by David Nobbs
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Reggie.
‘Oh hell,’ said Joan. She blew her nose and said: ‘Ready for dictation, Mr Wellbourne.’
The walls of Doc Morrissey’s little surgery were decorated with diagrams of the human body. The window was of frosted glass.
‘Nice to see you again,’ said Reggie.
‘You’ve never seen me before,’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘I mean it’s nice to see you and know that you’re here again. Of course I haven’t seen you before. Good heavens, no,’ said Reggie.
‘Take your clothes off,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘Put them over there, on top of mine.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a little joke. It puts the patient at his ease.’
‘Oh I see. Ha ha.’
‘I’ve been polishing up on psychology while I’ve been on the dole,’ said Doc Morrissey.
Reggie lifted his shirt, and Doc Morrissey pressed a stethoscope to his chest.
‘You run this . . . say aaaaargh . . . this Reginald Perrin Memorial Whatsit, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Aaaaargh.’
‘How’s it going . . . and again . . . going well is it?’
‘I don’t think people . . . aaaaargh . . . particularly want to be happy.’
‘How many people are you dealing with? Say ninety-nine.’
‘About two hundred and thirty-five. Ninety-nine.’
‘Thank you. Oh, quite a lot. Of course people don’t like to be happy. Happiness is all right for the Latin races. Cough. It doesn’t suit the British temperament at all.’
‘That’s exactly . . .’ Reggie coughed ‘. . . how I feel.’
‘Fine.’ Doc Morrissey removed his stethoscope and handed Reggie an empty bottle. ‘Go behind that screen.’
Reggie stood behind a little screen, above which only his head and shoulders were visible. Behind him was a rusty corner cabinet full of bottles of brightly coloured potions.
‘It’s against nature to be happy at work,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘People enjoy being bitchy behind each other’s backs, and harbouring grudges, and complaining because the girls in the canteen don’t wash their hands after going to the lavatory. It’s the British way of life. Like going behind that screen. I know what you’re doing. You know what you’re doing. You know that I know what you’re doing. It’s a normal, healthy, natural bodily function, done by everybody, you, me, Denis Compton, the Pope, even Wedgwood Benn. But we British go behind a screen. Not like those so-called civilized French, standing in rows at their lay-bys. Besides, it’s easier behind a screen.’
Reggie emerged and handed Doc Morrissey the empty bottle.
‘It’s too cold,’ he said.
‘Still the same old Reggie.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re Reggie Perrin. What’s all this tomfoolery?’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘I . . .’
‘I shall have to tell C.J. Show him that I’m a force to be reckoned with.’
‘In a way it’ll be a relief,’ said Reggie.
‘Sit down, Perrin,’ said C.J.
Reggie pulled up a hard chair and sat on that. Doc Morrissey smiled nervously at him from the depths of an easy one.
‘I had to do it, Reggie,’ he said.
‘I always knew you were a good man – unlike you Reggie – this is a disgrace,’ said C.J.
‘Absolutely, C.J.,’ said Reggie.
C.J. leant forward and glared at him.
‘Pretending to be dead and posing as your long-lost friend from Colombia, how could you think anyone would fall for a thing like that?’ he said.
‘Absurd,’ said Reggie.
‘Running your own memorial fund. How could you hope to get away with it?’
‘Ridiculous.’
‘I didn’t get where I am today by posing as my long-lost friend from the Argentine.’
‘I realize that, C.J.’
‘I could come in here in a dress and pretend to be Kathy Kirby,’ said C.J., ‘but I don’t. That isn’t the British way.’
‘It certainly isn’t,’ said Reggie.
‘You must have learnt some funny ideas in Peru,’ said C.J.
‘I wasn’t over there,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m not Martin Wellbourne.’
‘I know that,’ said C.J. ‘I’m not a complete nincompoop. Or am I mistaken, Doc?’
‘Oh no,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘As a medical man, I’d say you’re definitely not a complete nincompoop.’
‘There you are,’ said C.J. ‘Straight from the horse’s mouth.’
The ineffectual treble glazing shook as a charter flight from the Belgian Licensed Victuallers’ Association flew in en route for Bourne and Hollingsworth’s.
‘What was that, Doc?’ said C.J.
‘I said we seem to be on the flight path,’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘All this nonsense about trying to make the employees happy. It’s nonsense,’ said C.J. ‘Would it surprise you, Reggie, to learn that absenteeism is up three point one per cent?’
‘No, C.J. I told you myself.’
‘Condemned out of your own mouth. You’re sacked.’
‘Yes, C.J.’
‘You come to me with the idea for this ridiculous foundation.’
‘That was your idea, C.J.’
‘I practically destroy this firm. I start caring about people. I didn’t get where I am today by caring about people. I re-employ this incompetent medic. You’re sacked, Morrissey.’
‘But C.J. . . .’ began Doc Morrissey.
’Doc Morrissey has just revealed to you who I am,’ said Reggie.
‘Thus proving he’s an idiot,’ said C.J.
‘It seems very unfair to me,’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘It is unfair,’ said C.J. ‘Life is unfair. I am unfair. You’re both sacked.’
Chapter 4
Reggie became an unemployment statistic on his forty-seventh birthday.
The labour exchange was painted grey and there were notices about the penalties for illegal immigration, the dangers of swine vascular fever in Shropshire, and the need to check up on vaccination requirements well before your holiday.
‘Name?’ said the clerk, who had a long nose of the kind from which dewdrops drip, though none dripped now.
‘Perrin.’
‘Occupation?’ said the clerk in his tired voice.
‘Middle management.’
‘We haven’t had ICI on the blower recently,’ said the clerk.
‘What work do you have?’ said Reggie.
‘Vacancy at Pelham’s Piggery,’ said the clerk.
‘No, thank you,’ said Reggie.
The days of April passed slowly. The weather was mixed.
Every morning Reggie walked with averted eyes down the hostile roads of the Poets’ Estate, where people believe that failure is catching. Sometimes people crossed to the other side of the road to avoid speaking to him. Peter Cartwright had started walking to the station down Elizabeth Barrett Browning Crescent.
‘I just wouldn’t know what to say to him,’ he explained to his wife.
Every morning Reggie walked down Climthorpe High Street, where there were seven building societies but no cinema. Sic transit Gloria Swanson.
The aim of his walk was the reference room of the public library, and he was invariably successful in achieving that aim, for his sense of direction had never been in doubt.
In the reference room he sat among students with streaming colds, among emaciated old women searching through obscure back numbers of even more obscure periodicals, among old men with watery eyes waiting for the pubs to open. He worked his way through the newspapers, studying the advertisements for jobs.
There were so many for which he wasn’t qualified. He wasn’t young, eager or dynamic. He didn’t speak nine languages, he didn’t have extensive involvement in the whole field of labour relations, he didn’t have wide experience of the Persian Gulf or the drilling of bore holes, he d
idn’t have five years of practical midwifery behind him and he didn’t have a deep commitment to man-made fibres.
There were some vacancies for which he applied.
One evening, while Angela Rippon read the news with the sound turned down, he discussed the future with Elizabeth.
‘I’ll go out to work,’ she said.
‘I’ve failed you,’ he said.
‘Oh do stop it,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Pride is one of the luxuries we can’t afford any more.’
Angela Rippon’s face went grave. Bad news.
‘We’ll make economies,’ said Reggie.
‘We’re having four meatless days a week already,’ said Elizabeth.
Her face was pale and drawn. Going out in Climthorpe was an ordeal. After she had passed by, people would say: ‘It’s her I’m sorry for.’
‘I’ll sell the pictures of the Algarve,’ said Reggie.
‘What would we do with a whole pound?’ said Elizabeth.
‘We’d get more than a pound for them,’ said Reggie. ‘Dr Snurd’s got a rising reputation.’
‘Who told you that?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Dr Snurd,’ said Reggie. ‘His pictures caused quite a stir at the Dental Art Exhibition. He’s known as the Picasso of the Molars.’
Elizabeth sighed. Reggie gazed at the two sad and silent women. Elizabeth, burdened by personal anxiety. Angela Rippon, borne down by tragedies on a cosmic scale.
‘I’ve applied for several jobs,’ said Reggie. ‘One of these days my ship will come in.’
The evenings grew longer, and the weather grew warmer, but Reggie’s ship did not come in.
He was granted four interviews. Two he failed outright, the third he failed after being on a short list of six, and the fourth he failed after being on a short list of one.
Every week he went to Climthorpe Labour Exchange. He felt self-conscious among the actors and actresses, Irishmen, chronically bronchitic. West Indians, unfrocked vicars and chronically bronchitic Irish actors. The man in front of him, did he but know it, had played football for England in the forties. He had thirty-two caps and three convictions for shop-lifting.
‘Still no word from ICI,’ said the clerk.
‘Nothing from Unilevers?’ said Reggie, forcing himself to join in the fun.
‘Not yet,’ said the clerk. ‘Can’t get through, I expect.’
‘That’ll be it,’ said Reggie.
‘Vacancy at Pelham’s Piggery,’ said the clerk.
‘No thank you,’ said Reggie.
An unseasonal fall of snow caused the tourists to cancel their first net practice at Lords, and there was never any reply to Jimmy’s telephone.
They visited Elizabeth’s mother in Worthing. Her silence was an eloquent rebuke, a reminder that he was not supporting Elizabeth in the manner to which she had become accustomed.
As they passed through Dorking on the way home, Elizabeth said: ‘We can’t go on like this. If you don’t get a job tomorrow, I’m going out to work.’
‘The pigs like you,’ said Mr Pelham.
Reggie looked down at the fat pink creatures, slopping greedily at their swill.
‘You really think so, guv?’ he said.
‘I’ve never known them take to anyone like they have to you, old son,’ said Mr Pelham, who was a big, well-built man with a red face.
‘Ta ever so,’ said Reggie.
It was the end of his first day. Pelham’s Piggery was situated in a wedge of sad, neglected countryside that remained by some planning oversight on the western edge of Climthorpe. On one side was the Climthorpe School of Riding. On the other was a used car dump.
‘They like older men,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘They just won’t take it from young lads who’re still wet behind the ears.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Reggie.
‘You can’t blame them,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘I wouldn’t take it from young lads who were still wet behind the ears if I was a pig.’
There were four thousand pigs, housed in long rows. There were twelve pigs in each sty. At the back of the sties there were shelters where the pigs slept. Between the rows of sties there were paths, and on either side of the paths there were ditches, down which the porcine faeces flowed smoothly.
Reggie’s legs and back ached and his clothes smelt. Poor pigs. Their love of him was unrequited.
‘Grand animals, aren’t they?’ said Mr Pelham.
‘Grand,’ said Reggie. ‘They’re the guv’nors.’
‘All those pork chops,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘All that smoked through-cut.’
Reggie straightened up with difficulty. Mr Pelham had told him that he’d be all right if he mucked in. He had spent most of the day mucking out.
‘Think you’ll take to it, old son?’ said Mr Pelham.
‘I hope so,’ said Reggie.
The population density was calculated to the last piglet. The pigs got grain in the morning and swill in the afternoon. The rations were worked out to the last ounce. As soon as they were fat enough, they were taken to the slaughterhouse.
‘Back to nature,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘You can’t beat it.’
The phone call from C.J. was a surprise. So was the invitation to call in his office for drinks. Nobody knew what his middle name was, but it certainly wasn’t largesse.
She entered C.J.’s inner sanctum, and battled her way across the thick pile carpet.
A middle-aged woman with a pasty complexion was spraying C.J.’s telephone. She wore a brown uniform emblazoned with the legend: ‘Wipe-o-Fone.’ She smiled at Elizabeth cheerily.
I’m spoilt, thought Elizabeth. I couldn’t smile cheerily at me, if I was wearing a brown uniform emblazoned with the legend: ‘Wipe-o-Fone.’
C.J.’s handshake was as firm as steel, as if he were compensating for his lack of a private helicopter.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘Chain reaction to a buckled rail at West Byfleet.’
The telephone lady left and Elizabeth sat cautiously in one of the dark brown leather armchairs.
C.J. laughed.
‘Reggie’s told you about the chairs, I see,’ he said. ‘These are new. Japanese. Small but silent. It takes our bum-squatting legs-crossed chums to invent a decent chair. Ironic.’
He didn’t ask Elizabeth what she wanted to drink. He poured sherry for her and whisky for himself.
The pictures indicative of happiness had been removed and replaced by portraits of famous industrialists.
‘We live in a competitive world,’ said C.J., proffering the cigar box instinctively and then withdrawing it hastily. There’s no room for broken reeds, lame ducks or stool pigeons.’
‘I imagine not,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Neither Mrs C.J. nor I has ever had room for broken reeds, lame ducks or stool pigeons.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t.’
‘How is Reggie?’
‘He’s very well.’
‘Working?’ asked C.J.
‘He’s swilling out pigs,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Industry’s loss is the porker’s gain,’ said C.J. ‘You mustn’t think I don’t have a heart.’
‘I promise I won’t ever think that,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Nice sherry.’
C.J. glanced at the portrait of Krupp. Krupp hadn’t got where he had been yesterday by talking about nice sherry.
‘I’m concerned about Reggie,’ said C.J. ‘Sometimes I wonder if we may have contributed to his troubles.’
He waited for Elizabeth’s reply, and seemed put out when none came.
‘How will you manage?’ he said.
‘I can always go out to work.’
‘Ah!’
C.J. replenished Elizabeth’s glass. He did not replenish his own.
He stood over her, holding out the sherry, looking down into her eyes.
‘Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ laughed Elizabeth.
‘Can you type?’
‘I’m
a bit rusty.’
‘It’s like riding a bicycle,’ said C.J. ‘Elephants never forget, as they say.’
And so C.J. offered her the job of Tony Webster’s secretary, on a month’s trial.
‘There is one thing,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Please!’ said C.J., holding up an admonitory hand. ‘No thanks.’
‘What’s the salary?’ said Elizabeth.
Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but she could have sworn that Lord Sieff winked.
‘It’s the pigs,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘You don’t like the pigs.’
‘It’s not the pigs,’ said Reggie. 1 like the pigs.’
‘Pigs are basically very good-natured,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘They aren’t pigs, you know. You’d be surprised. They’re very clean beneath all that smell and dirt.’
‘It isn’t the pigs, honest,’ said Reggie.
‘Busy time coming up, pigs coming, pigs going, sheds to be repaired, this that the other.’
‘It’s my back,’ said Reggie.
A Boeing 727 flew past, carrying a party from the Würzburg Women’s Institute, bound for the outsize department at D. H. Evans.
‘Come again,’ said Reggie.
‘I said we’re on the flight path again,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘I’ll miss you, old son. You’ve got a real gift.’
‘I can’t risk my back,’ said Reggie.
‘Backs are buggers,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘Backs are sods. I had a back once.’
Reggie left the piggery doubled up. He walked, still doubled up, past the Climthorpe School of Riding and the chicken farm that he described to Elizabeth as Stalag Hen 59. He walked doubled up past the rows of low huts where the battery hens were kept in dark, immobile misery. He walked doubled up past the notice board that said: ‘Vale Pond Farm – Fresh Farm Eggs – Apply Side Door.’
As soon as he was round the corner he straightened up – because of course it wasn’t his back. It was the pigs.
Chapter 5
Late spring merged into early summer. House-martins swooped for mud among the used French letters around the pond beside the cricket ground.
Thud of leather upon willow. Steamy flanks of horses in well-dressed paddocks.
Every morning Reggie cooked breakfast for Elizabeth. Every morning he handed her her umbrella.
‘Umbrella,’ he said.
‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, every morning.