by David Nobbs
‘You take your instructions from Perrin,’ said C.J.
‘Marvellous,’ said Muscroft.
‘Terrific’ said Rosewall.
‘We’re going for exotic air fresheners,’ said C.J. The world is our oyster. The spices of the orient, and the wild flowers of the Andes are your playthings. Between us we shall transform a mundane visit to the toilet into a sensual wonderland. This is a biggie.’
‘Marvellous,’ said Muscroft.
‘Terrific’ said Rosewall.
‘Every dog has its day,’ said C.J.
‘It certainly does,’ said Muscroft, Rosewall and Reggie.
When Reggie’s two assistants had left the room, C.J. looked at Reggie earnestly. He lowered his voice.
‘I don’t want any funny business, Reggie,’ he said.
‘Absolutely not, C.J.’
‘You’ve been on a switchback of fate, Reggie. You were discontented. You believed that there is a greener hill far away with grass on the other side. You set off in search of it. You discovered that there is no greener hill far away with grass on the other side.’
‘There certainly isn’t, C.J.’
‘I’m glad to hear you say it. You’ve returned, Reggie, a better and a wiser man, and that’s an order.’
‘Yes, C.J.’
‘I want you to familiarize yourself with the current state of play, odour-wise. There’s a smelling in Boreham Wood tomorrow.’
‘A smelling in Boreham Wood!’
‘I like your attitude, Reggie. Edrich from Nozzles can take you in his car.’
C.J. stood up, and Reggie was not tardy in following his example.
C.J. held out his hand. Reggie clasped it.
‘I hope we’ve learnt something about human relations amidst all the twists and turns of our entangled fates Reggie,’ he said.
‘I hope so, C.J.’ said Reggie.
Reggie walked to the connecting door, and opened it.
‘Reggie?’ said C.J.
‘Yes, C.J.?’
‘We aren’t one of those dreadful firms that would sack a man just because he always turns up fourteen minutes late. Good-bye, Reggie.’
He caught the six twelve home. It was nineteen minutes late, but he didn’t let it upset him, because he was an older and wiser man.
He walked down Schopenhauer Grove, turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise, then left into Leibnitz Drive. He felt exhausted, but he didn’t let it depress him. He told Elizabeth that he had had a good day at the office. He relished his lamb cutlets and apple charlotte. He slept the troubled sleep of the exhausted. He ate a hearty breakfast. He walked down Leibnitz Drive, turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise, then left into Schopenhauer Grove.
He told himself that he was enjoying this routine, because he was an older and wiser man. As he laboured up the punishing final straight to Goffley Station he consoled himself with the thought that, like life, it would be downhill in the evening.
Mind over matter, he told himself. All you have to do is convince yourself that your hobbies are tedium and exhaustion, and that decay and decline are the most exciting processes in the world.
On the spine-crushing, vein-throbbing, armpit-smelling journey to Victoria, he tried to inject a sense of mission into his work.
‘Roll on deodorants,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the man opposite him.
‘Sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘I didn’t mean it to come out loud. That’s what people must have said in the bad old pre-aerosol days. “Roll on deodorants.” Sorry.’
He began to sweat.
Careful. Mustn’t arrive at the smelling smelling.
Oh God.
Edrich from Nozzles drove him to the smelling at Boreham Wood. The laboratory was an undistinguished two-storey building at the back end of a large industrial estate. Edrich led him to a room which was like a doctor’s waiting-room, bare with rows of hard chairs round the walls.
There were five doors in one wall. Each door had a small window, barred with a thick grille. Beyond the doors were the smell-proof booths. Reggie felt tired and crumpled. He had a thundery headache coming on.
Also present were Muscroft and Rosewall from Air Fresheners and Deodorants, Lee from Furniture Polishes and Hair Lacquers, Gryce from Communications, Price-Hetherington from Industrial Chemicals, Coggin from Admin, Taylor from Transport, Holmes and Wensley from the lab, Miss Allardyce from the typing pool, Miss Hanwell from Packing, and representatives for the National Smell Research Council and the Campaign for Real Aerosols.
Ten smells were to be tested, two in each booth. They were each handed ten cards numbered one to ten. They had to mark each smell, out of ten, for strength, pleasantness, originality and commercial appeal. They also had to say what the smell reminded them of, and suggest a brand name for it.
Everyone filled in their cards most assiduously.
‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ said Muscroft.
‘Terrific,’ said Rosewall.
‘Fascinating,’ said Reggie. ‘A pretty stodgy range of smells, though. I’m looking for something that packs far more wow for our exotic range.’
‘Marvellous,’ said Muscroft.
‘Terrific,’ said Rosewall.
C.J. popped in just before lunch.
‘Well, Reggie, which way’s the wind blowing?’ he asked.
‘I came, I smelt, I conquered,’ said Reggie.
‘I like your attitude,’ said C.J.
On his way home Reggie began to regret his actions.
Why had he done it? What was the use?
Out here in the open air, walking down Schopenhauer Grove, what had seemed an amazingly apt gesture in the claustrophobic booth in Boreham Wood seemed utterly stupid. I’m a lucky man, he told himself as he turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise. I have a lovely wife and two lovely children, even if one of them has married a bearded prig and the other has disappeared into the huge vagina of the pornographic film industry. There are worse things in life than bearded prigs and pornographic film industries, he told himself as he turned left into Leibnitz Drive.
‘Did you have a good day at the office?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Very good,’ he said.
He enjoyed his lemon sole meuniere and rhubarb crumble. He slept the troubled sleep of a condemned man. He ate a hearty breakfast.
Elizabeth handed him his brand 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 will,’ he said.
Why did you do it, he asked himself as he walked down Leibnitz Drive.
You’re a lucky man, he told himself as he turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise. You live in a peaceful country.
You’re free to walk through pleasant residential streets, he told himself, as he turned left into Schopenhauer Grove.
You’re walking up the hill to Goffley Station. Trains have been invented. You’re not ill. You have a roof over your head, clothes on your back and food in your belly. It isn’t raining. Your credit rating will improve with time. Here comes the train. It’s only twenty minutes late. You have a seat. Your newspaper is not a lackey of the government. You earn a good salary. You’re reasonably personable and can make friends without extreme difficulty. Iris Hoddle is pleasant and helpful. Muscroft and Rosewall are marvellous, terrific people. You’re happy.
Why did you do it?
The wheels were saying, ‘You can still get away with it. All is not lost.’
He believed the wheels, because he was an older and wiser man.
‘Something rather extraordinary seems to have happened at the smelling,’ said C.J.
‘Really? How extraordinary,’ said Reggie.
‘Normally nothing extraordinary happens at t
hem,’ said C.J. ‘But yesterday it did. Cigar?’
Reggie took a cigar.
C.J. handed him the lighter.
Reggie knew that C.J. was looking to see if his hand was shaking.
He fought hard to keep it steady. At last the cigar was lit.
‘What sort of extraordinary thing, C.J.?’ he asked.
The computer has processed the results of the smelling,’ said C.J.
‘Ah!’
‘Exactly. “Ah!”, as you so rightly say. This is what smell number one reminded its smellers of, Reggie. Mountains, five people. Snow, three people. Fresh water, two people. Larch forests, two people. Scotland, one person. Camping, one person. Bolivian unicyclist’s jockstrap, one person.’
‘Good lord, C.J. That is extraordinary,’ said Reggie.
‘Smell number two,’ said C.J. ‘Herbs, eight people. One person each for rockery, lavender, thyme, marjoram, spice factory, heather and Bolivian unicyclist’s jockstrap.’
‘This is astonishing, C.J.,’ said Reggie.
C.J. picked up the sheet of paper from which he had been reading, and waved it violently at Reggie.
‘Smell number three,’ he said. ‘Roses, fourteen people. Bolivian unicyclist’s jockstrap, one person.’
‘I can hardly credit it,’ said Reggie.
‘The same sorry story occurs with regard to all ten smells, Reggie.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘I didn’t get where I am today by having everything smelling of Bolivian unicyclists’ jockstraps, Reggie.’
‘I can believe it, C.J.’
C.J. gave Reggie a long hard look.
‘Can you suggest any explanation, Reggie,’ he said.
‘I certainly can, C.J.’
‘Ah!’
‘A fault in the computer.’
‘It seems a strange fault for a computer, Reggie. It doesn’t have an electronic ring about it.’
‘I grant you that, C.J.’
‘Do you have any other suggestions, Reggie?’
Reggie returned C.J.’s gaze levelly.
‘It looks as if somebody’s playing silly buggers,’ he said.
‘It looks that way to me too,’ said C.J. ‘Who could it be, do you think?’
‘I’ve no idea, C.J,’
A shaft of sunlight broke through the morning cloud and lit up the narrow steeple of the Wren church.
‘I don’t like it,’ said C.J. ‘Neither Mrs C.J. nor I has ever played silly buggers.’
‘Perish the thought, C.J.’
‘I intend to find out, Reggie. There will be an investigation.’
‘An excellent idea, C.J.’
‘Who do you think will head that investigation?’
‘I don’t know, C.J.’
‘I do, Reggie.’
‘Who, C.J.?’
‘You, Reggie.’
‘Me, C.J.?’
‘You, Reggie. Good-bye.’
Reggie walked slowly towards his connecting door.
‘Be thorough, Reggie,’ said C.J. ‘Leave no worm unturned.’
‘I’ll get to the bottom of it, C.J.,’ said Reggie.
‘I like your attitude,’ said C.J.
Reggie entered his mean little office and sank into his chair.
Why did you do it, Reggie?
C.J. knows. C.J. knows that I know that he knows. I’m trapped.
I can still get away with it.
I don’t want to get away with it.
He lifted the red phone.
‘Perrin on red,’ he said. ‘Come in, Miss Hoddle, please.’
His heart began to thump.
His pulse began to race.
His ears began to buzz.
Damn it, he would not lie and evade the issue any more.
Miss Hoddle entered. He smiled at her.
‘Sit down, Miss Kettle,’ he said.
‘Hoddle,’ she said.
‘I thought I’d call you Kettle for a change.’
Reggie!
‘Take a saucepan, Miss Hoddle.’
Letter!
‘Saucepan, Mr Perrin?’
‘I meant letter. Miss Kettle.’
‘Hoddle.’
I seem to be calling things by the names of household utensils. It’s out of the frying pan into the colander.
Not colander. Fire.
Oh what the hell. May as well be hung for a sheep as a baking tin.
Miss Hoddle’s looking at you, wondering. She’s worried. She’s a nice girl, and you’re upsetting her.
Get it over with.
‘To all present at the smelling yesterday,’ he began. ‘At the smelling yesterday somebody played silly buggers, and wrote that every single air freshener smelt of Bolivian unicyclists’ jockstraps.’
Miss Hoddle stared at him in astonishment.
‘That somebody was me,’ he continued. ‘I did it, and I’m not ashamed. I want you all to know why I did it. I did it because I believe that the whole thing is absolutely fish slice. Not only that. It is totally and utterly egg whisk.’
Silence filled the little office. Reggie smiled reassuringly at Iris Hoddle.
‘Find out the times of trains to the Dorset coast, would you, please?’ he said.
* Note: It is believed that this book mentions Godalming more than any other book ever written, including A Social, Artistic and Economic History of Godalming by E. Phipps-Blythburgh. Ed.
Table of Contents
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