by David Nobbs
‘Yes. I . . . I wondered if you could lend me some money,’ said Reggie.
A cold certainty struck C.J. It was blackmail.
Reggie explained what he wanted the money for. C.J. looked at him in amazement.
‘So what sort of a sum did you have in mind?’ said C.J.
‘It’s up to you, C.J. I was thinking of . . .’ Think big, Reggie. You must think big with C.J. ‘Something in the region . . .’ Pitch it too high and then bring it down. ‘. . . of . . . er . . . thirty . . . er . . .’
‘Thirty?’
‘Thousand pounds.’
‘Thirty thousand pounds!!’
‘Yes,’ rather squeakily.
It was blackmail. Reggie knew all about Godalming, the butler, the bogus papers endlessly sorted by an unsuspecting Elizabeth, the name Bunny. She had told Reggie in all innocence, and he, knowing C.J.’s reputation for ruthlessness and as the ultimate defender of the world against hanky-panky, had recognized the innocent tale for what it was – dynamite.
But he had to be sure.
‘Did you find out anything more about the business of Elizabeth and the . . . er . . . Tony Webster?’ he said.
‘Yes, I did. She wasn’t with Tony Webster at all.’
‘Ah!’
‘It was a chap who was in your neck of the woods, C.J.’
‘Really? Cigar?’
C.J. pushed the box towards Reggie and Reggie took a fat Havana.
‘Godalming,’ said Reggie.
‘Ah, yes, Godalming,’ said C.J. ‘Quite.’
‘She didn’t do anything wrong, of course,’ said Reggie. ‘Ostensibly she’d gone there to work, and that was all she did. But I think really he needed her as female company. I think he felt lonely with his wife so far away in Luxembourg.’
‘Quite.’
C.J. admired the delicacy of Reggie’s approach, the way in which he spared C.J.’s feelings by making out that he was talking about a complete stranger. The man was a gentleman as well as a nutcase.
‘Thirty thousand pounds, you said?’
‘Yes.’
C.J. wrote out a cheque for thirty thousand pounds, and handed it to Reggie. Reggie tried to hide his astonishment as he pocketed it.
‘It won’t bounce,’ said C.J.
‘Of course not,’ said Reggie.
‘No further demands, you understand,’ said C.J.
‘You make it sound as if I’m blackmailing you,’ said Reggie.
Despite her misgivings, Elizabeth helped Reggie prepare for the grand opening of Grot. He spent his days making such alterations as were necessary to the interior of the shop, while she stayed at home, making the things that they would sell.
Dame Fortune, that fickle jade, gave certain indications that she looked kindly upon the venture. Reggie put twenty-five pounds on a horse called ‘R.I.P.’ in the Sanilav Novices Chase at Haydock Park. He won two hundred and thirty-two pounds and eighty-five pence. Emboldened, he put fifty pounds on a horse called ‘Golden Rubbish’ in the Sellotape Handicap Hurdle at Ayr, and won four hundred and sixty-two pounds seventy-seven pence. Further emboldened, he put a hundred pounds on a horse called ‘Reggie’s Folly’ in the Hoovermatic Challenge Cup at Sandown Park, and won nine hundred and eighty-one pounds thirty-three pence.
Tom, who had not been told that the shop was dedicated to the sale of rubbish, was flattered when Reggie suggested using it as an outlet for his home-made wines.
Dr Snurd was equally pleased when invited to part with ten paintings of the Algarve.
The grand opening was fixed for November the twelfth. Soon it was September the twenty-fifth. Not quite so soon it was October the third. A bit later still it was October the twelfth.
One month to go. Feverish alterations. Frantic preparations.
There was still time before the opening for two major incidents to occur.
Chapter 11
The first major incident was set in motion by an article in the Telegraph colour supplement, giving details of some of the private armies that were lying low all over Great Britain, waiting for the balloon to go up.
Some of these organizations were formed by fanatical right-wingers, usually in isolated premises on the Celtic fringe. Others were formed by fanatical left-wingers, usually in dilapidated premises in decaying inner cities. One, the Army of Moderation, was run by fanatical middle-of-the-roaders from a council house in Hinckley.
The only one that interested Elizabeth was the one that was run by Colonel Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther and Major James ‘Cock-up’ Anderson ‘somewhere in the West Country’.
A family conference was planned for nine o’clock that evening. The venue was the living-room of Reginald and Elizabeth Perrin’s desirable residence in Coleridge Close, Climthorpe.
Coffee and biscuits were served by the charming hostess.
Reggie freely admitted his prior knowledge of Jimmy’s paramilitary pretensions.
‘He offered me a job in it,’ he said.
‘You might have told me,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Darling, he swore me to secrecy.’
‘Maybe we could have stopped him.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘We could have tried.’
Tom stood by the french windows. The curtains were drawn.
‘Reggie’s right,’ he said. ‘Even though Jimmy’s army is a violation of everything we hold most dear, Reggie’s right. In our non-violent fight against it, we must always put individual morality before the common good. That is the only weapon we have.’
‘You have been listening to “Individual Morality and the Estate Agent”,’ said Reggie. ‘Next week’s programme in our series, Morality and the Professions, is entitled: “Chartered Accountants and the Humanist Quandary.”’
‘This is serious, Reggie,’ said Elizabeth.
‘He told me he was working for the Ministry of Defence,’ said Linda.
‘When?’ said Tom.
‘That day I went out on my own in Cornwall.’
‘You never told me,’ said Tom.
‘He swore me to secrecy.’
‘I do think you might have told me.’
‘You said it was right for Reggie not to tell,’ said Linda.
‘Yes, but I’m your husband.’
‘So what? Mum’s Dad’s wife.’
‘I’m sure we’re all very grateful for being reminded of these relationships,’ said Reggie. ‘It could prevent quite a few muddles.’
‘Please!’ said Elizabeth. ‘Please! We’re supposed to be talking about my brother, who’s made a complete fool of himself. There it is in the paper. James “Cock-up” Anderson. I’m going down there to bring him back.’
‘He won’t come,’ said Reggie.
‘I know how to deal with him.’
‘You’ll have to deal with Clive “Lofty” Anstruther as well.’
‘We must go there straightaway,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I can’t go now,’ said Reggie. ‘The shop’s opening in less than a month.’
‘Hang the shop,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He’s my brother.’
‘Linda’s the one to go,’ said Reggie. ‘I don’t know if you know it, Linda, but Jimmy’s got a soft spot for you.’
‘I know it,’ said Linda.
‘Where Linda goes, I go,’ said Tom, who was still standing by the curtains, as if to emphasize that he wasn’t one of the immediate family.
‘Reggie and I’ll go,’ said Elizabeth. ‘There’s plenty of time to work on the shop later. Do we know where Jimmy’s headquarters are?’
‘We went for a walk on the golf course,’ said Linda.
‘Was that when it rained?’ said Tom.
‘Rained?’ said Linda.
‘You remember. You got soaked to the skin,’ said Tom.
‘Oh yes. Yes, it poured.’
‘We didn’t have a drop at the hotel,’ said Tom. ‘Of rain, I mean. I wrote to the met office about it. They said it must have been an isolated local shower
and thanked me for my vigilance. They said the individual can be part of a world-wide network of observations that include satellites, weather ships and meteorological balloons.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Reggie. ‘How dull my correspondence is by comparison. I must write to Dale Carnegie and take a correspondence course to improve my correspondence.’
‘May I continue my story about the golf course?’ said Linda.
‘Please do,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Riveting so far,’ said Reggie. ‘The bit about the sudden shower was the best bit.’
‘Come on. Finish your story, Plobblechops,’ said Tom from his safe vantage point.
Linda swung round and glared at him. The lights blinked to a distant flash of lightning.
‘Are you insinuating that the delays are my fault?’ she said.
‘I’m not insinuating anything,’ said Tom. ‘I’m pointing out that you have the floor.’
‘I don’t. You’re still talking,’ said Linda.
‘I’m only talking to tell you that you have the floor,’ said Tom. ‘I was just trying to hurry things up.’
‘You’re slowing things down, Tom.’
‘Will you both shut up and then we can hear Linda’s story,’ said Elizabeth.
‘How can we hear her story if they’ve both shut up?’ said Reggie.
‘Jimmy and I made love on the eleventh green,’ said Linda.
Everyone was silent. Tom gawped. Elizabeth turned pale.
‘Not really,’ said Linda. ‘But I had to get your attention somehow. No, the only thing that happened was that he pointed inland, roughly north-west I should think, and said their place was over there.’
‘We’ll leave in the morning,’ said Reggie.
Reggie and Elizabeth set off for Cornwall early the next morning in unsettled October weather, and pulled up in the spacious car park of the Fishermen’s Arms five minutes before lunch-time closing.
Reggie ordered a pint of real ale and a gin and tonic. Only then, having established them as typical pub customers, did he make inquires about Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther and James ‘Cock-up’ Anderson.
‘Tha what? Oh aye, that’ll be them rum buggers live at Trepanning House,’ said Danny Arkwright, licensed to sell beers, wines and spirits.
‘Keep themselves to themselves,’ said Annie Arkwright, licensed to live with Danny Arkwright in marital bliss. ‘They never say nowt to nobody.’
They’re not widely liked,’ said the landlord. ‘Incomers, tha knows. We’re right canny folk wi’ incomers round here.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Reggie, ‘but aren’t you incomers yourselves?’
‘Running a pub’s different,’ said the landlord. ‘We’re in t’public eye, like. In t’limelight. What’s tha want wi’ them, any road?’
‘I’m Mr Anderson’s sister,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Oh. Sorry if I’ve said owt I shouldn’t have, luv.’
‘Not at all.’
‘All I know is, they play it right close to t’chest. Even built letter-box by t’road for postman. There’s probably nowt to it but I reckon they’re playing funny buggers.’
‘Where is this Trepanning House?’ said Reggie.
‘It’s off main Truro road. A few miles inland, on t’right. Typical old farmhouse. It’s hidden from t’road in a bit of a dip. You can’t miss it.’
Danny Arkwright offered them an after-hours drink.
‘We’d better get on,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Well, just a pint,’ said Reggie.
It had been decided that Reggie should go alone to Trepanning House. His aim would be to arrange a meeting between brother and sister at which Colonel Clive ‘Lofty’ Anstruther was conspicuous by his absence. Now that the time was drawing near he wasn’t looking forward to his mission. Another pint was most welcome.
They sat on bar stools in the empty bar full of dead glasses. The landlord and his wife talked of how happy they were. They didn’t miss the grime of Rotherham at all. Why should they? Of course the chip shops weren’t much good in Cornwall. No scraps. But anyway they were all going Chinese in Rotherham. And of course they missed the fortnightly trip to Millmoor to see United.
‘Late fifties, early sixties, by, we had some that could play,’ said the landlord. ‘Ironside in goal. Lambert, Danny Williams.’
‘Keith Kettleborough,’ said his comely spouse.
‘Oh aye, Keith Kettleborough,’ said the landlord.
‘But it’s much cleaner here,’ said the landlady.
‘Oh aye, much cleaner,’ said the landlord.
‘Better for the kids,’ said the landlady.
‘What? There’s no comparison,’ said the landlord.
‘He was a ninety-minute player, was Kettleborough,’ said the landlady.
‘Oh aye, I’ve got to give him that, he was a ninety-minute player all right, was Kettleborough,’ said the landlord.
Reggie nodded his agreement. It was nice to sip his pint and agree that Kettleborough was a ninety-minute player. If only he didn’t have this business of Jimmy to sort out.
‘Well, I’d better be on my way,’ he said.
‘Oh aye, tha’d best be off,’ said the landlord.
‘Be careful now,’ said the landlady.
The light was already fading as Reggie drove cautiously up the track towards Trepanning House. The track was pitted with holes that were filled with muddy water, and halfway along it was totally blocked by a fallen tree.
He ploughed on in his Wellington boots. Trepanning House was a bleak and comfortless granite house, square, sturdy, unadorned. No welcoming light came from its windows. No comforting animal sounds came from the tumbledown barns and byres.
The ill-tempered sunset died petulantly. The wind howled. On all sides were the derelict towers of old tin workings and in the distance the hills of china clay stood against the evening sky like miniature snowy Dolomites.
Reggie rang the bell three times, but there was no reply. He knocked and knocked, but Trepanning House was deserted.
He crossed the silent farmyard, his feet squelching in cloying mud. There was a brief lull in the wind. A dog barked on a distant farm.
Cautiously Reggie entered the first of the barns. A beam swung across the doorway and struck him on the back of the head, and a huge cage descended around him.
When he came round he was lying on a camp bed in a bare bedroom with peeling wallpaper and a flaking ceiling, and Jimmy was sitting anxiously at his bedside. A one-bar electric fire was making no impression on the chill, damp air.
‘He’s come round,’ called out Jimmy.
‘Well done,’ came a distant voice.
‘My trap worked a dream, then,’ said Jimmy.
‘Yes,’ said Reggie wryly, feeling the bumps on his head gingerly.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Jimmy. ‘Not aimed at you. Aimed at intruders.’
Jimmy helped him downstairs. When he had phoned Elizabeth and was seated in an armchair in front of a wood fire, with a brandy in his hand, he began to feel better.
There was a shabby white carpet, two armchairs, a burst sofa, an occasional table and a heavily scratched oak bureau. Beside the fireplace there was a pair of brass fire-tongs.
‘I don’t see much sign of your secret army,’ said Reggie. ‘Are things going badly?’
‘Very much the reverse,’ said Jimmy. ‘Fully operational within the twelve-month. Can’t say much. Security. Suffice to say, supporters from many quarters – press, city, a leading non-commercial TV company.’
‘Money pouring in,’ said Clive. ‘Donations large and small.’
‘Welcome recruit though,’ said Jimmy.
‘Oh I haven’t come to join you,’ said Reggie. ‘I couldn’t join your crazy outfit.’
If looks could kill, Clive’s eyes would have got fifteen years.
‘Elizabeth read about you in the paper,’ said Reggie. ‘We’ve come down to try and persuade you to change your mind.’
‘No
t an earthly,’ said Jimmy.
‘She wants to talk to you,’ said Reggie.
‘No can do,’ said Clive. ‘Not on.’
‘I must see her, Clive,’ said Jimmy. ‘She’s my sister.’
‘Absolutely right,’ said Clive. ‘Good soldier needs a happy mind.’
‘Beam worked a treat,’ said Jimmy.
‘Why have you set up such an elaborate trap?’ said Reggie.
‘Don’t want people nosing around,’ said Jimmy.
‘Journalists,’ said Clive. ‘Place is stiff with journalists.’
‘Police,’ said Jimmy. ‘Anarchists. Do-gooders. Birdwatchers. Nosey-parkers in general.’
‘On the surface, absolutely normal household,’ said Clive.
‘No sign of secret activities,’ said Jimmy, dropping a log on to the fire. ‘No one would ever guess there’s a huge armoury hidden in the Dutch barn.’
‘Sssssh!’ said Clive.
‘Sorry,’ said Jimmy.
‘Don’t you think,’ said Reggie ‘that the average nosey-parker in general might think there was something to hide here when he found paths blocked by fallen trees and beams and cages trapping him when he ventured into barns?’
There was a pause.
‘Point, Clive?’ said Jimmy.
‘Point, Jimmy,’ said Clive.
It was half past eleven before they arrived at the Fishermen’s Arms, and the lights in the bar had been dimmed. Despite this more than twenty people were still drinking.
‘She’s upstairs,’ said the landlady. ‘You’re stopping here. Room three.’
Reggie bought drinks and the offer of ham and eggs was warmly accepted.
And so they ate ham and eggs in a little bedroom with daffodil-yellow wallpaper and a matching bedspread. An extra chair was produced, the electric fire warmed the room more than adequately, and the rain and wind soon seemed far away.
Jimmy was shy and embarrassed in Elizabeth’s presence.
‘Sorry upset you,’ he said. ‘Not object of exercise.’
‘It was all in the papers,’ said Elizabeth. ‘They called you James “Cock-up” Anderson.’
‘Words,’ said Jimmy scornfully.
On the bedside table there was a Bible and a copy of the Cycling News for July.
‘Be honest, Jimmy,’ said Reggie. ‘Have you honestly got any remote chance of being effective even if your opportunity ever comes?’