by David Nobbs
Reggie tripped over the hollow tree trunk. Screams. Horns. Elizabeth’s white face and imploring hands reaching down towards him. Behind him the other lion, gathering speed. Reggie was no longer family man. No longer company man. No longer educated Western man. He was lunch, red meat ripe for the ripping.
He was half on his feet again, scrambling away from the lion. The lion was only a few feet away. Elizabeth was pulling him away, he didn’t want to die. The lion seemed to hang for a moment, motionless, waiting to pounce. And then it just crumpled up, and lay on the ground, twitching gently. And Reggie was standing up, alive. And Elizabeth was beside him. And the estate car had pulled up and a man was shouting, ‘You fool! You bloody fool! What are you trying to do – kill yourself?’ And it couldn’t have happened, but it had, and there were the dead lions to prove it. Later he found out that they weren’t dead, merely stunned with poisoned darts, fired by the white hunters, vigilant in the Surrey heat.
Reggie’s legs and whole body were shaking. It was humiliating to find out how afraid you were of dying.
‘Reggie?’ said Elizabeth, after they had been silent for several minutes. ‘Why did you do it?’
He couldn’t explain it, even to himself.
‘I didn’t think they’d charge at me,’ he said lamely.
‘Those men were furious,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I thought they were never going to let us get away.’
They were sitting in the garden. It was ten o’clock, almost dark, the pink in the western sky slowly fading, the orange glow of London growing stronger in the east. They’d got the sprinklers going.
The Wisemans’ downstairs lavatory flushed.
‘You weren’t – you weren’t trying to kill yourself, were you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well, why then? What were you trying to prove?’
What, indeed? That he was not just a product of Freudian slips and traumatic experiences and bad education and capitalist pointlessness? That he was more than just the product of every second of every minute of every day of his forty-six years? That he was capable of behaving in a way that was not utterly predictable? That his past was not his future’s gaoler? That he would not die at a certain minute of a certain day that had already been determined? That he was free?
‘Must we talk about it? It’s past history,’ he said.
‘We never talk about anything.’
The winking green light of an aeroplane was sliding in front of the stars.
‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘Oh, words occasionally pass our lips. But we never talk. We never discuss our problems.’
‘We’ve been into all that. I’m past it. You should have married Henry Possett.’
‘Not that.’
He could see Ponsonby’s grey-green eyes shining from underneath the roses.
‘We’re growing apart,’ said Elizabeth.
‘You may be growing apart. I’m not,’ said Reggie.
‘Why don’t we bring our holidays forward, seeing the weather’s so good?’ said Elizabeth.
‘I like autumn holidays.’
‘I know, but...’
Elizabeth’s ‘but’ hung on the warm night air. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the apple trees. Elizabeth’s ‘but’ drifted away towards the stars, a moment of hesitation moving further and further away. In millions of years’ time strange creatures on distant planets would record Elizabeth’s ‘but’ on their instruments and would think: ‘There must have been a strange, evasive people in some weird land, millions of years ago.’
He realized that Elizabeth was speaking.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was thinking.’
‘What about?’
‘Nothing. What were you saying?’
‘The last two days. You’ve been a bit odd, Reggie.’
‘You have to be odd every now and then.’
‘Other people don’t. The Milfords don’t.’
‘That’s because they’re odd all the time.’
He wished that he could enfold her in his loving, manly, hairy arms and make love to her, under the stars and aeroplanes on their fresh-mown, newly-sprinkled lawn. Unfortunately that wasn’t possible.
Suddenly Elizabeth began to cry. He stood behind her canvas chair and put his arm round her. He hadn’t seen her cry for a long time, and he pressed his body against hers through the canvas.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, darling.’
He handed her his handkerchief, initialled: ‘R.I.P.’. She blew her nose on it.
‘Do you think you ought to see a doctor, Reggie?’ she said.
‘What on earth for? There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘Isn’t there?’
He had decided not to go with her to her mother’s. He had other plans. It was essential to allay her fears, or she wouldn’t leave him on his own.
‘Actually I saw Doc Morrissey this week,’ he said. ‘I’ve been feeling tired and irritable. He said it was nothing. Just overwork. I’ll be taking things a little easier from now on.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m glad!’
He kissed her hair. It smelt of twenty-five years ago.
‘I’ve been under a lot of pressure,’ he said.
‘I know you have.’
He took the teapot and emptied it over a flower bed.
‘I’m tired. I think I’ll hit the hay,’ he said.
‘Better move the chairs in,’ said Elizabeth.
‘It’s not going to rain.’
‘You never know.’
He moved the chairs in. Elizabeth switched off the sprinklers.
Reggie stretched out his body till his toes were touching the foot of the bed.
‘Reggie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Everything is going to be all right, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is.’
Elizabeth looked at him over the top of her book.
‘Darling?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look at me.’
He looked.
‘You do still love me, don’t you?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘I nag, don’t I?’
‘No.’
‘I do.’
‘We all nag sometimes.’
‘I vowed I’d never nag. I couldn’t stand the way mother nagged. I’m not getting to be like mother, am I?’
‘No.’
‘We’re getting old, Reggie.’
‘Yes.’
He kissed her on the lips. Her tongue entered his mouth. He remembered, as he always remembered, their first long liquid exploring kiss, oblivious to the world, on a seat at Waterloo Station, waiting for the last train to Aldershot.
‘I do love you,’ he said. ‘I really do. It’s just that I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘I’m not surprised, tonight,’ she said.
‘We’ll try again tomorrow.’
‘You’ll be tired tomorrow. You’re always tired after we’ve visited mother.’
‘I’ll make you glad you didn’t marry Henry Possett.’
‘Don’t keep going on about Henry Possett.’
They heard the Milfords returning home after their snifter at the golf club. The engine was switched off. Then, a few seconds later, two car doors were slammed in quick succession. Then the garage door shut with a bang. Then the front door opened, and then that too was slammed.
‘Noisy buggers,’ he said. ‘I’m going to speak to them in the morning.’
Elizabeth closed her book and switched off the light.
‘Darling?’ said Reggie. ‘Do you mind if I don’t come and see your mother tomorrow?’
‘Why? We’ve arranged it all.’
‘I know, but . . .’ ‘He hesitated. Don’t, Reggie, he told himself. You’ll destroy everything. Is that what you really want? ‘I’ve got some work to do.’
‘You didn’t mention it before.’
‘I forgot.’
‘You
said you weren’t going to work so hard.’
‘I won’t have to after I’ve finished this little bit.’
‘I really ought to go,’ she said. ‘She isn’t at all well.’
‘Well, you go.’
‘I don’t like to leave you.’
‘You’ve left me before.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘You’re worried about me. There’s no need to. I’m not going off my head, you know. Really I’m not.’
‘Mother’ll be disappointed.’
‘She’ll be thrilled.’
He put his hand in hers.
‘Everything’s going to be all right, my darling. You’ll see,’ he said.
‘I hope so,’ she said.
He squeezed her hand, and she gave him an answering squeeze.
‘You’ll see,’ he said.
Sunday
Sunday morning, heavy with apathy. Breakfast in the garden, boiled eggs in the hazy sunshine. Barely enough wind to stir the laburnum leaves and rustle the colour supplements.
Elizabeth was slow. She read about Maria Callas, whom she would never meet, and Bolivia, where she would never go, and cold carp, Rumanian style, which she would never eat. She took an age up in the bedroom, titivating. Reggie took great pains to be absolutely normal, for fear she’d change her mind and stay. And all the time his hands itched to help her on her way. They wanted to fit her bra, smooth her hair, zip her dress, open the garage door. It was a full-time job controlling them. Now come on, hands, he had to say. Show a stiff upper lip. You’re British, you know.
Men cleaned their cars in rivers of detergent. Mr Milford set off to play nine holes, prior to having a snifter at the nineteenth. Pub carpets were hoovered, on underground stations West Indian porters spread sand over white men’s spew, a pantechnicon overturned outside High Wycombe, and still Elizabeth wasn’t ready.
He went up to their bedroom. She was doing her eyes.
‘Shouldn’t you be getting off?’ he said.
‘Anyone would think you wanted me out of the way.’
‘It’s just that there’ll be a lot of traffic on the Worthing road, if you don’t beat the rush.’
At last she was ready. He escorted her to the front door.
‘Have a good day, darling.’ he said.
‘There’s cold meat on the bottom shelf of the fridge, covered in foil,’ she said.
‘Cold meat. Good.’
‘There’s some of that pork. And some Danish salami.’
‘Lovely.’
‘And there are some salady bits in the salad drawer.’
‘Fine. Good. Salady bits.’
‘I don’t want to come home and find it hasn’t been eaten.’
‘It’ll be eaten.’
‘If you want something for tea, there’s a cake in the cake tin.’
‘Cake. Fine,’ he said.
They had got as far as the garage door.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ she said.
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Don’t work too hard.’
‘I won’t.’
She drove slowly out of the garage. Hurry up, he thought, please hurry, before the suspension collapses.
She stopped.
‘The aspirins are in the medicine cupboard, if you get one of your thundery headaches,’ she said.
‘Good. Fine. Lovely. Well, have a good day.’
‘Yes. Don’t work too hard.’
‘Give my love to your mother.’
‘Yes. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
‘No.’
He watched her drive down Coleridge Close and turn into Herrick Rise. She changed into second gear too soon. Suddenly he realized how much he would miss her if she was killed in a crash. He wanted to cry: ‘Come back! It’s all a mistake.’ But she had gone.
He went back into the living room. The house was filled with her absence. The only noise was the faint wheezing of Ponsonby, asleep on the sofa.
He made himself a long glass of orange squash, with three cubes of ice. The haze was thickening. It was only just possible to see that the sky was blue.
He had never been unfaithful to Elizabeth – and he hadn’t been ashamed to admit it. But she would never look at that Reggie Perrin, the faithful husband, again.
Would it show?
He took off his shirt and vest, smelled them with mild fascinated distaste, and threw them into a corner.
He sat in one of the fluffy white armchairs, facing the french windows. The fitted carpet was dove-grey, there was a faint yellow-green tinge in the patterned wallpaper.
There was a brown Parker Knoll armchair, and a piano which nobody played now Linda had married. Colour was provided by a standard lamp with a bright orange shade. There were orange cushions and an orange rug. On the walls hung pictures of Algarve scenes, painted by Mr Snurd, their dentist. He hadn’t liked to refuse them, for fear Mr Snurd would stop giving him injections.
He picked up the telephone. There was still no need to go through with it.
He dialled. He could hear his heart beating in the emptiness of the house.
‘Three-two-three-six.’
‘Joan?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Reggie here, Joan. Reggie Perrin.’
He cursed himself for his admission that there might be other Reggies.
‘Hullo,’ she said, surprised.
‘Look, I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday but something pretty important’s cropped up.’ He hoped his voice wasn’t trembling. ‘I wondered if you could pop over.’
‘What – now?’
‘Well, if it’s not a nuisance. It’ll only take an hour or so.’
‘I’m in the middle of doing the Sunday dinner.’
‘Well couldn’t you finish doing the dinner and take a taxi over? I’ll reimburse you.’
He sat naked from the waist up, on the settee. He tried to picture Joan, standing in the hall perhaps, near an umbrella stand, even her apron immaculate, and certainly not naked from the waist up.
‘Couldn’t you come over here?’ she said.
‘Not really.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I can’t explain over the phone. I’m not alone.’
‘Oh.’
‘Suffice it to say that the whole future of Sunshine Desserts is at stake – not to mention Reginald Iolanthe Perrin.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll come.’
He put his hand over the mouthpiece and let out a huge sigh of relief.
Then he went into the bathroom and had a shower.
He imagined taking a shower with Joan, running a piece of Yorkshire pudding gently across her glistening stomach, and then eating it together, nibbling till their lips met. Perhaps my imagination’s diseased, he thought.
When he’d put on some clean clothes, he got out a bottle of medium dry sherry and two glasses. He decided to have a glass while waiting.
He sipped his sherry, trying not to drink too fast. The sun moved slowly across the sky, creature of habit, suburban orb. Pink hats bobbed home from church, joints of beef began to splutter in pre-set ovens and somewhere, inevitably, there would be the hottest June temperature since records began.
Mrs Milford left in the smaller car, to join Mr Milford for a snifter. A coven of puffy clouds with thick dark edges gathered round the sun. Reggie became afraid that he would sweat again, and this fear made him sweat.
He had another shower and changed into light grey trousers and a blue open-neck shirt. It made him feel young. Surely today even Joan would sweat?
The one o’clock news spoke of thunderstorms in the west, with flooding at Tiverton and freak hailstones at Yeovil. The hottest June temperature since records began had been recorded at Mildenhall, Suffolk. He had a second glass of sherry.
The phone rang, and his heart almost stopped. But it was only Elizabeth, safely arrived in Worthing. No, he wasn’t working too hard. No, he wouldn’t forget the cold meats. No, he probably wouldn’t bo
ther to have apple sauce with his cold pork, but if he did he’d certainly remember that there were Bramleys in the fruit rack. Goodbye, darling. Kiss kiss.
The living room ran the full depth of the house, and a small window looked out over the front garden. Reggie stood by the window, to see Joan before she saw him.
At last the taxi came. She looked immaculate in a blue and white summer dress. She walked calmly up the garden path, between flocks of somnolent greenfly. She peered uncertainly at the house, as if waiting for the porch to nod and say, ‘Yes, this is it.’ She was relaxed, unsuspecting, a secretary arriving to do some work in Surrey.
She rang the bell. It sounded cool and clear, in the thick heat.
He opened the door.
‘Hullo, Joan,’ he said. ‘Come in.’
‘Sorry I was so long.’
‘Rubbish. It’s good of you to come.’
‘So this is your house,’ she said. ‘It’s nice.’
‘Have a sherry.’
She looked at him in surprise.
‘Just a little one, before we go upstairs.’
‘Well, all right. Thank you.’
He handed her the sherry. She still suspected nothing. Presumably she pictured a group of men in conference, in a study, upstairs.
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
He sat down. She followed suit, pulling her dress down as far as it would go towards her bony knees.
‘What’s all this about?’ she asked.
‘Later.’
‘I thought it was urgent. Look, Reggie, I’ve come twenty-five miles. Can’t we get straight down to it?’
‘We’ll get down to it in a minute, Joan.’ He was holding his arm across his lap so that she wouldn’t see the bulge of excitement in his trousers. ‘Have some more sherry?’
‘No thank you.’
The world was full of her bony knees, thin arms, magnificent bust. She would repulse him, smack his face, ask for a transfer to another department.
‘Where are these other people?’ she asked.
He took her in his arms and kissed her pert lips, her snub nose. He had expected resistance, not a hard little tongue feeling its way into his mouth, and hands groping for his thighs.
His hands grasped her legs and felt their way up her thighs. Ponsonby decided that he had seen enough and left the room.
Suddenly Joan went tense. Reggie took his hands away.
