The Reginald Perrin Omnibus

by David Nobbs

  There was a faint knock on the door of the sun-room. Reggie had to call ‘Come in’ three times before the extremely shy vet entered.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ he mumbled.

  ‘It’s the thefts, isn’t it?’ said Reggie.

  ‘It’s burst the bubble,’ mumbled the vet, ‘but I would have had to have gone sooner or later.’

  ‘You aren’t conquering your shyness as quickly as you’d hoped.’

  The extremely shy vet nodded.

  Could he be the thief? Anybody could be. Even the Superintendent.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’ said Reggie.

  ‘No,’ said the extremely shy vet.

  ‘Did you commit those thefts?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said the extremely shy vet.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Reggie. ‘No further questions.’

  Reggie knew that he hadn’t made a conspicuous success of his first police inquiry, but he consoled himself with the thought that the extremely shy vet wasn’t the type.

  That afternoon both the football hooligans departed in high dudgeon, after their rooms had been searched. Before they left they punctured the tyres of every car in Oslo Avenue. Reggie was angry with the Superintendent.

  ‘I suppose you searched their rooms first of anybody,’ he said, as they reviewed the day’s events in the sun-room that evening.

  They’re the types,’ said the Superintendent.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t done that,’ said Reggie. ‘You didn’t find anything, I suppose?’

  ‘No, but it was one of them. You run a nice, middle-class place. No crime. You bring yobbos in. Crimes begin. What they did to those tyres proves what they are.’

  ‘They did that because you searched their rooms,’ said Reggie. ‘You force people into the roles you want them to play.’

  ‘God save me from idealists,’ said the Superintendent. That’s the one good thing about Trudworth New Town. No idealists.’

  The Superintendent handed Reggie fifty pounds.

  ‘What’s that for?’ said Reggie.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ said the Superintendent. This place has failed me.’

  At the door he turned.

  ‘You won’t get any more thefts,’ he said.

  There were no thefts that night, nor the next night.

  The exodus continued. The trendies decided that Perrins was no longer fashionable and proved mean with their money.

  Mr Linklater, from the Town Clerk’s Department of Botchley Borough Council, was ushered into the sun-room on the following day. He was a neat, concise man, who looked as if he was trying to cram his body tight into an invisible box. He sat very upright, holding his hands firmly into his sides.

  ‘You have eleven of my staff here, Mr Perrin,’ he said.

  Twelve, including you,’ said Reggie.

  ‘I won’t be staying, though,’ said Mr Linklater.

  ‘They all said that,’ said Reggie. ‘A cup of my coffee, a couple of my ginger nuts, a quick gander at my community, and they’re hooked. Would you like coffee and biscuits?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Linklater firmly. The decimation of our staff cannot continue.’

  ‘I didn’t force them to stay,’ said Reggie. ‘It isn’t my fault if working for the council is boring, the offices are dreary, the corridors are dusty, and the food in the canteen is vile.’

  ‘May I see my staff?’ said Mr Linklater.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Reggie. ‘Let me show you around.’

  They set off along Oslo Avenue. The bright sun was deceptive, for the air was still quite sharp.

  ‘What a strange walk you have, Mr Linklater,’ said Reggie. ‘The way you bounce up and down, and hold your backside in so tightly, as if you’re walking through Portsmouth on a dark night.’

  That afternoon Mr Dent called on Reggie and told him that the Botchley Council contingent were all leaving.

  ‘I’ll be sorry to see you all go,’ said Reggie.

  ‘We’ll all be sorry to see us all go,’ said Mr Dent.

  ‘Is it the thefts?’ said Reggie.

  ‘I suppose they’ve brought it on,’ said Mr Dent. ‘That and Mr Linklater explaining about our benefits and back pay and how we wouldn’t lose any if we came back now.’

  Mr Dent remained standing, by the door.

  ‘Sit down,’ Reggie urged him.

  ‘No thank you,’ he said. ‘You’d be offering me your ginger nuts next and then where would we be? Back at square one. We couldn’t stay for ever, Mr Perrin.’

  ‘I hope we’ve had an effect,’ said Reggie. ‘I hope you won’t forget that real you that you spoke of. That friendly, genial, delightful man.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ said Mr Dent, smiling. ‘He’s here to stay.’

  He looked embarrassed.

  ‘We . . . er . . . I’m collecting a sum of money from everyone. We’ve agreed how much we’ll all pay, according to how long we’ve stayed. I’ve . . . er . . . I’ve done a cheque for us all.’

  Mr Dent removed the cheque from his wallet and looked it over carefully.

  ‘It’s not a lot,’ he said. ‘You aren’t millionaires if you work for the BBC.

  He handed Reggie the cheque. It came out at more per head than the amount donated by all the trendies.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Reggie.

  ‘May I ask you a question?’ said Mr Dent.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What did you say to Mr Linklater this morning?’

  Reggie told him.

  ‘Out of my own pocket,’ said Mr Dent, handing him two five pound notes.

  That evening Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther’s room-mate handed Reggie an envelope.

  It contained two hundred pounds and a note.

  The note read: ‘Dear Mr Perrin. Couldn’t face you. Sorry. Yellow streak. Had to leave. Place destroyed for me by thefts. Peace of mind gone. Mankind rotten through and through. Please find £100 for you, £100 for Jimmy. More follows. Lofty.’

  Five days later, Reggie received a letter, second-class, post-marked London.

  ‘A thousand pounds gone from your safe,’ it read. ‘Sorry. Rotten through and through. Fact of life. Don’t want anyone else to be suspected. Not vicious. Don’t try and find me. Waste of time. Love to Jimmy. Lofty.’

  Reggie hadn’t even known that there were a thousand pounds gone from his safe. He had failed the two yobbos. He had lost nineteen of his fifty-two guests. He called a meeting of his staff, in the living-room of Number Seventeen.

  They sat around the walls in the wildly assorted chairs, and drank coffee out of the brown mugs, each of which bore its owner’s name.

  In a gesture of solidarity, they never drank out of their own mug. The names were on the mugs merely to remind them of other, less fortunate organizations, where a less happy spirit prevailed.

  Reggie was smoking an opulent cigar.

  ‘The petty thefts have knocked Perrins, but they haven’t destroyed it,’ he said. ‘Things were too easy. We’ll be all the stronger for the experience. It may even be a blessing in disguise as new guests will soon take up the slack, and will probably prove better payers than the trendies or the council officials. We’ve all got to work a little harder, but don’t worry. We shall succeed. Any questions?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘Why are you smoking a large cigar?’

  ‘It’s a psychological ploy,’ said Reggie. ‘It’ll give me an air of authority and opulence which will help to re-establish an aura of confidence and well-being.’

  He drew on the cigar luxuriantly, and sighed contentedly.

  ‘I hate the bloody things,’ he said. ‘But it’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make, for the sake of the community.’

  Buds began to appear on the trees, daffodils bloomed in the gardens, and all over Botchley men oiled their lawn mowers.

  The clock went forward, providing an extra hour of daylight in the evenings.

  The March winds grew angry at mankind’s pre
sumptuousness. We’ll show them whether winter’s over, they howled. They hurled themselves against roofs, rattled upon double-glazing, sported with carrier bags and old newspapers, and sent daffodils reeling.

  A container ship carrying thousands of tons of Worcester sauce from Immingham to Nagasaki crashed on to the jagged rocks off the west coast of Guernsey and was severely holed. Spicy brown tides roared up the holiday beaches. The rocks from Pleinmont to L’Ancresse were awash with vinegar, molasses, sugar, shallots, anchovies, tamarinds, garlic, salt, spices and natural flavouring. It was the worst Worcester sauce slick in modern mercantile history.

  Six novelists began books about the incident. Five of the books were called Worcester Sauce Galore and the sixth was called The Fall and Rise of Lea and Perrins.

  Deborah Swaffham arrived at the community.

  Jimmy continued the endless task of clearing Botchley of litter all over again. It was an ecological Forth Bridge. He removed a sodden copy of the Botchley and Spraundon Press (Incorporating the Coxwell Gazette) from the bars of a gate in Reykjavik View, where it had been flapping in impotent anger. He began to read it, for other people’s newspapers are always more interesting than one’s own. His eye alighted on an article by ‘The Gourmet’. ‘In the gastronomic treasure house that is War Memorial Parade,’ the article began, ‘no jewel shines more brightly than the wittily named Oven D’Or.’

  Jimmy had just reached: ‘My companion plumped for the prawn cocktail and pronounced it as delicious as it was ample,’ when a bloodcurdling yell came from round the corner.

  He abandoned his reading, and led his expeditionary force into action for the first time.

  Three youths were attacking a smaller youth in Lima Crescent.

  Jimmy’s six-man force rushed in, with the exception of the philosopher, who hung back as much as he dared.

  Jimmy tore into the midst of the fray, grabbed two of the youths, and banged their heads together before they knew what was happening.

  ‘Take that, you bastards,’ he shouted, bringing his knee up into the larger one’s groin.

  Four members of the expeditionary force were not far behind him, while the philosopher faffed around ineffectually on the edge of the fight.

  The three youths were soon overcome.

  ‘Love and peace, you bloody louts,’ Jimmy shouted at them, as they limped sullenly off along Lima Crescent. ‘Love and peace, do you hear? Reckoned without Major James Anderson, didn’t you?’

  One of the youths turned, and intimated, though not in those exact words, that retribution might be expected.

  Jimmy turned to the rescued youth.

  ‘On your way, lad,’ he said.

  The rescued youth set off equally sullenly in the opposite direction, without a word of thanks.

  ‘Ungrateful sod,’ said Jimmy.

  The middle-aged expeditionary force stood panting in the road, regaining its corporate wind.

  ‘Right,’ said Jimmy, the flint dying reluctantly from his eyes. ‘Back to clearing litter.’

  ‘Leloipe,’ cried the philosopher. ‘My God! My God!’

  ‘Know what you’re thinking,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘I very much doubt that,’ said the philosopher.

  ‘Can’t all be men of action,’ said Jimmy, putting a consoling arm round the philosopher. ‘Rum bag of tricks if we were.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said the philosopher irritably. ‘When you fought, I was thinking that here we have war and history in microcosm.’

  ‘Microcosm, eh?’ said Jimmy blankly.

  ‘Violence to stop violence. A peace-keeping force is a contradiction in terms. Fighting for peace is as absurd as making love for virginity. And suddenly that led me on and I saw a fatal flaw in my solution. I’m wrong. All my life’s work – wrong!’

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘It’s wonderful, you fool,’ said the philosopher. ‘I’ve lost everything.’

  ‘Leloipe,’ he cried again, and the wind hurled his triumphant cry of failure along Lima Crescent towards the Arctic.

  Later that afternoon, as the winds spent themselves slowly, the philosopher saw Reggie in the sun-room.

  His face was exultant.

  ‘I haven’t solved all the problems of ethics, mathematics, logic and linguistics after all,’ he said. ‘In fact I haven’t solved any of them. Isn’t it wonderful news? Aren’t you happy for me?’

  ‘Delirious,’ said Reggie.

  ‘My quest can begin again,’ said the philosopher. ‘The long search resumes. Please accept a cheque for four hundred pounds. I wish it could be more, but philosophers aren’t millionaires.’

  ‘I haven’t earned it,’ protested Reggie.

  ‘You’ve flung me back into the exquisite cauldrons of doubt and speculation,’ said the philosopher gratefully.

  On her first day, Deborah Swaffham had been upstaged by Jimmy’s little fracas.

  On the Tuesday, she was upstaged by the petition. It was delivered at three thirty in the afternoon by Mrs E. Blythe-Erpingham, of Windyways, Number Eighteen, Bonn Close. It had been signed by one thousand two hundred and seventy-six residents.

  The purport of the petition was that the presence of Perrins in the midst of Mrs E. Blythe-Erpingham and her friends was ‘inconsistent with the character of this predominantly residential area’.

  Reggie greeted Mrs Blythe-Erpingham courteously, and studied the petition carefully.

  ‘Photostats have been sent to the leader of the council, our MP, and to the Botchley and Spraundon Press,’ she said.

  ‘Incorporating the Coxwell Gazette,’ said Reggie. ‘I do apologize for interrupting, but I think we should remember our friends in Coxwell. We’re all brothers and sisters under the skin, are we not, Lady Blythe-Erpingham?’

  ‘Mrs Blythe-Erpingham,’ said Mrs Blythe-Erpingham.

  ‘Lady Blythe-Erpingham to me,’ said Reggie.

  Mrs Blythe-Erpingham simpered.

  ‘I thought it would be courteous to bring you a photostat,’ she said. ‘And I would like to assure you, Mr Perrin, that this is only because of the parking, the punctures, the publicity, and the undesirable types that your excellent project attracts. There is nothing personal in this whatsoever.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Reggie. ‘There’s nothing personal in this either.’

  He tore the petition into little pieces and dropped them over Mrs Blythe-Erpingham’s head like snow.

  In the early evening, in the late sunshine, Reggie strolled around the streets of Botchley, marshalling his thoughts.

  Why did I tear the petition up?

  Why was I rude to Mr Linklater?

  I can’t afford these gestures. They can destroy my work.

  I shouldn’t want these petty triumphs.

  He entered the Botchley Arms and ordered a pint of bitter. The landlord had a long, gaunt face and a long, pointed nose beneath which a brown moustache bristled acidly.

  ‘These fine evenings are bad for trade,’ he said. ‘People pop out to the country when they see a bit of sun.’

  Reggie felt an impulse to make a thoroughly rude reply.

  No, no, no.

  ‘I daresay it’s as long as it’s broad,’ he said.

  ‘That’s exactly the way I look at it,’ said the landlord. ‘You’ve got to in this trade.’

  On the Wednesday, it was the financial problems of Perrins that occupied Reggie, and enabled those posed by Deborah Swaffham to remain undetected. Elizabeth asked him to come and see her in the secretary’s office. She was wearing a pair of severe horn-rimmed glasses which she affected when she wished to look businesslike rather than wifely. Her eyebrows rose at his large cigar, but she made no comment. Instead she gave a concise summary of their financial position.

  ‘Our expenses have been enormous and have used up almost all our capital,’ she said. ‘During January and February we were full, and still only just exceeded our costs. We are now not full. We can’t guarantee to be full all the time. We
must therefore make economies.’

  ‘I think those are long-tailed tits at the bottom of the garden,’ said Reggie.’

  ‘Reggie.’

  ‘Sorry, darling, I missed some of what you said. I missed that bit about the finances.’

  ‘Reality won’t go away because you don’t look at it, you know.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, darling, but those tits are lovely.’

  Concentrate, Reggie.

  Elizabeth repeated her pithy summary of their financial position.

  Reggie puffed his cigar thoughtfully.

  ‘We’ll have to make economies,’ he said.

  Those cigars can go for a start,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘But not short-sighted economies,’ he said. ‘I mustn’t lose my authority, darling, much as I might wish to. What are our major expenses?’

  ‘Salaries and food. Salaries you can’t cut down on. McBlane is extravagant.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that I go and see McBlane and tell him that we must make economies?’

  ‘Frankly, yes.’

  ‘Man to man, straight from the shoulder?’

  ‘Frankly, yes.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain we need to economize?’

  ‘Frankly, yes. Are you frightened of McBlane, darling?’

  ‘Frankly, yes.’

  Reggie walked slowly through the living-room, bracing himself for his confrontation with McBlane.

  The kitchen was filled with the pleasant aroma of prawns provençale. The pustular wizard of the pots was seated at the kitchen table pouring white powder over his left foot.

  ‘Morning, McBlane,’ said Reggie. ‘Prawns provençale. Yum yum.’

  McBlane grunted.

  ‘Keeping the old feet in good condition, eh?’ said Reggie. ‘Splendid.’

  McBlane replied. For all Reggie knew, he might have said anything from, ‘Yes, I’m a bit of a stickler for pedicure’, to ‘Mind your own business, you Sassenach snob’.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Reggie, taking a calculated risk, for if McBlane had said, ‘I have an incurable dose of McAllister’s Pedal Gunge and will be bed-ridden ere Michaelmas’, Reggie’s reply of ‘Splendid’ would have been distinctly inflammatory.

  ‘Splendid food all week,’ said Reggie, as McBlane drew a thick woollen sock over his powdered foot. ‘So good, McBlane, that a thought occurs to me. A chef of your calibre doesn’t need expensive ingredients all the time. Any chef can make a delicious meal of parma ham with melon, crayfish thermidor, and syllabub. Only a genius like you could make a delicious meal of, shall we say, leek and potato soup and scrag end of lamb. In others words, McBlane, were I to say to you that a degree of economy was needed, just a degree, you understand, then a chef of your brilliance and subtlety might see that as a challenge. Point taken, McBlane?’