The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (46 page)

‘Tha what? Oh aye, that’ll be them rum buggers live at Trepanning House,’ said Danny Arkwright, licensed to sell beers, wines and spirits.

‘Keep themselves to themselves,’ said Annie Arkwright, licensed to live with Danny Arkwright in marital bliss. ‘They never say nowt to nobody.’

They’re not widely liked,’ said the landlord. ‘Incomers, tha knows. We’re right canny folk wi’ incomers round here.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Reggie, ‘but aren’t you incomers yourselves?’

‘Running a pub’s different,’ said the landlord. ‘We’re in t’public eye, like. In t’limelight. What’s tha want wi’ them, any road?’

‘I’m Mr Anderson’s sister,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Oh. Sorry if I’ve said owt I shouldn’t have, luv.’

‘Not at all.’

‘All I know is, they play it right close to t’chest. Even built letter-box by t’road for postman. There’s probably nowt to it but I reckon they’re playing funny buggers.’

‘Where is this Trepanning House?’ said Reggie.

‘It’s off main Truro road. A few miles inland, on t’right. Typical old farmhouse. It’s hidden from t’road in a bit of a dip. You can’t miss it.’

Danny Arkwright offered them an after-hours drink.

‘We’d better get on,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Well, just a pint,’ said Reggie.

It had been decided that Reggie should go alone to Trepanning House. His aim would be to arrange a meeting between brother and sister at which Colonel Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther was conspicuous by his absence. Now that the time was drawing near he wasn’t looking forward to his mission. Another pint was most welcome.

They sat on bar stools in the empty bar full of dead glasses. The landlord and his wife talked of how happy they were. They didn’t miss the grime of Rotherham at all. Why should they? Of course the chip shops weren’t much good in Cornwall. No scraps. But anyway they were all going Chinese in Rotherham. And of course they missed the fortnightly trip to Millmoor to see United.

‘Late fifties, early sixties, by, we had some that could play,’ said the landlord. ‘Ironside in goal. Lambert, Danny Williams.’

‘Keith Kettleborough,’ said his comely spouse.

‘Oh aye, Keith Kettleborough,’ said the landlord.

‘But it’s much cleaner here,’ said the landlady.

‘Oh aye, much cleaner,’ said the landlord.

‘Better for the kids,’ said the landlady.

‘What? There’s no comparison,’ said the landlord.

‘He was a ninety-minute player, was Kettleborough,’ said the landlady.

‘Oh aye, I’ve got to give him that, he was a ninety-minute player all right, was Kettleborough,’ said the landlord.

Reggie nodded his agreement. It was nice to sip his pint and agree that Kettleborough was a ninety-minute player. If only he didn’t have this business of Jimmy to sort out.

‘Well, I’d better be on my way,’ he said.

‘Oh aye, tha’d best be off,’ said the landlord.

‘Be careful now,’ said the landlady.

The light was already fading as Reggie drove cautiously up the track towards Trepanning House. The track was pitted with holes that were filled with muddy water, and halfway along it was totally blocked by a fallen tree.

He ploughed on in his Wellington boots. Trepanning House was a bleak and comfortless granite house, square, sturdy, unadorned. No welcoming light came from its windows. No comforting animal sounds came from the tumbledown barns and byres.

The ill-tempered sunset died petulantly. The wind howled. On all sides were the derelict towers of old tin workings and in the distance the hills of china clay stood against the evening sky like miniature snowy Dolomites.

Reggie rang the bell three times, but there was no reply. He knocked and knocked, but Trepanning House was deserted.

He crossed the silent farmyard, his feet squelching in cloying mud. There was a brief lull in the wind. A dog barked on a distant farm.

Cautiously Reggie entered the first of the barns. A beam swung across the doorway and struck him on the back of the head, and a huge cage descended around him.

When he came round he was lying on a camp bed in a bare bedroom with peeling wallpaper and a flaking ceiling, and Jimmy was sitting anxiously at his bedside. A one-bar electric fire was making no impression on the chill, damp air.

‘He’s come round,’ called out Jimmy.

‘Well done,’ came a distant voice.

‘My trap worked a dream, then,’ said Jimmy.

‘Yes,’ said Reggie wryly, feeling the bumps on his head gingerly.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Jimmy. ‘Not aimed at you. Aimed at intruders.’

Jimmy helped him downstairs. When he had phoned Elizabeth and was seated in an armchair in front of a wood fire, with a brandy in his hand, he began to feel better.

There was a shabby white carpet, two armchairs, a burst sofa, an occasional table and a heavily scratched oak bureau. Beside the fireplace there was a pair of brass fire-tongs.

‘I don’t see much sign of your secret army,’ said Reggie. ‘Are things going badly?’

‘Very much the reverse,’ said Jimmy. ‘Fully operational within the twelve-month. Can’t say much. Security. Suffice to say, supporters from many quarters – press, city, a leading non-commercial TV company.’

‘Money pouring in,’ said Clive. ‘Donations large and small.’

‘Welcome recruit though,’ said Jimmy.

‘Oh I haven’t come to join you,’ said Reggie. ‘I couldn’t join your crazy outfit.’

If looks could kill, Clive’s eyes would have got fifteen years.

‘Elizabeth read about you in the paper,’ said Reggie. ‘We’ve come down to try and persuade you to change your mind.’

‘Not an earthly,’ said Jimmy.

‘She wants to talk to you,’ said Reggie.

‘No can do,’ said Clive. ‘Not on.’

‘I must see her, Clive,’ said Jimmy. ‘She’s my sister.’

‘Absolutely right,’ said Clive. ‘Good soldier needs a happy mind.’

‘Beam worked a treat,’ said Jimmy.

‘Why have you set up such an elaborate trap?’ said Reggie.

‘Don’t want people nosing around,’ said Jimmy.

‘Journalists,’ said Clive. ‘Place is stiff with journalists.’

‘Police,’ said Jimmy. ‘Anarchists. Do-gooders. Birdwatchers. Nosey-parkers in general.’

‘On the surface, absolutely normal household,’ said Clive.

‘No sign of secret activities,’ said Jimmy, dropping a log on to the fire. ‘No one would ever guess there’s a huge armoury hidden in the Dutch barn.’

‘Sssssh!’ said Clive.

‘Sorry,’ said Jimmy.

‘Don’t you think,’ said Reggie ‘that the average nosey-parker in general might think there was something to hide here when he found paths blocked by fallen trees and beams and cages trapping him when he ventured into barns?’

There was a pause.

‘Point, Clive?’ said Jimmy.

‘Point, Jimmy,’ said Clive.

It was half past eleven before they arrived at the Fishermen’s Arms, and the lights in the bar had been dimmed. Despite this more than twenty people were still drinking.

‘She’s upstairs,’ said the landlady. ‘You’re stopping here. Room three.’

Reggie bought drinks and the offer of ham and eggs was warmly accepted.

And so they ate ham and eggs in a little bedroom with daffodil-yellow wallpaper and a matching bedspread. An extra chair was produced, the electric fire warmed the room more than adequately, and the rain and wind soon seemed far away.

Jimmy was shy and embarrassed in Elizabeth’s presence.

‘Sorry upset you,’ he said. ‘Not object of exercise.’

‘It was all in the papers,’ said Elizabeth. ‘They called you James “Cock-up” Anderson.’

‘Words,’ said Jimmy scornfully.

On the bedside table there was a Bible and a copy of the
Cycling News
for July.

‘Be honest, Jimmy,’ said Reggie. ‘Have you honestly got any remote chance of being effective even if your opportunity ever comes?’

Jimmy glanced round the trim, bright little bedroom as if hoping to flush out a few journalists. Then he lowered his voice until it could barely be heard above the wind.

‘Breach of security,’ he said. ‘Clive would kill me if he knew. Clive and I running one cell. Organization has three other cells. Big man head of whole caboosh.’

‘Who is this big man?’ said Reggie.

‘Secret,’ said Jimmy. ‘Even I don’t know.’

‘Who does know?’

‘Clive.’

Reggie turned the pages of
Cycling News
idly.

‘What’s your aim, Jimmy?’ he said. ‘You can’t use private armies to influence democratic politics. Do you want a dictatorship?’

‘Mussolini . . .’

‘. . . made the trains run on time, and the frequency with which we are reminded of it suggests that he didn’t achieve all that much else. Personally I am prepared to suffer British Rail to preserve even the tattered remnants of freedom.’

‘Question, Reggie,’ said Jimmy. ‘You, clothes on beach, Martin Wellbourne, etcetera, etcetera, expression of discontent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Everything in garden not rosy?’

‘By no means.’

‘My way, different from yours.’

‘Very different.’

Reggie glanced quickly through an article entitled: ‘By Tandem to Topkapi.’ There was a picture of a plump couple in shorts standing beside their tandem in front of the famous museum, giving the thumbs up.

The landlady came in to clear away the ham and eggs.

‘Were they all right?’ she asked.

‘Lovely,’ said Reggie.

‘Top-hole nosh,’ said Jimmy.

‘You can keep your frogs’ legs,’ declared the landlady.

‘You certainly can,’ said Reggie.

‘He says am I to give you any more to drink?’ said the landlady.

‘I’ll have a pint,’ said Reggie.

‘Pint wouldn’t go amiss,’ said Jimmy. ‘Scottish wine, help it on its way.’

Reggie ordered pints for himself and Jimmy, a gin and tonic for Elizabeth, a large whisky for Jimmy, and drinks for the landlord and his wife.

‘Did you hear that?’ said Jimmy when the landlady had gone. ‘National pride. Still there.’

‘Don’t you get a lot of your support from the area where national pride spills over into out and out racialism?’ said Reggie.

Jimmy proved evasive. The conversation flagged. The landlord entered with a tray of drinks.

That’s right,’ he said. ‘You’re as snug as bugs in rugs.’

He handed round the drinks.

‘Question?’ said Jimmy.

‘Aye?’ said the craggy licensed victualler cautiously.

‘Are you a racialist?’

‘Tha what? I bloody am not. I can’t be doing with it.’

‘Do you think there are many racialists in England?’

‘Listen. There’s this darkie playing for Rotherham reserves, built like a brick shithouse – sorry, luv.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ said Elizabeth.

‘One match, there’s a big crowd ‘cos they’re giving away vouchers for cup-tie. There’s this yobbo stood standing in front of me, and he yells out: “You’re rubbish. Go back where you came from, you black bastard.” Sorry, luv.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Where
did
he come from?’ said Reggie.

‘Maltby,’ said the landlord. ‘Any road, couple of minutes later, darkie beats three men and scores. T’game continues and this yobbo shouts out “You’re useless, Chadwick. Give it to the black bastard.” Now is this yobbo a racialist? Course he isn’t. Otherwise why would he want to give t’ball to t’darkie? He’d want to starve him of t’bloody ball, wouldn’t he, if he was a racialist? Course he would.’

‘He shouldn’t call him a black bastard, though, should he?’ said Reggie.

‘He was a bloody black bastard,’ said Danny Arkwright. ‘He was as black as the ace of spades. Now, listen. This is t’way I look at it. Let’s take t’case of a white man. We’ll call him Arnold Notley, for sake of argument. Now Arnold Notley, he works down Rawmarsh Main. He’s got nowt against darkies, Chinks, Ities, the lot. They’re all right by him. Now Arnold Notley, he goes down to t’Bridge Hotel, right, for a pint and a game of fives and threes, and he finds it full of darkies and Chinks and Ities and I don’t know what yelling and shouting all over the bloody shop like let’s face it they do and the stink of garlic and curry and I don’t know what else besides. He doesn’t like it, does he? Course he doesn’t. He says: “fuck me.” Sorry, luv.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Elizabeth.

‘He says: “Oh dearie me, I think I’ll try the anchor.” Now let’s take t’other side of bloody coin. Let’s take your Sikh. Let’s call him Bishen Ram Patel, for sake of argument. Now Bishen Ram Patel, he lives in Madras. And he says to his missus: “Oh dear, Mrs Patel. I am feeling the Indian equivalent of right pissed off. I think I’ll go down to the Curry and Sacred Cow for a yoghurt and tonic.” Down he goes, he opens t’door and it’s full of bloody miners from Greasbrough. And this miner, he says: “Hey up, owd lad, does tha fancy a game of fives and threes, our Bishen?’ He wouldn’t like it, would he? It’s human nature.’

There was a brief silence. Reggie and Elizabeth and Jimmy sipped their drinks.

‘Do you think this country’s finished?’ said Jimmy.

‘Course I do,’ said the landlord. ‘It’s forced to be. Finito. Caput. Mind you, I dare say we could mess along for another five hundred years not knowing it. We’re second division. Crap. Relegation fodder. The Japs and Germans are light years ahead of us. We just don’t rate. We come nowhere. There’s only one thing to be said in this country’s favour. It’s still the greatest bloody country in the world to live in.’

‘Do you think it will remain so?’ said Jimmy.

‘I bloody don’t and all. It can’t do. We’re waiting for North Sea Oil. Well, I look at it this way. T’oil’ll give us breathing space to get in a bigger jam even than what we are in now.’

‘Chap comes along,’ said Jimmy. ‘Secret army. Supporters. Money. Right ideas. Before you can say Jack Robinson, Britain great again.’

‘I’d support him,’ said the landlord. ‘I bloody would and all.’

‘Supposing that meant the overthrow of democracy?’ said Reggie.

‘Democracy?’ said the landlord. ‘Democracy’s finished. It’s a dead duck. I look at it this way. I was a socialist. Now I run a pub. I’m a conservative. Why? Self-interest. What sort of a bloody system’s that? No, I’d abolish democracy tomorrow if it was me.’