by David Nobbs
By now you will have heard about my speech to the conference. I am sorry that I was drunk but I hope something of what I had to say got through. I am not optimistic but then only fools judge things by results.
I have decided to end my life because I cannot see any future for me. Obviously you could not continue to employ me even if I wanted you to and I don’t imagine it would be easy to find other work. Please send my outstanding wages to Oxfam or any charity dealing with human suffering. I would like my pension annuities to be paid to my wife.
Be much nicer to Mrs C.J. She needs it.
Yours faithfully,
Reginald I. Perrin
(Senior Sales Executive)
Next he wrote to Joan.
Dear Joan,
There is very little to say, except to thank you for everything and to say what happy memories of you I carry to my watery grave. I only hope you will be happy in the years to come.
I am sending this letter by second-class post because I want you to know that I am dead before you receive it.
With lots of love,
Reggie
He addressed the envelope and then began his third and last letter.
My dear Elizabeth,
By the time you receive this letter you will have heard the sad news. I’m sorry for any distress I’ve caused you. I suddenly started to see a lot of things very clearly and this coincided with the onset of what I suppose was a kind of nervous breakdown. I felt as if I was going sane and mad at the same time, but then the words sane and mad don’t have much meaning. So few words do – blue, green, butter, kettle etc. Even blue is green to some people and some people can’t tell butter from marge. I think kettle is safe enough. I’ve never heard of anyone being utensil-blind, unable to distinguish kettles from colanders.
I’m afraid I’m wandering. Sorry. This letter is for Linda and Mark too, as I hope we were a real family despite everything. Dear Linda, you must take care not to be too much under Tom’s thumb. He needs to be influenced by you just as much as you need to be influenced by him. And don’t forget that one of the main pleasures of childhood is rebellion. If you are too permissive with Adam and Jocasta, you’ll force the poor blighters to turn to drugs and abortions in order to rebel.
I have no advice for you, Mark old thing, except to stick at your acting no matter how unsuccessful you are. I’m only sorry I made such a fuss about so many unimportant things. Length of hair, holes in socks, life’s too short. The generation gap’s a pitiful irrelevancy when you compare it to the real problems – the hunger gap, the colour gap, and the gaping hole that is the future.
Well, I must go now. I didn’t do much in my life but in the last few days at least I’ve created a few surprises.
Dear Elizabeth, we never talked enough or loved enough or lived enough. Bitter waste. When did I last tell you that I love you? – which I do so very much. I love you all. Remember me not too sadly.
Lots of love,
Reggie
He addressed the envelope and was surprised to find that the pub was quite full. His beer had gone flat. He drank it rapidly. Then he walked out into the warm sunlight.
When Reggie hadn’t reached Worthing by four o’clock, Elizabeth had driven home. Traffic was heavy, and it was gone seven before she arrived.
When she saw that he hadn’t been home the previous night, she was really alarmed. She rang Linda, Mark and Jimmy. All three said they would come down immediately.
You can say what you like about the family – decry it as an anachronism if you must – but there’s nothing quite like it when there’s a spot of rallying round to be done.
The six-wheeled jelly moved along the A352 towards Dorchester and the setting sun. The downs rose handsomely on all sides.
There was some kind of delay ahead. He slowed down. He had almost pulled up when he saw the two policemen. His first wild instinct was to accelerate, swing on to the pavement or into the fast lane and surge through, but the instinct had been crushed by his natural lawfulness long before it had been translated into action.
He pulled up in the queue of traffic. His heart was beating fast. Keep calm Reggie, he told himself. Control yourself. Think things out.
If the police are looking for me, he thought, then they’ll know I’m in a lorry shaped like a jelly. If they were looking for a lorry shaped like a jelly, they wouldn’t be stopping all these vehicles which bear not the slightest resemblance to a dessert of any kind, let alone a jelly. Ergo, they are not looking for me, and I have nothing to fear.
The queue of traffic edged slowly forward towards the police block – and Reggie realized that even if they weren’t looking for him, one or two things could be hard to explain. He didn’t have a licence to drive lorries. He had two hundred and eighty pounds in his pockets, in used fivers. In the back of the lorry there was a suitcase full of new clothes and a briefcase containing a wig and a black beard.
He edged forward until he was next in line to be examined. The policemen looked quite friendly. The older one signalled him on. He moved forward jerkily, betraying his nerves. There was sweat on his brow.
‘Excuse me,’ said the younger of the two policemen. ‘We’d like to have a look in the back of your lorry.’
‘Certainly, officer,’ he said.
He stepped down from the cab and opened the moulded rear doors. They glanced in. They didn’t seem at all interested in what they saw.
‘Thank you, sir. Much obliged,’ said the older policeman.
He drove on, hoping that they hadn’t heard his sigh of relief. He had intended to make for the coast in these parts, but if there were police about he had better go further afield.
The two Mrs C.J.s thought that both C.J.s were looking tired. The two C.J.s thought that both Mrs C.J.s were looking worried.
‘Blood,’ said the two C.J.s. ‘There was blood in the river.’
‘It wasn’t blood, dear,’ said the Mrs C.J.s.
Two identical hired nurses brought in supper trays.
‘There you are,’ said the hired nurses. That’ll do you good.’
The two C.J.s began to eat without enthusiasm. The two Mrs C.J.s sat on the side of the beds and watched.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the C.J.s. ‘I’m sorry for everything.’
The Mrs C.J.s stared at them in astonishment.
‘What?’ said the Mrs C.J.s.
‘Sit with me. Don’t go away,’ said the C.J.s.
The two Mrs C.J.s bent down and kissed the two C.J.s. Their four mouths met gently. Their eight lips touched tenderly.
Tom and Linda arrived first, dragging Adam and Jocasta. The children were excited but tired.
Elizabeth kissed Linda, then braced herself for Tom’s garlicky, ticklish embrace.
The french windows were closed. Everything was quiet in Coleridge Close. Elizabeth looked pale and had bags under her eyes.
‘No news?’ said Linda.
‘No,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Tom.
‘Is Grandpa dead?’ said Adam.
The mechanical pudding roared through Dorchester. The sun slipped lower towards the horizon.
The sunset came a few minutes earlier at Coleridge Close. Adam and Jocasta had been put to bed. Tom had rung the police, and a policeman was on his way to collect the details of Reggie’s disappearance.
Elizabeth had made coffee. Every time they heard a noise she went to the front window to look out. Linda was sitting on the settee, looking tense. Tom appeared to have developed an intense interest in Mr Snurd’s pictures of the Algarve.
It was several minutes since anyone had spoken.
‘The cow-parsley’s very prolific this year,’ said Tom.
There was a stunned pause.
‘I’ll make some more coffee,’ said Elizabeth.
‘What did you say that for?’ said Linda, when Elizabeth had gone into the kitchen.
‘I was trying to take her mind off things,’ said Tom.
‘If
you’d disappeared, it wouldn’t take my mind off it to know that the horse-radish was plentiful this year.’
‘Cow-parsley,’ said Tom.
There was a sullen silence.
‘It doesn’t make things any easier if we quarrel,’ said Tom.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Linda.
Tom walked over to the settee, bent over and buried his head in Linda’s hair. At that moment the doorbell rang.
‘I’ll go,’ said Linda.
Elizabeth hurried out from the kitchen.
‘I’ll go,’ she said.
It was Jimmy.
‘Sorry,’ he said, as he saw their faces drop. ‘It’s only me.’
‘Silly of me,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He wouldn’t ring the bell.’
‘Bad business,’ said Jimmy. ‘With you all the way. Count on me. Anything you need doing.’
He hugged Elizabeth, but he didn’t kiss Linda.
‘Er – sorry Sheila can’t make it,’ he said. ‘Not – er – not too well.’
‘I’ll get that coffee,’ said Linda. ‘You sit down for a moment, mother.’
‘I’ll help,’ said Jimmy.
Jimmy followed Linda into the kitchen. He was moving his lips in a tense, uncontrollable way.
‘Sorry about Thursday,’ he said.
‘That’s all right.’
He stared at the fridge as if it was the most interesting fridge he had ever seen.
‘Can’t think what came over me. Bad show,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
He walked over to the spin dryer, opened the lid and closed it again.
‘Bad business, this,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘He was one of the best, your father,’ he said. ‘Not that he’s dead,’ he added hurriedly. ‘He’s alive. Feel it in my water.’
Linda kissed him on the lips, then turned away and resumed her coffee-making.
When they went back into the living room. Elizabeth said, ‘What’s up with you two? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Now come and sit down. Tom’s been telling me all about the origins of Morris dancing. It’s very interesting.’
The whole western sky was burning. It was a scene to set shepherds dancing in ecstasy. The lane slipped gently down towards the shore, through a little village of chalets, bungalows and cottages. It ended in a car park. Entry was free now that the attendant had gone home.
Reggie pulled up and sat looking out over the sea. There were still a few other cars in the car park. Behind the car park there was a beach cafe. The owner was just putting up the shutters. There was a life-belt and a municipal telescope. An elderly man put a coin in and stared out at an expanse of magnified water.
There was a long sweep of shingle, and behind the bay the land rose gradually, a long slope of grass dotted with windswept shrubs. The village was at the end of nowhere. It was a suitable place to end a life.
The policeman had been and gone. It was dark, but Elizabeth still hadn’t drawn the curtains when Mark arrived at half past eleven. He kissed his mother. His breath smelt of beer.
‘No news?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘I knew last Sunday he was trying to tell me something,’ he said.
‘I should have done more,’ said Jimmy.
‘We all should,’ said Linda.
‘I kept thinking, “It’s nothing. It can’t be. It’ll be all right tomorrow,”’ said Elizabeth.
‘Is there any juice in the pot?’ said Mark.
‘I’ll make some fresh,’ said Linda.
‘I’ll help,’ said Jimmy.
‘Mark’ll help,’ said Linda firmly. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea,’ said Mark, and he followed Linda into the kitchen.
‘It’s a bastard, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a sod.’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh well, keep hoping.’
‘Yes,’ said Linda, with a sob in her voice.
‘Come on,’ said Mark. ‘Cheer up. Mustn’t lose your bottle.’
‘No,’ said Linda. She blew her nose on a piece of kitchen tissue.
Mark patted her on the bottom.
‘Hullo, fatso,’ he said.
Linda tried to smile.
‘Hullo, shorthouse,’ she said, ruffling his hair. ‘How’s work going?’
‘Bloody awful,’ said Mark.
‘Didn’t Wick work out?’ said Linda.
‘No.’
She laid out five cups on a tray and scalded the pot.
‘I’ve got some work coming up next week,’ said Mark.
‘Oh good. What’s that?’ said Linda.
Mark looked sheepish. He picked a small tomato out of a bag on top of the fridge and popped it into his mouth.
‘I’m playing the under butler in a play at Alistair and Fiona Campbell’s barn theatre at Lossiemouth,’ he said.
Linda poured the boiling water into the pot.
‘Do you think father’s all right?’ she asked.
‘I think he’s gone off his nut, luv, that’s what I think,’ said Mark. ‘Poor old bastard. Come on. Let’s help make that tea.’
‘I’ve finished,’ said Linda.
They went back into the living room. Mark carried the tray.
A car came along the road and slowed down, but it was only the Milfords, returning from their snifter at the golf club.
It was dark now, and Reggie had the car park to himself. He changed into his new clothes in the back of the lorry, put his old clothes into the suitcase with the beard and wig, and stepped out into the night.
He stood for a moment on the wall of the car park, listening to the waves crunching on the shingle and the little stones being sucked out by the undertow. In the village car doors were being slammed outside the pub.
Reggie stepped down on to the shingle and set off towards the west. It was hard walking.
He walked for about half an hour and then he felt he was far enough away from the village. He’d reached a cliff which towered above him in the darkness, rocky and jagged.
There was nobody about. There was no light except for the lights of Portland Bill away to the east, and the faint stars above, and the phosphorescence on the water.
Reggie felt acutely depressed. Could he face a life without Elizabeth? Had he really done anything at all worthwhile? Would he ever do anything worthwhile? Why not make it a real suicide after all? Why not prove he wasn’t a fraud?
He took off his shoes first.
Sunday
Reggie stood naked and hairy under the cliffs and gazed at the placid sea. Tiny waves swished feebly against the shingle. A faint puff of wind came in from the west, and he shivered, although it wasn’t cold. Far away, the beam of a lighthouse made an occasional faint flash on the horizon.
He didn’t know if he dared to immerse himself in the water and hold himself down, gasping for breath, and then oblivion, a body on a beach, policemen and a mortuary slab, and a verdict of suicide while the balance of mind was disturbed, death was estimated at one a.m., he was a well-nourished man weighing thirteen stone eleven pounds, and there was evidence of semi-digested chips consistent with his having eaten a substantial meal eight hours before decease. And then he would be nothing, for he didn’t believe in a life after death.
He stepped carefully over the shingle, and felt the water gingerly with his toe. It was cold, but not as cold as it looked. Soon he was up to his waist. He stubbed his right foot against a stone.
He looked back at the cliffs, towering above his two neat piles of clothes and his little suitcase with the wig and beard. That would be a mystery for the police.
He walked on, over stones and seaweed. Car headlights shone high up in the darkness behind him, and that little cluster of lights to the west must be Lyme Regis.
You don’t really find life intolerable, he told himself. Killing yourself won’t prove that you’re not a fraud. Those cliffs have been there for millions of years
. You’re too ephemeral to be able to afford such a gesture.
He began to swim, in his jerky, laboured breast stroke. Then he swam on his back, looking up at the stars. He was alone in the great salt sea, and the universe looked cold.
He began to shiver and swam towards the shore. He was glad, on the whole, not to be dying just yet. He walked carefully up the beach to the little piles of clothes under the cliffs. There was nobody about to see him.
He hadn’t brought a towel, so he jumped up and down, and rubbed his tingling body with his hands. Then he rubbed himself down with his new vest, and at last he was tolerably dry.
He shoved the sodden vest into his suitcase, and unwrapped his new shirt. It wasn’t easy in the dark to make sure that he’d got all the pins out, but at last he was ready to put the shirt on. He was shivering uncontrollably now.
He pulled his new clothes over his sticky, salty skin. They felt stiff and unpleasant. He fitted the wig as best he could, then put the beard on.
He looked down at the pile of old clothes. ‘Good-bye, Reggie’s clothes,’ he said, and then, ‘Good-bye, old Reggie.’
He picked up the suitcase too violently, forgetting that it was almost empty. He overbalanced and fell in the shingle. A bad start to a new life, he thought, cursing and rubbing his elbow.
He set off along the beach, a tiny figure beneath the cliffs. Suddenly he remembered that he’d left all his money in his old clothes, so back he had to trudge. He took the money and his wallet and set off again. Then he realized that it would look suspicious if he didn’t leave his wallet and some money in the old clothes. Only a compulsively mean man would take his wallet into the sea to drown beside him.
He couldn’t leave any of the used fivers, for fear they’d be traced, so he left three pounds in notes and eighty-six pence in loose change. Off he went again along the beach.
Then his blood ran cold. He’d left his banker’s card in his wallet. That would blow sky-high his story of losing the card. Back he trudged yet again.
He hunted through his wallet. Library ticket, dental appointment reminder, dry-cleaning counterfoil, the cards of three plumbers and a french polisher. At last he found it. He took it with shaking fingers.
