by David Nobbs
‘I’ve had the results of the questionnaires analysed, C.J.’
‘And?’ barked C.J.
‘There are lots of things that lots of people like a lot, C.J.’
‘Good. Splendid. Tickety boo.’
‘Exactly. As you rightly say, tickety boo. But there are a few little things . . . little things . . . that a lot of people dislike rather a lot, C.J.’
‘What little things, Martin?’
‘Well . . . er . . . just little things. The . . . er . . . the building, C.J. And the . . . er . . . the offices, and the furniture, and . . . er . . .’
‘And what?’
‘The product, C.J. They just don’t like making instant puddings.’
‘I see,’ said C.J.
He gazed at the Lake District, the lobster and Ken Dodd, and it seemed that he gained new strength.
‘Mere bagatelles, Martin,’ he said. ‘We mustn’t let short-term setbacks obscure the long-term view. Neither Mrs C.J. nor I has ever let short-term setbacks obscure the long-term view.’
‘I imagine not, C.J.’
C.J. leant forward with sudden vehemence. His eyes sparkled.
The results will come,’ he said. ‘Carry on the good work. Don’t forget, in a sense you are keeping Reggie Perrin alive.’
‘I won’t forget, C.J.,’ said Reggie.
‘To the Location of Offices Bureau, South Quay, Tobermory, Mull. Dear Sirs . . .’
He sighed.
‘Are you all right, Mr Wellbourne?’ said Joan.
‘I’m in tip-top form,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s just that this business of making everybody happy is making me miserable.’
‘Owen Lewis from Crumbles is coming for his monthly chat in five minutes.’
‘Oh. Good,’ he said. ‘Because I’m going home.’
But Reggie did not go home. Instead he went to visit his lovely daughter Linda, in her lovely detached house in the lovely village of Thames Brightwell.
Linda broached a bottle of Tom’s sprout wine and seated herself on the chaise longue. Reggie sat in an armchair and leapt up with a yelp. He picked up a peculiarly shaped knife.
‘You’ve sat on the aubergine-peeler,’ said Linda.
‘On the what?’
Tom gave me a set of vegetable knives for Christmas. You get a different tool for each vegetable. An endive-cutter, a courgette-slicer . . .’
‘Oh good. No home should be without a courgette-slicer.’
‘It’s easy for you to mock, dad, but if you want to get on as an estate agent you have to keep up with the Joneses.’
Reggie sat down gingerly.
‘You’re the only person in the world who knows who I am,’ he said.
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ said Linda.
Reggie sipped his wine and grimaced.
‘It’s horrible,’ he said.
‘Nineteen seventy-two was a bad year for sprouts.’
Reggie removed a fluffy wombat from underneath his cushion.
‘Your children have very charming toys,’ he said.
‘Tom refuses to let them have anything violent. He confiscated the working model of the Third Parachute Regiment that Jimmy gave Adam.’
‘I thought Tom believed in freedom.’
‘Freedom and peace.’
‘Principles are confusing, aren’t they? Oh, Linda, what am I to do?’
‘Martin Wellbourne will have to leave all his clothes on the beach and reappear as Reggie Perrin.’
‘What, and attend Martin Wellbourne’s Memorial Service and marry your mother for the third time? Be serious. Linda.’
‘Sorry.’
She kissed her father, flinching from the prickles of his Martin Wellbourne beard.
Reggie looked out over the large lawn, which led down to a Gothic stone folly that Tom had built.
‘I was wondering if you could tell your mother the truth,’ said Reggie.
‘Me? If anyone tells her, it’s got to be you.’
‘It might not be very easy,’ said Reggie. ‘She’s got used to me as I am. Sometimes I think she prefers me to me.’
‘She doesn’t prefer you to you,’ said Linda. ‘She much prefers you.’
‘It’s going to be an awful shock to her,’ said Reggie.
‘Maybe not as much as you think,’ said Linda. ‘Tell her, dad. Tell her tonight.’
‘I will,’ said Reggie. ‘I will. My mind is made up. I’ll tell her tonight. Do you really think I ought to tell her?’
‘If you want to,’ said Linda.
She poured Reggie another glass of the greenish-yellow liquid.
‘Dutch courage,’ she said.
‘More like Belgian courage,’ he said.
Adam and Jocasta came running in, closely followed by their father.
‘Hello, Tom. How’s the bearded wit of the Thames Valley house ads?’ said Reggie.
‘Hello, Martin. My God, you aren’t drinking the sprout wine?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s undrinkable. My one and only mistake. You can’t make wine out of sprouts.’
Tom took the remains of Reggie’s drink and poured it down the sink.
Reggie soon left. When he looked back, Adam was slitting the wombat’s throat with the aubergine-peeler.
Linda phoned Elizabeth from the telephone box opposite the church. Icy March winds blew through the panes broken by vandals.
‘Dad’s just been here,’ she said. ‘He’s going to tell you that he’s Reggie.’
‘Oh.’
A man with a sinister face was hopping from one leg to the other as if the phone box was a lavatory.
‘Are you glad?’ said Linda.
‘I don’t know,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Half the time I’ve been trying to get him to tell me. Now I feel frightened.’
Linda was sure the man was a breather.
‘I thought I’d better prepare you so that you’re ready to be surprised,’ she said.
The man glanced at his watch. Surely breathers didn’t mind at what time they rang?
‘I’d better go, mum. There’s a man waiting.’
She forced herself to walk right past the man.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘No hurry,’ said the man in a pleasant, cultured, gently vacuous voice. ‘I’m only going in there to do a bit of heavy breathing.’
And he roared with self-satisfied laughter.
Reggie walked slowly up the snicket, up Wordsworth Drive, turned right into Tennyson Avenue, then left into Coleridge Close. It didn’t seem fitting that dramatic revelations should be made on this desirable estate, with its pink pavements and mock-Tudor and mock-Georgian houses. For one thing, there were no lace curtains for them to be made behind.
He kissed Elizabeth on the cheek.
‘What’s for supper?’ he said.
‘Boiled silverside.’
Damn! Martin Wellbourne loved boiled silverside, had dreamt of its Anglo-Saxon honesty in the mangrove swamps of Brazil. Reggie loathed it.
He poured their drinks with a shaking hand.
‘Prepare yourself for a shock,’ he said.
‘That sounds ominous,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Brace yourself for a surprise,’ said Reggie.
Elizabeth braced herself.
‘I’m not Martin,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m Reggie.’
He pulled off his false wig, and smiled foolishly.
‘My God,’ said Elizabeth. ‘My God! Reggie! You! . . . Reggie! Alive!’
She gave a passable impression of a woman fainting.
When she recovered consciousness Reggie gave her a brandy and she phoned Tom and Linda and her brother Jimmy, asking them to come round. They couldn’t phone their son Mark, as he was touring Africa with a theatre group, which was presenting No Sex Please, We’re British to an audience of bemused Katangans.
‘I wish mother was well enough to come,’ said Elizabeth.
Reggie closed his eyes, and saw a lonely elderly woman in failing h
ealth.
‘I don’t think of your mother as a hippopotamus any more,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Elizabeth.
They ate their boiled silverside.
‘Now I can have meals I like again,’ said Reggie.
He believed that all his problems would soon be over, now that he was Reggie Perrin again. He had come home after a long journey in a strange land.
The doorbell rang.
‘Oh my God,’ he said, and hurried upstairs.
Elizabeth let Tom and Linda in.
‘What’s all this mystery?’ said Tom.
‘You’ll see,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I don’t like mysteries,’ said Tom. ‘I’m not a mystery person.’
‘That’s true,’ said Linda.
Darkness had fallen, and the curtains were drawn. They talked of the collapse of property values in the Thames Valley, and the difficulty of finding toys that taught young children about the socio-economic structure of our society.
At a quarter past nine the erstwhile army major drew up in his rusting Ford. He had whisky on his breath and leather patches on his elbows. He was going downhill now that Sheila had left him.
‘We were awfully sorry to hear about Sheila,’ said Tom.
‘Blessing in disguise,’ said Jimmy. ‘Career in ashes, family life in ruins, new start de rigueur.’
‘Any idea what you’re going to do?’ said Tom.
‘Yes,’ said Jimmy.
‘Well,’ said Tom. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Idle talk costs lives,’ said Jimmy.
‘Another mystery,’ said Tom. ‘It’s a mystery to me why you all have to have so many mysteries.’
‘Tom’s not a mystery person,’ said Linda.
‘Well I’m not,’ said Tom. ‘What’s wrong in saying I’m not a mystery person if I’m not?’
‘What’s tonight’s mystery about?’ said Jimmy. ‘Like a good mystery.’
Elizabeth stood with her back to Dr Snurd’s lurid painting of Albufeira.
‘I found something out about Martin tonight,’ she said.
‘He’s not the Monster of the Piccadilly Line?’ said Jimmy. ‘Sorry. Uncalled for.’
‘Martin Wellbourne isn’t his real name,’ said Elizabeth. ‘His real name’s Reggie Perrin.’
Tom gawped. Jimmy looked thunderstruck.
‘You mean . . . Martin is . . . dad!’ said Linda, and she gave a passable imitation of a woman fainting.
When she came round Jimmy gave her a brandy.
‘Reggie!’ called Elizabeth.
Reggie came downstairs, wigless, and smiled foolishly at them.
‘Good God!’ said Jimmy.
‘Well I must say!’ said Tom.
‘Must you?’ said Reggie.
‘Daddy!’ said Linda, rushing up to him and hugging him.
‘There there,’ said Reggie, patting Linda’s head. ‘Bit of a surprise, eh, old girl?’
‘You mean you’ve been you all the time?’ said Jimmy. ‘Felt something was wrong. Couldn’t put my finger on it.’
Elizabeth went to get a bottle of champagne.
‘Why did you do it?’ said Tom.
‘Does there always have to be an explanation?’ said Reggie.
‘Yes, I rather think there does,’ said Tom.
Elizabeth brought in the champagne and Reggie opened it.
‘Not really a champagne wallah,’ said Jimmy. ‘Cheers.’
‘Welcome home, dad,’ said Linda.
They toasted Reggie.
‘So we had a memorial service for you when you were still alive!’ said Tom.
‘I was there,’ said Reggie.
‘I gave 50p,’ said Tom.
‘Tom!’ said Linda.
‘It’s not the money,’ said Tom. ‘It’s the principle.’
The grandfather clock in the hall struck ten.
‘Know the first thing I did when I saw Sheila’s note?’ said Jimmy. ‘Pressed my trousers. Adage of old Colonel Warboys. Nothing looks quite as black when your creases are sharp. Mustard for creases, Warboys. Hated the Free Poles. No creases. Sorry. Talking too much. Hogging limelight. Nerves.’
‘Why were you so grumpy today?’ said Linda.
They were lying in their orthopaedic bed.
‘Life’s simple,’ said Tom. ‘I’m not complicated. I go to work. I bring home money. I love you. It’s simple. I can’t see why other people can’t see it.’
An owl hooted by the river.
‘Owls don’t leave their clothes on the beach and come back to their own memorial services disguised as pigeons,’ said Tom.
‘Dad isn’t an owl,’ said Linda.
They lay at opposite sides of the orthopaedic bed, not touching each other.
‘Blast,’ said Jimmy.
He had spilt whisky on his pillow.
An owl hooted.
‘Shut up,’ shouted Jimmy.
‘Are you happy, Reggie?’ said Elizabeth.
An owl hooted, and the Milfords slammed both doors of their car.
‘Wonderfully happy,’ said Reggie.
Chapter 3
Wednesday was a typical early spring day of bright sunshine and sudden showers. For the first time since 11 March 1932 no weather records were broken anywhere in Britain.
Reggie stood at the window, watching a blue tit pecking at a ball of fat suspended from the rowan tree to incite just such an ornithological vignette.
‘Briefcase,’ said Elizabeth, handing him his briefcase, engraved in gold: M.S.W.
‘Thank you, darling,’ said Reggie.
‘Umbrella,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Thank you, darling,’ said Reggie.
‘Wig,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Oh my God.’
Reggie fitted his wig in the downstairs lavatory. Was there never to be an end to this absurdity? Was he to disguise himself every morning as Martin Wellbourne, and take his disguise off every evening?
When the GPO engineer saw Reggie coming, he stepped back into his hole.
‘It’s all right,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m not really Martin Well-bourne any more.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Greengross,’ he said. ‘Seventeen minutes late. Flood water seeping through signal cables at Effingham Junction.’
‘Good morning, Mr Perrin,’ she said.
‘Dictation time,’ he said, sitting at his desk. You could tell its age from the rings made by many cups of coffee. ‘To the Saucy Calendar Company, Buff Road, Orpington. Dear Sirs, could you please quote me for a hundred and fifty saucy calendars to keep our male staff in a constant state of . . . You called me Perrin!’
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Wellbourne, Mrs Greengross.’
‘Oh Reggie.’
She flung her arms round him and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Joan! Please! Joan!’
There was a knock on the door. They leapt apart.
It was C.J.
‘Morning, Martin,’ said C.J.
‘Morning, C.J.’
‘I’d like you to have a check up with Doc Morrissey, give the poor old boy something to do on his first morning.’
‘Certainly, C.J.,’ said Reggie.
‘Idle hands make heavy work, eh, Joan?’
‘They certainly do, C.J.’
‘You’ve got lipstick on your cheek, Martin.’
‘Absolutely, C.J. What?’
‘Careful, Martin. I didn’t get where I am today by having lipstick on my cheek.’
‘Absolutely not, C.J. Perish the thought. Sorry, C.J.’
C.J. left the room and Reggie wiped the lipstick off his cheek. Vain exercise! Soon Joan was kissing him once again.
C.J. re-entered the room.
‘Martin!’ said C.J.
Reggie shot away from Joan’s embrace as if catapulted.
‘It’s an experiment, C.J.,’ he said. ‘Part of the scheme to keep the employees happy, keep absenteeism at bay. Everybody kissing each other every
morning. Only people of the opposite sex, of course.’
‘It’s going too far,’ said C.J. ‘This isn’t British Leyland.’
‘Sorry, C.J.,’ said Reggie. ‘My enthusiasm got the better of me.’
‘You must temper the stew of enthusiasm with the seasoning of moderation,’ said C.J. ‘I just came back to say: “Be extra friendly to Doc Morrissey.”’
‘I will,’ said Reggie.
C.J. left the room. Joan moved towards him. C.J. opened the door again.
‘Neither Mrs C.J. nor I has ever kissed all the employees every morning,’ he said.
‘Please don’t do that again, Joan,’ said Reggie when C.J. had finally gone.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Joan.
‘When did you realize?’ said Reggie.
‘Gradually,’ said Joan. ‘I just couldn’t believe it at first.’
‘Memo to all departments,’ said Reggie, sitting down again behind his desk and fingering his digital calendar nervously. ‘Members of the Pudding Club have been leaving the premises in a condition . . . You aren’t taking it down, Joan.’
‘I don’t feel like it, Mr Perrin.’
‘I think, Joan, that you ought to refer to me as Mr Wellbourne.’
Joan went back to her desk and sat down.
‘I could tell C.J. that you’re Mr Perrin, Mr Wellbourne,’ she said.
‘You could, yes.’
‘I might not, if . . .’
‘Is this blackmail, Joan?’
‘Not exactly blackmail, Mr Perrin.’
‘What then?’
‘Well, a sort of blackmail.’
‘You might not if what?’
Joan blushed.
‘If what, Joan?’
‘If you and I . . . together . . . you know.’
‘If we had it off together from time to time?’
Joan nodded.
‘Joan! What an awful way to put it.’
A cradle with a blond young window-cleaner on it appeared at the window. They pretended to be busy until he had finished.
‘I love you,’ said Joan, when he had gone.
‘This is extremely embarrassing, Joan,’ said Reggie, pacing up and down the crowded little office. ‘I was attracted to you . . . you were attractive . . . you are attractive . . . I am attracted. But I’m a married man, I love my wife, and all that was a mistake.’
He leant on Joan’s desk and looked into her eyes.
‘Tell C.J. if you must,’ he said.
