The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (76 page)

The incident involving McBlane began when Linda entered the children’s bedroom, to hear Tom saying. They’re a famous Italian film director and an Irish air-line. Now go to sleep.’

‘What are?’ said Linda.

‘Nothing,’ said Tom.

It was eleven fifteen. The children had just sat exhausted and bored through a documentary on the life-cycle of the parasitic worm on BBC 2. In the interests of personal freedom, Tom and Linda had not told them to go to bed. In the interests of personal pride, they had kept their red little eyelids open.

‘Well, come on, Tom,’ said Linda, when they had closed the children’s door behind them. ‘What are a famous Italian film director and an Irish air-line?’

‘Jocasta said that she finds Uncle McBlane’s stories boring,’ said Tom, ‘and Adam asked what fellatio and cunnilingus are.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Reggie, who happened to be passing on his way to bed. ‘I’ll deal with McBlane in the morning.’

Next morning Reggie tackled the unkempt Hibernian genius in his lair. Vegetables covered the kitchen table. Pots and pans lay ready on the Scandinavian-style traditional English fully integrated natural pine and chrome work surfaces.

McBlane was crying. Reggie hoped it might be remorse, but it was only onions. McBlane swept the chopped onions imperiously into a large pan in which butter had melted. One of his boil plasters was hanging loose.

‘Morning, McBlane,’ began Reggie.

McBlane grunted.

‘McBlane, I must have a word with you,’ said Reggie.

McBlane grunted again.

‘I must speak to you frankly,’ said Reggie. ‘Er . . . the salmon mousse yesterday was superb.’

McBlane proved a master at varying his grunts.

‘But,’ said Reggie. ‘Life doesn’t consist of salmon mousse alone. And . . . er . . . the navarin of lamb was also superb.’

McBlane barked an incomprehensible reply.

‘On the other hand,’ said Reggie, ‘the duchesse potatoes were also superb. Incidentally, I understand you’re telling stories to Adam and Jocasta. Thanks. It’s much appreciated.’

‘Flecking ma boots wi’ hae flaggis,’ said McBlane.

‘Quite,’ said Reggie. ‘Point taken. But . . .’

McBlane swivelled round slowly from the stove, and looked Reggie straight in the face. He had a stye above his left eye.

‘But,’ said Reggie, ‘I wouldn’t like you to think that my praise of the potatoes implied any criticism of the choucroute à la hongroise.’

This time there was no mistaking McBlane’s reply.

‘Bloody foreign muck,’ he said.

‘Absolutely,’ said Reggie.

McBlane glowered.

‘I protest,’ said Reggie. ‘The choucroute à la hongroise was delicious.’

McBlane re-glowered.

‘Well, fairly delicious,’ said Reggie. Talking about the stories you’re telling Adam and Jocasta . . . er . . . I hope you’ll remember their age, as it were, and keep them . . . er . . . er if you see what I mean. Point taken?’

McBlane grunted.

‘Jolly good,’ said Reggie.

He walked briskly to the door. Then he turned and faced the dark chef fearlessly.

‘Wonderful rhubarb crumble,’ he said.

Later that day Reggie told Tom, ‘I saw McBlane this morning. I gave him a piece of my mind.’

Reggie accepted much of the blame for the initial failure of his venture. He admitted that he had seriously underestimated the amount of advertising that would be needed. He had been reluctant to cash in on the name that he had made through Perrin Products and Grot. He was reluctant no longer. Soon adverts for Perrins began to appear in national and local newspapers, on underground stations, buses, and hoardings.

Some of the advertisements said simply: ‘Perrins’.

Others were more elaborate.

One read:

Whatever happened to Reginald Perrin?
Remember Grot and its useless products?
Now Perrin rides again.
This time his product is
USEFUL
.
It’s called
HAPPINESS
.
Visit
PERRINS
.
Stay as long as you like.
Pay as little as you like.

Another simply read: ‘Perrins – the only community for the middle-aged and middle class.’

Others stated: ‘Perrins – the In-place for Out-people’, ‘Perrins – where misfits fit’, ‘Are you a backward reader? Then come and be cured at Snirrep’, ‘Lost all faith in experts? Then come to Perrins. Guaranteed no experts in anything’ and ‘Want to drop-out but don’t like drop-outs? At Perrins the drop-outs are just like you. They’re more like drop-ins. Next time you feel like dropping-out, why not drop-in?’

The saturation coverage began on September the first.

The W288 carried the legend ‘Perrins’ past the front door.

McBlane wrapped the remnants of dinner in newspapers that all carried advertisements for Perrins, even though they were as divergent as the
Financial Times
, the
Daily Express
, and the
Botchley and Spraundon Press (Incorporating the Coxwell Gazette
and the remains of twelve lamp chops).

The saturation coverage took effect immediately.

On Monday, September the twelfth the staff swung into action once more.

And this time there wasn’t just one client.

There were two.

Reggie decided to give all the clients an introductory interview before subjecting them to the rigours of a group meeting.

His new study was in Number Twenty-three, to the right of the front door. It had a brown carpet and buff walls. There were two upright chairs and a heavy oak desk. Two pictures of bygone Botchley adorned the walls.

It was a quiet September morning. Autumn was coming in modestly, as if bribed to conceal the ending of the summer that had never begun.

Reggie’s first interviewee was Thruxton Appleby, the textiles tycoon. Thruxton Appleby was a large paunchy man with a domed shiny bald head. His nose was bulbous. His lips were thick and flecked with white foam. His enormous buttocks crashed down politely on to the fragile chair provided. ‘Call this furniture?’ they seemed to cry. ‘We eat chairs like this in Yorkshire.’ Reggie quaked. His whole organization seamed weak and fragile.

‘I read your advert in
Mucklethwaite Morning Telegraph
,’ said Thruxton Appleby. ‘I liked its bare-faced cheek. I admire bare-faced cheek. Are you a Yorkshireman?’

‘No,’ said Reggie. ‘A Londoner.’

‘That’s odd. You don’t often find bare-faced cheek among namby-pamby Southerners.’

His paunch quivered over his private parts like junket in a gale.

‘I’m a textiles tycoon,’ he said. ‘Everything I’m wearing is from my own mills. I don’t usually bother with quacks, crackpots and cranks, but I’ve tried everything. Head-shrinkers, health farms, religion. You’re my last resort.’

‘How flattering,’ said Reggie. ‘What is your problem?’

‘I’m not likeable, Mr Perrin.’

Reggie drew a sheet of paper towards him and wrote, ‘Thinks he isn’t likeable. He’s right.’

Thruxton Appleby leant forward, trying to read what Reggie had written.

‘Professional secret,’ said Reggie, shielding the paper with his hand.

‘I’m not liked for myself, do you see?’ continued Thruxton Appleby. ‘I’ve made Mucklethwaite. I’ve fought a one-man battle against the depredations of Far East imports. You can go in the Thruxton Appleby Memorial Gardens, past the Thruxton Appleby Memorial Band-stand, and look out over the whole of Mucklethwaite to Scrag End Fell, and what are you sat on? The Thruxton Appleby Memorial Seat.’

‘Shouldn’t memorials be for after you’re dead?’ said Reggie.

‘What use is that?’ said Thruxton Appleby. ‘You’re gone then.’

A blue tit was hanging under a branch on the bush outside the window. Thruxton Appleby’s eyebrows rose scornfully. ‘Call that a tit?’ they seemed to say. ‘In Yorkshire we call yon a speck of fluff.’

The blue tit flew away.

‘I expect money to carry all before it,’ said Thruxton Appleby. ‘Cure me of that, and you can name your price.’

Reggie felt that he could do nothing for this man.

‘My first impressions are unfavourable,’ said Thruxton Appleby. ‘Thruxton, I say to myself, tha’s landed up in a tinpot organization, staffed by namby-pamby Southerners. I’ll give it a go while Tuesday. So get on with it, Mr Perrin, and do it quickly. Time is money.’

Thruxton Appleby glanced at his watch, as if to see how rich he was. Reggie wondered what it said. Ten past six hundred thousand pounds?

Stop having silly thoughts, Reggie. Concentrate. Having silly thoughts and not concentrating are symptoms of lack of confidence.

How right you are.

Be confident. Be bold.

Look at him. He’s all wind and piss. Already he’s uneasy because you aren’t speaking and it isn’t what he expects. He’s used to bullying. Bully him in return.

I think you’re right.

Reggie smiled at Thruxton Appleby.

‘Smoke?’ he said.

‘Please.’

‘Filthy habit.’

He wrote ‘smokes’ on the piece of paper.

‘I don’t offer cigarettes,’ he said. ‘Do you like coffee?’

‘Please.’

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Please.’

Takes coffee with milk and sugar,’ Reggie muttered as he made another note. ‘Caught you twice. Thick as well as nasty.’

Thruxton Appleby gasped.

‘What did you say?’ he said.

‘Thick as well as nasty.’

‘I’m not used to being spoken to like that.’

‘Excellent. Why do you think you’re so loathed?’ said Reggie.

‘Not loathed, Mr Perrin. Not even disliked. Just “not liked”. I’m rich, you see.’

‘I can easily cure you of that.’

Reggie shielded the piece of paper with his hand, wrote ‘Nosey Bastard’ on it, and left the room.

He talked briefly with C.J., asking him to interrupt in thirty seconds on a matter of no importance and be dismissive towards Thruxton Appleby.

He returned to the study. Thruxton Appleby didn’t appear to have moved.

‘I don’t think I’m a nosey bastard,’ he said.

Reggie laughed.

‘Come in,’ he said.

‘Nobody knocked.’

‘Give them time. Don’t be so impatient. Come in.’

‘Why do you keep saying “Come in”?’

‘Third time lucky,’ said Reggie. ‘Come in.’

C.J. entered.

‘Is this important?’ said Reggie.

‘No,’ said C.J.

‘Good. Take your time.’

‘I just wondered if you’d heard the weather forecast.’

‘I’ll ring for it,’ said Reggie, lifting the phone and dialling. ‘Excuse me, Mr Dangleby, but this
is
a waste of time.’

He listened, then put the phone down.

‘Yes, C.J., I have now heard the weather forecast,’ he said.

‘Oh good. I’ll be on my way then,’ said C.J.

‘Oh, this is the chemicals tycoon, Throxton Dangleby,’ said Reggie.

‘Textiles,’ said Thruxton Appleby.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Textiles,’ said C.J.

‘Appleby,’ said Thruxton Appleby.

‘You’ve probably heard of the Throxton Ingleby Memorial Hat-Stand,’ said Reggie.

‘Band-stand,’ said Thruxton Appleby.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Dimbleby,’ said C.J., and he closed the door gently behind him.

‘Not very subtle tactics,’ said the unlovely industrialist.

‘For a not very subtle man,’ said Reggie. ‘Now. I can cure you, but it’ll take time. Within a fortnight, you’ll no longer be obnoxious. Irritating and mind-bogglingly boring, but not obnoxious. Within three weeks, you’ll be tolerable in mixed company in medium-sized doses. Within a month, give or take a day or two either way, this is not an exact science, you’ll be likeable.’

‘Thank you,’ said Thruxton Appleby hoarsely.

The bloated capitalist removed his unacceptable face from the study.

The second guest was known to Reggie already. He was Mr Pelham, owner of Pelham’s Piggery, where Reggie had swilled out in the dark days before he had even thought of his Grot shop.

‘You’ve done well for yourself, old son,’ said Mr Pelham.

‘Not bad,’ acknowledged Reggie.

Mr Pelham’s honest. God-fearing, pig-loving face had a grey, uninhabited look. The chair, so puny under attack from Thruxton Appleby’s buttocks, seemed ample now.

‘I always liked you,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘You were different from the other hands. Chalk and cheese, Reg. Chalk and cheese, old son.’

‘Thank you,’ said Reggie.

‘I shouldn’t be talking to you like this,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘You’re the guv’nor now.’

‘Please,’ said Reggie, waving a deprecatory hand.

‘I read your advert for this place, I thought, “That’s the self-same Perrin that swilled out my porkers”.’

Reggie’s heart sank. Why did anyone he knew have to come, and especially so soon? He could do nothing for Mr Pelham. Probably he could do nothing for anybody. He smiled, trying to look encouraging.

‘Well, I am the self-same Perrin,’ he said.

‘You certainly are, old son,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘You certainly are. He’s the man to go to with my problems, I thought.’

‘Tell me about your problems,’ said Reggie.

Mr Pelham told Reggie about his problems. He had diversified since the old days. He had bought the premises of his neighbours, the Climthorpe School of Riding and the old chicken farm that Reggie had called Stalag Hen 59. Pelham’s Piggery had become Associated Meat Products Ltd. He sold pigs, chickens and calves. An abbatoir in Bicester gave him group rates. His daughter never came near him. His son worked in a bank and had espoused vegetarianism. It was more than ten years since his wife had been knocked down by a bus outside Macfisheries. The shop wasn’t even there any more. The nearest branch was at Staines.

‘I’m alone in the world, Reg,’ he said. ‘And there’s blood on my hands.’

‘Aren’t you exaggerating?’ said Reggie.

‘All those chickens in rows, Reg, living in the dark with their beaks cut back. All those calves, deliberately made anaemic so that people can eat white meat. How can people sleep in their beds with all that going on? How can I sleep in my bed?’

Reggie didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

The blue tit returned to the bush outside the window. It clearly didn’t see Mr Pelhan as a threat to its security.