The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (29 page)

Reggie thought of Elizabeth and wondered what on earth he was doing here. He was feeling tired. It was hard work, remembering all the time to talk like Donald Potts and not like Reggie Perrin. But he was determined to be polite to Miss Pershore.

She took a long while to make the coffee, but at last it was ready. They sat in the drooping armchairs, and she told him about her family life, in the days of long ago. Her father had been a draper in Great Malvern, and a stalwart of the local Chamber of Commerce. She talked about the jolly Christ-masses, the close-knit family days, before she became a virgin and a spinster.

‘You may not believe me, Donald,’ she said, her voice thick with Guinness. ‘But I have never given myself to a man.’

‘I believe you,’ he said.

‘Mr Right never came along,’ said Miss Pershore. ‘I always was particular. Particular to a fault, some would say.’

Reggie demurred.

‘I would never have dreamt of giving myself to riff-raff,’ she said.

‘Quite right,’ said Reggie.

The Radio Big Band, conducted by Malcolm Lockyer, provided a suitable accompaniment to their evening beverage.

‘Now take Mr Ellis upstairs,’ said Miss Pershore. ‘He’s a nice man, but not out of the top drawer. You can’t imagine him in the Rotary Club.’

‘He’s all right,’ said Reggie.

‘I’m no snob,’ said Miss Pershore. ‘But there are such things as standards.’

‘You’re right there. Miss Pershore.’

‘Call me Ethel.’

‘Ethel.’

Miss Pershore stood up and peeped out of the curtains.

‘It’s starting to rain,’ she said.

She sat down on the settee.

‘Do you think I have missed life’s greatest experience, never having given myself to a man?’ said Miss Pershore.

‘It all depends what you want out of life,’ said Reggie.

Miss Pershore patted the settee beside her, but Reggie pretended not to notice. One of the cats jumped up, but she shoved it off.

‘You’re so right, Donald,’ she said. ‘The inner life is so much more rewarding.’

‘Ta very much for the coffee, Ethel. I’m ready for my pit,’ said Reggie, stretching and yawning.

In the morning Miss Pershore waylaid him in the hall when he came down to get his milk.

‘I want to thank you,’ she said. ‘I had too much to drink, and you didn’t take advantage of me.’

That’s all right,’ said Reggie.

‘I was yours for the taking, and you desisted.’

‘It was nothing.’

‘You have the hands and body of an under-gardener, but you have the heart and soul of a gentleman,’ said Miss Pershore.

‘Well, ta very much, Ethel,’ said Reggie, embarrassed.

Mr Ellis came downstairs for his milk. He was in his vest, and his biceps rippled.

‘Good morning, Mr Ellis,’ said Miss Pershore. ‘And it is a nice morning.’

‘They gave out rain later,’ said Mr Ellis.

When he bent down to pick up his milk, they could see a slit along the seam of his trousers.

Mr Ellis went upstairs, whistling gloomily. Miss Pershore sighed.

‘He has the body of a Greek God, and the heart and soul of an upholsterer,’ she said.

‘Well, I must go and get my breakfast,’ said Reggie.

‘Come and have a spot of lunch, and we can watch the one-thirty at Market Rasen,’ said Miss Pershore. ‘A friend from the Chamber of Commerce has put me on to a good thing.’

‘I’m afraid I have a prior engagement,’ said Reggie.

The prior engagement consisted of walking round the streets of Hillingley until it was safe to go home again.

It was one-thirty in the morning, and fourteen policemen were drinking after hours in the back bar of the Rose and Crown. Twelve of them were swapping Irish stories at the bar, but Chief Inspector Gate was losing doggedly on the fruit machine, and Constable Barker was trying to get his attention.

‘I think I’m on to something,’ said Constable Barker.

‘Bloody hell. Every time I get a “hold” there’s bugger-all to bloody well hold. I don’t know why I play this machine,’ said Chief Inspector Gate, whose face was flushed with whisky.

‘All I want to do is carry on the search,’ said Constable Barker.

The fruit machine stopped with a clang. Chief Inspector Gate had got an orange, a plum and an apple.

‘I give up,’ he said. ‘Now listen, lad, I want a word with you. Come over into the corner.’

Constable Barker and Chief Inspector Gate sat in the far corner of the darkened bar. A roar of laughter came from the policemen at the bar.

‘Listen, Barker,’ said Chief Inspector Gate. ‘Your evidence amounts to the square root of bugger-all. You find a couple who pick up a rather strange author named Charles Windsor.’

‘There is no author called Charles Windsor.’

‘They drop this pseudo author at Exeter. He stays a night in a hotel and disappears. He’s described as looking like a quantity surveyor who’s trying to be trendy. That description might or might not fit Perrin. The clerk at the hotel thinks he was using a false name, but isn’t sure. Handwriting experts are undecided about his writing being the same as Perrin’s. Big deal. What do you want me to do – get a warrant to search Devon?’

‘There’s many a case been solved by the persistence of one man. Patient, determined, single-minded, he stalks his prey.’

‘I’ll stalk you if you’re not careful. This isn’t a mass murder. It’s not worth it.’

‘It’s all right if I go on making enquiries in my spare time, is it, sir?’

‘Knock it off, Barker. The case is closed.’

‘You must admit that Charles Windsor might be Reggie Perrin.’

‘Yes, and next Christmas my Uncle Cecil may stick his wooden leg up his arse and do toffee apple impressions.’

Sgt Griffiths put a twopenny piece in the fruit machine and got the jack-pot.

‘Did you see that?’ said Chief Inspector Gate. ‘Jammy Welsh bastard. I put all the money in and he gets it out. Come on, Barker, forget the case and have another Pernod. I don’t know why you drink that stuff. Doesn’t it make your piss green?’

But Barker of the Yard did not reply. He was too busy working out the next move in his quest for Reggie Perrin.

Bursts of heavy rain drenched Hillingley and Reggie’s boots were caked with mud. Thunder and hail and lightning tore the end of the summer to shreds, and the lowest August temperature since records began was recorded at Mildenhall, Suffolk.

‘I can’t go back,’ thought Reggie as he dug and raked. ‘I can never go back.’

By Thursday the depression had moved away towards Scandinavia, and was battering at the doors of pornographic bookshops, but there were still unseasonal strong winds at Hillingley, tossing the tops of the diseased elms.

‘I must go back,’ thought Reggie as he mowed and pruned. ‘I will go back.’

He would reveal himself to Linda. He would approach Elizabeth through Linda. He would have a migraine tomorrow. Tom would be at work and the children would be at nursery school, learning progressive socially-conscious non-racial nursery rhymes. Tomorrow he would find Linda alone.

For a long time the next morning Linda was alone. The nursery school was still on holiday but Adam and Jocasta had been taken to Eastbourne by the Parents’ Co-operative run by a neighbouring solicitor’s wife to take everybody’s loved ones off their hands from time to time. Linda lay in her bra and panties, the fat curves of her legs draped over the carved arm of the chaise longue. Her mother had rung to tell her about her concert trip with Henry Possett. He had taken her to a splendid restaurant. It had really done her good to get out. It was no use dwelling on things.

A car crunched to a halt in the drive.

‘I’ll have to go now, mother. Someone’s coming.’

She rushed upstairs and put on a dress. The doorbell rang. She opened Jocasta’s bedroom window and shouted out, ‘I’m coming,’ and then she recognized Jimmy’s rusty old car and her heart missed a beat.

She opened the door to him. She was bare-footed and barelegged. Jimmy looked older.

‘Hullo. Long time no see,’ he said.

‘Come in,’ she said.

He came in.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got round to things yet.’

Jimmy sat down on the sofa. Linda sat on the chaise longue.

‘Fact is,’ Jimmy said. ‘Bit of a cock-up on the catering front.’

‘Would you like some coffee?’ said Linda.

‘Please,’ said Jimmy.

He followed her into the kitchen. She glanced at his trousers. They were bulging. She put the coffee on. Her hands were shaking.

‘It’s only instant,’ she said.

‘Fine,’ said Jimmy.

The kitchen was large and looked out over a handsome garden, with beds of rare shrubs round the lawn. At the bottom of the garden was Tom’s folly, a little Gothic tower.

Jimmy leant against the fridge. There were rows of stone jars containing spices and herbs, and on the floor there were three large containers in which home-made wines were working. On the top of the pile of dishes in the sink were two little plates with stories in pictures on them.

‘What sort of thing do you want, Jimmy?’ said Linda.

‘Owe you an explanation,’ said Jimmy. ‘Fact is, cock-up. Too old for army. Leaving.’

‘Oh, Jimmy.’

‘Putting money aside. Saving. Got to buy a business, Linda.’

‘I suppose so. What’ll you do?’

‘Don’t know. Thought of canal boats. No idea, really. Not got a lot of money. Give Sheila housekeeping. Spends it. Booze. Always bloody booze. Excuse language. Oh, thank you.’

‘I haven’t sugared it.’

‘Of course you know Sheila’s trouble. Well-known. Easy lay.’

‘Oh, Jimmy!’

‘No. Common knowledge. Few drinks, she’s anybody’s. Poor bitch can’t help it. Excuse language.’

‘Come and sit down, Jimmy.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

They went into the living room. Linda sat on the chaise longue, and moved up to let Jimmy sit beside her, but he sat in a chair.

‘Children not here?’

‘They’ve gone to the seaside.’

‘Tom?’

‘He’s working. We’re all alone, Jimmy.’

‘Anyway, thing is. Sheila’s money gone, mine gone too, mess expenses and what have you, no chow. All alone, eh?’

‘It’s all right, Jimmy. There’s lots I can give you. Yes, all alone.’

‘Thanks. Horrible, having to tell you. Oh, Linda. Linda!’ He rushed over to her and buried his face in her legs. He kissed her just above the knee. ‘Oh, Linda, you’re beautiful. Beautiful. I want you. Oh, Linda, I want you.’

Linda leant forward and kissed the top of his head.

‘You can have me, Jimmy darling,’ she said.

They went upstairs and undressed each other and clambered into the unmade bed. Linda was overwhelmed with tenderness towards Jimmy. It wasn’t love. It was sympathy. Her physical desire was an ache to give pleasure. She even felt at that moment that Tom would approve and the children would approve if they could understand. Mummy’s having sex with Uncle Jimmy because Mummy’s nice. She felt Jimmy on top of her and inside her. She felt his release from a suffering that she herself had also endured on his behalf. He was happy, he told her that he was happy. He was proud, she could feel that he was proud.

Afterwards she felt sick. Here, in Tom’s bed, in her own home, with her uncle. Jimmy lay absolutely still, here in her bed, in the Thames Valley, on Friday morning, when decent housewives were busy buying fish. Linda stroked his hard, leathery, freckle-flecked back very gently. He must never know what she was thinking.

‘Imagined that,’ he mumbled. ‘Never thought, never thought you’d let me. Imagine lots of things, never happen. Imagined telling you you’re beautiful. Never thought I’d hear myself say it.’

‘I’m not beautiful, Jimmy.’

She felt him grow tense.

‘Must go,’ he said. ‘Not right. All wrong.’

‘No, Jimmy,’ said Linda. ‘It wasn’t all wrong.’

They began to dress. All she wanted was to get him out of the house.

‘Jimmy,’ she said. ‘It can’t happen again. It mustn’t. I can’t let it. But I’m glad it’s happened. Truly!’

She forced herself to kiss him, very quickly, on the lips. She could barely repress a shudder of revulsion.

They went downstairs. She gave him eggs, bacon, pheasant paté, Greek bread, a tin of partridge in red wine, half a cold chicken, sausages, butter, jam, baked beans, baked beans with frankfurters, a packet of frozen faggots, a green pepper, and fresh beans.

‘Thank you, Linda. Saved my life,’ he said.

They loaded his car.

‘If you ever need money, please come to us,’ said Linda. ‘Don’t be ashamed. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘No. None of it’s my fault. Fate. Rotten business,’ said Jimmy. ‘Better not kiss you. Someone might see. Well, thanks again. And for the nosh. Well, mustn’t stay. Be in the doghouse.’

‘Bye bye, Jimmy.’

‘Well, thanks again. Cheerio. Toodlepip.’

He got into his car. Linda walked to the white gate in the high box hedge and opened it. Jimmy drove out, and waved good-bye. Linda waved back until his car was a speck.

There were tears in her eyes, for Jimmy and herself.

She shut the gate and walked back to the house. She must change the sheets.

O, Tom, Tom, I do love you. I love you in all your absurdity. I’ll never tell you about this. You’d be abominably hurt. But will you know? Can I conceal it? Does treachery smell?

Oh – pulling off the old sheets – I did it partly at least for the best of motives. Partly. A mish-mash of motives. Also, admit it, a thrill because he was my uncle. Oh God. Oh, Tom – putting on the new striped sheets, Tom will wonder why I’ve changed them – oh, Tom, Tom, Tom, I love you. I do, I do. I will, I will. I must.

The doorbell rang. Who could this be? Not Jimmy again. Let it not be Jimmy again.

A tall man with grey hair and a grey beard stood in the porch. He was wearing a new suit.

‘Hullo,’ said the man.

‘Oh!’ said Linda. ‘Have you come about the boiler?’

‘No,’ said the man.

‘Oh. Was I expecting you?’

‘Definitely not,’ said the man. ‘Most definitely not.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t you know me?’

Linda gave him a searching look. There was something familiar about him.

‘I’m sorry. I can’t place you,’ she said.