Heavy Weather

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Yes, that was about what it all boiled down to, felt Ronnie. He rose and went to the window. For some time now, in a subconscious sort of way, he had been dimly aware that there was something rummy going on outside.

  He found himself looking out upon a changed world. The storm was now at its height. Torrents of rain were coursing down the glass. Thunder was booming, lightning flashing. A hissing, howling, roaring, devastated world. A world that seemed to fit in neatly with his stormy emotions.

  Sue!...

  Yesterday on the roof. Finding that hat and realizing that she and Monty had been up there together all the afternoon. He flattered himself that she couldn't possibly have detected anything from his manner - no, he had worn the good old mask all right -but there had been a moment, before he got hold of himself, when he had understood how those chaps you read about in the papers who run amok and slay two get that way.

  Yes, reason might tell him that it was perfectly natural for Sue to be in love with Monty Bodkin, but nothing was going to make him like it.

  The storm seemed to be conking out a bit. The thunder had rolled away into the distance. The lightning flashes had lost much of their zip. Even the rain showed a disposition to cheese it. What had been a Niagara was now little more than a drizzle. And suddenly, watery and faint, there gleamed on the drenched stone of the terrace, a ray of sunshine.

  It grew. Blue spread over the sky. Across the valley there was a rainbow. Ronnie opened the window and a wave of cool, sweet-smelling air poured into the room.

  He leaned out, sniffing. And abruptly he became aware that the heavy depression of the last two days had left him. The thunderstorm had wrought its customary miracle. He felt like a man recovered from a fever. It was as if the whole world had suddenly been purged of gloom. A magic change had come over everything.

  Birds were singing in the shrubberies below, and for twopence Ronnie could have sung himself.

  Why, dash it, he felt, he had been making a fat-headed fuss about absolutely nothing. He saw it all now. What had given him that extraordinary notion that Sue was in love with Monty was simply the foul weather. Of course there was nothing between them really. That lunch could easily be explained. So could that afternoon together on the roof. Everything could easily be explained in this best of all possible worlds.

  And scarcely had he reached this conclusion when he perceived on the drive below him a draggled figure. It was Monty Bodkin, home from his ramble. He leaned farther out of the window, overflowing with the milk of human kindness.

  'Hullo,' he said.

  Monty looked up.

  'Hullo.'

  'You're wet.'

  'Yes.'

  'By Jove, you are wet!' said Ronnie. It hurt him to think that this brave new world could contain a fellow human being in such a soluble condition. 'You'd better go and change.'

  'Yes.'

  'Into something dry.'

  Monty nodded, scattering water like a public fountain. He brushed the tangle of hair out of his eyes, and squelched on his way.

  It was perhaps two minutes later that Ronnie, still aching with compassion, remembered that on the shelf above his wash-stand he had a bottle of excellent embrocation.

  When once a man has reacted from a mood of abysmal depression, there is no knowing how far he will go in the opposite direction. In a normal frame of mind, Ronnie would probably have dismissed the moistness of Monty from his thoughts as soon as the other had left him. But now, in the grip of this strange feeling of universal benevolence, he felt that those few words of sympathy had not been enough. He wanted to do something practical, something constructive that would help to ward off the nasty cold in the head which this man might so easily catch as the result of his total immersion. And, as we say, he remembered that bottle of embrocation.

  It was Rigg's Golden Balm, in the large (or seven-and-sixpenny) size, and he knew, not only from the advertisements, which were very frank about it, but also from personal trial, that it communicated an immediate warm glow to the entire system, averting catarrh, chills, rheumatism, sciatica, stiffness of the joints, and lumbago, and in addition imparted a delightful sensation of bien-etre, toning up and renovating the muscular tissues. And if ever a fellow stood in need of warm glows and tonings up, it was Monty.

  Seizing the bottle, he hurried off on his errand of mercy. He found Monty in his room, stripped to the waist, rubbing himself vigorously with a rough towel.

  4I say,' he said, 'I don't know if you know this stuff! You might like to try it. It communicates a warm glow.'

  Monty, the towel draped about him like a shawl, examined the bottle with interest. He sloshed it tentatively. This consideration touched him.

  'Dashed good of you.'

  'Not a bit.'

  'You're sure it's not for horses?' 'Horses?'

  'Some of these embrocations are. You rub them well in, and then you take another look at the directions and you see "For horses only", or words to that effect, and then you suffer the tortures of the damned for about half an hour, feeling as if you had been having a dip in vitriol.'

  'Oh, no. This stuff's all right. I use it myself.'

  'Then have at it!' said Monty, relieved.

  He poured some of the fluid into the palm of his hand and expanded his torso. And, as he did so, Ronnie Fish uttered a quick, sharp exclamation.

  Monty looked up, surprised. His benefactor had turned a vivid vermilion and was staring at him in a marked manner.

  ' Eh ?' he said, puzzled.

  Ronnie did not speak immediately. He appeared to be engaged in swallowing some hard, jagged substance.

  'On your chest,' he said at length, in a strange, toneless voice. 'Eh?'

  Eton and Cambridge came to Ronnie's aid. Outwardly calm, he swallowed again, picked a piece of fluff off his left sleeve, and cleared his throat.

  'There's something on your chest.'

  He paused.

  'It looks like "Sue".'

  He paused again.

  '"Sue",' he said casually,' with a heart round it.'

  The hard jagged substance seemed to have transferred itself to Monty's throat. There was a brief silence while he disposed of it.

  He was blaming himself. Rummy, he reflected ruefully, how when you saw a thing day after day for a couple of years or so it ceased to make any impression on what he rather fancied was called the retina. This heart-encircled 'Sue', this pink and ultramarine tribute to a long-vanished love, which in a gush of romantic fervour he had caused to be graven on his skin in the early days of their engagement, might during the last eighteen months just as well not have been there for all the notice he had taken of it. He had practically forgotten that it was still in existence.

  It was a moment for quick thinking.

  'Not "Sue",' he said. "'S.U.E.' - Sarah Ursula Ebbsmith.'

  'What!'

  'Sarah Ursula Ebbsmith,' repeated Monty firmly. 'Girl I used to be engaged to. She died. Pneumonia. Very sad. Don't let's talk of it.'

  There was a long pause. Ronnie moved to the door. His feelings were almost too deep for words, but he managed a couple. 'Well, bung-o!'

  The door closed behind him.

  Sue had watched the storm from the broad window-seat of the library.

  Her feelings were mixed. As a spectacle she enjoyed it, for she was fond of thunderstorms. The only thing that spoiled it for her was the knowledge that Monty was out in it. She had seen him cross the terrace in an outward bound direction just as it began to break. The poor lamb, she felt, must be getting soaked.

  Her first act, accordingly, when the rain stopped and that sea of blue began to spread itself over the sky, was to go out on to the balcony and scan the horizon, like Sister Ann, for signs of him. She was thus enabled to witness his return and to hear the brief exchange of remarks between him and Ronnie.

  'Hullo.' 'Hullo.' 'You're wet.' 'Yes.'

  'By Jove, you are wet. You'd better go and change.' 'Yes.'

  'Into something dry.'

&nbs
p; Considered as dialogue, not, perhaps, on the highest level. Reading it through, one sees that it lacks a certain something. But the noblest effort of a great dramatist could not have stirred Sue more. It seemed to her, as she listened, that a great weight had rolled off her heart.

  It was the way Ronnie had spoken that impressed and thrilled. The kindly, considerate tone. The cheerful cordiality. For two days it had been as though some sullen changeling had taken his place; and now, if one could judge from the genial ring of his voice, the old Ronnie was back again.

  She stood on the balcony, drinking in the fragrant air. It was astonishing what a change that healing storm had brought about. Shropshire, which yesterday had been so depressing a spectacle, was now an earthly Paradise. The lake glittered. The river shone. The spinneys were their friendly selves again. Rabbits were darting about in the park with all the old carefree abandon, and as far as the eye could reach there were contented cows.

  She left the room, humming a little tune. Eventually, she would seek out Monty and make inquiries after his well-being, but her immediate desire was to find Ronnie.

  The click of billiard-balls arrested her attention as she came to the foot of the stairs. Gally, probably, playing a solitary hundred up; but he might be able to tell her where Ronnie was. His voice during that conversation with Monty had seemed to come from one of the passage windows.

  She opened the door, and Ronnie, sprawled over the table, looked up at her.

  That tattoo-mark had settled things for Ronnie. It had swept away in an instant all the gay optimism brought by the passing of the storm. With a heart like lead, he had groped his way downstairs. The open door of the billiard-room had seemed to offer a means of diverting his thoughts temporarily, and he had gone in and begun to practise sombre cannons. For even if a man is leaden-hearted there is no harm in his brushing up his near-the-cushion game a bit. Indeed, it is an intelligent thing to do, for if the girl he loves loves another his life is obviously going to be pretty much of a blank for the next fifty years or so, and he will have to fall back for solace on his ambitions. One of Ronnie's ambitions was some day to make a flukeless break of thirty.

  'Hullo,' he said politely, straightening himself and standing with cue at rest. Eton and Cambridge stood at his elbow, to help him through this ordeal.

  No sense of impending disaster came to Sue. To her, this man was still the sort of modern Cheeryble Brother whom she had heard chatting so Gally out of the window.

  'Oh, Ronnie,' she said, 'you can't stay indoors on an evening like this. It's simply lovely out.'

  'Oh, yes?' said Eton.

  ' Perfectly wonderful.'

  'Oh, yes?' said Cambridge.

  Something seemed to stab at Sue's heart. Her eyes widened. A numbing thought had begun to frame itself. Could it be that that sunny geniality which she had so recently observed playing upon Monty Bodkin like a fountain was to be withheld from her?

  But she persevered.

  'Let's go for a drive in your car.'

  'I don't think I will, thanks.'

  'Then let's take a boat out on the lake.'

  'Not for me, thanks.'

  'Or the court might be dry enough for tennis by now.'

  'I shouldn't think so.'

  'Well, then, come for a walk.'

  'Oh, for God's sake,' said Ronnie, 'let me alone!'

  They stared at one another. Ronnie's eyes were hot and miserable. But they did not look hot and miserable to Sue. She read in them only the dislike, the sullen, trapped dislike of a man tied to a girl for whom he has ceased to feel any affection, so that merely to speak to her is an affliction to his nerves. She drew a deep breath, and walked to the window.

  'Sorry,' said Ronnie gruffly. 'Shouldn't have said that.''I'm glad you did,' said Sue. 'It's better to come right out with these things.'

  She traced little circles with her finger on the glass. A heavy silence filled the room. ' I think we might as well chuck it, don't you ?' she said. 'Just as you say,' said Ronnie. 'All right,' said Sue.

  She moved to the door. He hurried forward and opened it for her. Polite to the last.

  Up in his bedroom, meanwhile, anointing his chest with Riggs's Golden Balm, Monty Bodkin had suddenly become amazingly cheerful.

  'Tiddly-iddly-om, pom-pom,' he chanted, as blithely as any thrush in the shrubbery below. A great idea had just come to him.

  It was the embrocation that had done the trick. As he stood there enjoying the immediate warm glow and the delightful sensation of bien-etre, it was as if his brain, as well as his muscular tissues, had been toned up and renovated. This bottle of embrocation, it suddenly occurred to him, was more than a mere three or four fluid ounces of stuff that smelled like a miasmic swamp - it was a symbol. If Ronnie was taking the trouble to bring him bottles of embrocation, it must mean that all was well between them; that that odd coldness had ceased to be; that his dear old pal, in a word, was once more a dear old pal. And if a man is a dear old pal, it stands to reason that he will be delighted to do a fellow a good turn.

  The good turn Monty wanted Ronnie to do for him now was to go to Beach and use his influence with that obdurate butler to persuade him to cough up that manuscript.

  It was not that Monty had lost faith in Pilbeam. No doubt, if given time, Pilbeam, exercising his subtle craft, would be able to secure the thing all right. But why go to all that trouble when you could take a short cut and work the wheeze quite simply without any fuss ? Besides, there was the fellow's fee to be considered. These sleuths probably came pretty high, and a penny saved is a penny earned.

  A room-to-room search brought him to where the Last of the Fishes was once more practising cannons. He approached him with all the happy confidence of a child entering the presence of a rich and indulgent uncle.

  For Monty Bodkin was no mind-reader. He had detected no change in his friend's manner at the end of their recent interview. It had been awkward for a moment, no doubt, that business of the tattoo-mark, but he felt that his quick thinking had passed off a tricky situation pretty neatly, satisfactorily lulling all possible suspicions.

  ' I say, Ronnie, old lad,' he said,' I wonder if you could spare me a moment of your valuable time ?'

  Ronnie laid the cue down carefully. For all that he had now resigned himself to the fact that Sue preferred this man to him, he was conscious of a well-defined desire to bat him over the head with the butt end. White-hot knives were gashing Ronnie Fish's soul, and he could not but feel a very vivid distaste for the man responsible for his raw misery.

  'Well?' he said.

  It seemed to Monty that his friend was a bit on the chilly side, not quite the effervescing chum of the dear old embrocation days, but he carried on with only a momentary twinge of concern.

  'Tell me, old man, how do you stand with Beach?'

  'With Beach? How do you mean?'

  'Well, does he feel pretty feudal where you're concerned? Would he, in fine, be inclined to stretch a point to oblige the young master?'

  Ronnie stared bleakly. He had been prepared to be civil to this man who had wrecked his life, but he was dashed if he was going to spend the evening listening to him talking drip.

  'What is all this bilge?' he demanded sourly. 'Come to the point.'

  'Oh, I'm coming to the point.' 'Well, be quick.'

  'I will, I will. Here, then, is the gist or nub. Beach has got something I badly want, and he refuses to disgorge. And I thought that perhaps if you went to him and did the Young Squire a bit - exerting your influence, I mean to say, and rather throwing your weight about generally - he might prove more . . . what's the word ... begins with an A .. . amenable.'

  Ronnie glowered wearily.

  'I can't understand a damn thing you're talking about.' 'Well, in a nutshell, Beach has got that book of old Gally's and I can't get him to let me have it.' ' Why do you want it ?'

  Monty decided, as he had done when talking with Lord Tilbury by the potting-shed, that manly frankness was the only policy.
>
  'You know all about that book?' 'Yes.'

  'That Gally won't let it be published, I mean ?' 'Yes.'

  'And that he had signed a contract for it with the Mammoth Publishing Company?' 'No. I didn't know that.'

  'Well, he did. And his backing out has rendered poor old Pop Tilbury, the boss of same, as sick as mud. Well, naturally, I mean to say, Old Tilbury had got serial rights and book rights and American rights and every other kind of rights including the Scandinavian, and you know what a packet there is in any literary effort, that really dishes the dirt about the blue-gored. I should say, taking it one way and another, he stands to lose in the neighbourhood of twenty thousand quid if Gally sticks to his resolve not to publish. And so, to cut a long story s., old man, this Tilbury is so anxious to get hold of the manuscript that he states specifically that if I can snitch it from him he will take me back into his employment - from which, as I dare say you know, I was recently booted out.'