The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (19 page)

‘I hear some uneasy rumblings. I know what you would like to say to me, “What’s your alternative, then?” That’s rather unfair, you know, to stop me criticising the whole of western society just because I can’t suggest a better alternative on my own.’

Reggie clasped the rostrum firmly, to stop himself swaying.

‘Tell me this,’ he said. ‘What has progress done for the cracked old woman with the hairy legs? You can’t tell me, can you?’

‘What has it done for me? One day I will die, and on my grave it will say, “Here lies Reginald Iolanthe Perrin; he didn’t know the names of the flowers and the trees, but he knew the rhubarb crumble sales for Schleswig-Holstein.”

‘Look at those trees outside. They’ll all be pulled down soon to make underground car parks. But you try complaining. You’ll be labelled as an earwig. Trees don’t matter, people will say, compared with poverty and colour prejudice. So what will we end up with? Poor unloved black children who haven’t even got any trees to climb. But I’ve good news for you. Half the parking meters in London have got Dutch parking meter disease.’

There were mutterings. Someone cried out, ‘Get back to Desserts!’

‘“Get back to Desserts,” I hear you cry. “Get on with it.” “Get your finger out,”’ said Reggie. ‘Well I knew a chap who could, because he bought a finger off a chap in a pub in Basingstoke, so that would be rather amusing.’

His head was swimming. He could feel himself sinking. He couldn’t find the place in his notes. There was a buzz of conversation from the audience.

‘We become what we do!’ he shouted above the noise. ‘Show me a happy man who makes paper tissues, and I will show you a hero who makes fondue tongs!

‘You have a right to ask me what I believe in, I who am so anti-everything. I’ll tell you. I believe in nihilism, in the sense that I believe in the absence of ism. I know that I don’t know and I believe in not believing.’ He could see earnest whisperings taking place in the front row. He hadn’t much time to lose. ‘For every man who believes something there’s a man who believes the opposite. How many wars would be fought, how many men would have been tortured in this world, if nobody had ever believed in anything?

‘“But that would be awful,” I hear you cry. Well actually I don’t, but that’s what you would cry if you were listening. I deny it. Would the sun shine less brightly if there was no purpose in life? Would the nightingale sing less sweetly? Would we love each other less deeply? Man’s the only species neurotic enough to need a purpose in life.

‘Now I come to the question of earwigs, and when I say earwigs I mean a sense of values.’

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dr Hump making signs to W. F. Malham, CBFA.

‘Old Baldy Hump there. Why is he bald? Because he made a cock-up. He used pesticides on his head and hair restorer on his fruit trees. Now he’s as bald as a coot and he’s got a garden full of hairy plums.’

W. F. Malham, CBFA, leant over to him, red in the face, dripping sweat.

‘I think we’ve had enough,’ he said.

‘Rubbish. I haven’t finished.’

W. F. Malham, CBFA, looked at the front row of the audience and shrugged. Dr Hump beckoned him over. Sir Elwyn Watkins leant across Professor Pedersen to confer with Dr Hump.

Get the audience back on your side, thought Reggie. Win them over.

‘Is there anyone here from Canada?’ he thundered. ‘Australia? Great Yarmouth? Anyone here from Tarporley? Hands up all those of you from Tarporley. All stand up and shake hands with the person on your right!’

‘You’re drunk!’ shouted a greenfly prevention consultant.

‘That’s right,’ said Reggie, swaying slightly, gripping the rostrum with both hands to steady himself. ‘Shout at me. Pelt me with tasteless standardized tomatoes. Use your instant anger mix. I don’t hate you. I want to help you. What is life for if not for those who have to live it?’

Dr Hump, Sir Elwyn Watkins and W. F. Malham CFBA, were advancing on him.

‘Here he comes,’ shouted Reggie. ‘Old Baldy Hump, lecturer in applied manure at the University of Steeple Bumpstead!’

They were grabbing hold of him, politely but firmly. He writhed, shook them off.

‘Get your hands off!’ he shouted.

‘Please, Mr Perrin,’ implored Sir Elwyn Watkins, trying to steer Reggie off the platform without manhandling him.

‘I haven’t finished,’ said Reggie.

‘Thank you very much. Stimulating address,’ said W. F. Malham, CBFA.

‘Come on, you bastard,’ said Dr Hump.

‘Keep your hair on, Baldy!’

‘A stimulating address. Should provoke discussion,’ said W. F. Malham, CBFA.

Dr Hump’s elbow caught Reggie in the genitals. He doubled up.

‘He hit me in the balls,’ he said.

‘I’m sure we all learnt a lot,’ said W. F. Malham, CBFA.

‘Come on, now. Gently does it,’ said Sir Elwyn Watkins.

Their firm hands were propelling Reggie towards the exit. He reached out to grab the rostrum but he was being dragged away from it.

‘Come on, you bastard,’ said Dr Hump.

‘Easy does it, now. Fair do’s,’ said Sir Elwyn Watkins.

The three men propelled the struggling form of Reggie Perrin slowly towards the exit. W. F. Malham, CBFA, dripping with sweat, purple in the face, turned towards the audience, still holding one of Reggie’s arms.

‘Thank you for a very interesting and forceful examination of current issues, Mr – er – Mr – er – ’ he said, and then the four of them disappeared from the platform in a tumble of legs and arms and collapsed in a heap in the corridor outside.

Reggie received another painful blow.

‘He’s hit me in the balls again!’

‘Leave him be, Hump. ‘Leave him be,’ said Sir Elwyn Watkins, scrambling to his feet. ‘Fair play.’

‘He didn’t call you old Baldy,’ said Dr Hump, still lying on the floor, panting.

‘I’m not bald,’ said Sir Elwyn Watkins.

W. F. Malham, CBFA, got to his feet and dusted down his trousers. Reggie was doubled up in pain.

‘The sooner we behave like academics, the better,’ said Sir Elwyn Watkins to Dr Hump.

‘Fuck off,’ said Dr Hump.

‘I’m going in there to make a statement,’ said W. F. Malham, CBFA. ‘Get him in the office. Give him some coffee. And no more monkey business, Hump!’

He went back on to the platform and held up his hand to still the excited murmuring. There were loud shushing noises from the assembly. For almost a minute the whole audience was going ‘Sssh!’ at each other. Then at last there was silence.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said W. F. Malham,. CBFA. ‘A combination of the after effects of luncheon and of the heat has proved too much for Mr – for our distinguished speaker. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say how sorry I am that a talk of penetrating brilliance, with which no doubt we all found something to agree, something to disagree, and plenty to provoke thought, which after all is what this conference is about, at least I hope it is, how sorry I am, as I say, how sorry I am sure we all are, that this talk has been cut short in its prime, as it were. I think probably the best thing now is to. . .er – to take a little break. We will resume again at fourteen-thirty hours p.m. when I am sure we are all looking forward with bated breath to what promises to be a high spot in our discussions, the long-awaited talk of Professor – Professor – of the distinguished Swedish Professor who will talk about a question that is on everyone’s lips, the question of . . . as I say, the question that’s on everybody’s lips. And may I ask the staff, if they’re present, which I believe they aren’t, to see that the ventilation is increased. Thank you.’

The delegates streamed out on to the terrace to enjoy the quiet Hertfordshire sunshine. W. F. Malham, CBFA, hurried to the secretary’s office. Reggie was slumped on a chair with his elbows resting on the secretary’s desk. He looked distinctly green at the gills. Sir Elwyn Watkins and the secretary were standing over him solicitously.

‘I’ve organized some coffee,’ said Sir Elwyn. ‘And I’ve got rid of Hump.’

Reggie said nothing. When the coffee came he drank three cups and then he asked for a taxi to take him home.

As they drove through Potters Bar he told the driver that he didn’t want to go home, and gave him the address of the factory at Acton.

His mouth tasted foul, his head ached, and he felt sick. He’d been drunk. He had used the wrong words. He had insulted Dr Hump childishly. He had been heckled. He had asked if there was anyone there from Tarporley. He had failed.

He had one more task to perform – and this time there must be no failure.

When he got to Acton, he went straight to the canteen and had four cups of tea, to get the foul taste out of his mouth. He also bought three rounds of egg and tomato sandwiches, in case he was hungry later on. Then he went to the ‘gents’. He sat on one of the lavatory seats, prepared for a long wait.

Up till half-past five there were people using the toilet. After that he was alone. His head still ached, and his stomach hurt. The only noises were the automatic flushing of the urinal every five minutes, and the gurglings of his digestive system.

He sat on the lavatory seat all evening. Nobody had seen him go in there. He wasn’t expected back at work. Elizabeth wouldn’t miss him until he failed to turn up in Worthing next day. In his briefcase there was a wig, a false beard, a mirror, and three rounds of egg and tomato sandwiches. In his pockets there were three hundred and fifteen pounds in used fivers.

It wasn’t safe to move until he could be quite certain that he had the factory to himself, apart from old Bill, the nightwatchman. Reggie didn’t expect much trouble from old Bill.

He hoped that Elizabeth would understand, and Joan, and the children, Linda and Mark. It was hard to accept that he would never see any of them again.

He ate one of his sandwiches. Slowly time passed. When the urinal had flushed sixty-three times, he judged that it was safe to leave.

Outside, it was dark. His legs had gone to sleep. He walked cautiously, quietly. His eyes began to grow accustomed to the dark, and the feeling returned to his legs.

He could see the outlines of the long dark blocks that formed the bulk of the factory. At night it looked more like a prison camp. He half expected searchlights and guard dogs, but there was only old Bill.

As he approached Bill’s hut the door was flung open, and Bill limped out. He had a poker in his hand, clearly visible against the bright light inside the hut.

‘Who goes there?’ he shouted.

‘It’s me,’ said Reggie. ‘Mr Perrin, from Head Office.’

‘Oh.’ Bill shone his torch in Reggie’s face. It almost blinded him. ‘Blimey, you gave me a turn, Mr Perrin.’

‘Sorry, Bill.’

Bill led him into the hut. As well as the torch and the poker he had been carrying a large bag of pepper.

In the hut there was a wooden table, a hard chair, a ring for making tea, a little stove and a small cupboard. On the table there were pictures of his wife and children.

‘That was very brave of you. Bill,’ he said.

‘That’s what I’m paid for, Mr Perrin.’

That’s what you’re underpaid for, thought Reggie.

Bill took a rusty kettle out of the cupboard. Reggie sat down. Bill went to the door and filled the kettle from a stand-pipe.

‘A consignment of loganberry essence has to be sent to Hamburg urgently,’ said Reggie. ‘The ship sails from Southampton tomorrow. I’ve got to get that stuff down there.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve no authority to let you out,’ said Bill.

‘I’ll give you the authority.’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I haven’t got the authority to let you give me the authority, Mr Perrin.’

‘I’ve got a PXB 43 and a PBX 34.’

‘I see,’ said Bill, reading the forms slowly.

The kettle whistled. Bill dropped six tea bags into a rusty enamel teapot.

‘And I’ve got an open PXF 38 signed by C.J.,’ said Reggie.

He showed Bill a blank order form on which he had forged C.J.’s signature that morning.

‘It’s blank,’ said Bill.

‘Of course it is. I fill in the details. Look. I’ll do it now. One thousand packets of loganberry pie mix. Delivery to West Docks, Southampton. It’s an open order form.’

‘I see,’ Bill poured twelve spoonfuls of sugar into the pot.

‘I’ve got a PXL 2, double-checked through the computer.’

Reggie got out a fourth form and handed it to Bill. Bill handed him a chipped blue mug. Then he spooned some powdered milk into the teapot, stirred vigorously, and poured tea into the mug.

‘You drink that. I’ll have mine afterwards,’ said Bill. He examined the PXL 2 very carefully. ‘Well, that all seems to be in order,’ he said at last.

The sheer weight of forms, taken in conjunction with the mention of the computer, had become too much for a mere human being to resist.

‘Thanks, Bill,’ said Reggie.

He closed his eyes and took a sip of tea.

The rest wasn’t too difficult. He took a key at random from the transport office and walked down to the garage. He slid back the heavy doors of the garage. Inside it was cool and there were patches of sticky oil on the stone floor. There were two rows of bright red lorries, with the words: ‘Try Sunshine Flans – they’re flan-tastic’ painted on both sides in big yellow letters. There were double doors at the back of each lorry. On one door it said: ‘Bring a suns into yo’ and on the other door it said: Tittle hine ur life’, so that when the doors were closed the three-line message ran: ‘Bring a little sunshine into your life’. Four lorries had been delivered with the message on the wrong doors, so that when their doors were closed they carried the message: ‘Little bring a hinesuns ur life into yo’.

Reggie’s key was for one of the two lorries shaped like jellies.

It didn’t occur to him to go back and change the key. It didn’t seem important.

He climbed up into the cab and examined the controls. He’d never been so high up in a vehicle before.

The lorry started first time. He switched on the lights, and drove it very cautiously out of the garage. He found it very difficult to judge its length.

He closed the garage door rapidly, and drove the lorry to the block where the fruit essences were made.