The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (87 page)

Paul Pewsey stared at Reggie in astonishment.

So did Reggie.

‘Go on,’ said Paul Pewsey. ‘I love it.’

The arrival of Paul Pewsey was quickly followed by that of Clarissa Spindle, the designer, Loopy Jones-Rigswell, the playboy, Venetia Devenport, the model, and Byron ‘Two breakdowns a year’ Broadsworth, the
avant-garde
impresario.

In the wake of the newspaper articles and the television appearance, Perrins was becoming fashionable.

Hastily, Reggie widened the scope of his adverts. He inserted an advertisement in the programmes of twenty football league clubs. It concluded with the words, ‘Yobbos accepted. Party rates for mindless louts.’

In the
Daily Gleaner
he proudly announced, ‘Nig-nogs welcome’.

In the
Daily Gunge
he declared, ‘Illiterate pigs warmly invited. Get someone who can write to apply to 21, Oslo Avenue, Botchley’.

Confidence was high at this time.

Even C.J. was throwing himself into the spirit of things. In the evenings, it was true, he preferred to remain in his room but by day he had become a fount of strength.

One day Reggie accompanied him on his commuting trip to London with a small band of guests.

‘I have an idea,’ Reggie said, as they assembled in the surprisingly spacious Genuine Hall of Number Twenty-one. ‘You will never know, and need never see again, the other people in the compartment. So it’s ridiculous to worry what they’re thinking of you. Self-consciousness is the truly British disease, not bronchitis, homosexuality or tea breaks. Today we will overcome this self-consciousness. The conversation on the train will be utterly ridiculous. But I won’t say any more. This is your show, C.J,’

‘Thank you, Reggie,’ said C.J. ‘Our bodies are enclosed in conventional clothes. We carry conventional briefcases and umbrellas. But our minds are as free as air. They can swoop on ideas like swallows on flies. They can soar to flights of invention like a buzzard over the mountains.’

‘Well put, C.J.,’ said Reggie.

They set off down Oslo Avenue, six conventional commuters. The wind was razor sharp. They turned left into Bonn Close. They turned right into Ankara Grove. They walked down the snicket to Botchley Station. They waited for the eight fifty-two.

‘May I suggest a simple device today, to get it off the ground?’ said C.J.

‘Please do,’ said Reggie.

‘We put urgle on the ends of words,’ said C.J.

‘Good thinking,’ said Reggie.

‘Thank yurgle,’ said C.J.

Reggie couldn’t hide his look of astonishment. C.J. smiled in return, acknowledging how extraordinary his transformation had become. Was this transformation genuine, or was C.J. playing a game, or simply earning his salary? Or all of these things? There was no clue on his face.

At three minutes past nine, the long dirty blue snake that was the eight fifty-two slid noisily into Platform One. The train was crowded, and they all had to stand.

The conversation began.

‘Eleven minutes lurgle.’

‘Typicurgle.’

‘Blurgle Southern regurgle.’

‘Derailed rolling sturgle at Wimbledurgle, I belurgle.’

‘Not a bad mornurgle.’

‘Nurgle.’

‘Not at all burgle.’

‘Bit curgle.’

‘Yurgle.’

‘Looks like rurgle.’

‘Or even snurgle.’

‘I didn’t gurgle where I am todurgle withurgle recognurgle a mornurgle that lurgle like snurgle.’

‘Did it make you feel better?’ Reggie asked at Waterloo.

‘Definurgle,’ came the chorus.

‘You can stop now, for God’s sake,’ said Reggie.

Every morning after that, C.J. led his clients down Oslo Avenue.

Every morning, they turned left into Bonn Close.

Every morning, they turned right into Ankara Grove.

Every morning, they went down the snicket to Botchley Station.

Every morning, they caught the eight fifty-two.

Every morning, it was eleven minutes late.

Every morning, C.J. and the clients were dressed exactly like all the other commuters.

Every morning, they held absolutely ridiculous conversations, and proved that in spirit they had freed themselves from convention and conformity.

Every morning they all got seats.

Towards the end of February the coquettish snow storms gave way to the real thing. A fierce depression in the North Sea pulled the cold winds from the steppes. The winds roared far to the North of Britain, and were sucked back by the deepening cyclone. On the biting north-westerlies came the snow.

A faint sun was still shining over Botchley when the first reports of blocked roads came through on McBlane’s radio, blaring away in the steaming kitchen as he scraped Belgian salsify with fierce disdain.

Soon the first flakes were falling in Oslo Avenue. By now there were so many road works reports that there was hardly time for any records at all, but in other ways the snow was harmful. By morning there were sixteen inches of level snow, and drifts up to seven feet at the exposed end of Lisbon Crescent. No trains ran from Botchley Station. No further council officials came to inquire into the strange goings-on at Perrins. The guests’ cars were hidden beneath the drifts.

Jimmy speedily arranged snow-clearing sorties. Systematic checks were made in the poorer parts of Botchley for old people freezing slowly to death in badly heated houses. Doctors were informed and proved not to be interested.

A survey printed in newspapers that were never delivered because of the drifts showed that Britain came seventeenth in the world snow-clearing league, behind Yugoslavia and Peru. There was ice in Ramsgate Harbour. Trains were stranded in the Highlands of Scotland and in Devon. All down the stern backbone of England, early lambs froze to death, and vets both shy and extrovert were stranded. Charms of goldfinches starved within sight of the oast houses of Kent.

But in Numbers Seventeen to Twenty-five, Oslo Avenue, everything was cosy. People poured out their problems to Doc Morrissey. They tried to tell David Harris-Jones about their sex lives. They formed barber shop quartets with Joan, boxed against themselves with Tom, enacted the great love scenes of literature with Tony, weaved baskets with Prue, and made snowmen with Linda.

‘Pure art!’ said Byron ‘Two breakdowns a year’ Broad-sword, shaping his snowman excitedly, ‘because totally ephemeral.’

In the evenings they helped McBlane prepare his superb food, they ate McBlane’s superb food, they helped to wash up McBlane’s superb food. And then they sat and talked as the smokeless fuel crackled. They shared cigarettes and bowls of Tom’s loganberry brandy and prune rum. Every now and then, as if moved by some spontaneous force, they would all touch and embrace each other. Occasionally someone would strum a guitar, and a middle management shanty, or an import/export protest song would shake the rafters. From time to time a couple would drift off, make love and drift back in again. Yarns were exchanged, beautiful experiences related.

Slowly, the thaw came. A few guests left, to return to the outside world stronger and better than when they had come. Sincere were the thanks and generous the cheques. Typical of the tributes was one paid by a leading light in the Confederation of British Industry.

‘When I came here, Perrin, I was dying,’ he said. ‘I was dying of a serious social disease. Complacency, Perrin. Terminal complacency.’

He puffed long and gently on his pipe as he made out his generous cheque.

‘I’m not complacent any more,’ he said. ‘I’m a wiser, better, kinder, happier man. I’m honest with myself at last.’

These were the good times.

The centre of the little town was pulsating with life.

The light was fading, and the street lamps were on.

Shop windows were ablaze with light.

Reggie walked slowly down the long main street, lined with cheery buildings from many centuries.

A butcher handed an old age pensioner a lamb chop and refused payment.

A kindly young property developer trudged happily from house to house, seeking the views of the residents on what they would like to see done to the pretty little town of which they were so proud.

Six youths in the colours of Chelsea Football Club ran down the main street, chanting, ‘Be fair to the Somalis. Bring peace to the Ogaden.’

The dignified man sitting outside the Bull and Flag smiled at them. They smiled back.

Strapped to the dignified man’s chest was a board, on which was written, in a strong, elegant hand, ‘Successful merchant banker. Please take generously.’

In front of the merchant banker was a bowler hat. It was half full of coins.

Every now and then a poorer member of the community bent down and took a coin. The merchant banker smiled.

Down the street in the opposite direction from the Chelsea fans came a swarm of Tottenham supporters. They were cleaning the windows of all the shops as they passed.

‘What’s the score, young man?’ called out the merchant banker to the leading youngster.

‘We lost six-five, didn’t we, old timer,’ said the Tottenham supporter, and a cheer rose from the whole ragged assembly.

Reggie opened his eyes and found Elizabeth watching him with interest.

‘You had a smile like a Cheshire cat,’ she said.

‘I was dreaming,’ he said.

He stretched and yawned.

‘Monday morning,’ he said. ‘Another week’s work.’

He leapt out of bed and pulled back the curtains.

It was not yet quite sunrise, and the garden looked bare in the cold light of dawn.

Yet Reggie didn’t feel cold.

The last of the snow had gone, and the first snowdrops were out. Soon the crocuses would come, then the daffodils. Spring was on the way.

Reality looked as beautiful as Reggie’s dream.

Five guests began that Monday morning. They included the first yobbo, the first nig-nog, and a man who had crossed the path of Reginald Iolanthe Perrin before.

The first guest had a wet mouth and spoke very fast.

‘I’m a philosopher,’ he told Reggie, sitting on his chair so lightly that he gave the impression of balancing just above it. ‘I believe that the art of philosophy is vital for mankind’s survival. Politicians are finished,’ he said. ‘Such battles as they were ever equipped to fight have been won, even if the victories have been Pyrrhic.’

He laughed, and crossed his legs so violently that he almost fell off the chair.

‘The relationship of politicians to the nation has become as that of top management to an industrial concern,’ he said. ‘They deal largely with economic management, not political principle. It’s as inappropriate to elect politicians as to elect the top management of ICI.’

He flung his arms in the air with such force that his chair almost toppled backwards.

‘The questions asked in the political arena today are “how” questions – “How do we manage our society?”, not “what” questions – “What kind of society do we want?”,’ he continued. ‘“How do we achieve continued growth?” rather than “Is continued growth desirable?” I believe, incidentally, that it is not, since the world’s resources are finite, but it can’t be abandoned without a fundamental change in our philosophy. So, I believe we must ask “what” questions instead of “how” questions. But how? Aha! Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘One suggestion. Have philosophical elections instead of political elections.’

Reggie smiled.

‘There now follows a party philosophical broadcast on behalf of the logical positivist party,’ he said. ‘This programme is also being broadcast on BBC2 and ITV.’

‘Precisely. Totally unrealistic, of course, like everything worth striving for, because once you have something, by definition you can’t strive for it. “I plan an expedition to Samarkand.” “This is Samarkand.” “Blast, that’s scuppered that, then.”’

‘It’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive,’ said Reggie.

The philosopher looked at Reggie as if seeing him for the first time.

‘Yes! Awfully well put, if I may say so,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

Suddenly the philosopher slumped dejectedly. All the energy went out of him.

‘I’ve arrived,’ he said.

‘What at?’ said Reggie, concerned at the abrupt change in his guest’s manner.

‘Everything,’ said the philosopher mournfully. ‘I’ve solved all the problems of ethics, mathematics, logic and linguistics, all of them.’

‘The whole lot?’

‘The whole bang shoot. It’s no use pretending I haven’t. It’d be like crying, “Eureka, but mum’s the word”.’

‘Or “I won’t climb Everest, because it isn’t there”,’ said Reggie.

‘No, that’s different,’ said the philosopher.

‘Just testing,’ said Reggie. ‘What are your solutions?’

‘I can’t reveal a word of it,’ said the philosopher. He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve had threats.’

‘Threats?’

‘The existentialist mob. The linguistic boys. The logical positivist mafia. I’ve been getting anonymous letters, heavy arguing on the phone, pseudo-jocular messages.’

He handed a sheet of writing paper to Reggie. A message had been glued on to it in letters of assorted sizes. ‘I think, therefore I am going to duff you up,’ it said.

The philosopher nodded.

‘I wouldn’t have told anyone,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t. It would have put every other philosopher out of work. It would have taken away the purpose of life. In finding the purpose of life, one destroys it. They didn’t need to threaten me.’

Was this man genuine? Was he a phoney? Was he mad? Could his tale possibly be true?

There was no way of telling.

He wanted to say something brilliant.

‘Well, well!’ he said.

‘Help me, Mr Perrin,’ said the philosopher.

The yobbo entered the room awkwardly, shyly, nervously, arrogantly, defiantly, and plonked his eloquent body on the chair.

‘Bleeding sub-human cunt, aren’t I?’ he said.

‘Are you?’ said Reggie. ‘Well … er … hello.’

‘Glenn Higgins. I’m a yobbo.’

‘Are you?’

‘Course I am. I’m a bleeding mindless lout. That bloke you’ve just had in here. Naffing philosopher, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Philosophers don’t stab the bleeding opposition with knives and break all the windows in their coaches, do they?’