by David Nobbs
‘I’m afraid that may not be possible,’ said C.J.
‘We just want a fair share of the cake,’ said Reggie.
‘Ah, but can you have your fair share of the cake and eat it?’ said C.J.
‘We want deeds, not words,’ said Reggie. ‘Otherwise we’re coming out.’
‘I will not yield to threats motivated by political scum,’ said C.J.
‘I don’t think my members will appreciate that nomenclature,’ said Reggie.
‘It’s what they are, isn’t it?’ shouted C.J. ‘Marxist scum. Reds under the handbags. I will flush them out.’
‘Right. It’s all out then,’ said Reggie quietly.
‘You’re all sacked,’ said C.J.
‘You bastard!’ said Reggie.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Yes, well, you get the general idea,’ said Reggie. ‘Seeing the other person’s point of view, that’s what it’s all about.’
That evening Reggie and Elizabeth went to the George and Two Dragons after dinner. Several other members of the community were in evidence, both staff and guests. C.J. was drinking with Thruxton Appleby. Reggie was delighted when Arthur Noblet joined them. Tony Webster was chatting up Hilary Meadows, and getting nowhere expensively. The middle manager was talking to Mr Pelham. Subjects discussed included porkers and other kinds of pigs. McBlane popped in for a few minutes. He was on dry gingers as he’d found that alcohol played havoc with his psoriasis.
‘I’ve just realized what’s missing,’ Reggie told Elizabeth. ‘All these people shouldn’t be down the pub every night. A community should have social evenings.’
Two days later, at the group meeting, Reggie made an announcement.
‘Every evening, after dinner,’ he said, ‘there will be a social gathering. These gatherings will be totally voluntary. Obviously I hope everyone will attend, but there’s no obligation.’
That evening, Reggie and Elizabeth sat in the living-room of Number Twenty-one, waiting.
Nobody came.
At the next group meeting, Reggie spoke to them all again.
‘I can’t see how any guest who intends to get full value from the community wouldn’t come to some at least of these gatherings, and I’d be very disappointed if members of staff didn’t set an example by frequent attendance,’ he said. ‘Though of course I will emphasize once again that it is entirely voluntary.’
‘You, you and you,’ said Jimmy.
Reggie gave him a cool look.
‘Sorry,’ said Jimmy. ‘Slipped out. Army volunteering. You, you and you. Wasn’t suggesting that here. No need. Stampede.’
‘You didn’t exactly stampede last time,’ said Reggie.
‘Prior engagement,’ said Jimmy. ‘Wedding plans. All invited. Refusal de rigueur.’
‘De rigueur means essential,’ said Reggie.
‘Exactly,’ said Jimmy. ‘Essential, all present, church parade, twenty-first December. Hope all be on parade tonight too. As I will, living-room, twenty-thirty hours, delights social various for the enjoyment of.’
Jimmy was as good as his word. In fact he was the first to arrive that evening.
Others swiftly followed. Soon the living-room was packed. Every available seat was occupied, and latecomers had to find a place on the floor.
The smokeless fuel glowed in the grate. The curtains were drawn on the cold October night.
Present were Reggie, Elizabeth, C.J., Doc Morrissey, Jimmy, Tom, Linda, Joan, David, Prue, Thruxton Appleby, Mr Pelham, the insurance agent who had lost his motivation, Diana Pilkington, Hilary Meadows, the VAT inspector from Tring, the probation officer from Peebles, the unemployed careers officer, the director of the finance company, and the middle manager.
Absent were Tony (down the George and Two Dragons), Arthur Noblet (down the Botchley Arms), and Bernard Trilling (watching TV).
The evening began stickily, but slowly began to develop its style. They shared cigarettes, passing them round after each puff.
‘This is just as much fun as smoking pot,’ said Reggie.
‘I didn’t get where I am today by smoking pot,’ said C.J., who was sitting on the rug in front of the fire.
When the conversation flagged, Reggie asked if anybody had seen anything beautiful during the day.
‘The sunset was beautiful,’ volunteered Hilary Meadows.
‘Yes, it was. I really noticed it,’ said the unemployed careers officer. ‘Too often I close my eyes to beautiful things like the sunsets.’
‘We all do,’ said Diana Pilkington from the settee. Her legs were crossed, revealing an expanse of slender, rather glacial thigh.
‘I saw an old tramp in the High Street, and he picked up this sodden fag end and smoked it,’ said Linda.
‘I can’t see anything beautiful in a sodden fag end,’ said the insurance salesman who had lost his motivation.
‘It was beautiful for the tramp,’ said Tom. ‘That’s Linda’s point.’
His eyes met Linda’s and he smiled.
‘It was a very beautiful thing, Linda darling,’ he said, ‘because it shows your understanding of people. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. We’re people people.’
Elizabeth, seated on the settee, put her hand on Reggie’s shoulder. He stroked her leg. It made them happy to see Tom and Linda so happy.
‘I’m still on the side of the sunset,’ said Diana Pilkington.
‘I’d like to talk to you about your social drives tomorrow, Di,’ said Doc Morrissey, who was sitting between Elizabeth and Diana Pilkington on the settee.
‘Any more beautiful experiences?’ said Reggie.
‘I saw a really beautiful missel thrush,’ said the VAT inspector from Tring.
‘Super,’ chorused David and Prue Harris-Jones.
‘It was eating a worm,’ added the VAT inspector from Tring.
‘Oh,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones.
‘You wouldn’t think it was beautiful if you were a worm,’ said the middle manager in the multi-national plastics concern.
‘I’m not a worm,’ said the VAT inspector from Tring.
‘Matter of opinion,’ said Jimmy. ‘Just joking,’ he added hastily.
He looked round to see if Linda approved of his sally. She smiled at him, and mouthed the single word ‘Lettuce’. He nodded, his nod saying ‘Oh, quite. Engaged. Eyes for one woman only. Looked at you out of affection. Favourite niece, that sort of crack. Other thing, past history, water under bridge. Self-abuse, ditto. New man. New leaf.’
‘I saw a beautiful thing,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘Well, perhaps it wasn’t all that beautiful.’
‘Tell us,’ said Reggie. ‘Let us decide.’
‘I saw the driver of the W288 pull up between two stops to let an elderly woman on,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘Yes, that is beautiful,’ said the probation officer from Peebles.
‘It’s a miracle,’ said Reggie.
‘I wish you’d told me about the bus driver,’ said Prue.
‘Why?’ said David.
‘It’s interesting,’ said Prue.
‘It isn’t that interesting,’ said David.
‘It’s interesting because you saw it, darling,’ said Prue.
Elizabeth waited for Reggie to explode. He beamed.
‘Any other beautiful sights?’ he said.
‘Yes. I saw Tony’s private parts,’ said Joan.
‘Come, come,’ said C.J. ‘Really!’
‘They’re beautiful,’ said Joan.
‘Yes, they are,’ said Reggie. ‘I mean I assume they are. I haven’t seen them myself. But I mean surely if Joan thinks they’re beautiful she should be able to say so. And surely the human body is beautiful?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Diana Pilkington.
‘I think we might touch on that tomorrow, too, Di,’ said Doc Morrissey.
C.J. shifted uncomfortably on the floor.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Not used to squatting on f
loors. Neither Mrs. C.J. nor I has ever been used to squatting on floors.’
‘Give C.J. your seat, Tom,’ said Linda.
‘I’m not a sitting on floors person either,’ said Tom.
‘Now’s the time to start, then,’ said Reggie.
‘You’re right,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve got to become less rigid in my attitudes.’
Tom snuggled up against Linda on the floor, and C.J. took the armchair he had vacated.
More beautiful experiences were related. More cigarettes were shared. The probation officer shyly produced a guitar. Joan sang a protest song. Mr Pelham sang a pig song. Thruxton Appleby sang a textiles song. The insurance salesman sang an insurance song. The middle manager tore up a fiver and threw it on the fire. They examined his motives. Linda kissed Tom. Not to be outdone, Prue kissed David.
‘Touch,’ said Doc Morrissey suddenly.
Everyone looked at him in astonishment.
‘We should touch each other,’ he said. ‘We should make physical contact. It’s the outward expression of inward togetherness.’
He put his hand on Diana Pilkington’s knee.
‘Touching is good,’ he said.
He slid his hand along her leg.
‘Feeling is beautiful,’ he said.
He pushed his hand right up inside her skirt, between her thighs.
She gave his arm a karate chop that numbed it completely.
‘Smacking is good,’ she said.
Doc Morrissey held his injured arm tenderly.
‘Twelve karate lessons in Chorlton-cum-Hardy are beautiful,’ said Diana Pilkington.
‘I was only giving the outward expression of inward togetherness,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘I only touched you because I was sitting next to you. I’d have done the same thing if I’d been sitting next to Reggie.’
Thank God you weren’t,’ said Reggie.
‘No, but touching each other is beautiful,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones, entwining their fingers with intense tenderness.
Reggie walked up to the VAT inspector from Tring, and put his hand in his.
‘Foreign countries do it all the time,’ he said. ‘It’s natural. You don’t mind, do you, Mr VAT inspector from Tring?’
‘Not at all,’ said the VAT inspector from Tring. ‘I rather like it.’
‘Oh,’ said Reggie.
He removed his hand.
‘Not in that way,’ said the VAT inspector from Tring. ‘Just as friendliness.’
‘Ah!’ said Reggie.
He clasped the hand of the VAT inspector from Tring once more.
‘Come on. Everybody touch everybody,’ he said.
‘I didn’t get where I am today by touching everybody,’ said C.J.
‘I’m game,’ proffered the probation officer from Peebles.
‘Me too,’ put in the unemployed careers officer.
‘So am I,’ agreed Tom. ‘It’s about time I broke the barriers of habit that have enslaved me.’
Everyone began to wander round the room, touching each other. At first there were a few giggles. Somebody said, ‘We’re groping towards success,’ and there was laughter.
Soon, however, the giggles and laughter died down, and there was only the quiet, rather solemn ritual of touching.
The middle manager kissed the director of the finance company. Tom kissed Reggie. His beard tickled. All over the room people held hands, kissed, touched, regardless of age, sex and occupation.
‘It’s the new Jerusalem,’ said Doc Morrissey.
Arthur Noblet entered, slightly unsteady after his evening at the Botchley Arms, took one look at the New Jerusalem, said ‘Bloody Hell,’ and lurched out.
‘It went off very well,’ said Elizabeth that night in bed.
‘Too well,’ said Reggie.
Elizabeth kissed the lobe of his hear. Her face wore a charming admixture of affection, amusement and exasperation.
‘Will you never be content?’ she said.
‘Seriously, darling,’ said Reggie. ‘We’re getting a bit of a problem. Nobody’s leaving. That means nobody’s giving us any money.’
The following day an incident occurred which delayed the likely departure of Thruxton Appleby, the wealthiest of Reggie’s guests.
Reggie was accompanying Jimmy on one of his expeditions. A small group stood on the front porch of Number Twenty-one, in the pale golden sunlight, and Jimmy briefed them.
‘Object of exercise,’ he said, ‘Litter clearance. Done some major work already. Cleared Threadwell’s Pond, flushed out old bedsteads in Mappin Woods. Today, mopping-up operations, isolated pockets of litter throughout borough. Place your litter in the king bin liners provided.’
They moved off down Oslo Avenue, their king bin liners in their hands, and turned left into Bonn Close, where Mr Pelham dealt summarily with a ‘Seven-up’ tin.
When they turned left into Addis Ababa Avenue, Reggie saw the unmistakable domed head of Thruxton Appleby in the phone box at the junction with Canberra Rise.
‘Walk back the other way,’ he said. And Jimmy led his team back down Bonn Close with the instinctive obedience of a military man.
Reggie tackled Thruxton Appleby, who admitted that he had been phoning his office and tearing them off a strip.
‘You’re the sort of person who pays a fortune to a health farm and then sneaks out to gorge himself on cream cakes,’ said Reggie.
‘You don’t understand. Bilton’s cocked up the forward orders,’ said Thruxton Appleby.
‘How many phone calls have you made?’ said Reggie.
‘Three,’ said Thruxton Appleby. ‘I just can’t trust them a minute.’
A vein was throbbing ominously around his temple. Reggie thought of all Thruxton Appleby’s money and sighed.
‘One more phone call and you leave,’ he said.
‘If I promise not to make any more calls …?
‘ ‘You can stay.’
‘I promise,’ said Thruxton Appleby.
He glanced at his watch.
‘They’re open,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’
They walked down Nairobi Drive to the High Street, and entered the saloon bar of the George and Two Dragons. Thruxton Appleby stood back politely to let Reggie get to the bar and his wallet first. They were the first customers. Hoovering was in progress, and there was a strong smell of furniture polish. The old dragon served them.
‘What are you having?’ said Reggie.
‘Whisky and soda,’ said Thruxton Appleby.
Reggie ordered a whisky and soda and a pint of bitter.
‘No, by God, I’ll have a beer too,’ said Thruxton Appleby. ‘And I’m paying.’
They sat in a window alcove.
‘I’m getting almost likeable, aren’t I?’ said Thruxton Appleby.
‘You’re on the verge, Thruxton.’
‘I might have done it by now if it hadn’t been for those phone calls.’
They’ve set you back, I’ll not deny it.’
‘We’ve got a word for people like me, where I come from,’ said Thruxton Appleby. ‘Am I to tell you what it is?’
‘Please.’
Thrifty. Canny. Cautious. In a word, mean as arseholes. But when I leave, Mr Perrin, I’m not going to be mean. I’ll give you a goodly whack.’
‘Well, thank you,’ said Reggie. ‘Cheers.’
‘I’ll be staying quite a while yet, though,’
‘Oh. Well. . . good . . . splendid.’
‘You’ll have to take my generosity on trust.’
‘Yes … well… splendid.’
‘I might stay for ever, you never know.’
‘Huh huh. Huh huh huh. Splendid.’
That Friday afternoon, however, the departures began at last. The first to call in at Reggie’s study in Number Twenty-three was Mr Pelham. He entered shyly.
‘Afternoon, Reg,’ he said. ‘May I sit down?’
‘Of course,’ said Reggie.
Mr Pelham’s inquiry had not been an
academic one. Informed that he might sit, he did so.
‘I’ve come to the end of the road, old son,’ he said.
Reggie’s heart began to beat faster than he would have wished.
‘Is this an admission of success or defeat?’ he asked.
If he’d hoped for a simple answer, he didn’t get it.
‘Who knows?’ said Mr Pelham. ‘I came here, with blood on my hands, hoping for a miracle. What have I learnt? I’m a bloody awful painter, I can’t thatch for toffee, and I sing like a pregnant yak.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Sex clinic? Damp squib. My sex life finished years ago, old son. Analysis? My subconscious is as dull as my conscious.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
Mr Pelham looked out at the passing W288 to Spraundon much as a docker might watch the luxury liner whose hawsers he had handled slipping away to glamorous foreign parts.
This is dreadful,’ said Reggie.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Reg,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘I’ve enjoyed myself. Good food, new people. I haven’t said much, but I’ve soaked it all up. I expected I don’t know what. I know now that there isn’t any don’t know what. There’s only what there is, old son. And I know now who I am.’
‘Er.. . who are you?’
‘I’m the meat man. When I go in the pub, the landlord says ”Morning, meat man”. When I meet the assistant bank manager in the street, he says, ”And what sort of a weekend did the meat man have?” That’s who I am, Reg. Not Leonardo da Vinci. Not Kim Novak. Not a tramp. Not the Headmistress of Roedean. The manager of the Abbey National Building Society doesn’t say, ”Hello, Mr P, can I enter our Sandra for your school?” The milkman doesn’t say, ”Saw the old Mona Lisa last week. Nice one, Leonardo. Stick at it.” And so, I build up a dossier of my identity. I’m the meat man.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Reggie.
Mr Pelham got out his cheque book.
‘I’ve been thinking while I’ve been here, Reg,’ he said. ‘And that’s good. I’m returning to my chosen career which I do well. If the world wants my meat, they can have it. I’m not happy and I’m not miserable. You haven’t succeeded and you haven’t failed. I’m giving you a cheque for five hundred pounds.’
‘Well, I… er … ‘ began Reggie.
‘You aren’t going to turn it down, are you?’ said Mr Pelham.
