by David Nobbs
‘I can’t afford to go,’ said Mark.
Over by the piano, Elizabeth’s mother had cornered Henry Possett, and was having a word in his ear.
‘How do you think she’s looking?’ she said in a loud theatrical whisper.
‘Elizabeth?’ he said. ‘She seems to be bearing up.’
‘Yes, but she needs to be taken out of herself,’ she hissed. ‘I mean it must have been a shock.’
‘Yes.’
‘I mean she must wonder sometimes if she was in any way to blame. Not that she was, of course. Reginald always had been delicate.’
‘Suicide is hardly the preserve of the delicate,’ said Henry Possett.
‘Well I think these things often go hand in hand. I don’t want to speak out of turn, and I was very fond of Reginald, we all were, naturally, but I know that you and Elizabeth were friends, and I don’t think she ought to be allowed to dwell on things too much, if you know what I mean.’
‘Yes,’ said Henry Possett. ‘I do.’
Mark interrupted them, bearing olives and squares of cheese. Elizabeth’s mother popped into the kitchen. Elizabeth was testing the joint with a fork.
‘It’s going to be late,’ she said. ‘I think the pressure’s down.’
‘How do you think Henry’s looking?’ said her mother.
‘Very well.’
‘Of course he’s not strong. I think he’s rather under his sister’s thumb. It would do him good to get out more.’
The subject of their conversation was at that moment talking to Mark.
‘Tell me all about the theatre, Mark,’ he said.
‘I can’t afford to go,’ said Mark.
It was a relief when Tom and Linda arrived.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ said Linda. ‘We did rush. Phew, I’m in a muck sweat!’
Henry Possett’s eyebrows barely registered his distaste. Drinks were served, and introductions effected. There was an animated discussion about Worthing and its environs. Tom intimated that he and Linda weren’t seaside people.
Elizabeth apologized for the delay. She’s as nervous as a kitten, thought Linda.
At last lunch was served. They all took their places in the dining room. The napkins on the oval walnut table matched the dark green wallpaper. Elizabeth suddenly felt ashamed of Mr Snurd’s pictures.
‘Who did your pictures?’ said Henry Possett.
‘Our dentist,’ said Mark.
‘I’m sorry it’s such a rotten day for you,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Henry likes mist,’ said Vera Possett. ‘Sometimes I think he’s only really cheerful when he’s feeling melancholy.’
‘That’s very unfair,’ said Henry Possett. ‘But I must admit I do find the hot climates rather monotonous.’
‘Heat brings me out in great red lumps,’ said Tom. ‘They don’t irritate much, but they’re unsightly.’
Linda gave him a look, but he didn’t notice.
‘Lindyplops and I went to Tunisia before the children came along,’ he said. ‘And we both came out in great red lumps.’
‘This ratatouille is delicious,’ said Henry Possett.
‘Marvellous,’ said Tom.
‘I just followed the recipe,’ said Elizabeth.
‘How’s work coming along, Mark?’ said Linda.
‘I’ve got a part in a West End play,’ said Mark.
‘Oh how wonderful!’ said Elizabeth. ‘Darling, why didn’t you tell us?’
‘It’s only a small part,’ said Mark.
‘You’ve got to start somewhere,’ said Vera Possett.
Mark served the wine while the women helped to fetch the main course. He couldn’t get the cork out.
‘Blast and damn it,’ he said.
‘Let me help,’ said Henry Possett.
Henry Possett eased the cork out without difficulty.
‘Evidence of a mis-spent life,’ he said.
Elizabeth brought in the roast beef.
‘It’s only roast beef, I’m afraid,’ she said.
‘Henry loves beef,’ said Vera.
‘The roast beef of old England,’ said Elizabeth’s mother.
‘You carve, Mark,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I can’t carve,’ said Mark.
‘Offer, Henry,’ mouthed Vera.
‘Oh. Well – I’ll carve, if you like,’ said Henry Possett.
‘I’ll carve,’ said Tom.
‘It’s been decided now,’ said Linda. ‘Henry’ll carve.’
Henry Possett carved beautifully. The beef was delicious.
‘What have you done with the dustbins?’ said Mark to Linda.
‘Dustbins? Is that rhyming slang – dustbin lids – kids?’ said Henry Possett.
‘Yes,’ said Mark coldly.
‘Fascinating,’ said Henry Possett. ‘Oh, I’m sorry I interrupted. What have you done with the dustbins?’
‘We’ve farmed them out to some friends,’ said Tom.
‘It’s not overdone, is it?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Perfect,’ said Henry Possett.
‘Lovely,’ said Vera. ‘I wish I could get my potatoes as crisp as this.’
Mark went round topping up the glasses.
‘What a nice cruet set. I don’t think I’ve seen it before, have I?’ said Elizabeth’s mother.
‘Reggie bought it. He had good taste,’ said Elizabeth.
The mention of Reggie brought a temporary halt in the conversation.
‘What a lot of crime there is these days,’ said Elizabeth’s mother. ‘I blame the Labour Government. Don’t you, Mr Possett?’
Henry Possett put his glass down and smiled.
‘I don’t discuss politics at meal times,’ he said. ‘I never mix business with pleasure. Though I must admit I can usually be prevailed upon to mix pleasure with business.
Elizabeth and her mother laughed excessively.
‘I don’t see how you can say that,’ said Mark. ‘You can’t just separate life and politics. I am left wing. I can’t suddenly forget that this is a bloody awful world because somebody serves a meal.’
He avoided everyone’s eye and cut his beef viciously.
‘I heard a very funny joke on Friday,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t usually tell jokes but this one was so funny. At least I thought it was funny. Now I must get it right.’ Suddenly he remembered Linda warning him not to be a bore. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not all that funny.’
‘Oh come on!’ said Henry Possett. ‘We’re intrigued now!’
‘Don’t make him tell it if he doesn’t want to,’ said Vera.
‘No, you see, the thing is,’ said Tom, ‘I’ve just realized that you wouldn’t really understand it unless you were an estate agent. And none of you is.’
‘Well, if you’ve all finished, I’ll clear away,’ said Elizabeth.
Everyone except Mark helped to clear away the plates. Elizabeth brought in the mousse, Henry Possett the cream, Tom the cheese and Linda the biscuits.
‘Well, that was a wonderful lunch,’ said Henry Possett when they had finished.
‘We’ll leave the washing up,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You’re all to enjoy yourselves.’
‘All right, but Linda and I will clear away,’ said her mother.
When she was alone with Linda, she said: ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘What do you think?’
‘What about?’
‘Henry, of course. Do you think he’d do her good?’
‘Mother? Yes, I suppose he would. It’s a bit soon, though, isn’t it?’
‘It’s never too soon to start.’
They piled plates and glasses on to their trays. Mark had left half his cheese and biscuits.
‘You don’t think there’s anything wrong with him, do you?’ said Elizabeth’s mother.
‘Wrong?’
‘You’re being stupid today, Linda. Wrong. You know. Wrong. Something not quite right about him. I can’t put it much plainer than that. I mean, I know he went
out with Elizabeth once but I mean he’s never married.’
‘Oh, I see. Good God, no! He’s not queer. Can’t you tell?’
‘I haven’t had much experience of that sort of thing,’ said her grandmother huffily.
‘No, I think he’s just a bit ascetic,’ said Linda.
‘Good lord, what do they do?’
‘They practise self-denial.’
‘It doesn’t sound very healthy to me. They’ll go blind,’ said her grandmother.
Linda and Tom left as soon as they had finished their coffee. Mark followed soon after.
‘Sorry I lost my bottle with the lipless wonder,’ he said to Elizabeth at the door. ‘I’m afraid he gets on my wick.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Elizabeth.
‘How are you off for bread these days?’ he said.
‘I could let you have a loaf.’
‘Not bread. Bread. Dough. The old readies.’
‘Oh. Well, really Mark, aren’t they paying you for this play?’
‘Yeah. I’m just a bit short of the old readies, that’s all. I’ll pay you back. You know that. I mean, I only need a tenner.’
Elizabeth gave him a tenner, waved good-bye, and returned to her guests.
‘Vera, I’ve something I want to show you,’ said her mother, and she led Vera out of the room.
Elizabeth smiled.
‘Well, she’s got us alone,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Henry Possett.
There was a pause. Henry Possett seemed tongue-tied.
‘Would you like to come to a concert some time?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Well – er – yes, that would be lovely,’ said Henry Possett.
Reggie made another determined effort to forget his old life. All week he laboured in the gardens, the hours passing more and more slowly. He didn’t see Joan Greengross again, but he saw her husband being wheeled round the garden on more than one occasion.
The following Friday night, in the Clytemnestra, Miss Pershore drank too much Guinness.
‘My friends from the Chamber of Commerce won’t take no for an answer,’ she explained to Reggie as he escorted her home through the sodium mist of a suburban night.
She invited him in for a cup of coffee, and he didn’t like to refuse her in that condition.
She had big armchairs with drooping springs and faded floral loose covers. Her lounge was full of bits of crochet work which she had done over the years. She was fifty-three years of age, and had four cats.
Reggie thought of Elizabeth and wondered what on earth he was doing here. He was feeling tired. It was hard work, remembering all the time to talk like Donald Potts and not like Reggie Perrin. But he was determined to be polite to Miss Pershore.
She took a long while to make the coffee, but at last it was ready. They sat in the drooping armchairs, and she told him about her family life, in the days of long ago. Her father had been a draper in Great Malvern, and a stalwart of the local Chamber of Commerce. She talked about the jolly Christ-masses, the close-knit family days, before she became a virgin and a spinster.
‘You may not believe me, Donald,’ she said, her voice thick with Guinness. ‘But I have never given myself to a man.’
‘I believe you,’ he said.
‘Mr Right never came along,’ said Miss Pershore. ‘I always was particular. Particular to a fault, some would say.’
Reggie demurred.
‘I would never have dreamt of giving myself to riff-raff,’ she said.
‘Quite right,’ said Reggie.
The Radio Big Band, conducted by Malcolm Lockyer, provided a suitable accompaniment to their evening beverage.
‘Now take Mr Ellis upstairs,’ said Miss Pershore. ‘He’s a nice man, but not out of the top drawer. You can’t imagine him in the Rotary Club.’
‘He’s all right,’ said Reggie.
‘I’m no snob,’ said Miss Pershore. ‘But there are such things as standards.’
‘You’re right there. Miss Pershore.’
‘Call me Ethel.’
‘Ethel.’
Miss Pershore stood up and peeped out of the curtains.
‘It’s starting to rain,’ she said.
She sat down on the settee.
‘Do you think I have missed life’s greatest experience, never having given myself to a man?’ said Miss Pershore.
‘It all depends what you want out of life,’ said Reggie.
Miss Pershore patted the settee beside her, but Reggie pretended not to notice. One of the cats jumped up, but she shoved it off.
‘You’re so right, Donald,’ she said. ‘The inner life is so much more rewarding.’
‘Ta very much for the coffee, Ethel. I’m ready for my pit,’ said Reggie, stretching and yawning.
In the morning Miss Pershore waylaid him in the hall when he came down to get his milk.
‘I want to thank you,’ she said. ‘I had too much to drink, and you didn’t take advantage of me.’
That’s all right,’ said Reggie.
‘I was yours for the taking, and you desisted.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘You have the hands and body of an under-gardener, but you have the heart and soul of a gentleman,’ said Miss Pershore.
‘Well, ta very much, Ethel,’ said Reggie, embarrassed.
Mr Ellis came downstairs for his milk. He was in his vest, and his biceps rippled.
‘Good morning, Mr Ellis,’ said Miss Pershore. ‘And it is a nice morning.’
‘They gave out rain later,’ said Mr Ellis.
When he bent down to pick up his milk, they could see a slit along the seam of his trousers.
Mr Ellis went upstairs, whistling gloomily. Miss Pershore sighed.
‘He has the body of a Greek God, and the heart and soul of an upholsterer,’ she said.
‘Well, I must go and get my breakfast,’ said Reggie.
‘Come and have a spot of lunch, and we can watch the one-thirty at Market Rasen,’ said Miss Pershore. ‘A friend from the Chamber of Commerce has put me on to a good thing.’
‘I’m afraid I have a prior engagement,’ said Reggie.
The prior engagement consisted of walking round the streets of Hillingley until it was safe to go home again.
It was one-thirty in the morning, and fourteen policemen were drinking after hours in the back bar of the Rose and Crown. Twelve of them were swapping Irish stories at the bar, but Chief Inspector Gate was losing doggedly on the fruit machine, and Constable Barker was trying to get his attention.
‘I think I’m on to something,’ said Constable Barker.
‘Bloody hell. Every time I get a “hold” there’s bugger-all to bloody well hold. I don’t know why I play this machine,’ said Chief Inspector Gate, whose face was flushed with whisky.
‘All I want to do is carry on the search,’ said Constable Barker.
The fruit machine stopped with a clang. Chief Inspector Gate had got an orange, a plum and an apple.
‘I give up,’ he said. ‘Now listen, lad, I want a word with you. Come over into the corner.’
Constable Barker and Chief Inspector Gate sat in the far corner of the darkened bar. A roar of laughter came from the policemen at the bar.
‘Listen, Barker,’ said Chief Inspector Gate. ‘Your evidence amounts to the square root of bugger-all. You find a couple who pick up a rather strange author named Charles Windsor.’
‘There is no author called Charles Windsor.’
‘They drop this pseudo author at Exeter. He stays a night in a hotel and disappears. He’s described as looking like a quantity surveyor who’s trying to be trendy. That description might or might not fit Perrin. The clerk at the hotel thinks he was using a false name, but isn’t sure. Handwriting experts are undecided about his writing being the same as Perrin’s. Big deal. What do you want me to do – get a warrant to search Devon?’
‘There’s many a case been solved by the persistence of one man. Patient, determined, singl
e-minded, he stalks his prey.’
‘I’ll stalk you if you’re not careful. This isn’t a mass murder. It’s not worth it.’
‘It’s all right if I go on making enquiries in my spare time, is it, sir?’
‘Knock it off, Barker. The case is closed.’
‘You must admit that Charles Windsor might be Reggie Perrin.’
‘Yes, and next Christmas my Uncle Cecil may stick his wooden leg up his arse and do toffee apple impressions.’
Sgt Griffiths put a twopenny piece in the fruit machine and got the jack-pot.
‘Did you see that?’ said Chief Inspector Gate. ‘Jammy Welsh bastard. I put all the money in and he gets it out. Come on, Barker, forget the case and have another Pernod. I don’t know why you drink that stuff. Doesn’t it make your piss green?’
But Barker of the Yard did not reply. He was too busy working out the next move in his quest for Reggie Perrin.
Bursts of heavy rain drenched Hillingley and Reggie’s boots were caked with mud. Thunder and hail and lightning tore the end of the summer to shreds, and the lowest August temperature since records began was recorded at Mildenhall, Suffolk.
‘I can’t go back,’ thought Reggie as he dug and raked. ‘I can never go back.’
By Thursday the depression had moved away towards Scandinavia, and was battering at the doors of pornographic bookshops, but there were still unseasonal strong winds at Hillingley, tossing the tops of the diseased elms.
‘I must go back,’ thought Reggie as he mowed and pruned. ‘I will go back.’
He would reveal himself to Linda. He would approach Elizabeth through Linda. He would have a migraine tomorrow. Tom would be at work and the children would be at nursery school, learning progressive socially-conscious non-racial nursery rhymes. Tomorrow he would find Linda alone.
For a long time the next morning Linda was alone. The nursery school was still on holiday but Adam and Jocasta had been taken to Eastbourne by the Parents’ Co-operative run by a neighbouring solicitor’s wife to take everybody’s loved ones off their hands from time to time. Linda lay in her bra and panties, the fat curves of her legs draped over the carved arm of the chaise longue. Her mother had rung to tell her about her concert trip with Henry Possett. He had taken her to a splendid restaurant. It had really done her good to get out. It was no use dwelling on things.
A car crunched to a halt in the drive.
‘I’ll have to go now, mother. Someone’s coming.’
