The Reginald Perrin Omnibus

by David Nobbs

  Mustn’t be frightened of a woman, he told himself, as the train sped with perverse punctuality towards Waterloo. Imagine her as Rommel. Come to think of it, she didn’t look altogether unlike Rommel. A touch more masculine, perhaps. His face softened with affection. Poor, dear Lettuce!

  No! He hardened his heart. Eventually, warmed by four double whiskies, he made his way to La Sorrentina.

  They sat at the same table. They were served by the same waiter. They ordered the same food. Only the two lady shoppers were missing.

  Lettuce was fiercely bronzed by the Hellenic sun. She showed him her snapshots of Greece. He gazed at blue skies and azure seas, at dazzling white hotels and cafes, at huge Horncastle thighs that began the holiday gleaming like freshly painted lighthouses and ended up like charred trunks of oaks blackened in some forest fire.

  ‘Who’s the tall man with the beard?’ he asked.

  ‘Odd.’

  ‘Odd?’

  ‘That’s his name. Odd.’

  ‘Odd name, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s common in Sweden.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Odd.’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  She showed him the next picture.

  ‘Who’s the blond giant?’

  ‘Bent.’

  ‘Bent?’

  ‘It’s a common name in Denmark.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bent.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He didn’t appear to be.’

  She produced the next picture.

  ‘This is Mikonos,’ she said. ‘Very touristy.’

  ‘Odd and Bent all present and correct.’

  ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘Naxos,’ she said, of the next snap. ‘This was the hottest day. Thirty-four degrees Celsius.’

  ‘Odd and Bent aren’t absent on parade, I see.’

  Lettuce put her photos away. They had done their job.

  Jimmy was jealous.

  They decided to get married on Wednesday, December the twenty-first, and spend Christmas in Malta.

  The money continued to drift out of the once-fat bank account of Reginald lolanthe Perrin. The evenings drew in. The equinoctial gales began to blow.

  On Sunday, September the eighteenth, a third client arrived. He was an insurance salesman who had lost his motivation.

  ‘It’s a dreadful thing to say,’ he told Reggie at his first interview, ‘but I couldn’t care less if there are hundreds of people walking the streets of Mitcham seriously under-insured.’

  To Reggie’s incredulous relief, both Thruxton Appleby and Mr Pelham were showing definite signs of progress.

  Under Linda’s expert tutelage, Mr Pelham produced several paintings. Porkers were his favourite subjects, but sometimes, for a change, he would paint other kinds of pig.

  Thruxton Appleby was making even more spectacular progress. On one of Jimmy’s tactical exercises without troops, he helped a blind writer of Christmas card verses across Botchley High Street, and enjoyed the experience so much that he waited seven minutes to help him back again.

  Joan reported few triumphs with her singing classes, but Prue was making steady progress, between the rain storms, with the thatching of the garden shed at Number Twentyone.

  One or two areas gave Reggie cause for concern.

  Sporting activity was conspicuous by its absence, and culture was another area where progress was tardy.

  Reggie found it necessary to speak to Tom and Tony about the slow progress of their departments.

  On the afternoon of Thursday, September the twenty-second, he entered the garden of Number Seventeen. The beds around the surprisingly spacious lawn were given over predominantly to roses, and he noted with pleasure that C.J. had proved diligent in removing dead heads.

  Reggie knocked on the door of the garden shed, alias the Sports Centre. Tom let him in reluctantly. On the shelves all round the shed there were bottles. On the floor there were more bottles. Some of the bottles contained spirits, others contained liquids of strange exotic hue. Still others were empty. In one corner a work table had been erected. On it were huge glass bottles connected together with drips and pipes. Under the table there were many trays of fruit. Reggie’s heart sank.

  ‘Do you remember that I used to make home-made wine?’ said Tom.

  ‘I seem to recall something of the kind,’ said Reggie. ‘You’ve started making them again, have you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Tom.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Reggie.

  ‘I’m making spirits now.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Sloe gin, prune brandy, raspberry whisky.’

  ‘Oh my God! May I sit down?’

  Reggie sat in the one chair provided. Tom looked at him earnestly.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got a disappointment for you, Reggie,’ said Tom.

  ‘Oh dear. Well, tell me the worst. Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘None of them is ready to drink yet.’

  ‘Oh dear, that is disappointing. Tom, I am prepared to accept against all the odds that these things will be delicious, but I have to ask you, are they sport?’

  ‘I don’t follow you, Reggie,’ said Tom, taking his unlit pipe out of his mouth as if he thought that might help his concentration.

  ‘You were put in charge of sport.’

  ‘Oh that. I’m just not a sport person, Reggie.’

  Reggie stood up, the better to assert his authority.

  ‘I thought you accepted it as a challenge, Tom,’ he said. ‘And it got off to such a good start with that football.’

  Tom gazed at Reggie like a walrus that has heard bad news.

  ‘I’ve let you down,’ he said. ‘I’ve allowed myself to be discouraged by our early failures.’

  Reggie patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘There’s still time, Tom,’ he said. ‘The community is young. Instigate some lively sports activities, and I’ll let you carry on with the booze production. No promises, but I may even drink some myself.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tom. ‘I won’t let you down again, father-in-law.’

  Reggie went straight round to the Culture Room which was situated in the garden shed of Number Twenty-five. This garden had been largely dug up and devoted to the production of greens. The door of the shed was painted yellow. On it hung a notice which read, ‘Culture Room. Prop: T. Webster, QCI.’

  He knocked and entered.

  The hut had been converted into a living-room with two armchairs and a Calor Gas fire. All round the uneven wooden walls were pin-ups of girls with naked breasts, taken from the tabloid newspapers.

  Reggie gawped.

  ‘Knock-out, eh?’ said Tony, looking a little uneasy.

  ‘What are they supposed to be?’ said Reggie.

  ‘Culture.’

  ‘They aren’t culture. They’re boobs.’

  ‘They’re actresses,’ said Tony. ‘What are actresses if they aren’t culture?’

  ‘Actresses!’

  ‘Read any one of the captions.’

  Reggie approached the endless rows of breasts nervously, and read one of the captions that nestled timorously under the vast swellings.

  ‘Vivacious Virginia’s a radiologist’s daughter,’ he read. ‘Her dad made some pretty startling developments in X-ray techniques, but you don’t need an X-ray to see vibrant Virginia’s startling developments. Volatile Virginia has plans to be a classical actress. Well, she might reveal some talents, but unfortunately she’d have to hide her biggest assets!’

  ‘Culture,’ said Tony.

  Reggie peered at the equally well-developed female on Virginia’s right.

  ‘Curvaceous Caroline’s a colonel’s daughter,’ he read. ‘Dad might think she’s improperly dressed for parade, but then she’s fighting a different battle of the bulge from the one he got a DS
O for. Come to think of it we wouldn’t mind giving Cock-A-Hoop Caroline a medal. We might even pin it on ourselves. Cultivated Caroline plans to become a Shakespearian actress. It’s a case of “from the bared to the Bard!”.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Tony.

  Reggie turned away from the multi-nippled walls of the garden shed and looked disgustedly at Tony.

  ‘There are hundreds of boobs in here,’ said Tony. ‘A ton of tits.’

  ‘What does QCI stand for?’

  ‘What?’

  Reggie swung the door open. Daylight streamed into the little hut.

  ‘Prop: T. Webster, QCI,’ said Reggie.

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Tony. ‘Qualified Culture Instructor.’

  ‘I can’t talk in there,’ said Reggie. ‘Come into the garden.’

  They stood on the tiny lawn, surrounded by vast beds of autumn cabbages.

  ‘Tony,’ said Reggie. ‘If a prospective client gets in touch with me, and says, “Do you have any cultural activities?” and I say. “Yes. We have a qualified culture instructor and he has a garden shed with a ton of tits”, what do you think will happen?’

  ‘He’ll sign on.’

  ‘Yes, well, very possibly. Forget that, then. But remove those boobs. And get some culture going. I’m not one for issuing threats, Tony. This community runs on love and trust. But if you let me down, I’m warning you, I will issue threats. And you know what they’ll be threats of, don’t you? Chucked out without a pennysville, Arizona.’

  On Sunday, September twenty-fifth, two more clients arrived.

  The month expired quietly. There were no mourners.

  October began gloomily. The weather was unremittingly wet. There was a race riot in Wednesbury. Four headless torsos were found in left-luggage cubicles at Temple Meads Station, Bristol. A survey showed that Britain came fifth in the venereal disease tables of the advanced nations. A Ugandan under-secretary was taken to a West London hospital with suspected smallpox and claimed that it was impossible as he had diplomatic immunity. Third-form girls in a school in South London terrorized teachers after a drinks orgy.

  But there was one bright spark amidst all this gloom. The fortunes of Perrins were looking up. Seven new clients arrived on Sunday, October the second, making the total twelve. And there were several forward bookings dotted around the wall charts in the secretary’s office, including one from a fortune teller who was going to have a nervous breakdown in April.

  The twelve clients were Thruxton Appleby; Mr Pelham; the insurance salesman who had lost his motivation; an arc-welder from Ipswich named Arthur Noblet; Bernard Trilling, Head of Comedy at Anaemia Television; Hilary Meadows, a housewife from Tenterden; Diana Pilkington, an account executive from Manchester; a VAT inspector from Tring, who hated the fact that he liked his work; a probation officer from Peebles, who hated the fact that he hated his work; a director of a finance company that specialized in pyramid selling; an unemployed careers officer, and a middle manager in a multinational plastics concern. The work of Perrins began in earnest.

  The five suburban houses in Oslo Avenue, Botchley, were alive with activity.

  Reggie wandered proudly around, watching the guests at their various activities.

  In the Art Room he admired the work of Diana Pilkington, who painted as Monet would have painted if he’d been totally devoid of talent. The work of the VAT inspector from Tring was very different, however. He painted as Lowry would have painted if he’d been totally devoid of talent.

  He listened with pleasure to the distortions of Gilbert and Sullivan that came from the Music Room.

  ‘Keep it up,’ he told the probation officer from Peebles. ‘Any genius can sing like Tito Gobbi. It takes a real talent to persist when he sings like you.’

  He attended group meetings, watched the progress of the thatching and went on expeditions with Jimmy. All the time he fought against a desire to take a more active part in things.

  When he burst in unannounced upon Doc Morrissey, he fully intended to take a back seat.

  Lying on the couch in the study of Number Nineteen was Bernard Trilling, Head of Comedy at Anaemia Television. Only the haunted expression in his eyes revealed the inner torment of the man.

  Outside, the moisture hung from the trimmed privet hedge in the front garden, but the rain had stopped at last.

  ‘Carry on,’ said Reggie. ‘My job is just to watch.’

  ‘Let’s try some simple word associations,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘Mother.’

  ‘Comedy,’ said Bernard Trilling.

  ‘Ah!’ said Reggie.

  ‘Please don’t interrupt,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘I want to go on and on, associating freely till we reach a totally uninhibited level of association. If we stop after each association, our future associations are affected by what we associate with the past associations.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt. It was just the way he came out with the mother/comedy association.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Doc Morrissey impatiently. ‘He resents his job and he resents his mother. Child’s play.’

  ‘I love my mother,’ said Bernard Trilling.

  ‘All right,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘We may as well explore this area now. The thread’s been broken.’

  He glared at Reggie.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Reggie, moving his chair right back into a dark corner. ‘Carry on. Behave as if I’m not here.’

  ‘Why do you think you associated mother with comedy?’ said Doc Morrissey.

  Bernard Trilling was lying with his hands under his head. He glared at the ceiling.

  ‘We’re planning a situation comedy about a happy-go-lucky divorced mother who tries to bring up her three happygo-lucky children by writing books,’ he said gloomily. ‘It’s called “Mum’s the Word”.’

  He turned his face to the wall and uttered a low groan.

  ‘I started in documentaries,’ he said. ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘Right. Let’s start again,’ said Doc Morrissey.

  Reggie looked out of the window. A Harrods van drove past. He tried to let his mind go blank, in the hope that he would find some interesting associations with the Harrods van.

  It reminded him of Harrods.

  Perhaps I’m imaginatively under-nourished, he thought.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the events that were going on in the little room. He didn’t want to miss anything.

  Gradually he became aware that there was nothing to miss.

  Nothing was going on in the little room.

  Bernard Trilling lay hunched up on the couch.

  Doc Morrissey was staring intently into space.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘My mind’s going a blank. It’s you, Reggie. You’re unsettling me.’

  ‘Please,’ said Reggie. ‘Take no notice of me. I’m not here.’

  ‘But you are,’ said Doc Morrissey.

  ‘Make yourself believe I’m not,’ said Reggie. ‘Mind over matter. It’s all psychological.’

  ‘I know,’ said Doc Morrissey glumly. ‘Right. Here we go.’

  There was silence for fully a minute.

  ‘It’s the enormity of the choice that’s inhibiting me,’ said Doc Morrissey.

  ‘I don’t want to interfere,’ said Reggie. ‘But shall I suggest one or two things, just to get you over your blockage?’

  ‘All right,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘But once you’ve started, don’t stop.’

  ‘Right,’ said Reggie. ‘Here we go. Farmhouse.’

  ‘Comedy,’ said Bernard Trilling.

  ‘Egg-cup,’ said Reggie.

  ‘Comedy,’ said Bernard Trilling.

  ‘It’s pointless if you’re just going to say “comedy” all the time,’ said Reggie.

  Bernard Trilling sat up.

  ‘It’s all I ever think of,’ he said. ‘Every news item, every chance remark in the pub, I think, “Could we make a comedy series about that?” I’m on a treadmill. Th
e nation must be kept laughing. I need just one successful series, and I’d be laughing. Well no, I wouldn’t. I’ve no sense of humour.’

  ‘You must try and think of other things or Doc Morrissey can’t help you,’ said Reggie.

  ‘I’ll try,’ promised Bernard Trilling.

  ‘Right,’ said Reggie. ‘Here we go again. Or would you rather do it. Doc?’

  Doc Morrissey shrugged resignedly.

  ‘Right,’ said Reggie. ‘Taxidermy.’

  ‘Comedy,’ said Bernard Trilling.

  ‘Oh Bernard!’ said Reggie.

  ‘We’re planning a new comedy series about a happy-go-lucky taxidermist,’ said Bernard Trilling. ‘It’s called “Get Stuffed”,’

  The W288, grinding along Oslo Avenue on its slow progress towards Spraundon, sounded very loud in the ensuing silence.

  ‘It. . . er . . . it sounds an unlikely subject,’ said Reggie.

  ‘It’s what we in the trade call the underwater rabbi syndrome,’ said Bernard Trilling.

  ‘Ah!’ said Doc Morrissey, with a flash of his former spirit. ‘You dislike Jews?’

  ‘It just means that in our desperation we’re hunting for ever more unlikely subjects,’ said Bernard Trilling. ‘The unlikeliest we can think of is an underwater rabbi.’

  ‘It needn’t have been a rabbi, though,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘It could have been an underwater Methodist minister. The fact that it’s a rabbi suggests prejudice, albeit unconscious. It’s what we call a psycho-semitic illness.’

  Doc Morrissey smiled triumphantly, then frowned, as if vaguely aware that he had got it wrong.

  ‘I’ve got nothing against Jews,’ said Bernard Trilling. ‘Some of my best friends are Jews. My parents are Jews.’

  He blushed furiously.

  An extremely noisy lorry drove by, carrying a heavily laden skip.

  ‘I was born Trillingstein,’ admitted Bernard Trilling. ‘I’m not ashamed of being Jewish. Very much the reverse. I just felt that if I was a big success people would ascribe it to my Jewishness. “Of course he’s clever. He’s a Jew.” And I wanted them to say “Of course he’s clever. He’s Bernard Trilling.” Some hope I should have that anyone should say I was clever.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I feel better already,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept that secret for fourteen years. And you’ve unlocked it. You’re a wizard, Doc.’