by David Nobbs
Elizabeth squeezed his arm.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ she said.
Chapter 26
Friday, October the twenty-second dawned bright but windy. Breakfast was perfect. Ponsonby was listless. The newspapers were gloomy. Reggie’s motions were adequate.
The post brought nine invitations. They were flooding in, following his TV appearances and the announcement that he would stand as the Individual Party candidate for the Parliamentary constituency of Climthorpe.
He was asked to appear on the panel of the Climthorpe Rotary Club’s Charity ‘Just a Minute’ evening. He was implored to talk to the Hemel Hempstead Flat Earth Circle on ‘Dissent in the Age of Conformity’, at a reception to mark the launching of their first and last single: ‘It’s Love that Makes the World go Flat.’
It was even proposed that he should deliver the L. De Garde Peach Memorial Lecture in Chipping Campden Corn Exchange.
Reggie and Elizabeth set off for work together as usual.
Reggie was feeling a turmoil of claustrophobia and frustration. He had grown to hate going to Perrin Products as much as he had grown to hate going to Sunshine Desserts. He must destroy his reputation soon. He would make great efforts today. Yes, today he would really go to town.
Elizabeth was thinking that they had better prune the rose bushes before the election campaign really got going.
Neither of them knew that they were taking their walk for the last time.
They turned right into Tennyson Avenue for the last time, then left into Wordsworth Drive, and down the snicket into Station Road.
They stood by the door marked ‘Isolation Telephone’ for the last time, and reached Waterloo twenty-two minutes late for the last time. The loudspeaker announcement blamed an escaped cheetah at Chessington North. If they had thought, they might have known that this excuse could never be topped.
Reggie asked Joan into his office, missed the hat-stand with his umbrella for the last time, and smiled at Joan across his desk.
‘How are things going with Tony?’ he said.
‘Very well.’
‘Good. I’m glad.’
He went over to her and kissed her hard and full on the mouth. He flinched, expecting a slap across the cheek that never came.
‘Thank you, Mr Perrin,’ she said.
‘You don’t mind?’ he said.
‘Why should I mind?’ she said. ‘I find you attractive.’
‘Ah! Take a letter, Joan. To the Manager, Grot, Shrewsbury. Dear Sir, it has come to my notice that you are serving Welsh people in your shop. I did not think it necessary to mention this. I want no Welsh people served from now on.’
Joan took the letter down without protest.
‘You find that letter perfectly all right, do you, Joan?’ he said.
‘I’m learning to have faith in your judgement,’ said Joan. ‘Besides, I understand how you feel. I once had a horrid evening with a boy from Clun.’
At twelve o’clock he interviewed a Mr Herbert who had applied for the post of manager of Grot’s Retford branch.
Mr Herbert was anxious, naturally nervous. He had receding black hair, with heavy dandruff.
They shook hands.
‘Have to get rid of that dandruff,’ said Reggie.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Mr Herbert, sitting uncomfortably.
There’s a chap in Switzerland, clears dandruff in a fortnight. Painful course. Starvation and electrolodes. But I will not have dandruff in this firm.’
‘I understand,’ said Mr Herbert.
‘Where would the Metal Box Company be now if they hadn’t come down so heavily on athlete’s foot? And your socks are dreadful. Have you no taste?’
‘They were a present from an aunt.’
‘Aunts are one thing, commerce is another.’
‘I realize that,’ said Mr Herbert.
‘You don’t mind my talking to you like this?’
‘You’ve a right to.’
He couldn’t go through with it. He couldn’t go on insulting this harmless little man. It was the wrong way to go about it altogether.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I really am truly sorry.’
Mr Herbert almost looked disappointed, as if Reggie’s giant status as the eccentric boss of Grot, the man you were proud to love to hate to work for, was melting away before his eyes.
‘Do take the job,’ said Reggie.
He walked over and patted Mr Herbert’s shoulder.
‘Let’s go and have lunch,’ he said.
Mr Herbert stood up obediently.
‘You’re a very nice, personable, good-looking, attractive man,’ said Reggie. ‘You’ll be a credit to Retford.’
Mr Herbert was by now looking thoroughly alarmed, and he looked even more alarmed when Reggie put a friendly arm round him and steered him towards the door.
‘I like your socks,’ said Reggie. ‘I really do. And a touch of dandruff can do wonders to brighten up a lifeless jacket.’
Mr Herbert fled.
The incident gave Reggie an idea. He would start making homosexual advances. He asked Joan to send for the manager of the Oxford Street branch.
At half past four he saw Mr Lisburn, the manager of the Oxford Street branch.
Reggie felt nervous. Anxious though he was to shock, he was going to find this interview difficult.
Mr Lisburn entered somewhat fearfully. He was a small man with a pointed beard, a stiff little walk and a tight bottom.
‘Drink?’ said Reggie.
‘Gin and bitter lemon’s my tipple,’ said Mr Lisburn, with a faint trace of cockney beneath elocution lessons.
Reggie poured him a gin and bitter lemon. To do less, under the circumstances, would have been churlish.
‘I expect you wonder why I’ve asked you here,’ said Reggie.
‘Well, yes, Mr Perrin, I do.’
‘Call me Reggie, please.’
Reggie’s voice was coming out in a strained croak. He wanted to give up but fought against it. Somewhere, somehow, the seeds of his destruction must be sown.
‘It’s Percy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Reggie.’
Reggie sat on the top of his desk, looking down at Mr Lisburn and swinging his legs.
‘These are the 1970s,’ said Reggie, and Mr Lisburn did not demur. ‘Social taboos are breaking down. Certain practices, once considered horrifying, are practically de rigueur in certain circles.’
He forced himself to go on. Fury, allegations, scandal -they beckoned like the sweet handmaidens of Araby.
‘I’m married,’ said Reggie, ‘but I have certain inclinations. Do I make myself clear?’
The astonished Mr Lisburn nodded, then took a large swig of his gin and bitter lemon.
‘Oh good. Good,’ said Reggie. ‘I fight against it. God knows, I fight against it. But it’s no good. It’s too strong for me. If only … if only I hadn’t gone to a public school. But there it is, I did, and there’s nothing that can be done about it. Do you understand?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Lisburn.
‘Every now and then it just … well, anyway, I was wondering if we could … er … as it were … perhaps we could go to a hotel or somewhere some time and … er … as it were … together.’
‘Sure. Suits me fine. I’m free every evening next week.’
‘Ah! Ah! Yes. Next week is a little difficult. I’m all tied up,’ said Reggie, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
‘I’m free Sunday,’ said Percy Lisburn.
‘Ah!’ Reggie stood up. ‘Sundays are slightly difficult.’
‘The week after next, then,’ said Mr Lisburn.
‘Yes. Absolutely. Let’s hope so.’
‘I can’t get over it, Mr Perrin. I’d never have dreamt you were like that.’
‘No, nor would I. Well, better run along now, Percy.’
Reggie held out his hand, then hastily withdrew it.
Mr Lisburn walked stiffly towards the door. Then he turned.
‘Ah, that is interesting,’ said Reggie.
‘Luxury flats. Films. People of any sex, creed or colour. Cabaret. Yacht. All very discreet. No risk of scandal.’
‘Excellent. Excellent. We must go into that. Goodbye, Percy.’
‘Bye bye then, Reggie. Or is it just au revoir?’
No it bloody isn’t.
‘Yes,’ said Reggie. ‘Au revoir, I should say.’
‘Thanks for el liquido refreshmento. See you the week after next, I hope,’ said Percy Lisburn, blowing Reggie a faint kiss.
‘Yes … er … we’ll keep our legs … er … our fingers crossed.’
When Percy Lisburn had gone, Reggie was sick into his window-box.
C.J. and Elizabeth were having dinner with some French estate agents, so Reggie walked home alone. His heart was heavy.
He put on shorts, cricket boots, and one of Elizabeth’s blouses, and managed to create for himself a passable pair of breasts.
He felt a certain anticipation as he entered the saloon bar of the Ode and Sonnet in his grotesque garb. He could just imagine the outrage.
A roar of laughter greeted his appearance. Drinks were pressed upon him, the solicitor revealed a highly creditable wolf whistle, and the managing director of the clock factory said: ‘I get it. Individual party. Individually dressed. Good gimmick, Reggie.’
Reggie downed an embarrassed pint and walked sadly home.
There had been showers during the day but the evening had cleared again.
Dusk was approaching.
Reggie changed out of his absurd outfit and put a portion of frozen chicken casserole in the oven.
Then he poured himself a gin and tonic, and sat in his favourite armchair, with Ponsonby on his lap.
‘Well, Ponsonby,’ he said, stroking the gently purring cat. ‘What do I do next? How do I destroy this empire I don’t want?’
Ponsonby put forward no theories.
‘Exactly. You don’t know. Nor do I. The invitations are pouring in, Ponsonby. Everybody wants me to talk to them, waiting for me to be unpredictable. And when I am they’ll say: “There he goes. He’s being unpredictable. I thought he would. Oh, good, he’s saying something completely unexpected. I expected he would.”’
Ponsonby purred faintly.
‘Nothing I do can shock anyone any more, Ponsonby. What a fate.
‘So what of the future, Ponsonby? Am I to go on from success to success? Grot will sweep the Continent. I’ll get the OBE. We’ll win the Queen’s award for industry. I’ll get into Parliament. I’ll be asked to appear on Any Questions. Climthorpe will be elected to the football league. Local streets will be renamed Reginald Road and Perrin Parade.’
Ponsonby gave a miaow so faint it was impossible to tell whether the prospect delighted or appalled him.
‘A new stand will be built at the Woggle Road end of the football ground. It’ll be named the Perrin stand. The walls of the Reginald Perrin Leisure Centre will be disfigured with the simple message: “Perrin Shed.” I’ll be made Poet Laureate. On the birth of Prince Charles’s first son I shall write:
The bells ring out with pride and joy
Our prince has given us a boy.
‘I shall become richer and richer, lonelier and lonelier, madder and madder. I shall believe that everybody is after my money. I shall refuse to walk on the floor, for fear of contamination. And, unlike Howard Hughes, who seemed strangely trusting in this respect, I shan’t be prepared to walk on lavatory paper, because that will be equally contaminated. I shall die, tense, emaciated, rich, alone. There will be a furore over my will. What do you think of all that as a prospect, Ponsonby?’
Ponsonby thought nothing of all that, because Ponsonby was dead. He had died an old cat’s death, gently upon a sea of words.
Reggie cried.
Chapter 27
Saturday, October the twenty-third. A perilously bright morning.
They buried Ponsonby beyond the lupins. Nothing sickly and sentimental. A shallow depression, and stuck in the ground a gardener’s label. It said, simply: ‘Ponsonby.’
Reggie glanced at Elizabeth. He had talked to her till three in the morning. She had agreed, in the end, to everything that he said.
‘Are you still sure?’ he said. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ she said.
All day, while Elizabeth made preparations, Reggie campaigned. He spoke, loud and confident, to the shoppers of Climthorpe.
At eight o’clock he entered the Methodist Hall in West-bury Park Road, to make his inaugural speech as the Individual Party Candidate for Climthorpe.
The hall was crowded. There wasn’t a spare seat.
Every single person in the hall wore a large rosette in the middle of which was Reggie’s smiling face. It was distinctly unnerving – all those smiling Reggies grinning up at him.
The chairman was Peter Cartwright, self-styled agent of Reggie Perrin. He spoke in hesitant but fulsome praise. His voice seemed very far away.
Reggie looked out at the sea of faces. He noticed Tom and Linda, Doc Morrissey, David Harris-Jones and Prue, Tony Webster and Joan, Mr Pelham and his Kevin, Seamus Finnegan, the Milfords, Jimmy, and the whole of the Climthorpe Football Team, who had consolidated their lead at the top of the Southern League First Division South by beating Salisbury 2-0, with goals by that shrewd duo of voters, FITTOCK and CLENCH.
It was Reggie’s turn to speak at last. He stepped forward. There was a prolonged, thunderous ovation, dying electrically into expectation.
‘I understand,’ he began ‘that there are six hundred and forty-one more people here tonight than at the Liberal meeting yesterday. I would like to thank all six hundred and forty-two of you for coming.’
A thunderous wall of laughter struck him. It went on and on and on. Political laughter has nothing to do with humour. It is an expression of mass solidarity, of reassurance – an affirmation that the bandwagon is rolling and the audience has chosen the right side. People laughing at political meetings always look round to show everybody else that they are laughing.
At last the laughter died down. CLENCH had laughed so much that he had aggravated his old hamstring injury.
Reggie took off his jacket.
‘My message is simple,’ he said. ‘Some might call it stark.’
He took off his tie.
‘I am a simple soul,’ he said. ‘I only want to get things in proportion.’
He took off his shirt. There was a buzz of conversation, as he stood there, naked from the waist up, in front of all his supporters. He waited, calmly, until there was silence again.
‘Do I need to list the inhumanities that man has committed to man?’ he said, bending down to remove his shoes.
When he had taken his shoes and socks off, he stood upright again and waited once more for silence.
‘I intend to stand before you stark bollock naked,’ he said. ‘Do you think that an unsuitable thing to do? If so, you may withdraw your support from my campaign. If the sight of a human body outrages you, and the dreadful cruelty of the world does not, I don’t want your support. And now I’ll shut up, because I hate being pompous.’
To mounting uproar in the hall, mixed with giggling and laughter, and to mounting indecision on the platform, Reggie took off his trousers and underpants.
He stood and faced the audience, white and vulnerable, hairy and veiny, thin and paunchy by turns, a man in middle age.
He stared at the audience with a fixed gaze, and raised his right hand in an appeal for silence.
Slowly the hubbub died down. Total silence fell on the Methodist Hall.
‘Are there any questions?’ he said.
The lane dipped towards the sea. The headlights picked out the fiery splendours of late autumn.
They passed through a little village of chalets, bungalows and cottages. Many were shuttered for the winter.
Reggie pulled up in the Municipal Car Park. The attendant’s hut was closed for the winter, and the telescope was locked.
The night air was cool, with a sharp breeze from the east. Reggie removed their suitcases from the boot.
In the suitcases were the spare clothes and disguises that Elizabeth had bought on Saturday.
There were also eleven hundred pounds that Reggie had stored in the loft during the last two prosperous years.
Had he always suspected that one day it would come to this?
The wind was making the shutters on the beach café bang.
‘I wonder where the stock goes in the winter,’ said Reggie. ‘Is it all still there, gathering dust and damp behind those shutters – the tin buckets, cheap wooden spades, brightly coloured balls of every size, frisbees, hoops, beach shoes, dark glasses, sun-hats, insect repellents and sun-tan oils?’
Elizabeth remained silent, deep within her fears.
They went down the steps past the lifebelt, and out on to the shingle.
It was hard walking on the shingle. Reggie wanted to carry Elizabeth’s case, but she refused.
‘Whatever we do from now on, we’re equal partners,’ she said. ‘I think I deserve that. After all, I have married you twice.’
Soon they were under the huge sandy cliffs to the west of the village. There was no light except for the regular beam of a lighthouse away to the east.
Then the clouds were swept away and the moon shone brightly on their half-naked bodies dwarfed beneath the cliffs.
They put their new clothes on. They felt strange and prickly and damp. They adjusted each other’s wigs. It was nice to have Elizabeth there this time, to fix his beard.
They left some money and documents in their old clothes, and on top of the clothes they pinned their suicide note. It spoke of intolerable pressures and the disgrace of the political meeting.
Reggie looked down at his pile of old clothes. ‘Goodbye, Reggie’s clothes,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, old Reggie.’
‘Goodbye, Elizabeth’s clothes,’ said Elizabeth uncertainly. ‘Goodbye, old Elizabeth.’
A gust of wind brought a hint of rain, then the wind dropped and the sky cleared once again.