by David Nobbs
‘I was using a figure of speech,’ whispered Reggie.
‘Ah! Figures of speech not my line. Not many metaphors in Queen’s Own Berkshire Light Infantry. Hyperbole exception rather than rule in BFPO thirty-three.’
‘No doubt you see what I’m driving at,’ whispered Reggie.
‘Never see what people are driving at, Reggie.’
‘Ah! What I’m driving at is this, Jimmy. I don’t think that blowing “Come to the cookhouse door, boys” on your bugle is quite our style.’
‘I see.’
‘Besides, what will the neighbours say?’
‘Ah! Admit it. Forgot the neighbours. Great boon of army life, no neighbours. “Guns one to eight, fire!” “Excuse me, sir?” “Yes, Smudger, what is it?” “Won’t we wake the neighbours, sir?” “Good God, so we will. Cancel the firing. We’ll have some cocoa instead. Good thinking, Smudger.” Doesn’t happen. World might be different if it did. Thought?’
‘It certainly is, Jimmy.’
But neighbours there assuredly were in Oslo Avenue, Botchley, and shortly after breakfast on the Saturday morning they made their presence felt. The weather was showery.
Mr Penfold, from Number Twenty-three, was the first to arrive. Prue, whose turn it was for answering the door, ushered him into the living-room. He had a small head and stick-out ears.
‘I’d like to have a word with you if I may, Mr Perrin,’ he said.
‘Certainly,’ said Reggie. ‘Would you like coffee? My wife makes excellent coffee.’
Doc Morrissey served coffee and biscuits. When he had gone Mr Penfold said, ‘Er . . . excuse me, but this place is a little unusual, and unusual things are really quite usual these days. So . . . er . . . well . . .’
He swallowed hard.
‘That wasn’t your wife, was it?’ he said.
Reggie laughed heartily.
‘No,’ he said. ‘That was my Doc Morrissey. We share all duties in our community.’
‘Community?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. I really must . . . er . . . lovely coffee . . . I really must put my foot down. Well, it isn’t really me. It’s Mrs Penfold.’
‘You really must put Mrs Penfold’s foot down.’
Mr Penfold sat perched on the edge of his chair, taking his coffee in tiny sips.
‘After all, Oslo Avenue isn’t the King’s Road, Chelsea,’ he averred.
‘It isn’t the Reeperbahn in Hamburg,’ agreed Reggie.
‘I’m glad you see it my way,’ said Mr Penfold.
‘It isn’t the red light district of Amsterdam either.’
‘Precisely.’
‘It’s a pity, isn’t it?’
Careful, Reggie. You need these people on your side.
Mr Penfold leant forward so far that he almost toppled off the chair.
‘Not to me, it isn’t,’ he said. ‘Mrs Penfold is not a well woman, Mr Peirin. I’m afraid that all this
‘All this, Mr Penfold?’
Mr Penfold waved his arms, including the french windows, the three pictures of bygone Botchley and the standard lamp in the environmental outrage that was being perpetrated on him.
The doorbell rang again, and Prue ushered in Mrs Hollies, from Number Nineteen.
Doc Morrissey produced an extra cup, and Mrs Hollies’s verdict on the coffee reinforced that of Mr Penfold.
‘Don’t worry. That’s not his wife,’ said Mr Penfold, when Doc Morrissey had gone.
‘What?’ said Mrs Hollies.
‘That man who served coffee. He’s not Mr Perrin’s wife.’
Mrs Hollies looked at Mr Penfold in astonishment.
‘Do we owe the pleasure of your visit to any particular purpose?’ Reggie inquired pleasantly.
‘It’s Mr Hollies,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘Mr Hollies has to take things very easily. The slightest disturbance to his routine, and Mr Hollies goes completely haywire. It’s his work. These are perilous times in the world of sawdust.’
‘Sawdust?’ said Reggie.
‘Mr Hollies is in the sawdust supply industry,’ said Mrs Hollies.
‘What exactly does that mean?’ asked Reggie.
‘He supplies sawdust.’
‘I see.’
‘To butchers, bars, zoos, furriers, circuses.’
‘Where sawdust is needed,’ said Reggie, ‘there is Mr Hollies.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Do I deduce that thing’s aren’t good in the world of sawdust?’ said Mr Penfold.
‘Not what they were, but then, what is?’ said Mrs Hollies.
‘You can say that again,’ said Mr Penfold.
Mrs Hollies spurned the invitation. Instead, she said: ‘In and out like the tide. Up and down like Tower Bridge. These biscuits are delicious. Where do you get them?’
‘Finefare,’ said C.J., passing through with the hoover.
There were pretty blue flowers round the edge of C.J.’s pinny.
‘They share everything here,’ explained Mr Penfold.
‘Some share more than others,’ said C.J. darkly, and with that ominous thrust he departed.
‘I must admit that I came round to . . . er . . . inquire what exactly is going on here,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘I don’t mind myself, an Englishman’s home is his castle, but it’s Mr Hollies’s nerves.’
‘What exactly are you complaining about?’ said Reggie politely.
Tents in the garden,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘It isn’t natural.’
‘Babies crying at all hours. Comings and goings,’ said Mr Penfold.
‘Goings and comings,’ said Mrs Hollies.
‘That’s the same complaint twice,’ said Reggie. ‘One man’s coming is another man’s going.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Mr Penfold.
‘Just testing,’ said Reggie.
Careful, Reggie.
‘Anything else?’ said Reggie.
‘Cars parked outside the house,’ said Mr Penfold. ‘You probably think that’s petty, but it’s Mrs Penfold.’
‘Mr Hollies is the same,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘Me, you could park juggernauts outside.’
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Mr Penfold, ‘you could have a line of pantechnicons stretching from Beirut Crescent to Buenos Aires Rise.’
‘But it’s Mr Hollies,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘Mr Hollies is very jealous of his front view. Cars parked in front of our house, they prey on his mind.’
‘Mrs Penfold’s exactly the same,’ said Mr Penfold. ‘Cars parked in front of our verge, they’re a red rag to a bull.’
‘It’s the number of people you have here,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘It’s the uncertainty.’
‘I mean, this is a residential street, let’s face it,’ said Mr Penfold.
‘It’s wondering what you’re up to, with the tents and the bugle and that,’ said Mr Hollies.
Reggie stood up.
‘I’m in a position to set your minds at rest,’ he said. ‘First, the bugle. I can give you a unilateral assurance that there will be no more bugling.’
‘Oh well. You can’t say fairer than that,’ said Mr Penfold.
‘So far as it goes,’ said Mrs Hollies. ‘But what about everything else?’
‘Secondly, everything else. You are privileged to live next to an amazing and historic development. In this road, hitherto barely known in Botchley, let alone in the great wen beyond, you are going to see the formation of an ideal society.’
‘A Utopia, you mean?’ said Penfold.
‘I suppose you could call it that,’ said Reggie.
‘If you wanted a Utopia, you’d have done better to take one of those big houses in Rio De Janeiro Lane,’ said Mr Penfold. ‘They’ve got forecourt parking, you see.’
‘The people here at present are my staff,’ explained Reggie. ‘They’re in the middle of their training, learning how . . .’
Tom burst in from the direction of the kitchen. He had a bucket of water and a chamois leather.
‘C.J. has acc
used me of not pulling my weight,’ he said. ‘Either he goes or I do. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had visitors.’
‘Tom, these are our neighbours, Mr Penfold and Mrs Hollies. This is Tom, our sports wizard,’ said Reggie.
Tom fixed Mrs Hollies with an intense gaze.
‘Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I’m just not a pulling my weight person,’ he told her.
‘Where was I?’ said Reggie, sitting down again after Tom’s departure. ‘Oh yes. These people are in the middle of training, learning how to be happy, generous, perfect people.’
Mrs Hollies produced a thinly veiled sneer.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Reggie. ‘Well, yes. We all have a long way to go. That’s what makes it fascinating. Who’d bother to climb Everest if it was flat?’
‘Mrs Penfold and I,’ said Mr Penfold. ‘It’d be just about our mark.’
‘People will flock to this place, as soon as it’s open to the public,’ said Reggie. ‘Casualties of our over-complicated society will seek help in their hundreds.’
Mr Penfold and Mrs Hollies turned pale.
‘I hope I’ve set your minds at rest,’ said Reggie.
The next day was Sunday. It rained on and off. There was only play in one John Player League cricket match. The word of the day was Knowledge.
Reggie sat in his study, reading an encyclopedia. The door handle slowly turned. It was Jocasta, bringing him a cup of coffee. Not all of it had spilled in the saucer.
He thanked her gravely.
‘Adam’s got a willy and I’ve got a hole,’ she said.
‘What a satisfactory arrangement,’ said Reggie.
‘I wouldn’t want a willy.’
‘Quite right.’
‘Has C.J. got a willy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you seen it?’
‘No.’
Reggie tipped the spilt coffee back into his cup.
‘How d’you know he’s got a willy if you haven’t seen it?’
The balance of probabilities.’
‘Has he got a hole?’
‘No.’
‘Liar. He’s got one in his bum.’
Reggie sipped the coffee. It was lukewarm.
‘Mankind, Jocasta, is distinguished from the lower orders by his capacity to conceptualize about abstract matters of ethical, moral, aesthetic, scientific and mathematical concern,’ he said. ‘I know you’re only six, but I think you ought to be turning your mind to slightly higher questions than you are at present.’
‘Does C.J. sit down when he does his wee-wees?’
That evening Reggie told Tom and Linda about Jocasta’s thirst for knowledge. Tom looked glum.
‘Her failure is a mirror of our failure,’ he said.
‘Your failure is a mirror of my failure,’ said Reggie.
On Monday it rained all day. There was no play in the Schweppes County Championship or the Rothmans Tennis. The word of the day was Innovation.
Tom called on Reggie in his study. He was wearing a blue tracksuit and carried an orange football.
‘I’ve got an innovation,’ he said.
‘Fire away,’ said Reggie.
Tom sprawled in an upright chair that might have been designed specifically to prevent sprawling.
‘Football,’ he said.
‘It’s been done before,’ said Reggie.
‘With a difference,’ persisted Tom. ‘Football with no aggro, no fouls, no tension, no violence.’
‘What’s the secret?’ said Reggie.
‘No opposition,’ said Tom.
‘Pardon?’
‘You asked me to be unconventional. This is unconventional. We have eleven members of staff. The perfect team. Only nobody plays against us. We use skill, passing, teamwork, and tactics. It’s pure football, Reggie.’
‘Interesting,’ said Reggie.
‘I’ve been in touch with Botchley Albion,’ said Tom. ‘They play in the Isthmian League. They can rent us some costumes for a consideration. We don’t want to look ridiculous.’
Tuesday dawned cloudy but dry. The word of the day was Connect.
It was C.J.’s turn to be analysed by Doc Morrissey. The chaise-longue, purchased at the Botchley Antique Boutique, seemed out of place in Doc Morrissey’s tent.
‘Lie down on the couch,’ he told C.J.
C.J. clambered on to the chaise-longue with bad grace.
Doc Morrissey lay back on his sleeping bag.
‘A little word association,’ he said. ‘Both of us making random connections. Sex.’
‘Table tennis,’ said C.J.
‘Why?’
‘Random.’
‘When I say random, I mean that you’re to let subconscious logical associations replace your conscious logical associations. Let’s start again. Sex.’
‘Table tennis.’
‘Oh for goodness sake, C.J,’
‘In my palmier days,’ said C.J., ‘I had relations with a table tennis player in Hong Kong. She had a very unusual grip.’
‘What happened?’
‘She beat me twenty-one-seventeen, twenty-one-twelve, twenty-one-nine. Then she took me home and I beat her. She seemed to enjoy that sort of thing. Very disturbing. So did I. Even more disturbing.’
‘Why did you say it was a random association, then?’
‘I was lying.’
Doc Morrissey sighed.
‘You’re on this project, C.J.,’ he said. ‘You might as well take it seriously.’
‘Oh very well.’
C.J. stared at the cool white roof of Doc Morrissey’s tent. He could feel his mind going blank.
‘Table tennis,’ said Doc Morrissey.
‘Sex.’
‘Girl.’
‘Dance.’
‘Gooseberry.’
‘Raspberry.’
‘Fool.’
‘Jimmy.’
‘Army.’
‘Resistance.’
‘Underground.’
‘Rush-hour.’
‘Red buses.’
‘Moscow.’
‘St Petersburg.’
‘Dostoyevsky.’
‘Idiot.’
‘Jimmy.’
‘Very interesting,’ said Doc Morrissey when they had finished. ‘Why do you associate Jimmy with fool and idiot?’
‘He is a fool and an idiot.’
‘People can’t help what they are,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘Their behaviour is conditioned by many things. You should say, “The many environmental and hereditary influences to which I have been subjected lead me to believe Jimmy is an idiot”.’
‘He is an idiot.’
‘All right. The many environmental and hereditary influences to which I have been subjected lead me to believe that the many environmental and hereditary influences to which Jimmy has been subjected have made him an idiot.’
C.J. clambered stiffly off the couch.
‘Is that all?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Doc Morrissey. ‘Many factors influence our behaviour. The state of the planets. Our biorhythmic cycle. The weather.’
‘The many environmental and hereditary influences to which I have been subjected, allied to my low biorhythmic cycle, the relationship of Pluto to Uranus, the fact that it’s pissing down in Rangoon and that my auntie was jilted by a tobacconist from Wrexham lead me to believe that you’re talking a load of balls,’ said C.J.
Wednesday dawned dry but cloudy. The word of the day was Bananas. For the best part of an hour, they struggled to think bananas, talk bananas and be bananas.
Then they gave it up.
Thursday began brightly but fell off fast. The word of the day was Bananas.
They examined the slips that remained in the hat, and found that eight more carried the legend ‘Bananas’. They never found out who had chosen bananas for all their ten words.
They abandoned having a word of the day after that. Doc Morrissey explained that it was stifling i
ndividual responses and preventing a steady emotional development.
Friday was extremely cold for May. Severiano Ballasteros shot a five under par sixty-six to win the Tampax Invitation Classic by three strokes.
In the evening Reggie put a little plan into action.
McBlane’s excellent dinner was already but a memory. Little Reggie was asleep. Adam and Jocasta were watching Kojak. Reggie and Elizabeth waited for their guests in the living-room. Four guests were invited. But only Mr Penfold and Mrs Hollies arrived. Their loved ones were indisposed.
They accepted small medium sherries.
‘I have great news for you,’ said Reggie. ‘I’ve decided that you were right. This is not a suitable environment for our project. We’re selling up.’
Mrs Hollies and Mr Penfold tried not to show their relief. They accepted more sherry with pleasure and praised the decor with sudden enthusiasm.
‘The would-be purchaser is calling round shortly,’ said Reggie. ‘You’ll be able to meet him.’
Quite soon the doorbell rang.
This may be him now,’ said Reggie.
Elizabeth answered the door. Mr Penfold and Mrs Hollies stood up expectantly. Elizabeth returned with Tony, who was heavily blacked up.
‘Ah, there you are, Winston,’ said Reggie.
‘Here ah is, man,’ said Tony.
‘This is Mr Winston Baldwin Gladstone Vincent Fredericks,’ said Reggie.
Tony flashed his carefully whitened teeth, and extended a blackened hand. He was worried lest the boot-polish came off – unnecessarily. Neither Mr Penfold nor Mrs Hollies seemed over-anxious to shake his hand.
‘I don’t think my new neighbours dig me man,’ said Tony. ‘Because I’m a black man, man. Sure is a sad thing. I was really looking forward to scoring some curried goat barbecues with them this summer.’
On Tuesday afternoon Tom led his team out for their football match versus nobody. A ‘For Sale’ board was being stuck in the soft earth outside Number Nineteen.
The eleven members of staff turned left, past the ‘For Sale’ board in the garden of Number Twenty-three. They looked self-conscious and sheepish in the Botchley Albion strip. Varicose veins and white legs abounded.
They turned right into Washington Road, Doc Morrissey behind Joan, gazing at her legs.
‘Yellow and purple suits you,’ whispered Jimmy to Linda. ‘Legs as top-hole as ever.’
They turned left into Addis Ababa Avenue.
‘I’m playing a four-three-three line-up,’ Tom confided to Reggie.