by David Nobbs
‘Oh my darling!’ she said. ‘My darling! What has he done to you?’
‘He hit me,’ said Reggie and Tony in unison.
Both men held out their arms feebly. Joan embraced Tony. They went into the Feathers for a drink. If the landlord hadn’t known them he would have refused to serve them.
‘What have you been doing to my fiancé?’ said Joan.
‘Your fiancé?’ said Reggie.
‘Joan and I got engaged on Saturday,’ said Tony.
‘But I thought Elizabeth was with you on Saturday,’ said Reggie.
‘With me!’ said Tony.
Reggie explained about Elizabeth’s outing and the fictional loan of her from Mr Steele to Mr Pardoe.
Tony and Joan exchanged quick looks and remembered C.J.’s lunch with Elizabeth at the Casa Alicante.
Reggie bought large drinks to celebrate their engagement. Tony bought large drinks to celebrate Elizabeth’s innocence. Joan brought large drinks to celebrate Reggie and Tony’s buying of large drinks. Reggie and Tony bought large drinks to celebrate Joan’s buying large drinks. The landlord bought small drinks to celebrate his profits.
Both men developed black eyes. Reggie’s was the left eye, Tony’s was the right.
When Tony went to the gents’, Reggie said: ‘I thought you loved me, Joan! That day in the office!’
‘You spurned me,’ said Joan.
‘I hope you’ll be happy,’ said Reggie, and he kissed her on the lips. Her tongue slid into his mouth.
‘We never quite made it, did we?’ she said.
Reggie arrived home at a quarter past twelve, full of renewed happiness and love. He opened his mouth to tell Elizabeth the good news that she hadn’t been having an affair, and a stream of incomprehensible noises issued forth. He laughed, lurched forward, tripped over Ponsonby, and fell, cracking his head against the nest of tables.
‘Late,’ he managed to say. ‘Wandsworth failure at points.’
Then he passed out.
Quite soon he came round. She poured water over his face and gave him black coffee, and suddenly he was sober.
His other eye, which had struck the nest of tables, was coming out in another magnificent shiner.
And so, sitting in the kitchen with two black eyes, and a wet flannel pressed to his forehead, at a quarter to two on a humid July morning in the sleeping Poets’ Estate, Reggie told Elizabeth of his unworthy suspicions, of his conversation with C.J. and his fight with Tony Webster. She seemed to find parts of the story unaccountably funny.
‘Who were you with?’ said Reggie.
The firm’s Luxembourg representative,’ she said. ‘He’s over here on a training scheme. I did some typing for him in his flat in Godalming.’
She couldn’t tell Reggie that she had been with C.J. She felt guilty even by association with his unspoken feelings.
She felt awful about lying, but she had eased her conscience slightly by mentioning Godalming.
In the morning Reggie limped into the yard of Pelham’s Piggery thirty-seven minutes late.
Mr Pelham approached him. He was carrying a tin bath full of grain, and he looked at Reggie with amazement.
‘You seem to have rubbed your mother up the wrong way, old son,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘She appears to have given you two black eyes.’
‘Oh those,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s sad really.’
He thought of his own dear kind gentle mother who had died ten years ago, and silently begged her forgiveness.
‘She’s going doolally,’ he said. ‘She’s convinced she’s Joe Bugner.’
‘When did Joe Bugner ever give anybody two black eyes?’ said Mr Pelham.
That evening three separate events occurred. Mrs C.J. broke a leg when she was knocked down by an ambulance in Echternach, Jimmy set off for his secret HQ, and in Swinburne Way a middle-aged man exposed himself to a schoolgirl with nine ‘O’ levels.
Chapter 9
Next morning there was a letter from Mark, and Elizabeth wore an unsuitable dress.
‘You aren’t going to work in that, are you?’ said Reggie.
Elizabeth laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ said Reggie.
‘You, trying to be pompous and self-righteous with two black eyes.’
‘Darling, you can’t wear that dress to work,’ said Reggie, biting a piece of toast angrily.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s too revealing.’
‘Mammary horror shocks jelly workers,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Now can I finish Mark’s letter?’
She finished the letter, handed it to Reggie and kissed him.
‘Are you really going to wear it?’ he asked.
‘You’re a stickler for convention all of a sudden,’ said Elizabeth. “Bye bye, darling. Have a good day at the piggery.’
‘I won’t,’ he said.
After two and a half hours of mucking out, Reggie went for his tea break in the little brick hut provided. He had two colleagues, both surly. First one in made the tea in a large tin pot. The conversation consisted largely of four-letter words, spiced with the occasional seven-letter word.
On this occasion Reggie used neither four- nor seven – letter words. Instead he read Mark’s letter.
‘Dear old folks,’ wrote Mark. ‘I was amazed to hear that Martin Wellbourne was Dad all along. Fantastic news. Nice one. Ace. Wish I could see yer, honest.
‘The weather here varies. Sometimes it’s hot, but the rest of the time it’s bleeding hot. It can get a bit taters at night, though. The steamy heat of the jungle turns me on but none of the chicks in the company do. I may have more luck with the fellers. Failing that, baboons. Sorry, Mater.
‘Houses – or should I say “huts”? (Joke!) – are quite good. Tonight we’re doing A Girl in My Soup to some tribe or other, so quite likely there is a girl in the soup. Oh well, laugh, eh? No? Well we can’t all be Einsteins.
‘Last month we played to pygmies. Very small audiences. (Ouch!) We gave them Move Over, Mrs Markham, but it was over their heads. (Shoot this man!)
‘Seriously, folks and folkesses, I miss yer all. Love to the mad major and the fat sister and the bearded wonder and the little monsters and good old Ponsonby and anyone else wot I forgot. There goes the five minute drum. I’m on in a minute. Cheers.’
‘You’re late,’ said Tony.
I stopped to feed the ducks,’ said Elizabeth.
Tony gave her a look, then he had another look at her dress.
‘I’m loaning you to David Harris-Jones today, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘He’s got a bit of a backlog with his trifles.’
‘I’m yours to command,’ said Elizabeth.
She went along the corridor to David Harris-Jones’s office, which was tiny but drab. While it was draughty in winter, it was baking hot in summer.
‘Here I am,’ she said.
David stared at her dress. His eyes almost popped out of his head.
‘Super,’ he said.
Tom and Linda called round unexpectedly that evening. Tom brought a bottle of his 1973 quince wine.
‘You’ve got two black eyes, Reggie,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Reggie.
‘He knows that,’ said Elizabeth. ‘There’s no point in telling him that.’
Linda sat on the settee. Tom remained standing and cleared his throat.
‘I’ve come round here to offer you a job, Reggie,’ he said.
‘I don’t want charity,’ said Reggie.
Linda nudged Tom with her eyes.
‘It won’t be charity,’ said Tom. ‘A man of your experience has much to offer.’
He sat down beside Linda and put an arm round her waist.
‘I’m not a snob,’ he said. ‘But I don’t like the thought of Linda’s father working on a pig farm.’
‘Nor does Linda’s father,’ said Reggie.
‘I know you think being an estate agent’s a boring job,’ said
Tom. ‘But there are some quite exciting challenges in the world of property.’
‘It’s not as boring as pig farming,’ said Reggie. ‘I accept with grateful thanks.’
‘Excellent. Well, who’s for quince wine?’ said Tom.
‘Claret for me,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I expect the quince is as horrible as all your other wines.’
‘Darling!’ said Reggie. ‘Darling!’
‘No doubt Tom has many talents, which we just don’t happen to have come across, but wine-making is not among them,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Darling!’ said Reggie. ‘Tom, I’m awfully sorry. I’m longing to try the quince wine.’
‘What’s up, mum?’ said Linda.
‘I think it’s about time we told the truth,’ said Elizabeth, and she left to fetch the claret.
‘I am sorry,’ said Reggie.
Tom opened the quince wine with some difficulty.
‘How did you get your black eyes, dad?’ said Linda.
‘A porker ran amok,’ said Reggie.
‘I’m not a pig person,’ grunted Tom, imitating a hairy question mark as he grappled with the recalcitrant cork.
At last the bottle was open. Tom poured Reggie a glass.
‘Aren’t you having any, Tom?’ said Reggie.
‘I like the sound of that claret,’ said Tom.
The evenings were drawing in, and already the light was fading.
Elizabeth entered with the claret, and three glasses.
‘It’s the last bottle,’ she said.
Reggie sipped his quince wine cautiously. It was much better than the sprout wine, but revolting.
Elizabeth stood with her back to Dr Snurd’s bloodshot representation of sunset at Faro, and read Mark’s letter. When she had finished Tom said: ‘Absence hasn’t made me fonder of Mark’s jokes.’
‘Listen who’s talking,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You’ve got about as much humour as the National Grid.’
‘Darling, stop being rude to Tom,’ said Reggie. ‘He’s come round out of the goodness of his heart to offer me a wonderful job and share his precious quince wine, which really is surprisingly good, though I don’t know why I should say surprisingly, and all you do is insult him. It’s a bit much.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Tom. ‘I’m under no illusions that either of you like me.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Reggie.
‘Yes it is,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Darling,’ said Reggie.
‘No,’ said Linda. ‘If mum feels that way, she may as well get it off her chest.’
‘It’s utter nonsense,’ said Reggie. ‘We’re very attached to Tom.’
‘The only thing that’s attached to Tom is his beard,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Stop it,’ hissed Reggie desperately.
‘Try calling him a bearded prig like you used to,’ said Elizabeth.
‘That’s true, dad,’ said Linda. ‘You did.’
‘I may have done,’ said Reggie. ‘It was … it was a term of endearment. Good old Tom, the bearded prig.’
‘Like pompous twit?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Yes!’ Reggie smiled anxiously at Tom. ‘Good old Tom. How is the pompous twit? That sort of thing. The sort of thing you only say to your friends. Shows how much I like you, eh, Tom?’ He turned to Elizabeth and whispered: ‘Shut up.’
Further conversation was prevented by a plane, carrying, it so happened, a party of Basle bank managers on their way to Aspreys.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ said Reggie, shutting the french windows.
‘I said we’re on the flight path again,’ said Tom.
They finished the claret and Tom rose to leave.
‘I’m big enough to forget what’s happened,’ he said. ‘Glad to have you aboard, Reggie.’
‘Thank you,’ said Reggie. ‘And I’m sorry about …’ he glanced at Elizabeth ‘… tonight.’
‘It’s all right for you to be rude,’ said Elizabeth, ‘but not me.’
‘Well … you know … I mean at that time I was under pressure.’
‘Perhaps mum is,’ said Linda.
‘It’s different for a woman,’ said Reggie.
‘How?’ said Elizabeth and Linda.
‘It’s unladylike,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s embarrassing.’
‘Oh God!’ said Elizabeth and Linda.
Tom hastily poured the remains of the quince wine.
‘Cheers, everyone,’ he said.
‘Oh shut up, Tom,’ said everyone.
‘Why are you doing all this?’ said Reggie as they lay in bed in the dark.
‘What do you think?’ said Elizabeth.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Reggie.
Elizabeth switched her bedside light on.
‘Nothing can ever be the same again,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to understand that, Reggie. You’ve changed me. You’ve awakened a sleeping tiger.’
‘Ah! Well, that’s lovely. Who wants their wife to be …’
‘Dull and ordinary?’
‘No. Well, yes. I’m glad you’re a tigress, darling.’
‘You’re terrified.’
‘A bit. I mean can’t you find a better way of being a tigress than insulting poor Tom? Can’t we both find better ways together?’
‘We can try,’ said Elizabeth.
She kissed him and switched off her bedside light. Reggie switched his on.
‘I’m going to read,’ he said. ‘No point in trying to sleep till the Milfords come back.’
There was a loud crash of splintering glass. Reggie went cautiously downstairs. A brick lay on the living-room carpet, and a pane of the french windows was shattered.
Attached to the brick was a message. It said, in childish capitals: ‘Down with flashers.’
‘You’re pissing me about, old son,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘Pigs are conservative creatures. They don’t like change.’
‘I never knew there was so much to pigs,’ said Reggie.
‘People don’t, Reg,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘People don’t. Pigs are sensitive souls. How can you expect them to produce all that lovely gammon if they don’t know whether they’ coming or going?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘Honest.’
‘Goodbye, then, old son,’ said Mr Pelham. ‘Or is it only au revoir?’
‘No it bleeding isn’t,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s goodbye.’
July drew towards its close, and the days were sunny with brief heavy showers.
Elizabeth behaved very well at the jelly unveiling, all things considered.
There were some eighty people in the Wilberforce Rooms at the Cosmo Hotel. Among them were C.J., Tony, David, the editor of the Convenience Foodstuffs Gazette, the jelly correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, three dieticians, one of whom had an ulcer, two photographers, a Bible salesman who was in the wrong room, nine people with a sixth sense for free drinks, six people with a ninth sense for free drinks, and several representatives of the catering distributive trades.
At the far end of the stuffy room there was a table, concealed beneath a large dust-cover.
Four pretty girls with tight bums and hard faces dispensed free drinks. Free drinks are never served, they are always dispensed, perhaps in the hope that the unattractive verb will discourage excessive consumption.
The girls had large shining suns pinned to their starched uniforms. They were the Sunshine Girls, hired by C.J. for three hours. In the evening two of them would become the elastoplast girls and the other two would become the machine-tool girls.
C.J. made a speech, explaining that the actor who was to have unveiled the new slim-line jellies had broken his foot.
Tony Webster spoke next. He opined that the jellies were great, and explained that the female singer hired to replace the actor with the broken foot had gone down with a summer cold.
David Harris-Jones gave it as his considered opinion that the jellies were super. He told a joke about an Englishman, an Irishman and a jelly. People talked
during his speech, and he dried up. ‘Everyone seems to be talking except me,’ he complained to an audience of himself.
Nobody heard him explain that they were lucky indeed to have their unveiling done by that legendary celebrity, the Manager of the Cosmo Hotel.
The manager pulled back a rope, and the dust-cover rolled off, revealing eight large, lurid and faintly surprised jellies wobbling on their dishes.
Elizabeth laughed out loud, but not all that loud, and only for about a minute and a half.
She behaved very well, all things considered, at the jelly unveiling.
Reggie behaved very badly, all things considered, at Norris, Wattenburg and Patterson.
Were there mitigating circumstances? There were indeed, gentle reader.
The previous evening, at supper, an unpleasant incident had occurred.
It was Reggie’s turn to cook the meal, and while they were eating their Chinese take-away, a brick sailed through the dining-room window and landed in the sweet and sour prawn balls. Reggie and Elizabeth were covered in glutinous orange-red sauce.
Elizabeth laughed.
‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ said Reggie.
‘We look like a scene from a Sam Peckinpah film,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I don’t think it’s funny having bricks thrown through our windows,’ said Reggie. ‘They think I’m the man who flashed at that schoolgirl. I’m going to be blamed for anything unusual that happens on this estate.’
‘Never mind, you know you aren’t the flasher, that’s all that matters,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I mean you aren’t, are you?’
‘What a dreadful thing to say,’ said Reggie. ‘I’m your husband.’
‘Husbands have flashed in the past, and no doubt husbands will flash in the future,’ said Elizabeth, trying to clean some of the sauce from the tablecloth and chairs.
‘But I’m me, darling. I’m not a flasher,’ said Reggie. ‘You know that.’
‘I didn’t think you were the sort of man who faked suicide by leaving all his clothes on Chesil Bank,’ said Elizabeth.
Reggie grabbed her by the arm.
‘I’m not the flasher,’ he said.
‘All right. You’re not the flasher. I’m glad,’ said Elizabeth.
They cleaned the sauce off themselves in the kitchen.
‘We’ll have to move,’ said Reggie. ‘Bricks through windows, ostracised by neighbours who don’t even know what the word means, outcasts in our own home.’