by David Nobbs
‘Oh yes,’ said Lettuce. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Duck, sir?’ said the waiter.
Jimmy stared at his duck with uncomprehending astonishment. He felt as if he had ordered it a thousand years ago.
Jimmy and Lettuce lingered. They had brandies after the meal.
The two shoppers left the restaurant before them. When they got out into the bright sunshine, one of the women sighed deeply.
‘I know just what you mean,’ said the other. ‘When I get home tonight, Ted won’t believe a word of it.’
‘Ronald won’t even listen.’
On Saturday there was one letter in the mail. It informed them that a new restaurant was to open in War Memorial Parade. It was called the Thermopylae Kebab House. They could have twenty-five per cent off a bill for two on presenting the enclosed voucher. No voucher was enclosed.
The study of Number Twenty-one had been transformed into the secretary’s office. On the walls, Elizabeth had pinned several sheets of paper. They revealed the full nature of the accommodation that was available.
There were eight bedrooms, four kitchens, four dining-rooms and two living-rooms as bedrooms for guests. Seven of these had been fitted out as double rooms, so there was accommodation for twenty-five guests.
Reggie had worried that it wouldn’t be sufficient.
At the moment it was sufficient.
There was only one name on the charts: Mr C. R. Babbacombe.
‘Oh my God,’ said Reggie. ‘What have we done?’
‘You felt like this at the beginning of Grot,’ said Elizabeth. ‘And look where that ended up.’
‘Yes, but what’s Mr C. R. Babbacombe going to think when he finds he’s got to face the lot of us on his own?’
It began to rain. The two-day summer was over.
Reggie’s expression brightened.
‘Perhaps he won’t turn up,’ he said.
4 The Early Days
But Mr C. R. Babbacombe did turn up. He arrived, small, neat, shy, shiny and eager at twenty-five past three on Sunday afternoon.
‘Hello. I hope I’m not the first,’ he said in a thin, metallic voice.
‘You’re certainly in good time,’ said Reggie.
He led Mr Babbacombe to Number Twenty-three, where he would have the room next to the Harris-Joneses.
David Harris-Jones opened the door.
‘Oh. Ah. You must be Mr . . . er . . .’
‘Babbacombe,’ said Mr Babbacombe. ‘Must be difficult for you to remember all our names.’
‘Er . . . yes,’ said Reggie.
‘Yes, well . . . er . . . come in and I’ll show you to your . . . er . . .’ said David Harris-Jones.
He led the way up the narrow stairs.
‘. . . room,’ he said, when everyone had forgotten that he still had a sentence to finish.
‘Pardon?’ said Reggie.
‘I said I’d . . . er . . . show Mr Babbacombe to his . . . er . . .’
‘Oh I see,’ said Reggie.
‘. . . room,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘I was just finishing my . . . er . . .’
‘Sentence,’ said Reggie.
‘. . . that I’d started earlier,’ said David Harris-Jones.
Mr Babbacombe looked from one to the other with some alarm.
On the door of his room a card announced ‘Mr C. R. Babbacombe’.
David opened the door, and they entered. There was a single bed, an armchair, a hard chair, a small desk, a gas fire and a print of Botchley War Memorial.
‘I can’t wait to meet all the others,’ said Mr Babbacombe.
‘Ah. Yes. The others,’ said Reggie.
Mr Babbacombe went over to the window, which afforded a fine view over the spacious garden. It was chock-a-block with flowers, of wildly clashing colours, all about one foot six high. It had been Mr Penfold’s pride and joy.
The sky was leaden.
‘I’m an undertaker,’ said Mr Babbacombe.
‘Ah!’ said Reggie.
‘How . . . er . . . interesting,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘But then you know that. It sticks out a mile, doesn’t it?’ said Mr Babbacombe.
‘Good lord, no,’ said Reggie. ‘Does it, David?’
‘Certainly not,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘My face bears the stigmata of my profession,’ said Mr Babbacombe, sitting on the pink coverlet and testing the bedsprings gingerly. ‘My clothes are permeated with the stench of decay.’
‘No, they’re very nice,’ said Reggie.
‘I’m an outcast, a pariah. That’s why I’m looking forward to this . . . er . . . course.’
‘To meet the others?’
‘Yes.’
Reggie looked at David Harris-Jones helplessly.
‘Among the other . . . er . . . what do you call us? Patients?’ said Mr Babbacombe.
‘Good heavens no,’ said Reggie. ‘Guests.’
‘Among the other guests I hope to be accepted as an equal,’ said Mr Babbacombe.
David Harris-Jones looked helplessly at Reggie.
Mr Babbacombe released the clasp of his suitcase decisively. His packing was orderly and spare. He had two-tone pyjamas.
‘I’m afraid I have a disappointment for you,’ said Reggie.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. You . . . er . . . you won’t be meeting the others . . . yet. We’d like to give you some solitude to . . . er . . .’
‘Get in the right frame of . . . er . . .’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘. . . mind,’ said Reggie.
‘I see,’ said Mr Babbacombe. ‘I don’t meet the others until dinner, is that it?’
‘You’ll . . . er . . . dine alone in your room tonight,’ said Reggie.
‘Oh.’
‘This will enable you to prepare yourself mentally and physically for tomorrow when you . . . er . . .’
‘Meet the others.’
‘Broadly speaking, yes. You’ll have a group meeting at nine thirty.’
Reggie called an emergency meeting of the staff and explained the situation. It was decided that the only solution was for five members of the staff to pretend to be guests. The names of the staff were put into the hat, except for Reggie’s.
‘As head of the project I cannot take part, however much I might want to,’ he explained.
The five names drawn were David Harris-Jones, Elizabeth Perrin, C.J., Joan Webster and Doc Morrissey.
They spent the evening preparing their roles for the next day’s deception.
Mr Babbacombe spent the evening lingering over an excellent but lonely dinner and getting himself into the right mental and physical state for meeting them.
In the morning Mr Babbacombe’s breakfast was brought to his room. Then, in a trance-like state of expectation, he drifted along Oslo Avenue, under the grey August sky, to Number Twenty-five.
Jimmy opened the door and led him into the living-room.
It was even more surprisingly spacious than the living-room of Number Twenty-one. There were no french windows. Three pictures of bygone Botchley adorned the walls. Twelve assorted chairs stood in two semi-circles of six, facing each other.
Mr Babbacombe didn’t know in which semi-circle to sit, so he remained standing, looking out over the banal garden with unseeing eyes.
C.J. arrived next.
‘Lucas is the name,’ he said, in a thin metallic voice.
‘Babbacombe,’ said Mr Babbacombe, and C.J. realized with horror that his assumed voice was identical to Mr Babbacombe’s real one.
‘I feared I might be alone,’ said C.J.
‘I have the impression there are quite a few of us,’ said Mr Babbacombe.
‘Oh good,’ said C.J. ‘One swallow doesn’t make a summer.’
‘That’s true,’ said Mr Babbacombe.
‘I wonder which chairs we sit in,’ said C.J. ‘Let’s plump for these.’
‘Righty ho,’ said Mr Babbacombe.
No sooner had they sat, in the
chair facing the handsome brick fireplace, than they had to stand to greet Joan and Elizabeth. Doc Morrissey arrived next, then the staff entered en masse and finally David Harris-Jones sidled into the end seat. He had suddenly realized that Mr Babbacombe knew him, and he’d made frantic efforts to disguise himself as the road manager of a pop group. These efforts were not an unqualified success.
Reggie stood up. Beside him were Linda, Tom, Tony, Jimmy and Prue.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Now the idea of these group sessions is that we all get to help each other. We, the staff, help you, and you, the guests, help each other, bringing up your problems, and discussing them among yourselves.’
He smiled at Mr Babbacombe, Doc Morrissey, C.J., Elizabeth, Joan and David.
‘And you, the guests, can help us,’ said Reggie. ‘By the end, if the meeting’s going well, it’ll be hard to tell who are the staff and who are the guests. Huh huh. Now, I’ll call upon the Doc to say a few words. Doc?’
Doc Morrissey stood up.
Thank you,’ he said.
Oh my God, thought Reggie, I forgot Doc was one of the guests. He glared desperately at Doc Morrissey.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘I’ve just remembered. I’m not the Doc.’
He sat down.
Reggie fixed his glare at Tom.
‘Doc?’ he said.
Tom seemed to be miles away, but Jimmy stood up.
‘Sorry miles away, brown study,’ he said. ‘I’m the Doc. Word of advice. If you fancy the local bints, keep well away. Go for a long hike instead. Cold shower every morning, and Bob’s your uncle. Carry on.’
He sat down.
‘Good advice there from the Doc,’ said Reggie. ‘Now if any of you have any problems, any neuroses, any phobias, anything, however little, however large, do please tell us about it. Now, who’ll get the ball rolling?’
He sat down.
Doc Morrissey stood up.
‘I think I’d better explain why I stood up just then,’ he said. ‘I’m prey to the delusion that I’m a member of the medical profession. It’s embarrassing. People say, “Is there a doctor in the house?” “I’m a doctor,” I cry. I leap up. “I’m a doctor. Make way. Make way,” I cry. I get to the scene of the disaster, they all say, “Thank God you’ve come. Doc,” and I say. “I’ve just remembered I’m not a doctor. Sorry”.’
Doc Morrissey sat down.
‘Fascinating,’ said Reggie. ‘Any comments, Doc?’
Doc Morrissey stood up.
‘Not really,’ he said.
Reggie glared at him.
‘Sorry,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘You see. There I go again.’
He sat down and wiped his brow.
Jimmy stood up.
‘Just remembered. I’m the Doc,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Memory’s a bit dicey lately. Touch of . . . er . . .’
‘Amnesia?’ suggested Reggie.
‘Yes. Bit tired this morning. Cock-up on the kipping front. Fascinating tale of yours, Doc’
‘Why do you call him Doc if he isn e Doc?’ said Mr Babbacombe.
‘Ah!’ said Reggie. ‘Yes. Er . . . why do you call him Doc, if he isn’t the Doc, and of course he isn’t the Doc, Doc?’
‘Er . . . er . . .’ suggested Jimmy.
‘I don’t want to put words into your mouth,’ said Reggie.
‘Please do,’ said Jimmy.
‘You’re thinking that if you tell our deluded friend here that he isn’t the Doc, he feels rebuffed, but if you pretend he is the Doc, he has the opportunity to deny it himself, he is a part of his own cure, he feels rewarded. Well done. Doc.’
‘Took the words out of my mouth,’ said Jimmy.
He sat down.
C.J. stood up.
‘I can’t make friends,’ he said, in his assumed voice. ‘I’m just waiting for the day when I need the services of the undertakers, that fine body of men.’
‘You know, don’t you?’ said Mr Babbacombe.
‘No, I don’t,’ said C.J. ‘Know what?’
‘It sticks out a mile.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ said C.J.
‘Since you all know already, I may as well tell you. I’m an undertaker. Surprise, surprise.’
‘Good heavens, are you really?’ said C.J. ‘Well, well, bless my soul.’
‘Come off it. Anyone can tell an undertaker from everyone else,’ said Mr Babbacombe in his thin, metallic voice.
‘Nonsense,’ said C.J. in his thin, metallic voice. ‘I didn’t get where I am today by telling undertakers from everyone else.’
‘When I first saw you yesterday, Mr Babbacombe,’ said Reggie, ‘I thought, “That man’s a research chemist, or I’m a Dutchman”.’
‘I’d got you down for a civil engineer,’ put in Linda.
‘Any other problems anyone would like to raise?’ said Reggie, wiping his brow. ‘Mrs Naylor, how about you?’
Joan and Elizabeth hesitated. Both thought the other one wasn’t going to speak. Both said, ‘Not at the moment, thank you.’
‘Ah! you’re both called Naylor. Are you related?’ said Reggie.
‘No,’ said Joan.
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth.
‘This is interesting,’ said Reggie. ‘There seems to be some doubt about the matter. I’ll ask you again. Are you related?’
‘No,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Yes,’ said Joan.
‘I think I understand,’ said Reggie desperately. ‘Mrs Naylor denied being related to Mrs Naylor because she’s ashamed of her. Mrs Naylor, realizing this, tried to protect Mrs Naylor by pretending net to be a relative, but Mrs Naylor had by this time decided to acknowledge her. Am I right, Mrs Naylor?’
‘Brilliant,’ said Joan and Elizabeth.
‘It’s what I’m here for,’ said Reggie. ‘Why are you ashamed of Mrs Naylor, Mrs Naylor?’
‘She . . . er . . .’ said Joan.
‘I drink,’ said Elizabeth.
‘She drinks,’ said Joan.
David Harris-Jones decided that it was time for him to come to the rescue.
Now Reggie remembered that Mr Babbacombe had met David.
‘I’m a roadie for a super pop group,’ continued David Harris-Jones, standing with his face averted from Mr Babbacombe. ‘I’m sorry to turn away from you like this. I guess I just can’t face you face to face. I guess I can’t face myself, know what I mean? I have to make trips, all over the country, one night stands, and on these trips I . . . er . . . I make trips, know what I mean? I mean am I into acid? Am I? Well, I’ll tell you. I am. Like you finish a gig, back to some chick’s pad, a real super laid-back scene, man. Know what I mean? But what are you, identity crisis wise? Nobody. A bum. I’m fed up with being into music, man. I’m fed up with being into acid. I guess I’ve wised up. I’m just not into being into things any more. I want out. I mean, like it’s . . .’ He glanced apologetically at Tony. ‘. . . it’s Coldsoupsville, Arizona. I wanna kick the habit, keep off the grass, know what I mean, man? Like I just don’t know who I am.’
‘I do,’ said Mr Babbacombe. ‘You’re the warden.’
‘I mean like I . . . what?’
‘You’re the warden of Number Twenty-three,’ said Mr Babbacombe.
David Harris-Jones looked round wildly. Prue smiled encouragingly.
‘Oh, that creep,’ said David. ‘I saw him. Like I’m a dead ringer for him, know what I mean?’
‘The only good ringer is a dead ringer,’ said C.J.
‘Where’s the warden now?’ said Mr Babbacombe.
‘He’s . . . er . . . he’s ill,’ said Reggie. ‘He’s got food poi . . . no, not food poi . . . er . . .’flu. That’s it. ‘Flu. He’s got ‘flu. He’s definitely got ‘flu.’
‘He’s the warden,’ said Mr Babbacombe. He pointed at Doc Morrissey. ‘He’s the doctor. Neither of them are called Mrs Naylor. You’re all staff.’
‘Some of what you say is true,’ said Reggie. ‘To the extent that . . . er . . . he’s the
doctor . . . er . . . and he is the warden . . . and . . . er . . . neither of them are called Mrs Naylor . . . and we are all staff. Well done, you’ve come through the test with flying colours.’
Test?’
‘Spotting who are staff and who aren’t. It’s a little psychological test to . . . er . . . test your . . . er . . . ability to understand psychological tests.’
‘Where are your guests?’
‘You are.’
‘What?’
‘It’s our first day, Mr Babbacombe, and you are our only guest.’
Reggie pleaded with Mr Babbacombe to give them another chance, and the little mortician was reluctantly persuaded.
They moved the chair around. There were now eleven chairs with their backs to the fireplace, and one chair facing it.
Mr Babbacombe sat facing the full complement of staff.
Reggie stood up.
‘Good morning again,’ he said. ‘Now we hold these little group meetings, Mr Babbacombe, so that we, the staff, can meet you, the . . . Mr Babbacombe, and so that you, Mr Babbacombe, can meet us, the staff. We can help you and you can help . . . er . . . yourself, bringing up your problems, discussing them among . . . er . . . yourself and . . . er . . . so let’s get on with things, shall we? Now, who’s going to start the ball rolling? Mr Babbacombe?’
Mr Babbacombe stood up.
‘We can stay as long as we like and at the end we pay according to what we feel we’ve got out of it, is that right?’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ said Reggie. ‘It seems the fairest way to me.’
‘I think so too,’ said Mr Babbacombe.
‘Oh good. I am glad,’ said Reggie.
‘Good-bye,’ said Mr Babbacombe.
When Mr Babbacombe had gone, Reggie turned to his staff. ‘I’ll be honest,’ he said. ‘This start has not been as auspicious as I hoped. But, we must not panic. I have just one thing to say to you. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’
Even McBlane’s excellent lunch and dinner couldn’t raise morale.
And that evening the great chef himself came under the lash of disapproval. His ears would have burned, had they not been burning already, due to an attack of Pratt’s Ear Itch.
The incident involving McBlane began when Linda entered the children’s bedroom, to hear Tom saying. They’re a famous Italian film director and an Irish air-line. Now go to sleep.’
