The Reginald Perrin Omnibus

by David Nobbs

  Reggie gave a sickly grin.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I was thinking something along those lines, if not in so many words,’ he said. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Seamus. It was a dreadful thing to do.’

  ‘I own eight companies,’ said Seamus Finnegan.

  ‘I . . . Well, that’s marvellous, Seamus. That’s marvellous. So . . . er . . .’

  ‘What am I doing drinking in this dismal hell-hole?’

  ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘It would be facile to suggest that success has not changed Seamus Finnegan. Success, sir, he’s a feller that changes everything. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t have time to slip away from my spiritual Athenaeum and while away an idle hour with the mates of my erstwhile existence. To me, sir, class distinction is a horse of dubious character, a non-runner, a late withdrawal, as the actress said to the Catholic bishop.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Same again, sir?’

  ‘I’d rather a whisky, Seamus.’

  ‘Yes indeed. A noxious brew.’

  Seamus went to the bar, passed a few brief words with the mates of his erstwhile existence, and returned with two large whiskies.

  ‘Seeing you here, Mr Perrin,’ said Seamus Finnegan, as they clinked glasses, ‘did not lead me to believe that you had fallen upon evil days. I don’t judge a man from his surroundings. His innate character, he’s the feller I look for. The old essential nature of the unique and individual homo sapiens, he’s the man for me.’

  ‘I am justly rebuked,’ said Reggie with a wry grin.

  One of the darts players farted. There was loud laughter. Life went on. So did Seamus Finnegan.

  ‘However,’ he said, ‘curiosity is a frisky nag. She’s liable to sweat up in the paddock, that one. And, sir, curiosity rather than social stereotype compels me, in my turn, to ask of you, ”What are you doing drinking in this dismal hell-hole?”.’

  Reggie described Perrins and its situation as best he could. Seamus Finnegan’s amiable ruddy face expressed shock and alarm, but when asked why, his garrulity vanished, and he displayed all the characteristics of an unusually introverted clam.

  Next morning, at ten past nine, Seamus Finnegan called at Number Twenty-one, Oslo Avenue.

  ‘Hello!’ said Reggie. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘Dark deeds,’ said Seamus Finnegan.

  Reggie led him into the sun-room. Seamus produced a briar pipe of great age, filled it with foul tobacco at his leisure, lit it, took a puff, seemed pleased and spoke.

  ‘You remember my colleagues of last night?’ he said.

  The mates of your erstwhile existence?’

  ‘Them’s the fellers. They’re right villains, them lot. Well, they’ve been having inquiries from some yobbos and ruffians with a view to duffing up a certain community that has aroused resentment.’

  Reggie’s eyes met Seamus’s, and a cold fear stabbed him.

  ‘Perrins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Saturday night. It’s only rumour, but that’s one horse you can never write off.’

  Thank you for warning me, Seamus.’

  Reggie called a staff meeting for six thirty that evening.

  At half past three, David Harris-Jones arrived back, without Prue. He was starving, and Reggie led him into the kitchen.

  McBlane was upstairs, taking a rare opportunity to put his athlete’s feet up, but Reggie managed to rustle up some leftovers.

  ‘I got as far as Paddington, and nemesis overtook me,’ said David Harris-Jones, between mouthfuls. ‘I spent twenty-nine hours in one of the toilet cubicles. Can you imagine spending twenty-nine hours in the cubicle of a Western Region toilet?’

  ‘The plight is horrific, the region immaterial,’ said Reggie.

  ‘Every graffitus is etched on my memory,’ said David Harris-Jones, shuddering at the enormity of the obscenities.

  ‘It was hysterical dysentery,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s odd that you should get it in isolation like that.’

  ‘The seeds of hysteria were sown before I left.’

  When David had almost seen off another mouthful, Reggie asked him how things stood with Prue.

  ‘She didn’t believe me,’ he said. ‘She said I’d been visiting . . . that woman. I quoted the graffiti as proof. They seemed to make matters worse.’

  Reggie nodded understandingly.

  ‘Would you . . . er . . . would it be asking too much, Reggie? Yes, of course it would,’ said David Harris-Jones.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Would you . . . no, it’s stupid to even . . . but what can I do?’

  ‘David!’

  ‘Would you ring Prue and tell her it’s all true, and I’m feeling absolutely . . . er . . .’

  ‘All right,’ said Reggie.

  ‘. . . suicidal. Oh, thank you, Reggie,’ said David Harris-Jones.

  Reggie told Prue the full story of the hysterical dysentery.

  ‘Well?’ said David Harris-Jones, who had been hovering near the phone like an injured peewit. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Very encouraging,’ said Reggie. ‘She said I must think she’s a complete fool and rang off.’

  David Harris-Jones groaned.

  ‘What’s encouraging about that?’ he said.

  ‘It wasn’t what she said,’ explained Reggie. ‘It was the way she said it! She was icily cold.’

  David Harris-Jones looked at Reggie in dismay.

  ‘Let’s go back in the kitchen and have a beer,’ said Reggie.

  David followed him less out of enthusiasm than out of an inability to formulate an alternative plan. Reggie got two beers out of the fridge.

  ‘Don’t you recognize Prue’s anger for what it is?’ he said. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘No. Cheers. What it is?’

  ‘Love.’

  ‘Love?’

  ‘Fool that she is, she loves you.’

  ‘I never want to set eyes on her again.’

  ‘You see. You love her too.’

  David Harris-Jones sipped his lager angrily. His concept of his own uniqueness was insulted by this revelation of how true the most dismal cliches of love are.

  ‘A lesson in love from old Uncle Perrin,’ said Reggie. ‘You make too much of your quarrels because you quarrel too little. Tony and Joan make too little of theirs because they quarrel too much. There are six marriages in this place. Four will survive. Two may not. Gaze at Uncle Reggie’s crystal ball.’

  David Harris-Jones managed a faint smile. Reggie’s lecture across the kitchen table continued.

  ‘Your marriage will survive because you love each other,’ he said. ‘Tony and Joan’s will survive because they don’t. Elizabeth and I will survive because we’ve survived so much already. Jimmy and Lettuce will survive because there’s no alternative. McBlane and his kitchen may not survive . . . ’

  ‘McBlane and his kitchen?’

  ‘A great if one-sided love. There’s a strain of desperation in McBlane, David, and one day he’ll seek a response from his kitchen – it may be this kitchen, it may be another – which it’s unable to give. All that talent, and no chance of happiness, David.’

  ‘And the sixth marriage?’

  ‘Tom and Linda. I fear that won’t survive, because Linda will expect more than Tom can give, and Tom will expect less than Linda can give. Bear one thing in mind about my predictions, David.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nobody can safely predict anything about anyone. Now, to more serious matters.’

  ‘More serious matters! It wouldn’t be more serious to me if this place was going to be razed to the ground by hordes of Vandals and Visigoths.’

  ‘It is.’

  Once again, the staff gathered and drank out of each other’s mugs.

  Reggie explained the threat.

  It was decided that they had three alternatives.

  They could fight.

  They could give in.

  They could go to the
police.

  They soon decided – possibly against the wishes of David Harris-Jones and Tom – that they couldn’t give in.

  There was widespread reluctance to get involved with the police even if it would have been of any use on the hearsay of one eccentric Irishman.

  Resistance was declared to be the order of the day.

  Adam and Jocasta would be sent to the Perrymans’ for the night, and McBlane wouldn’t be included in the action, as it was doubtful whether killing eight yobbos with a meat cleaver would come into the category of justified self-defence.

  Jimmy appeared to regret this decision.

  The next question to be decided was the selection of a leader of the defence.

  ‘You, of course,’ said Tom.

  ‘No,’ said Reggie. ‘This is a specific task. It calls for a natural leader. A man who seeps authority from every pore. Need I say more?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said C.J.

  ‘I refer, of course, to Jimmy,’ said Reggie.

  ‘Me?’ said Jimmy. ‘Good God.’

  ‘Hear hear,’ said Doc Morrissey.

  ‘Was that ”hear hear” to the appointment of Jimmy, or ”hear hear” to ”Good God”?’ asked Reggie.

  ‘I don’t honestly know,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘I just thought it was about time I spoke.’

  Jimmy was elected defence supremo by ten votes to one.

  ‘Elected unanimously,’ declared Reggie.

  ‘Hardly unanimously,’ said C.J.

  ‘Jimmy voted against himself,’ said Reggie. ‘A mere formality.’

  ‘Didn’t actually,’ admitted Jimmy. ‘Couldn’t. Frankly, between you, me, gatepost, goodwill expeditions, fish out of water. Defence of HQ, repulsion of loutish elements, bingo, message received, can do, wilco, roger and out.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Reggie. ‘So one person voted against Jimmy. I wonder who that was, don’t you, C.J.?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ said C.J.

  ‘Now,’ said Reggie. ‘If anyone wants to leave, we must let them. Does anyone?’

  Linda gave Tom a meaningful glance. He looked straight ahead, resolutely.

  ‘I don’t want to leave,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘Heaven forbid. Leave you in the . . . er . . .’

  ‘Lurch.’

  ‘Exactly. My word, no. But . . .’

  ‘Ah!’ said Reggie.

  ‘No,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘Wait. It’s . . . well . . . Prue. I think I . . . er ought to . . . er . . .’

  ‘Go and bring her back in time to join the defences, because we need everyone we can get. Good thinking, David. Like your style,’ said Reggie.

  ‘Yes, well . . . er . . . yes,’ said David Harris-Jones.

  ‘Right,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s now Wednesday. We have just three days. We’ll have another meeting tomorrow night. I trust that by then Jimmy will have come up with a plan.’

  ‘What about the guests?’ asked Elizabeth.

  There was a lengthy silence. Everyone had forgotten all about the guests.

  Later that evening, Reggie told the fourteen remaining guests of the theat to the community. They had three alternatives. They could stay, they could leave, or they could leave for the weekend and return when the threat was over.

  Three voted to leave, three to stay and eight to go away for the weekend.

  When they discovered that the other guests would be leaving, the last three decided to go away as well.

  At half past six the following evening, the staff met in the living-room of Number Seventeen for the last time.

  They didn’t know it was the last time.

  They drank out of each other’s mugs for the last time.

  Some of them may have suspected that it was the last time.

  For the first time, it was warm enough not to light the calor gas fire.

  Perrins had survived one autumn, one winter and one spring. It would die just as its first summer began.

  This time there were only ten members of staff present, as David Harris-Jones had gone to Exeter.

  This time it was Jimmy who conducted the meeting. Reggie sat at his right hand.

  At Jimmy’s request, the chairs of the other eight had been rearranged in three rows, like an armchair rugby scrum, facing Jimmy, who stood behind the card table with a baton in his hand, even though there was no plan at which he could point it.

  If Jimmy felt any dismay as he looked down at his puny forces, he didn’t show it.

  ‘Good evening,’ he began. ‘Purpose of exercise, repulsion of yobbo invaders. Tell you my thought processes.’

  ‘That should be good for fifteen seconds,’ whispered Tony, from the second row of the armchair scrum.

  Lettuce, who was in the hooker’s position, turned round furiously, and hissed, ‘Ssssssh!’

  ‘Element of surprise essential,’ said Jimmy. ‘Must assume Finnegan has kept mouth shut. Enemy doesn’t know we know they’re attacking. Where will enemy expect us to be?’

  ‘Inside,’ said Elizabeth from the loose head position.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jimmy. ‘So where will we be?’

  ‘Outside,’ said Doc Morrissey from the middle of the back row.

  ‘Precisely. In garden.’

  ‘They’ll see us if we’re in the garden,’ said Tony.

  ‘Disguised,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Ah!’ said C.J.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘What as?’ said Joan.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jimmy.

  They looked at him expectantly. He didn’t fail them.

  ‘First thought, molehills,’ he said.

  ‘Disguised as molehills?’ said Reggie.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Molehills aren’t big enough.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Jimmy triumphantly, as if their agreement over the unsuitability of molehills would clinch his military reputation for posterity. ‘Exactly what I thought. Next thought. Compost heaps. Ten of us. Heap in each garden. Two bods in each heap.’

  Jimmy’s ragged army stared up at him in astonishment.

  ‘I’m told that I keep saying, ”I didn’t get where I am today by whatever it might be”,’ said C.J. ‘Well, I’m sorry. I’ll endeavour not to use the phrase, in future. However, if I didn’t get where I am today by any one thing above all other things that I didn’t get where I am today by, it must be by being disguised as half a compost heap.’

  ‘Compost heap, pros and cons,’ said Jimmy, as if he hadn’t heard a word that C.J. had said. ‘Credit side, big enough, nice and warm, element of surprise when attacked by compost heap considerable. Debit side. Smelly, bad for morale, normally in back gardens, field of vision limited, delay in getting out of compost heap considerable. Careful consideration, but, on balance, thumbs down.’

  Nobody demurred.

  ‘Better idea, trees,’ said Jimmy. ‘Let them approach house, take them in rear, terrify them, nail the sods.’

  If the staff had looked towards Reggie to nip the idea of being disguised as trees in the bud, they were disappointed. His attitude seemed to be that, having appointed his master supremo, he would stand by any plan that he might make.

  On reflection, Jimmy’s mention of compost heaps had been a master stroke, for it made being disguised as trees seem almost sensible by comparison.

  Friday morning was spent preparing themselves as trees. Lettuce was i/c tree making.

  Shortly after lunch Reggie answered the door to find Mrs C.J. with two suitcases.

  ‘I want to be with him,’ she said. ‘You can’t understand that, can you?’

  ‘With difficulty,’ said Reggie. ‘I wouldn’t want to, but I’m not his wife.’

  He put the cases down in the hall, and escorted Mrs C.J. into the living-room.

  ‘I simply don’t care about the monastic restrictions,’ said Mrs C.J.

  ‘Monastic restrictions.’ said Reggie.

  The celibacy. The dormitories. The sexual segregation.’

  Mrs C.J. s
at on the settee, with a sigh.

  ‘I’m pooped,’ she said.

  Reggie stood facing her, in some perplexity.

  ‘C.J. told me at Christmas,’ said Mrs C.J.

  ‘Ah!’ said Reggie. ‘Good for him. Very wise. What exactly did he tell you at Christmas?’

  ‘About the monastic restrictions.’

  ‘Ah! Let me get this right. C.J. told you at Christmas that we live in segregated dormitories and lead a life of celibacy?’

  ‘Yes. You do, don’t you?’

  ‘What? Oh yes. Yes. Of course we do. Or rather did. Yes. We gave it up on Wednesday. Because of the attack. No doubt C.J. was going to write to you, after the attack.’

  Reggie slumped into a chair.

  ‘What attack?’ said Mrs C.J.

  Jimmy entered, disguised as an aspen.

  ‘This is Mrs C.J.,’ said Reggie. ‘Mrs C.J., Jimmy.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Jimmy. ‘Can’t shake hands. I’m an aspen. Not bad, eh Reggie?’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Reggie. ‘You’re a dead ringer for a slightly mangy aspen.’

  It was Mrs C.J.’s turn to look perplexed.

  ‘Could you ask C.J. to come in?’ said Reggie. ‘Don’t tell him why. Let it be a lovely surprise.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Jimmy.

  Jimmy shuffled out of the room, shedding twigs on the carpet as he went. Reggie explained to Mrs C.J. about the attack, and Jimmy’s master plan.

  Soon C.J. entered. He went white when he saw Mrs C.J., and stood rooted to the spot, as if he was already an aspen.

  ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘I mean, ”Wonderful to see you, darling”.’

  He embraced his wife.

  ‘You look horrified, C.J.,’ she said.

  ‘I am slightly,’ said C.J. ‘There’s a nasty business happening on Saturday.’

  ‘I’ve told her,’ said Reggie.

  C.J. sat beside Mrs C.J. on the settee.

  ‘That was the only reason I looked horrified,’ he said.