by David Nobbs
The bed-sitter turned out to be above a shop that sold Indian spices, next door to a launderette. Asian women of indeterminable age and inaccessible beauty were setting off with Tesco carrier bags from houses that had been built for Brentford supporters and old women who liked a bottle of stout before the pubs filled up on a Saturday morning.
Over the road the Gaumont, designed for films with Richard Todd in them, had gaudy posters for a double bill of romances from the sub-continent.
Beside Doc Morrissey’s door there were three bells. Above each bell, untidily secured with Sellotape, there was a name. The names were Patel, Mankad and Morrissey. Reggie rang Doc Morrissey’s bell.
The air was full of the scents of cumin, garam masala and Persil.
There was no reply. He tried the bell marked Patel. Mr Patel had a chubby face and told Reggie that he would probably find the Professor in the park.
The park was small and bleak. The grass was thin and patchy. The backs of the surrounding houses were shabby and blackened. Grot’s erstwhile Head of Forward Planning was sitting on a bench, feeding crumbs of poppadum to sceptical starlings.
‘Reggie!’ he said, a smile of heart-warming delight spreading across his weatherbeaten face.
‘Morning, Professor,’ said Reggie.
Doc Morrissey gave an abashed grin.
‘It goes down well in these parts,’ he said. ‘I’ve set myself up as an English teacher.’
‘How’s it going?’ said Reggie, sitting beside him on the bench.
‘Extremely well.’
‘How many pupils have you got?’
‘These are early days, Reggie.’
‘How many pupils?’
‘One. I’m not unhappy here, Reggie. I suppose that since I’m one of nature’s exiles, I’m better off where it’s natural for a white man to feel an exile.’
It was the middle of February. The weather was still quite mild, but a keen wind was sending occasional reminders about loneliness gusting across the park.
‘Old age must be rather depressing for a doctor,’ said Reggie. ‘Knowing exactly what’s happening to your body.’
‘Yes it must,’ said Doc Morrissey.
He flexed the fingers of both hands.
‘Why are you doing that?’ said Reggie.
‘Preventing the onset of arthritis in the joints.’
The starlings, their glorious plumage dulled by the city grime, had deserted Doc Morrissey and were exploring the lifeless ground around a derelict swing.
Two crows and a blackbird joined them.
‘Even the birds are black here,’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘Are you depressed?’ said Reggie.
‘No. No. Southall’s a million laughs. And I find a certain consolation, Reggie, in the knowledge that by being the worst doctor in England I have saved somebody else from that ignominy. No man’s life is entirely pointless.’
‘Oh good,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m glad you’re not depressed.’
He trailed his arm over the back of the bench and turned to face Doc Morrissey.
‘This is no chance meeting,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to offer you a job.’
Doc Morrissey gawped.
‘Again?’ he said.
Reggie explained about the community and its aims.
‘It sounds marvellous,’ said Doc Morrissey excitedly. ‘What sort of role do you have in mind for me?’
‘A medical role,’ said Reggie.
‘Oh. Isn’t there anything else I could do?’
‘A different branch of medicine, though. You’ll be our psychologist.’
‘Oh!’
‘It’s your undiscovered metier, Doc.’
‘It is?’
‘Psychology is your nettle and I’m confident that you’ll grasp it.’
‘You are?’
‘You will have a salary of . . . five thousand pounds, plus board and lodging.’
They went to the pub to celebrate. They drank pints of bitter and ate gala pie with brinjal pickle.
‘I’m no expert, you know,’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘The experts have had their chances,’ said Reggie. ‘They have failed. It’s precisely your lack of expertise that excites me.’
‘Oh.’
On the nineteenth of February, Reggie and Elizabeth moved into Number Twenty-one, Oslo Avenue, Botchley.
Vans brought the furniture that Elizabeth had chosen from the great furniture emporia of London Town.
Men came to connect up the gas and electricity.
The neighbours offered them cups of tea. These olive branches were not spurned.
The houses of the neighbours were smaller than Number Twenty-one. They only had three bedrooms.
The neighbours at Number Twenty-three were Mr and Mrs Penfold.
The neighbours at Number Nineteen were Mr and Mrs Hollies.
Mrs Penfold talked little and seemed neurotically shy. Her tea was too weak.
Mrs Hollies talked a great deal and seemed obsessively extrovert. Her tea was too strong.
The exceptionally mild weather continued. The snowdrops were on the rampage in front gardens. The crocuses were swelling expectantly and sticky buds were forming on the trees.
Mrs Hollies had never known anything like it. But then we didn’t get the seasons like we used to. Everything had gone absolutely haywire. Mrs Hollies blamed the aeroplanes. People could scoff, but it stood to reason that all those great big things up there disturbing the atmosphere must make everything go haywire.
The views of Mrs Penfold on the subject were a closed book.
That evening Reggie and Elizabeth explored their neighbourhood. They walked down Oslo Avenue, past pleasant detached residences, several of which had mock-Tudor beams and bay windows. They turned right into Bonn Close. The timing devices of the street lamps were on the blink, and the lights were pale pink and feeble. Bonn Close brought them to the High Street.
They visited the Botchley Arms, where Reggie had two bottles of diabetic lager while his partner opted for two medium sherries.
They walked down Botchley High Street, past supermarkets, shoe shops, betting shops and dress shops, past the George and Dragon, until they came to a parade set back from the High Street. Here there were three restaurants – the New Bengal, the Golden Jasmine House, and the Oven D’Or. They dined at the Oven D’Or. They were the only diners.
Before returning home they sampled the delights of the George and Dragon. It was run by a small man with a large wife and an even larger mother. The locals called it the George and Two Dragons.
Their route home took them along Nairobi Drive, and round Lisbon Crescent to the other end of Oslo Avenue. A right turn brought them back to their new home. They stood by the garden gate and looked at the placid, commonplace frontage of their surprisingly spacious dwelling. Soon it would be bursting with life and love and hope.
A light rain began to fall. Reggie lifted Elizabeth up and staggered in over the threshold.
The work of recruitment continued. The targets were Reggie’s old colleagues at Sunshine Desserts and Grot. He felt about them as he felt about his ageing pyjamas. They might not fit, they might be somewhat torn in vital places and permanently stained in other vital places, but a man felt comfortable with them.
He called next at the flat occupied by Tony Webster and his wife Joan. It was in the Lower Mortlake Road. It was ten fifteen on a Saturday morning. Reggie was disappointed to find that his former secretary was out. It fact he only just caught Tony. He was sporting a brown suit and matching suitcase, and carried a lightweight topcoat over his arm.
‘Sorry. Were you just going out?’ said Reggie.
‘Business trip. Frankfurt. Off to hit the fatherland, score a few exports. I’ll get a later flight. No sweat,’ said Tony. ‘Come in. Great to see you.’
The flat bore evidence of both opulence and poverty. There was a threadbare carpet and a heavy, stained three-piece suite. There was also a colour television set, a cocktail trolle
y and expensive stereo equipment.
‘Joan at work?’ Reggie asked, installing himself in one of the heavy armchairs.
‘Yeah. She does one Saturday morning in three. I don’t want her to work, but you know what women are.’
‘Things are going well, are they?’ said Reggie.
‘Fantastic. Great. Knock-out.’
‘I came here with a proposition,’ said Reggie. ‘But there doesn’t seem much point in putting it as you’re doing so well.’
‘Well, pretty well. This is Success City, Arizona. But I’ve always been interested in your ideas, Reggie.’
Reggie described the community and offered Tony and Joan jobs.
‘Knock-out,’ said Tony. ‘Absolute knock-out. We’ll let you know.’
When Reggie left, Tony set off with him. The suitcase came open on the stairs and his central-heating brochures cascaded into the hall.
‘OK,’ said Tony. ‘Frankfurt doesn’t exist. But this central heating job’s a knock-out. No basic, but fantastic commission.’
That afternoon Reggie invited himself to tea with David and Prue Harris-Jones.
They had a flat in a new block in Reading. Already the paint on the outside was peeling and the walls on the inside were cracking. Their fourteen-month-old boy was Reggie’s godson. His name was Reggie. David and Prue greeted Reggie with something approaching adoration. Young Reggie greeted him with something approaching an attack of wind.
David said that he was very happy with the building society, and Reading was much maligned. When Reggie offered them jobs, their response was unequivocal.
‘Super,’ they said.
Later, over his second slice of sponge cake, David Harris-Jones did venture a cautious criticism.
‘You know what I think of you, Reggie,’ he said. ‘I look up to you.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Reggie.
‘Well exactly,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘I look up to you as the sort of person who doesn’t expect or want people to look up to him.’
‘I agree,’ said Prue.
‘Well, thank you,’ said Reggie.
‘I mean the community idea is super,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘But I don’t think Prue or I would be happy if you were . . . how can I put it? . . . well, not exactly a cult figure, but . . . er . . . not exactly sort of too big for your . . . but sort of . . . er . . .’
‘Thank you for speaking so frankly,’ said Reggie. ‘If you mean that I’m in danger of becoming self-important, please don’t worry. The community’s the thing. I’ll just be the shadowy catalyst that enables it to function.’
‘Super,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones.
‘What are you going to call it?’ said Prue, crossing her attractive but sensible legs.
‘Perrins,’ said Reggie.
‘Super,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones.
Steady rain was falling as Reggie drove home from Reading. The lights in Lisbon Crescent were out, and the February night was very dark. As he turned into Oslo Avenue, he found himself following the single-decker bus, the W288, which ran through these quiet streets to places with deliriously dull names, gloriously ordinary Coxwell, exquisitely prosaic Spraundon.
This was his world.
When he entered the living-room, he felt as if he had been there for a thousand years. The phone was ringing. It was Tony.
‘We’ll take the job,’ he said. ‘No sweat.’
‘Reggie?’ said Elizabeth next afternoon, as they were about to wash up the Sunday dinner things in the deceptively commodious kitchen.
‘Yes?’
‘What’s happening about the staff? You haven’t told me a thing.’
‘We agreed that the recruiting would be my responsibility and the furniture would be yours,’ he said.
‘Well I haven’t kept the furniture secret,’ said Elizabeth.
‘That is rather different,’ he said. ‘I mean, we couldn’t sit on it if you did.’
He donned the real ale apron and began to stack the dishes in the integrated sink with double drainers. He arranged the dishes in a pyramid so that the water would pour over them like a fountain.
‘Is there some reason why you don’t want to tell me about the staff?’ said Elizabeth, wrapping the remains of the meal in the Botchley and Spraundon Press (Incorporating the Coxwell Gazette).
‘Of course not, darling.’
He turned on the hot water. It gushed on to a dessert spoon and sprayed out all over the floor. He moved the spoon hurriedly, and added a few squirts of extra-strength washing-up liquid.
‘I’ve engaged six excellent people,’ he said.
‘Who?’ she asked. ‘I know their names won’t mean much, but I’d like to know.’
‘Er . . . one or two of the names may mean something. C.J., for instance.’
‘C.J.?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve appointed C.J.?’
‘Yes. He won’t be on top of us all the time, darling. He’ll probably spend quite a lot of his time in his . . . er . . . in his tent.’
There was a pause. Reggie lost his dishmop.
‘In his what?’ said Elizabeth.
‘He’s going to live under canvas,’ said Reggie. ‘Mrs C.J. won’t be with him. She’s no frontierswoman.’
‘Reggie, where is this tent of C.J.’s going to be?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Damn, I’ve broken a cup,’ said Reggie.
He hunted for the remains of the cup in the sud-filled bowl, for, like many a good man before him, he had sadly underestimated the power of the extra-strength washing-up liquid.
During his hunt he found the dishmop. Life is often like that. In hunting for one thing, we find another.
‘Where is this tent going to be?’ repeated Elizabeth. ‘Near here?’
‘Er . . . quite near.’
‘How near?’
‘Er . . . not in the front garden.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that C.J. is going to live in a tent in the back garden?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Right at the back of the back garden,’ said Reggie. ‘Miles from the house, really.’
‘What will he do about food? Open tins of pemmican down by the compost heap?’
‘I thought he’d . . . er . . . have some of his meals with us.’
‘Which meals?’
‘Er . . . breakfast, lunch and dinner.’
‘So we live together, the three of us. That sounds dangerous,’ she said.
‘Good heavens no. Ménages à-trois, Bermuda triangles, that would be dangerous. No, they’ll all live here.’
‘All?’
‘All the staff.’
‘So I’m expected to share my house with total strangers?’
‘They . . . er . . . they won’t be strangers.’
‘What will they be?’
‘Well . . . people like Doc Morrissey, Tony and Joan, David and Prue.’
‘All the old mob?’
‘They’ve proved their worth, darling. Look what they did for Grot.’
‘And what about our daughter? Hasn’t she proved her worth?’
‘Linda and Tom too. I was going to ask them next. And Jimmy.’
‘It’s going to get a bit crowded, isn’t it?’
‘That’s the whole point of a community,’ said Reggie. ‘There’s not much point in having a community if nobody’s there.’
‘Am I expected to cook for them?’
‘We’ll employ a cook, darling.’
Reggie advanced towards her. Suds dripped from his green washing-up gloves.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have told you everything. I just didn’t know how you’d take it.’
‘I think it’s all very exciting,’ said Elizabeth.
After they had finished the washing-up, they had their coffee in the living-room. The chairs and settee that Elizabeth had chosen had comfort as their main objective, while not neglecting the aesthetic element. Three pictures of bygone Botchley adorned the
walls. The smokeless fuel burned placidly. They sat on the settee, and Elizabeth nestled her head against Reggie’s chest.
‘Did you really mean that?’ said Reggie. ‘Do you really think it’s all very exciting?’
‘After Grot, I’ll never doubt your judgement again,’ said Elizabeth.
It was cosy in the living-room in the fading half-light. Reggie put his arm round Elizabeth.
‘We’re going to have to learn different values,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to forget that an Englishman’s home is his castle. From now on, our home is everyone else’s castle.’
The front doorbell rang.
‘Damn, damn damn,’ he said. ‘Who the hell is that?’
He smiled ruefully.
It was his son-in-law Tom.
‘Oh, it’s you. Come in,’ said Reggie.
‘I’ haven’t come at an unfortunate time, have I, Reggie?’ said Tom.
‘Every time you visit us, Tom, it’s . . . absolutely delightful. Wot, no prune wine?’
Tom had brought some of his usual appurtenances – his beard, his briar pipe – but none of his home-made wine.
‘I’ haven’t had the heart to make any lately,’ he admitted. ‘You’ll have to forgo it.’
‘Oh, what a shame.’
They went into the living-room.
‘This room is surprisingly spacious,’ said Tom, after he had kissed his mother-in-law.
‘Once an estate agent, always an estate agent,’ said Reggie.
Elizabeth went to make some coffee for Tom, who plonked himself down on the settee. His legs stretched out in front of him till they seemed to fill the room.
‘How are things with you, Reggie?’ he asked.
‘Not bad, Tom. I smiled ruefully just before you came. First time I can recall actually smiling ruefully. I’ve read about it, of course. Always wanted to do it.’
I’m not smiling ruefully,’ said Tom.
‘No.’
‘I’m looking lugubrious.’
‘Yes.’
‘Even when I’m wildly excited I look lugubrious, so it’s difficult for people to tell when I actually am lugubrious.’
‘You’ve got no lugubriosity in reserve.’
‘Exactly.’
Tom relit his pipe.
‘Do you remember what a success I was with my adverts for Grot?’ he said.
‘I certainly do.’
‘I was known as the McGonegall of Admass. Well, you may find this difficult to believe, but I’ve been unable to get another job in advertising.’
