The Reginald Perrin Omnibus

by David Nobbs

  C.J. sat still for a moment, trying to work out whether David Harris-Jones’s proverb made sense or not. Reggie poured gin into everyone’s glasses, regardless of what they had been drinking before.

  Uncle Percy Spillinger moved closer towards Davina on the sofa.

  ‘Am I a wicked old man?’ he said.

  ‘You’re a darling,’ said Davina. ‘You’re lovely. Everything’s lovely. This is a lovely house. Isn’t it a lovely house, C.J.? But then I suppose you’ve got an even lovelier house. But Reggie’s house is very lovely.’ She leant across towards the Parker Knoll chair and said in a loud whisper to Mrs C.J., ‘C.J. doesn’t like women in industry. He thinks they talk too much.’

  ‘Do you like old beans, old bean?’ said David Harris-Jones, and he roared with laughter.

  ‘Your lips remind me of the sixth Mrs Spillinger,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

  ‘How many wives have you had?’ said Davina.

  ‘Five,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

  Davina kissed Uncle Percy Spillinger on the forehead.

  ‘You’re a darling,’ she said.

  ‘Hey, don’t I get a kiss?’ said David Harris-Jones.

  Davina kissed David Harris-Jones, who was sitting on the piano stool.

  ‘You needn’t kiss C.J.,’ said Mrs C.J. ‘No doubt you’ve done that often enough already.’

  ‘Kate!’ said C.J. ‘My wife finds company difficult,’ he explained.

  ‘We must be off,’ said Linda.

  ‘Me too,’ said Davina. ‘I could eat a horse.’

  ‘I had horse once,’ said Tom. ‘It was surprisingly good. Marinade it in wine and coriander seeds, then . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Tom,’ said Linda.

  David Harris-Jones fell off the piano stool and lay motionless on the carpet.

  ‘Your kiss upset him, my dear,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

  ‘My kiss? Why?’

  ‘Wrong sex. He’s a nancy-boy. A/c-D/c. He reminds me of a purser I knew on the Portsmouth-Gosport ferry. Wore coloured pants.’

  ‘They don’t have pursers on the Portsmouth-Gosport ferry,’ said C.J.

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that, but he wore coloured pants. I bet you £50 he’s wearing coloured pants,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

  ‘You’re on,’ said C.J. ‘Ladies, avert your eyes.’

  He laid David Harris-Jones down on the settee. C.J. undid David Harris-Jones’s zip and opened his trousers. The male members of the party watched as C.J. pulled David HarrisJones’s trousers down.

  ‘They’re not exactly coloured,’ said C.J.

  They’re not exactly plain, though, are they?’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

  David Harris-Jones’s underpants were plain white, but they were embroidered with the face, in blue cotton, of Ludwig van Beethoven.

  The bet is null and void,’ said C.J.

  ‘I agree,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

  Take me home, Tom,’ said Linda.

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Reggie. ‘I think I’d better tell you why there was no food. It’s because we’re all greedy. There’s not enough food in the world yet we all have dinner parties, Tom talks of nothing but food, it’s about time something was done about it. You would have had paté, red mullet, fillet steak, lemon meringue pie and cheese. Instead I’m sending the money to Oxfam. Here’s my cheque for £20. You would all have to invite us back, so instead you can all write out cheques for Oxfam as well.’

  C.J. drove slowly, because he knew he had had too much to drink.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘What use is that to Oxfam? We could have had a damned good dinner and sent twice as much to Oxfam.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t have done,’ said Mrs C.J.

  ‘Your remark about the Letts-Wilkinson was inexcusable,’ said C.J. There’s absolutely no excuse for saying something as inexcusable as that.’

  His engine hummed expensively. His headlights emphasized the mystery of woods and hedgerows. But C.J. had no eyes for mystery.

  ‘I don’t know what’s come over you these days,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you?’ said Mrs C.J.

  ‘No, I do not,’ said C.J.

  Then it’s about time you did,’ said Mrs C.J.

  C.J. pulled up with a squeal of brakes.

  ‘Get this straight,’ he said. ‘Make a public exhibition of yourself at home if you must, but not in public. I cannot afford to have you letting the side down. I didn’t get where I am today by having you let the side down.’

  ‘Where are you today?’ said Mrs C.J. scornfully.

  Tom drove slowly, because he knew he had had too much to drink.

  ‘I’m worried about your father,’ he said.

  ‘Well don’t you think I am?’ said Linda.

  A tawny owl flew across the road.

  ‘Tawny owl,’ said Tom. ‘Did you see the tawny owl?’

  ‘Bugger the tawny owl,’ said Linda.

  Tom drove on in silence. A stoat ran in front of the car, but he refrained from comment.

  ‘Why did you tell me to shut up?’ said Tom.

  ‘You were being a bore.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re a boredom person, Tom.’

  Tom ground his teeth and drove slower still to annoy Linda, but he said nothing. He had an ideal marriage, and he wasn’t going to let his own wife spoil it.

  Davina Letts-Wilkinson shared Uncle Percy Spillinger’s hired car, at Uncle Percy Spillinger’s insistence.

  ‘To Abinger Hammer, by way of Putney Heath,’ he said.

  ‘Cost you, guv,’ said the driver.

  ‘Expense is no object,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. He put his right hand on Davina’s left knee, in the dark privacy of the back seat. They were going fast, along a dual carriageway.

  ‘When I said you had lips like the sixth Mrs Spillinger, I was proposing marriage,’ he said, and the driver swerved suddenly into the middle lane, causing an outburst of hooting from behind.

  ‘I know,’ said Davina.

  ‘I know I’m not an ideal catch,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘I’m eighty-one. For all I know I may not be capable.’

  The driver swerved again and almost hit the central reservation.

  ‘We have to face these things,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. The spirit is willing but the flesh is an unknown quantity.’

  The driver had moved over to the slow lane. Now he turned left and pulled up in a side road.

  ‘Do us a favour,’ he said. ‘Finish your conversation before I drive on. I can’t concentrate.’

  These are intimate matters, not for your ears,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

  ‘I can’t help hearing if you shout.’

  ‘I’m slightly deaf,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘It comes to us all.’

  ‘Cor blimey, all right, I’ll go for a flaming walk,’ said the driver, and he got out of the car and began walking up and down the pavement.

  Davina kissed Uncle Percy Spillinger on the lips.

  ‘I’ll give you my answer in the morning,’ she said. ‘I’ve had too much to drink tonight.’

  ‘There is one thing,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘It’s only fair to mention it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not every woman wants to be buried at Ponders End.’

  ‘Ponders End?’

  ‘All my wives are buried at Ponders End.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But I won’t insist on that, if you insist I don’t. There’s got to be give and take in marriage.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘You do like me a little bit, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re a darling.’

  ‘We’d better get that driver chappie in before he gets pneumonia.’ He wound down the window and shouted out, ‘Driver!’

  The driver got in the car and slammed the door.

  ‘Lead on, Macduff,’ said Uncle Percy Sp
illinger.

  ‘I’m not Macduff. I’m Carter,’ said the driver.

  ‘I spoke figuratively,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.

  ‘Macduff’s got ‘flu,’ said the driver.

  David Harris-Jones was lying on the settee. Reggie had pronounced him unfit to drive home.

  ‘What did I say?’ he asked.

  ‘You kept calling C.J. “old bean”.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said: “What’s grist to the grindstone is nose to the mill.”

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said: “Do you like old beans, old bean?”’

  ‘What? And then I apologized, did I?’

  ‘No, you roared with laughter.’

  ‘Oh my God! I said: “Do you like old beans, old bean?”’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  They had a bet about whether your underpants were coloured or not.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They took down your trousers to see.’

  ‘But I’ve got my Beethoven pants on.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh my God! Did I really say: “What’s grist to the nose is mill to the grindstone?”’

  ‘Yes.’

  There’s only one good thing about it,’ he said. ‘At least I wasn’t wearing my Mahler jockstrap.’

  After he’d put David Harris-Jones to bed in the spare room, Reggie rang Elizabeth.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said sleepily.

  ‘Hullo. How’s your mother?’

  ‘She’s all right. Do you know what time it is? It’s nearly twelve. I was asleep.’

  ‘Is it? Sorry.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I am. It all went off very well.’

  ‘What went off very well?’

  ‘Nothing. My quiet evening at home. My quiet evening at home went off very well.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m all right, I tell you.’

  An owl hooted, and a dog barked. Banal noises of a summer’s night.

  ‘You’ll never guess who I met at the hospital,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Henry Possett.’

  ‘Yes. He told me he met you on the train.’

  ‘Yes. He never married, then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, you just had a few words with him, did you, and then went home?’

  ‘No, he took me out to dinner.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You’re not annoyed, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘I am not annoyed. Why should I be annoyed? I couldn’t care bloody less about Henry Possett.’

  After he’d slammed the phone down Reggie became worried that he’d upset Elizabeth. He imagined her lying there, miserable, alone, unable to sleep. He rang her to apologize.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said sleepily.

  ‘It’s me again,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry I woke you up.’

  ‘You’ve just woken me up again,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  Wednesday

  Reggie lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think of Henry Possett. How could she want to kiss a man with such thin lips?

  The clock struck two. It was warm, and he lay naked beneath a thin sheet. Sleep wouldn’t come. His mind was a-whirl with plans.

  First there was his speech on Friday. Then C.J.’s fishing contest on Saturday. After that his work would be finished. He’d go down to the south coast somewhere, leave his clothes in a neat pile on the beach. He’d need money. He began to work out a way of getting enough money for his needs, without arousing suspicion.

  An owl struck three. He put his pyjamas on and went downstairs. He made himself a mug of cocoa, poured himself a large whisky, and sat at the kitchen table.

  Ponsonby rushed in through the cat door and jumped onto his lap with a stifled yelp.

  ‘Hullo, Ponsonby,’ said Reggie. ‘Your silly master couldn’t sleep. No. He couldn’t. He’s got plans, you see. He’s got to make a speech on Friday, to a conference to celebrate international fruit year. “Are we getting our just desserts?” by R. I. Perrin. What a silly title the silly men thought up. Well, it’s not going to be quite what people expect. Then there’s C.J.’s fishing contest. There’ll be a surprise there as well.’

  Ponsonby purred lazily.

  ‘Cheers, Ponsonby. Here’s to the success of my plans.’

  He raised his glass of whisky. Ponsonby’s puzzled eyes followed it. He looked at Reggie questioningly.

  Reggie fetched a saucer of milk and put it by the table.

  ‘Bottoms up, Ponsonby,’ he said.

  Ponsonby lapped up the milk, then returned to Reggie’s lap.

  ‘Well, we’ve got to do something unpredictable occasionally, haven’t we?’ said Reggie. ‘Nobody thinks much of me. Past it. On the slippery slope. Sad, really. Not a bad chap. Always buys his round.

  ‘I’ll show them, though. I think I surprised them tonight. Well, you’ve got to. There comes a time in your life, Ponsonby, when you think: “My God, I’m two-thirds of the way to the grave, and what have I done?”

  ‘Well I’m going to do a few things. I am. Things I should have done years ago. I’m going to put a few cats among the pigeons, if you’ll excuse the expression.’

  Ponsonby purred.

  ‘I admire cats. You think you’ve got their number and suddenly off they go. You don’t see them for a fortnight, you give them up for dead, and back they come.’

  David Harris-Jones tottered into the kitchen, unable to stand up straight, his eyes bloodshot, his face a pale greyish-green. He staggered towards the sink.

  ‘Cocoa?’ said Reggie.

  ‘Aspirin,’ he gasped.

  Reggie poured him a glass of water and gave him three aspirins. He was wearing a pair of Reggie’s pyjamas, which were very much too broad for him.

  Reggie soaked a dishcloth and handed it to him.

  Press it against your forehead.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ponsonby popped out for a bit of mousing. The two men sat in silence, in the kitchen, in the temperate night, David holding a damp dishcloth to his forehead, Reggie sipping cocoa and whisky. By the time they went to bed dawn was breaking.

  Reggie was lulled to sleep by the dawn chorus. Birds sang on the farm, in his dream. He was riding on the cart that carried the grain to the barn, playing in the haystacks at threshing time, applying calamine lotion to his bites, in that chalky, grainy season. Half-awake, he lived again his incipient manhood, drank his first pints in the village pubs, and on the way home he peed on the glow-worms to put them out. Half-asleep, he saw Tony Webster riding naked through the streets of Chilhampton Ambo with Angela Borrowdale on a huge chestnut horse and he saw himself with white hair and a cracked, leathery old face, watching through a telescope. He looked through the telescope and saw himself watching through another telescope, and he was completely bald.

  He left David Harris-Jones sitting on the bed in the guest room, in his vest, holding his pants and trying to summon up the will power to stand up and put them on. At his side was the damp dishcloth.

  He didn’t do the crossword on the train. All that seemed childish now.

  The train reached Waterloo eleven minutes late. The announcer said, ‘We apologize for the delay to the train on platform seven. This was for connectional purposes.’ Again he allowed the cracked old woman with the hairy legs to accost him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she croaked. ‘I wonder if you can help me? I’m looking for a Mr James Purdock, from Somerset.’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m afraid I can’t.’ He wanted to say more, much more. ‘I would help you if I could,’ he said, but she had gone, and was even now accosting a loss adjuster.

  Joan was wearing a midi that hid her knees. Reggie went briefly through his mail. It was necessary to perform all the normal functions. He must allay all suspicion between now
and Friday, otherwise he would never get a chance to put his plans into action.

  ‘How did your dinner party go?’ she asked coolly.

  ‘Quite well, thank you,’ he said.

  At ten o’clock Roger Smythe from public relations rang. Reggie arranged to meet him for lunch next day to discuss his speech for Friday.

  Leslie Woodcock from Jellies looked in shortly afterwards.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘I hope I don’t intrude.’

  ‘No, come in,’ said Reggie. ‘Sit down.’

  Leslie Woodcock had a strange walk, with his legs held well apart due to a secret fear that his knees were swelling to an enormous size. He sat down and produced a grey folder which he handed to Reggie.

  ‘I hope you’re holding your Thespian talents available for our drama effort this year, Reginald,’ he said in his dry, whining voice.

  ‘Yes,’ said Reggie. There wasn’t much point in telling him that he wouldn’t be there.

  ‘Oh good. A lot of people found the Brecht rather heavy going last year, so we’re doing a sort of musical spoof about the fruit industry. We’re calling it “The Dessert Song”. Book by Tony Briggs, lyrics by yours truly.’

  ‘Oh, that sounds interesting,’ said Reggie.

  ‘I have the synopsis here. I rather fancy you for the part of Farmer Piles – a slightly risque reference, perhaps, but all in good clean fun.’

  ‘I’ll have a look at it,’ said Reggie.

  ‘Well, I must get back. My jellies are calling me.’

  ‘Thank you, Leslie.’

  He dictated some letters rapidly, giving an impression of keenness.

  The phone rang. Could Reggie see C.J. at eleven-thirty? Reggie could. C.J. wanted to see David Harris-Jones as well, and they couldn’t trace him. Could Reggie oblige?

  Reggie obliged. He rang his home. David answered weakly.

  ‘How are you, David?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve just put my left sock on.’

  ‘C.J. wants to see you at eleven-thirty.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  Ditto, thought Reggie. ‘Oh my God’ for me too. It was all very well no longer being afraid of C.J., but today’s interview could be distinctly awkward. Supposing C.J. decided he was unfit to deliver his talk on Friday?

  As soon as Joan had left his office he began his work. He had to learn how to forge his own signature, to sign his name in a way that was sufficiently like his own signature to pass muster in a bank, but sufficiently unlike it to pass as a forgery to a hand-writing expert.