by David Nobbs
‘Not exactly. Oh mother …’
‘Linda darling, I think I know what you’re going to say.’
‘What?’
‘You can fool some of the people some of the time, you can even fool all the people all the time, but you can’t fool a wife.’
‘You mean you know?’
‘S’sh. Keep your voice down. They’ll hear us.’
‘Have you known all along?’
‘Quite a while. Now come on, let’s make that coffee.’
Elizabeth began to get the cups out but Linda didn’t move.
‘I do think you might have told everyone before tonight,’ said Linda.
‘Oh, but I’m not going to tell them.’
‘What?’
‘Hush, dear. Get me the coffee.’
Linda handed her the tin of coffee like an automaton.
‘I think it’s going to work out very well with Martin Wellbourne,’ said Elizabeth.
‘But it’s a lie,’ said Linda.
‘Yes, it’s rather fun, isn’t it?’ said Elizabeth.
‘But, mother …’
‘Oh why do children always have to be so boringly puritan about their parents?’
‘It’s not that, mother, but it’s a ridiculous situation.’
‘If it works, it isn’t ridiculous. This may be hard for your pride, Linda, but just because I’m your mother it doesn’t mean that I’m going to behave like an ageing girl guide.’
‘But what about Mark?’
‘Yes, he’s furious, silly boy. It’s rather funny, isn’t it?’
‘But mother, you’re his mother.’
‘Yes, it’s shocking, isn’t it? Now come on, let’s take this parsnip in.’
‘Parsnip?’
‘Parsnip, coffee. Perrin, Wellbourne. What does it matter what we call things?’
Elizabeth picked up the tray of coffee and moved towards the door.
‘But mother
‘I don’t want any more “but mothers”. Our marriage wasn’t working all that well. Now it is going to work. Now come on, be sensible enough to be silly.’
‘But, mother …’
‘Linda, you wouldn’t do me out of my wedding day, would you? It’s the greatest day in a woman’s life. And think of the honeymoon. You wouldn’t want me to miss the romantic experience of a lifetime. And then there are the presents. I can’t wait to open all the presents. I do hope you and Tom are going to give us something really exciting.’
Linda gave up, and they took the coffee in, and Jimmy said, ‘That was a chinwag and a half,’ and Reggie raised his eyebrows at Linda and she shook her head and Elizabeth said, ‘We’ve been talking presents,’ and Elizabeth’s mother said, ‘You must make a list. It may not be so romantic, but it avoids duplication, that’s what I always say,’ and Reggie said, ‘Oh this is nice. I feel as if I’ve known you all for a long time,’ and Tom said, ‘That’s what life’s all about. People. We’re people people,’ and Jimmy said, ‘Word in your ear, old girl. Bit of a cock-up on the old c.f. All scraps and swillage gratefully received,’ and Linda remembered that they’d brought a bottle of wine and forgotten it, and Tom fetched it and they toasted the happy couple in fig wine, and Tom told a story which nobody understood, but they laughed, and went home happy, and that’s about it, really.
Epilogue
The February gale, sweeping in off the English Channel, caused a portion of chimney cowling to crash through the kitchen window of Constable Barker’s flat. At the time Constable Barker was dropping a fivepenny piece into a large glass pickling jar. When he had enough fivepenny pieces he would set off for his holiday in the Argentine.
The same gale caused a plastic bag to get caught round the exhaust of a Rentokil van in Matthew Arnold Avenue, Climthorpe, at the exact moment when Reggie and Elizabeth were driving past on their way to the crematorium.
There was only one other car in the car park, yet Elizabeth parked right alongside it.
They walked slowly towards the crematorium building. Pollarded limes cringed before the probing wind. Decaying leaves chased each other half-heartedly across the sodden lawns, which were pocked with slivers of earth cast up by worms. There was a hole coming in Reggie’s left shoe.
They entered the building. Reggie’s reinforced steel-tipped heels rang out on the tiled floor.
They walked down a long corridor. On either side were rows of drawers in varnished wood, with brass handles. At intervals there were semi-circular recesses with urns in them.
‘They call it the Garden of Remembrance, even though it’s indoors,’ said Elizabeth.
‘The Corridor of Remembrance wouldn’t sound right,’ said Reggie.
At the end of the corridor, Elizabeth stopped.
‘I didn’t have any ashes,’ she said. She took hold of one of the brass handles, and pulled out the drawer. Inside was Reggie’s briefcase, engraved with his initials, ‘R.I.P’ in gold.
She opened the briefcase and removed the contents. There were Reggie’s gold cuff links, his red bedroom slippers, a certificate sent by the king to every schoolboy during the Second World War, a photograph of Reggie in the Ruttingstagg College Small-Bore Rifle Team, a wedding photo, a photo of him as Brutus in the Sunshine Desserts production of Julius Caesar, and his old hairbrush, also engraved, in gold, ‘R.I.P.’.
‘He’d have appreciated that,’ said Elizabeth.
They stared at the display in silence for a few moments. Then Elizabeth put everything back in the briefcase and slid the drawer back into position.
They set off down the corridor, arm in arm.
Elizabeth glanced at him out of the corner of her smiling, mischievous eyes.
‘Why!’ she said. ‘I do believe you’re crying.’
The Return of
Reginald Perrin
For Mary
Book One
Chapter 1
‘You are happy, aren’t you, Martin?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Wonderfully happy,’ said Reggie.
It was a Monday morning in March, and the sky was crying gently on to the Poets’ Estate.
Elizabeth was reading the paper. Reggie, conveniently for new readers, was reflecting upon the strange events that had led him to this pass – how he had disappeared after life at Sunshine Desserts had become intolerable, how he had left his clothes on a beach in Dorset in imitation of suicide, how he had wandered in many disguises and finally returned to his own memorial service as a fictional old friend called Martin Wellbourne, how as Martin Wellbourne he had remarried his lovely wife Elizabeth and gone back to Sunshine Desserts to run the Reginald Perrin Memorial Foundation.
‘Briefcase,’ said Elizabeth, handing him his black leather briefcase, engraved with his initials, M.S.W., in gold. How he wished it still said ‘R.I.P.’.
‘Thanks, my little sweetheart,’ he said, because when he was Reggie he would have said: ‘Thank you, darling.’
‘Umbrella,’ said Elizabeth, handing him an object which amply justified her choice of word.
‘Thanks, my little sweetheart,’ he said.
He didn’t adjust his tie in the mirror, because that’s what he would have done when he was Reggie.
A telephone engineer was climbing out of a hole in Coleridge Close.
‘I hate Martin Wellbourne,’ said Reggie suddenly, and the man lurched backwards into the hole.
Reggie walked down Coleridge Close, turned right into Tennyson Avenue, then left into Wordsworth Drive, and down the snicket into Station Road. His legs seemed to resent the measured tread and large steps of his Martin Wellbourne walk. It was as if they were saying to him: ‘Come off it, Reggie. How long is this pantomime going to last?’
How long indeed?
He stood at his usual place on the platform, beside the sand-filled fire bucket, because when he was Reggie he had stood in front of the door marked: ‘Isolation Telephone’.
The eight sixteen drew up nine minutes lace.
He didn’t do the crosswo
rd on the train, because that’s what Reggie would have done.
He entered the characterless box that housed Sunshine Desserts. The clock, which had been stuck at three forty-six since 1967, had recently been mended. Now it had stuck at nine twenty-seven.
He smiled at the receptionist with the puce fingernails, grimaced at the new sign which proudly announced: ‘Sunshine Desserts – one big happy family’, and walked up. three flights of stairs because the lift was out of order.
He entered his drab little office with its green filing cabinets, and smiled at his secretary Joan, but he didn’t throw his umbrella towards the hat-stand, because that was what Reggie would have done.
‘Morning, Mr Wellbourne,’ said Joan, whose husband had died exactly six months earlier.
‘Seventeen minutes late,’ he said. ‘A defective bogie at Earlsfield.’
On his desk was a pile of questionnaires, in which the staff had expressed their views about life at Sunshine Desserts.
‘Dictation time, Mrs Greengross,’ he said, because Reggie would have said: ‘Take a letter, Joan.’
She crossed her long, slim legs and he felt a shiver of excitement.
He looked away hastily. All that foolishness belonged to Reggie Perrin.
He took another quick peep and felt another shiver of excitement. Briefly, his eyes met Joan’s.
‘To the Principal, the College of Industrial Psychology, Initiative House, Helions Bumpstead. Dear Sir, thank you for your kind inquiry re the Reginald Perrin Memorial Foundation. The purpose of these legs is to keep the employees happy
‘Legs, Mr Wellbourne?’
Reggie began to sweat.
‘Sorry. The purpose of the foundation is to keep the employees happy, and therefore efficient. We have regular meetings and policy discussions between the two sides, I have a monthly chat with each employee, we have outings, societies and lunch-time concerts in our new social centre, “The Pudding Club”, and . . .’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ he said.
There was another knock.
‘Come in,’ he yelled.
David Harris-Jones entered for his monthly chat.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure whether I heard you say come in or not. So I thought if you didn’t I’d better not, and if you did you’d say it again and I could always come in then.’
‘Sit down, David.’
David sat in the chair made warm by Joan. Reggie envied him.
‘I’ll get you coffee,’ said Joan.
‘Super,’ said David.
When they were alone, Reggie adopted a voice steeped in paternal comfort, as if he were President Roosevelt and David Harris-Jones was America in crisis.
‘Well, David, it’s good to see you,’ he said. ‘How are things in the world of ice creams?’
‘Super. I’m enjoying working on the new Nut Whirl range immensely.’
‘Good. That is splendid news. I see you’ve joined the Sunshine Singers.’
‘Yes, I’m becoming much more … well I suppose it’s not for me to say … maybe I’m not.’
‘Much more what?’
‘Self-confident. I think I’m much more … what can I say? … how can I put it?’
‘Decisive.’
‘Yes.’
‘What about the redecoration of your office?’ said Reggie, glancing at the pictures of Skegness and Fleetwood which the Office Environment Amelioration Committee had given him to brighten up his dreary box. ‘Did you get SCAB?’
‘SCAB?’
‘The Selection of Colour-scheme Advisory Booklet.’
‘Oh. Yes. I can’t decide whether to go for red for initiative, green for concentration or blue for loyalty. Which do you think I need more of most – initiative, concentration or loyalty?’
There was another knock.
‘Ah, coffee,’ said Reggie.
But it wasn’t coffee. It was Tony Webster, Reggie’s departmental head. He entered the room decisively but not arrogantly.
‘Morning, Martin. Morning, David. How’s it going?’ he said.
‘Fine,’ said Reggie.
‘Super,’ said David.
‘Great,’ said Tony. ‘Won’t keep you long.’ A piece of ash from his large but not ostentatious cigar fell on to the wide but not obtrusive lapel of his modern but not frivolous suit.
‘Work force becoming more contented?’ he asked. ‘Questionnaires proving helpful?’
‘I hope so,’ said Reggie.
‘Great.’
‘Super.’
‘One little fact bothers me,’ said Tony. ‘Production is down one point two per cent.’
‘I see,’ said Reggie.
‘Any theories?’ said Tony.
‘People are too busy filling in questionnaires and wondering what colour to paint their offices and having monthly chats and meeting the other side of industry,’ said Reggie.
‘Super,’ said David.
Tony shot him a withering glance.
‘Sorry,’ said David.
‘One other little fact. Absenteeism and sickness are up three point one per cent,’ said Tony.
‘I see,’ said Reggie.
‘C.J. has got to be told,’ said Tony.
‘Yes,’ said Reggie.
‘The secret of good management is the ability to delegate,’ said Tony. ‘You tell him, Martin.’
Reggie couldn’t tell C.J. that absenteeism and sickness were up, because C.J. was absent sick. Instead he spent the day feeding into the computer the answers which the staff had given to his questionnaires. The results were disturbing.
Elizabeth was on the phone to their daughter Linda when Reggie arrived home. She was sitting in a fluffy white armchair, with her back to the french windows. The fitted carpet was dove grey and there was a faint yellow-green tinge in the patterned wallpaper. On the walls hung pictures of Algarve scenes, painted by Dr Snurd, their dentist. Reggie hadn’t liked to refuse them, for fear Dr Snurd would stop giving him injections.
‘Here’s Reggie,’ she said, as she heard the front door.
‘Are you ever going to tell him that you know he’s Reggie?’ said Linda.
‘I don’t know,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I just don’t know.’
Reggie entered the room rather wearily and Elizabeth said: ‘I must go now, love. Here’s Martin,’ and put the phone down.
‘Did you have a good day at the office?’ she said.
‘Wonderful,’ said Reggie, because if he’d been Reggie he’d have said: ‘No.’
He poured two dry martinis. He hated dry martini, but Martin Wellbourne liked it, so he had to drink them.
‘Are you sure you’re happy?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Deliriously happy,’ said Reggie, as he sank into the brown Parker Knoll.
In the spacious garden the trees were bare and puritanical. In the kitchen a mutton casserole simmered, and a plane drowned their conversation as it descended towards Heathrow. It carried, did they but know it, a party from the Icelandic Bar Association, eager to re-clothe themselves cheaply at C & A’s.
‘What did you say?’ said Elizabeth.
‘I said we’re on the flight path again,’ said Reggie.
Elizabeth served their supper, and Reggie struggled with his mutton casserole.
‘Reggie hated mutton casserole,’ she said.
‘Did he really?’
‘He hated dry martinis too.’
‘Did he really? But then I’m not Reggie, am I?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You aren’t, are you?’
‘Are you absolutely sure you’re happy, Martin?’ said Elizabeth as they lay in bed, listening to the Milfords returning noisily after their snifter at the golf club.
‘Of course I am,’ he said. ‘I’m wonderfully happy.’
They made love, but he didn’t really enjoy it. He was too busy making sure he didn’t do it like Reggie Perrin.
Chapter 2
On the Tuesday morning a wate
ry sun shone fitfully.
‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ said Reggie to the GPO engineer, ‘but I loathe Martin Wellbourne.’
‘That’s all right, chief,’ said the GPO engineer. ‘No bones broken. Who is this Martin Wellbourne anyway?’
‘I am,’ said Reggie.
The GPO engineer stepped away from Reggie, and fell backwards into his hole.
The eight sixteen reached Waterloo seventeen minutes late, due to track relaying at Queen’s Road, and C.J. returned to work.
‘Sit down, Martin,’ he said.
Reggie pulled up a hard chair and sat on it.
‘Don’t trust the easy chairs, eh?’ said C.J. ‘I don’t blame you. I didn’t get where I am today by trusting the easy chairs.’
‘Absolutely not, C.J.,’ said Reggie.
C.J.’s office was large, with a thick yellow carpet and two circular red rugs. C.J. sat in a steel swivel chair behind a huge rosewood desk.
‘There’s something I must tell you, C.J.,’ said Reggie.
‘Work going well, Martin? Keeping everybody’s peckers up?’
‘Yes, C.J., I …’
‘How’s the lunch-time folk club going?’
‘Very well, C.J. Parker from Flans is singing today.’
‘That man could be a second Dylan Thomas,’ said C.J.
A tug hooted on the near-by river.
‘The thing is, C.J. . . .’
’Participation, that’s the name of the game,’ said C.J.
‘It certainly is, C.J. I . . .’
‘I met the firm’s ex-doctor on Saturday. Fellow named Morrissey. Sound chap. I sacked him once.’
‘Absolutely fascinating, C.J. I . . .’
‘I’ve given him his job back. I realize now how important loyalty and happiness are. Loyalty and happiness, Martin.’
‘Exactly, C.J.’
‘Now, what is it?’ said C.J. ‘Spit it out. Proliferation is the thief of time.’
‘Production is down one point two per cent and absenteeism is up three point one per cent,’ said Reggie.
‘I see.’
C.J. strode briskly round the room, examining the pictures on his walls as if for reassurance. The Bratby and the Bacon had been replaced by works more eloquent of happiness -two Lake District scenes, a still life of a lobster and a portrait of Ken Dodd.