by David Nobbs
That was the last turn of the screw,’ he said when he came round.
Chapter 10
The day that would have been August Bank Holiday, had the government not changed it, was brilliantly sunny and hot. Some of the newspapers even removed ‘Phew, what a scorcher!’ from their dust-covers, and the nation was informed, in one of those abstruse parallels so beloved of meteorologists, that it was hotter in Tewkesbury than in Cairo. Well done, Britain. We can still pull them out, when the chips are down.
Reggie and Elizabeth were having dinner in the garden with Linda and Tom, who were setting off for Cornwall on Wednesday with their infants. Tom had brought a 1972 blackberry wine.
‘It’s the best wine you’ve ever produced, Tom,’ said Reggie.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Tom.
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Reggie.
‘I think it’s lovely,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I don’t know how you can be so rude, Reggie.’
Linda remained silent. After five years of Tom’s wine she had nothing left to say. At first she had thought that it would improve with practice. Then she had kidded herself that it was improving. Now she knew that it hadn’t been, and that it never would.
‘I think we should stop being rude about Tom’s wine,’ said Elizabeth.
‘A pound fine for the next person who’s rude about Tom’s wine,’ said Reggie. ‘And that’s more than the wine is worth.’
‘One pound, dad,’ said Linda.
Reggie handed over a pound note.
Behind them, the french windows were open wide. Three of the panes had been boarded up, following brick attacks.
‘Are you still going to move?’ said Linda.
‘No,’ said Reggie. ‘We’re going to stick it out.’
‘So losing your job with me was all for nothing,’ said Tom.
‘What are you going to do, dad?’ said Linda.
Reggie squeezed Elizabeth’s hand.
‘That’s really why we’ve asked you round tonight,’ he said. ‘To launch our new future.’
He smiled at Elizabeth. Elizabeth smiled at him.
‘Just look at that sunset,’ he said.
The sky over Elizabeth Barrett Browning Crescent was an indigo jungle.
Reggie took another sip of wine.
‘Come on. Spit it out,’ said Tom.
‘Too late. I’ve drunk it,’ said Reggie.
‘A pound, dad,’ said Linda.
Reggie handed over his second pound.
‘This family really is infuriating,’ said Tom. ‘It takes half an hour to get anything out of you.’
‘That’s because they know how it annoys you,’ said Linda.
‘Teasing is indicative of childish minds,’ said Tom.
‘Hatred of teasing is indicative of a lack of humour,’ said Linda.
‘Children, please!’ said Elizabeth. ‘We are here to break some happy news to you.’
A container train rattled through Climthorpe Station, and a shrew rustled through the lupins in Reggie’s garden.
‘Since our talents are limited,’ said Reggie, ‘and our company is often held to be a liability, Elizabeth and I have decided to form ourselves into a limited liability company. Here is the design for our letterhead.’
He handed Tom a sheet of paper. It was headed: ‘Perrin Products Ltd. A member of the REC Group of Companies. Head Office – Vortex House. Managing Directors – R.I. Perrin, E.S. Perrin.’
‘What are the REC Group of Companies?’ said Tom.
‘Reginald and Elizabeth of Climthorpe,’ said Reggie. ‘I thought it sounded good.’
‘Where’s Vortex House?’
‘Here. Plenty of holes in the window panes.’
‘You can’t start a business like this,’ said Tom.
‘I think it’s lovely,’ said Linda. ‘You’re being churlish, Tom.’
‘You aren’t a businessman.’
‘You’ve noticed.’
Ponsonby rushed across the lawn in futile pursuit of a starling.
‘What are you going to produce?’ said Linda.
There are a few details still to be worked out,’ said Reggie.
‘Good God, you can’t start a business without knowing what kind of a business it is,’ said Tom.
‘What we’re looking for is a concept,’ said Reggie.
‘Reggie says when you start a business what you need is a new concept,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Actually that is absolutely right,’ said Tom.
‘You see, Tom. Dad knows all about it and it’s going to be a tremendous success,’ said Linda.
A song thrush added melodious assent from the willow tree.
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking,’ said Tom, ‘but how much capital do you have?’
‘Less than two hundred thousand pounds,’ said Reggie.
Tom whistled.
‘As much as that!’ he said.
‘About a hundred and ninety thousand pounds less than that,’ said Reggie.
That’s not much to start a business,’ said Tom.
‘No,’ said Reggie. He sipped his blackberry wine. ‘Where did you pick these blackberries?’
‘Near Henley.’
They don’t travel.’
‘Pound.’
Reggie handed over his third pound. Elizabeth cleared away the dinner things. The last rays of the sunset were extinguished, and crickets rubbed their legs together lethargically in the warm dusk. Tom lit a cigar.
Ponsonby purred, a bat fluttered silently by, and far above them an aeroplane winked. Even before he spoke, everyone sensed that it would be Tom who broke the silence.
‘Adam said an amusing thing today,’ he said.
There was a pause.
‘Well I thought it was amusing anyway,’ said Tom. ‘At the time.’
There was another pause.
‘For his age,’ said Tom, extinguishing the last pale cinders of anticipation. ‘He was kicking Jocasta. It put me in a ticklish position, because we can’t condone violence but we believe that discipline is useless unless it is voluntary. Anyway I said: “Adam, old pricklebonce, do you really think it’s a good idea to kick your smaller sister like that?” and he said: “Yes,” so I said: “I see. And why are you kicking her?” and he said: “Because I’m an urban gorilla.” I didn’t want to laugh, in case it seemed as though I was approving of his kicking Jocasta, but I just couldn’t help myself. You see, he’d heard the phrase urban guerilla, and he’d thought it was some kind of animal, urban gorilla.’
‘They’re funny at that age,’ said Elizabeth.
And the crickets rubbed their legs together.
Reggie and Elizabeth spent long days trying to find the ideal product for Perrin Products to produce. The fine weather gave way to teeming rain which turned the cardboard in the broken panes to a mushy pulp. The papers forbore to mention that it was still hot in Cairo but pissing down in Tewkesbury.
‘What we need,’ said Elizabeth over their frugal lunch, ‘is something that’s cheap to make and expensive to sell.’
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Reggie. ‘Every day people are buying some enamel something from Taiwan that some Chink has sold for virtually nothing so that he can have a bowl of rice every second Thursday, covering it with something nasty and synthetic, calling it something tasteless and repulsive and selling it at extortionate prices at every up-market outlet from Lands End to John O’Groats.’
‘The only thing you know is desserts,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Oh God, not desserts again,’ said Reggie. ‘I’ve devoted enough of my life to desserts.’
A fierce gust hurled itself against the windows.
‘Poor Linda,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I hope they’re all right in Cornwall.’
‘Mind you,’ said Reggie. ‘I like the idea of producing amazingly successful desserts and driving Sunshine Desserts out of business.’
‘What about health food desserts?’ said Elizabeth.
> Reggie laughed.
‘Wheatgerm ices,’ he said. ‘Seaweed jelly.’
‘Sometimes I don’t think you’re taking all this very seriously,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I’m trying,’ said Reggie.
‘It’s our joint venture,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I know,’ said Reggie.
The rain eased, and Elizabeth went to the shops.
Reggie sat cosily in the living-room, on that August afternoon, with one bar of the electric fire on. Ponsonby sat on the arm of his chair and stared at him with empty curiosity.
‘Hello, Ponsonby,’ said Reggie.
Ponsonby miaowed.
‘What do you think we should make, Ponsonby?’ said Reggie. ‘At this moment, while we sit here, some people are busy making extra-wet-strength tissues and scientists are busy designing extra-extra-wet-strength tissues. People who were born into a world full of sunlight and beautiful flowers are sitting in smoky rooms deciding on brand names for sanitary towels. Aren’t you sorry for them?’
Ponsonby miaowed.
‘The point is, Ponsonby, that I am forty-seven years old and I devoted over twenty years of my life to making instant puddings. I don’t want to waste the next twenty years. All I really want to do is cock one last snook, and go down with all guns blazing. Fair enough, Ponsonby?’
Ponsonby’s gentle miaow seemed to say that it was indeed fair enough.
‘Good man. Now let’s watch Emmerdale Farm and see if Annie Sugden can stop Amos Brearly poking his nose in everywhere.’
Next day more rain swept in from the West. Linda and Tom were sitting in the car, watching the sea hurling itself against the rocks. In the back seat, Adam and Jocasta were fighting.
On the other side of the glistening road the low stone frontage of the Fishermen’s Arms promised warmth and good cheer.
‘I like the grandeur of the elements,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t like lying on the beach in the sun. I’m not a sun person.’
Linda opened the door of the car.
‘Where are you going?’ said Tom.
‘I’m going to the pub,’ said Linda. ‘Sod the grandeur of the elements.’
‘Wait!’ said Tom.
Linda waited.
‘I don’t think that’s a very good example to set our children,’ said Tom.
‘Sorry,’ said Linda.
‘We’ll take them back to the hotel,’ said Tom. ‘Let the child monitoring service look after them.’
‘I don’t like doing that,’ said Linda.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ said Tom ‘but I thought that was why we are paying twenty-eight pounds a week more than at the other hotel.’
‘I didn’t know I was going to feel like that,’ said Linda. ‘And it wasn’t just that, anyway. There’s the tennis court as well.’
‘It’s flooded.’
‘I didn’t know it was going to be flooded, and it was for the food as well. The Norrises said it was marvellous last year.’
‘It was probably a different chef last year,’ said Tom.
‘No. The Norrises have got no palate.’
Adam and Jocasta resumed their fighting with renewed intensity.
‘Look, Adam,’ said Linda. ‘Big wave. It may drown some sea-gulls.’
‘Where? Where?’
A huge wave did indeed rise up out of the chaos.
‘What did you say that for?’ said Tom.
‘To stop them fighting,’ said Linda.
‘By dangling the carrot of drowning sea-gulls? Lindy-plops! That’s against everything we stand for.’
‘I’ve stood for enough,’ said Linda.
‘Sea-gulls didn’t drown,’ complained Adam.
‘Didn’t drown,’ said Jocasta.
‘I’m sure the monitoring service will be very good,’ said Tom.
‘You know how we despise people who leave their children in the car while they have a drink,’ said Linda.
‘Sea-gulls didn’t drown, mummy.’
‘You know how we deplore the British attitude to children,’ said Linda. ‘That’s one of the main reasons why we always holiday in France.’
‘Oh, we’re in France, are we?’ said Tom. ‘Oh look, there’s a British car. Hey, they’re driving on the wrong side of the road.’
‘Shut up, Tom. You know what I mean. We’ve always been to France before.’
‘Sea-gulls didn’t drown. Sea-gulls didn’t drown.’
‘Seeagles didn’t drown.’
‘No. Aren’t you glad the nice sea-gulls are still alive to enjoy their din-dins,’ said Tom.
‘No,’ said Adam.
‘What’s nice about sea-gulls?’ said Linda. ‘You were the one who said we should always tell them the truth about nature.’
The rain grew harder. A group in plastic raincoats rushed across the road into the pub.
‘I expect the Smythe-Emberrys are entering a little Breton crêperie at this moment, the whole family together, lovely pancakes, wine . . .’
‘Bollocks to the Smythe-Emberrys.’
‘Tom! The children! Who’s setting a bad example now?’
‘Sorry. I don’t think they heard,’ said Tom. ‘It’s all my fault. I felt we should holiday in Britain this year as a gesture of economic faith. I didn’t know it was going to be the wettest August since the Flood.’
‘Bollocks to the Smy-Thinglebies,’ said Adam.
‘Blocks to Smythinbees,’ said Jocasta.
‘Adam and Jocasta should not learn to rely on us,’ said Tom. ‘We must prepare them for the harsh realities of life. They can’t always be with us, in the nature of things. They’ve got to learn to live inside any society they come to, and that includes hotel child monitoring services.’
‘Jocasta’s wet herself,’ said Adam.
‘You really think if we left them at the hotel and went for a drink together we’d be doing it for their good?’ said Linda.
The waves crashed angrily on the deserted beach. Rows of motorists watched in aspic.
‘Wet knickers,’ said Adam.
‘We aren’t just making excuses are we, Tom, because we want a drink. Search your conscience.’
‘Wet knickers. Wet knickers.’
‘I have searched my conscience,’ said Tom.
‘Wet knickers.’
‘I say, old bungletwerp, do you really think it’s a good idea to keep feeling Jocasta’s knickers?’ said Tom.
‘Yes,’ said Adam.
‘All right then,’ said Linda. ‘We’ll leave them.’
And that, dear reader, is precisely what they did. They went into the Fisherman’s Arms and there was real ale and two different kinds of quiche and Tom was so happy that he gave l0p for the lifeboats.
‘We won’t have the quiche,’ announced Tom. ‘That belongs to our Home Counties persona. We’ll have home-made Cornish pasties.’
The pub had low ceilings, a tiled floor, and a plethora of brass knick-knacks. At the bar there was a group of noisy locals, fighting with their elbows to keep a small reservation for themselves, and there were some bedraggled campers fulminating against the climate and the lavatory facilities on their various sites. And there was also Jimmy.
‘Good Lord,’ said Linda. ‘There’s Jimmy. Jimmy!’
Jimmy looked embarrassed to see them.
‘Hello, surprise surprise,’ he said. ‘Big kiss. Hello, Tom. On holiday, are you?’
‘Yes. You?’
‘Yes. Annual leave, that sort of crack. August, Cornwall, dead loss. Well, well, well, how’s my favourite niece?’
‘Fine, Uncle Jimmy.’
‘Less of the uncle. Makes me feel old.’
A very tall, bronzed lean man in his early fifties came over.
‘Clive Anstruther. Crony of mine,’ said Jimmy. ‘Ex-army. We’re holidaying together, aren’t we, Clive?’
‘Oh, yes, yes. Jimmy and I are holidaying together, yes. Cornwall, August, dead loss.’
Linda gave Tom a meaningful look which he tr
ied to avoid but couldn’t.
‘Er . . . would you like a drink, or have you got some?’ said Tom.
‘Make room for a small pint,’ said Jimmy.
‘Scotch, please. Large or small. Up to you,’ said Clive.
Tom struggled through the damp crowd to the bar.
‘August, hate it. Crowds,’ said Clive.
‘Queues. Queue to park your arse,’ said Jimmy.
‘Why do you come here in August then?’ said Linda.
‘Ah! Good question,’ said Jimmy.
‘Excellent question,’ said Clive.
There was a pause.
‘Linda’s my favourite niece,’ said Jimmy, patting Linda on the backside.
‘Well done,’ said Clive.
‘Can somebody help me?’ said Tom from the bar.
‘Reinforcements on way,’ said Jimmy.
Jimmy took the glasses one by one from Tom and passed them over the heads of the campers. The bar smelt of beer, toasted sandwiches and drying clothes.
‘Good man. Well done,’ said Clive. ‘Cheers.’
‘Happy holidays.’
‘Happy holidays.’
‘Are you one of these schoolmasters?’ said Clive to Tom.
‘No,’ said Tom.
‘Oh,’ said Clive.
There was a pause. The lanky adventurer appeared speechless with astonishment at discovering that Tom wasn’t one of these schoolmasters.
‘What are you then?’ he said at last.
‘Estate agent,’ said Tom.
‘Selling houses, that sort of thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well done.’
Jimmy’s eyes met Linda’s. They were the eyes of two people who can never forget that they have been to bed together.
‘Here long?’ he said.
‘Two weeks,’ said Linda. ‘What about you?’
‘Depends,’ said Jimmy. Then he added in a low voice: ‘Friday, here, twenty-thirty hours, poss?’
‘We’ll try,’ said Linda.
Jimmy leant forward very slowly and planted a gentle kiss on Linda’s forehead.
‘Without Tom,’ he whispered.
‘What are you two whispering about?’ said Tom.
‘Family joke,’ said Linda.
‘Well done,’ said Clive.
‘Three steak sandwiches, one well done, one medium, one rare,’ called out the barman.
‘Here,’ said a little bald man, trapped in a crowded corner in an orange anorak. He had a damp ordnance survey map spread on the table in front of him.