The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (57 page)

‘Oh, some days I make love and some days I do not. Some days we go out and some days we do not. Some days we have visitors and some days we do not. These differences seem to me like ripples on the Sargasso Sea. They barely stir the weed.’

A small charm of goldfinches twittered across the garden in the clear, cool evening. Ponsonby stiffened, decided that the game wasn’t worth the candle, there were plenty more where those came from, and relaxed. Reggie patted his head in sympathetic understanding.

‘There’s magic out there,’ said Reggie. ‘Nature’s annual magic. A cycle of infinite subtlety and variety, performed in an exquisite rhythm so slow that the human eye can never see it change. No maintenance engineer has ever seen the leaves of a tree turn golden and russet in October. No dental mechanic has ever witnessed the moment when the soft furry green of budding spring settles gently on the trees. No man has ever heard the first cry of the cuckoo. Only other cuckoos hear that.

‘And while this infinitely patient and wonderful cycle is being carried out in perfect stealth by billions of interdependent creatures and plants, we have gone through our crass and pedestrian cycle three hundred and sixty-five times. How about that, Ponsonby?’

Ponsonby made no reply.

‘Supposing we had an annual cycle as well, Ponsonby? Supposing we got up on February the sixteenth, had breakfast from the twentieth to the twenty-fourth, spent the twenty-fifth on the lavatory, worked from March the first to August the eleventh, with Wimbledon fortnight for lunch, were invited to the Smythe-Emberrys for cocktails from August the fourteenth to the twenty-seventh, spent September having dinner, and went to bed on November the third. We could put on our trousers so slowly that the eye could not detect the movement. We would be freed entirely from the need to rush around at speed, killing everything in our path. We would be freed from all the tentacles of routine. We could aspire to being as subtle as the colouring of the leaves on the trees.’

They considered the prospect in silence for several minutes. Reggie felt a sense of utter peace, alone with his cat in the eye of the storm of life.

‘And Tony Webster would be able to achieve his ambition of making love eighty-two times in one night,’ he said.

When Elizabeth got home at half past eleven, Reggie still hadn’t eaten his supper.

‘What’s all the hurry?’ he said.

C.J. wanted to leave for their European tour on April the twenty-fifth.

‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to come,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Reggie and I have got to go to the FA Trophy Cup Final on April the twenty-eighth.’

‘We’ll postpone the tour,’ said C.J. ‘We’ll go on May the second. I didn’t get where I am today without going on May the second.’

‘I don’t want to go to Europe with C.J.,’ said Elizabeth over supper.

‘Why not?’ said Reggie.

‘I don’t like him,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Well of course you don’t,’ said Reggie. ‘Is that all?’

‘I don’t want to travel round Europe with a man I don’t like.’

‘I don’t expect he likes you either,’ he said. ‘I expect he’s dreading the prospect just as much as you are. That isn’t the point. It’s business.’

Reggie and Elizabeth had lunch with the Climthorpe team at their secret hide-out. Then they drove in the team coach to Wembley.

A part of Reggie felt loftily uninvolved. Another part felt sick with nerves.

‘What does it matter, darling, in the scheme of things, whether Climthorpe beat Stafford Rangers or whether Stafford Rangers beat Climthorpe?’ he said as they crawled past the shoppers of Ealing. ‘On limestone hills that have been there for millions of years joyous little lambs will still be born to mothers whose joy has been dulled by their knowledge of the brevity of life. In the stews of Calcutta and the shanty towns of Guatemala the hungry and the maimed will remain hungry and maimed. Sad-faced workers in brown overalls will ride squat, ugly bicycles from dreary regimented homes to dreary regimented factories in dull suburbs from Omsk to Bratislava. None of them will ever know whether Climthorpe Albion beat Stafford Rangers, or whether Stafford Rangers beat Climthorpe Albion.’

‘Don’t let the team hear you talking like that,’ said Elizabeth.

‘I’m glad Clench has recovered from his hamstring injury,’ said Reggie.

They entered the stadium. The 24,218 crowd looked dwarfed in the vast concrete saucer. Reggie nodded to the Milfords, the Peter Cartwrights, his bank manager, the cashier with the perpetual cold at Cash and Carry, the landlord of the Ode and Sonnet, the Chief Education Officer, the man who ran the bookstall at Climthorpe Station, the woman who ran the man who ran the bookstall at Climthorpe Station, the big couple from Sketchley’s, and the fireman whose wife had run off with the man from the betting shop. All favoured him with smiles – joy unalloyed at the sight of this symbol of Climthorpe’s success, the amazing Reginald Iolanthe Perrin. Reggie felt a rising panic, disbelief, anger, twisted tripes of inappropriate emotion.

He stopped to chat with Mr Pelham.

‘Never a day passes,’ said that worthy, ‘but what I think: “Mr Perrin swilled out my porkers.”’

‘A lot of swill’s flowed under the sty since then,’ said Reggie.

‘You’re not wrong,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘Think we’ll win?’

‘Of course,’ said Reggie.

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘Football, I can take it or leave it, let’s face it, it’s only a game, grown men kicking a ball about, but it’s my boy, lives for it.’

The trouble-maker?’

‘Turned over a new leaf, Mr Perrin.’

‘Gratifying news indeed, Mr Pelham.’

More smiles, more hellos, big cry of ‘We are the champions’ from the Climthorpe fans.

‘And how’s your lovely daughter?’ said Reggie.

Mr Pelham’s face darkened.

‘We don’t talk of her,’ he said. ‘Women! Present company excepted, of course.’

Arrival of Mr Pelham’s nice boy with a souvenir programme. Introduction of that Mr Perrin I was telling you about. Farewells. Cry from Mr Pelham, over heads of crowd: ‘Pigs aren’t what they used to be. We miss you, Mr Perrin.’

Much-missed lucky mascot and friend of the porker Reginald Iolanthe Perrin borne seat-wards on a crowd of expectation. Suddenly, Linda beaming. Tom, smiling rather shyly. Adam and Jocasta, excited.

‘What a surprise,’ said Reggie.

‘Can’t let our Climthorpe down,’ said Linda.

Happy family heart atom pulsating with anticipation, bleeding heart exploding atom without Mark suddenly so sorely missed this day.

Raucous cries, foul oaths, rattles, foul oaths, flat beer in plastic glasses, rhythmic swaying of many scarves, rosettes, foul oaths.

‘They’ll learn the words sooner or later anyway,’ from Tom. ‘We don’t believe in protecting them.’

Take them Gorbal-wards, Tom. Take them Scotland Road-wards. Take them to deprived sores of inner cities, urban pustules. Take them to Soweto.

Or live in the Thames Valley, thank your lucky stars and shut up.

Climthorpe fans hurtling past – good to see the enthusiasm.

Stafford fans hurtling past – bloody yobbos.

Needless division! Heedless attrition!

Glad Clench fit though.

Waving and smiling even while thinking, living on three levels – conscious, sub-conscious and self-conscious. Amazing machine man, comic and cosmic.

Climthorpe inspecting pitch, dwarfed, awful semi-sharp suits.

Stafford inspecting pitch, huge, quarried from Northern rock, Climthorpe no chance, raucous cheers. Awful semi-sharp suits.

Words heard from afar in this small-time big-time hothouse of confusion. Tom saying, far away in distant reality, This is the one where they don’t pick the ball up, isn’t it?’ Boring pose of ignorance. Smile smile. Conceal inner confusion almost. Don’t let Climthorpe down, mighty man mascot. Tom again, ‘I’m not a football person.’ Nor am I, Tom. What am I, Tom? ‘Stafford crap.’ This from Adam, aged five. Life goes on.

A drink with the directors. Hold on, Reggie. Do not slide down philosophical banisters. Elizabeth looking worried sensing inner turmoil.

‘I’m glad Clench’s hamstring’s cleared up,’ said surface Reggie.

‘Never doubted it would,’ said surface the Manager of the Climthorpe Branch of the Abbey National Building Society – God bless mammon and all who sleep with her. ‘Not with your luck, Reggie.’

So – teams on pitch, take your seats, check on potted biographies in programme – it wasn’t just Climthorpe that was threatened when Dangle’s appalling back pass led to Stafford’s first goal. It was the power of Reggie Perrin’s influence over events.

Should I pray to God, thought Reggie as a brilliant move made it 2-0 to Stafford in the seventeenth minute. How can I pray to God? I believe that life is a matter of chance. Dame Fortune is a perverse and wilful hag.

Or do I?

Is there – good pass – any such thing as – oh, well saved – Free Will?

Should I, rather than praying to a possibly hypothetical God, cry out, ‘Climthorpe, Climthorpe,
CLIMTHORPE
, Climthorpe!’ to a definitely non-hypothetical Climthorpe. Unless we’re all solipsists – well we can’t all be solipsists – if I’m a solipsist none of them exist – and it makes no difference – you’re rubbish, Fittock, whether you exist or not.

3-0 to Stafford? No. A good save from veteran custodian, Ted Rowntree.

Free will – true or false? Ted Rowntree’s save inevitable, no credit to him? Applause of crowd philosophically naïve?

Another wave of Stafford shirts. Rowntree out of position. Dangle makes amends with goal-line clearance.

Turning point?

A shot from Clench. Weak, and straight at the keeper, but at least it was a shot.

Turning point?

Green and white joy.
FITTOCK
from sixteen yards. 1-2. Good old Fittock.

Half-time. Everybody drained.

Outplayed. Lucky. But only one down.

As the second half began Reggie felt that no result would please him.

If they lost, he would be sad.

If they drew, it would be boring.

If they won, it would seem to be an affirmation of his unwanted influence.

Climthorpe getting on top slowly. Suddenly, two goals in a minute.
PUNT
, after fine work by Clench. Then tit for tat,
CLENCH
, put through by Punt. 68 minutes. 3-2. Uproar. Goodbye, existentialism. Farewell, logical positivism. Hello, football. Stafford in tatters. Should be four. Could be five. Might be six. It isn’t.

Stafford come back. 83rd minute. Great goal. 3-3. Nobody deserves to lose. Great players or fate’s playthings?

88th minute, six man move, Climthorpe inspired,
FITTOCK
scores. 4-3.

We can never know whether we are part of an ordered pattern or whether we are tumbleweed tossed by fate – and it makes no difference.

Mr Tefloe (Redditch) is adding on too much time for injury – and it could make a hell of a difference.

The final whistle. Joy unconfined. Reggie’s excitement deep and primeval. Happy faces. Tom beaming. Elizabeth laughing. Linda laughing. Even Mr Pelham looking pleased.

Shyly, feeling surplus to requirements, visiting the rowdy changing room, sweat, buttocks, bollocks, carbolic and champagne. Smile please.

Dinner at the Climthorpe Park Hotel. Holding on. Hanging tight. Drinking. Eating. Smiling. Laughing. Speeches. Reggie speaks. Audience laughs. Everything for the best in the best of all possible Climthorpes. Clench does a drunken dance and his hamstring goes.

‘Well done, Reggie,’ says the Chairman of the Climthorpe Chamber of Commerce.

It is time, thinks Reggie, for the bubble to burst.

April produced magical days, treacherous days, stormy days, but the bubble did not burst.

Chapter 21

Reggie carried Elizabeth’s suitcases and she carried her hand-luggage. The concrete walls of the short-term car park at London Airport were daubed with welcoming messages like ‘Wogs out’ and ‘Chelsea Shed’.

C.J. was waiting. He had already booked in his luggage. He hadn’t got where he was today without having already booked in his luggage.

Elizabeth went to the bookstall to find something for the plane. She didn’t want to have to talk to C.J.

Reggie and C.J. guarded the luggage. Above their heads the indicator board rattled with information about delays. Facing them, on a circular display rostrum, was a scarlet forklift truck.

‘I want to ask you to promise me something,’ said Reggie.

‘Ask away,’ said C.J. ‘If you don’t ask, you don’t get.’

‘Very true,’ said Reggie. ‘Elizabeth seems rather nervous about this trip. Will you look after her, cherish her, pay her as much attention as you can?’

‘I’ll try,’ said C.J.

They boarded at Gate Fourteen, and Reggie watched the Boeing 727 take off for Amsterdam.

It was Monday evening. They would be away four nights.

Tuesday

‘I am extremely sorry to hear that your supplies of edible furniture have not arrived. This is due to non-arrival of supplies,’ dictated Reggie.

He had spent the evening feeling vaguely lonely in the saloon bar of the Ode and Sonnet, and he had not slept well. Now he felt crumpled.

‘Surely that’s obvious, Mr Perrin?’ said Joan.

‘What’s obvious?’

‘That the supplies haven’t arrived due to non-arrival of supplies.’

‘Exactly. It’s obvious. It’s repetitive. It’s self-explanatory. It’s tautologous. It’s saying the same thing twice in different ways. Shall we continue?’

As he dictated he paced restlessly round his executive cage.

‘I am however astounded to hear that you have not received our new range of dentures for pets, which are proving so popular with bloody idiots who put little dog dentures in glasses of water beside kennels and even budgie dentures beside their silly little pets’ cages. I can only assume that the delivery of this range is having teething troubles. You aren’t taking it down, Joan.’

‘No, Mr Perrin.’

‘I know what you’re thinking. His wife’s away for one day and already he starts going berserk.’

‘You’re getting fed up again, aren’t you?’ said Joan.