by David Nobbs
He stood up and grinned down at the little gathering in the darkened room.
‘Sod the air vents,’ he said.
The meeting dispersed. The snow had almost stopped. The sky was lightening.
Reggie walked back along the white pavement to Number Twenty-one, for lunch. At his side was Mr Dent.
‘Thank you,’ said Reggie.
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Dent.
They stood in the hall, taking off their coats and stamping the snow off their shoes, bringing life back to numbed feet.
‘I look at life, going on around me,’ said Reggie. ‘Ordinary, mundane. I look at the crowds in the streets or on the floor of the stock exchange, or streaming over London Bridge. The crowds on trains and buses. The crowds at football and cricket matches. Ordinary people, mundane. Then I read the papers. Court reports, sex offences, spying cases, fantasies, illusions, deceits, mistakes. Chaos. Rich, incredible chaos. Human absurdity. And I just can’t reconcile the two. The ordinary crowds. The amazing secrets. This morning, in that room, they were reconciled.’
His face was alight with triumph. He banged his right fist into his left palm.
Tom, passing through the hall on his way to lunch, stood stockstill and stared at him.
‘Eureka,’ he said.
The whiteness of sun on snow flooded in through the frosted glass window in the front door, illuminating the stained glass of its central pane. As they went in to lunch, the sun shone brilliantly on the virgin snow. Within three hours, all traces of snow had gone. Botchley was grey and dark once more.
The explanation of Tom’s excited cry of ‘Eureka’ didn’t come until lunchtime the following day. Tom sat at Reggie’s left hand, Tony Webster on Reggie’s right. The guests all congregated towards the middle of the table, as if for protection.
‘You remember when I said “Eureka” yesterday,’ said Tom.
‘I do indeed,’ said Reggie.
‘I had a brainwave, but decided to sleep on it. It’s a new idea to take the aggression out of sport.’
He took a large mouthful of succulent roast pork and chewed it thirty-two times. At last he’d finished.
‘Boxing,’ he said.
‘Once again, events have moved too fast for you,’ said Reggie. ‘The thing’s been invented, I fear.’
‘Non-aggressive boxing,’ said Tom, taking a mouthful of McBlane’s exquisite red cabbage.
‘Boxing’s the most aggressive sport there is,’ said Tony Webster.
Tom chewed his red cabbage impassively. At last he had finished.
‘It was your gesture that suggested it, Reggie,’ he said. ‘When you hit your palm with your fist.’
‘Suggested what?’ groaned Reggie.
‘Each person hits himself instead of his opponent,’ said Tom.
Reggie and Tony stared at him.
‘That’s a very interesting idea, Tom,’ said Reggie.
‘Knock-out,’ said Tony.
‘That’s exactly what it won’t be,’ said Reggie. ‘Well done, Tom.’
The following Wednesday afternoon, Reggie had another visitor from Botchley Borough Council. He was Mr Winstanley, Mr Dent’s boss.
The weather was bright and breezy. Reggie was relaxed after his lamb cutlets with rosemary. Mr Winstanley was resentful after his cottage pie and chips. Reggie escorted him into the sun-room.
Mr Winstanley was a shambling, untidy, shiny man, with a paunch like a vast tumour. He could have looked like a gentleman who had fallen on hard times, if he hadn’t let himself go.
‘Did our Mr Dent come to see you last week?’ he asked in a hoarsely resonant voice.
‘He did indeed,’ said Reggie. ‘He sat in that very chair, and spoke kindly of my ginger nuts. Would you like some coffee and biscuits?’
Mr Winstanley shook his head and stifled a burp.
‘You’re getting too much starch and grease,’ Reggie informed him.
‘Mr Dent has disappeared,’ said Mr Winstanley.
‘That’s odd,’ said Reggie. ‘I saw him at lunch.’
‘At lunch? Where?’
‘Here, of course.’
‘Here?’
‘Mr Dent has joined our community. Didn’t he tell you?’
Mr Winstanley’s eyes bulged.
‘He most certainly did not,’ he said. ‘He has a secretive streak.’
‘I didn’t realize that,’ said Reggie.
‘He plays it very close to the chest.’
‘It probably comes of having to keep things private at public inquiries,’ said Reggie.
‘Possibly,’ said Mr Winstanley. ‘But if you ask me he’s a bit of a loner. Take my advice, Mr Perrin. Beware of loners.’
‘Thank you, Mr Winstanley. I’ll remember that.’
‘Mr Dent is a bit too fond of stealing plums from under my nose. Anything with a touch of novelty. A hint of the unusual. Off he trots. Doesn’t put it in the diary. A good man, mind, if he wasn’t so secretive.’
Snodgrass appeared at the window of the sun-room, miaowing to be let in.
‘Cats exacerbate my asthmatic condition, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Winstanley. ‘Yes, Mr Dent telephoned us to say that he had the ‘flu, which didn’t surprise me, as he’s not as robust as some of us. No resistance at all. Anyway, I didn’t think twice about it.’
‘You wouldn’t. It’s so boring.’
‘Well, exactly. Then yesterday it came to light that he’d phoned Mrs Dent to say that he’d been sent off to a town planning conference in Harrogate. Of all the flimsy excuses! We’ve tried to trace him through his diary, which was inadequately entered up.’
‘The secretive streak.’
‘Precisely. Eventually our Mr Pennell remembered that he’d said something about checking up on you.’
‘Which you would have loved to do yourself as I’ve made totally unauthorized changes of use and am running a business from five adjoining residential houses with overloaded drains and inadequate air vents, and which I purchased in a most irregular way involving the impersonation of nonwhites.’
Mr Winstanley’s air was one of mystification, rather than gratification.
‘It rather spoils the fun, doesn’t it, when I admit it all like this?’ said Reggie. ‘It offends the hunter and the sportsman in you. Because unless I’m very much mistaken, Mr Winstanley, you are a sportsman.’
‘You wouldn’t be trying to flatter me, would you, Mr Perrin?’ said Mr Winstanley.
‘Of course not. You’re far too shrewd,’ said Reggie.
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Winstanley. ‘We can go into the matter of the houses later. What are we going to do about Mr Dent, that’s the pressing question.’
Snodgrass miaowed pitifully at the window.
‘It’s our sports afternoon. He’ll be taking part in a boxing match. He’s immensely game,’ said Reggie.
Mr Winstanley’s eyes bulged again.
‘Mr Dent’s taking part in a boxing match?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Dent of Botchley Borough Council?’
‘Yes.’
‘Little shorthouse with big ears?’
‘Yes.’
Suddenly, Mr Winstanley smiled. His face was miraculously transformed.
‘This I must see,’ he said.
A small ring, hurriedly ordered from the Botchley Sports Centre, had been erected in the centre of the living-room of Number Twenty-five. There was barely room for the single row of hard chairs which had been placed round the walls for the spectators. Reggie entrusted Mr Winstanley to Doc Morrissey’s care. They took their seats. There were some twenty spectators, staff and guests.
‘This is a very exciting experiment,’ Doc Morrissey told Mr Winstanley. ‘Turning aggression upon oneself in order to come to terms with it.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Mr Winstanley.
There was a red sash on the ropes behind one of the boxers’ chairs, and a blue behind the other. The two seconds entered with their towels and bowls
, and took up their stations behind the chairs. The second in the red corner was the disillusioned imports manager. The second in the blue corner was the even more disillusioned export manager.
Mr Dent and the pub landlord stepped into the ring, discarded their dressing gowns and limbered up.
Mr Dent, in the red corner, was five foot four and thin, his matchstick legs gleaming white beneath the shorts that Elizabeth had bought for him at Lionel of Botchley.
The landlord was six foot three and broad-shouldered.
‘It’s not fair,’ said Mr Winstanley, his resentment of his deputy’s secretive ways temporarily forgotten. ‘He should fight someone his own size.’
‘He is,’ said Doc Morrissey.
Mr Dent caught sight of Mr Winstanley and waved. Reggie stepped into the ring and called the ill-assorted fighters together. He inspected their gloves.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen,’ he boomed. ‘We come to the first bout of the afternoon. This is a three-round, heavy-weight and fly-weight contest between, in the red corner, Mr George Dent, of Botchley, and himself, and in the blue corner, Mr Cedrick Wilkins, of Epsom, versus himself. May neither man win.’
Mr Winstanley looked at Doc Morrissey in bewilderment. The grand old man of the couch beamed. The bell rang. Both pugilists leapt from their chairs and the first round began.
The styles of the two men were as contrasting as their physiques.
Mr Dent put up a determined if somewhat over-cautious defence which his determined if somewhat over-cautious attack was totally unable to penetrate.
Mr Wilkins’s defence was somewhat wild and uncoordinated, so that, although his blows were somewhat wild and uncoordinated, he was able to get in some pretty effective punches, pinning himself against the ropes for long stretches.
At the end of the round both seconds were enthusiastic about their man’s chances.
‘You’re seeing yourself off,’ Mr Dent’s second told him, fanning the little council official’s face with his towel. ‘You’ve got yourself so you just don’t know where to turn.’
‘You’re laying yourself wide open,’ Mr Wilkins’s second told him encouragingly, as the burly publican spat heartily into the bowl. ‘Now go in there and finish yourself off.’
The bell went for the second round.
The landlord soon knocked himself down. He got up after a count of eight, knocked himself down again, struggled up bravely after a count of nine, and knocked himself senseless.
They carried mine unconscious host out of the ring, and he soon revived.
The third and last round was a distinct anti-climax. Mr Dent continued to duck, weave, feint, side-step and hold. Occasionally he managed to hit one hand with the other, but he didn’t succeed in getting in one decent blow during the whole three minutes.
The crowd gave him the bird.
As Mr Dent left the ring to renewed booing he waved once more to Mr Winstanley. He seemed unperturbed by his reception.
The second bout began sensationally. The businessman who answered to the name of Edwards rushed into the middle of the ring, hit himself violently in the balls, cried ‘Below the belt, you swine’, and collapsed in a groaning heap.
‘A victory for that congenital bastard Levingham over the congenial loser Phipps-Partington, you see,’ he told Reggie, when he had recovered sufficiently to speak.
Later that afternoon, Reggie saw Mr Winstanley again. Once more, the venue was the sun-room at Number Twenty-one.
‘That boxing was ridiculous,’ said the paunchy official.
‘Thank you.’
‘Absolutely ludicrous.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘Everybody reacted as though it was the most normal thing in the world.’
‘We ask them to join in. They enjoy it. Children enjoy the ridiculous and what are adults but older children? Unfortunately, adults tend to feel it destroys their dignity to enjoy the ridiculous.’
‘I think it’s ridiculous to enjoy things as ridiculous as that.’
‘Thank you again. As you’re so enthusiastic, why not stay and have a look at us? We have wonderful food.’
‘So Mr Dent says.’
‘I don’t really expect you to stay, Mr Winstanley. You have all your work to do. With Mr Dent away you must be snowed under. Irregularities with air vents are rife in Botchley, I hear, and sun-room extensions are the rule rather than the exception. You don’t want to have to sit with a lot of strangers over our lovely food when you could be indulging in merry banter with your fellow officials over the meat pies in the town hall canteen.’
‘How can I stay?’ said Mr Winstanley. ‘What could I tell people?’
‘Tell your office you’ve got ‘flu, and tell your wife you’ve got to go to a town planning conference in Harrogate.’
‘That’s not a bad idea.’
January gave way to February. Snow gave way to rain and rain gave way again to snow, as the winter continued to tease.
Jimmy and Lettuce got the photos of their honeymoon back, and everyone admired them.
‘There seems to be a bus in every picture,’ Reggie commented.
‘Damned hard to get a picture in Malta without a bus in it. Nature of the terrain,’ said Jimmy. ‘Nice old buses, aren’t they? Lovely shade of green.’
The granite of Lettuce’s face was touched by sunlight as love and amused exasperation played upon her features.
‘Interesting ticket system. Tell you about it some time,’ said Jimmy.
‘I can’t wait,’ said Reggie.
‘Tell you now, then,’ said Jimmy.
‘No. Anticipation is such sweet pleasure,’ said Reggie.
‘No equivalent of our Red Rover, as such, though,’ said Jimmy.
Lettuce spent her time helping Jimmy with his expeditionary activities, but it was understood that she could be used as reinforcements to plug any holes that might develop in the community.
‘Stout girl,’ was Jimmy’s comment. ‘Trouble-shooter. Feather in your cap.’
For the moment, however, there was no trouble to shoot.
There were no holes to plug.
Guests continued to pour in. Some had strange tales and quirks to relate.
There was the hotelier who owned a chain of small hotels and restaurants which bore famous names, but with the first letter missing. He owned the Avoy, Orchester and Itz in London, Affles in Singapore, Axim’s in Paris, the Lgonquin in New York. The idea was that people would mistake them for their renowned equivalents. What actually happened was that some people said, ‘Look. The first letter’s dropped off the Dorchester. It must be going downhill,’ while the others said, ‘Oh, look, some silly berk’s trying to pretend that’s the Ritz’. The final straw to his collapsing empire came when he stayed at the Avoy and found that its first letter had dropped off, so that the neon sign outside the grubby frontage read: ‘VOY HOTEL’.
There was the research chemist whose sexual proclivity was for women who had glandular fever. Since all the women to whom he was attracted refused to go out with him because they were ill with glandular fever, his problem was one of loneliness and frustration.
Then there was the young homosexual who made super-market trolleys and wire baskets at a small firm near the Potteries. Reggie excitedly informed him that his boss was also present, but the meeting between them was not a success. As the boss explained to Reggie, ‘It wouldn’t do for me to have an intimate relationship with a lad on the shop floor. We may both be one of them, but there’s a worker-boss situation to be taken into account as well. A them and us situation. I’m one of them who’s one of us, and he’s one of them who’s one of them.’
Reggie decided to convert the five garages into double bedrooms, to provide more accommodation.
The work was supervised by Mr Dent, with Mr Winstanley as his assistant. Both men enjoyed the reversal of their roles, but they got even greater pleasure out of the unauthorized change of use which they were helping to perpetrate. When Mr Pennell
called round on the trail of his colleagues, he joined in the alterations with relish.
Another man to arrive at this time was Paul Pewsey, the photographer. He sat in the sun-room, confident, pale, superficially effeminate.
‘I can only relate to, you know, things,’ he said. ‘I just can’t relate to, you know, people. I’m in a not relating to people situation.’
Suddenly, to his own surprise, Reggie began to speak.
‘This is because you see people as things,’ he said, smiling hastily to take the sting out of his involuntary words. ‘You see people as things which ought to relate to you. I think you’ve taken up photography not because you want to look at the world through your camera but because you want the world to look at you looking at it. Every photograph you take is really a photograph of yourself taking a photograph. You look like a homosexual but like to be seen in the company of attractive women. That way, you are an object of speculation and mystery. In fact, you are almost asexual, since you are more interested in being admired than in admiring. You want to be both the butterfly and the album. You’re from a working class background and have joined the classless society, which as you know forms a very small and rather conspicuous class. I think that that is all I think and that you will be sorry that I’ve stopped talking about you.’
Paul Pewsey stared at Reggie in astonishment.
So did Reggie.
‘Go on,’ said Paul Pewsey. ‘I love it.’
The arrival of Paul Pewsey was quickly followed by that of Clarissa Spindle, the designer, Loopy Jones-Rigswell, the playboy, Venetia Devenport, the model, and Byron ‘Two breakdowns a year’ Broadsworth, the avant-garde impresario.
In the wake of the newspaper articles and the television appearance, Perrins was becoming fashionable.
Hastily, Reggie widened the scope of his adverts. He inserted an advertisement in the programmes of twenty football league clubs. It concluded with the words, ‘Yobbos accepted. Party rates for mindless louts.’
In the Daily Gleaner he proudly announced, ‘Nig-nogs welcome’.
In the Daily Gunge he declared, ‘Illiterate pigs warmly invited. Get someone who can write to apply to 21, Oslo Avenue, Botchley’.
Confidence was high at this time.
Even C.J. was throwing himself into the spirit of things. In the evenings, it was true, he preferred to remain in his room but by day he had become a fount of strength.