The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (36 page)

‘Oh.’

A man with a sinister face was hopping from one leg to the other as if the phone box was a lavatory.

‘Are you glad?’ said Linda.

‘I don’t know,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Half the time I’ve been trying to get him to tell me. Now I feel frightened.’

Linda was sure the man was a breather.

‘I thought I’d better prepare you so that you’re ready to be surprised,’ she said.

The man glanced at his watch. Surely breathers didn’t mind at what time they rang?

‘I’d better go, mum. There’s a man waiting.’

She forced herself to walk right past the man.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘No hurry,’ said the man in a pleasant, cultured, gently vacuous voice. ‘I’m only going in there to do a bit of heavy breathing.’

And he roared with self-satisfied laughter.

Reggie walked slowly up the snicket, up Wordsworth Drive, turned right into Tennyson Avenue, then left into Coleridge Close. It didn’t seem fitting that dramatic revelations should be made on this desirable estate, with its pink pavements and mock-Tudor and mock-Georgian houses. For one thing, there were no lace curtains for them to be made behind.

He kissed Elizabeth on the cheek.

‘What’s for supper?’ he said.

‘Boiled silverside.’

Damn! Martin Wellbourne loved boiled silverside, had dreamt of its Anglo-Saxon honesty in the mangrove swamps of Brazil. Reggie loathed it.

He poured their drinks with a shaking hand.

‘Prepare yourself for a shock,’ he said.

‘That sounds ominous,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Brace yourself for a surprise,’ said Reggie.

Elizabeth braced herself.

‘I’m not Martin,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m Reggie.’

He pulled off his false wig, and smiled foolishly.

‘My God,’ said Elizabeth. ‘My God! Reggie! You! . . . Reggie! Alive!’

She gave a passable impression of a woman fainting.

When she recovered consciousness Reggie gave her a brandy and she phoned Tom and Linda and her brother Jimmy, asking them to come round. They couldn’t phone their son Mark, as he was touring Africa with a theatre group, which was presenting
No Sex Please, We’re British
to an audience of bemused Katangans.

‘I wish mother was well enough to come,’ said Elizabeth.

Reggie closed his eyes, and saw a lonely elderly woman in failing health.

‘I don’t think of your mother as a hippopotamus any more,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Elizabeth.

They ate their boiled silverside.

‘Now I can have meals I like again,’ said Reggie.

He believed that all his problems would soon be over, now that he was Reggie Perrin again. He had come home after a long journey in a strange land.

The doorbell rang.

‘Oh my God,’ he said, and hurried upstairs.

Elizabeth let Tom and Linda in.

‘What’s all this mystery?’ said Tom.

‘You’ll see,’ said Elizabeth.

‘I don’t like mysteries,’ said Tom. ‘I’m not a mystery person.’

‘That’s true,’ said Linda.

Darkness had fallen, and the curtains were drawn. They talked of the collapse of property values in the Thames Valley, and the difficulty of finding toys that taught young children about the socio-economic structure of our society.

At a quarter past nine the erstwhile army major drew up in his rusting Ford. He had whisky on his breath and leather patches on his elbows. He was going downhill now that Sheila had left him.

‘We were awfully sorry to hear about Sheila,’ said Tom.

‘Blessing in disguise,’ said Jimmy. ‘Career in ashes, family life in ruins, new start
de rigueur.’

‘Any idea what you’re going to do?’ said Tom.

‘Yes,’ said Jimmy.

‘Well,’ said Tom. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Idle talk costs lives,’ said Jimmy.

‘Another mystery,’ said Tom. ‘It’s a mystery to me why you all have to have so many mysteries.’

‘Tom’s not a mystery person,’ said Linda.

‘Well I’m not,’ said Tom. ‘What’s wrong in saying I’m not a mystery person if I’m not?’

‘What’s tonight’s mystery about?’ said Jimmy. ‘Like a good mystery.’

Elizabeth stood with her back to Dr Snurd’s lurid painting of Albufeira.

‘I found something out about Martin tonight,’ she said.

‘He’s not the Monster of the Piccadilly Line?’ said Jimmy. ‘Sorry. Uncalled for.’

‘Martin Wellbourne isn’t his real name,’ said Elizabeth. ‘His real name’s Reggie Perrin.’

Tom gawped. Jimmy looked thunderstruck.

‘You mean . . . Martin is . . . dad!’ said Linda, and she gave a passable imitation of a woman fainting.

When she came round Jimmy gave her a brandy.

‘Reggie!’ called Elizabeth.

Reggie came downstairs, wigless, and smiled foolishly at them.

‘Good God!’ said Jimmy.

‘Well I must say!’ said Tom.

‘Must you?’ said Reggie.

‘Daddy!’ said Linda, rushing up to him and hugging him.

‘There there,’ said Reggie, patting Linda’s head. ‘Bit of a surprise, eh, old girl?’

‘You mean you’ve been you all the time?’ said Jimmy. ‘Felt something was wrong. Couldn’t put my finger on it.’

Elizabeth went to get a bottle of champagne.

‘Why did you do it?’ said Tom.

‘Does there always have to be an explanation?’ said Reggie.

‘Yes, I rather think there does,’ said Tom.

Elizabeth brought in the champagne and Reggie opened it.

‘Not really a champagne wallah,’ said Jimmy. ‘Cheers.’

‘Welcome home, dad,’ said Linda.

They toasted Reggie.

‘So we had a memorial service for you when you were still alive!’ said Tom.

‘I was there,’ said Reggie.

‘I gave 50p,’ said Tom.

‘Tom!’ said Linda.

‘It’s not the money,’ said Tom. ‘It’s the principle.’

The grandfather clock in the hall struck ten.

‘Know the first thing I did when I saw Sheila’s note?’ said Jimmy. ‘Pressed my trousers. Adage of old Colonel Warboys. Nothing looks quite as black when your creases are sharp. Mustard for creases, Warboys. Hated the Free Poles. No creases. Sorry. Talking too much. Hogging limelight. Nerves.’

‘Why were you so grumpy today?’ said Linda.

They were lying in their orthopaedic bed.

‘Life’s simple,’ said Tom. ‘I’m not complicated. I go to work. I bring home money. I love you. It’s simple. I can’t see why other people can’t see it.’

An owl hooted by the river.

‘Owls don’t leave their clothes on the beach and come back to their own memorial services disguised as pigeons,’ said Tom.

‘Dad isn’t an owl,’ said Linda.

They lay at opposite sides of the orthopaedic bed, not touching each other.

‘Blast,’ said Jimmy.

He had spilt whisky on his pillow.

An owl hooted.

‘Shut up,’ shouted Jimmy.

‘Are you happy, Reggie?’ said Elizabeth.

An owl hooted, and the Milfords slammed both doors of their car.

‘Wonderfully happy,’ said Reggie.

Chapter 3

Wednesday was a typical early spring day of bright sunshine and sudden showers. For the first time since 11 March 1932 no weather records were broken anywhere in Britain.

Reggie stood at the window, watching a blue tit pecking at a ball of fat suspended from the rowan tree to incite just such an ornithological vignette.

‘Briefcase,’ said Elizabeth, handing him his briefcase, engraved in gold: M.S.W.

‘Thank you, darling,’ said Reggie.

‘Umbrella,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Thank you, darling,’ said Reggie.

‘Wig,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Oh my God.’

Reggie fitted his wig in the downstairs lavatory. Was there never to be an end to this absurdity? Was he to disguise himself every morning as Martin Wellbourne, and take his disguise off every evening?

When the GPO engineer saw Reggie coming, he stepped back into his hole.

‘It’s all right,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m not really Martin Well-bourne any more.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Greengross,’ he said. ‘Seventeen minutes late. Flood water seeping through signal cables at Effingham Junction.’

‘Good morning, Mr Perrin,’ she said.

‘Dictation time,’ he said, sitting at his desk. You could tell its age from the rings made by many cups of coffee. ‘To the Saucy Calendar Company, Buff Road, Orpington. Dear Sirs, could you please quote me for a hundred and fifty saucy calendars to keep our male staff in a constant state of . . . You called me Perrin!’

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Wellbourne, Mrs Greengross.’

‘Oh Reggie.’

She flung her arms round him and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Joan! Please! Joan!’

There was a knock on the door. They leapt apart.

It was C.J.

‘Morning, Martin,’ said C.J.

‘Morning, C.J.’

‘I’d like you to have a check up with Doc Morrissey, give the poor old boy something to do on his first morning.’

‘Certainly, C.J.,’ said Reggie.

‘Idle hands make heavy work, eh, Joan?’

‘They certainly do, C.J.’

‘You’ve got lipstick on your cheek, Martin.’

‘Absolutely, C.J. What?’

‘Careful, Martin. I didn’t get where I am today by having lipstick on my cheek.’

‘Absolutely not, C.J. Perish the thought. Sorry, C.J.’

C.J. left the room and Reggie wiped the lipstick off his cheek. Vain exercise! Soon Joan was kissing him once again.

C.J. re-entered the room.

‘Martin!’ said C.J.

Reggie shot away from Joan’s embrace as if catapulted.

‘It’s an experiment, C.J.,’ he said. ‘Part of the scheme to keep the employees happy, keep absenteeism at bay. Everybody kissing each other every morning. Only people of the opposite sex, of course.’

‘It’s going too far,’ said C.J. ‘This isn’t British Leyland.’

‘Sorry, C.J.,’ said Reggie. ‘My enthusiasm got the better of me.’

‘You must temper the stew of enthusiasm with the seasoning of moderation,’ said C.J. ‘I just came back to say: “Be extra friendly to Doc Morrissey.”’

‘I will,’ said Reggie.

C.J. left the room. Joan moved towards him. C.J. opened the door again.

‘Neither Mrs C.J. nor I has ever kissed all the employees every morning,’ he said.

‘Please don’t do that again, Joan,’ said Reggie when C.J. had finally gone.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Joan.

‘When did you realize?’ said Reggie.

‘Gradually,’ said Joan. ‘I just couldn’t believe it at first.’

‘Memo to all departments,’ said Reggie, sitting down again behind his desk and fingering his digital calendar nervously. ‘Members of the Pudding Club have been leaving the premises in a condition . . . You aren’t taking it down, Joan.’

‘I don’t feel like it, Mr Perrin.’

‘I think, Joan, that you ought to refer to me as Mr Wellbourne.’

Joan went back to her desk and sat down.

‘I could tell C.J. that you’re Mr Perrin, Mr Wellbourne,’ she said.

‘You could, yes.’

‘I might not, if . . .’

‘Is this blackmail, Joan?’

‘Not exactly blackmail, Mr Perrin.’

‘What then?’

‘Well, a sort of blackmail.’

‘You might not if what?’

Joan blushed.

‘If what, Joan?’

‘If you and I . . . together . . . you know.’

‘If we had it off together from time to time?’

Joan nodded.

‘Joan! What an awful way to put it.’

A cradle with a blond young window-cleaner on it appeared at the window. They pretended to be busy until he had finished.

‘I love you,’ said Joan, when he had gone.

‘This is extremely embarrassing, Joan,’ said Reggie, pacing up and down the crowded little office. ‘I was attracted to you . . . you were attractive . . . you
are
attractive . . . I
am
attracted. But I’m a married man, I love my wife, and all that was a mistake.’

He leant on Joan’s desk and looked into her eyes.

‘Tell C.J. if you must,’ he said.

‘I can’t,’ she said.

‘I know,’ said Reggie.

‘Oh hell,’ said Joan. She blew her nose and said: ‘Ready for dictation, Mr Wellbourne.’

The walls of Doc Morrissey’s little surgery were decorated with diagrams of the human body. The window was of frosted glass.

‘Nice to see you again,’ said Reggie.

‘You’ve never seen me before,’ said Doc Morrissey.

‘I mean it’s nice to see you and know that you’re here again. Of course I haven’t seen you before. Good heavens, no,’ said Reggie.

‘Take your clothes off,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘Put them over there, on top of mine.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a little joke. It puts the patient at his ease.’

‘Oh I see. Ha ha.’

‘I’ve been polishing up on psychology while I’ve been on the dole,’ said Doc Morrissey.

Reggie lifted his shirt, and Doc Morrissey pressed a stethoscope to his chest.

‘You run this . . . say aaaaargh . . . this Reginald Perrin Memorial Whatsit, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Aaaaargh.’

‘How’s it going . . . and again . . . going well is it?’

‘I don’t think people . . . aaaaargh . . . particularly want to be happy.’

‘How many people are you dealing with? Say ninety-nine.’

‘About two hundred and thirty-five. Ninety-nine.’

‘Thank you. Oh, quite a lot. Of course people don’t like to be happy. Happiness is all right for the Latin races. Cough. It doesn’t suit the British temperament at all.’

‘That’s exactly . . .’ Reggie coughed ‘. . . how I feel.’

‘Fine.’ Doc Morrissey removed his stethoscope and handed Reggie an empty bottle. ‘Go behind that screen.’

Reggie stood behind a little screen, above which only his head and shoulders were visible. Behind him was a rusty corner cabinet full of bottles of brightly coloured potions.

‘It’s against nature to be happy at work,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘People enjoy being bitchy behind each other’s backs, and harbouring grudges, and complaining because the girls in the canteen don’t wash their hands after going to the lavatory. It’s the British way of life. Like going behind that screen. I know what you’re doing. You know what you’re doing. You know that I know what you’re doing. It’s a normal, healthy, natural bodily function, done by everybody, you, me, Denis Compton, the Pope, even Wedgwood Benn. But we British go behind a screen. Not like those so-called civilized French, standing in rows at their lay-bys. Besides, it’s easier behind a screen.’