Service With a Smile

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘Please sit down,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ said Lord Ickenham doing so. His eye fell on a photograph on the desk. ‘Hullo, this face seems familiar. Jimmy Schoonmaker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Taken recently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He looks older than he used to. One does, of course, as the years go on. I suppose I do, too, though I’ve never noticed it. Great chap, Jimmy. Did you know that he brought young Myra up all by himself after his wife died? With a certain amount of assistance from me. The one thing he jibbed at was giving her her bath, so he used to call me in of an evening, and I would soap her back, keeping what the advertisements call a safe suds level. It was a little like massaging an eel. Bless my soul, how long ago it seems. I remember once —’

  ‘Lord Ickenham!’ Lady Constance’s voice, several degrees below zero at the outset, had become even more like that of a snow queen. The hatchet that looked like a dissipated saw would not have seemed to her barely adequate. ‘I did not ask you to come here because I wished to hear your reminiscences. It was to tell you that you will leave the castle immediately. With,’ added Lady Constance, speaking from between clenched teeth, ‘your friend Mr Bailey.’

  She paused, and was conscious of a feeling of flatness and disappointment. She had expected her words to bathe this man in confusion and shatter his composure to fragments, but he had not turned a hair of his neatly brushed head. He was looking at another photograph. It was that of Lady Constance’s late husband, Joseph Keeble, but she gave him no time to ask questions about it.

  ‘Lord Ickenham!’

  He turned, full of apology.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I let my attention wander. I was thinking of the dear old days. You were saying that you were about to leave the castle, were you not?’

  ‘I was saying that you were about to leave the castle.’

  Lord Ickenham seemed surprised.

  ‘I had made no plans. You’re sure you mean me?’

  ‘And you will take Mr Bailey with you. How dare you bring that impossible young man here?’

  Lord Ickenham fingered his moustache thoughtfully.

  ‘Oh, Bill Bailey. I see what you mean. Yes, I suppose it was a social solecism. But reflect. I meant well. Two young hearts had been sundered in springtime … well, not in springtime, perhaps, but as near to it as makes no matter, and I wanted to adjust things. I’m sure Jimmy would have approved of the kindly act.’

  ‘I disagree with you.’

  ‘He wants his ewe lamb to be happy.’

  ‘So do I. That is why I do not intend to allow her to marry a penniless curate. But there is no need to discuss it. There are —’

  ‘You’ll be sorry when Bill suddenly becomes a bishop.’

  ‘— good trains —’

  ‘Why did I not push this good thing along, you’ll say to yourself.’

  ‘— throughout the day. I recommend the 2.15,’ said Lady Constance. ‘Good morning, Lord Ickenham. I will not keep you any longer.’

  A nicer-minded man would have detected in these words a hint — guarded, perhaps, but nevertheless a hint — that his presence was no longer desired, but Lord Ickenham remained glued to his chair. He was looking troubled.

  ‘I agree that you are probably right in giving this plug to the 2.15 train,’ he said. ‘No doubt it is an excellent one. But there are difficulties in the way of Bill and me catching it.’

  ‘I see none.’

  ‘I will try to make myself clearer. Have you studied Bill Bailey at ail closely during his visit here? He’s an odd chap. Wouldn’t hurt a fly in the ordinary way, in fact I’ve known him not to do so —’

  ‘I am not interested in Mr —’

  ‘But, when driven to it, ruthless and sticking at nothing. You might think that, being a curate, he would suppress those photographs, and of course I feel that that is what he ought to do. But even curates can be pushed too far, and I’m afraid if you insist on him leaving the castle, however luxurious the 2.15 train, that that is how he will feel he is being pushed.’

  ‘Lord Ickenham!’

  ‘You spoke?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Didn’t I explain that? I’m sorry. I have an annoying habit of getting ahead of my story. I was alluding to the photographs he took of Beach and saying that, if driven out into the snow, he will feel so bitter that he will give them wide publicity. vindictive, yes, and not at all the sort of thing one approves of in a clerk’ in holy orders, but that is what will happen, I assure you.’

  Lady Constance placed a hand on a forehead which had become fevered. Not even when conversing with her brother Clarence had she ever felt so marked a swimming sensation.

  ‘Photographs? Of Beach?’

  ‘Cutting those tent ropes and causing alarm and despondency to more church lads than one likes to contemplate. But how foolish of me. I didn’t tell you, did I? Here is the thing in a nutshell. Bill Bailey, unable to sleep this morning possibly because love affects him that way, started to go for a stroll, saw young George’s camera lying in the hall, picked it up with a vague idea of photographing some of the local fauna and was surprised to see Beach down by the lake, cutting those ropes. He took a whole reel of him and I understand they have come out splendidly. May I smoke?’ said Lord Ickenham, taking out his case.

  Lady Constance did not reply. She seemed to have been turned into a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife. It might have been supposed that, having passed her whole life at Blandings Castle, with the sort of things happening that happened daily in that stately but always somewhat hectic home of England, she would have been impervious to shocks. Nothing, one would have said, would have been able to surprise her. This was not so. She was stunned.

  Beach! Eighteen years of spotless buttling, and now this! If she had not been seated, she would have reeled. Everything seemed to her to go black, including Lord Ickenham. He might have been an actor, made up to play Othello, lighting an inky cigarette with a sepia lighter.

  ‘Of course,’ this negroid man went on, ‘one gets the thought behind Beach’s rash act. For days Emsworth has been preaching a holy war against these Church Lads, filling the listening air with the tale of what he has suffered at their hands, and it is easy to understand how Beach, feudally devoted to him, felt that he could hold himself back no longer. Out with the knife and go to it, he said to himself. It will probably have occurred to you how closely in its essentials the whole set-up resembles the murder of the late St Thomas à Becket. King Henry, you will remember, kept saying, “Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?” till those knights of his decided that something had to be done about it. Emsworth, perhaps in other words, expressed the same view about the Church Lads, and Beach, taking his duties as a butler very seriously, thought that it was part of them to show the young thugs that crime does not pay and that retribution must sooner or later overtake those who knock top hats off with crusty rolls at school treats.’

  Lord Ickenham paused to cough, for he had swallowed a mouthful of smoke the wrong way. Lady Constance remained congealed. She might have been a statue of herself commissioned by a group of friends and admirers.

  ‘You see how extremely awkward the situation is? Whether or not Emsworth formally instructed Beach to take the law into his hands, we shall probably never know, but it makes very little difference. If those photographs are given to the world, it is inevitable that Beach, unable to bear the shame of exposure, will hand in his portfolio and resign office, and you will lose the finest butler in Shropshire. And there is another thing. Emsworth will unquestionably confess that he inflamed the man and so was directly responsible for what happened, and one can see the County looking very askance at him, pursing their lips, raising their eyebrows, possibly even cutting him at the next Agricultural Show. Really, Lady Constance, if I were you, I think I would reconsider this idea of yours of giving Bill Bailey the old heave-ho. I will leave the castle on the 2.15, if you wis
h, though sorry to go, for I like the society here, but Bailey, I’m afraid, must stay. Possibly in the course of time his winning personality will overcome your present prejudice against him. I’ll leave you to think it over,’ said Lord Ickenham, and with another of his kindly smiles left the room.

  For an appreciable time after he had gone Lady Constance sat motionless. Then, as if a sudden light had shone on her darkness, she gave a start. She stretched out a hand towards the pigeonholes on the desk, in which reposed notepaper, envelopes, postcards, telegraph forms and cable forms. Selecting one of the last named, she took pen in hand, and began to write.

  James Schoonmaker

  1000 Park Avenue

  New York

  She paused a moment in thought. Then she began to write again:

  ‘Come immediately. Most urgent. Must see you…’

  4

  It is always unpleasant for a man of good will to be compelled, even from the best of motives, to blacken the name of an innocent butler, and his first thought after he has done so is to make amends. Immediately after leaving Lady Constance, therefore, Lord Ickenham proceeded to Beach’s pantry, where with a few well-chosen words he slipped a remorseful five-pound note into the other’s hand. Beach trousered the money with a stately bow of thanks, and in answer to a query as to whether he had any knowledge of the Reverend Cuthbert Bailey’s whereabouts said that he had seen him some little time ago entering the rose garden in company with Miss Schoonmaker.

  Thither Lord Ickenham decided to make his way. He was sufficiently a student of human nature to be aware that, when two lovers get together in a rose garden, they do not watch the clock, and he presumed that, if Bill and Myra had been there some little time ago, they would be there now. They would, he supposed, be discussing in gloomy mood the former’s imminent departure from Blandings Castle, and he was anxious to relieve their minds. For there was no doubt in his own that Lady Constance, having thought things over, would continue to extend her hospitality to the young cleric. Her whole air, as he left her, had been that of a woman unable to see any alternative to the hoisting of the white flag.

  He had scarcely left the house when he saw that he had been mistaken. So far from being in the rose garden, Myra Schoonmaker was on the gravel strip outside the front door, and so far from being in conference with Bill, she was closeted, as far as one can be closeted in the open air, with the Duke of Dun-stable’s nephew, Archie Gilpin. As he appeared, Archie Gilpin moved away, and as Myra came towards him, he saw that her face was sombre and her walk the walk of a girl who can detect no silver lining in the clouds. This did not cause him concern. He had that to tell which would be a verbal shot in the arm and set her dancing all over the place and strewing roses from her hat.

  ‘Hullo there,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, hullo, Uncle Fred.’

  ‘You look pretty much down among the wines. and spirits, young Myra.’

  ‘That’s the way I feel.’

  ‘You won’t much longer. Where’s Bill?’

  The girl shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Oh, somewhere around, I suppose. I left him in the rose garden.’

  Lord Ickenham’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘You left him in the rose garden? Not a lovers’ tiff, I hope?’

  ‘If you like to call it that,’ said Myra. She kicked moodily at a passing beetle, which gave her a cold look and went on its way. ‘I’ve broken our engagement.’

  It was never easy to disconcert Lord Ickenham, as his nephew Pongo would have testified. Even on that day at the dog races his demeanour, even after the hand of the Law had fallen on his shoulder, had remained unruffled. But now he could not hide his dismay. He looked at the girl incredulously.

  ‘You’ve broken the engagement?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t love me.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what makes me think that,’ said Myra passionately. ‘He went and told Lord Emsworth who he was, knowing that Lord Emsworth was bound to spill the beans to Lady Constance, and that Lady Constance would instantly bounce him. And why did he do it, you ask? Because it gave him the excuse to get away from me. I suppose he’s got another girl in Bottleton East.’

  Lord Ickenham twirled his moustache sternly. He had often in the course of his life listened patiently to people talking through their hats, but he was in no mood to be patient now.

  ‘Myra,’ he said. ‘You ought to have your head examined.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘It would be money well spent. I assure you that if all the girls in Bottleton East came and did the dance, of the seven veils before him, Bill Bailey wouldn’t give them a glance. He told Emsworth who he was because his conscience wouldn’t let him do otherwise. The revelation was unavoidable if he was to make his story of the Briggs’ foul plot convincing, and he did not count the cost. He knew that it meant ruin and disaster, but he refused to stand silently by and allow that good man to be deprived of his pig. You ought to be fawning on him for his iron integrity, instead of going about the place breaking engagements. I have always held that the man of sensibility should be careful what he says to the other sex, if he wishes to be numbered among the preux chevaliers, but I cannot restrain myself from telling you, young M. Schoonmaker, that you have behaved like a little half-wit.’

  Myra, who had been staring at the beetle as if contemplating having another go at it, raised a startled head.

  ‘Do you think that was really it?’

  ‘Of course it was.’

  ‘And he wasn’t just jumping at the chance of getting away from me?’

  ‘Of course he wasn’t. I tell you, Bill Bailey is about as near being a stainless knight as you could find in a month of Sun-days. He’s as spotless as they come.’

  A deep sigh escaped Myra Schoonmaker. His eloquence had convinced her.

  ‘Half-wit,’ she said, ‘is right. Uncle Fred, I’ve made a ghastly fool of myself.’

  ‘Just what I’ve been telling you.’

  ‘I don’t mean about Bill. I could have put that right in a minute. But I’ve just told Archie Gilpin I’ll marry him.’

  ‘No harm that I can see in confiding your matrimonial plans to Archie Gilpin. He’ll probably send you a wedding present.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so dumb, Uncle Fred! I mean I’ve just told Archie, I’ll marry him!’

  ‘What, him?’

  ‘Yes, him.’

  ‘Well, fry me for an oyster! Why on earth did you do that?’

  ‘Oh, just a sort of gesture, I suppose. It’s what they used to write in my reports at Miss Spence’s school. “She is often too impulsive”, they used to say.’

  She spoke despondently. Ever since that brief but fateful conversation with Archie, an uneasy conviction had been stealing over her that in a rash moment she had started something which she would have given much to stop. Her emotions were somewhat similar to those of a nervous passenger on a roller coaster at an amusement park who when it is too late to get off feels the contraption gathering speed beneath him.

  It was not as if she even liked Archie Gilpin very much. He was all right in his way, a pleasant enough companion for a stroll or a game of tennis, but until this awful thing had happened he had been something completely negligible, just some sort of foreign substance that happened to be around. And now she was engaged to him, and the announcement would be in The Times, and Lady Constance would be telling her how pleased her father would be and how sensible it was of her to have realized that that other thing had been nothing but a ridiculous infatuation, and she could see no point in going on living. She was very much inclined to go down to the lake and ask one of the Church Lads if he would care to earn a shilling by holding her head under water till the vital spark expired.

  ‘Oh, Uncle Fred!’ she said.

  ‘There, there!’ said Lord Ickenham.

  ‘Oh, Uncle Fred!’

  ‘Don’t talk, ju
st cry. There is nothing more therapeutic.’

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Break it off, of course. What else? Tell him it’s been nice knowing him, and hand him his hat.’

  ‘But I can’t.’

  ‘Nonsense. Perfectly easy thing to bring into the conversation. You’re strolling with him in the moonlight. He says something about how jolly it’s going to be when you and he are settled down in your little nest, and you say, “Oh, I forgot to tell you about that. It’s off.” He says, “What!” You say, “You heard,” and he reddens and goes to Africa.’

  ‘And I go to New York.’

  ‘Why New York?’

  ‘Because that’s where I’ll be shipped back to in disgrace when they hear I’ve broken my engagement to a Duke’s nephew.’

  ‘Don’t tell me Jimmy’s a stern father?’

  ‘That would make him stern enough. He’s got a thing about the British aristocracy. He admires them terrifically.’

  ‘I don’t blame him. We’re the salt of the earth.’

  ‘He would insist on taking me home, and I’d never see my angel Bill again, because he couldn’t possibly afford the fare to New York.’

  Lord Ickenham mused. This was a complication he had not taken into his calculations.

  ‘I see. Yes, I appreciate the difficulty.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘This opens up a new line of thought. You’d better leave everything to me.’

  ‘I don’t see that you can do anything.’

  ‘That is always a rash observation to make to an Ickenham. As I once remarked to another young friend of mine, this sort of situation brings out the best in me. And when you get the best in Frederick Altamont Cornwallis Twistleton, fifth Earl of good old Ickenham, you’ve got something.’

  Chapter Eight

  1

  If you go down Fleet Street and turn into one of the side streets leading to the river, you will find yourself confronted by a vast building that looks something like a county jail and something like a biscuit factory. This is Tilbury House, the home of the Mammoth Publishing Company, that busy hive where hordes of workers toil day and night, churning out reading matter for the masses. For Lord Tilbury’s numerous daily and weekly papers are not, as is sometimes supposed, just Acts of God; they are produced deliberately.