by David Nobbs
‘Bye bye,’ said Reggie. ‘Back to Godalming, eh?’
‘Yes, the old house is still there,’ said Mrs C.J.
They were standing at the front gate of Number Twentyone on a lovely May morning.
‘What’ll you do?’ said Elizabeth.
‘I may see my brother about a job,’ said C.J. ‘There comes a moment in everybody’s life when he has to swallow his pride.’
C.J.’s brother ran a pub called the Dissipated Kipper on the Hog’s Back in Surrey. Reggie couldn’t imagine C.J. working in a pub, but he supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers.
C.J. extended his hand.
‘Well, this is it,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Reggie. ‘This is it.’
Mrs C.J.’s handshake was limp. ‘Never outstay your doodah,’ said C.J.
‘Absolutely,’ said Reggie.
‘Well, this is it,’ said Jimmy.
‘Yes.’
‘Never forget Perrins,’ said Jimmy. ‘OK, final analysis, flop, crying shame. Brought me something, though. Biggest thing in my life. Lettuce.’
He kissed Lettuce on the mouth and clasped her hand affectionately.
‘What’ll you do?’ asked Elizabeth.
This and that,’ said Jimmy.
‘Especially that,’ said Lettuce.
‘Saucy girl,’ said Jimmy. ‘No, start small business, private bus company, foreign parts, that sort of crack. No cock-up this time. Buses on up and up. Buses are coming back everywhere, Reggie. Chap I know, offer of backing. Nigel “Ginger” Carstairs. Top drawer. All right, eh, Lettuce?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Stout scout. Suppose you haven’t any food, big sister? Odd egg, crust, that sort of caper. Bit of a cock-up on the . . . no, suppose you wouldn’t have. Hard times, eh? Well well, chin chin.’
Jimmy and Lettuce clambered into the remains of Jimmy’s old car. Reggie and Elizabeth pushed, and at the corner of Oslo Avenue and Bonn Close it burst into a parody of life.
Our last sight of them is of two beefy hairy arms, waving frantically.
One of the arms was Jimmy’s. The other was Lettuce’s.
Our last sound of them is of the car back-firing noisily, as if it shared its owner’s military nostalgia.
‘It failed in the end,’ said Doc Morrissey, ‘but nobody can say you didn’t have a go.’
‘Not a bad epitaph,’ said Reggie. ‘Here lies Reginald Iolanthe Perrin. Nobody can say he didn’t have a go. Doc, we’ll miss you.’
‘Me too, Reggie. And Perrins didn’t fail me. The discovery of my unsuspected talent for psychology has done wonders for my self-esteem.’
‘Where will you go?’ said Elizabeth.
There is a corner of Southall that will be for ever English. And there, one day in the not too distant future, Professor Morrissey, that old fraud, will teach his last English lesson, and die not desperately discontent.’
‘Ciaou City, Arizona.’
‘Absolutely. Keep him in order, Joan.’
‘I will. No sweat.’
‘No need. I’m a reformed character. And I owe it to you, Reggie. OK, it was a shambles, ultimately, but you’ve shown me where it’s at. It’s at maturity, Reggie. I’m into responsibility. I don’t have unrealistic dreams any more. I’m going to buckle down to the hard grind of hard work. I’ll be a millionaire in ten years.’
‘Good-bye, Reggie. Good-bye, Elizabeth,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones.
‘Sorry you called him Reggie?’ said Reggie.
‘No fear,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones.
‘What’ll you do?’ said Reggie and Elizabeth.
‘There are jobs for both of us in the old family firm in Haverfordwest,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones. ‘Our wandering days are over.’
‘We’ll see you one day, though,’ said Reggie and Elizabeth.
‘Oh yes, we must,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones.
‘Super,’ said Reggie and Elizabeth and David and Prue Harris-Jones.
‘Well, we’ve got a nice day for it,’ said Tom.
‘Bye bye, dad,’ said Linda. ‘Bye bye, mum. See you soon.’
‘Bye bye,’ said Adam and Jocasta.
‘It’s had such a good effect on them,’ said Linda, getting into the car. ‘It hasn’t all been in vain.’
‘Nothing is,’ said Reggie.
‘I shall take up the reins of estate agency once again,’ said Tom. ‘But I regret not one minute of the events that have transpired. Frankly, I was becoming a bit of a bore. Without you, Reggie, and not forgetting you, mother-in-law, I would have gone on and on, slowly but steadily ossifying, and I would have ended as pomposity personified.’
Tom held out his hand.
‘A dream is over, Reggie, but because of that dream, reality will never be quite the same again,’ he said.
‘I’m so glad you won’t end up as pomposity personified,’ said Reggie.
‘Come on, Tom,’ said Linda.
‘Coming, Squigglycrutch. I won’t say good-bye properly, Reggie, mother-in-law, because we’ll be seeing each other, we’re family, and I don’t like good-byes. I’m not a good-bye person.’
‘Oh good. Well, good-bye,’ said Reggie.
‘Good-bye,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I fail to see the point of protracted good-byes,’ said Tom. ‘I’d like to say good-bye and get it over with. It may be a fault, but that’s the way I am. Well, good-bye.’
‘Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye.’
Reggie and Elizabeth dined alone that night. They sat at either end of the long table that had so recently been vibrant with gossip and pregnant with metaphysical speculation. Savage cuts disfigured the table top.
It was McBlane’s last night. He served them with deep disdain four courses of superb foreign muck – borscht, sole dieppoise, osso buco milanese, and sachertorte. Large and rich though the meal was, it was also light and subtle, and they did full justice to it.
Afterwards they sat in silence, savouring this wonderful experience that had come to them in the midst of ruin. McBlane entered with the last of the sunflower brandy.
Thank you for a superb dinner, McBlane,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Thank you,’ said Reggie.
McBlane’s lips parted. His teeth appeared. His cheeks creased.
He was smiling.
‘Will you join us in a glass of sunflower brandy?’ said Reggie.
‘Eeflecking gaud loupin puir dibollolicking aud frangschlibble doon the brizzing gullet, ye skelk,’ said McBlane.
The summer blazed. The refrigeration broke down in a cold store in Wapping, and twenty thousand pork pies were condemned. A survey showed that Britain had dropped to nineteenth in the world survey league, behind Malawi and Spain. Vandals smashed three osprey’s eggs on Loch Garten. A Liberian tanker collided with an Albanian freighter off Northumberland, pouring oil on untroubled waters. Thirteen hundred guillemots died.
Numbers Seventeen to Twenty-five, Oslo Avenue, Botchley were sold.
There was just enough left, when all the debts had been paid, to enable Reggie to buy a modest house outright, which was lucky, as no self-respecting building society would have touched him now, and all building societies are self-respecting.
They could go anywhere. The Cotswolds, the Lake District, Spain, the Dordogne, Tierra Del Fuego.
They bought a three-bedroomed semi-detached villa in Goffley.
The address was Number Thirty-eight, Leibnitz Drive.
9 The Aftermath
On their first evening in their new home, they had a bottle of wine. They sat in the living-room, on hard chairs, for all the armchairs had been ruined beyond repair. The only other furniture in the surprisingly unspacious room was the old card table from Number Seventeen. It was laid for the evening meal. The dining table from Number Twenty-one, though not quite ruined beyond repair, was too big for Number Thirty-eight, L
eibnitz Drive.
The floorboards were bare. The main windows afforded a view over a garden that was at once neglected and tame. The lawn was mottled with bare patches and studded with tufts of rank grass. In the middle was a small area of concrete, and on it stood a swing, swaying rustily in the midsummer zephyrs, in squeaking memory of the children who lived there no longer.
Around the lawn there were flower beds which appeared to have been planted with earth. Nothing green disturbed their virgin slumber. The evening sun was slowly sinking towards the roofs of the houses in Kierkegaard Crescent.
They drank their wine slowly, savouring every drop. It might be a long while before they could afford wine again.
‘Supper ready?’ inquired Reggie.
‘It isn’t much to write home about,’ said Elizabeth.
‘That’s lucky,’ said Reggie, ‘because I don’t intend to write home about it, since this is home. What is it?’
‘Shin of beef casserole.’
‘Shin of beef casserole. Yum yum.’
They ate with hearty relish, washing it down gently with the wine. All too soon the last of the food and wine was gone. Reggie sighed.
‘Never mind, darling,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Something will turn up.’
Nothing turned up the next day.
Reggie went to the public library and scoured the newspapers for jobs. Elizabeth explored Goffley High Street, combing the shops for bargains. They met in the Bald Faced Stag, and allowed themselves one half of bitter each.
The pub was suffused with the aura of impending sausages. ‘You managed to get something for supper, did you?’ said Reggie.
‘We’re having goujons de coley.’
‘Goujons de coley. Yum yum.’
Next day Reggie went to the public library and scoured the newspapers for jobs. Elizabeth explored Goffley High Street, combing the shops for bargains. They met in the Bald Faced Stag, and allowed themselves one half of bitter each. The pub throbbed with the threat of packet curry.
‘How did you get on?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Absolutely splendidly,’ said Reggie.
‘Oh good.’
‘Yes,’ continued Reggie. ‘The papers were full of adverts for people like me. “Amazing opening for washed-up executive. Geriatric Electronics requires unemployed post-menopausal loonie. Previous sackings an advantage. Bonuses for mock suicides. The successful candidate will have frayed trouser bottoms, anxious eyes and at least three major career cockups.” ’
Elizabeth patted his hand.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Something will turn up.’
That evening, black pudding ragout turned up.
‘Black pudding ragout. Yum yum,’ said Reggie, as Elizabeth dolloped lashings of the steaming dark mess on to his plate. Halfway through the meal, Reggie let out a tremendous sigh.
‘Is it that bad?’ said Elizabeth.
‘It isn’t the food,’ said Reggie.’It’sme.’
‘Darling!’
‘I’ve brought you such trouble.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
Elizabeth clasped his hand firmly across the card table.
‘I regret nothing,’ she said.
Reggie smiled faintly.
‘The Edith Piaf of Goffley,’ he said.
‘Please don’t be depressed, darling,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’ve said it before...’
‘I’ll say it as well this time,’ said Reggie. ‘Maybe it’ll help.’
‘Something will turn up,’ they said in unison.
Next day it did.
A letter.
‘Listen to this, darling,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s from the Personnel Manager of Amalgamated Aerosols. “Dear Mr Perrin. No doubt you have heard of us.” No. “As you probably know, we are one of the fastest growing companies in the highly profitable growth industry of aerosols. We produce both the can and the contents.” Wow! “We are known equally for industrial chemicals, insecticides, furniture polishes and hair lacquers, while our air fresheners and deodorants are experiencing the sweet smell of success.” Ha ha! “As you can see, we are also not without a sense of humour.” No! “We feel that the inspiration behind Grot and Perrins must have ideas to offer the world of aerosols.” They must be mad. “Perhaps you would care to telephone my secretary to fix an appointment. Yours sincerely, James A. Fennel, Personnel Manager.” I wonder how they heard of me.’
They did. That’s what matters,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Yes, but . . . aerosols! I’ll phone them at eleven. I mustn’t sound too eager.’
Father Time, the bearded tease, moved slowly towards that hour.
‘My name’s Perrin,’ he told Mr Fennel’s secretary.
‘Ah. Yes. When would it be convenient for you to come and see Mr Fennel, Mr Perrin?’ she asked, in a brisk but sexy voice.
‘Let me see . . . just having a look through my diary . . . yes. Tuesday or Wednesday afternoons would suit me best, as late in the afternoon as possible, especially if it’s the Wednesday.’
‘Thursday week at nine thirty.’
‘Splendid.’
At last the fateful Thursday dawned.
Elizabeth brushed Reggie’s suit with the brush which she had bought for that very purpose the previous day at Timothy White’s.
‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.
She handed him his umbrella.
‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.
He kissed her good-bye.
‘Good luck, darling,’ she said.
The hazy blue sky was teeming with insect life, and swallows and swifts darted joyously over Reggie’s head as he walked down Leibnitz Drive. He turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise, then left into Schopenhauer Grove. This led him on to the main road which wound uphill past Goffley Station. He struggled up the hill, feeling his age. The day was warm, still, sticky. The haze was thickening, and Reggie felt that it might rain.
He followed the crowds along the subway to platform three. A fast train roared above their heads, frighteningly close. Nobody turned a receding hair.
Would he soon be doing this day after day, he wondered.
Did he want to do this day after day, he wondered.
What could he do, day after day, if he didn’t do this, day after day, he wondered.
Would he wonder the same thing, day after day, he wondered.
Opposite him, on platform four, there was a poster advertising the French railways. The gleaming train was gliding past the blue sea of the Cote D’Azur like a sleek snake. An observation car bulged on the snake’s back like an undigested rat.
The eight eleven wasn’t like a sleek snake. It was like a grubby blue worm with a yellow clown’s face. It was also fourteen minutes late.
Do you, Reginald Iolanthe Perrin, take British Rail, Southern Region, to be your awful dreaded life, for better for worse, for fuller for dirtier, in lateness and in cancellation, till retirement or phased redundancy do you part?
I do.
I have to.
Place the ring of dirt around your collar. It will be there every day.
The train arrived at Victoria twenty-two minutes late. The loudspeaker announcement blamed passengers joining the train and alighting.
Reggie arrived at Amalgamated Aerosols at twenty-eight minutes past nine. It was a gleaming affair of glass and Portland stone. Two window cleaners were busy on cradles above the main entrance.
Reggie entered the foyer. It was all rubber plants and soft music. The receptionist had a soft, musical, rubbery voice. She told Reggie to go to the third floor, where Mr Fennel’s secretary would meet the lift. Mr Fennel’s secretary was twenty years older than her telephone voice, and no slouch where meeting lifts was concerned. She led Reggie along a central corridor. The walls were of glass from four foot upwards, affording a view of an open-plan rabbit warren where people worked and idled in full view of each other and everyone else.
Mr Fennel’s office was right at the end of the corridor. He stood up and smiled bro
adly at Reggie, extending a welcoming hand. He was almost tall, with receding fair hair and an anxious air. He was fifteen years older than his secretary’s voice.
‘Bonjour,’ he said. ‘Bienvenu à Londres.’
‘Bonjour,’ said Reggie, surprised.
‘Asseyez-vous,’ said Mr Fennel.
‘Merci beaucoup,’ said Reggie, feeling capable of playing this kind of executive game until the vaches came home.
Outside, beyond the wall-to-wall glass, a splendid, delicately elegant Wren church was dwarfed by massively inelegant prestige office developments.
‘Est-ce que que vous fumez?’ said Mr Fennel in execrable rather than executive French, holding out a silver cigarette case initialled J.A.F., and filled with Marlboros.
‘Non, merci,’ said Reggie.
‘Seulement les gauloises, n’est-ce pas?’ asked Mr Fennel.
‘Non. Je ne fume pas,’ said Reggie.
Mr Fennel lit a cigarette.
‘Bon,’ he said ‘Maintentant. A les affaires. Le temps et les courants de la mer attendent pour personne.’
‘I don’t understand. Je ne comprends pas,’ said Reggie.
Time and tide wait for . . . you’re English?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
There’s no possible doubt about it.’
‘You aren’t Monsieur Duvavier?’
‘No.’
‘Oh hell. Well who are you?’
‘Reginald Perrin.’
‘Oh hell.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Not your fault. Is it Friday?’
‘No. Thursday.’
‘Damn! I’ve got tomorrow’s files. Why the hell did you answer in French?’
‘I thought it was some kind of executive game.’
Mr Fennel laughed.
As soon as Reggie joined in, Mr Fennel’s laughter died abruptly.
‘Now, what exactly did you want to see me about?’ said Mr Fennel.
‘You wanted to see me.’
‘What? Oh. Yes. Ah. Bit stymied without my files. Millie’ll be back in a moment. I’m a bit lost here. We were on the second floor. Now, what do I want to see you about?’
‘I don’t know. I presumed from your letter you were planning to offer me a job.’
Mr Fennel looked out of the window, as if he expected a passing sky-writer to remind him. London shimmered in darkening haze.
