by David Nobbs
‘Me?’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘I did nothing.’
‘Well it wasn’t me,’ said Reggie. ‘I wasn’t there.’
It was the same when he looked in on David Harris-Jones at the Sex Clinic, which was yet another garden shed, at Number Nineteen. Outside, it appeared to be an ordinary, rather tumbledown wooden shed. Inside, there was a carpet, a desk and hard chair, and three armchairs. The walls and ceiling had been painted in restful pastel shades as recommended in Weissburger and Dulux’s Colour and Emotional Response.
Reggie moved his armchair back, out of the limelight.
David sat behind his desk.
Hilary Meadows, the housewife from Tenterden, sat in the armchair. She was in her mid-forties, her face crinkled but attractive, her sturdy legs crossed.
‘Now, Hilary,’ said David, ‘as I was saying before Reggie . . . er. . .’
‘Don’t mind me,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m not here.’
‘As I was saying there’s no need to feel. . . er. . . er . . .’
‘Nervous,’ said Reggie.
‘Yes,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘That’s what I was going to . . . er . . . but I’m a little . . . er . . .’
‘Nervous,’ said Reggie.
‘Yes. Maybe if you didn’t. . . er . . .’
‘Interrupt.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry. I won’t interrupt any more. It’s just that you go so . . . how can I put it. . . er . . .’
‘Infuriatingly slowly.’
‘Yes.’
‘I know. I just seem to sort of go to pieces when you’re here, Reggie.’
‘You’ll have to get over that, David,’ said Reggie, ‘because I won’t always be here to pick up the pieces.’
Hilary Meadows uncrossed her legs, and watched the two men with amusement.
‘Carry on, David. I’ll leave it all to you,’ said Reggie.
David Harris-Jones fiddled with the papers on his desk.
‘As I was saying, Hilary,’ he said, ‘there’s no need to be nervous.’
‘I’m not,’ she said.
‘I want you to feel completely . . . er . . . oh good, you’re not. Super.’
He moved to the third armchair.
‘No need to be formal,’ he said. ‘Now the subject I deal with, Hilary, is . . . er . . .’
‘Sex,’ said Hilary Meadows.
‘Yes. As it were.’
As he talked, David Harris-Jones’s eyes moved restlessly round his restful den.
‘Lots of people . . . er . . .’ he began. ‘At times, anyway. After all, life’s full of. . . well not problems exactly. Difficulties. And . . . er . . . there’s nothing to be . . . er . . . I mean . . .’
‘Oh for God’s sake David,’ said Reggie. ‘What David is trying to say, Hilary, and we must remember that he had an unusually sheltered upbringing in Haverfordwest and its environs, what David is trying to say, in his nervous, roundabout way, and he’s probably going about it in a roundabout way because he’s nervous, after all you are only the second woman that he’s ever . . . er . . . talked to in this way, what as I say he’s trying to say is . . . well, I mean everybody at some time or other . . . in some degree or other . . . and there’s no disgrace in that.’
‘I have no sexual problems at all,’ said Hilary Meadows.
‘So if you . . . er . . . no se . . . se . . . oh good. Good.’
‘Super.’
‘My husband and I have it very happily at what I understand is roughly the national average.’
‘Oh you do. Good. Good.’
‘Super.’
Hilary Meadows crossed her legs.
‘Well, that’s got that off our chests,’ said Reggie. ‘That’s got that out in the open.’
‘Yes, but when we talk about . . . er . . . sex,’ said David Harris-Jones, ‘we don’t just mean . . . er . . .’
‘Sex,’ said Hilary Meadows.
‘Exactly. Modern . . . er . . . psychology, as you know . . . I mean the gist of it is that . . . er . . . sex, and our attitude towards it, rears its ug . . . let me put it another way. Much of our life is influenced by sex,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘And much more of it isn’t,’ said Hilary Meadows. ‘You poor unimaginative creatures. You can’t imagine any problems except sexual ones. Let me tell you why I’m here. Because I’m bored out of my not so tiny mind. I’m bored with having my cooking taken for granted, not being listened to by my husband, not being helped and thanked by my children. Bored with not going out to work. Bored with cleaning the house so that the cleaning woman won’t leave. Bored with slow check-out girls at unimaginative supermarkets and time-killing conversations at coffee mornings and playing golf with other women with thick calves and thin white elderly legs and garish ankle socks. Bored, bored, bored.’
‘Splendid,’ said Reggie. ‘Well, I think we can help you there.’
‘I don’t need help,’ said Hilary Meadows. ‘I’ve only come here for a change. I couldn’t go to the Bahamas or my family wouldn’t feel guilty. You poor men. You look so disappointed. No nice cure to do. No little toys to play with.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you two to it,’ said Reggie. ‘You’re doing absolutely splendidly, David.’
Next day there was watery sunshine at last. Very slowly, the sodden gardens began to dry out.
At the long, crowded breakfast table, Reggie told C.J. that he’d like to see how his work on people’s attitude to their work was progressing.
‘Excellent,’ said C.J. through a mouthful of McBlane’s rich, creamy scrambled egg. ‘We’ve got a pretty little role-playing session lined up for this morning. Arthur Noblet is applying to Thruxton Appleby for increased fringe benefits at the Hardcastle Handbag Company.’
‘Excellent,’ said Reggie. ‘I’ll just sit and watch.’
‘You have to play a role too,’ said C.J. ‘According to Doc Morrissey, everyone has to play a role.’
‘It’s against my policy,’ said Reggie. ‘I don’t like to trespass on my staff’s preserves.’
‘Talking about trespassing on the staff’s preserves, could I have the marmalade?’ said the insurance salesman who had lost his motivation.
Reggie passed him the marmalade.
‘You can be holding a watching brief for the industrial relations research council, Reggie,’ said C.J.
‘Wonderful,’ said Reggie. ‘What role will you be playing?’
‘I’ll be Thruxton Appleby’s secretary,’ said C.J.
Tony Webster choked in mid-toast.
‘What’ll I be called?’ said Reggie.
‘Perrin,’ said C.J. ‘I stick to the facts as far as possible.’
‘What’ll you be called then?’ said Reggie.
C.J. glanced at Tony.
‘Cynthia Jones,’ he said.
Tony spluttered again.
‘There’s nothing ludicrous about it,’ said C.J. ‘It’s a valuable exercise. But I couldn’t expect you to see that. You know what they say. Small minds make idle chatter. How people change. It’s hard to believe that you were once my golden boy at Sunshine Desserts.’
After breakfast they walked along Oslo Avenue in the pale sunshine.
At the gate of Number Seventeen, Reggie stopped.
‘I don’t want to interfere,’ he said. ‘But wouldn’t this be a more valuable exercise if Arthur Noblet played the boss and Thruxton Appleby played the worker.’
‘How come?’ said C.J.
‘Well,’ said Reggie. ‘They might learn something about the them and us situation which bedevils British industrial relations so tragically.’
‘I didn’t get where I am today by learning about the them and us situation which bedevils British industrial relations so tragically.’
‘You certainly didn’t, C.J. Maybe it’s about time you did. But, as I say, it’s entirely up to you.’
‘Yes.’
‘It might be more fun my way, though.’
‘You have a point, Reggie.’
<
br /> They entered Number Seventeen and went into the sun room extension which now formed CJ.’s office.
The room, built for suburban relaxation, was filled with office furniture. There were three desks, two typewriters, six chairs, green filing cabinets, two waste-paper baskets, and a hat-stand.
The watery sun streamed in.
Thruxton Appleby and Arthur Noblet were waiting. C.J. explained the revised scenario.
C.J. settled himself behind his typewriter and the other three went into the back garden.
Reggie knocked.
‘Come in,’ said C.J. in a mincing, pseudo-female voice.
Reggie entered.
‘Can I help you?’ minced C.J.
Reggie laughed.
‘Reggie!’ said C.J. ‘This is an important social experiment, and all you can do is laugh. Immerse yourself in your role as I do. I become Cynthia Jones. C.J. is dead, long live Cynthia Jones. Now get out and come in.’
‘Sorry, C.J.’
Reggie went back into the garden.
He re-entered the sun room.
‘I meant, “Sorry, Cynthia”,’ he said. ‘Sorry, C.J.’
‘Get out.’
Reggie went out and knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ said C.J.
Reggie came in.
‘Mr Noblet’s office,’ minced C.J. ‘Can I help you?’
‘The name’s Perrin,’ said Reggie. ‘Industrial relations research council.’
‘Ah, yes. Welcome to Hardcastle Handbags, Mr Perrin. Mr Noblet’ll be in in a jiffy.’
There was a knock.
‘Come in,’ said C.J.
Arthur Noblet entered.
‘No, no,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s your office. No need to knock.’
‘Sorry,’ said Arthur Noblet.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to butt in,’ said Reggie. ‘But now that I have, may I make a point?’
‘Go ahead,’ said C.J.
‘Come in with a bit of authority,’ said Reggie. ‘Make some remark about your journey. “Twelve minutes late. Traffic lights out of order at Hanger Lane.” That sort of thing.’
‘Excellent,’ said C.J. ‘First-class remark. Take an umbrella.’ Arthur Noblet took an umbrella.
‘Go out and come in,’ said C.J.
Arthur Noblet went into the garden, where Thruxton Appleby was examining the veins on a rose leaf.
He re-entered the sun room.
‘Twelve minutes late,’ he said, hanging his umbrella on the hat-stand. ‘Traffic lights out of action at Hanger Lane.’
This is Mr Perrin, Mr Noblet,’ minced C.J. ‘He’s from the industrial relations research council.’
‘I’m holding a watching brief,’ said Reggie.
‘Ready for dictation,’ minced C.J., hitching up his trousers and crossing his legs.
There was a knock. Nobody answered.
‘Oh, that’ll be for me. It’s my bleeding office,’ said Arthur Noblet. ‘Come in.’
Thruxton Appleby entered with massive authority.
‘We want more fringe benefits, Noblet,’ he thundered.
‘OK. You deserve them,’ said Arthur Noblet.
‘No, no, no!’ said Reggie. ‘Pathetic! Abysmal! Appleby, you wouldn’t enter your office with massive authority if you were about to be interviewed by you. And Noblet, you mustn’t give in like that. You must get inside each other’s roles. Take your example from C.J., the Deborah Kerr of Botchley.’
C.J. waved the compliment aside modestly.
‘Right,’ said Reggie. ‘We’ll take it from Noblet’s entrance.’
Arthur Noblet and Thruxton Appleby went out into the sun-filled garden, where they could be seen arguing about their roles.
‘Nice morning. Miss Jones,’ said Reggie.
‘Very nice,’ said C.J., crossing his legs.
‘Have you planned your holiday yet. Miss Jones?’ said Reggie.
‘Well no, I haven’t had time to draw breath yet, truth to tell, what with moving flats and my boy friend’s promotion and that. I’m in a right tiswas,’ said C.J.
Arthur Noblet burst into the sun room.
‘Morning, Miss Jones,’ he said, hanging his umbrella on the hat-stand. ‘Sixteen minutes late. Jack-knifed juggernaut at Neasden. Have you typed the letter to Amalgamated Wallets?’
‘I’m just doing it, Mr Noblet,’ said C.J. ‘This is Mr Perrin, of the industrial relations research council.’
‘I’m extremely grateful to you, Mr Noblet,’ said Reggie, ‘both on behalf of myself and everyone at Research House, for letting me witness your arbitration procedures at ground roots level.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Arthur Noblet.
There was a knock.
‘Come!’ roared C.J.
‘No, no, no,’ said Reggie.
Thruxton Appleby entered.
‘Sorry,’ said C.J. ‘My fault that time. A case of the pot calling the kettle a silver lining, I’m afraid. Let’s take it from Appleby’s entrance. Appleby, go out and come in again.’
The massive textiles tycoon left the room meekly.
Almost immediately he knocked.
‘Enter,’ said Arthur Noblet, with a shy smile at his powers of verbal invention.
Thruxton Appleby entered. His demeanour was cowed, yet implicitly insolent.
‘Sit down, Appleby,’ said Arthur Noblet. ‘This is Mr Perrin, of... er ... ’
‘IRRC,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m holding a watching brief.’
‘Now, what’s this little spot of bower, Appleby?’ said Arthur Noblet.
‘The chaps on the floor want more fringe benefits,’ said Thruxton Appleby. ‘Silly of them, the lazy good-for-nothings, but there it is.’
‘What do you mean, silly of them?’ said Arthur Noblet. ‘How you blokes are expected to make ends meet when berks like me cop for twenty thousand a year defeats me.’
‘No, no, no,’ said Reggie. ‘Useless. Oh, sorry, C.J. I didn’t mean to get involved. Oh well, I’ve started now. Appleby, you really believe you deserve the fringe benefits. Noblet, you seriously believe you can’t afford them. But you say the rest, C.J. This is your show.’
‘Thank you, Reggie,’ said C.J. through clenched teeth. ‘Right, we’ll take it from Appleby’s entrance. We’ll take your knock as read, Appleby.’
I’d rather knock, if you don’t mind,’ said the burly West Riding chrome-dome.
‘OK, bloody well knock, then, but just get on with it,’ snapped C.J.
Thruxton Appleby knocked, Arthur Noblet yelled ‘Come!’, Thruxton Appleby came, C.J. simpered flirtatiously at the typewriter, Reggie was introduced, and the negotiations began.
‘The lads are a bit cheesed off,’ said Thruxton Appleby. ‘I know times have been hard, with the fluctuating of the yen, and we’ve had to announce a reduced dividend of seven and a half per cent, but the lads would like improved fringe benefits.’
‘What kind of improved fringe benefits?’ said Arthur Noblet.
Thruxton Appleby thought hard. He’d never taken much interest in workers’ fringe benefits.
‘Five weeks’ holiday, automatic membership of the golf club, free investment advice, company cars, and increased share holding, and an improved dividend,’ he said.
‘Piss off,’ said Arthur Noblet.
‘No, no, no,’ said Reggie. ‘No, no, no, no, no. Mind you, that was better. I won’t say another word, C.J. This is your show.’
‘Well...’ said C.J.
‘Just an idea,’ said Reggie. ‘Supposing you and I demonstrate our idea of negotiation techniques?’
‘Would that really have much value?’ said C.J.
‘With you as the powerful boss and me as the downtrodden worker,’ said Reggie.
‘It might be worth a try, I suppose,’ said C.J. ‘Hang it on the clothes line, see if the cat licks it up.’
And so Arthur Noblet became Cynthia Jones, Thruxton Appleby became the man from the Research House, Reggie became the workman, and C.J.
became C.J.
Arthur Noblet installed himself behind the typewriter, while the others went into the garden.
Arthur mimed a last glance at the mirror, Thruxton Appleby entered and was introduced, C.J. entered, hurled his umbrella at the hat-stand, missed, said, ‘Twenty-two minutes late. Failure of de-icing equipment at Coulsdon,’ and sat down, and Reggie knocked, was invited to enter, and did so.
‘Now then, Perrin, what’s the trouble?’ said C.J.
‘It’s like this, guvnor,’ said Reggie sitting down facing C.J. ‘We’re falling behind as regards differentials and that.’
‘Who’s falling behind as regards differentials?’
‘Everybody.’
C.J. looked pained.
‘Everyone can’t fall behind as regards differentials,’ he said.
‘No, what I mean is,’ said Reggie, ‘we’re falling behind visà-vis workers in strictly comparable industries, i.e. purses, brief-cases, and real and simulated leather goods generally, like.’
‘You had a rise eight months ago, in accordance with phase three of stage eight,’ said C.J. ‘Or was it phase eight of stage three? Anyway, there’s a world-wide handbag slump. Do you expect me to run at a loss?’
‘Course not, guv,’ said Reggie. ‘Stone the crows, no. You’re in it for the lolly, same as what we all are. You’re forced to be. Forced to be. Course you are. You’re forced to be forced to be. Course you are. We aren’t arguing about the basic wage. Basically the basic wage is basically fair. It’s the fringe benefits, innit?’
‘What sort of fringe benefits?’ said C.J.
‘Areas where I could suggest amelioration of traditional benefits would include five weeks’ ‘oliday a year, rationalized shift bonuses, increased production incentives, longer tea breaks, coffee breaks brought up to the tea break level, a concessionary handbag for every year of service, and fifteen minutes unpenalized latitude for lateness due to previously notified genuine unforeseen circumstances.’
‘I see,’ said C.J. ‘Well, Perrin, I might see my way to recommending the board to give a day’s extra holiday and a seasonal shift bonus adjustment, and we might be able to work something out on incentives, and then report back to you.’
‘Well,’ said Reggie, ‘I can put that to my members, and see if we can draft a resolution that the negotiations committee might be prepared to put to the steering committee, but I have a feeling my members will want something on the table now.’
