by David Nobbs
‘You must be the bod F.J. wants to see,’ said Mr Fennel at last.
‘F.J.?’
‘Our managing director.’
‘Your managing director’s called F.J.?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Perrin! Grot?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are the bod F.J. wants to see. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t know I was the bod F.J. wanted to see.’
Reggie tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. Mr Fennel had three pens in his breast pocket. Reggie didn’t like men who had three pens in their breast pocket and he didn’t much care for being called a bod.
‘F.J. seems to think you’re the kind of bod we want,’ said Mr Fennel.
‘Oh good,’ said Reggie. ‘I’d certainly like to work in a high-growth, rapid-yield, multi-facet industry like aerosols.’
‘Save that guff for F.J.,’ said Mr Fennel.
‘Come!’ called F.J.
Reggie entered F.J.’s office. It was huge, and had large picture windows. The glass was tinted brown.
F.J. advanced to meet him.
‘Perrin!’ he said. ‘Welcome!’
F.J. pumped his hand vigorously.
‘I believe you know my brother C.,’ he said.
Reggie felt his head swimming.
‘So you are C.J.’s brother,’ he said. ‘I did wonder. I . . . er . . . didn’t know there was a third brother.’
F.J. sat down behind his vast desk. Its tinted glass top matched the windows.
He looked rather like C.J., but a bit slighter. More tidy and self-contained.
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get where I am today without being C.J.’s brother.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Reggie. ‘I mean . . . you say that too.’
F.J. laughed heartily.
‘No,’ he said. ‘That was my little joke.’
‘Oh. Thank God,’ said Reggie.
‘I’m very different from C.,’ said F.J.
‘Oh. Thank God,’ said Reggie.
‘Do sit down,’ said F.J., indicating a low white leather chair shaped like a coracle.
Reggie sat down. The chair blew a raspberry.
F.J. roared.
‘Good gimmick, eh?’ he said. ‘C. copied it. Didn’t carry it through, though. My brother’s too soft.’
‘Soft?’
‘All mouth and no trousers. You never let his manner fool you, I hope?’
‘No! What? I should say not.’
‘You weren’t frightened of him?’
‘Frightened of C.J.? Huh. Pull the other one.’
‘Good. Now I am hard. Cigar?’
‘Thank you.’
Reggie reached forward, but the chair was too far from the desk. He had to stand. He took a huge cigar from the large box on F.J.’s desk, and sat down.
The chair blew a raspberry.
F.J. laughed.
‘Light?’
Reggie thrust himself out of the chair again, held his cigar to the flame offered by F.J., and sat down again.
The chair blew a raspberry.
F.J. laughed.
Thoroughly discomfited, the hopeful employee quakes,’ he said.
‘Absolutely,’ said Reggie.
‘Do you fancy working here?’ said F.J.
‘I certainly do,’ said Reggie. ‘I’d like to work in a high-growth, rapid-yield, multi-facet industry like aerosols.’
‘Save that guff for Fennel,’ said F.J. ‘He’s the one who does the hiring and firing.’
‘I’ve seen Fennel,’ said Regie.
‘You’ve seen Fennel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah!’
F.J. leant forward and glared at Reggie through slitted eyes.
‘Nozzles?’ he said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Nozzles. Views on. Think on your feet.’
‘Well, I . . . er . . . they’re those things you press on aerosol cans, but you can’t see the arrow properly, so you point it the wrong way and cover yourself with freshener.’
‘I like a man who can think on his feet,’ said F.J.
He swivelled slowly round in his chair.
‘Our laboratories in Boreham Wood are on the verge of a nozzle breakthrough that’ll do for the aerosol canister what the apple did for gravity,’ he said. ‘Whichever way you point the canister, the spray will always emerge pointing away from you.’
‘That’s fantastic’.
‘Is it not?’
Large drops of rain began to splatter against the windows.
‘You and your good lady must come to Leatherhead and have dinner one day, Perrin,’ said F.J.
‘Thank you, F.J.’
‘My good lady cooks an amazing lobster thermostat.’
‘Oh. Really? That sounds . . . amazing.’
‘You have to be very careful at what temperature you serve it. Hence the name.’
‘Really?’
‘No.’
‘What?’
There’s no such thing as lobster thermostat. It’s lobster thermidor.’
Reggie began to sweat.
‘I know,’ he said.
‘Then why the hell didn’t you say so?’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘You thought I was a pretentious nouveau riche ignoramus who’d got it wrong.’
‘Well, F.J., I . . . er . . .’
‘And fell headlong into my executive trap.’
‘I certainly did, F.J.’
‘Huh huh huh.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You’re not just another yes man, are you?’
‘No, F.J.’
The rain began in earnest. It was quite dark outside and the lights in all the tower blocks shone brightly.
‘May I ask you a question, F.J.?’ asked Reggie.
F.J. regarded him sadly.
‘Why have I got these flaps at either side of my face?’ he asked. ‘To help me fly?’
‘No, F.J.’
Those are my ears, Perrin.’
They certainly are, F.J.’
They’re for listening. So, if you have a question, ask it. Don’t waste time asking if you can ask it.’
‘Sorry, F.J. The question is, F.J., did C.J. recommend me to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good gr . . . oh good.’
F.J. lifted one of his phones.
‘Get Fennel please, Ingeborg,’ he said.
He put the phone down. Almost immediately it barked. He lifted it.
‘Fennel?’ he said. ‘I have your chap Perrin here . . . You thought he was my chap? No, no. He’s your chap, I assure you. What do you think of him? . . . Well, it’s not up to me . . . Well, I happen to believe he has a flair for unusual invention and is just the man for us, but that’s irrelevant . . . You agree? Well, I hope for your sake you’re right. It’s your decision. Fennel.’
F.J. replaced his telephone on its cradle lovingly.
‘You start on Monday fortnight,’ he said. ‘You’ll be working in our air freshener and deodorant division.’
The fine weather returned, and the days passed slowly.
Elizabeth took a secretarial job with a firm of solicitors in Goffley, to start the week after Reggie.
Every morning they called for a drink at the Bald Faced Stag. Often they’d accompany it with a ham sandwich or a portion of gala pie with pickle.
They visited the Goffley Carpet Centre and stared in bewilderment at rolls of hideously patterned material. Eventually they settled on a carpet for the living-room. The price was astronomical.
They went for walks among the quiet yet subtly varied streets around their home. Often they walked down Sartre Rise and Wittgenstein View to the golf course. Between Wittgenstein View and Nietzsche Grove an old windmill survived from the days when all this had been open farmland. It had no sails. It was called John Stuart Mill, in memory of John Stuart, a Goffley landowner of bygone days. It was sad t
o look at the windmill and dream of the days when these gentle hills had been open fields.
One afternoon, as they crossed the golf course on footpath number seventy-eight, which followed the Piffley Brook to East Franton, the wife of a quantity surveyor hooked her seventh at the short twelfth, and the ball struck Reggie on the backside before she had remembered what you were supposed to shout to warn people.
But for the most part they were quiet times.
The first day of employment began.
Elizabeth brushed Reggie’s suit, removing a minuscule crumb of toast from the lumbar region in the process.
She handed him his new briefcase, engraved with his initials ‘R.I.P.’.
Thank you, darling,’ he said.
She handed him his umbrella.
‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.
She kissed him good-bye.
‘Thank you, darling,’ he said.
‘Have a good day at the office,’ she said.
‘I won’t,’ he said.
Was this pessimism premature? Only time would tell.
Reggie walked down Leibnitz Drive, turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise, then left into Schopenhauer Grove. High in the summer sky a commuting heron flapped lazily towards the Surrey ponds. Reggie walked up the punishing slope to Goffley Station, showed his new season ticket, and stood on platform three, opposite the poster for the French railways.
This is the life for you, he told himself. This is the life that you are destined to lead. Your dreams have been out of place. They have caused great suffering and chaos.
Now you have a job, a new challenge, a new adventure. You must be thankful.
He told himself.
But not too thankful. You mustn’t be craven or afraid. You’re an old hand, and you mustn’t allow yourself to be used as a doormat by anybody. Life is too short.
He told himself.
The train reached Victoria twenty-three minutes late. The loudspeaker announcement blamed chain reaction to the effects of the landslip at Angmering. He reached the office fourteen minutes late, and willed himself not to hurry as he approached the gleaming edifice of glass and Portland stone.
It was called Aerosol House. You will be impressed, it said. Will I hell, replied Reggie’s nonchalant walk.
He entered the foyer. You will feel dwarfed by our air of impersonal affluence, it said.
Cobblers, said Reggie’s demeanour as he walked across the slippery marble floor from the sliding doors to the reception desk.
He took it at a steady pace, moving with determined though not over-stated authority.
‘Perrin (air fresheners and deodorants),’ he announced, employing oral brackets with a dexterity born of long practice.
‘I’m not sure if he’s in,’ said the receptionist.
‘No, I am he,’ said Reggie. ‘I am Perrin (air fresheners and deodorants). I start work here today, and I wondered where my office was.’
The receptionist checked her list. He wasn’t on it.
‘What exactly is your job?’ said the receptionist.
Oh my God.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘You’re working here and you don’t know what your job is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’
She checked her special instructions. He wasn’t on them. She telephoned Mr Fennel. He was on holiday. It took the combined efforts of Mr Cannon of Admin and Mr Stork of Communications to locate his office.
Reggie sat on a black leather settee, surrounded by rubber plants, fighting against feelings of guilt and insignificance. It’s not our fault, he told himself. You’ve done your bit, in that you’ve arrived successfully. It’s Amalgamated Aerosols that should feel guilty.
And so he adopted a defiant, long-suffering look, until he realized that it might be interpreted as over-compensation for insecurity. And it was he who had talked of the dangers of excessive self-consciousness. Had he learned nothing?
At last his office was located. It was two one seven, on the second floor. Mr Cannon escorted him there.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said. ‘There’s been a big shift around, and Cakebread hasn’t put the P139 through.’
They went up in the lift, and walked along the corridor lined with offices. They weren’t open plan, and their doors bore names and titles. Perhaps he was about to find out what his job was.
No such luck. The legend on his door said simply ‘Reginald I. Perrin.’
The windows overlooked the Wren church. The desk was of moderate size. There were green filing cabinets, and two phones, one red and one green. On top of a cupboard stood a mug and a bent wire coathanger. There was a communicating door to the offices on either side. The paint on the radiator was peeling, and the brown carpet was laid in strips that didn’t quite meet.
‘All right?’ said Mr Cannon.
‘Fine.’
‘Jolly good,’ said Mr Cannon. ‘I’ll leave you to your own devices, then.’
He was as good as his word.
But what are my own devices, thought Reggie.
He opened and shut three empty drawers.
There was a knock on the westerly connecting door.
‘Come in,’ he said.
A pert, self-confident young red-head entered.
‘Mr Perrin?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m your secretary. I’m Iris Hoddle.’
They shook hands. Her smile was friendly.
‘Coffee?’ she said.
‘Please.’
She returned shortly with a beverage that approximated vaguely to that description. Reggie explained the difficulty that he had experienced in finding his office.
‘Mr Cakebread didn’t put through the P139,’ she said. This was Mr Main-Thompson’s office, but he’s gone to Canisters. There’s been a big shift around. He’s taken the in and out trays. He shouldn’t have, they’re like gold, but that’s Mr Main-Thompson for you. Anyway, I’ve put through an F1765, so fingers crossed.’
‘Thanks.’
He smiled at Iris Hoddle. She smiled back.
‘They haven’t exactly told me what you do,’ she said.
They haven’t exactly told me what I do either.’
Iris Hoddle laughed.
That figures,’ she said. ‘It’s Fred Karno’s Army, this place. Anyway, C.J.’d like to see you at ten thirty.’
Reggie spilt his coffee down his crutch, and stood up hurriedly. The hot liquid was burning his private parts.
‘Damn!’ he exclaimed.
He pulled his trousers and pants away from his skin. It was not an elegant way to stand before one’s secretary on one’s first morning.
‘C.J.?’ he said.
‘Do you know him?’ said Iris Hoddle.
‘I have run into him,’ said Reggie.
‘He’s just started here too,’ said Iris Hoddle. ‘He’s Head of the Department.’
‘He’s my boss?’
‘Yes.’
C.J. entered Reggie’s office through the easterly connecting door. He didn’t knock.
‘Morning, Reggie,’ he said. His eyes flickered briefly over Iris. ‘Morning Iris.’
He held out his hand to Reggie. Reggie shook it.
‘I’m next door,’ he said. ‘We can use the connecting door.’
‘Ah! Splendid,’ said Reggie.
He led Reggie into his office. It was twice the size of Reggie’s and three times as plush. Reggie sat down gingerly. The chair didn’t blow a raspberry. C.J. laughed.
‘I leave all that to F.,’ he said. ‘These childish tricks seem to amuse him. Well, Reggie, we meet again.’
‘We certainly do, C.J.’
‘Adjoining offices, eh, Reggie?’
‘Absolutely C.J.’
‘We can be in and out like lambs’ tails.’
‘Yes, C.J.’
‘But, Reggie, not in each other’s pockets.’
/>
‘Definitely not, C.J.’
‘Neither Mrs C.J. nor I has ever believed in being in anybody’s pockets.’
‘A wise attitude, C.J.’
‘We’re settled again in Godalming.’
‘Splendid, C.J.’
‘It’s not splendid, Reggie.’
‘Sorry, C.J. One small question about my work, C.J.’
‘I’m all ears, Reggie.’
‘What is it?’
C.J. laughed.
They didn’t tell you?’
‘No.’
That figures. This is Fred Karno’s Army. You’re my right hand, Reggie.’
I am?’
‘You’re my think tank. Cigar?’
Thank you, C.J.’
Reggie took a large cigar. C.J. proffered his lighter and Reggie held his cigar to the tiny flame.
‘I’ve stuck my neck out over you, Reggie. “F.,” I said, “you’ve always said that if things go wrong there’s a place for me at Aerosol House.” “There certainly is, C.,” he said. “I’ve preferred to make my own way,” I said, “but I’d like a job now, F., on one condition.” “What condition’s that, C?” he inquired. “I want Reggie Perrin as my number two,” I replied.’
Thank you, C.J.’
C.J. smiled.
‘I’m your boss again, Reggie.’
‘Yes, C.J.’
‘Not that that’s why I’ve asked for you.’
‘No, C.J.’
‘It’s not in my nature to gloat.’
‘I should think not, C.J.’
‘I’ve asked for you because you’re an ideas man.’
Thank you, C.J.’
C.J. leant forward and glared at Reggie.
‘Do you remember that exotic ices project at Sunshine Dessert, Reggie,’ he said.
‘How could I ever forget it?’
‘I like your attitude, Reggie.’
C.J. lifted his phone.
‘Jenny?’ he said. ‘C.J. on red. Send Muscroft and Rosewell in.’
C.J. put his phone down.
‘You . . . er . . . want me to do the same for aerosols?’ said Reggie.
‘You’re a shrewd one,’ said C.J. The world of air fresheners is in the doldrums, Reggie. The horizons of the small men here are limited. Pine, lavender, heather. Slavish imitation of the big boys.’
‘You want new smells, C.J. Raspberry, strawberry and lychee.’
‘Exactly, Reggie. I like your thinking.’
There was a knock.
‘Come!’ said C.J.
Two tall men wearing keen suits and enthusiastic shoes hurled themselves dynamically into the plush executive womb. They were introduced as Muscroft and Rosewall.
