by David Nobbs
‘What was I supposed to be blackmailing you about?’ said Reggie.
‘The . . . er . . . my . . . er . . . my little peccadillo with . . . er . . . the Dalmatian princess,’ said C.J.
‘Dalmatian princess?’ said Reggie.
‘The one I met in Godalming.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Reggie, between laughs.
‘I was led on,’ said C.J. ‘You know what these Dalmatian princesses are.’
‘No,’ said Reggie. ‘Actually I don’t. What are these Dalmatian princesses?’
After lunch Reggie went back to Sunshine Desserts with C.J., and called on Tony Webster. It gave him an excuse to see Joan.
Tony was delighted to see him. He had quite a plush office, with three abstract paintings and a cocktail cabinet.
‘You’re doing amazingly well, Reggie,’ he said, indicating with his arm that Reggie sit in a huge armchair provided for just such an eventuality.
‘I can’t grumble.’
‘Great. Everyone here knew what you were made of.’
‘Thank you, Tony.’
‘Brandy?’
‘Thank you. I can see that you’re doing well, too.’
‘Amazing. Fantastic. I’m really into the executive bit nowadays. I’m a changed man, Reggie. I’m into security and responsibility and all that crap.’
‘I’m happy for you. How are things at Sunshine Desserts?’
‘Going from strength to strength. This is success city.’
‘Good. Marvellous.’
Tony handed Reggie an excessively large brandy.
‘Where’s Joan?’ said Reggie.
Tony made no reply.
‘Where’s Joan?’ repeated Reggie.
‘She’s left,’ said Tony.
‘Oh. Happy event?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
Tony sat side-saddle on his desk.
‘We got married,’ he said. ‘Honeymooned on the Italian Riviera. I thought it would be traditional without being clichéd.’
‘How was it?’
‘Sewage city. The hotel had a private beach next to the outlet pipe. Joan and I were great. Fantabulous. Honestly, Reggie, it was like there had never been anybody else, know what I mean?’
‘Yes, Tony, I know what you mean.’
‘Then I went off with this Finnish chick. Joan found out. Exit one marriage. End of story.’
‘I see. I . . . er . . . I see.’
There was a pause. Reggie sipped his brandy and waited for Tony to speak.
‘Joan’s left here,’ he said at last. ‘We thought it was best.’
‘I see. And what about . . . er . . .?’
‘The Helsinki raver? I imagine it’s raving its little arse off in Helsinki. The whole thing’s changed me, I can tell you. It’s made me grow up. You know what it was like with me, Reggie. Trendsville, USA. Not any more. That’s dull city.’
Reggie refused the offer of some more brandy, but Tony had some.
‘So is there no possibility of a reconciliation between you and Joan?’
‘No way. But no way. We were both on the rebound anyway. You remember my dolly bird with no tits?’
‘I remember a rather lovely blonde. I didn’t particularly remark the absence of mammaries.’
‘Well anyway I was on the rebound from her, and Joan was on the rebound from . . . Joan was on the rebound as well. How’s David Harris-Jones settling in?’
‘Very well.’
‘Great. Still saying “super” all the time, is he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great.’
Reggie stood up. It was time to go.
‘Where is Joan now?’ he said.
‘She’s working for the Glycero Ointment Company in Godalming.’
‘Good God.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason.’
Tony moved round his desk and sat in his chair, as if he was now ready for official business.
‘Sit down a moment, Reggie,’ he said.
Reggie sat down.
‘There’s one thing I ought to tell you, Reggie. Perhaps I shouldn’t.’
‘Don’t then.’
‘No. I won’t. It was the last night of our honeymoon.’
‘I’m not sure I want to hear it.’
‘No. We were having it off and it was making everything we’d done before look like a fashion show for Mothercare.’
‘I’m sure I don’t want to hear it.’
‘And she moaned, “Oh Reggie, Reggie.” Just that.’
There was a long silence.
‘I can’t think of anything to say,’ said Reggie.
‘I just thought I ought to tell you.’
‘Thanks, Tony.’
‘Just a piece of advice, Reggie, man to man. That one is very mixed up. But I mean mixed up. It could be very bad news.’
‘Thank you, Tony,’ said Reggie, standing up again.
‘I’d give it a wide berth if I were you.’
They shook hands.
‘Mind you, marrying it was the best thing I ever did,’ said Tony ‘OK, it didn’t work out, but it’s made me grow up.’
As soon as he got back to the office, Reggie asked Miss Erith to get Joan.
‘Mrs Webster on yellow,’ said Miss Erith.
‘Hello, Joan,’ said Reggie.
‘Hello, Reggie.’
‘How are you?’
‘Surviving.’
‘I wondered if we could have lunch one day.’
‘Lunch is difficult,’ said Joan. ‘Evenings are better. I could meet you one evening after work. There’s a nice pub on the Hog’s Back called the Dissipated Kipper.’
‘Thursday next week?’ said Reggie, not wanting to seem too keen.
‘Why not? I must go now. Here comes my boss. I’ll look forward to it, Reggie. Bye.’
Next he dialled Doc Morrissey, whose number he had been given by C.J., and asked him if he could call round at twelve on the following Tuesday. Doc Morrissey consulted his empty diary and said that he could.
There was a soft, uncertain knock on the door.
‘Come in, David,’ said Reggie.
David Harris-Jones tiptoed in cautiously.
‘Sorry to barge in,’ he said. ‘I wondered if you’d like to check the memo I’m sending to Design about the harmless pills and powders and suppositories.’
Reggie looked it over briefly.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘A minor masterpiece of succinct exposition. I’ve just seen your old sparring partner Tony Webster.’
‘How is he?’
‘Great.’
‘Super. Still saying “great” all the time, is he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Super.’
The older he gets, the younger he talks.’
‘How are things at Sunshine Desserts?’
‘Great.’
‘Super. Prue and I are looking forward to this evening, Reggie.’
‘Why? What are you doing?’
David Harris-Jones looked rather puzzled, then laughed half-heartedly.
Pools of sodium were reflected on the glistening pavements of the Poets’ Estate as Reggie walked home. The rain that had swept dramatically in from the Atlantic now dripped lifelessly from the street lamps into the gutters.
He walked along Station Road, up the snicket, up Wordsworth Drive, turned right into Tennyson Avenue, then left into Coleridge Close. The curtains in the living-rooms of the spacious houses were closed upon scenes of domestic calm.
Reggie wondered if his curtains would be closed upon a scene of domestic calm when he informed Elizabeth that he was offering Joan the post of his secretary, instead of Miss Erith.
Perhaps he would say nothing, in case it never happened.
No, it would be even worse if he only broached the subject after he had seen Joan. He must raise it tonight.
The house was warm and cosy. The smokeless fuel glowed merrily in the grate.
‘You haven’t forgotten that Tom and Linda are coming to dinner?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Oh my God, I had.’
‘And Jimmy.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘And Jimmy’s new woman.’
‘Oh my God.’
Jimmy, his divorce to Sheila still warm, had announced his engagement to a lady named Lettuce Horncastle.
‘And the David Harris-Joneses.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘I am telling you that we are to spend the evening with several dearly beloved members of our family, and all you can do is say “Oh my God”.’
‘I’m sorry, darling. But why on earth if it’s a family do are we having the Harris-Jones’s?’
‘Because in your friendly sociable way you said: “We may as well get them all over together”.’
‘I’m not unsociable,’ said Reggie, pouring himself a rather large whisky. ‘I like people. I just don’t like dinner parties. Ah, so that’s why David Harris-Jones said he was looking forward to this evening? I thought it was a comment on his sex life.’
‘He won’t be having much of that. Prue’s very pregnant. I told you all about it this morning, but you never listen to a word I say.’
Elizabeth had some final preparations to do so they went into the kitchen.
‘Can I help?’ said Reggie, eager to soften Elizabeth up for the conversation about Joan.
‘You can prepare the fennel.’
‘I don’t know how to prepare fennel,’ said Reggie.
‘Well you can do the sprouts. You know how to do them.’ Reggie began to do the sprouts.
‘I’m thinking of employing Joan Greengross,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ said Elizabeth. ‘What as?’
‘My secretary.’
‘Very nice for you.’
‘Yes it would be. She’s very efficient.’
‘Oh good.’
‘You aren’t annoyed are you?’ said Reggie, making unnecessarily savage cuts in a tiny Bedfordshire sprout.
‘No. Why should I be?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Exactly,’ said Reggie.
‘I thought you had a secretary,’ said Elizabeth.
‘She’s hopeless.’
‘Not as much fun as Joan?’
‘For God’s sake,’ said Reggie, hurling a handful of sprouts at the wall, where they bounced harmlessly against the ‘Glory of the Lakes’ calendar.
‘I see now why you don’t want me working there,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Now it’s becoming clear.’
‘This isn’t the time to talk about it,’ said Reggie, getting down on his hands and knees to retrieve the sprouts.
‘How typical of a man,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You start the subject and then when I get upset, it’s the wrong time to talk about it.’
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it,’ said Reggie.
He got to his feet again and placed the sprouts back on the table.
‘I want to come and work with you,’ said Elizabeth.
‘You can’t be my secretary.’
‘I don’t want to be your secretary. I want to be your partner.’
They’ll be here soon, darling.’
‘Let them come. I want an office of my own, a job of my own and a starting date.’
‘Darling, they’ll be here any minute.’
‘Let them ring. There’ll be no dinner tonight unless you agree.’
‘That’s an ultimatum.’
‘Yes.’
‘I won’t negotiate under pressure.’
Elizabeth took off her ‘Save The Children’ apron.
‘You can start the first Monday in January,’ he said.
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Elizabeth put on her ‘Save The Children’ apron.
‘You’ll be bored,’ said Reggie. ‘It’s boring work.’
Elizabeth took the knife out of his hands.
‘Let me do the sprouts,’ she said. ‘You’ll take all night.’
Reggie opened the wine while Elizabeth did the sprouts.
‘So when are you seeing Joan?’ she inquired.
‘Next Thursday at the Dissipated Kipper on the Hog’s Back.’
‘Why there? That’s miles away.’
‘She works round there.’
‘On the Hog’s Back?’
‘She works in Godalming.’
‘Oh. Godalming.’
‘You say Godalming as if it has some special significance.’
‘I don’t,’ said Elizabeth. ‘What significance could Godalming possibly have?’
The doorbell rang. It was David Harris-Jones and his wife Prue, a pleasant young lady whose normally plump body was rendered huge by advanced pregnancy.
‘I hope we aren’t early, only we didn’t want to be late,’ said David.
‘You’re the first,’ said Reggie. ‘But somebody has to be first.’
‘That’s true,’ said Prue.
‘I must apologize for my wife’s condition,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘Well, it is your fault,’ said Prue.
‘Drink?’ said Reggie.
‘Sherry, please. Super,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘What for?’ said Reggie.
‘Prue has this idea that I keep saying super,’ said David. ‘She’s trying to stop me.’
Reggie handed David and Prue their sherries.
‘Super,’ said David.
Next to arrive were Jimmy and his fiancee. She was a large woman of the kind euphemistically described as handsome. In the absence of anything else nice to say about it, people often said that her face showed sense of character. Reggie felt that Jimmy must have recruited her for military rather than sexual reasons. She would come in pretty handy driving a tank if the balloon ever did go up.
‘This is Lettuce,’ said Jimmy.
Drinks were poured. Introductions were effected. Congratulations were proffered with embarrassment and accepted coyly.
‘New pictures,’ said Jimmy, pointing to a selection of rather good abstracts. When Elizabeth’s mother had died, she had left them her pictures and in order not to have to put them in the living-room Reggie had bought six paintings at the Climthorpe Craft Centre.
‘Bit deep for me,’ said Jimmy.
‘Me too,’ said Lettuce.
‘I like them,’ said Prue.
‘How are things in your country retreat, Jimmy?’ said Reggie.
‘On course,’ said Jimmy. ‘On course.’
‘What exactly do you do?’ said David.
‘Business,’ said Jimmy. ‘Import export, eh, Lettuce?’
‘Very much so,’ said Lettuce.
Elizabeth entered with bowls of Japanese cocktail delicacies. Further introductions were effected. Their drinks rested on coasters decorated with pictures of famous English inns.
‘You were in the army, weren’t you, Jimmy?’ said David.
‘Yes. Sacked. Too old. No hard feelings, though.’
‘Hard feelings never won fair lady,’ said Lettuce.
‘And I have certainly done that,’ said Jimmy.
‘You certainly have,’ said Reggie.
He topped up their glasses from the wide array of bottles on the sideboard.
‘Tom and Linda are late as usual,’ he said.
‘Linda coming?’ said Jimmy eagerly.
‘Yes.’
‘Niece,’ said Jimmy to Lettuce. ‘Don’t know whether I’ve mentioned her in dispatches.’
‘Once or twice,’ said Lettuce.
‘Favourite uncle, that sort of crack,’ said Jimmy.
‘How’s Lofty?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Cilve’s in the pink,’ said Jimmy.
Prue shifted her bulk uneasily in the largest of the armchairs.
‘Are you comfy in that chair, Prue?’ said Elizabeth.
‘She’s fine,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘She doesn’t want to be a nuisance, do you, Prue?’
‘Actually I’d be
much more comfortable in an upright chair,’ said Prue.
‘Sensible girl,’ said Reggie, bringing forward a chair of exactly the kind indicated – viz. upright.
There was a pause.
‘We ordered some garden recliners and a canopy on Saturday,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘Canopies, can’t beat them,’ said Jimmy. ‘Just the ticket out East.’
‘I thought it was better to get the summer stuff in the winter when there’s no rush,’ said David.
‘We’ll need some garden furniture,’ said Jimmy. ‘Eh, Lettuce? We’re both fresh air fanatics.’
‘I’ve got four canvas chairs and a slatted teak table,’ said Lettuce.
‘Have you now?’ said Jimmy.
‘When are you going back to Cornwall?’ said Elizabeth.
‘First light,’ said Jimmy. ‘Crack of.’
‘Which route do you take?’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘A.303,’ said Jimmy, ‘A.30 dead loss, motorway tedious.’
‘I hate motorways,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Fond of the old A.303,’ said Jimmy. ‘Soft spot.’
‘You’re very quiet, Prue,’ said Reggie. ‘No thoughts about the old A.303?’
Prue smiled.
‘I know David gets nervous and wishes I’d talk more and shine more,’ said Prue.
‘I don’t,’ said David Harris-Jones.
‘You think people will think I’m dull,’ said Prue. ‘Probably they will. You see, Reggie, now that I’ve got the baby inside me, all growing and kicking and alive, well somehow I just can’t be bothered to talk about things like garden furniture.’
‘What a splendid young woman you’ve married, David,’ said Reggie.
Linda arrived at last, but without Tom.
‘Tom sends his apologies,’ she said, accepting a drink and a handful of seaweed crunchies. ‘He’s suddenly come down with the most appalling cold.’
‘Again?’ said Elizabeth.
‘He’s having one of those winters,’ said Linda. ‘He’s getting cold after cold.’
‘That’s the fourth cold he’s had to my knowledge,’ said Elizabeth, ‘and it isn’t even Christmas yet.’
‘Winter colds are nasty,’ said Lettuce. ‘Sometimes they come back for a second bite.’
‘Summer colds can be tricky customers,’ said Jimmy. ‘Persistent little pip-squeaks, summer colds.’
‘There are an awful lot of awful colds around,’ said David Harris-Jones. ‘Especially in Surrey. Or so I heard.’
‘I read that too,’ said Lettuce. ‘It said that the Bagshot district was practically awash.’