by David Nobbs
David and Prue Harris-Jones sold their flat in Reading.
Tony and Joan sold their flat and had a ceremonial burning of three thousand central heating brochures.
Doc Morrissey borrowed every book on psychology that Southall library possessed. He read them both avidly, long into the cumin-scented night.
C.J. returned to Blancmange Cottage, Godalming. He told Mrs C.J. of his new job, and suggested that it might be better, for the time being, if she were to visit her friends in Luxembourg. He was surprised by the speed with which she acceded to this proposition.
Elizabeth bought three tents.
March gave way to April, and the mild winter proved to have a sharp sting in its tail.
The great day approached.
McBlane arrived three days before the others. Reggie had booked him into the Botchley Arms. He was dark, tense and slim, with a hint of suppressed power. His spots had got worse and there were three boil plasters on his neck.
He spent much of the first day examining his equipment. He also examined the kitchen and the range of utensils that Elizabeth had provided.
Reggie and Elizabeth dined at the Oven D’or. They were the only diners. They felt too nervous to do justice to their meal.
They were worried about McBlane. If the eating arrangements were a fiasco, morale would slump.
On the second day, McBlane stocked up his commodious deep-freeze, his spacious fridge, his ample herb and spice racks.
When he had gone back to the Botchley Arms for an evening of hard drinking, Elizabeth examined his purchases. They were varied, sensible and interesting.
Reggie and Elizabeth dined at the New Bengal Restaurant. They were the only diners. They felt too nervous to do justice to their food.
On the third day their doubts about McBlane were swept away on a wave of glorious cooking smells.
Reggie went into the kitchen towards the end of the morning.
‘Is everything all right, McBlane?’ he asked.
McBlane’s reply sounded to Reggie like ‘Ee goon awfa’ muckle frae gang doon ee puir wee scrogglers ye thwink.’
‘Sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘Not . . . er . . . not quite with you.’
‘Ee goon awfa’ muckle frae gang doon ee puir wee scrogglers ye thwink.’
‘Ah. Jolly good. Carry on, McBlane.’
That evening, Reggie and Elizabeth dined at the Golden Jasmine House. They were the only diners. They felt too nervous to do justice to their food.
The day of the staff’s arrival dawned. The sun was warm between the scudding clouds. In his letter of instructions Reggie had asked them to be there by noon. C.J. arrived at ten fifty-eight.
‘You’re the first to arrive,’ said Reggie, ushering him into the living-room.
‘I didn’t get where I am today without being the first to arrive,’ said C.J.
‘We’ll erect the tents this afternoon,’
‘Ah. Yes. The tents. Splendid.’
Elizabeth entered with a tray of coffee. C.J. leapt up.
‘My dear Elizabeth. Splendid,’ he said.
He kissed her on the hand.
‘You grow more beautiful as you grow . . . er . . . as you grow more beautiful,’ he said.
Elizabeth’s eyes were cool as she met C.J.’s gaze.
‘Coffee, C.J.?’ she asked.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m community secretary,’ she said. ‘Anything you need, indent for it with me please.’
‘Ah . . . er . . . quite,’ said C.J.
He sat on the settee. Elizabeth chose the furthest armchair and pulled her skirt down over her knees.
There was an awkward pause.
‘Well!’ said C.J. ‘Well well well!’
‘Quite,’ said Reggie.
‘Exactly. I’m looking forward to getting to know the other staff,’ said C.J.
‘You’ll know some of them already,’ said Reggie.
‘Really? Good Lord.’
Doc Morrissey arrived next. He looked astonished to see C.J.
‘Well well well!’ he said.
‘Precisely,’ said C.J. ‘How are you, are you well?’
‘Pretty well,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘I seem to have picked up a touch of arthritis in the joints of my hands. My doctor puts it down to over-exercise.’
‘You mustn’t believe all the doctors say. Doc,’ said Reggie.
Elizabeth smiled radiantly at Doc Morrissey as she handed him his coffee. He sat beside C.J. on the settee.
At eleven twenty-seven David and Prue Harris-Jones arrived. Young Reggie was sleeping peacefully in his carrycot. They seemed astonished to see C.J. and Doc Morrissey.
‘Well well well!’ they said.
‘Exactly,’ said C.J. and Doc Morrissey.
‘I hope you aren’t alarmed to see your old friends,’ said Reggie.
‘No. Super,’ said David and Prue Harris-Jones.
At eleven forty-nine Tom and Linda arrived. Tom carried a bottle wrapped in tissue paper.
‘Well well well,’ he said, when he saw the others.
Everybody laughed.
‘Why are you laughing?’ said Tom.
‘That’s what everyone said,’ said Reggie.
‘I see. I’m unoriginal. Good,’ said Tom.
‘Oh, Tom,’ said Linda.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I just can’t see anything riotously funny in the fact that I said “Well well well”,’ said Tom.
Tom sat in the remaining armchair, leaving Linda to squat on the pouffe. Elizabeth poured coffee busily.
‘We’re putting up our tents this afternoon,’ C.J. told Doc Morrissey.
‘Tents. Ah. Jolly good,’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘A heavy shower splattered fiercely against the french windows.
‘I forgot this,’ said Tom, handing Reggie a bottle. ‘It’s the last bottle of my prune wine.’
‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Reggie. ‘We must keep it for a really suitable occasion. I know. My funeral.’
Everybody except Tom laughed.
‘Sorry, Tom,’ said Reggie. ‘It was just a little joke.’
‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,’ said Tom. ‘I’m not a joke person.’
‘No,’ said Linda.
The doorbell rang again. It was Tony and Joan.
Tom turned towards them expectantly, hoping that Tony would say ‘Well well well!’
‘The whole gang!’ said Tony. ‘You crafty sod, Reggie. Knock-out.’
Lunch was a triumph. It consisted of vichyssoise, boeuf bourguignon and zabaglione.
After lunch, Elizabeth thanked McBlane profusely.
‘I thanked him profusely,’ she told Reggie.
‘Was he pleased?’
‘I don’t know. There was a sentence in the middle that I thought I understood, but I must have got it wrong.’
‘What was it?’ said Reggie.
‘It sounded like “Bloody foreign muck”.’
They spent the afternoon settling into their living quarters.
‘I hope you don’t mind Adam and Jocasta sharing a room,’ said Reggie.
‘We insist on it,’ said Linda. ‘We don’t want to give them a thing about sex.’
‘Premature sexual segregation promotes incalculable emotional introversion,’ said Tom.
The rain held off, and it wasn’t too difficult to erect the tents on the back lawn.
The tents were erected by C.J., Doc Morrissey and Tony.
Joan walked across the lawn. She looked displeased.
‘Tony?’ she said.
‘Yeah?’ said Tony, who was bent over a recalcitrant rod.
‘Who are these tents for?’
‘C.J., Doc Morrissey and us.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stand up, Tony. I can’t talk to you like that.’
‘I can’t stand up or the tent’ll collapse,’ said Tony.
‘Let it collapse.’
‘What?’
&nbs
p; ‘You never told me we were going to live in a tent.’
‘Didn’t I? I thought I did.’
At last Tony was free to stand up.
‘Easy,’ he said. ‘No sweat.’
‘Tony?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me we were going to live in a tent?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘Tony?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m not living in a tent.’
‘Oh, come on, Joany. It’ll be fun. A summer under canvas. Knock-out.’
Reggie approached them across the lawn.
‘What’s the trouble?’ he said.
‘Joan refuses to sleep in a tent,’ said Tony.
‘I’ll get double pneumonia,’ said Joan.
‘Rubbish,’ said Tony. ‘It’ll be Health City, Arizona. Anyway, you’re as tough as old boots.’
‘Lovely,’ said Joan. ‘What a delicate, feminine compliment.’
Behind them, C.J. stood back and surveyed his completed tent with ill-concealed pride.
‘It’ll be lovely in a tent, Joan,’ said Reggie. ‘I wish I could sleep in one.’
‘Why don’t you, then?’ said Joan.
‘I’d like to,’ said Reggie. ‘But I’m head of this community. It wouldn’t look right. It’s only till the clients arrive, Joan. I’ll buy other houses then, and as soon as I do, you’ll be the first to move. I promise.’
Joan gave in reluctantly.
Behind them, Doc Morrissey stood back and surveyed his completed tent with ill-concealed pride.
It collapsed.
Later that afternoon, Reggie held a staff meeting.
His purpose was to allocate duties and responsibilities.
They assembled in a wide circle around the living-room, which no longer looked quite so surprisingly spacious.
Outside through the french windows, the three white tents gleamed in the April sun.
Reggie stood with his back to the fireplace.
‘A lot of work here will be communal,’ he said. ‘We’ll have group sessions, the first of which will be tomorrow morning at nine. But you’ll also have individual roles to play and during your training you will familiarize yourselves with these, with other members of staff taking the place of clients. I will hold a watching brief, and Elizabeth, as you know, is secretary.’
Elizabeth smiled in acknowledgement.
‘Doc Morrissey will naturally be our psychologist.’
Doc Morrissey smiled in acknowledgement.
‘Tom, equally naturally, will be responsible for sport.’
‘Sport?’
‘Sport.’
‘I know nothing about sport, Reggie.’
‘That’s all right. Doc Morrissey knows nothing about psychology.’
Everyone laughed.
‘Just a minute,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve been swatting it up like billyo.’
‘Have you really?’ said Reggie. ‘That is bad news. No, Tom, it’s sport for you.’
‘But I’m just not a sports person,’ said Tom.
‘It’s true,’ said Linda. ‘He doesn’t know one end of a cricket racket from the other.’
‘They’re bats. I know that much,’ said Tom.
‘It was a joke,’ said Linda.
‘Ah, well, there you are,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m not a joke person. Seriously though, Reggie, I was hoping to do something with old English crafts. I’ve been rather bitten by the crafts’ bug. Thatching, basket-weaving, that sort of thing. I’d prefer it if the popular Saturday evening TV programme was called “Craft of the Day”, and its Sunday equivalent was . . .’ Tom paused roguishly ‘. . . “The Big Thatch”.’
One or two people smiled.
‘You see,’ said Tom. ‘When I do make a joke you don’t take any notice.’
C.J. laughed abruptly.
‘Just got it,’ he said. ‘”The Big Thatch”. Well done, Tom. I didn’t get where I am today without recognizing a rib-tickling play on words when I hear it.’
‘No, Tom,’ said Reggie. ‘Sport it is. We have to be unconventional, if we’re to free our sport from competition and aggression, so your pathetic ignorance is just what I want.’
‘Oh. Well, thanks, Reggie.’
Reggie smiled at Joan, who was sitting on the pouffe.
‘You’ll be responsible for music,’ he said.
Tony snorted.
‘Why do you snort?’ said Joan, whipping round to glare at him.
‘You’re tone deaf,’ said Tony.
‘Thank you,’ said Joan. ‘You really know how to make a woman feel good.’
‘Tony, you’ll be responsible for culture,’ said Reggie.
It was Joan’s turn to snort.
‘Culture?’
‘Culture.’
‘Culture. Fine. With you. No sweat,’ said Tony. ‘I’ll really hit culture.’
Prue,’ said Reggie, turning towards the hard chair where Prue sat, slightly out of the circle. ‘You’ll be responsible for crafts. Thatching, basket-weaving, that sort of thing. Excellent therapy.’
‘Super,’ said Prue.
‘I must say, Reggie, I think that’s a bit thick,’ said Tom.
‘Need you for sport. Sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘C.J., your work will be work.’
‘I don’t follow you, Reggie,’ said C.J.
‘Nobody understands the problems of man’s relationship with his work better than you.’
‘Thank you, Reggie.’
‘You’ve caused so many of them.’
‘Thank you, Reggie.’
‘A lot of the people who come to Perrins will be unhappy in their work. You’ll simulate work situations and help them overcome their problems. Linda, you’ll deal with art. Painting, drawing, etcetera.’
‘Must I?’ said Linda.
‘And finally David,’ said Reggie.
David Harris-Jones smiled nervously.
‘You’ll deal with sex,’ said Reggie.
David Harris-Jones fainted.
‘Art’s dreary,’ said Linda. ‘Can’t I have sex?’
‘Not while you’re married to me,’ said Tom.
Dinner consisted of pate, grilled trout, and trifle. It was excellent.
Dark uncompromising night descended upon Number Twenty-one, Oslo Avenue, Botchley.
Dark uncompromising night descended upon the back garden of Number Twenty-one, Oslo Avenue, Botchley.
Dark uncompromising night descended upon the three tents lined up at the bottom of the lawn in the back garden of Number Twenty-one, Oslo Avenue.
A Tilley lamp shone on C.J. as he lay in his sleeping-bag, looking up at the narrowing angle at the top of his tent.
He was thinking.
He had decided to write a book about Reggie Perrin’s community.
He had never written a book before, but there was a first time for everything.
He began to write.
‘A Tilley lamp shone on me,’ he wrote, ‘as I lay in my sleeping bag, looking up at the narrowing angle at the top of my tent.’
I was thinking.
I had decided to write a book about Reggie Perrin’s community.
I had never written a book before, but there was a first time for everything.
I began to write.
What an unimaginative way of starting a book.
‘What an unimaginative way of starting a book,’ wrote C.J. ‘I ripped up the paper and hurled it to the far corner of the tent.’
In the other two tents, the lamps were already out. Doc Morrissey was trying to sleep, and Tony was trying to persuade Joan to make love.
The aims were different, the failures equal.
Tom was sitting on the bed, in his underpants. The wallpaper was floral.
‘Come to bed,’ said Linda.
Tom began to put on his pyjamas.
‘Don’t put your pyjamas on,’ said Linda.
‘The
y said it might be pretty cold later on,’ said Tom. ‘Minus two by dawn in sheltered inland areas.’
He clambered into bed and kissed Linda on the cheek.
‘Night, Squelchypoos,’ he said.
‘Tom! Please don’t call me Squelchypoos, Tom.’
‘Well, come on, tell me what you want me to call you.’
‘A proper term of endearment, Tom.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, Cuddlypuddles.’
‘Cuddlypuddles is as bad as Squelchypoos.’
‘To you it is. To me it isn’t.’
Tom propped himself up on his left elbow, the better to assume mastery of the conversation.
‘I’m sorry, Linda,’ he said. ‘But for the life of me I can’t distinguish any great difference between Squelchypoos and Cuddlypuddles.’
‘Oh stop being pompous, Tom.’
Tom abandoned mastery and plumped for being hurt. This involved lying on his back and staring fixedly at the ceiling.
‘I can’t help being pompous, Linda,’ he said. ‘I drew the ticker marked pomposity in the lottery of life. I’m a pomposity person.’
‘That’s another thing, Tom.’
‘What?’
‘Do try and stop saying “I’m a whatsit person” all the time.’
‘I never say “I’m a whatsit person”.’
‘You just said “I’m a pomposity person”.’
‘I’ve never said “I’m a whatsit person”.’
Linda turned angrily on her side, facing away from Tom.
‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is we’re talking about, you say, “I’m not a whatever it is person”.’
‘It’s just a phrase I’m going through, Linda. I can’t help it. It’s like C.J. can’t help saying “I didn’t get where I am today”. I just don’t happen to be an “I didn’t get where I am today” person. I’m an “I’m a whatever it is person” person.’
‘Oh, Tom, for God’s sake. We’re supposed to be setting up an ideal society here.’
‘Perhaps I’m just not an ideal society person, Cuddlypuddles.’
‘It’s been an excellent first day,’ whispered Reggie.
Oslo Avenue lay draped in the thick velvet of suburban sleep, eerie, timeless, endless.
Reggie began to stroke Elizabeth’s stomach.
‘No,’ she said, stiffening.
‘Stop stiffening,’ he said. ‘Leave that to me.’
‘People will hear,’ she whispered.
He put his ear to the wall.
‘Reggie, don’t,’ she whispered. ‘That’s disgraceful. It’s intruding on people’s privacy. Can you hear anything?’