by David Nobbs
‘She wasn’t that bad,’ said the landlady.
‘She was t’roughest I’ve seen for a long while. I’d rather marry Keith Kettleborough,’ said the landlord.
Time passed. The lights were dimmed, and the dying firelight flickered faintly on the ceiling. Linda caught Mr and Mrs Arkwright giving her strange looks, and she felt certain that they recalled her evening in the bar with Jimmy. Mrs Arkwright insisted on giving them ham and eggs, which proved highly palatable.
When Mr Arkwright opened the door to the back yard, a gusty wind blew in and rattled the sign over the bar which announced: ‘Danny and Annie welcome you.’
At three in the morning, while they were discussing football coverage on television, they heard a Deep Sea Aggregates lorry thundering down the darkened road.
‘Which is the best football commentator, John Motson or Tony Gubba?’ asked Mr Arkwright.
‘There’s a lorry,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s stopping.’
‘I reckon it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other,’ said the landlord.
‘It’s stopped,’ said Linda.
‘Sheffield Star “Green Un” could see them both off. Fred Walters, John Piper,’ said the landlord.
‘He’s coming this way,’ said Reggie.
‘He’ll not listen,’ said the landlady. ‘Not while he’s talking about his famous “Green Un”. First time we went to London, he said, “Hey up, our Annie. They’ve got a ‘Pink Un’ here,” and he bought two copies of the Financial Times.’
There was a knock on the bar door.
‘It’s him,’ said Reggie.
The landlord unbolted the door, and Jimmy staggered in. He was wearing full morning dress with a wilting carnation.
‘Sorry,’ said Jimmy. ‘Saw light on. Out on my feet. Got such a thing as a bed?’
‘Friends of yours here,’ said Mr Arkwright.
Jimmy kissed Linda and shook hands warmly with Reggie.
‘Drinks all round,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You may have forgotten,’ said Reggie. ‘But we went to your wedding today.’
‘Haven’t forgotten,’ said Jimmy. ‘How did it go off?’
‘It didn’t go off,’ said Reggie.
‘You did,’ said Linda.
‘Yes,’
Jimmy took a swig of whisky and sighed.
‘Poor Lettuce,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t face it. Coward. Bad business. Drummed out of regiment. Conduct prejudicial. How did she take it?’
‘Very bravely,’ said Linda.
‘It was her finest hour,’ said Reggie.
‘Nice filly,’ said Jimmy. ‘Salt of earth. Not on, though. Poor cow. Nasty business, was it?’
Reggie told the tale of Jimmy’s wedding.
‘Oh God,’ said Jimmy. ‘Consolation. She’s better off without me. Dictum. Never marry sort of chap doesn’t turn up at own wedding.’
The weather relented; Climthorpe Albion began to catch up on their backlog of postponed games and stretched their unbeaten run to twelve matches; Jimmy returned to his bachelor ways; Lettuce found that she could bear the absence of Jimmy better than the kind sympathy of her friends; the Harris-Jones’s lived in peaceful harmony and listened to their baby boy’s lungs developing healthily; President Amin led the applause for The Admirable Crichton, that classic play about the overthrow of imperialist authority, and C.J. and Tony Webster took up their position at Perrin Products.
‘Let’s have lunch,’ said C.J., putting his head round her office door on his second day.
It was the moment that Elizabeth had dreaded.
‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘Provided Reggie doesn’t mind.’
‘Why should he?’ said C.J.
‘No reason,’ said Elizabeth. ‘But you know how unpredictable he is.’
‘It’s only a business lunch,’ said C.J., ‘for you to report on your feasibility studies into the viability of the European side of our operations.’
‘Were you wanting to have lunch today, darling?’ she asked Reggie.
‘Not especially,’ he said, without even looking up from his desk.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Only I thought maybe you wanted to discuss my ideas for children’s toys.’
Realizing that whatever elaborate train sets you give young children they prefer to play with battered old biscuit tins, Elizabeth had suggested that they sell battered old biscuit tins at slightly less than the price of train sets.
‘We can do that tomorrow,’ said Reggie. ‘Why?’
‘Well C.J. wants me to go out to lunch with him, and I thought you might not want me to.’
Reggie looked up at last, to gaze at her in surprise.
‘Well of course I want you to,’ he said. ‘You’re his boss.’
C.J. leant round the huge candle that dominated their little table in the crowded trattoria.
‘It’s wonderful to be with you again, Elizabeth,’ he said.
‘It’s nice to work with you, C.J.’
‘Call me Bunny.’
‘You said I shouldn’t call you that at work,’ said Elizabeth. ‘This is supposed to be a business lunch.’
The waiter set the whitebait down in front of Elizabeth with a big smile.
‘No, I’m the whitebait,’ said C.J.
The waiter whipped the whitebait away and set the pâté in front of Elizabeth.
‘No, I’m avocado,’ she said.
‘So sorry,’ said the waiter. ‘All today is cock-up. Molto cock-up. We not can get staff.’
As soon as the waiter had gone, C.J. peered round the candle again.
‘Will you ever call me Bunny again?’ he said.
‘Possibly,’ said Elizabeth.
‘In Godalming? There’s been quite a build-up of papers to sort.’
‘I can’t come to Godalming. Your wife’s there.’
‘She’s going to Luxembourg to see her relatives.’
The waiter brought Elizabeth her lasagne.
‘No, I’m avocado,’ she said.
‘Bloody kitchens,’ said the waiter. ‘Nobody speaka da English.’
He whipped the lasagne away angrily.
‘Reggie’s so jealous,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Please promise to come to Godalming,’ said C.J.
‘I think the most feasible cities for our European spearhead are Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam …’
‘Amsterdam in the spring,’ said C.J. ‘We could go to Amsterdam together.’
‘I can’t see Reggie letting us go to Amsterdam together,’ said Elizabeth, as the waiter presented her with a steaming plate of mussels.
‘I think C.J.’s going to suggest that I go on a European tour with him,’ said Elizabeth as they walked to Waterloo that evening.
‘What an excellent idea,’ said Reggie.
Chapter 20
April produced magical days, treacherous days, stormy days, but no boring days.
Climthorpe Albion lost two league games on the trot but reached Wembley in the FA Trophy, where their opponents would be Stafford Rangers.
C.J. settled in at Perrin Products and Tony Webster learnt to say ‘great’ and sound as if he meant it when David Harris-Jones came up with another of his super ideas.
Sales and production boomed. Newspapers wrote articles about Grot. A plum site at Brent Cross was purchased, another in Leeds shopping precinct.
In Cornwall, the private army was in a state of full readiness waiting for the day when the balloon went up.
April produced magical days, treacherous days, stormy days, but the balloon did not go up.
Reggie’s joke had prospered beyond belief. Never had he dreamt, when Grot was a faint sparkle in his bloodshot eye, that he would own his own factory and forty-six shops, be chairman of Climthorpe Albion Football Club, be wined and dined on the Poets’ Estate, have C.J. working under him and be able to put Tony Webster under David Harris-Jones.
Why then was he restless? Why did he feel tempted towards old and familiar
paths, to be outrageously rude to people he loved, to call his deceased mother-in-law a warthog, to say ‘waste-paper basket’ instead of ‘annual report’?
Had his joke lost its savour on the bedpost overnight?
April produced magical days, treacherous days, stormy days, but no boring days.
Yet Reginald Iolanthe Perrin was becoming bored.
Ponsonby sat peacefully on Reggie’s lap. He was an old cat now.
They had the house to themselves. Elizabeth had gone to dinner at Tom and Linda’s. Reggie had refused to go.
It was half past seven on an April Saturday evening. They sat by the french windows looking out over a garden exultant with spring.
‘Is this the result of my great bid for freedom, Ponsonby?’ said Reggie.
Ponsonby miaowed enigmatically.
‘Every day I get up, dress, go downstairs, have breakfast, walk down Coleridge Close, turn right into Tennyson Avenue, then left into Wordsworth Drive, go down the snicket into Station Road, catch the train, arrive at Waterloo twenty-two minutes late, walk to Perrin Products, dictate letters, send memos, make decisions, hold conferences, have lunch, hold conferences, make decisions, send memos, dictate letters, leave Perrin Products, walk to Waterloo, catch the train, arrive at Climthorpe twenty-two minutes late, walk along Station Road, up the snicket, up Wordsworth Drive, turn right into Tennyson Avenue, then left into Coleridge Close, enter the house I left that morning, have supper, go up the stairs I came down that morning, take off the clothes I put on that morning, put on the pyjamas I took off that morning, clean the teeth I cleaned that morning, and get into the bed I left that morning. Is that success, Ponsonby?’
Ponsonby miaowed, reserving judgement.
‘Oh, some days I make love and some days I do not. Some days we go out and some days we do not. Some days we have visitors and some days we do not. These differences seem to me like ripples on the Sargasso Sea. They barely stir the weed.’
A small charm of goldfinches twittered across the garden in the clear, cool evening. Ponsonby stiffened, decided that the game wasn’t worth the candle, there were plenty more where those came from, and relaxed. Reggie patted his head in sympathetic understanding.
‘There’s magic out there,’ said Reggie. ‘Nature’s annual magic. A cycle of infinite subtlety and variety, performed in an exquisite rhythm so slow that the human eye can never see it change. No maintenance engineer has ever seen the leaves of a tree turn golden and russet in October. No dental mechanic has ever witnessed the moment when the soft furry green of budding spring settles gently on the trees. No man has ever heard the first cry of the cuckoo. Only other cuckoos hear that.
‘And while this infinitely patient and wonderful cycle is being carried out in perfect stealth by billions of interdependent creatures and plants, we have gone through our crass and pedestrian cycle three hundred and sixty-five times. How about that, Ponsonby?’
Ponsonby made no reply.
‘Supposing we had an annual cycle as well, Ponsonby? Supposing we got up on February the sixteenth, had breakfast from the twentieth to the twenty-fourth, spent the twenty-fifth on the lavatory, worked from March the first to August the eleventh, with Wimbledon fortnight for lunch, were invited to the Smythe-Emberrys for cocktails from August the fourteenth to the twenty-seventh, spent September having dinner, and went to bed on November the third. We could put on our trousers so slowly that the eye could not detect the movement. We would be freed entirely from the need to rush around at speed, killing everything in our path. We would be freed from all the tentacles of routine. We could aspire to being as subtle as the colouring of the leaves on the trees.’
They considered the prospect in silence for several minutes. Reggie felt a sense of utter peace, alone with his cat in the eye of the storm of life.
‘And Tony Webster would be able to achieve his ambition of making love eighty-two times in one night,’ he said.
When Elizabeth got home at half past eleven, Reggie still hadn’t eaten his supper.
‘What’s all the hurry?’ he said.
C.J. wanted to leave for their European tour on April the twenty-fifth.
‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to come,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Reggie and I have got to go to the FA Trophy Cup Final on April the twenty-eighth.’
‘We’ll postpone the tour,’ said C.J. ‘We’ll go on May the second. I didn’t get where I am today without going on May the second.’
‘I don’t want to go to Europe with C.J.,’ said Elizabeth over supper.
‘Why not?’ said Reggie.
‘I don’t like him,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Well of course you don’t,’ said Reggie. ‘Is that all?’
‘I don’t want to travel round Europe with a man I don’t like.’
‘I don’t expect he likes you either,’ he said. ‘I expect he’s dreading the prospect just as much as you are. That isn’t the point. It’s business.’
Reggie and Elizabeth had lunch with the Climthorpe team at their secret hide-out. Then they drove in the team coach to Wembley.
A part of Reggie felt loftily uninvolved. Another part felt sick with nerves.
‘What does it matter, darling, in the scheme of things, whether Climthorpe beat Stafford Rangers or whether Stafford Rangers beat Climthorpe?’ he said as they crawled past the shoppers of Ealing. ‘On limestone hills that have been there for millions of years joyous little lambs will still be born to mothers whose joy has been dulled by their knowledge of the brevity of life. In the stews of Calcutta and the shanty towns of Guatemala the hungry and the maimed will remain hungry and maimed. Sad-faced workers in brown overalls will ride squat, ugly bicycles from dreary regimented homes to dreary regimented factories in dull suburbs from Omsk to Bratislava. None of them will ever know whether Climthorpe Albion beat Stafford Rangers, or whether Stafford Rangers beat Climthorpe Albion.’
‘Don’t let the team hear you talking like that,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I’m glad Clench has recovered from his hamstring injury,’ said Reggie.
They entered the stadium. The 24,218 crowd looked dwarfed in the vast concrete saucer. Reggie nodded to the Milfords, the Peter Cartwrights, his bank manager, the cashier with the perpetual cold at Cash and Carry, the landlord of the Ode and Sonnet, the Chief Education Officer, the man who ran the bookstall at Climthorpe Station, the woman who ran the man who ran the bookstall at Climthorpe Station, the big couple from Sketchley’s, and the fireman whose wife had run off with the man from the betting shop. All favoured him with smiles – joy unalloyed at the sight of this symbol of Climthorpe’s success, the amazing Reginald Iolanthe Perrin. Reggie felt a rising panic, disbelief, anger, twisted tripes of inappropriate emotion.
He stopped to chat with Mr Pelham.
‘Never a day passes,’ said that worthy, ‘but what I think: “Mr Perrin swilled out my porkers.”’
‘A lot of swill’s flowed under the sty since then,’ said Reggie.
‘You’re not wrong,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘Think we’ll win?’
‘Of course,’ said Reggie.
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘Football, I can take it or leave it, let’s face it, it’s only a game, grown men kicking a ball about, but it’s my boy, lives for it.’
The trouble-maker?’
‘Turned over a new leaf, Mr Perrin.’
‘Gratifying news indeed, Mr Pelham.’
More smiles, more hellos, big cry of ‘We are the champions’ from the Climthorpe fans.
‘And how’s your lovely daughter?’ said Reggie.
Mr Pelham’s face darkened.
‘We don’t talk of her,’ he said. ‘Women! Present company excepted, of course.’
Arrival of Mr Pelham’s nice boy with a souvenir programme. Introduction of that Mr Perrin I was telling you about. Farewells. Cry from Mr Pelham, over heads of crowd: ‘Pigs aren’t what they used to be. We miss you, Mr Perrin.’
Much-missed lucky mascot and friend of th
e porker Reginald Iolanthe Perrin borne seat-wards on a crowd of expectation. Suddenly, Linda beaming. Tom, smiling rather shyly. Adam and Jocasta, excited.
‘What a surprise,’ said Reggie.
‘Can’t let our Climthorpe down,’ said Linda.
Happy family heart atom pulsating with anticipation, bleeding heart exploding atom without Mark suddenly so sorely missed this day.
Raucous cries, foul oaths, rattles, foul oaths, flat beer in plastic glasses, rhythmic swaying of many scarves, rosettes, foul oaths.
‘They’ll learn the words sooner or later anyway,’ from Tom. ‘We don’t believe in protecting them.’
Take them Gorbal-wards, Tom. Take them Scotland Road-wards. Take them to deprived sores of inner cities, urban pustules. Take them to Soweto.
Or live in the Thames Valley, thank your lucky stars and shut up.
Climthorpe fans hurtling past – good to see the enthusiasm.
Stafford fans hurtling past – bloody yobbos.
Needless division! Heedless attrition!
Glad Clench fit though.
Waving and smiling even while thinking, living on three levels – conscious, sub-conscious and self-conscious. Amazing machine man, comic and cosmic.
Climthorpe inspecting pitch, dwarfed, awful semi-sharp suits.
Stafford inspecting pitch, huge, quarried from Northern rock, Climthorpe no chance, raucous cheers. Awful semi-sharp suits.
Words heard from afar in this small-time big-time hothouse of confusion. Tom saying, far away in distant reality, This is the one where they don’t pick the ball up, isn’t it?’ Boring pose of ignorance. Smile smile. Conceal inner confusion almost. Don’t let Climthorpe down, mighty man mascot. Tom again, ‘I’m not a football person.’ Nor am I, Tom. What am I, Tom? ‘Stafford crap.’ This from Adam, aged five. Life goes on.
A drink with the directors. Hold on, Reggie. Do not slide down philosophical banisters. Elizabeth looking worried sensing inner turmoil.
‘I’m glad Clench’s hamstring’s cleared up,’ said surface Reggie.
‘Never doubted it would,’ said surface the Manager of the Climthorpe Branch of the Abbey National Building Society – God bless mammon and all who sleep with her. ‘Not with your luck, Reggie.’
