The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (83 page)

The procession hobbled into the church at seven minutes past three.

The organist, in his incredulous relief, made a horrible mess of the first bars of the wedding march.

It was twenty-four minutes past three before Jimmy mouthed the first sentence of the day that even he was unable to shorten.

‘I do,’ he said.

‘I really feel festive now,’ said Elizabeth, as they lay in bed on the morning of Friday, December the twenty-third. ‘Mark’s arriving, CJ.’s leaving, and we’re going to have a white Christmas.’

Mark did arrive, C.J. did leave, but they didn’t have a white Christmas. All day it thawed, slowly at first, then faster, mistily, steamily, nastily. The snow was already losing its sparkle by the time the postman arrived. One of the cards which he delivered contained the heart-warming message ‘Dynamite. Thanks. The computer programmer from Alderley Edge.’ The W288 was churning up waves of brown slush by the time C.J. set off for-Luxembourg. By the time Mark arrived there were great pools of water lying on the snow.

Mark looked well. Africa hadn’t heightened him. He was still five foot seven, but he had filled out and looked even more disconcertingly like a smaller and younger version of Reggie. He kissed Linda affectionately, and was even polite to Tom. That was the trouble. He was too polite. As the evening went gently on its way, it was as if he wasn’t really there at all. Reggie tried hard to venture no criticism of his way of life, and to avoid those awkward phrases like ‘old prune’ which he had always found himself using to his son. They told him about the Perrins set-up. He seemed interested, but not unduly impressed.

Reggie discovered that he desperately wanted him to be impressed.

They told him about ‘Grot’, and the departure in disguise of Reggie and Elizabeth. He seemed interested, but not unduly surprised.

Reggie discovered that he desperately wanted him to be surprised.

McBlane laid on a good dinner. Reggie felt proud of it.

Mark ate well, but made no comment.

Afterwards, the family held a private gathering in Tom and Linda’s bedroom. The new double bed had been folded away, and comfortable armchairs had been moved in for the evening. Tom provided the drinks. There was apple gin, raspberry whisky and fig vodka. Mark praised the drinks politely. Linda took the bull by the horns, and said, ‘Now then, shorthouse, what was all that theatre business in Africa?’

But Mark was not to be drawn on the subject of the group of freelance theatrical mercenaries, dedicated to the incitement of revolutionary fervour through the plays of J. M. Barrie, freely adapted by Idi ‘Post-Imperialist Impression’ Okombe.

Nor did he call Linda ‘fatso’, as in days of yore.

‘Let’s just say it was a phase I went through,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s got to go through their wanting-to-overthrow-the-established-order phase. Anyway, it’s over and done with. I don’t really want to talk about it.’

‘Supposing we do want to talk about it, old prune?’ said Reggie.

Damn! Damn! Damn!

Mark shrugged.

‘Well, this is nice. All together again,’ said Elizabeth too hastily.

‘Another drink, anyone?’ said Reggie. ‘More fig vodka, Mark, or would you prefer to enjoy yourself?’

Mark held out his glass, and Reggie poured a goodly measure of fig vodka. It was extremely pale green.

‘It doesn’t matter if we get a bit olivered tonight,’ he said.

‘Olivered?’ said Mark.

‘Oliver Twist. Pissed,’ said Reggie. ‘You were always coming out with rhyming slang in the old days.’

‘Was I?’ said Mark. ‘I think I must have been going through a solidarity-with-the-working-classes phase. Everybody has to go through their solidarity-with-the-working-classes phase.’

‘Unless they’re working class,’ said Linda.

‘I never did,’ said Tom, pouring himself some of his raspberry whisky as if it was gold dust. ‘I know the working classes are the salt of the earth, but the fact remains, I don’t like them. I’m just not a working class person.’

‘You still haven’t told us what you were doing in Paris,’ said Elizabeth.

‘No,’ said Mark.

‘Oh come on, shorthouse, don’t be infuriating,’ said Linda.

‘I met this film director in Africa,’ said Mark, ‘and he wanted me to make a couple of films in Paris.’

‘How exciting,’ said Elizabeth. ‘When will we see them?’

‘Never, I hope,’ said Mark. ‘They’re blue films. I think I’m going through a reaction-against-my-political-period phase.’

When it was time to go to bed, Elizabeth said that she hoped Mark could stay a long time.

‘Fraid not,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go to Stockholm on the twenty-seventh, I’m making a film there.’

‘Are you still in your blue period?’ said Reggie.

‘Fraid so,’ said Mark. ‘It’s about a randy financier. It’s called “Swedish loss adjustor on the job”.’

In the morning, all traces of snow had gone.

Christmas day was grey, still and silent, as if the weather had gone to spend the holidays with its family.

Elizabeth had to agree that McBlane’s dinner was a good one. As he himself put it, if she understood him aright, ‘There’s none of that foreign muck today’. The turkey was moist and tasty, the home-made cranberry sauce was a poem, and even the humble bread sauce was raised to the level of art by the scabrous Caledonian maestro. If there was any criticism, it was perhaps of a certain native meanness with regard to the monetary contents of the Christmas pudding.

The wine flowed smoothly, the smokeless fuel glowed smokelessly, Mark passed cruets and sauce bowls with unaccustomed assiduousness, David Harris-Jones got hiccups, Linda found a pfennig in her pudding, Prue Harris-Jones got hiccups, Joan told Prue that her togetherness was slipping because her hiccups were out of phase with David’s, Tom informed them that some people were hiccup people and other people were burp people and he was a burp person, Jocasta didn’t cry when she found a shirt button in her pudding, Reggie asked McBlane to join them for the port and stilton, and received an incomprehensible reply, the four guests joined in as best they could, Tony proposed a toast to Absentfriendsville, Arizona, there was speculation about the honeymooning activities of Jimmy and Lettuce, some of it ribald and the rest of it obscene, everyone agreed that the jokes in the crackers were the worst ever, the candles flickered, the grey light of afternoon faded, and the very last, somewhat drunken toast was to the future of Perrins.

And what of those absent friends?

Doc Morrissey was sitting beside a gas fire in a much smaller room in Southall. He was surrounded by his friends. He had consumed a large meal of turkey musalla, with chipolata dhansk, korma bread sauce, sprout gosht and Bombay potatoes, followed by Christmas pudding fritters. His Indian friends were hanging on his every word, and he basked in the glory of their respect and adulation as he told them of his magnificent work at Botchley. He realized that they had journeyed to a far land in order to learn the mystical secrets of life. On that grey afternoon, Southall was Shangri-La, the mysterious Occident, and Doc Morrissey was the guru who would reveal to them the transcendental secrets of metaphysics.

It was some minutes since he’d spoken, and they began their eager questioning again.

The guru was asleep.

C.J. and Mrs C.J. walked peacefully among the Luxembourgeoisie in the grey, still afternoon.

Clearly the weather hadn’t gone to Luxembourg for yuletide.

C.J. held his hands behind his back. Mrs C.J. tried to link arms and failed.

‘Don’t you love me any more, C.J.?’ she said.

‘Of course I do, darling,’ he said.

They walked slowly over the bridge which spans the ravine in Luxembourg City.

C.J. allowed Mrs C.J. to link arms.

‘You’re happy in Luxembourg, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘Of course I am,’ said Mrs C.J.

‘Your friends are nice.’

‘Delightful. But I miss you, C.J.’

‘You seemed happy enough to come here.’

‘Maybe I was, but I’ve grown to miss you.’

They stood, looking out over the ravine.

‘Nice ravine, eh?’ said C.J. ‘I didn’t get where I am today without knowing a nice ravine when I see one.’

‘Don’t change the subject,’ said Mrs C.J.’

‘There isn’t any subject,’ said C.J. ‘So how can I change it? We’re walking in Luxembourg City. We come from a large country, and this is a small country, but I don’t think we should be patronizing on that account. I don’t think we should just barge through, willy-nilly, wrapped up in our problems, ignoring nice ravines. Nice ravines don’t grow on trees, you know. I mean, if we get back to England, and I say, “Nice ravine, that ravine in Luxembourg” and you say, “Which ravine?” and I say “You know. That nice ravine” and you say, “I don’t remember any ravine”, I’m going to look pretty silly. Women don’t always understand the rightness of time and place, my dear, and the time and place to talk about a nice ravine is when you’re looking at it. That’s what marriage is all about. Sharing things. And that includes ravines.’

C.J. gazed at the ravine. The light was fading slowly.

‘That’s the whole point,’ said Mrs C.J. ‘When
am
I going to get back to England? When
am
I going to share you? You don’t want me there, do you? There’s somebody else.’

‘There isn’t anybody else.’

‘Why don’t you want me there then?’

‘Darling, it’s Christmas. Hardly the time to be arguing.’

‘Perhaps it’s the time to be loving, C.J.’

C.J. drew his eyes away from the ravine and smiled earnestly at Mrs C.J.

‘I want to come to Botchley and share your work,’ she said.

‘Botchley’s dull. Suburban.’

‘No ravines?’

‘You’re laughing at me.’

‘I’m trying to get through to you. I’m lonely.’

C.J. put his arm round his wife, and hugged her. Slowly they began to retrace their steps.

‘We lead a monastic life at Perrins,’ said C.J. ‘Celibacy is the order of the day.’

Mrs C.J. looked at him in amazement.

‘But Reggie,’ she said. ‘Tom. David. Tony. I thought they all had their wives with them.’

‘Their wives are there,’ said C.J., ‘but they lead segregated lives. We sleep in dormitories. It’s a strict community. They can stand it. I just couldn’t stand being near you and yet not fully with you. Frustration is the thief of time, and that’s all there is to it.’

Mrs C.J. kissed him.

‘Oh, C.J.,’ she said.

‘Oh, Mrs C.J.,’ he said.

Jimmy and Lettuce had wakened to the growl of thunder and the drumming of heavy rain: Then had come gusty warm winds from the south, driving away the clouds. The wind had fallen away, and there had been hot sun. Now a cool breeze was setting in from the north.

Clearly, all the weather had gone to Malta for its holidays.

Jimmy and Lettuce looked out over the ruffled, dark blue surface of the Mediterranean from the terrace of their hotel restaurant.

‘Happy?’ said Jimmy.

‘Happy.’

‘Stout girl. Bus ride tomorrow?’

‘We had a bus ride yesterday.’

‘Aren’t rationed. Different bus, different ride.’

‘I don’t know if I’ll feel like a bus ride tomorrow.’

‘Fair enough. Nice bus ride yesterday?’

‘Yes.’

‘Interesting ticket system they have.’

‘It seemed much like ticket systems everywhere.’

‘To the uninitiated. Top hole hotel?’

‘Lovely.’

‘Al grub?’

‘Yes.’

‘Everything up to expectation in marital rights department?’

‘Lovely. Don’t worry, Jimmy!’

‘Bus ride Tuesday?’

‘Must we make plans, Jimmy?’

‘No. Course not. Honeymoon. Liberty Hall. You’re right. Good scout. Bus ride not out of the question, then?’

‘This interest in buses has come as a bit of a surprise, Jimmy.’

‘Always been a bit of a bus wallah on the QT. If not Tuesday, maybe Wednesday.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t like bus rides, do you?’

‘I just don’t want to make plans.’

‘Wonder if there’ll be normal schedules tomorrow. Don’t know if Maltese have Boxing Day as we know it. Ask at desk.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Interesting. Little titbits, foreign ways. Nervous, Lettuce. Know why?’

‘No.’

‘Happy. Admit it, cold feet. Probably guessed it, not turning up at church. One failed marriage. Don’t want another. So happy now. Insecure. Don’t want to lose it.’

‘Oh, Jimmy.’

‘See that kraut, table in corner, big conk. At bus station Friday morning.’

‘I didn’t know you went to the bus station on Friday morning.’

‘Just popped in. Asked the cove there if they have any equivalent of a Red Rover. Didn’t understand what I was on about.’

Mark left on Boxing Day as he had things to do before he went to Stockholm.

In bed that night, Reggie and Elizabeth were in pensive vein.

‘I wonder how Jimmy and Lettuce have got on,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Very well,’ said Reggie. ‘Jimmy’s so much more relaxed since we started the community.’

‘I wonder how C.J. and Mrs C.J. have got on.’

‘Very well. CJ.’s so much kinder since we started the community.’

Elizabeth pressed the soles of her feet against the top of Reggie’s feet.

‘Poor Mark,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘We seem to have lost him in a way.’

‘I know.’

‘He’s gone away from us.’

‘Maybe it’s we who’ve gone away from him. The community’s our whole life now, my darling. Christmas has just been an interlude, that’s all. Our life has been suspended.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘No. But it’s just as well the community’s such a success.’

‘Is it really such a success, Reggie?’

‘Of course it is, darling. A tremendous success. What’s happened so far is just a start. The best days lie ahead.’

6
The Best Days

January began quietly. Winter flirted with Botchley. There was snow that didn’t settle, rain that didn’t last, sun that didn’t warm. The number of guests at Perrins increased steadily. There was an article about the community in a national newspaper. It was inevitable, since journalists read each other’s papers, that the article would be followed by others. It was inevitable, since the bulk of television’s magazine programmes are made up of ideas taken from the newspapers, that Reggie should appear on television. It was inevitable, given the nature of Reggie Perrin’s life, that the interviewer should be Colin Pillock.