by David Nobbs
‘No,’ said Reggie.
Mr Dent sighed.
I’m a busy man, Mr Perrin,’ he said. ‘I don’t particularly enjoy my job. My life is spent examining trivia, and I have a boss who invariably leaves me to do the dirty jobs.’
‘I see,’ said Reggie. I’m one of the dirty jobs, am I?’
The little council official looked round the immaculate sun-room, at the large gleaming picture windows, the tidy desk, the new filing cabinets.
‘Not dirty,’ he said. ‘Awkward. Unusual. My boss shrinks from the unknown.’
‘I invite people to come here, as my guests,’ said Reggie. ‘If at the end they want to give me something, fine. It would be heartless to refuse it.’
‘But you advertise?’
‘Suppose I advertised, “Party every night. All welcome. Presents not refused”. Would that be a commercial undertaking?’
‘We’re splitting hairs now.’
‘In my houses …’
‘Houses?’
‘I own Numbers Seventeen to Twenty-five.’
‘I thought Numbers Nineteen and Twenty-three were purchased by non-white gentlemen?’
‘Good friends of mine,’ said Reggie. ‘If they believe in me so much that they buy houses for me, who am I to say them nay?’
He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
‘I’m a remarkable man,’ he said.
Mr Dent’s eyes met his, and he had the impression that the Planning Officer would have smiled, if he had dared.
‘What exactly are you aiming to provide in these houses of yours, Mr Perrin?’ he asked.
‘The universal panacea for all mankind,’ said Reggie. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Dent. ‘This business of the change of use becomes rather more important if we’re dealing with five adjoining houses. I shudder to think what Mr Winstanley will say.’
‘Mr Winstanley?’
‘My boss.’
‘You think he’d ruin an attempt to save mankind from suicide simply because of an infringement of council planning regulations regarding five detached houses in Oslo Avenue, Botchley?’
‘Definitely,’ said Mr Dent.
‘A petty streak in his character, is there?’
‘Most definitely,’
‘But you’re a man of a different kidney?’
‘I’d like to think so, Mr Perrin.’
‘So would I, Mr Dent. So would I. Are you sure you won’t have some coffee?’
‘Well, perhaps a small cup.’
Reggie left the sun-room, soon returning with a tray, decorated with a picture of Ullswater. On the tray were two cups of coffee and a plate of ginger nuts. Mr Dent was looking out over the garden.
‘Looks like snow,’ he said, regaining his seat.
Reggie handed him the coffee.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Mr Dent, ‘I’m in favour of your universal panacea for all mankind. It might do a bit of good.’
‘Thank you.’
‘M’m. Delicious ginger nut.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But my job is to make sure that there are no unauthorized changes of use,’ said Mr Dent, through a mouthful of crumbs.
‘I’ve made no structural changes,’ said Reggie. ‘Another ginger nut?’
‘May I? They’re tasty. Structural changes aren’t the be all and end all, Mr Perrin.’
‘I realize that,’ said Reggie.
‘M’m. Nice ginger nut,’ said Mr Dent. ‘Quite as nice as the first.’
Thank you,’ said Reggie.
‘You’re welcome,’ said Mr Dent.
‘You’re a shrewd judge of a biscuit,’ said Reggie.
‘Are you trying to soft soap me?’ said Mr Dent.
‘It wouldn’t work,’ said Reggie. ‘You’re a man of too much moral fibre.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Dent. ‘So you’ve made no structural changes?’
‘None,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s true that I’m using kitchens and garden sheds as bedrooms, but they could return to their former use at the drop of a hat. Where does it end? If the Jack Russell does big jobs in the dining room, is it on that account a downstairs toilet?’
Mr Dent stood up, and dumped his empty cup in the middle of Ullswater. He put his hands on Reggie’s desk and leant forward till his face was close to Reggie’s.
‘I could get you,’ he said, with greater mildness than the gesture had led Reggie to expect. ‘I could get you on inadequate air vents. I can get anybody on inadequate air vents. Though I say it myself, as shouldn’t, I’m mustard on inadequate air vents.’
Mr Dent sat down, and gave a shuddering sigh.
‘What a pathetic boast,’ he said. ‘I’m mustard on inadequate air vents. What an abysmal claim. What a dismal piece of human flotsam I am.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Reggie stoutly, walking over to put his arm on Mr Dent’s chair. ‘I like you. Look, don’t go straight on to your next dreary task. Watch us at work. Sit in on one of Doc Morrissey’s group sessions.’
Doc Morrissey’s group session was held in the spacious living-room of Number Twenty-five. Thick yellow cloud, pregnant with snow, hung over the pocked lawns and heavy vegetable beds. A calor gas fire stood in front of the empty fireplace. It was turned to maximum and provided a steady heat. In front of it slumbered Snodgrass.
Reggie introduced Mr Dent to Doc Morrissey, and Doc Morrissey introduced him to the six guests who were present. They were the systems analyst, the stockbroker, the businessman who answered to the name of Edwards, the owner of the small firm that made supermarket trolleys, the extremely shy vet, and Ethel Merman.
‘Who’s going to set the ball rolling by talking about their problems?’ said Doc Morrissey, who was seated in an old wooden chair with curved arms, at the centre of the group.
He beamed at them encouragingly.
Nobody spoke.
‘Splendid,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘Has anyone got anything to add?’
Again, nobody spoke.
‘Does anybody feel they’re over-aggressive?’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘Does anyone feel a need to dominate any group they’re in?’
Nobody spoke.
‘Obviously not,’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘I don’t feel that I’m a dominating person at all,’ said the systems analyst, flicking ash gently off the end of his cigarette into the shell-shaped ashtray on the table beside his chair. ‘I’m cool, controlled, systematic, analytical, as befits a systems analyst.’
He looked round the group and gave a cool, controlled, systematic smile.
Reggie nodded encouragingly at Mr Dent, as if to say, ‘We’ve started at last.’
‘But underneath I’m a bubbling cauldron,’ continued the systems analyst. ‘I get aggressive in two areas really. Driving and … er …’
‘Ah!’ said the stockbroker. ‘That’s probably your sex drive. The car represents a woman.’
‘Auto-suggestion!!’ said Doc Morrissey.
Again there flitted across his face a look of professional satisfaction, almost immediately followed by the dawning of self-doubt.
‘Maybe,’ said the systems analyst. ‘Because the second area is … er …’
The yellow gloom outside grew thicker. There was the distant roar of a pneumatic drill in Lisbon Crescent.
‘The second area?’ prompted Doc Morrissey gently.
The systems analyst looked shiftily at Ethel Merman.
‘Lately I’ve developed an almost irresistible desire to … to…’
‘To?’
‘To punch pregnant women in the stomach.’
Ethel Merman drew in her breath sharply.
‘You must have given this some thought,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘Have you any idea why you want to … er …?’
He swung his arms in imitation of a vaguely aggressive gesture, but couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
‘I think I must hate women,’ said the systems analyst.
‘I see that complacent swelling, that maternal arrogance, that sheen of self-absorbed pregnancy, and I want to go … whoomf! whoomf!’
He punched an imaginary mother-to-be. His face was transformed by hatred.
Ethel Merman flinched.
‘Oh, I’ve never done it,’ said the systems analyst. ‘I very much doubt if I ever will. I’ve too much to lose. Friends, acquaintances, work, insurance policies, credit rating. I’ll never do it, but… wanting to’s just as bad.’
The extremely shy vet looked at him sadly. Ethel Merman edged to the far side of her chair.
Reggie nodded towards Mr Dent, as if to say, ‘You don’t get that sort of stuff in the town hall canteen, do you?’
‘You find that shocking, naturally?’ said the systems analyst to Ethel Merman.
‘I wouldn’t be a woman if I didn’t, would I?’ she said.
She glanced round the wide circle of chairs nervously. The extremely shy vet smiled extremely shyly at her.
‘I’m Ethel Merman,’ she said, defiantly.
‘Not the legendary Ethel Merman?’ said the stockbroker.
‘No, the unlegendary Ethel Merman,’ she replied.
Reggie produced another of his meaningful smiles for Mr Dent. ‘Life is such a rich tapestry,’ this one seemed to say.
Ethel Merman fixed him with a baleful stare.
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ she said. ‘It’s bugged my life. It’s brought home to me just how dreary Erith is. It’s the same with my friend.’
She paused. She was still looking at Reggie, and he felt drawn into a reply.
‘Your friend?’
‘Mrs Clark. I said to her the other day, “Pet,” I said, “Who’d have thought it? The two of us in the one street, with the names of famous international artistes, and nobody has ever heard of either of us. It’s not fair.” I said the same thing to her at the corner shop. “It’s not fair, Shirley,” I said.’
Reggie felt as if he was taking part in a double act of which only his partner knew the script.
‘Shirley Bassey?’ he heard himself saying.
‘No. Shirley McNab. Shirley Bassey’s the singer,’ said Ethel Merman.
Reggie nodded resignedly. He had been taking part in a double act of which only his partner knew the script.
‘Still,’ said Ethel Merman. ‘We all have our cross to bear.’
‘I certainly do,’ said the owner of the small firm that made supermarket trolleys. ‘I’m a homosexual.’
The little gathering was stunned, less by the revelation itself than by the fact that it was this particular man who was making it. He spoke with an accent inappropriate for such admissions. Under the western edge of the Pennines the voices are flatter than anywhere else in Britain. In the Eastern Potteries there are still traces of the Midland drawl, mingling with the purity that finds its peak of flatness in the cotton towns of East Lancashire. In his case this complex Staffordshire accent had been diluted but not destroyed by his transition into the managerial classes. It had geography and social history in it, failure and success. It seemed strange that it should be used, bluntly, flatly, to say, ‘I’m a raving pouf.’
‘It’s no disgrace these days,’ said the businessman who answered to the name of Edwards.
It began, gently at first, to snow.
‘Not in certain circles, I’ll grant you. It’s practically a badge of office in some quarters, I’ve heard tell. But it’s not expected in a self-made secondary school lad who started out in a bicycle shop in Leek, saw the way the wind was blowing, got out before the virtual demise of that mode of transport, shrewdly anticipated the growth of the supermarket and ended up with his own firm making trolleys and wire baskets.’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ said the systems analyst. ‘Not nearly as bad as wanting to punch pregnant women.’
‘I agree. Why should I be ashamed, just because I have an unusual distribution of my comatose? But it’s bad for trade if you’re widely known as a jessie. It’s tantamount to extinction. “You don’t get your trolleys from that bloody Jessie, do you?”, as if the very trolleys themselves were contaminated. And so I lead a double life. By day, the solid businessman. By night, a shadowy figure in the gay clubs of the Five Towns. And it’s bad for your morale and self-respect, is leading a double life.’
The snow began to fall in earnest, settling on lawns, flower beds, paths and roofs alike, turning the drab garden into a wonderland. They all watched in silence for a while, hypnotized by the big, gentle, creamy flakes. Reggie was aware of the aggression inside himself. He wanted the snow to go on and on, plunging the mundane world into chaos, cutting off towns and villages, blocking main roads, teasing the Southern Region of British Rail to despair.
‘I lead a double life as well,’ said the stockbroker. ‘I’m an ant on the floor of the stock exchange and a king in armour.’
‘I don‘t understand,’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘I go to a place in Marylebone once a fortnight. There’s all kinds of equipment there, for sexual pleasure. I wear armour, and a crown, and I’m suspended in irons.’
There was a pause.
‘How long can you keep it up?’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘All the time I’m hanging there.’
‘No, I meant, how long do you hang there?’
‘Oh. Two hours. It’s ten pounds an hour. Rather steep, but beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘Splendid,’ said Reggie. ‘Excellent. Oh, I don’t mean it’s excellent that you … er … have to be … er … in order to … er … what I mean is, it’s splendid that, as you do have to be … er … in order to … er … you’ve had the courage to tell us about your… er …’
‘Kink.’
‘Kink. No, I wouldn’t say kink. Preference.’
It was eerily yellow now as the fierce snow storm swirled around Botchley. The blue-white flame of the gas fire glowed brightly, and Snodgrass stirred to the rhythm of a distant dream.
‘I’m trying to give it up, as a matter of principle,’ said the stockbroker.
‘Well done,’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘The mistake you’re making,’ said the stockbroker, ‘is in thinking that I’m giving it up for moral reasons. I have no feelings of guilt about it. It is totally absurd, and rather inconvenient, that I should find sexual gratification in this way, but I don’t see it as wrong. Nobody else is involved. I don’t mess about with small children.’
‘Or men,’ said the owner of the small firm that made supermarket trolleys. ‘It’s all right for you, the city smoothie, with your sophisticated bloody perversion. I’m the yokel, the simple straightforward jessie. Talk about the unjust society. Not even equality of perversions.’
‘I honestly am sorry that you should take it so personally,’ said the stockbroker. ‘I’m not a happy figure that you should envy. I’m miserable. The mistake you make is in thinking that I’m miserable because of the two hours in Marylebone. I’m happy there. I make jokes. “You have heavy overheads,” I comment as the mechanism is lowered to receive me. “This is the stockbroker belt,” I say as I strap myself in. I’m miserable because the other three hundred-odd hours in every fortnight are so empty and sterile. I’m a hollow man, envying you your bicycle shop in Leek and your wire basket factory.’
There was almost an inch of level snow in the garden already. The pneumatic drill had stopped. The workmen had knocked off.
‘Why do you intend to give it up on principle, then?’ said Reggie.
‘They’re going to charge VAT,’ said the stockbroker. ‘And I’m convinced that a business like that wouldn’t be VAT registered.’
He smiled. There was no warmth or coldness in his smile. He smiled because he had learnt from experience that a smile was the appropriate facial arrangement for such an occasion.
‘I may like being strapped up,’ he said, ‘but I don’t intend to be taken for a ride.’
Doc Morrissey looked towards the extremely shy vet, who shook his head
and sank deeper into the threadbare old recliner in which he was sitting.
‘Oh well. I suppose I’d better have a go,’ said the businessman who answered to the name of Edwards.
He had dark hair and a thin sallow face, and he was wearing fawn trousers and a blue blazer with gold buttons.
‘As you know, I answer to the name of Edwards,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ agreed Reggie.
‘What you don’t know is that I also answer to the name of Jennings. And Levingham. And Brakespeare. Not to mention Phipps-Partington.’
Everyone looked at him in astonishment.
‘I’m a con man,’ he explained. ‘Sometimes it’s convenient to cover one’s tracks, you see. Each of us has a different personality. Phipps-Partington is a gentleman down on his luck. Levingham’s an out-and-out bastard who separates old ladies from their savings. Brakespeare’s a likeable rogue who sets up rather wild, florid schemes, like collecting for a fund to build a replica of the Menai Bridge in Wisconsin, and have a corner of the USA that is for ever Welsh. You’d be surprised how many hard-bitten rugby players give to that with tears in their eyes on a Saturday night.’
‘What made you decide to come here?’ said Reggie.
The con man looked round the dark, warm living-room, at the respectably dressed people in their assorted armchairs.
‘I want to find out who I am,’ he said. ‘But there are thirteen people in this room, and five of them are me.’
‘Thank you for telling us, all of you,’ said Doc Morrissey.
He looked at the shy vet hopefully. The vet shook his head.
‘I can only talk to animals,’ he mumbled.
To Reggie’s surprise, Mr Dent began to speak.
‘I know perfectly well who I am,’ he said. ‘I’m a friendly, genial, delightful man, not physically brave, but lit up from within by a generosity of spirit, an eagerness to love the human race. It’s just that it never seems to come out that way. I do a rather dull, tiring, nit-picking sort of job, I don’t have enough money to live with any style, I have a lot of administrative problems, all getting steadily worse with the financial cut-backs, and somehow, what with one thing and another, well, the real me doesn’t stand a chance. Maybe here it will. Oh yes, I’ll stay, Mr Perrin. Sod the council.’
