The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (16 page)

They went to an Indian restaurant and had mutton dhansak, ceylon chicken, mixed vegetables, fried rice, papadoms and two lagers each. They talked about all sorts of things and they were glad that they’d been born.

It was past midnight when he arrived home, stinking of curry, to find all the lights on and a very worried Elizabeth there.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ she said.

‘Out,’ he said.

‘You stink of garlic.’

‘I had a curry with some chaps from the office.’

‘You look guilty,’ she said.

‘Me? No.’

He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He was very dry.

‘Ponsonby was starving. Haven’t you been feeding him?’ she said.

Ponsonby strolled into the kitchen with dignity.

‘Tell Auntie Elizabeth what a good boy I’ve been while she’s been away,’ said Reggie.

Ponsonby miaowed curtly.

‘How is your mother?’ said Reggie.

‘She’ll pull through. She’s tired.’

‘It’s only to be expected.’

Elizabeth gave him a long, serious look. Then she turned away.

‘Linda rang me,’ she said, putting on the kettle for some tea. ‘She told me about your dinner party.’

‘You should have seen their faces,’ said Reggie.

‘But, Reggie, why?’

‘I felt like it,’ said Reggie. ‘It taught C.J. a lesson.’

‘You can’t go around teaching people like C.J. lessons.’

‘Don’t worry. He isn’t angry.’

‘Well, I don’t know! Where’s it all going to end?’

They took their cups of tea into the living room. They sat facing the television, even though it wasn’t switched on.

‘Why did you invite Percy?’ she asked.

‘I like Percy,’ he said.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she said.

‘I’ll put a notice on the front gate, if you like: “Mr Reginald Perrin is all right. His condition is so satisfactory that no more bulletins will be issued until further notice.”’

She smiled, a little sadly. Then she leant across and took his hands in hers.

‘I love you,’ she said.

They went upstairs. He lay on top of the bed and waited for her to come to him. She raised her eyebrows and he nodded and she went to make her preparations. When she came back they made love and it was very good and he didn’t need to think about any artificial aids, not rollicking in haystacks or factory chimneys or a nude Wightman Cup or even Joan Greengross’s breasts, but he thought of Elizabeth and he loved her. She moaned and writhed and he closed his eyes and grimaced and afterwards she said, ‘You see. You’re not impotent yet, you silly goose,’ and he said, ‘No. I’m not. I am a goose.’

She fell asleep and he lay there, listening to the clock striking and thinking how nice it would be just to stay with Elizabeth, but he had work to do, he had souls to save, and if Elizabeth had seen his wide staring eyes she wouldn’t have risen and fallen in her sleep like a sea reflecting the motion of a distant storm.

Thursday

Before he had his breakfast, Reggie went up into the loft and hid three hundred and twenty pounds, in used fivers, among the pile of faded curtains in his tuck box.

He ate a hearty breakfast. Elizabeth was much more relaxed now that their sex life had been resumed. In fact she had gone so far as to reward him with an extra egg.

He had a pleasant walk to the station, along the quiet streets of the Poets’ Estate. The sky was grey but it looked as if the sun might break through at any moment.

In the eight-sixteen, rattling along, watching Peter Cartwright doing the crossword, Reggie thought about the cracked old woman. Who was she? What did she look like with nothing on? Did she ever clean her teeth? Did she ever look in a mirror? Who was Mr James Purdock, from Somerset? What traumas and personality inadequacies and hormone irregularities had conspired to turn her into a cracked old woman with hairy legs and a voice like an old rook? Had she ever slept with anyone? Did she know she wasn’t normal? Was she happy?

They were almost at Waterloo. Over to the left he caught a glimpse of the Houses of Parliament, where they were busy plotting to foist a better Britain on us while we weren’t looking. What plans had they for the cracked old woman? You’ll be delighted, madam, to learn that we plan to build one thousand two hundred more miles of motorway, eighty miles of urban motorway, and by 1977 the whole of Europe will have achieved standardization of draught beer, pork pies and envelope sizes.

The train pulled in to Waterloo Station eleven minutes late, due to ‘seasonal manpower adjustments’. Reggie knew what he must do. He walked slowly along the platform, in the dark respectable human river. His legs felt weak. He felt a sudden anxiety. Suppose she wasn’t there?

But she was there. He walked casually towards her. His throat was dry.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for a Mr James Purdock, from Somerset.’

‘I am Mr James Purdock, from Somerset,’ said Reggie.

The old woman moved off, resignedly, to accost another commuter.

Reggie hurried after her, and plucked at her sleeve. She turned towards him.

‘You don’t understand me,’ he said. ‘You didn’t hear what I said. I said I
am
Mr James Purdock, from Somerset. I’m the man you’re looking for.’

She looked at him with staring, unseeing eyes.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for a Mr James Purdock, from Somerset.’

Joan was wearing a short red dress. It slid far up her thighs when she crossed her legs. She smiled at him out of playful eyes, and her lips were moist.

He dictated several letters. He didn’t intend to ask her out again. He intended to remain faithful to Elizabeth until the end. But every now and then he paused to stroke her knees. It was the least he could do.

He found it difficult to concentrate on his work. The sun had still not broken through and he could feel the oppressiveness of the day. He kept wanting to use the wrong words, to say ‘Dear Parsnip’, or ‘Yours Faithfully, a golf ball’.

Finally he could bear it no longer.

‘Next one,’ he said. ‘To the Manager, Getitkwik Supermarts, Getitkwik House, 77, Car Park Road, Birmingham, BL7 EA3 5RS 9BD EAS JRV 4LD. Dear Sir or Madam. Your complaints about late deliveries are not only ungrammatical but also completely unjustified. The fault lies in your inability to fill in an order form correctly. You are a pompous, illiterate baboon. Yours faithfully, Reginald I. Perrin. Did you get that down?’

‘I stopped. Did you mean it?’

‘Of course. Take it down.’

He dictated the letter again. Joan looked at him in alarm.

‘Next one. To the Traffic Manager, British Rail, Southern Region. Dear Sir. Despite my letter of last Friday, I note that you have taken no steps in the matter of the late arrival of trains at Waterloo. My train arrived this morning, as always, exactly eleven minutes late. It is becoming clear to me that you are not competent to hold your present job. You couldn’t run a game of strip poker in a brothel. It would be obvious even to an educationally subnormal hamster that all the trains ought to be re-timed to take eleven minutes longer. You are living in a fool’s paradise, all too typical of this country today. Yours faithfully, Reginald Iolanthe Perrin. P.S. During the pollen season Peter Cartwright’s sneezing is rather offensive to those who, like myself, are allergic to sneezing. Once, Ursula having forgotten his tissues, he blew his nose on the special Rhodesian supplement of the
Guardian
. This might have been a sound enough political comment, but it was not a pretty sight. Why not divide compartments into Sneezers and Non-Sneezers? Got that?’

‘Yes,’ said Joan, looking at him with deep alarm.

‘Anything wrong?’

‘No. Oh no.’

As soon as Joan had left his office, Reggie realized the danger in sending the letters. He must continue to seem normal, or he would not be allowed to carry out his plans.

He rushed out into her office. She wasn’t there, and nobody knew where she had gone.

Joan had gone to Doc Morrissey’s surgery. She found the wizened medico in gloomy humour.

‘Hullo, Joan. You find me in gloomy humour,’ he said.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Middle age. Insecurity. Anxiety. One false move and I’m out.’

He swept a pile of splints off a chair.

‘Well, well, it’s nice to see you. What’s the trouble? Chesty?’ he asked hopefully.

Joan had been a bit chesty in the winter of 1967. He’d been able to examine her three times before it cleared up.

‘It’s not me,’ she said. ‘It’s Reggie.’

‘Oh.’

She showed him the letters, and told him what she knew of Reggie’s recent behaviour. He stared gloomily at a diagram of the male reproductive organs.

‘Do you know what’s wrong with him?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Anxiety. Insecurity. Middle age. He’s going mad.’

Doc Morrissey explored his left nostril with a hypodermic syringe.

‘Should you do that?’ asked Joan.

‘No,’ he said.

‘What can we do?’

‘Be nice to him. Give him as little to do as possible. Hope for the best. Sorry, Joan, I’m in a mood today. It
is
nice to see you. Would you like a drink? There’s cough mixture, cod liver oil or I’ve quite a nice little mouth wash.’

‘No, thank you.’

Doc Morrissey managed a smile.

‘I’m not always such a misery,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a terrible morning.’

First there had been Leslie Woodcock from Jellies, convinced that his knees were enormous. Then Sid Bolton from Dispatch, who had stick-out ears, looked like Doctor Spock and was convinced he was the advance guard of a race from outer space, coming to take over the world. He’d been waiting in Dispatch for eleven years, and nobody else had come.

‘Is there really nothing we can do?’ said Joan.

Doc Morrissey waited while a particularly noisy train rattled past.

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Who’s sane and who’s mad? Cure somebody and they may get something worse. But you want to get off. Don’t leave it so long next time.’

Reggie came back after looking everywhere for Joan, and found her sitting at her desk.

‘Thank God you’re back!’ he said. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Shopping,’ she lied.

‘You haven’t sent those letters, have you?’

‘Not yet.’

I meant those last two as a joke.’

‘Oh. Good!’

‘Yes. I think I almost took you in.’

‘Yes.’

‘Pretty good joke.’

‘Yes.’

It was time to begin the next stage of his financial deception. He rang his bank.

‘It’s Reginald Perrin here,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of a fool. I’ve gone and lost my cheque book and my banker’s card . . . Yes, well, either I’ve been robbed or I’ve been very careless. I’m rather worried. I thought I’d better report it.’

He nipped out to the Feathers for a quick one and that made him feel better. He spent the rest of the morning preparing his speech, and then he had lunch with Roger Smythe from Public Relations.

‘There’s so much boozing involved in PR work,’ said Roger Smythe. ‘It gets you down. I need a drink.’

They sat in an alcove in the Axe and Rainbow. It had big Victorian windows and was scheduled for demolition.

Over their ham sandwiches and pints of gassy beer, Reggie gave Roger Smythe a brief outline of his speech. Of course he didn’t tell him what he was actually going to say. If he had, there would have been no speech.

‘I might be able to do something with it,’ said Roger Smythe. ‘If you could make it a bit more controversial, it might even rate a paragraph in
‘Dessert News.’

Reggie thought he might be able to make it more controversial.

‘This beer’s foul. I need a quick whisky to pick me up,’ said Roger Smythe.

They went up to the bar for their quick whiskies.

‘Two earwigs, please,’ said Reggie.

‘Earwigs?’ said the barmaid.

‘Whiskies,’ said Reggie.

Roger Smythe gave him a peculiar look. Careful, thought Reggie. You mustn’t suddenly say ‘earwigs’ for no good reason.

‘Earwigs?’ said Roger Smythe.

‘Rhyming slang,’ said Reggie. ‘Er – earwig’s daughter, whisky and water.’

‘I don’t get it,’ said Roger Smythe.

Elizabeth rang Jimmy from a public phone box inside Worthing Hospital. It was a cloudy, sultry afternoon.

She invited him round that evening for a drink, and asked him to talk to Reggie, man to man, and find out what he could about his mental state.

‘Got you,’ said Jimmy. ‘Now, recap. Drink drink. General chit chat. Rhubarb rhubarb. Introduce subject of madness tactfully. Rely on me.’

After he’d left Roger Smythe, Reggie took a taxi to Jermyn Street. He went to an exclusive hairdresser’s and bought himself a high quality dark wig, much longer than his own hair. Then he went to a theatrical costumier’s and asked for a false beard.

‘Oh yes,’ said the assistant. ‘A beard will suit you down to the ground.’

Reggie tried on a dark beard that matched his wig to perfection.

‘Yes,’ said the assistant. ‘Oh yes. Très très distingué.’

When he got back to the office he found Davina sitting in his chair.

‘Sorry,’ she said, getting up. ‘I was just wondering what it’s like to be you.’

‘You don’t know when you’re well off,’ he said.

‘Now, now. Don’t be like that,’ she said, sitting down opposite him and crossing the famous legs. ‘You’ve got a better office than me, anyway.’

Reggie looked at the sad expanse of glass, the filing cabinets and the notice board with its eight postcards of Shanklin (IOW).

‘I’m engaged to Percy Spillinger,’ said Davina.

‘What?’

‘He proposed after your party. Yesterday he rang for an answer. I tried to put him off again. I said, “Give me a ring”. It arrived this morning, recorded delivery.’

‘My God. Can’t you explain it was all a mistake?’

‘It’d kill him.’

There was the sound of a crash outside. Reggie went to the window. A coal lorry had backed into C.J.’s Bentley. The shocked driver got out of his cab in slow motion action replay.