by David Nobbs
The next day Tom took Reggie out with him to show a prospective client a beautiful little cottage, situated in a clearing, surrounded by Chiltern beech woods. Facilities were few, and so the cottage was a snip at only £29,995.
‘I’ll offer twenty-nine thousand,’ said the prospective client.
‘Twenty-nine thousand, five hundred,’ said Reggie.
‘What?’ said Tom and the prospective client.
‘I’ll offer twenty-nine thousand, five hundred,’ said Reggie.
The prospective client drove off in a huff and an Audi, and Tom turned on Reggie.
‘I offer you a job, out of the goodness of my heart,’ he said, ‘and the first time you come out with me, you outbid our customer. It’s the ethical equivalent of a doctor making love to his patients.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘I just couldn’t resist it.’
‘It’s comparable professionally to a vet kidnapping his patients and entering them for Crufts,’ said Tom.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘I suddenly felt that I needed a change.’
‘You’re going to get one,’ said Tom. ‘You’re sacked.’
‘Don’t worry, Tom,’ said Reggie. ‘Much better prospects are opening before me.’
‘This time it’s got to be for keeps,’ said Mr Pelham.
‘It will be, chief. Honest,’ said Reggie.
They walked out into the yard. It was a windy, cool, clammy day, the first day of the school holidays, and a caravan of schoolgirls was clopping down the lane from the Climthorpe School of Riding. Reggie waved and one of the girls waved back. This earned her a stern rebuke for unhorsewomanly conduct.
They looked down at a particularly enormous porker. The stench of the shit of four thousand pigs filled Reggie’s nostrils.
‘You can’t beat red cabbage with pork,’ said Mr Pelham.
‘No, and nobody makes red cabbage like my old Dutch,’ said Reggie.
Mr Pelham stroked the odoriferous giant affectionately. Reggie followed suit in more cautious vein.
‘Crackling,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘Nice crisp crackling, that’s the tops.’
‘It’s my favourite, is crackling,’ said Reggie. ‘My old Dutch makes cracking crackling.’
Mr Pelham gave him an affectionate scuff on the shoulder.
‘Good to have you back, son,’ he said.
On the last day in July, C.J. sat in his office facing David Harris-Jones and Tony Webster. Between them was an empty chair.
‘We’d better see her now,’ said C.J.
‘Great,’ said Tony Webster.
‘Super,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘There’s nothing great or super about it,’ said C.J. ‘It’s sad.’
‘Sorry, C.J.,’ said Tony Webster and David Harris-Jones.
‘Send her in, Marion,’ barked C.J. into his intercom.
Elizabeth entered and sat in the empty chair. Tony and David avoided meeting her eye.
‘Did you dictate a letter to Elizabeth on the subject of soggy sponges, David?’ said C.J.
‘I did,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘What did you say?’
‘I think – sorry, Elizabeth –’ began David Harris-Jones.
‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ said C.J.
‘Sorry, C.J.,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘Get on with it,’ said C.J.
‘Sorry,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘I said, as I recall: “Dear Sir, I am sorry” – sorry, C.J., but I was sorry – “I am sorry to hear of your complaint about soggy sponge in our frozen trifle. We have received no previous complaints of similar items deficient in the manner you describe – viz., sogginess of the sponge – and I would respectfully suggest that there must have been some error in the storing or unthawing of the said article or articles.’
‘A good letter, David,’ said Tony Webster. ‘Your best yet.’
‘What did Elizabeth actually type, David?’ said C.J.
‘“Dear Sir,”’ read David Harris-Jones.
He turned to Elizabeth.
‘Sorry, Elizabeth,’ he said.
He turned to C.J.
‘Sorry, C.J.,’ he said.
He returned to the offending missive.
‘“Dear Sir,”’ he read. ‘“Thank you for your complaint about soggy sponges. It makes the eleventh this week. The explanation is simple. Frankly, our sponges are soggy. The fault lies in your customers for buying over-priced, over-sweet, unhealthy, synthetic rubbish.”’
‘Did you write that, Elizabeth?’ said C.J.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you forge David’s signature and send it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Do you think we’d survive for a week if we told the truth?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t get where I am today by telling the truth. Tony, David, you may leave.’
Tony Webster and David Harris-Jones stood up.
‘You’ve handled this matter very well, both of you,’ said C.J.
‘Great,’ said Tony Webster.
‘Super,’ said David Harris-Jones.
C.J. gave them a withering glance.
‘Sorry, C.J.,’ they said.
When they were left alone together, C.J. gazed questioningly at Elizabeth.
‘Sorry, Bunny,’ she said.
The previous Saturday Elizabeth had visited C.J. in God-aiming once more. There had been more champagne, more cold luncheon, more gentle pantomime in which C.J. had played the dual role of butler and country gentleman.
She had spent the afternoon sorting papers and taking letters, but again she had felt that this was not the real purpose of the visit.
In the middle of the afternoon, C.J./butler had brought Earl Grey tea and scones, had retired briefly, and returned as himself to join in the feast.
‘Thank you, C.J.,’ she had said.
‘My friends call me Bunny,’ he had said.
Elizabeth had found it difficult to envisage C.J. having friends, and once she had made this prodigious leap of the imagination, she had found it impossible that they should call him Bunny.
She had taken a deep breath.
‘Lovely tea. Bunny,’ she had said.
Now, when she looked at C.J. squirming behind his rosewood desk, a man not built for fitting easily into chairs, she found even that distant intimacy incredible.
‘I’m afraid I must ask you not to call me Bunny in the office,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get where I am today by being called Bunny in the office.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t, Bu … C.J.’
‘What is de rigueur in Godalming can be hors de combat in Head Office.’
‘Quite right, C.J.’
The conversation ground to a halt. C.J. seemed unable to continue. He was a lion in moulting. He gazed at the picture of Krupp, in search of strength.
‘I’m sorry, C.J.,’ she said.
He peered suspiciously at his desk, as if he feared it might be bugged.
‘Your visits to Godalming were a pleasure,’ he said. ‘Just for you to be there, in my house. I gave thanks for the lucky chance that provided all those papers to be sorted. Then, when I heard that Mrs C.J. had broken her leg in Echternach, I felt like crying for joy. That sounds heartless, but it is not a serious fracture, and the scenery of the Upper Moselle is famed far and wide for its variety and beauty. I foresaw a golden summer, sorting papers in Godalming. Then you do this. Why? Why?’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ said Elizabeth.
C.J. stabbed his body forward across his desk, held the offending letter aloft in his left hand, and barked: ‘Did Reggie put you up to this? Is this Reggie’s revenge? Are you his instrument?’
‘Reggie knows nothing of this, C.J.’
C.J. came over and placed his hands on her shoulders.
‘You can have a month’s notice or the money in lieu,’ he said.
‘I think I’d prefer the
money in lieu.’
‘Yes. Very wise.’
He returned to his desk and sank awkwardly into his chair, as if he was an inexperienced crane operator and his body was a fragile cargo being lowered into the hold of a Panamanian freighter.
‘I have only one more question,’ he said.
‘Yes, C.J.?’
‘I’m afraid to ask it because I fear the answer.’
‘Ask it, C.J.’
‘Yes. What has to be faced, has to be faced.’
‘You’re absolutely right, C.J.’
‘Never put off till tomorrow what you’ve already put off since yesterday.’
‘Quite right, C.J.’
‘Here we go, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘Off the deep end.’
‘Quite.’
‘Godalming’s over, isn’t it?’
‘I’m very much afraid it is, Bunny.’
Reggie’s back groaned in protest as he poured the swill into the trough. He stood up with difficulty and found himself staring into a stern version of Mr Pelham’s face.
‘Could I see you in the office a mo, Reg?’ said Mr Pelham.
‘Righto, guv’nor,’ said Reggie.
They walked across the yard together.
‘Bit taters for July,’ said Reggie.
‘It is on the cool side, Reg,’ said Mr Pelham.
They entered the office. Mr Pelham sat down behind his cluttered desk. He did not invite Reggie to sit.
‘Been hearing a few things about you,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘Full name, Reginald Iolanthe Perrin. Left your clothes on the beach, came back in disguise and married your wife again.’
‘It would be idle to deny it.’
‘In my book that makes you a nutter.’
Reggie shrugged.
‘You’ve got nothing to say to that?’
‘That I have behaved in a manner that would not normally be called normal is beyond dispute,’ said Reggie. ‘But I don’t think I’m a nutter.’
‘All this taters and guv’nor gubbins you come out with is a load of cobblers.’
‘Again, protestation would be to no avail.’
‘Smart alick, aren’t you?’
‘No. Smart alicks don’t work in piggeries.’
‘Why do you work here?’
‘It’s the best job I can get at the moment. I think you’ll agree I work hard and you’ve said yourself that the pigs like me.’
‘They do, Reg. Pigs that are ailing become healthy at your touch.’
‘I’m the Edith Cavell of the trough.’
‘Come again.’
‘I am the Florence Nightingale of the swill.’
Mr Pelham looked out of the window at his estate of mud and corrugated iron.
‘The wife’s dead,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Reggie.
‘She stepped in front of a bus.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Seven years ago. She’d only gone into Macfisheries to get some Finnan haddock. We’d just come back from France. I reckon she forgot that we drive on the left.’
‘It’s easily done,’ said Reggie.
‘You’re not wrong, old son,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘She’d said to me: “Fancy some mussels like what we had at Dieppe?”
Sort of trying to keep the holiday atmosphere going. I said: “I wouldn’t say no, Ade.” I reckon those mussels were her undoing, worrying if she could cook them. Sit down, old son.’
‘Thanks.’
Reggie cleared a pile of final reminders and copies of the VAT News off the other chair, and sat down.
‘I mean she was a good cook, but no Fanny Cradock.’
‘Plain and honest.’
‘In a nutshell, Reg. Damn it, you’ve got me talking like I haven’t since it happened. Damn it, Reg, I like you. I don’t take to people easily. I’m one of your in the pub for the last half hour three pints and don’t say more than hello to anybody merchants.’
‘Surely I don’t have to leave just because you’ve found me out?’ said Reggie.
‘You like my pigs, don’t you?’
‘I adore your pigs, Mr Pelham. I like all pigs, but I adore yours.’
A tear rolled down Mr Pelham’s face and landed on the Observer Book of Animal Husbandry.
‘You’re like me, old son. Torn in two. You like pigs and pork equally.’
‘Yes.’
‘Story of mankind, Reg.’
‘Way of the world, Mr Pelham.’
Mr Pelham fumbled in a crowded drawer and produced a grubby snapshot of a loutish youth.
‘That’s my Kevin.’
‘He looks a nice lad.’
‘Do us a favour.’
Mr Pelham snatched the photo back and tore it in two.
‘If I had my way he’d be in one of these sties and my pigs would be at Gravel Pit Lane Secondary Modern. Don’t give me “looks a nice lad”,’ he said.
‘Sorry.’
Mr Pelham produced from his wallet a snapshot of a pretty schoolgirl with a sensuous mouth.
‘My Anthea,’ he said. ‘I favoured Janina but the wife thought it would sound as though we had ideas.’
‘A bit of a handful?’ said Reggie.
‘You’re joking. My Anthea’s a girl in a million. Quiet, mind. My Anthea’s my pride and joy. That’s why I’m giving you your cards.’
‘I don’t see the connection.’
‘It hasn’t dropped, has it? Maybe I haven’t explained it right.’
Mr Pelham took the photo of his Anthea back and replaced it in his wallet tenderly.
‘One of the things I heard about you wasn’t too nice, old son,’ he said.
‘Good God. You think I’m the flasher of the Poets’ Estate.’
‘I think you could be, Reg. That’s good enough for me. My Anthea comes down here. I’m not having her exposed to the risk. She’s all I’ve got.’
‘I understand,’ said Reggie. ‘I’d probably do the same.’
‘Find me the flasher,’ said Mr Pelham, ‘and you can have your job back any time.’
Reggie walked briskly across the yard towards the lane.
‘Say goodbye to the pigs if you like,’ Mr Pelham called after him.
‘No thanks all the same,’ shouted Reggie. ‘It might break my heart.’
‘Good day at the office?’ said Reggie, handing Elizabeth a gin and tonic.
‘No. Good day at the piggery?’
‘No.’
They sat on the settee. Reggie put an arm round Elizabeth’s waist.
‘I’ve been sacked,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Mr Pelham thinks I’m the flasher. I’ve been sacked.’
‘I was just going to say that.’
‘What – I’ve been sacked?’
‘Yes.’
‘How on earth did you know?’
‘How did I know what, Reggie?’
‘That I’ve been sacked.’
‘No, no. I was going to say that I’ve been sacked.’
‘You’ve been sacked?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean we’ve both been sacked?’
‘Yes.’
Reggie laughed. Then he stopped laughing abruptly.
‘It isn’t funny,’ he said. ‘Why were you sacked?’
Elizabeth told him.
‘I just don’t know what’s got into you lately,’ he said. ‘You work for Sunshine Desserts, you tell me a pack of lies, you dictate stupid letters, you’re extremely rude to Tom. I mean people just don’t behave like that.’
‘You did.’
‘Ah. Yes, well, that was a bit different.’
‘Why?’
‘Well I mean …’
‘Because you’re a man?’
‘Well, yes, that. But I mean I was under pressure.’
‘Perhaps I’ve been under pressure, Reggie. I’ve been through some strange experiences.’
Reggie put his arm round her tenderly. They sat in silenc
e in the pleasant, tasteful, conservative room. Reggie’s eyes roved over the brown Parker Knoll armchair, over the piano that nobody played now that Linda had left home, over the fluffy white three piece suite, and the ghastly pictures of the Algarve.
‘I’m sorry I suspected you of having an affair on those Saturdays,’ he said.
That’s all right,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I once thought you were having an affair with Joan, that time I was in Worthing.’
‘Oh well, that’s all right, then,’ he said.
‘You weren’t, were you?’
‘Of course I wasn’t. How could I, with Jimmy and Mark and Tom and Linda and the Black Dyke Mills Band downstairs.’
‘So where was Joan?’ Elizabeth asked quietly, withdrawing from Reggie’s grasp.
‘Well … er …’
‘Upstairs?’
‘Sort of.’
‘How sort of? In a bed?’
‘Sort of.’
‘And why was Joan sort of upstairs in a sort of bed?’
Reggie hesitated.
‘Migraine?’ he suggested.
Elizabeth shook her head.
‘All right,’ said Reggie. ‘We did intend to, as it were, but I’d just decided that I didn’t want to, as it were, when all those people came round and we couldn’t, as it were. It’s been the only time, darling, and I love you.’
Elizabeth put her arm round him, and gave him her tacit, tactile forgiveness.
‘What was his name?’ said Reggie.
‘Who?’
‘The man you worked for on Saturdays, with whom nothing happened. The Luxembourg representative.’
‘Oh. Him. Er … Michel Dubois.’
‘Michael of the Woods. How romantic’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he fancy you?’
‘I rather think he did,’ said Elizabeth, and to her chagrin she blushed.
Reggie kissed her.
‘We’re together,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Things can’t get any worse.’
‘No.’
‘If we hadn’t both been sacked, and we hadn’t both suspected the other of an affair, and I hadn’t got the remains of two black eyes, and we weren’t getting bricks thrown through our windows because I’m being mistaken for the flasher, I’d be happy,’ he said.
Elizabeth kissed him.
‘I have an amazing feeling that everything is going to go well from now on,’ he said.
A brick sailed through the window and struck him a glancing blow on the forehead.
