The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (8 page)

He could smell a dead bird in the loft, but he felt a revulsion at the thought of touching it, maggots and all, or even at feeling its shape through a newspaper as he cleared it up.

He came across a handsome mounted photo of the Ruttingstagg College Small-Bore Rifle Team – Spring 1942. Five close-cropped idiots. Standing (1. to r.): Reynolds, L.F.R.; Perrin, R.I.; Seated: Campbell-Lewiston, D.J.; Machin, A.M. (Capt.); Campbell-Lewiston, EX.

There was a list of all the engine numbers seen on a magical journey from King’s Cross to Edinburgh, in the carefree days of 1936. A cricket scorebook full of matches played with dice, in the steamy jungle of his bedroom, in the sticky days, the painful idyllic days of adolescence. England v. R.I. Perrin’s XI. Australia v. Golden Lodge Preparatory School. England against a team of all the girls Reggie had secret crushes on. Now he would burn all memories of those long hours of self -absorption, which had so worried his parents. Cricket and masturbation had been his only interests, sometimes separately, sometimes together.

At Ruttingstagg College, in Nansen House, in Lower Middle Dorm, during the Clogger Term, the other boys had listened to him talking in his sleep.

‘He bowls to Perrin. Perrin drives. Six. England 186 for 8. Perrin 161 not out,’ and then someone would throw a dead thrush at him, and he would wake up.

Moonlight streaming in through the curtainless windows of the bare wooden dormitory. Convoys on the main road. Owls hooting. Beds creaking. Wakeful hours. Now, thousands of dead thrushes later, Reggie collected together other items from the secret archives of the loft. Some of them he would show to Mark. All of them he would burn.

He climbed cautiously down the ladder, clutching his mementos. His spell in the loft had calmed him. The rain, beating ineffectually on the roof, had soothed him. He felt ashamed of his anger with Mark.

They sat deep in their armchairs, sipping tea and eating buttered toast. The thunder was moving away to the north.

Reggie wanted to say, ‘Mark, I love you. If I have resented you, it’s because I saw in you too much that reminded me of myself. We are angry with our children for making the same mistakes as we did, partly because we have an illogical feeling that they ought to have learnt from our mistakes, and partly because they remind us of our own enormous capacity for folly. Forgive me, my son.’

What he actually said was, ‘The rain’s almost stopped.’

‘Yeah,’ said Mark.

‘I’ve never told you this – eat some more toast, there’s a good chap – but you know how angry I was when you were expelled from Ruttingstagg? The fact is, I was expelled too.’

‘I know,’ said Mark.

‘What?’

Reggie stood up, a little annoyed to find that his revelation was not a revelation.

‘One of the cruds told me,’ said Mark.

‘Which one?’

‘Slimy Penfold.’

‘I hated Slimy Penfold. Now I don’t hate anyone.’

Reggie stood with his back to the brick fireplace, warming his backside on the memory of winter fires. Behind him were the white cottages of an Algarve village. In front of him was his son.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew?’ he said.

‘I was ashamed,’ said Mark. ‘I was more ashamed of you being expelled than me.’

‘I hated Ruttingstagg,’ said Reggie.

‘Then why the bloody hell did you send me there, you great soft berk?’

Reggie smiled indulgently at his son’s choice of words, and since he couldn’t answer the question he sat beside Mark on the settee, and patted his knee twice.

‘I’ve been sorting out some old souvenirs and things,’ he said. He put the mementos on the Danish coffee table, half of which he had given Elizabeth for Christmas, she having given him the other half. He could smell Mark’s feet.

‘Here are some pictures of our wedding,’ he said.

‘Let’s have a gander then.’

‘That’s old Uncle Charlie Willoughby, standing next to Grandpa Tonbridge.’

‘Who’s the loonie standing beside Granny Exeter?’

That’s the best man. Acting Lance Corporal Sprockett.’

‘And who’s the geyser with the boozer’s conk?’

‘That’s Uncle Percy Spillinger. Grandpa Tonbridge’s brother. You met him when you were a boy. We don’t see him these days.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’s frowned upon. He made a lot of money without doing a day’s work, he enjoys spending it, he drinks and he says what he thinks. I like him. He must be nearly eighty now. Why the hell haven’t I seen him for twenty years? It’s ridiculous.’

Reggie poured another cup of tea. The rain had stopped.

‘It doesn’t look a very happy wedding,’ said Mark.

‘It wasn’t,’ said Reggie. ‘The in-laws didn’t approve of me, because I wasn’t an officer or a war-hero. I was terrified they’d find out that I’d been expelled from Ruttingstagg. It was very difficult to get to Tonbridge, because all the cars had been laid up for the duration and the station was marked “Inverness” to confuse the Germans. It confused the guests all right. Acting Lance Corporal Sprockett had to stand on the platform with a loud-hailer and a carnation in his buttonhole shouting “Change here for Paddock Wood, Headcorn, Ashford, Folkestone and the Perrin-Anderson wedding.” We ferried everyone to the church in a ten ton truck.’

‘Poor dad.’

‘The reception was in an incredibly draughty hotel. There were dried egg sandwiches, snoek canapes and whalemeat bridge rolls. The Andersons had pooled their ration books to get the ingredients for the cake. Grandpa Tonbridge had a face about eight miles long. Auntie Katie Willoughby made rude remarks about Uncle Percy Spillinger’s war effort, Acting Lance Corporal Sprockett made a terrible speech, I had a nose bleed, and then suddenly we heard a doodlebug. Its engine cut out.’

‘Christ!’

‘We all lay on the floor. I held your mother’s hand. The doodlebug fell on the British Restaurant two hundred yards away. All the hotel’s windows were blown out and the cake collapsed.’

‘God.’

‘Well actually that seemed to break the ice.’

‘And the icing.’

‘Very good. After that it was all quite fun. They picked up Uncle Percy Spillinger two days later in Tenterden, playing bagpipes at the top of the church tower and singing “Scotland the Brave”.’

There was a long silence. Neither of them liked to say anything, for fear it would break the mood.

‘Would you like a beer, old carthorse?’ Reggie said at length.

‘I’d love one.’

Reggie poured a couple of beers, while the gloom of the storm began to lift. It was the hour of religious programmes on television.

There were pictures of Reggie with his parents. His father, the bank inspector, pointing at something in every picture. His mother, the bank inspector’s wife, always looking in the direction in which his father was pointing. His father died of a bullet through the head and his mother died of not having any interests in life except his father.

There was a picture of a very young and handsome Jimmy, on Littlehampton beach, and a snapshot of Reggie and Nigel at Chilhampton Ambo, grinning fit to bust, no doubt dreaming of Angela Borrowdale’s riding breeches.

Reggie wanted to say, ‘This is nice, old parsnip, sitting here together, just the two of us,’ but he was afraid that if he said it it would cease to be nice.

He picked up his next memento. It was an empty box. Then the doorbell rang. Damn. Damn. Damn.

It was Major James Anderson, of the Queen’s Own Berkshire Light Infantry, no longer so young and handsome.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Jimmy. ‘Fact is, bit of a cock-up. Forgot the blasted food.’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Got home. Hungry family. No chow. In the doghouse. Came back quick as I could.’

‘Mark and I have been having a beer. Will you join us?’

‘Fact is, Reggie, ought to get straight back. Well, just a quick one, if you insist.’

Reggie led Jimmy back into the living room, and poured out another beer.

‘Well, Mark,’ said Jimmy. ‘How are things on the drama front?’

‘Not too bad, Uncle Jimmy.’

‘All the world’s a stage, eh?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Jolly good.’

Jimmy lolled to attention in the brown Parker Knoll chair, and took a long draught of his beer.

‘I was just showing Mark some of the things I found in the box room,’ said Reggie.

‘Carry on. Don’t mind me. Going in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,’ said Jimmy.

Reggie handed round the empty box.

‘This is an empty box of Nurse Mildew’s Instant Wart Eradicator,’ he said.

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ said Mark.

‘I once had twenty-five warts. Nothing cured them. All remedies failed,’ said Reggie.

‘Awkward wallahs, warts,’ said Jimmy. ‘Get one, before you can say “Jack Robinson”, covered in the blighters.’

‘Then someone recommended this stuff,’ said Reggie. ‘Within a week, no warts. I haven’t had a wart since.’

‘There was a ring at the door. It was Tom.

‘Hullo, Tom, what can I do you for?’

‘I just called round to – to call round,’ said Tom.

‘I’m perfectly all right.’

‘Of course you are. Linda just thought we rushed off rather, so one of us would look after the children and the other one would pop over and see if you wanted company. We tossed for it.’

‘And you lost?’

‘Yes. No, I won. So here I am.’

‘Well, come on in. Jimmy’s here, and Mark.’

‘Oh well, if you’re . . .’

‘No, come and have a drink now you’re here.’

Tom sat on the settee, beside Mark, much to Reggie’s annoyance.

‘Beer, Tom?’

‘No, thanks. I only drink draught. Bottled stuff’s all gas and gaiters.’

‘Does blow you up, bottled beer,’ said Jimmy.

‘Another one, Jimmy?’

‘Please.’

Reggie gave Tom a glass of wine and Jimmy a beer.

‘Kids in bed?’ said Mark.

‘No. Jocasta rather likes
Late-Night Line-Up.’

‘I was just showing Jimmy and Mark some of my souvenirs,’ said Reggie.

He handed round a small stuffed trout in a glass case.

‘This is the only fish I’ve ever caught. It’s a trout. I caught it at my boss’s place on the River Test.’

The stuffed trout was passed from hand to hand.

‘Interesting,’ said Jimmy politely.

‘I eat a lot of fish,’ said Tom. ‘I’m a fish person.’

A shaft of uncertain sunlight lit up the room. Reggie handed round a notebook full of figures.

This is a list of all the engine numbers I saw during August 1936,’ he said.

‘Interesting,’ said Jimmy.

‘M’m,’ said Tom.

Mark gave his father a puzzled look.

‘You certainly saw a lot of engines,’ said Jimmy.

‘I saw every one of the streamlined engines designed by Sir Nigel Gresley,’ said Reggie.

‘I pity these train spotters today,’ said Jimmy. ‘All these diesels. Nothing to it.’

This is an old cricket scorebook,’ said Reggie. ‘I used to play cricket matches with dice. Listen to this one. It’s England v. My Girls.’

‘Your Girls? Who were they?’ said Jimmy.

‘They were all the girls I’d got a crush on. I must have been about fourteen. England batted first and made 188 all out. Leyland got 67. Danielle Darrieux took 4 for 29. Here’s the girls’ reply:

The scorebook was passed from hand to hand. Reggie felt calm, at peace. His legs were no longer exceptionally heavy. His body no longer ached.

‘I hated cricket,’ said Tom. ‘I didn’t get the point of it.’

‘Pity the tall girl on the 8.21 didn’t get her ton,’ said Jimmy. ‘Might have done, if Violet Bonham Carter hadn’t hit two sixes off successive balls.’

Mark handed the scorebook back to his father without comment.

‘Very interesting souvenirs,’ said Jimmy politely. ‘Nice to keep a few mementos.’

‘I’m going to burn them all,’ said Reggie.

Jimmy stood up smartly.

‘Well, better be off,’ he said. ‘Tempus is fooging away.’

‘Don’t you want that food?’ said Reggie.

‘By jove, yes! Nearly forgot,’ said Jimmy.

Reggie and Jimmy went into the kitchen.

‘There are some eggs, a little cold pork, some Danish salami, a lemon mousse, some rhubarb tart, half a loaf, bacon, butter and some odd salady bits. What would you like?’ said Reggie.

‘That’ll do fine,’ said Jimmy.

Reggie packed the food into two carrier bags and handed them to Jimmy.

‘That’ll keep the wolf from the door,’ said Jimmy.

Jimmy offered Mark a lift to the station, and this was accepted.

‘Cheerio Tom,’ said Mark. ‘Look after me water.’

‘Water?’

‘Water blister, sister.’

Reggie slipped Mark an extra fiver and said, ‘Take care, old thing.’

‘Toodle-oo, Reggie,’ said Jimmy. Thanks for the nosh. Don’t work too hard. Don’t want you suddenly kicking the bucket on us.’

There were great pools of water lying in the gutter, but the pavements had dried. Jimmy drove rapidly.

Think your father’s overdoing it a bit,’ he said. ‘Mentioned it, tactfully as I could. Fancy the thrust got home.’

As he pulled up in a large puddle in the station forecourt, Jimmy sent a spurt of water over three schoolgirls and a quantity surveyor.