by David Nobbs
Every morning he said: ‘Handbag.’
‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, every morning.
Every morning she walked down Coleridge Close, turned right into Tennyson Avenue, then left into Wordsworth Drive, and down the snicket into Station Road.
Every morning she stood on the platform by the door marked ‘Isolation Telephone’ and waited for the eight sixteen.
Every morning she was seventeen minutes late.
Every morning Reggie planned the dinner. As soon as Elizabeth had gone, he sat on the lavatory and chose his menu at leisure.
He proved a stickler for culinary exactitude. If the Oxfam Book of Great Meals demanded a pinch of basil, Elizabeth would get a pinch of basil.
Every morning, his ablutions completed, Reggie walked to Climthorpe High Street. There were shopping parades of red brick, and a few Georgian buildings, derelict and boarded up.
His shopping was thorough and meticulous. He sniffed out bargains, rejected soft onions, and railed at the price of early Israeli raspberries.
One day, when he bought a cheap cut at the butcher’s, he pretended it was for the dog.
He was aware that he was an object of ridicule, his story known equally to Miss E. A. Bigwold at the bank, and the cashier with the perpetual cold at Cash and Carry. He sensed a faint contempt in the manner of L. B. Mayhew, greengrocer and fruiterer, a gleam of amusement in the bloodshot eye of J. F. Walton, family butcher and high-class poulterer.
The daughter of the big couple at Sketchley’s giggled whenever he entered.
Sometimes he had a pint at the Bull and Butcher, where drinks were three-quarter price before twelve. Sometimes he did not.
Was the rest of his life to be like this? Was he to be deflated gradually, the slowest puncture in the world, until he ended up, with smoky breath and a sunken chest, in Hove or Eastbourne, having a slow half of Guinness with a few retired cronies in a pub with plastic flowers?
In the afternoons he prepared the food, did a bit of gardening, and watched Emmerdale Farm. He’d always been scornful of day-time television, but now he found himself getting interested in the agricultural goings-on.
Every evening Elizabeth arrived home and he kissed her and gave her a drink and she said, ‘What’s for supper?’ and he said, ‘risotto’, unless it wasn’t, in which case he didn’t say ‘risotto’. For instance, if it was beef casserole he would say ‘beef casserole’. There were problems enough without his lying about the food.
But it wasn’t often beef casserole. They couldn’t afford beef. So quite often it was risotto.
The first time it was risotto Reggie felt that it was not very good. Elizabeth assured him that it was excellent. Emboldened, he provided it with increasing frequency. Elizabeth, whose enthusiasm for even the most excellent risotto was moderate, grew to regret the intemperance of her former enthusiasm and was led to contemplate the difficulties which civilized people bring on themselves as a consequence of their reluctance to hurt the feelings of their fellow beings.
The reader asks: ‘Did nothing occur, in the English suburb of Climthorpe, that early summer, except the cooking, eating and discussing of risotto?’
Very little.
Reggie did not relish the reversal of their roles. He felt like a kept man, an economic eunuch.
Elizabeth invented a fictional employer – the British Basket Company. She knew that it would make matters worse if Reggie found out that she was working for Sunshine Desserts.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said on the evening of 7 June. ‘Good day at the office?’
‘No. What’s for supper?’
‘Risotto.’
‘Lovely. What’s on the telly?’
‘Nothing much. Just a repeat of that series they repeated last year. You don’t want to watch the telly, do you?’
‘You have your Emmerdale Farm.’
‘Only because I’m bored alone in the house all day. Mind you, it was quite good today. Joe Sugden had a row with Kathy Gimbel, and Matt Skilbeck had words with Sam Pearson.’
They sat in the garden over their pre-risotto drinks. Reggie had the sprinklers going.
‘You never talk about your work,’ he said.
‘It’s very boring. I type letters about our waste-paper baskets, most of which no doubt end up in our waste-paper baskets.’
Ponsonby entered the garden, and a spotted fly-catcher flew off towards Matthew Arnold Avenue. Ponsonby miaowed angrily at a malevolent fate.
‘What’s your boss like?’
‘Mr Steele? He’s an ex-heavyweight boxer. Scottish-Hungarian. His father came from Budapest and his mother from Arbroath. He’s got a wooden leg and he drinks like a fish.’
‘It doesn’t sound boring at all,’ said Reggie. ‘It sounds a lot more interesting than Sunshine Desserts.’
‘Hello, darling,’ he said on the evening of 13 June. ‘Good day at the office?’
‘No. What’s for supper?’
‘Risotto.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are we having risotto too much?’
‘No. Well perhaps slightly too much. It’s so nice I don’t want to tire of it.’
‘It is nice, is it?’
‘Well perhaps nice isn’t exactly the word I’d use for it.’
‘What is exactly the word you’d use for it?’
‘Unusual.’
‘Oh.’
They sat in the garden over their pre-unusual-risotto drinks. Reggie had the sprinklers going.
‘There’s no mention of the British Basket Company in the phone book,’ he said.
‘Er … no. They’ve left it out,’ she said. ‘They muddled it up with the other BBC. Mr Steele was furious.’
‘Or in the yellow pages.’
‘They left it out of there too.’
‘They’ve never heard of it at the Climthorpe Basket Boutique.’
‘Well, they wouldn’t have done, as it’s not in the phone book or the yellow pages. It is only a very small firm. It only makes very small baskets.’
On 17 June Jimmy offered Reggie a job.
He arrived shortly before nine. He looked more military than he had in his army days. Creases were much in evidence. Reggie and Elizabeth were pleased. They had feared that he was letting himself go.
They sat in the garden. Ponsonby was purring on Reggie’s lap. An electric saw was going at number fifteen, where they were cutting up the remains of a diseased Dutch elm.
‘Whisky, Jimmy?’ said Reggie.
‘Don’t need to give me drinks. On your beam ends. Just a small one.’
They lingered over their whiskies.
‘Know things are awkward,’ said Jimmy. ‘Wouldn’t ask normally, but
‘We’ve got some scrag end of lamb,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Scrag end, top-hole,’ said Jimmy. ‘Wouldn’t ask normally, only distaff side gone AWOL, yours truly fish out of water in supermarkets, bit of a cock-up on the catering front.’
‘Do you want anything else?’ said Elizabeth.
‘No, no. Mustn’t leave cupboard bare. Bit of veg if it’s going. Odd sprout. Cheese. Butter. Bacon. Egg. Bit of a greenhorn in the kitchen.’
Elizabeth went to fetch the food. Jimmy moved his chair closer to Reggie.
‘Didn’t really come for food,’ said Jimmy. ‘Decoy. Get big sister out of way.’
‘Ah! So what’s your real purpose?’
‘Got a job for you,’ said Jimmy. ‘Interested?’
‘What sort of job?’
‘Can’t tell you. Hush hush.’
A plane flew in towards Heathrow, carrying a party from the Umbrian Chiropodists’ Guild, hell bent for Dickins and Jones.
‘I can’t take a job unless I know what it is.’
‘Put you in picture later,’ said Jimmy.
‘Do you think the people in that plane are lip-reading through telescopes?’
‘Can’t be too careful,’ said Jimmy. ‘Not time or place.’
‘When will the time
and place be?’
‘Next Tuesday.’
‘Where?’
‘Can’t tell you. Classified. D notice on it.’
‘That makes it difficult for me to be present.’
‘Be told in due course. Well, what’s your answer?’
‘It’s a secret.’
‘Fair enough. Good man. And don’t breathe a word.’
There aren’t many words that I could breathe,’ said Reggie.
Elizabeth crossed the lawn with a large carrier bag.
‘You needn’t take the food if it was only a decoy,’ said Reggie.
‘Better had,’ said Jimmy. ‘Don’t want her thinking she’s gone on an abortive mission.’
Chapter 6
Reggie’s instructions were not dramatic. No men wearing pink carnations, no blindfolded drives along twisting country roads to isolated farmhouses. He was merely asked to go to Jimmy’s house at eleven o’clock.
Jimmy led him into the living-room. There were cheap armchairs with wooden arms, a threadbare unfitted carpet and framed photographs of Jimmy in major’s uniform.
‘Sorry, room,’ said Jimmy. ‘Lost married quarters, better half deserts, chaos.’
‘I understand,’ said Reggie.
‘Coffee?’ said Jimmy.
They had coffee.
‘Stay to lunch?’ said Jimmy. ‘Iron rations. Scrag end of lamb, sprouts, cheese.’
‘It sounds lovely,’ said Reggie.
‘Sorry about cloak and dagger methods, Saturday,’ said Jimmy. ‘Secrecy of the essence.’
‘I understand,’ said Reggie.
‘Someone I wanted you to meet before I spilled beans. Colleague. No offence, Reggie, but wanted to vet you.’
‘This is all getting very intriguing, Jimmy. Who is this mysterious colleague?’
‘Better you don’t know.’
Jimmy walked to the window and stood rigidly to attention, taking the march past of a pair of robins.
‘It’d be difficult not to guess who he is when I meet him.’
‘Aren’t going to.’
Jimmy swung round and looked Reggie straight in the face.
‘He’s doubtful of you. Wants to remain in background till we’re sure.’
Reggie sipped his coffee and returned Jimmy’s gaze.
‘What are we planning to do – rob a train?’
Jimmy sat down, with his legs straight out in front of him.
‘Few questions,’ he said. ‘Sorry, third degree not my line.’
Reggie fought down his rising annoyance. He was intrigued.
‘Are you a right-thinking man?’ said Jimmy. ‘Are you one of us?’
‘Well it rather depends what one of you is.’
Jimmy stood up, sat down and stood up again.
‘Come upstairs,’ he said.
Their feet clattered on the bare boards.
‘Stair carpet ordered. Stuck in siding outside Daventry,’ said Jimmy.
They entered a bedroom. It had no carpet or curtains, just a double bed and a cheap chest of drawers. On the chest of drawers there was a silver-plate cup engraved, ‘The HaigTedder Inter-Services Squash Champion 1956 – Captain J. G. Anderson’.
‘Sorry, bedroom,’ said Jimmy, waving an apologetic arm. ‘Division of trophies. Replacements not yet called up.’
Reggie smiled when he saw that Jimmy had arranged the bedclothes in an army-style bed-pack.
‘Habit of lifetime,’ said Jimmy. ‘Old soldiers die hard.’
‘Old habits never die, they only fade away,’ said Reggie.
‘Exactly. Something I want you to see.’
Jimmy reached under the bed and brought out a dead mouse.
‘A dead mouse! Fascinating. I’m glad you called me over,’ said Reggie.
‘Not that.’
Jimmy held the mouse by its tail and dropped it out of the window.
‘Starvation,’ he said. ‘House all ship-shape. No easy pickings.’
Next he brought out a khaki chamber-pot.
‘Amazing,’ said Reggie. ‘A khaki chamber-pot.’
‘Not that either!’ said Jimmy with irritation.
He pulled out a tuck box marked J.G.A.
He opened it. It was full of rifles.
‘Good God,’ said Reggie.
‘Know what those are?’ said Jimmy.
‘Rifles.’
There was a pause.
‘What on earth are they for, Jimmy?’
‘Secret army,’ said Jimmy. ‘Setting up vigilante army, watch dog, call it what you will. Yours truly and colleague, man I wanted you to meet, very sound chap.’
‘Good God, Jimmy. What sort of secret army?’
‘Army equipped to fight for Britain when the balloon goes up.’
Jimmy covered up the rifles, slid the tuck box back under the bed, pushed the khaki chamber-pot in after it, stood up, and inspected his hands for traces of dirt.
‘Clean as a whistle,’ he said.
‘How the hell did you get them?’ said Reggie.
‘Friends, sympathizers, people who don’t like the way the country’s going. People who can read between the lines.’
Jimmy led the way down the bare wooden stairs. The ninth one creaked.
‘Proper army’s a joke,’ said Jimmy. ‘Pack of cards. Chaps like me, lifetime’s experience, piss off. Replaced by acne-ridden louts from labour exchanges. Cutbacks. Obsolete equipment. Joke. Ha ha.’
The living-room seemed like a lush jungle of possessions after the bedroom.
‘More coffee?’ said Jimmy.
‘Please.’
‘Fancy whisky with it?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘So do I. Wish I had some. Cock-up on the liquid refreshment front.’
He poured two coffees.
‘Well, Reggie?’
‘Well what?’
‘Are you with us?’
‘Jimmy?’ said Reggie.’Who exactly are you proposing to fight when this balloon of yours goes up?’
Jimmy looked at him in amazement.
‘Forces of anarchy,’ he said. ‘Wreckers of law and order.’
‘I see.’
‘Communists, maoists, trotskyists, union leaders, communist union leaders.’
‘I see.’
‘Nihilists, terrorists, students, Dutch elm disease, queers.’
Jimmy’s eyes were shining and a vein was pulsing in his forehead.
‘Revolutionists, devolutionists, atheists, agnostics, longhaired weirdos, short-haired weirdos, vandals, hooligans, football supporters, namby-pamby probation officers, left-wing social workers, rapists, papists, papist rapists.’
‘Oh, Jimmy…’
‘Foreign surgeons, head-shrinkers who ought to be locked up, Wedgwood Benn, keg bitter, punk rock, alcoholics, gluesniffers, Play for Today, squatters, Clive Jenkins, Roy Jenkins, Up Jenkins, Up everybody’s, everybody who’s dragging this great country into the mire. Chinese restaurants
‘Jimmy, really.’
‘Oh yes. Why do you think Windsor Castle is ringed with Chinese restaurants?’
There was a pause. The vein slowed. The fierce light in Jimmy’s eyes faded. He sat down.
‘I’d be the last to suggest that everything’s perfect in Britain,’ said Reggie.
‘Good man,’ said Jimmy.
‘There’s a lot wrong with our society.’
‘So you’re with us?’
It was Reggie’s turn to stand up and pace the room.
‘Do you realize who you’re going to attract?’ he said. ‘Thugs. Bully-boys. Psychopaths. Sacked policemen. Security guards. Sacked security guards. National Front. National Back. National Back to Front. Racialists. Pakki-bashers. Queer-bashers. Chink-bashers. Anybody-bashers, Basherbashers. Rear-admirals. Queer-admirals. Fascists. Neo-fascists. Loonies. Neo-loonies.’
‘Really think so?’ said Jimmy eagerly. ‘Thought support might be difficult.’
Reggie sank back into his chair. Jimmy stood up. It wa
s as if the conversation couldn’t continue unless one of them was standing.
‘Well, are you with us?’ said Jimmy.
‘No,’ said Reggie.
There was a long pause.
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ said Jimmy.
‘No, I won’t tell anyone, Jimmy.’
‘Not even big sister?’
‘Not even big sister.’
‘Scouts’ honour?’
‘Scouts’ honour.’
‘Are you worried there may not be any money?’
‘It isn’t the money, Jimmy. It’s just that I’ve had the offer of another job that’s quite irresistible.’
‘They’re glad to see you back,’ said Mr Pelham.
‘The feeling’s mutual,’ said Reggie.
‘I thought we’d seen the last of you with that bloody back of yours.’
‘I couldn’t keep away.’
It was the hottest day of the summer to date. Whenever Reggie swept a bit of pig shit into the ditch, crowds of flies buzzed angrily at this unwarranted interference with their luncheon.
Some pigs had been slaughtered and replaced. Was it just fancy, or did the new ones treat him more warily than those who had come across him before?
Perhaps these grotesque squealing creatures really did like him. Perhaps he really had found his metier at last.
He shuddered.
Chapter 7
C.J.’s invitation to lunch came as a complete surprise to Elizabeth. They went to the Casa Alicante, a new Spanish restaurant not a melon’s throw from Sunshine Desserts.
‘It’s very private,’ said C.J. ‘The Sunshine Desserts rabble haven’t caught up with it yet.’
David Harris-Jones was seated at a table close to the door, with a plump young lady. She was plainly and inelegantly dressed, in the hope that people would blame the effect of dumpiness upon her clothes rather than her body.
David Harris-Jones blushed, half stood up, half acknowledged them, and sat down again.
‘Morning, David,’ said C.J. ‘Nice place, this.’
‘Super.’
C.J. escorted Elizabeth to their alcove table. There were many arches, surmounted by wrought-iron entwined with plastic vines. The wallpaper was of false brick.
While David Harris-Jones was still trying to attract attention, C.J. had ordered aperitifs, food and wine.
‘Are you interested in Wimbledon?’ he said.
‘Very,’ said Elizabeth.