by David Nobbs
‘I adore stone,’ said the cleavage. She became aware that Reggie was watching them, and tossed her head haughtily. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ she asked Tom.
‘No, really, I must be going, Mrs Timpkins,’ said Tom.
‘Call me Jean,’ said the cleavage. ‘I hate that name Timpkins. It reminds me of my husband.’
Tom looked slightly embarrassed. Jean picked up their glasses.
‘No, really,’ said Tom. ‘I must be getting home. It’s fifty miles, and my wife’ll have dinner ready.’
Reggie felt a glow of warmth towards Tom.
‘Just a teeny one,’ said Jean.
‘All right, just a teeny one, Mrs Timpkins,’ said Tom, and Reggie forgave him his extra drink in gratitude for his calling her Mrs Timpkins.
He had an uncontrollable urge to speak to Tom. He walked over to his table.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you Tom Patterson?’
‘That’s right,’ said Tom, surprised.
‘You don’t remember me, do you? I’m Lord Amhurst.’
‘I knew I’d seen you before, but I couldn’t place you,’ said Tom.
‘We met at a party somewhere. Your charming wife was with you.’
‘Oh. You met Linda?’ said Tom, pleased.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ said Reggie.
‘Not at all.’
Reggie sat beside his son-in-law, who clearly didn’t recognize him. Jean returned with Tom’s teeny one. They were introduced.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to rush away in a moment, Lord Amhurst,’ said Tom. ‘We’ve had a spot of bother in the family.’
Reggie frowned. He felt his presumed suicide deserved a stronger description than ‘a spot of bother’.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.
‘My father-in-law killed himself at the weekend,’ said Tom.
‘Oh dear! How awful,’ said Jean. ‘How did it happen?’
‘They found his clothes piled on the beach.’
‘Have they found the body?’
‘Not yet,’ said Tom.
‘I think it’s awful when things like that happen,’ said Jean. ‘I think tragedy’s terribly sad.’
Tom left soon after that, promising to give his wife Lord Amhurst’s sincerest condolences.
The bar was filling up. Four Japanese came in and ordered beers. They looked at the barman blankly when he said, ‘Keg or cooking?’
Jean smiled at Reggie. He smiled back.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ she said.
‘Er – no, I’m afraid I don’t,’ said Reggie.
‘I met you at Lady Crowhurst’s. At least I think it was Lady Crowhurst’s.’
The head-waiter approached them, with a large menu.
‘Will madam be dining with his lordship?’ he asked.
Jean looked away expectantly.
‘I’d be delighted if you’d take dinner with me, Mrs Timpkins,’ said Reggie.
She ordered smoked salmon and fillet steak. Reggie felt that he couldn’t afford to be Lord Amhurst for long.
The dining room had dark green wallpaper and big windows overlooking a lawn. Lord Amhurst had been given the best table. The four Japanese were sitting by the door.
‘Why are you selling your house?’ said Reggie.
‘Because my husband lived there,’ said Jean.
Their smoked salmon arrived. Jean chewed it with her big white teeth.
‘How is Lady Amhurst?’ she asked.
‘There is no Lady Amhurst,’ said Reggie.
‘It was awfully sad about that poor man,’ said Jean. ‘Killing himself like that. I hate death. It’s so morbid. I mean, it makes you guilty, sitting here enjoying your smoked salmon while he’s lying at the bottom of the sea, decomposing.’
‘He’ll have been eaten by fish by now, Mrs Timpkins,’ said Reggie, and Jean hesitated momentarily in her attack upon the smoked salmon.
‘Please call me Jean’ she said.
‘My friends call me Jumbo,’ said Reggie.
Their fillet steak arrived.
‘I feel awfully guilty, being so rich and idle,’ said Jean.
‘You ought to get a job,’ said Reggie.
‘I wouldn’t know how to,’ said Jean.
Reggie could hear a flood of voluble Japanese, in which the words ‘spinach’ and ‘steak and kidney pie’ stood out strangely.
‘Jumbo,’ breathed Jean, under the mellow influence of the claret. ‘How did you get your limp?’
Reggie described his accident. He described the raw thrill of the bobsleigh, the Cresta Run on a crisp morning. He saw her breasts heave. He looked at her unnaturally blonde hair and her wide, shallow nose, her aggressive teeth, her ebony shoulders, the deep sticky slit between her breasts as she ate her tossed green salad, and he thought, ‘Last night you were reduced to speechlessness by a dark fragile receptionist. Today you have this lioness for the taking. She would let you have her in her six bdrms, four rcp and three bthrms, not to mention the stbls. She would let you have her because you’re a hereditary peer, because of your limp, because of the Cresta Run. But you don’t want her, because you aren’t Lord Amhurst, you don’t limp, you’ve never been on the Cresta Run, and you love Elizabeth.’
Thursday
When Reggie woke up the sky was blue, sheep were bleating, and innumerable birds were singing. It was twenty-five past six, and he knew that he must go home.
He washed, dressed, and went for a brief limp before breakfast. Pools of water lay in the gutters, and there was a distant clink of milk bottles.
He went down the little street, out into the country, a country of dry-stone walls and beech trees. Rooks cawed and a kestrel hovered. The road ran beside a disused railway line.
Would he reveal himself to Elizabeth? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he must go back. And he needed a new identity. Lord Amhurst must be returned to the oblivion whence he had come.
He limped back to the hotel, and consumed a large breakfast of cornflakes, smoked haddock and poached egg. He paid his hefty bill and went to catch the bus. Jean Timpkins roared up in her open sports car with a fawn scarf round her head. She looked older in the mornings, and Reggie felt unable to refuse her offer of a lift to Oxford.
‘Don’t you have a car?’ she said.
‘I’m a bus enthusiast,’ he said. ‘I’m President of the Bus Users’ Association.’
She kissed him quickly. She smelt of expensive scent.
‘I’m sorry your leg was playing you up last night, Jumbo,’ she said. ‘How is it this morning?’
‘Much better, thank you, Mrs Timpkins.’ he said.
She drove extremely fast. His eyes and nose ran as the wind streamed past his face. The lines of trees flashed past. He tried to hide his nervousness and his streaming eyes. He was painfully aware that he wasn’t presenting a convincing picture of an erstwhile bobsleigh enthusiast.
Suddenly, his wig blew off. Jean slammed on the brakes. He ran back for it, and found it lying on the verge. He dusted it down, brushing off the wood-lice. Then he fixed it in position again. He gave Jean an embarrassed smile.
‘Why wear a wig when you’re not bald?’ she asked.
‘Vanity,’ he said.
He held his wig on his head as she roared to Oxford. She pulled up at the bus station. He thanked her and blew his nose. She didn’t kiss him good-bye.
She was the last person to see Lord Amhurst alive. By the time he reached the railway station he was already Jasper Flask.
Jasper Flask, theatrical agent, reached Paddington Station shortly after mid-day. He wandered through the crowded streets of London. His gait was slow, leisurely, aloof. He held his body stiffly and rolled his hips with a slight swagger.
He crossed Oxford Street and plunged into Soho. He crossed Charing Cross Road. Soon he was in Covent Garden.
He went into a pub and bought himself a half of draught lager and a turkey sandwich. He sat in a corner, by the fruit machine.
All around him were market traders, opera singers, scene shifters, theatrical hangers-on, and tourists. Jasper Flask, theatrical agent, should be at home among this motley crowd.
An argument broke out between two market traders.
‘There’s no taste in nothink any more,’ said one. ‘You take Ghanaian oranges. They don’t taste of nothink. Not like in the old days when you got your Gold Coast oranges.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said the second man. ‘Ghana is the bleeding Gold Coast. It’s the same difference.’
‘I’m not saying it isn’t, Jim. I’m saying your Ghanaian oranges doesn’t taste of nothink. It’s the same with your asparagus.’
‘Wait a minute, hang about, asparagus, that’s a luxury bleeding commodity.’
Reggie wanted to join in. This was his subject.
‘Not any more it isn’t,’ said the first trader. That’s my point. You get it all the year round. After your English you get your Bulgarian asparagus. After your Bulgarian you get your fucking Liberian asparagus. It’s not got the same taste, Jim.’
‘Don’t fucking give me that. Listen, we’ve got a consignment of gooseberries ...’
‘Gooseberries? I’m not talking about bloody gooseberries.’
‘Wait a minute. Listen, will you? They’re Mongolian gooseberries, aren’t they? Course they are. But you wouldn’t know if you wasn’t told.’
‘What are you talking about? I’d know in the dark they was Mongolian. Listen, have you got your own choppers?’
‘What?’
‘Your own teeth. Have you got them?’
‘Course I bloody haven’t.’
‘Well, you don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, then, taste, if you haven’t got your own choppers.’
There was an angry pause. Reggie seized his chance.
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘It used to be much better when there were different seasons.’
The two men gave him a strange look.
‘All I’m saying,’ said Reggie, ‘is that the stuff seemed to taste better when you only got it for a few weeks. Whether it really did taste better is another matter.’
The conversation was over. The man called Jim went to the bar to buy drinks. Silence fell between Reggie and the other man. Soon he left the pub.
He crossed the Strand and went over Waterloo Bridge. Over the Houses of Parliament the clouds were double-banked.
The grimy street beside the railway arches was quiet. C.J.’s Bentley was parked in its usual spot. The clock on the tower of the Sunshine Desserts building still said three forty-six. The lift was still out of order.
He walked through the foyer so purposefully that the receptionist didn’t like to stop him. He climbed the stairs and entered the open-plan office on the third floor.
The girls were all still there, clacking away at their typewriters. It seemed amazing that all this should be unchanged.
Joan was seated at her desk. She looked outwardly placid. What had he expected? Deep bags under the eyes? Horrible bald patches? Evidence of slashed wrists?
The postcards of Pembrokeshire were still there, to remind him that he really had existed.
‘My name is Perrin,’ he said, in a slightly less clipped version of his Lord Amhurst voice.
‘Perrin?’ she said, and he fancied that she turned a little pale.
‘No, sorry. My name is Flask. I have an appointment with Mr Perrin. His name is Perrin. I spoke to him last week and arranged to call in.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Perrin isn’t with us any longer,’ said Joan, whose dress reached down to her knees. ‘Perhaps you’d like to see our Mr Webster instead?’
‘It’s a personal matter,’ said Reggie. ‘Is there anywhere I can get hold of Mr Perrin?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Joan. She explained the tragic circumstances of Reggie’s disappearance. ‘I’m sorry. There’s not much I can do.’
‘No, there isn’t,’ said Reggie.
He walked away, slowly, vaguely disappointed, as if he had wanted to be recognized. He visited Davina’s office next.
‘I have an appointment with Miss Letts-Wilkinson,’ he said. ‘The name is Flask. Jasper Flask. Entrepreneur.’
‘I’m afraid Miss Letts-Wilkinson has been called away,’ said her secretary.
Davina sat at the bedside. Uncle Percy Spillinger’s breathing was laboured. His wardrobe doors were open. Davina closed them quietly. It didn’t seem right that his last moments should be witnessed by all his suits.
He awoke with a jerk, saw Davina and smiled.
‘I’ve been making a list of wedding presents that we might ask for,’ he said in a weak voice. ‘Do we want an early morning tea machine?’
‘That would be nice,’ said Davina.
‘I thought we’d need a canteen of cutlery,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘And a cheeseboard. And a set of tongs.’
‘Don’t tire yourself,’ said Davina.
‘Herb rack. Garden roller. Radio Times holder,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘Lovely,’ said Davina.
‘Listen to those damned dogs,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
Davina listened. She could hear no dogs.
The wardrobe doors opened again with a shuddering groan. Again Davina shut them.
‘It’s no use. The catch has gone, and the floor slopes,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘Never mind,’ said Davina.
‘Bathroom scales,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger. ‘Folding chair. Liquidizer, oblique stroke, grinder.’
‘That would be nice,’ said Davina.
Uncle Percy Spillinger nodded off. Davina held his hand. The wardrobe doors opened, and she didn’t bother to shut them. It was very quiet in the old room with the threadbare carpet and the dusty oak chest of drawers.
Uncle Percy Spillinger awoke with a start.
‘Blast those dogs,’ he said. ‘Listen to them.’
Davina listened and heard nothing.
‘Damn them!’ he said. ‘Why can’t they leave me alone?’
Davina patted his hand and he smiled.
‘Draught excluders,’ he said. ‘Shoe box with optional accessories. Kiddies’ chair with wipe-clean feeding tray.’
Davina blushed.
The doctor called, felt Uncle Percy Spillinger’s pulse and gave Davina a pessimistic glance.
‘Heated dining trolley with teak veneer finish,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘Absolutely, old chap,’ said the doctor.
‘Watering can with assorted sprays and nozzles,’ said Uncle Percy Spillinger.
‘He’s rambling,’ whispered the doctor to Davina. ‘Phone me if he gets worse.’
When the doctor had gone, Davina gulped and said: ‘Shall we fix a date for the wedding now?’
Uncle Percy Spillinger smiled.
‘I rather like September the eleventh,’ he said.
‘That would do fine,’ said Davina.
Uncle Percy Spillinger lay back on his pile of pillows.
‘September the eleventh,’ he said. ‘Two-thirty p.m. And afterwards at the house.’
He closed his eyes. His breathing grew steadily worse. He was dead before the doctor arrived.
‘He wasn’t on the National Health,’ said the doctor.
‘Send your bill to me,’ said Davina coldly.
She pulled the top sheet over Uncle Percy Spillinger’s head.
‘I’d better get on to the undertakers,’ she said. ‘It’s essential that he be buried at Ponders End. Nothing less will do.’
At half past five Reggie went to the Feathers. He sat on a bar stool at the end of the bar normally frequented by the Sunshine Desserts crowd.
He ordered a double whisky and a fat cigar and tried to look as much like Jasper Flask as possible. He had a compulsion to find out what things were like when he wasn’t there. All his life he had been constantly present. Perhaps that had been the whole trouble. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Now, when he was a
bsent, he might like himself better.
The thirsty invasion began. Leslie Woodcock from Jellies came first, holding his legs further apart than ever. Then came Owen Lewis, Tim Parker and David Harris-Jones. They were followed by Colin Edmundes from Admin., whose reputation for wit still depended on his adaptation of existing witticisms. Then came Tony Webster and his dolly bird. Tony displayed no sign of emotion towards her. She was just something that came with his life, like Green Shield stamps.
Jasper Flask ordered another double whisky. After a few minutes, the talk turned to the Reggie Perrin affair.
‘It’s strange to think,’ said Leslie Woodcock, ‘that this time last week he was no further from me than you are now.’
‘I wonder why he did it,’ said Tim Parker from Flans.
‘Bird trouble,’ said Owen Lewis. ‘His wife found out he was banging the Greengross.’
Reggie had to concentrate hard on being Jasper Flask.
‘I – er – think he was at the sort of age when you wonder – you know. I mean, after all, he could have felt he was going to get the push,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘There but for the grace of Mammon go I,’ said Colin Edmundes.
‘Who are you talking about?’ said Tony Webster’s dolly bird, returning from the loo.
‘My boss, the one I told you about,’ said Tony Webster.
‘Oh, the one who snuffed it,’ she said.
Jasper Flask’s hands twitched.
‘I think London can get you down,’ said Tim Parker.
‘A man who isn’t tired of London is tired of life,’ said Colin Edmundes.
‘Tell me, Tony,’ said Leslie Woodcock. ‘You saw more of Reggie than I did. What did you make of him, as a person?’
Reggie waited breathlessly, while Tony Webster considered the question from every angle.
‘I don’t really know,’ said Tony Webster, and the way he spoke made his answer sound intelligent and thoughtful. ‘He was sort of difficult to sum up, if you know what I mean.’
There was a pause.
‘I see Virginia Wade got knocked out at Wimbledon,’ said Leslie Woodcock.
Jasper Flask, theatrical agent and entrepreneur, downed the remainder of his double whisky, stubbed out the sodden butt of his cigar, and left the pub.