by David Nobbs
Reggie sighed.
‘I’ll look after her,’ he said.
They stood up. Reggie took his chairs back. He put them in their place by the radiator.
‘Thank you,’ he said to the ‘deaf’ woman; although she had done nothing. ‘Sorry,’ he said to her, although he had no reason to apologize.
‘That’s all right,’ she said.
‘You’re wasting your breath. She can’t hear you,’ said Elizabeth’s mother.
Reggie went to say good-bye to his mother-in-law.
‘Kiss her,’ mouthed Elizabeth.
He kissed her mother on the cheek. She sniffed his breath to see if he’d been drinking.
‘Be good, Reginald,’ she said.
‘And you. I’ll see you soon,’ he said.
‘We’ll see,’ she said.
‘Nonsense,’ he said.
Reggie took Elizabeth’s arm as they left the ward.
‘Turn round and wave,’ hissed Elizabeth out of the side of her mouth.
They broke step together, like two tennis players bowing to the royal box at Wimbledon. They turned and waved. Elizabeth’s mother waved back vigorously.
As they walked down the corridor there was the clink of cups being washed up. A nurse was whistling, and they could hear the old woman crying: ‘Stop it! Stop it, Henry! Stop it!’
The flat plain between the coast and the downs was covered in bungaloid growth. The lower slopes of the downs were scarred with estates of weird geometric shapes, cold, inorganic, loveless.
Elizabeth drove past bay windows, gnomes, crazy paving, rockeries, hydrangeas, terrazo tiling, timber facing and stone finishings, past bungalows called ‘Ambleside’ and ‘Ivanhoe’ and ‘The Nook’ and ‘Villa Blanca’ and ‘Capri’ and ‘Babbacombe’. The road turned to the left and ran along the downs like a geological fault.
Her mother’s bungalow was called ‘East Looe’, and it faced south. It was set between two ranch-style bungalows but it favoured a more English style of whimsy. It was L-shaped, with a huge rustic chimney piece in the corner of the L.
Reggie sat in front of the electric fire, while Elizabeth did the cooking. The ingle-nook was panelled with polystyrene, giving a Cotswold stone effect. He switched the fire on, as the evening was slightly cool, and the magical coals twinkled into life.
He sighed, sipped his mother-in-law’s sherry, went out to take a turn round the garden. The evening was cold and clammy like dried sweat. Lights began to twinkle all over the coastal plain.
The garden was kept in regimental trim by an old soldier who came in twice a week, gave the lawns a short back and sides, planted things in rows, squared off the flower beds, and cut the rose bushes to identical shapes and sizes.
He went back into the kitchen to help Elizabeth.
‘You’re in the way,’ she said.
‘I’ll go,’ he said.
‘No, stay, but stand somewhere else.’
He stood by the window. His legs ached with the tension of visiting the hospital.
Elizabeth dropped a spoon and cursed violently.
‘Relax,’ he said.
‘“Relax!” he says. You’ve been prowling round like a caged lion ever since we got back.’
He kissed her on the back of the neck and put his arms round her waist.
‘I’ll ruin the gravy,’ she said.
He pressed his body against her back.
‘What’s got into you tonight?’ she said.
There was home-made vegetable soup and roast beef. After the soup Reggie drew the curtains.
Elizabeth sighed.
‘She’ll be all right,’ said Reggie.
‘I hope so.’
The beef was red and juicy.
‘How old is she?’ said Reggie.
‘Seventy-three.’
‘She’ll be all right.’
There was fresh fruit salad to follow.
He wanted to leave the washing up but she insisted.
‘I can’t bear to come down to it in the morning,’ she said.
‘You can’t go down in a bungalow,’ he said.
‘You know what I mean,’ she said.
He pushed his hand up her skirt as she washed the dishes. It would be all right tonight.
He pressed too hard as he dried one of her mother’s best sherry glasses, and it broke in his hands.
After that they went to bed. The visitors’ bedroom was pink and white. Pink carpets, white walls. Pink blankets, white sheet. Pink lips, white skin.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Elizabeth.
‘It does to me,’ said Reggie.
‘I don’t mind,’ she said.
‘I bloody well do,’ he said.
She kissed him sympathetically.
‘It’s not all that important,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t make too much of it. It happens to everyone.’
‘Rubbish,’ he said.
‘It’ll probably be all right tomorrow,’ she said.
‘It’ll never be all right again,’ he said.
A motorcycle roared past, shattering the night with its tactless virility.
‘Go to sleep,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I’m not giving up that easily,’ said Reggie.
He writhed and tossed. Elizabeth’s fingers stimulated him tactfully. He felt an incipient response. He thought about factory chimneys and the Post Office Tower. But it was no good. He thought about Joan Greengross, Angela Borrow-dale’s riding breeches, huge breasts, the Wightman Cup played in the nude. All to no avail.
The sweat was pouring off him and his head ached. He admitted defeat and lay back exhausted.
Elizabeth kissed him gently on the lips.
‘You’ve had a long day,’ she said.
‘Everyone has a long day, for God’s sake, but they aren’t all bloody well impotent,’ he said.
‘Visiting hospital is exhausting,’ she said.
‘For God’s sake don’t be so understanding all the bloody time. It makes me feel a complete fool,’ he said.
‘I understand just how you feel,’ she said.
His mouth felt extremely dry. He longed for a glass of water.
‘It’s the bungalow,’ she said. ‘It put you off.’
‘I must say it doesn’t help,’ he said. ‘I was out in the garden earlier. Her gardener must be the only man in England who prunes salvias.’
Elizabeth kissed him on the right ear.
‘I do love you,’ she said.
He turned towards her and kissed her on the lips.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘There’s nothing to apologize for,’ she said.
‘You should have married Henry Possett,’ he said.
‘I didn’t want to marry Henry Possett,’ she said.
He tugged at the cord which dangled over their heads. Darkness descended on ‘East Looe’.
Tuesday
‘Excuse me,’ said the tall thin man on Worthing Station. ‘Aren’t you Reggie Perrin?’
‘Good Lord! It’s Henry Possett!’
Henry Possett had a long, sharp nose and a receding chin. His lips were practically non-existent. He looked like the outline of a man in a cartoon.
It was a grey, misty morning. The train pulled in three minutes late. It was quite full already, and they had to sit with their backs to the engine. Reggie felt vulnerable, as if there was more likelihood of a crash because he couldn’t see where they were going.
‘Do you live in Worthing?’ said Henry Possett.
‘No,’ said Reggie. ‘We’re visiting Elizabeth’s mother in hospital.’
‘How odd. Vera’s in there too,’ said Henry Possett.
‘Your wife?’ said Reggie.
‘My sister. I haven’t married. How is Elizabeth?’
‘She’s fine,’ said Reggie.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Henry Possett.
A light aeroplane was taking off from Shoreham airport.
‘Are you still in the – er – ’ said Reggie.
>
‘Still in the same business,’ said Henry Possett.
‘Good,’ said Reggie. Henry Possett worked for the government.
‘You?’ said Henry Possett.
‘Still in the same old racket,’ said Reggie.
It was high tide, and a German coaster was entering Shoreham harbour.
‘Two children, wasn’t it?’ said Henry Possett.
‘Yes,’ said Reggie. ‘Linda’s married. Mark’s on the stage.’
‘Vera and I have shared a flat in Worthing for twelve years now. It’s better than living alone,’ said Henry Possett.
‘I suppose so,’ said Reggie.
‘Ah well,’ said Henry Possett. ‘It’s no use crying over spilt milk.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Reggie.
By Haywards Heath the train was really full. Conversation had dried to a trickle. Henry Possett got the crossword out. Reggie did the same.
‘I shan’t cancel tonight’s dinner party,’ wrote Reggie. ‘Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.’
‘Finished,’ said Henry Possett. ‘Very easy today.’
He folded up his paper very neatly, smoothing the pages down with his long, thin fingers.
‘Bloody hell,’ wrote Reggie.
Doc Morrissey stared at Reggie gloomily. Owen Lewis from Crumbles had just told him, ‘I’ve hurt my back. I think I must have strained it on the nest.’ Owen Lewis hadn’t believed him when he’d said that he’d got back trouble too. People never did believe that doctors could be ill.
Reggie was nervous. That meant it was going to be personal problems, and Doc Morrissey’s heart sank.
‘You’ve been to C.J.’s blasted fishing weekend, haven’t you, Reggie?’ he said, getting Reggie’s medical card out of his filing cabinet.
‘Yes,’ said Reggie. ‘I caught a trout.’
‘I’m going this weekend. I’ve never caught a blasted fish in my life. Tell me, what’s it like?’
Reggie told him what C.J.’s fishing contests were like. They were to convenience food circles what Royal garden parties are to the nation. Doc Morrissey scratched his ear gloomily with a thermometer and fixed his eyes on a diagram of the female chest.
‘C.J. has delusions of grandeur,’ he said, when Reggie had finished. He sighed. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’ he said.
‘I’ve got this friend,’ said Reggie. His eyes avoided Doc Morrissey’s. ‘He’s too shy to speak to a doctor about it himself. He’s – er – he’s afraid he’s going impotent.’
‘How old is he?’ Doc Morrissey consulted Reggie’s card. ‘Forty-six, is he, like you?’
‘Forty-six-ish.’
‘How long since he last – since he first thought he might be going impotent?’
‘Two months and three days.’
Doc Morrissey tapped nervously on the desk with his thermometer.
‘Has he had spells of apparent impotence before?’ he asked.
‘He’s had short spells when he hasn’t fancied it. But he hasn’t had a spell quite like this when he’s fancied it but hasn’t managed it.’
‘I see.’
‘Is it sort of normal – I don’t know much about these things – is it normal for someone of about forty-six to have this problem?’
‘Something like fifty people out of a thousand are impotent at forty-six. Temporary spells of impotence are much more common.’
‘I see.’ Reggie stared at the surgery’s frosted glass windows. ‘What should I advise my friend to do?’
‘Relax and stop worrying. Impotence can be caused by fear of impotence. Fear is a very potent thing.’
Reggie shifted awkwardly on his chair.
‘My friend gets the impression from books that he may be slightly under-sexed,’ he said.
‘Characters in books are always over-sexed. Authors hope it’ll be taken as autobiographical,’ explained Doc Morrissey.
‘I see. Well you’ve eased my friend’s mind a bit,’ said Reggie, standing up.
‘Good,’ said Doc Morrissey.
At the door Reggie turned to look Doc Morrissey in the face.
‘So difficulties of this kind aren’t unheard of?’ he said.
Doc Morrissey returned his gaze mournfully. ‘I’ve got a friend who hasn’t managed it for five months,’ he said.
In his lunch break Reggie bought large scale maps of Hertfordshire and Lancashire. He spread the map of Hertfordshire on his desk, plonked his pending tray down on the map and traced a line with his pen round the outside of the tray.
Then he did the same with the map of East Lancashire, using his waste paper basket instead of his pending tray.
Joan summoned David Harris-Jones and Tony Webster. Reggie handed them the maps and explained that the oblong wedge on the map of Hertfordshire and the circle on the map of Lancashire were the areas chosen by the computer for the sales campaign.
‘Are you ready to go into action?’ said Reggie.
‘I’m just tying up one or two loose ends,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘I’m just clearing the decks,’ said Tony Webster.
‘I’d like you both to go up to your areas and go around for a day or two with the area salesmen,’ said Reggie.
‘Great,’ said Tony Webster.
‘Super,’ said David Harris-Jones.
Reggie felt an impulse to invite some more people to his dinner party. But not Tony Webster.
He got rid of Tony Webster but asked David Harris-Jones to stay.
‘I wonder if you could come to a little do I’m giving tonight,’ he said.
‘Erm . . . I think so. In fact, I know so. In fact, thank you very much,’ said David Harris-Jones.
Reggie asked Joan to come into his office. The sun was glinting in off the windscreen of C.J.’s green Bentley, parked in its special place beside the sooty embankment.
Joan sat with her skirt well up above the knee, pad poised for dictation.
‘No letters now,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s just that I’m giving a little do tonight.’
‘Oh how nice.’
‘Yes, well, it’s a bit awkward really. About us, I mean.’
‘I understand.’
Joan pulled her skirt down over her knees.
‘I wonder if you’d get me Miss Letts-Wilkinson,’ he said.
Joan left his office without a word. A few moments later his buzzer buzzed.
‘Miss Letts-Wilkinson on green,’ she said crisply.
‘Hullo, Davina,’ he said.
‘Reggie, darling! This is a surprise to brighten my dreary little afternoon.’
‘I know it’s short notice, Davina, but would you like to come to the Perrinery tonight? If you’re not dining out or anything.’
‘I’d love to, Reggie. A quelle heure?’
‘What?’
‘At what time?’
‘Oh. Seven-thirty.’
‘Super!’
‘I’ll see you this evening, then, Davina.’
‘Lovely!’
‘Yes.’
‘Bye, Reggie.’
‘Bye, Davina.’
‘And thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘No, honestly, thanks. Super.’
‘Good.’
‘Bye, Reggie.’
‘Good-bye, Davina.’
‘Lovely!’
‘Good.’
He put the phone down and went into the outer office.
‘Ring Directory Enquiries for me,’ he said. ‘Get the number of a Mr Percy Spillinger, of Abinger Hammer, and give him a ring.’
It would be fun to set Uncle Percy Spillinger alongside the C.J.s.
A few minutes later he heard her saying: ‘Mr Spillinger? I’ve got a call for you. No, a call. C-A-L-L. Charlie-Able-Love-Love. Hold on.’
Reggie’s buzzer buzzed.
‘Hullo, Percy,’ he said.
‘Percy who?’ shouted Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘No, you’re Percy,’ shouted Reggie.
�
�I know that, you fool,’ shouted Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘Who’re you? Charlie?’
‘I’m Reggie Perrin.’
‘What, that arse who married my niece and we got bombed and the booze ran out?’
‘Yes.’
‘How are you my boy?’
‘Very well, thank you. Long time no see.’
‘Long what?’
‘Time no see.’
‘Not with you, old boy. Line’s bad. Damned telephone men, they’re all idiots. What was that about the sea?’ bawled Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Reggie as quietly as he possibly could.
‘Can’t quite catch your voice. Not used to it. Long time no see,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘Yes.’
‘If you’re Reggie Perrin, who’s this Charlie?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t catch that. You’re shouting.’
‘I can’t hear you. You’re shouting,’ shouted Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘What was it you said?’ shouted Reggie.
‘I can’t remember. Last time I saw you your children were so high,’ bawled Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘Oh, you can’t see my hand over the phone, can you? Well, they were about as high as my telephone table. But then I suppose you’ve never seen my telephone table, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Anyway it was a long time ago, that’s the point I’m trying to make.’
‘Yes. Percy, the thing is, would you like to come to my house at dinner time tonight?’
‘Will there be any booze?’
‘Yes. Lots.’
‘I’ll come.’
‘I’ll send a car for – six-thirty.’
‘Will Charlie be there?’
‘There is no Charlie,’ said Reggie. ‘My secretary was spelling “call”.’
‘Not with you.’
‘Call is spelt Charlie-Able-Love-Love.’
‘Sorry. This line’s terrible. Charlie Able what?’
‘Love-Love. Love-Oboe-Victor-Easy.’
‘Charlie loves Victor? Disgusting! I like a good time but I don’t hold with perversion. It isn’t natural.’
‘There’s nothing disgusting about it.’
‘If Charlie’s able, and Victor’s easy, it sounds pretty disgusting to me,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
Reggie walked through the open-plan office to the loo. He was embarrassed in case people had heard his stupid conversation. He knew he was embarrassed because he could hear himself whistling.
There were two cubicles in the loo. And Tony Webster was standing in the other one.
