by David Nobbs
Davina rang Uncle Percy Spillinger and told him that she would come over that evening to discuss the arrangements.
Maurice Harcourt rang Reggie and told him that the first consignment of exotic ice creams would be ready on July the eighth.
Elizabeth rang Reggie and told him that Jimmy would be calling in for drinks.
Terry Briggs from Dispatch rang about a mix-up concerning a consignment of damson pie mix which had failed to arrive at its destination – Newport (Mon). He also asked if Reggie had liked the synopsis of ‘The Dessert Song’. Reggie told a white lie.
His bank rang with bad news. Seven cheques had come in, all cashed on his account in banks around the City for sums of thirty pounds. He expressed alarm and despondency.
Sid Bolton from Dispatch rang to say that half the consignment of damson pie mix had turned up in Newport (Pern).
Terry Briggs from Dispatch rang to say that the other half of the damson pie mix had turned up in Newport (IOW).
Reggie’s head was hammering. He longed to be silly on the phone, to say, ‘Damsons? Damsony-Wamsonies in the wrong Newporty-Wewporty? Oh, naughty boysy-woysies.’ He only just managed to stop himself.
He remembered that there was a bottle of light ale in his filing cabinet. It had been left over one night when he’d been working late with Owen Lewis.
He took the beer, concealed in his inside pocket, and went into the toilet. David Harris-Jones was standing at the urinal.
‘Hullo, David,’ he said.
‘Hullo, Reggie. I’m off to Hertfordshire tomorrow.’
‘Good. Fine. Sorry, David, must rush. Nature calls.’
Reggie went into one of the cabinets and waited until David had left. Then he opened the door of his cabinet hastily, and stuck the bottle in the jamb. It opened quite easily.
He shut the door and poured the magic liquid down his throat. He’d never felt like that about a drink before.
He slipped out of the cabinet and dropped the empty bottle into the waste basket under the roller towel.
It was five-nineteen when he got back to his desk. He felt much better. He said goodnight to Joan. He felt sad. He knew that he would never see her naked breasts again.
Uncle Percy Spillinger’s house was a handsome, three-storey early Georgian building in mellow red brick. Davina walked up a path of broken flagstones, past unweeded flower beds. She climbed a short flight of stone steps, flanked by two chipped Grecian urns. Her heart was beating anxiously, as she contemplated how best to break off the engagement.
Uncle Percy Spillinger kissed her delicately on the cheek and ushered her into the withdrawing room. A thick layer of dust covered everything in the house, and the handsome classical fireplace was filled with hundreds of used spills. Books lay everywhere, coated in dust.
Davina sat in a high-backed green leather chair. At her side was an embossed coffee table, scarred with burn marks.
‘I’ve fixed the wedding for August the eleventh,’ he said. ‘Would that suit you, my little nut cutlet?’
‘The thing is . . .’ began Davina.
‘Yes?’
‘I fancy long engagements.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s a romantic time for a woman.’
‘Oh, I see. I didn’t realize. I’ve always gone in for whirlwind romances. I swept the second Mrs Spillinger off her feet. She was Burmese. She was the only Burmese wife I ever had. She was tickled pink at the idea of being buried at Ponders End.’
‘Could we keep the engagement secret?’ said Davina, blushing furiously. ‘It’s more romantic that way.’
‘If you wish it, my dear,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘You’re a very romantic person.’
He broached a bottle of port, and then showed Davina his collection. She saw the finger that he’d bought in Basingstoke, the uniform of a full corporal in the catering corps, an inlaid ebony Japanese pith helmet, a Burmese wattle saucepan scourer, a clockwork haggis, the world’s second largest riding boot, and many other curios.
‘It’s a very unusual collection,’ she said.
‘Of course it is. That’s the whole point of a collection,’ explained Uncle Percy Spillinger.
Soon it was time for Davina to take her leave.
‘Do you think you’ll be happy here?’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘Very,’ said Davina.
He kissed her tenderly on the lips, and watched her as she walked carefully down the uneven path.
She turned to wave. He waved back. The smoke from his pipe was going straight up in the still evening air.
‘Get many people going bonkers in your caper?’ asked Jimmy.
‘No more than anywhere else,’ said Reggie.
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Jimmy.
Elizabeth was down the garden, weeding. Reggie and Jimmy sat in the big armchairs, at either side of the empty hearth, with whiskies at their elbows.
‘Had an interesting talk from this head shrinker,’ said Jimmy. ‘Army lays on these talks. Keeps the chaps in the picture. Talked about neuroses. Ticklish little blighters, neuroses. Quite sound chaps, public school chaps some of them, suddenly get the idea they’re deck chairs or ham sandwiches. You say to them, “Fancy a spot of billiards, old boy?” and they say, “Sorry. No can do. I’m a deck chair.” Get much of that kind of thing in your caper?’
‘No,’ said Reggie.
‘Hate to see anything happen to Elizabeth,’ said Jimmy.
‘Why should anything happen to her?’
‘Quite. Absolutely.’
Reggie poured two more whiskies.
‘Army says, “You’re too old. You’ve helped defend the country. Now piss off.” Get much of that?’
‘No,’ said Reggie. He wanted to say ‘parsnips’, but he knew that he mustn’t.
‘This trick cyclist told us about this African tribe. Pygmies. Ran around in the buff all day. Not a stitch. Two-foot-six, three-foot, that sort of crack. Never had an inferiority complex among the whole bang shoot. Never met anyone else, you see. Didn’t know what little runts they were. Then in step these four missionaries, six-foot-three if they were a day, butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, come to save these chaps’ souls. Know what happened?’
‘No.’
‘They all realized what little runts they were. They said, “Good heavens, we’re absolutely minute. We’re little runts. We’re pygmies.’ Out came their defensive aggression syndromes. That’s what this trick cyclist reckoned, anyway, and he should know. Result: they had the missionaries for supper. Those four missionaries fed three hundred pygmies. Moral: depression, inferiority, all in the mind. Makes you think.’
‘It makes you think: Who told that story if all the missionaries were eaten?’ said Reggie.
‘Yes. Good point. Nobody thought of that. Black mark for the regiment,’ said Jimmy.
The light was beginning to fade. The room was dark and intense. Jimmy sipped his whisky.
‘If you feel you’re going off your chump, best thing to do, put your coat on and go straight round to the quack. That’s what this trick cyclist cove said anyway. Age of enlightenment. Nothing disgraceful in being a nut-case. No stigma attached.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Reggie. ‘But I’m not a nut-case, so you can relax.’
”Course you aren’t. ‘Course you aren’t. Wasn’t talking about you. God forbid. No, nothing wrong with your grey matter. Hit on the flaw in that pygmy story straightaway. Showed the whole regiment up.’
Jimmy looked out into the garden to make sure Elizabeth was still out of earshot. ‘Could I ask a favour? Could you lend us something for breakfast? Been a bit of a cock-up on the catering front. Rather big sister didn’t know.’
Reggie fetched egg, bacon, a tin of mushrooms, grapefruit, sugar, coffee and milk. Jimmy took them out to his car, and then they walked out on to the lawn. Elizabeth walked towards them, through the arch of rambler roses. She was wearing green gardening gloves and had a trowel in her hand. The light was fading fas
t.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘What have you two gas bags been talking about?’
‘Reggie’s all right,’ said Jimmy. ‘He’s as sane as I am.’
At intervals along the path there were little piles of weeds and dead roses, left there by Elizabeth.
‘Very impressed with your garden,’ said Jimmy. ‘A-one ramblers. Top-hole bedding plants. Never get decent gardens in the army. Armies thrive on bad soil. Heath, scrubs, damned good for manoeuvres, no good for gardening. Never got me clematis established in BAOR. Antirrhinums a fiasco in BFPO thirty-three.’
A magpie stuttered across the sky towards Elizabeth Barrett Browning Crescent. Elizabeth put a bucketful of weeds on the compost heap. The steel of the sky turned imperceptibly to black.
Linda’s voice rang out cheerfully.
‘Hullo, everyone!’
‘Hullo, Linda!’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I just called round to see how you were,’ said Linda. ‘The car broke down. I’ve walked the last two miles. Tom’s babysitting – he’s got some nettle wine on the go. Phew, it’s heavy! I’m sweating cobs.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Jimmy.
‘Anyway, the exercise will do me good. I’m carrying too much weight.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Jimmy.
They strolled slowly round the garden, in the gathering gloom. Reggie found himself with Linda.
‘You needn’t have come, Linda,’ he said. ‘I’m not going mad.’
‘Oh, father!’
Reggie smacked her bottom affectionately. The peace of the evening was shattered by the Milfords, starting their car with a roar, setting off to have a quick snifter at the golf club.
Elizabeth put an arm round Reggie, and Jimmy put an arm round Linda. She could feel his tough military thigh pressing against her as they walked, and she ran her hand gently over his left hip.
They sat on the terrace and Elizabeth made a pot of tea. Reggie had abandoned all plans of working on his speech. He’d get up early in the morning.
Jimmy offered to drive Linda to her car and see if he could sort things out.
At midnight Jimmy’s torch packed up, and he still hadn’t been able to get Linda’s car to go.
‘It’s got me beat,’ he said. ‘What about the AA?’
‘We aren’t members. Tom says it’s a waste of time now that they don’t salute you.’
‘It’s too late to get a garage. Come on. I’ll drive you home.’
He drove in silence for about five miles, then he turned down a narrow lane.
‘Where are we going?’
The lane became a track. He drove over the dusty, bumpy ground and pulled up in a small pine wood at the edge of the golf course. He was breathing hard. He switched off the lights. Linda could hardly see his face in the darkness but she knew that his little red moustache no longer looked ridiculous. She felt his horny hand on her knee and she closed her eyes as a dreadful buzzing rushed through her head.
He helped her pull her tights down, and stroked her large smooth knee. He bent down and kissed her knee, and she kissed the top of his head. He couldn’t believe that she wanted him. He was convinced that Malayan heat, North German cold, English battledress and Scotch whisky had turned his skin into a rough, objectionable hide.
He pressed his face into her sweaty thigh and gasped. He thought of Elizabeth, their mother ill in hospital, Tom, Reggie, his own wife, his children. He thought of his long struggle to behave like an officer and gentleman, keeping the flag flying in an increasingly hostile world. If he lost everything that he had become, he would lose himself. He felt desperately ashamed.
This just isn’t on, old girl,’ he said.
She sighed, then squeezed his hand to show that she understood. He could hear her tights making little electric noises as she forced them on again. He straightened his clothes and gathered up his strength, ready to renew his old-fashioned fight to be an officer and a gentleman. He was a moral buffalo, doomed to extinction.
He started the car. The noise seemed obscenely loud in the still night.
‘Ready, Linda?’
‘Ready, Uncle Jimmy.’
Nice of her to say ‘Uncle’. It made going home unsatisfied seem more bearable.
He drove her home, and didn’t trust himself to kiss her goodnight. After he’d left her, he walked for more than two hours, past silent houses, in the moonlight.
Fate had dealt Jimmy some lousy cards. He had been just too young to fight in the war. He had discovered that he was going to be made redundant in his forties. He had been moved from rotten posting to rotten posting. His clematis had all died. His wife drank. But this was the lousiest card of all – that in return for promising to lead an upright life, bringing up the children, going to church, being kind to his men, faithful to his NCOs and affectionate to his family, in return for all this he had been given a passion, an almost irresistible passion,, for fat women who sweated.
Howl of cat. Rumble of distant train. Reggie stretched his legs out further and further, until they seemed enormous. Elizabeth undid the cord of his pyjamas. Rustle of leaves. Return of Milfords from their snifter. Suddenly he had an awful fear that tonight it would be no good, that his John Thomas was a separate being, that it wouldn’t respond, that it was Chapel, that it didn’t really approve of the whole absurd messy business.
But it was all right, it was good, almost as good as last night. He eased himself gently out of ecstasy into calm, held a gentle hand on Elizabeth’s right breast, caressed it gratefully, wishing he could explain to her that it was the last time, wishing he didn’t have to deceive her.
Tomorrow his speech. Tonight, tired. Pyjama trousers crumpled beneath him. Too tired. Falling. Falling into sleep. Up early tomorrow. Falling.
‘Goodnight, darling,’ from Elizabeth.
‘Good-bye,’ from himself, far below.
Friday
So tired. He gave his limbs the relevant messages, telling them to hop out of bed and get things moving, but nothing happened. Mutiny. A general strike. 1926 all over again. His legs and arms had got him pinned down. His neck was in the thick of it, too.
Come on, lads. Let’s have you. Wakey wakey rise and shine! I know you’re fed up to the back teeth with being bits of me, always taking orders. Believe me, I’m tired of being the boss. I’m tired of the responsibility, so tired that I’m prepared to leave my wife, whom I love.
After tomorrow everything will be different. So what about it, limbs? See me through one more day, eh? Let’s not have an energy crisis today.
Slowly the spasm passed. He got out of bed very gingerly. His legs felt weak. His head buzzed and on the way to the bathroom he thought he was going to faint.
He bent his head over the washbasin and poured cold water over it. This wouldn’t do at all, not on the day of his big speech.
He opened the frosted glass window and gazed out over the back garden, gulping in the misty air.
He dressed carefully, dark suit, white shirt, brand new British Fruit Association tie, blue with the somewhat unfortunate symbol of two apples and a banana picked out in gold.
He climbed up into the loft, collected his £320 from beneath the old curtains in his tuck box, put some of the money in his wallet and distributed the rest around the pockets of his suit.
He went down into the kitchen. Elizabeth handed him his breakfast – two eggs, a rasher of bacon, and mushrooms.
‘You’re looking very smart,’ she said.
He shrugged. He hadn’t told her about his speech. It would only make him more nervous if she knew.
He had to force the breakfast down.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ said Elizabeth.
‘I’ve got a bit of an earwig.’
‘What on earth do you mean – an earwig?’
‘Sorry. Not earwig. Headache.’
This was dreadful. At another time it might be amusing to call headaches earwigs. He couldn’t imagin
e anything more boring than calling them headaches all the time. But not now.
She was watching him closely. He must apologize. Allay her earwigs. Not earwigs. Fears.
‘Parsnips,’ he said.
Not parsnips. Pardon.
‘Parsnips?’
‘C.J. asked if we could give him some parsnips,’ he improvised feebly.
‘What on earth does he want parsnips for?’
‘He didn’t say.’
This was terrible. She’d be calling the doctor before you could say parsnips. Not parsnips. Jack Robinson.
He finished his breakfast. Elizabeth gave him the parsnips. He picked up his briefcase, which contained the unfinished notes for his speech, the black wig and the false beard. He kissed Elizabeth good-bye, told her that he’d be working late that night and would see her at the hospital in Worthing the next day, and set off for the station. The mist was beginning to thin.
On his way to the station, Reggie was happy to report full cooperation from every limb. Even the potentially recalcitrant neck was doing its bit – to wit, joining the head to the body in such a way that the former could be swivelled upon the latter without falling off.
He stood at his usual place on the platform, in front of the door marked ‘Isolation telephone’. The pollen count was low, and Peter Cartwright was blessedly free from sneezing.
On the train Reggie studied the programme for day three of the conference.
9.30 a.m.
Dr L. Hump, Lecturer in Applied Agronomy at the University of Rutland: ‘The Role of Fruit in a Competitive Society’.
10.15 a.m.
Sir Elwyn Watkins, Chairman of the Watkins Commission on Pesticides: ‘Pesticides – Salvation or Damnation?’
11.00 a.m.
Coffee.
11.30 a.m.
Special showing of the prize-winning Canadian Fruit Board Documentary: ‘The Answer’s a Lemon’.
21.30 p.m.
Lunch.
13.45 p.m.
R. I. Perrin, Esq., Senior Sales Executive, Sunshine Desserts: ‘Are We Getting Our Just Desserts?’
