by David Nobbs
Reggie couldn’t go. Not till Tony Webster had left. And Tony Webster stood there, washing his hands and brushing his hair and saying what a stimulating experience the exotic ices project was going to be.
Damn Tony Webster, whose whole body functioned to perfection.
Elizabeth rang while he was dictating his evening letters to Joan.
‘Well, she’s had her operation,’ she said. ‘She’s as comfortable as can be expected.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘There’s no point in your coming down tonight. She won’t recognize anyone.’
‘No.’
‘I’ll have to stay down here for a bit.’
‘Of course.’
He didn’t want her to stay too long in Worthing. Not with Henry Possett there.
‘Come back as soon as you can, won’t you?’ he said.
‘Of course, darling,’ she said.
Joan gave Reggie a quizzical look.
‘Did they mind your cancelling the dinner party?’ said Elizabeth.
‘No,’ said Reggie. ‘Nobody minded.’
Joan pulled her skirt even further down over her knees.
At Waterloo Station he allowed the cracked old woman with the hairy legs to accost him.
‘Excuse me,’ she croaked. ‘I wonder if you can help me? I’m looking for a Mr James Purdock, from Somerset.’
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m afraid I can’t.’
Uncle Percy Spillinger sat in the back of the hired Cortina. The evening sun shone on the back of his neck as they drove northwards through Leatherhead. He was wearing full evening dress with tails. He was smoking a pipe. He had a fine collection of coloured spills, and had brought four of them, in various hues, with green predominating, in the sense that two of the four spills were green. As they turned a corner the sun lit up his big red boozer’s conk. He smelt of mothballs.
C.J. sat at the wheel of his dark green Bentley. Beside him sat Mrs C.J. C.J.’s speed never exceeded fifty miles an hour, in deference to the wishes of Mrs C.J.
‘I wish we didn’t have to go to this dinner,’ said Mrs C.J.
‘We all have to make sacrifices,’ said C.J. ‘I didn’t get where I am today without making sacrifices.’
Davina Letts-Wilkinson sat with her beautiful legs hidden beneath one of the buffet tables of a semi-fast electric train. She was wearing a short glittering silky dress. It was cut low, revealing a pair of firm, unmilked breasts beneath the turkeymottled skin of her middle-aged neck. As luck would have it, she had shaved her armpits that morning.
She added a little more gin to her tonic, and smiled at the young man sitting opposite her. He smiled back, then stared fixedly at the scenery.
Linda stood at the open bedroom window, stark-naked, letting her pores breathe.
‘Must you stand at the window like that, darling?’ said Tom, pulling on a clean vest.
‘You’re the one who told me how important it is to let your pores breathe.’
‘Yes, but not in full view of the whole Thames Valley.’
Linda gave him a teasing, slightly malicious glance.
‘I’m only just beginning to realize how bourgeois you are,’ she said.
Tom felt a surge of irritation. He tied his yellow tie savagely so that the knot pulled at his throat. You didn’t have to be bourgeois to object to your wife standing starkers in full view of the whole Thames Valley. Just because they were progressive-minded and had a folly in their garden and cooked with garlic, it didn’t mean they were Bohemian. He was a reputable estate agent, noted for his witty adverts in the Thames Valley press. He had a position to keep up. If he didn’t keep it up, their enlightened, non-bourgeois, rustic-urban life would collapse around their ears.
Linda fitted a bra over her sagging breasts. There were folds of flesh on her stomach, just as there were on his.
It was impossible to maintain any passion for a woman who wandered around the house naked, but he couldn’t tell Linda that.
‘Come on, Lindysquerps. We’ll be late,’ he said.
Linda sighed. She wanted to be late. She dreaded dinner with her parents. And she had recently begun to discover an extraordinary fact. Tom, her lovely comfortable bearded Tom, bored other people stiff. It was their silly fault, of course, but it didn’t make it any less embarrassing for her.
She couldn’t understand why he didn’t make love to her so often these days. Goodness knew, she gave him enough encouragement, wandering around in the nude half the time.
She dressed slowly. With luck they’d miss most of their pre-dinner drinks. That was always the stickiest time.
The drinks and glasses were on the sideboard. At suitable points all round the room there were Oxfam ashtrays, and coasters which Elizabeth had bought from the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. They had charming pictures of British birds on them. A series of bowls, decorated with pictures of dying country crafts, had been filled with olives, crisps, peanuts, cocktail onions and twigs. The french windows were open, and the rich evening sunshine was streaming in.
Davina was the first to arrive. She kissed him on the cheek, and handed him a huge bunch of roses.
He offered her a drink and she chose a dry martini.
‘Where’s Elizabeth?’ she asked.
‘She’s at her mother’s. Her mother had an operation this morning. It was successful, I’m glad to say.’
Davina sat on the settee and crossed her beautiful legs.
‘So we’re alone,’ she said.
‘Till the others come.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’
She blushed and uncrossed her legs. There was an awkward pause.
‘God, I needed this drink,’ she said. ‘C.J. was a pig this afternoon.’ She flashed a smile at Reggie. ‘Who else is coming?’
‘C.J.’
‘What? Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have worn this. This isn’t C.J. at all. Fancy not warning me. Just like a man.’
Next to arrive was Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘Good lord! You’re in tails,’ said Reggie.
‘Don’t you dress? Oh! Don’t know the form these days,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
He kissed Davina gallantly on the hand. ‘You’re more beautiful than ever, my dear,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know you two knew each other,’ said Reggie.
Uncle Percy Spillinger stared at him in astonishment.
‘I’m her blasted uncle, man,’ he said.
‘This isn’t Elizabeth, Percy. This is Davina Letts-Wilkinson.’
‘You’re more beautiful than ever, whoever you are,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
Next to arrive were the C.J.s. Mrs C.J. carried a medium-sized bunch of roses, and when she saw Davina’s larger bunch she developed a pink spot on both cheeks.
They stood in a little circle in the middle of the room, while Reggie poured drinks.
‘I presume your wife’s in the kitchen,’ said C.J.
‘No. She’s dead,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘What?’ said C.J.
‘He’s talking about his wife,’ explained Reggie.
‘She died in 1959. I buried her in Ponders End. Why on earth would I keep her in the kitchen? Man’s a dolt,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
Reggie explained why Elizabeth couldn’t be there. C.J. proposed a toast to her mother’s speedy recovery. They sat down. Reggie pressed snacks upon them, but they ate only sparingly.
‘I like your pictures,’ said Mrs C.J. ‘Are they Scotland?’
C.J. gave her a look.
‘The Algarve,’ said Reggie. ‘Our dentist paints them.’
‘Snurd.’
‘I don’t think I’ve heard of him. Has he much of a reputation in the art world?’ said C.J.
‘No, but he’s a good dentist,’ said Reggie.
‘It doesn’t sound as if they’re a very good investment,’ said C.J.
‘I didn’t buy them as an investment,’ said Reggie.
‘I once bought six sets of false teeth in a bazaar in Tangiers,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘You never know, a thing like that might turn out to be worth its weight in gold. I thought I might find some chap, lost his teeth, be glad of a spare set.’
‘Gorgeous,’ said Davina.
C.J. frowned at her dress.
‘I never could resist a bargain,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘I think the weather’s picking up again,’ said Mrs C.J.
Reggie gave C.J. and Uncle Percy Spillinger large whiskies, managed to prevail upon Mrs C.J. to have some more medium sherry, and insisted on Davina having another dry martini.
David Harris-Jones arrived, looked dismayed at seeing C.J., said, ‘I say, I didn’t know you were going to be here sir,’ to which C.J. said, ‘Now then, David, no formalities,’ to which David said, ‘No, sir. Of course not.’
At last Tom and Linda arrived. Further introductions were effected. Tom apologized for being late, giving Linda a sharp glance. Reggie explained Elizabeth’s absence.
‘I do think mother might have told us,’ said Linda.
‘I don’t expect she wanted to worry you,’ said Reggie.
Reggie poured drinks all round. Only Mrs C.J. refused. She said, ‘Don’t forget you’re driving,’ to C.J. out of the corner of her mouth, and he flashed her a furious look.
‘Is this a – maybe I’m wrong – some sort of a woodpecker on my mat?’ said David Harris-Jones hurriedly.
‘Yes. Great spotted,’ said Davina.
‘I once bought a stuffed woodpecker in Chipping Norton,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘I bought it for a rainy day.’
‘What’s this on my mat?’ said Mrs C.J., and C.J., who hadn’t got where he was today by looking at birds on mats, gave her a look which said: ‘Shut your trap.’
‘Corn bunting,’ said Davina.
Trust Mrs C.J. to get the drabbest mat, thought C.J. What was wrong with the woman?
‘It was reduced,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘It was faulty you see. I don’t suppose there’s much call for faulty woodpeckers.’
‘How come you know so much about birds, Davina?’ said Reggie.
‘I used to go out with an ornithologist,’ said Davina.
‘Lucky fellow,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘You haven’t half got a nice pair of pins on you.’
‘We get a terrific lot of birds in our garden,’ said Linda, and immediately wished she hadn’t. It would set Tom off.
‘I put up several nest boxes last year, and they’ve been very successful,’ said Tom. ‘I love birds. When I was courting Linda we used to go on long bird-watching rambles, didn’t we, squiffyboots?’
Reggie smiled. They needn’t have worried when Linda came home looking as if she’d been pulled through a hedge backwards. She had been pulled through a hedge backwards.
‘We always ended up in some lovely country restaurant,’ said Tom. ‘Remember the day we saw the marsh harrier and had that marvellous woodcock bourguignonne?’
There was a pause.
‘Mrs Spillinger had pins like yours,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘She was short-sighted. She ate my stuffed woodpecker, and died.’
‘You have my deepest sympathy,’ said C.J.
‘It happened in 1921,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘I’m speaking of the first Mrs Spillinger.’
‘Have another olive,’ said Reggie.
‘No, thanks. I must leave room for what’s to come,’ said Mrs C.J.
‘If there is anything to come,’ muttered C.J. into her ear.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’ said Reggie.
The pink spots reappeared on her cheeks.
‘I thought I saw a mouse,’ she said lamely.
These bowls are lovely,’ said David Harris-Jones hastily. ‘There’s a thatching scene on this one.’
‘These old country crafts are dying out,’ said Tom.
‘Not before time,’ said C.J.
‘We can’t agree with you there, can we, Lindyplops?’ said Tom.
‘All this nostalgia for the past. What this country needs is a bit of nostalgia for the future,’ said C.J.
‘I buried her in Ponders End,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘I thought as it’s a nice evening it might be warm enough in the garden,’ said Reggie.
Their hearts leapt. Food!
Reggie led them out into the garden. There was no sign of any preparations for a meal.
Gallantly they admired his garden. The absence of damp mould, dry scourge, leaf rash, red blight and horny growth was warmly praised. Uncle Percy Spillinger walked with the assistance of Davina’s slender left arm.
‘You’ve got green fingers, Reggie,’ said C.J.
‘I once bought a finger off a chap I met in a pub in Basingstoke,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
An aeroplane was leaving a white trail right across the sky.
‘I thought in the event of accident a spare finger might come in handy,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘Do you have a nice garden?’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘We think so,’ said Linda. ‘We’ve gone in for shrubs rather than flowers.’
‘We’re shrub people,’ said Tom.
The albino blackbird flew into the garden, saw the crowd, pinked with alarm, and flew back into the Milfords’ garden.
‘I mean some chap might have said to me: “It’s a blasted nuisance. I seem to have lost a finger,”’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘And I’d be able to say: “Say no more. I’ve got just the thing for you back at the hotel. I could let you have it for a couple of quid.”’
‘Gorgeous,’ said Davina.
Tom took Linda to one side by the compost heap and whispered, ‘You said it was dinner.’
‘I thought it was,’ said Linda.
‘It doesn’t look like it.’
‘Well we can’t go until we’re sure it isn’t.’
‘I’m starving.’
‘So am I.’
By the potting shed Mrs C.J. whispered, ‘Is it dinner?’
‘I don’t know,’ said C.J.
‘You said it was.’
‘I thought it was.’
‘What do we do?’
‘Try not to put your foot in it, if it’s possible. Leave it to me. I’ll find out.’
‘I think we may as well go in now,’ said Reggie.
Mrs C.J. offered Uncle Percy Spillinger the assistance of her plump arm.
‘Perfectly capable of walking,’ he said gruffly.
Reggie offered them more drinks. C.J. and Mrs C.J. declined.
‘Bit awkward for you, your wife being away when you’ve got everything to get ready for us,’ said C.J.
‘Not really,’ said Reggie.
There was a pause. In the distance a passing goods train mocked them with its eloquence.
‘Well, this is nice,’ said Mrs C.J.
‘Mind if I take my coat off?’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘Not at all,’ said Reggie.
Reggie handed round twigs and crisps. Everyone took as large a handful as decency permitted.
‘What was your line of country, Spillinger?’ said C.J.
‘Oh, this and that,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger, who was wearing purple braces. ‘Sometimes more this than that, sometimes more that than this. I dug tombs in Egypt. I dived for pearls in the China Seas. I worked in an off-licence in Basingstoke. I got in a rut, you see. It was change, change, change all the time. It got very monotonous.’ He smiled at C.J., then turned to David Harris-Jones. ‘Are you in this stupid pudding caper too?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘I mean, no. I mean, I am -but it isn’t stupid – it’s a very challenging and exciting and rapidly expanding field.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs C.J. helplessly, ‘this is all very nice.’
‘Super,’ said Davina.
‘Well it certainly isn’t supper,’ said Uncle Per
cy Spillinger. ‘Joke,’ he explained.
Reggie smiled.
‘Let’s have another drink and take it into the dining room,’ he said.
They all accepted another drink, in their relief.
Reggie led the way into the dining room. It was a dark, dignified room, with an oval walnut table and dark green striped wallpaper. It smelt of disuse. The table wasn’t laid, and there was no food to be seen.
‘I thought you’d like to have a look at it,’ said Reggie.
‘Oh – er – it’s – er – very nice,’ said Mrs C.J.
‘Are these pictures by Snurd as well?’ said C.J.
‘Yes,’ said Reggie.
‘I don’t think there’s going to be any food at all,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘Oh, are you hungry? You’d better eat all these things up,’ said Reggie.
He led them back into the living room, piled a bowl high with onions, twigs, olives and crisps, and gave it to Uncle Percy Spillinger.
Reggie insisted on giving them all one for the road.
‘Your tits remind me of the third Mrs Spillinger,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger to Davina.
Davina blushed. C.J. frowned, and Mrs C.J. said hurriedly, ‘What a lovely vase,’ and then realized that there wasn’t a single vase in the room. C.J. glared at her.
‘She died in 1938. A road safety poster fell off the back of a lorry and killed her,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘She was spared the outbreak of war, so it was a blessing in disguise.’
David Harris-Jones hiccupped.
‘Sossy,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I mean sorry.’
Everyone watched Uncle Percy Spillinger as he wolfed down his bowl of cocktail delicacies.
‘Been fishing much this year, C.J. old bean?’ said David Harris-Jones suddenly.
‘Not much. I’ve got my annual fishing contest this weekend, though,’ said C.J.
‘Who’s going from the firm this year?’ said Reggie.
That idiot Doc Morrissey,’ said C.J. ‘I forget who else.’
‘I’m not going,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘Am I, C.J., old bean? The face doesn’t fit, that’s why.’
C.J. looked at David Harris-Jones with eyes that went straight through him.
‘If the face doesn’t fit, don’t wear it,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘And I’ll tell you something else, C.J., old bean. What’s grist to the mill is nose to the grindstone.’
