The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (100 page)

This is the life for you, he told himself. This is the life that you are destined to lead. Your dreams have been out of place. They have caused great suffering and chaos.

Now you have a job, a new challenge, a new adventure. You must be thankful.

He told himself.

But not too thankful. You mustn’t be craven or afraid. You’re an old hand, and you mustn’t allow yourself to be used as a doormat by anybody. Life is too short.

He told himself.

The train reached Victoria twenty-three minutes late. The loudspeaker announcement blamed chain reaction to the effects of the landslip at Angmering. He reached the office fourteen minutes late, and willed himself not to hurry as he approached the gleaming edifice of glass and Portland stone.

It was called Aerosol House. You will be impressed, it said. Will I hell, replied Reggie’s nonchalant walk.

He entered the foyer. You will feel dwarfed by our air of impersonal affluence, it said.

Cobblers, said Reggie’s demeanour as he walked across the slippery marble floor from the sliding doors to the reception desk.

He took it at a steady pace, moving with determined though not over-stated authority.

‘Perrin (air fresheners and deodorants),’ he announced, employing oral brackets with a dexterity born of long practice.

‘I’m not sure if he’s in,’ said the receptionist.

‘No, I am he,’ said Reggie. ‘I am Perrin (air fresheners and deodorants). I start work here today, and I wondered where my office was.’

The receptionist checked her list. He wasn’t on it.

‘What exactly is your job?’ said the receptionist.

Oh my God.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No.’

‘You’re working here and you don’t know what your job is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’

She checked her special instructions. He wasn’t on them. She telephoned Mr Fennel. He was on holiday. It took the combined efforts of Mr Cannon of Admin and Mr Stork of Communications to locate his office.

Reggie sat on a black leather settee, surrounded by rubber plants, fighting against feelings of guilt and insignificance. It’s not our fault, he told himself. You’ve done your bit, in that you’ve arrived successfully. It’s Amalgamated Aerosols that should feel guilty.

And so he adopted a defiant, long-suffering look, until he realized that it might be interpreted as over-compensation for insecurity. And it was he who had talked of the dangers of excessive self-consciousness. Had he learned nothing?

At last his office was located. It was two one seven, on the second floor. Mr Cannon escorted him there.

‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said. ‘There’s been a big shift around, and Cakebread hasn’t put the P139 through.’

They went up in the lift, and walked along the corridor lined with offices. They weren’t open plan, and their doors bore names and titles. Perhaps he was about to find out what his job was.

No such luck. The legend on his door said simply ‘Reginald I. Perrin.’

The windows overlooked the Wren church. The desk was of moderate size. There were green filing cabinets, and two phones, one red and one green. On top of a cupboard stood a mug and a bent wire coathanger. There was a communicating door to the offices on either side. The paint on the radiator was peeling, and the brown carpet was laid in strips that didn’t quite meet.

‘All right?’ said Mr Cannon.

‘Fine.’

‘Jolly good,’ said Mr Cannon. ‘I’ll leave you to your own devices, then.’

He was as good as his word.

But what are my own devices, thought Reggie.

He opened and shut three empty drawers.

There was a knock on the westerly connecting door.

‘Come in,’ he said.

A pert, self-confident young red-head entered.

‘Mr Perrin?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m your secretary. I’m Iris Hoddle.’

They shook hands. Her smile was friendly.

‘Coffee?’ she said.

‘Please.’

She returned shortly with a beverage that approximated vaguely to that description. Reggie explained the difficulty that he had experienced in finding his office.

‘Mr Cakebread didn’t put through the P139,’ she said. This was Mr Main-Thompson’s office, but he’s gone to Canisters. There’s been a big shift around. He’s taken the in and out trays. He shouldn’t have, they’re like gold, but that’s Mr Main-Thompson for you. Anyway, I’ve put through an F1765, so fingers crossed.’

‘Thanks.’

He smiled at Iris Hoddle. She smiled back.

‘They haven’t exactly told me what you do,’ she said.

They haven’t exactly told me what I do either.’

Iris Hoddle laughed.

That figures,’ she said. ‘It’s Fred Karno’s Army, this place. Anyway, C.J.’d like to see you at ten thirty.’

Reggie spilt his coffee down his crutch, and stood up hurriedly. The hot liquid was burning his private parts.

‘Damn!’ he exclaimed.

He pulled his trousers and pants away from his skin. It was not an elegant way to stand before one’s secretary on one’s first morning.

‘C.J.?’ he said.

‘Do you know him?’ said Iris Hoddle.

‘I have run into him,’ said Reggie.

‘He’s just started here too,’ said Iris Hoddle. ‘He’s Head of the Department.’

‘He’s my boss?’

‘Yes.’

C.J. entered Reggie’s office through the easterly connecting door. He didn’t knock.

‘Morning, Reggie,’ he said. His eyes flickered briefly over Iris. ‘Morning Iris.’

He held out his hand to Reggie. Reggie shook it.

‘I’m next door,’ he said. ‘We can use the connecting door.’

‘Ah! Splendid,’ said Reggie.

He led Reggie into his office. It was twice the size of Reggie’s and three times as plush. Reggie sat down gingerly. The chair didn’t blow a raspberry. C.J. laughed.

‘I leave all that to F.,’ he said. ‘These childish tricks seem to amuse him. Well, Reggie, we meet again.’

‘We certainly do, C.J.’

‘Adjoining offices, eh, Reggie?’

‘Absolutely C.J.’

‘We can be in and out like lambs’ tails.’

‘Yes, C.J.’

‘
But
, Reggie, not in each other’s pockets.’

‘Definitely not, C.J.’

‘Neither Mrs C.J. nor I has ever believed in being in anybody’s pockets.’

‘A wise attitude, C.J.’

‘We’re settled again in Godalming.’

‘Splendid, C.J.’

‘It’s not splendid, Reggie.’

‘Sorry, C.J. One small question about my work, C.J.’

‘I’m all ears, Reggie.’

‘What is it?’

C.J. laughed.

They didn’t tell you?’

‘No.’

That figures. This is Fred Karno’s Army. You’re my right hand, Reggie.’

I am?’

‘You’re my think tank. Cigar?’

Thank you, C.J.’

Reggie took a large cigar. C.J. proffered his lighter and Reggie held his cigar to the tiny flame.

‘I’ve stuck my neck out over you, Reggie. “F.,” I said, “you’ve always said that if things go wrong there’s a place for me at Aerosol House.” “There certainly is, C.,” he said. “I’ve preferred to make my own way,” I said, “but I’d like a job now, F., on one condition.” “What condition’s that, C?” he inquired. “I want Reggie Perrin as my number two,” I replied.’

Thank you, C.J.’

C.J. smiled.

‘I’m your boss again, Reggie.’

‘Yes, C.J.’

‘Not that that’s why I’ve asked for you.’

‘No, C.J.’

‘It’s not in my nature to gloat.’

‘I should think not, C.J.’

‘I’ve asked for you because you’re an ideas man.’

Thank you, C.J.’

C.J. leant forward and glared at Reggie.

‘Do you remember that exotic ices project at Sunshine Dessert, Reggie,’ he said.

‘How could I ever forget it?’

‘I like your attitude, Reggie.’

C.J. lifted his phone.

‘Jenny?’ he said. ‘C.J. on red. Send Muscroft and Rosewell in.’

C.J. put his phone down.

‘You . . . er . . . want me to do the same for aerosols?’ said Reggie.

‘You’re a shrewd one,’ said C.J. The world of air fresheners is in the doldrums, Reggie. The horizons of the small men here are limited. Pine, lavender, heather. Slavish imitation of the big boys.’

‘You want new smells, C.J. Raspberry, strawberry and lychee.’

‘Exactly, Reggie. I like your thinking.’

There was a knock.

‘Come!’ said C.J.

Two tall men wearing keen suits and enthusiastic shoes hurled themselves dynamically into the plush executive womb. They were introduced as Muscroft and Rosewall.

‘You take your instructions from Perrin,’ said C.J.

‘Marvellous,’ said Muscroft.

‘Terrific’ said Rosewall.

‘We’re going for exotic air fresheners,’ said C.J. The world is our oyster. The spices of the orient, and the wild flowers of the Andes are your playthings. Between us we shall transform a mundane visit to the toilet into a sensual wonderland. This is a biggie.’

‘Marvellous,’ said Muscroft.

‘Terrific’ said Rosewall.

‘Every dog has its day,’ said C.J.

‘It certainly does,’ said Muscroft, Rosewall and Reggie.

When Reggie’s two assistants had left the room, C.J. looked at Reggie earnestly. He lowered his voice.

‘I don’t want any funny business, Reggie,’ he said.

‘Absolutely not, C.J.’

‘You’ve been on a switchback of fate, Reggie. You were discontented. You believed that there is a greener hill far away with grass on the other side. You set off in search of it. You discovered that there is no greener hill far away with grass on the other side.’

‘There certainly isn’t, C.J.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say it. You’ve returned, Reggie, a better and a wiser man, and that’s an order.’

‘Yes, C.J.’

‘I want you to familiarize yourself with the current state of play, odour-wise. There’s a smelling in Boreham Wood tomorrow.’

‘A smelling in Boreham Wood!’

‘I like your attitude, Reggie. Edrich from Nozzles can take you in his car.’

C.J. stood up, and Reggie was not tardy in following his example.

C.J. held out his hand. Reggie clasped it.

‘I hope we’ve learnt something about human relations amidst all the twists and turns of our entangled fates Reggie,’ he said.

‘I hope so, C.J.’ said Reggie.

Reggie walked to the connecting door, and opened it.

‘Reggie?’ said C.J.

‘Yes, C.J.?’

‘We aren’t one of those dreadful firms that would sack a man just because he always turns up fourteen minutes late. Good-bye, Reggie.’

He caught the six twelve home. It was nineteen minutes late, but he didn’t let it upset him, because he was an older and wiser man.

He walked down Schopenhauer Grove, turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise, then left into Leibnitz Drive. He felt exhausted, but he didn’t let it depress him. He told Elizabeth that he had had a good day at the office. He relished his lamb cutlets and apple charlotte. He slept the troubled sleep of the exhausted. He ate a hearty breakfast. He walked down Leibnitz Drive, turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise, then left into Schopenhauer Grove.

He told himself that he was enjoying this routine, because he was an older and wiser man. As he laboured up the punishing final straight to Goffley Station he consoled himself with the thought that, like life, it would be downhill in the evening.

Mind over matter, he told himself. All you have to do is convince yourself that your hobbies are tedium and exhaustion, and that decay and decline are the most exciting processes in the world.

On the spine-crushing, vein-throbbing, armpit-smelling journey to Victoria, he tried to inject a sense of mission into his work.

‘Roll on deodorants,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said the man opposite him.

‘Sorry,’ said Reggie. ‘I didn’t mean it to come out loud. That’s what people must have said in the bad old pre-aerosol days. “Roll on deodorants.” Sorry.’

He began to sweat.

Careful. Mustn’t arrive at the smelling smelling.

Oh God.

Edrich from Nozzles drove him to the smelling at Boreham Wood. The laboratory was an undistinguished two-storey building at the back end of a large industrial estate. Edrich led him to a room which was like a doctor’s waiting-room, bare with rows of hard chairs round the walls.

There were five doors in one wall. Each door had a small window, barred with a thick grille. Beyond the doors were the smell-proof booths. Reggie felt tired and crumpled. He had a thundery headache coming on.

Also present were Muscroft and Rosewall from Air Fresheners and Deodorants, Lee from Furniture Polishes and Hair Lacquers, Gryce from Communications, Price-Hetherington from Industrial Chemicals, Coggin from Admin, Taylor from Transport, Holmes and Wensley from the lab, Miss Allardyce from the typing pool, Miss Hanwell from Packing, and representatives for the National Smell Research Council and the Campaign for Real Aerosols.

Ten smells were to be tested, two in each booth. They were each handed ten cards numbered one to ten. They had to mark each smell, out of ten, for strength, pleasantness, originality and commercial appeal. They also had to say what the smell reminded them of, and suggest a brand name for it.

Everyone filled in their cards most assiduously.

‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ said Muscroft.

‘Terrific,’ said Rosewall.

‘Fascinating,’ said Reggie. ‘A pretty stodgy range of smells, though. I’m looking for something that packs far more wow for our exotic range.’

‘Marvellous,’ said Muscroft.

‘Terrific,’ said Rosewall.

C.J. popped in just before lunch.

‘Well, Reggie, which way’s the wind blowing?’ he asked.

‘I came, I smelt, I conquered,’ said Reggie.

‘I like your attitude,’ said C.J.

On his way home Reggie began to regret his actions.

Why had he done it? What was the use?

Out here in the open air, walking down Schopenhauer Grove, what had seemed an amazingly apt gesture in the claustrophobic booth in Boreham Wood seemed utterly stupid. I’m a lucky man, he told himself as he turned right into Bertrand Russell Rise. I have a lovely wife and two lovely children, even if one of them has married a bearded prig and the other has disappeared into the huge vagina of the pornographic film industry. There are worse things in life than bearded prigs and pornographic film industries, he told himself as he turned left into Leibnitz Drive.