by David Nobbs
Mrs Patton turned a tear-stained face towards him.
‘You shouldn’t say such wicked things,’ she said. ‘May God have mercy upon you.’
‘You mean you … you still … er …’ said Reggie.
‘God’s road has many turnings,’ sobbed Mrs Patton. ‘Help me, Mr Perrin.’
Last of the five came the man who had crossed his path before.
It was none other than Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther, best man at the wedding that never was, Jimmy’s partner in staccato speech and his secret army, who had vamoosed with all the weapons and money.
Reggie greeted him neutrally. He felt that it would be a betrayal of Jimmy to show friendliness and a betrayal of Perrins to show hostility.
Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther was tall and sinewy. No irony attended his nickname. He lit a cigar which, like him, was long, thin, brown and showing signs of age.
‘Permission to smoke?’ he said, after taking a luxurious puff.
‘Certainly,’ said Reggie.
‘Well done,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
‘Why are you here?’ said Reggie.
‘Remorse. Fear of death. Conscience. All that palaver,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
He sighed.
‘Like to pay poor old Jimmy back,’ he said. ‘Hoping I might run into him some time.’
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Reggie. ‘He’s here.’
Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther seemed as near to turning pale as he would ever be.
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Working here, for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Splendid. Well done.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’
‘Help me, Mr Perrin.’
Jimmy was out all that day, on an expedition that involved the use of no less than six bus routes, so it wasn’t until evening that the touching reunion took place.
Reggie invited both men to the Botchley Arms for a preprandial snifter.
The saloon bar was awash with furniture. Chairs and tables abounded. The walls had erupted with swords, plates and horse brasses. Shelves were covered with Toby jugs. The carpet was fiercely patterned. The only thing that could be said in its favour was that it was the best bar in Botchley.
Reggie sat in a corner, underneath a mauve wall lamp, a tank full of mouldy goldfish, and a warming pan of no distinction. He sipped his Guinness nervously. This was the ultimate test of his community. If Jimmy could make his peace with the man who had so grievously wronged him, there was no limit to what Perrins could achieve.
He had asked Jimmy to arrive fifteen minutes before Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther, in order to prepare him.
At last he arrived.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Cock-up on the back collar stud front.’
Reggie bought him a large whisky and reflected on the old-fashioned nature of the old soldier’s attire. Where other men simply slipped on a shirt and tie, Jimmy had two collar studs, two cuff-links and a tie-pin to contend with each evening. He changed for dinner every night, out of one shirt with frayed cuffs into another shirt with frayed cuffs. Reggie suspected that he also had a shoe-horn, shoe-trees and his personal pumice stone, but this wasn’t the time to ask. There were bigger fish to fry.
‘I’ve got you here to meet someone,’ said Reggie, when they were both seated. ‘I hope you’re in no hurry.’
‘No. Lettuce is making herself beautiful. Be an hour at least.’
‘Yes.’
‘No slur intended, Reggie.’
‘Jimmy, would you describe yourself as a charitable and forgiving man?’ said Reggie.
‘Other cheek, mote and beam, that sort of crack?’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodwill to all mankind, that kind of caper?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, I would, Reggie. Every time.’
‘Would that include Tim “Curly” Beamish?’
Jimmy’s mouth dropped open. His left eye twitched.
‘Ah! That bastard. Ah well, that’s different,’ he said.
‘It’s goodwill to all mankind except Tim “Curly” Beamish?’
‘Could put it that way. Johnny did me down, Reggie.’
A thought struck Jimmy, an event so unusual that it caused his hand to lurch and his whisky to spill.
‘Not here to meet Tim “Curly” Beamish, am I?’ he asked.
Reggie shook his head, and Jimmy relaxed.
‘No,’ said Reggie. ‘Clive “Lofty” Anstruther.’
More whisky sloshed on to the table. In the tank, a fish abandoned life’s uphill struggle. The other fish ate it. Jimmy gazed at the scene as if it was tenderness itself, compared to the emotions that he was feeling.
‘He arrived this morning, to join our community,’ said Reggie. ‘He’s had a change of heart. He wants to pay you back.’
‘Think so, too,’ said Jimmy.
Reggie put his hand on Jimmy’s arm.
‘I expect the highest standards,’ he said. ‘This is your supreme test. This is Australia at Lord’s. This is Everest. This is your Rubicon.’
Jimmy breathed deeply, and forced a ghastly parody of a smile.
‘Message received and understood,’ he whispered faintly.
He downed the remainder of his whisky in one gulp, before he had a chance to spill any more.
Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther stepped anxiously into the bar. His face was tense. He approached them. He too tried to force a smile.
‘Hello, Jimmy,’ he said, holding out his hand.
There was a perceptible hesitation before Jimmy clasped the proffered extremity.
‘Anstruther,’ he said hoarsely.
‘What are you having?’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
‘Large whisky, please, Anstruther,’ said Jimmy.
‘Well done,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
The former con man towered over the other customers at the bar. Reggie smiled at Jimmy.
‘Well done,’ he said.
‘Just don’t expect me to call him Lofty, that’s all,’ said Jimmy.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘Cheers,’ said Reggie.
‘Cheers,’ said Jimmy, after another slight hesitation.
‘Long time, no see,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
‘Not surprising,’ said Jimmy.
Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther cleared his throat.
‘Jimmy?’ he began.
‘Yes?’
‘Bastard business, that thing. Rotten show. Rifles and so forth.’
Jimmy swallowed hard and looked at Reggie.
Reggie nodded encouragingly. ‘Everest,’ he mouthed.
‘Oh well,’ said Jimmy. ‘Water under bridge, Anstruther.’
‘Never in army,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
‘Can’t all be,’ said Jimmy. ‘Funny old world if everyone in army.’
‘Pack of lies from start to finish.’
‘Oh well.’
‘What happened to all the . . . er . . .?’ asked Reggie.
‘Weapons? Sold them. Dribs and drabs. Not a fighter. Yellow streak,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
‘Bad luck,’ said Jimmy.
‘Rotten through and through,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
‘Drew a lousy hand, that’s all,’ said Jimmy. ‘All the other babies, two hearts, three no trumps, that sort of crack. You, no bid. Rotten luck.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Drink?’
‘Thanks.’
Jimmy bought three large whiskies.
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Pay you back,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther. ‘Weekly instalments.’
He hunted in his pockets, found two grubby notes, and handed them to Jimmy. Jimmy stared at them.
‘Harbour?’ he said. ‘Castle? What are these?’
‘Guernsey notes,
’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther. ‘Legal tender.’
Jimmy put them in his wallet very carefully, as if he didn’t trust them not to disintegrate.
‘Remember the wedding you didn’t turn up at?’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
‘Yes,’ said Jimmy. ‘Bad business, that.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther. ‘She looked like the back end of a bus.’
‘Married her just before Christmas,’ said Jimmy.
‘My God, is that the time?’ said Reggie.
‘Oh my God. Awfully sorry,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
‘Don’t worry. Lofty,’ said Jimmy. ‘I like buses.’
They walked back up Bonn Close, and turned left into Oslo Avenue. Reggie felt a warm glow in his heart. The world was wending its way to his door, and saying, ‘Help me, Mr Perrin.’
Many of their problems were difficult, but if he could reconcile Jimmy and Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther, he could solve them all.
Yes, there were the good times.
There would never be such good times again.
7 The Difficult Days
The crocuses appeared. So did a petty thief.
His existence came to light at a sex symposium presided over by David Harris-Jones in the sex clinic, alias his bedroom.
The double bed had been folded against the wall, and ten people sat round in a circle. Apart from David Harris-Jones, there were eight guests and Reggie, who was holding a watching brief.
The eight guests were Mr Winstanley; a depressed police Superintendent; the extremely shy vet, who appeared to be too shy to leave the community; a scientist who believed that scientific progress would eventually destroy mankind; an automation consultant, who believed that mankind would have succeeded in rendering itself surplus to requirements long before it was destroyed; a football hooligan from Sheffield who felt that, with United and Wednesday both down the plughole, being a football hooligan in Sheffield was a declining industry; a Highways Officer from Botchley Borough Council; and a British Rail traffic manager, who arrived seventeen minutes late, due to alarm clock failure.
The symposium began with a game of ‘Sexual Just A Minute’. The guests had to talk for one minute on any subject connected with sex. They must not hesitate or repeat themselves or deviate from the subject. The aim of the exercise was to break down inhibitions.
The scientist described his favourite sexual activity. After eleven seconds he was buzzed for deviation.
The football hooligan spoke for one minute about a knee trembler in a back alley in Tinsley.
‘Super,’ said David Harris-Jones, when he had finished.
The automation consultant described a night he had spent with a lady electronics expert in Geneva. After fourteen seconds he was buzzed for repetition.
The Superintendent spoke for a minute about the prostitutes of Trudworth New Town.
‘Super, Super,’ said David Harris-Jones, when he had finished.
The extremely shy vet was buzzed after one second for hesitation.
Mr Winstanley spoke of Mrs Winstanley’s uncanny resemblance to Kim Novak. He illustrated this with a snapshot and was very upset when he was buzzed for inaccuracy. He grabbed the photo and shoved it back in his wallet.
Suddenly he began to examine the contents of the wallet very carefully.
‘I’ve been robbed,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe anybody here would take money.’
The extremely shy vet spoke, so softly that only dogs could have heard him.
‘What was that?’ said Reggie.
‘I lost ten pounds last Friday,’ he said.
‘Why didn’t you say?’ said Reggie.
‘I did, but nobody heard me.’
‘You ought to send for the police,’ said the Superintendent.
‘Two cases isn’t much,’ said Reggie. ‘Leave it for a bit, eh?’
The Highways Officer talked about his obsession for Andrea Bovington of Accounts. Reggie didn’t listen. He knew that, if the thefts continued, they could destroy the delicate balance of faith and trust that had been created in the community.
He tossed and turned long into the silent Botchley night.
‘What’s wrong?’ Elizabeth murmured sleepily, shortly after three o’clock.
‘It’s those thefts,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s like a rape in a nunnery.’
‘Stop exaggerating, Reggie,’ said Elizabeth.
‘This is supposed to be a place of trust and faith, darling,’ said Reggie.
Elizabeth switched on the light.
‘Men!’ she said. ‘Everything goes well for several months, then you get two puny little thefts, and you start panicking.’
‘You’re right, darling,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘This is a test of your trust and faith,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You’ve got to have faith in the thief’s conscience. Trust him to see the error of his ways.’
‘You’re right, darling.’
‘You expect everything to go well all the time. It’s impossible. It’s through set-backs that you prove your strength.’
‘You’re absolutely right, darling.’
‘Don’t just agree with everything I say, Reggie. It’s extremely irritating.’
‘You’re abso . . . lu . . . go to sleep, darling. It’s gone three.’
He kissed her and turned over to go to sleep. She was right. Faith and trust. Everything would be all right. Quite soon he was asleep.
He woke to find that she was no longer in the bed. She was over at the dressing table, hunting through her handbag.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked her sleepily.
‘You made me wide awake with all your not sleeping, and then you went straight to sleep.’
‘I’m sorry, darling.’
‘I came for one of my pills. I’ve got cramp.’
‘I’m sorry, darling.’
She put her handbag down on the dressing table.
‘My purse has been stolen,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’ said Reggie, wide awake now.
‘Of course I’m sure. You’re going to have to take some firm action over that thief, Reggie.’
‘You’re absolutely right, darling.’
He tossed and turned until dawn.
That morning Reggie called everyone together in the living-room of Number Twenty-one.
The room was packed. There were seventy people present, including al the staff, all the guests, and McBlane.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Reggie, standing on a chair so that he could be seen by everyone. ‘I’ll be blunt. We have a petty thief in our midst. Three cases have been reported.’
‘Four,’ said the Deputy Borough Engineer of Botchley Council. ‘I lost ten pounds last night.’
‘All right,’ said Reggie. ‘Four cases of . . .’
‘Five,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther. ‘I’ve lost twenty pounds and my watch.’
‘Are we to put at risk everything we’ve built up so painstakingly,’ said Reggie, ‘because we’ve lost seventy-five pounds and a watch?’
‘Digital,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
‘We mustn’t let ourselves be eaten away by suspicion,’ said Reggie. ‘I regard these lapses as relics of a past, mis-spent life, committed by somebody who hasn’t been here long enough to come fully under the spell of our community. I say to this person: Cease your crimes, and free your conscience, by handing back the seventy-five pounds.’
‘And the digital watch,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther.
In the morning there were two more cases of theft, and none of the money had been handed back. Reggie called another emergency meeting. Once again he stood on a chair and addressed the crowd packed into the living-room.
‘We have not yet been successful in reclaiming the soul of our erring brother,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe that this thief is evil or greedy. I believe that he’s bored. The conventional channels have failed to provide
the challenge that he craves. It’s the risk, not the money that is the motivation here. I ask you therefore to eliminate the element of risk, and at the same time put this criminal to private shame, by a supreme act of faith. Leave your valuables lying around the house tonight.’
‘Asking for trouble,’ said Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther. ‘I know the criminal mind.’
‘Sometimes we have to ask for trouble,’ said Reggie, ‘in order to overcome it.’
That night three hundred and eighty-two pounds, four watches, two rings and a bracelet were stolen.
Reggie held his third emergency meeting in the crowded living-room.
‘Help me nail the sod,’ he said.
The Superintendent was about to depart on one of Jimmy’s expeditions when Reggie asked him to lead the inquiries into the thefts.
‘It’s what I’ve come here to avoid,’ he groaned, following Reggie into the sun-room.
The March sun was streaming in through the wide windows. In a gap between the houses in Lisbon Crescent a street lamp glowed a faint orange. There was a fault in the timing device.
‘Please!’ said Reggie.
‘The Superintendent sighed.
‘How can I refuse you when you ask me so nicely?’ he said.
There was a knock on the door. It was the automation consultant. He wanted to leave. He was disturbed by the petty thefts.
‘Do you mind if the Superintendent asks you a few questions? Purely routine, of course,’ said Reggie.
‘Not at all,’ said the automation consultant.
The Superintendent cleared his throat.
‘Did you commit those thefts?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said the automation consultant.
Thank you,’ said the Superintendent.
When the automation consultant had gone, Reggie remonstrated with the burly policeman.
‘Why didn’t you ask him any more?’ he said. ‘It wasn’t exactly a searching inquiry, was it?’
‘No point,’ said the Superintendent. ‘He isn’t the type.’
‘You shouldn’t look at people that way,’ said Reggie. ‘That’s stereotyped thinking.’
The Superintendent set off to pursue his inquiries, but not before Reggie had emphasized the importance of being discreet.
