Look at the nice lions,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Please don’t anthropomorphize,’ said Tom. ‘Lions aren’t nice. We want the children to grow up to see reality as it is.’
‘Ah, but is it?’ said Reggie, turning to look Tom in the face.
‘Is what?’
‘Is reality as it is?’
‘Well of course it is,’ said Tom.
‘Don’t be absurd, father,’ said Linda.
The car shuddered several times and stalled. Steam was pouring from the bonnet.
‘It’s over-heated,’ said Tom helpfully.
‘Thank you, Stirling Moss,’ said Reggie.
A cloud passed all too rapidly over the sun. Beyond the trees, to the west, were the villages of Nether Hartcliffe, Upper Hartcliffe, and Hartcliffe St Waldron.
‘Those lions are pathetic,’ said Reggie. ‘I’ve seen livelier lions in Trafalgar Square.’
‘Trafalgar Square,’ said Adam.
‘Faggar square,’ said Jocasta.
‘I’m not basically a lion person,’ said Tom. ‘And neither is Lindypoos.’
‘If I was a lion I don’t think I’d entertain this mob,’ said Reggie. ‘I mean it’s pathetic. The lengths we have to go to to stop people dying of boredom.’
‘It stops the lions dying too,’ said Linda.
The car in front moved on.
‘Have we seen enough?’ said Reggie.
It seemed that they had seen enough.
He pressed the starter. Nothing happened. He tried again and again.
‘Damn. Damn. Damn,’ he said.
‘Don’t go on,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You’ll only flat the battery.’
The car behind started hooting again.
‘Ignore him,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Cars that won’t start, lions that won’t move, bloody hell,’ said Reggie.
Inside the car it grew
hotter – and hotter – and hotter.
‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t open a window a little,’ said Linda.
They opened a window a little. Jocasta began to cry in earnest.
‘Wet botty,’ said Adam, and he too began to cry.
‘You see, Adam,’ said Linda. ‘Perhaps daddy was right. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea after all.’
Reggie tried the engine again. It wouldn’t start.
‘It’s no use,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You have to sound the horn and wait for the white hunter.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m getting out to have a look.’
‘Is that altogether wise?’ said Tom, in estate agents’ language for ‘you bloody fool’.
‘The damned animals are probably doped,’ said Reggie. ‘And if you don’t like it you can put it in your briar pipe, stick a cork in your mouth, stuff a bulb of garlic up your arse and drown yourself in your own nettle wine,’ and he opened the door and stepped out into a world blessedly innocent of sweat and poopy-plops.
‘Come back, you fool!’ said Tom.
Reggie walked towards the lions. A few yards from the car there was a hollow tree trunk. He stood on it and glared defiantly at the two lions. They watched him with bored, slightly puzzled eyes.
He heard a car horn hooting, and Elizabeth called out ‘Come back!’
One of the lions stirred slightly.
He was Goofy Perrin, butt of Ruttingstagg College. He was younger brother Perrin, always a bit of a disappointment compared to Nigel. He was family man, father, man of a thousand compromises. He was company man. He was a man who had given his best years to puddings.
He walked slowly up the hill, over the spongy grass, towards the lions. One of the Hartcliffe estate cars was rushing towards him, but he didn’t hear it.
One of the lions stood up. The other lion growled. Suddenly everything was confusion. The lions were moving towards him, he turned and fled, there was a frantic chorus of car horns, Elizabeth was running towards him. He looked over his shoulder. One of the lions crumpled up and collapsed lifeless on the ground.
