Blotto, Twinks and the Stars of the Silver Screen

by Simon Brett

  The Duke rarely visited the Blue Morning Room, but Blotto and Twinks had been in awe of the place since their nursery days. A summons there from the Dowager Duchess rarely boded well for either of them and, though both now in their twenties, they still approached the place as errant schoolboys might their headmaster’s study.

  ‘But you’ve already been to America,’ was their mother’s comment when the proposed Hollywood jaunt had been explained to her. ‘There might be a possible excuse for visiting a foreign country once, but to do so a second time smacks of masochism. Not to say a lack of appropriate patriotic feeling.’

  ‘But, Mater,’ objected Blotto, ‘I will be being as patriotic as a spoffing red, white and blue bulldog. Can there be anything in the world more patriotic than taking the values of cricket to savage lands?’

  ‘Hm,’ said the Dowager Duchess.

  The fact that her response was ambivalent rather than downright condemnatory encouraged Blotto to pursue his argument. ‘I mean, get those old American pineapples up to snuff with the rules of cricket and they’ll probably be a bit quicker out of the traps joining in wars and things.’

  The Dowager Duchess looked sternly unconvinced by this suggestion. But then the silvery voice of Twinks joined the conversation.

  Twinks, it should be reiterated, was a young woman of extraordinary beauty. She had an exquisite figure, silken blonde hair, porcelain skin and eyes that were not so much blue as azure. Every man she met fell for her, like a Douglas Fir assailed by lumberjacks. Twinks rarely felt capable of reciprocating the adoration of these amorous swains – she regarded them as an irritation on the scale of midges beside a Scottish loch – but she was far too well brought up to make her rejections anything less than gracious.

  If beauty was all she brought to the table, Twinks would still have been engraved on the memory of all who encountered her, but she also had brains. Within that delicate cranium there operated a calculating machine of unrivalled proficiency. If there is a God who allocates brainpower, then He’d granted Twinks the thinking capacity of at least a dozen ordinary humans. And though He was correspondingly ungenerous to Blotto, this couldn’t have mattered less. Twinks had brains enough, and to spare, for the both of them. Her brother had never questioned or resented her intellectual superiority. He just knew that if Twinks had an idea, it was bound to be a buzzbanger.

  And that day in the Blue Morning Room Twinks did have an idea to suggest to the Dowager Duchess. She knew there were three subjects bound immediately to engage her mother’s attention – dogs, horses and the one she was about to raise, the state of the Tawcester Towers plumbing.

  The system was antiquated and, in spite of attempts at renovation, no improvements seemed to bring a lasting solution to the problems. It still clattered and clanked throughout the night, sounding as though ghostly armies had been woken from their deep enchanted sleep to do battle. And in the furthest bathrooms of the building the taps still failed to produce more than a trickle of cold brown water. Maintaining the Tawcester Towers plumbing wolfed down money at a rate that made the cost of keeping racehorses in training look like a bargain.

  On more than one occasion Blotto and Twinks had brought back from their adventures large amounts of the old jingle-jangle, sometimes in the form of gold ingots, but the estate’s renewed solvency never lasted long. However much cash was poured into the ravenous maw of the Tawcester Towers plumbing, the creature remained insatiable, growling out a sequence of clanks that translated as, ‘Feed me! Feed me!’

  So when, that day in the Blue Morning Room, Twinks mentioned the subject, she knew she would command her mother’s full attention. ‘Mater,’ she trilled, ‘I was just having a little cogitette about the Tawcester Towers plumbing.’

  Two stern, unyielding eyes focused on her through their rockery of wrinkles. ‘What about it?’ demanded the Dowager Duchess.

  ‘I gather we’re once again in something of a swamphole over finances.’

  ‘We always are,’ said her mother tersely.

  ‘Well, I’ve thought of a way out of this particular clammy corner.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was thinking it would be a beezer wheeze for me to go to America with Blotto.’

  ‘It has not yet been agreed’, the Dowager Duchess boomed, ‘that Blotto is going to America. And I can certainly think of no reason why you should go with him.’

  ‘The Tawcester Towers plumbing, Mater – that’s the reason.’

  ‘Explain that most unlikely assertion. We have a perfectly adequate plumber in Tawsford town. The only thing wrong with him is his bourgeois insistence on being paid for his services, a tendency which I discover is becoming all too prevalent among tradespersons. To travel to America in search of a better plumber seems to me a ridiculous extravagance.’

  ‘No, Mater, you’ve got the wrong end of the treacle spoon. I wasn’t suggesting going to America for a plumber. That would be a pure waste of gingerbread. No, what I had in mind was going to America to find a husband.’

  ‘Ah.’ This did not seem to the Dowager Duchess such a crazy idea. ‘Do you have anyone in mind for this role?’

  ‘No, not at this precise mo, but America – and Hollywood in particular – is packed to the gunwales with rich husband material.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ the craggy old woman mused portentously. ‘I seem to remember we tried something similar with Blotto. He was going to be married to Mary Chapstick, daughter of Luther P. Chapstick III.’

  ‘But that wheeze rather hit the buffers,’ said Blotto, colouring slightly at the recollection of his embarrassment at the time.

  The Dowager Duchess was still musing. ‘Of course, a lot of young men of our breeding – well, not quite of ours obviously, but aspiring to our breeding – have balanced the family finances by marrying American gels, but I don’t think it’s happened too much with our gels marrying American men.’

  ‘Well, that could all change,’ said Twinks. ‘If I go out with Blotto to the jolly old U S of A, then I’m bound to meet some Hollywood tycoon or Texas oil millionaire with spondulicks spilling out of his lugs. Then I twiddle up the old reef knot with him and – sparksissimo – problemo solvo!’

  This prompted another ‘Hm’ from the Dowager Duchess. While the prospect of her younger son being married off to a rich American and never returning to Tawcester Towers had caused her no qualms, the thought of her daughter doing the same thing was not quite so appealing. Not for sentimental reasons, of course. It was just that she had plans to breed from Twinks. Line her up with some suitable Duke and the Lyminster dynasty could be considerably strengthened.

  On the other hand, all of that would take time. Any dealings with the British aristocracy took time – not only blue blood but lethargy too ran through their veins. And the Tawcester Towers plumbing, like time and tide, waited for no man. Only that morning the butler Grimshaw had brought news of a burst pipe having drenched an under-housemaid in her bed. Normally such a domestic accident to one of her inferiors would have been of no interest to the Dowager Duchess but, as Grimshaw pointed out, since all the servants’ rooms were in the poky attics on the top floor, it was only a matter of time before water seeped through into the rest of the house.

  Something needed to be done about the Tawcester Towers plumbing.

  When the Dowager Duchess made decisions, she did so quickly. ‘Very well, Twinks,’ she said. ‘Go to America and don’t bother to come back until you’ve got a very rich husband.’

  ‘Tickey-tockey, Mater. There’s got to be a Texas oil millionaire with my name engraved on him out there somewhere.’

  ‘In fact, you needn’t bother to come back at all, so long as the money crosses the Atlantic.’

  ‘I’ll sort it out as quick as a lizard’s lick.’

  ‘Good.’ The Dowager Duchess’s beady eyes sought out the golden carriage clock on the mantelpiece. ‘And now I see no reason why you two should still be here. Leave me!’

  ‘Yes, Mater,’ said Twinks.
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  ‘Erm . . . just one thingette . . .’ said Blotto.

  ‘What!’ the Dowager Duchess turned the full power of her eyebrows on to her younger son.

  ‘Well, Mater, you’ve said Twinks can cross the Pond to go husband-fishing, which is all creamy éclair, but you haven’t yet said whether I can go.’

  ‘Well, of course you must go!’

  ‘Oh thanks, Mater. You see, Ponky Larreighffriebollaux is already over there – or at least he’s on the boat. That’s beezer, though, Mater, giving me the permish to cross the pond to play cricket.’

  ‘Not to play cricket, Blotto. Your role in going to America will be to act as chaperone to your sister.’

  ‘Good ticket,’ said Blotto.

  As they left the Blue Morning Room, he caught the twinkle in his sibling’s eye. He knew how little Twinks liked being chaperoned under any circumstances. Wherever she went, she led her own life. Which meant Blotto was going to be able to play as much cricket as he wanted in Hollywood. Hoopee-doopie!

  3

  A Conference With Corky

  ‘Into whatever hazardous situation you put yourself, milord, I regard it as my duty and honour to go with you and protect you to the last drop of my unworthy blood.’

  ‘Oh really, Corky,’ said Blotto, ‘don’t talk such toffee.’

  He had heard many such protestations of loyalty from his chauffeur, Corky Froggett. The man, in spotless black uniform and peaked cap, stood to attention beside the equally spotless blue Lagonda. Every individual bristle of his white moustache also stood to attention.

  ‘And to what noxious foreign hellhole are we directing ourselves this time, milord?’

  ‘We’re pootling off to the United States of America,’ Blotto announced.

  ‘Oh.’ Corky Froggett couldn’t keep a note of disappointment out of his voice. Though, like most true Englishmen, he regarded ‘abroad’ with appropriate contempt, the chauffeur tended to grade foreign countries according to the level of animosity he was likely to encounter there. Corky’s finest hour had been the war against Germany. Then he had been in his element, living in unsavoury trenches in France and only emerging to kill as many of the enemy as possible. So he didn’t mind travelling to Europe, always with the secret hope that hostilities might break out again and he’d be able to continue in his God-given role as a killing machine.

  But America . . . His main feeling about the place was resentment for the slowness with which they had condescended to add their strength to the Allied cause during the last little dust-up.

  Still, it wouldn’t do to show any reluctance to the young master, so he followed up his disappointed ‘Oh’ with an enthusiastic ‘Very good, milord. And you are suggesting that I should accompany you?’

  ‘That’s the ticket, yes. It’s just me going, with Twinks of course, but America’s a whale of a big country and I think we’ll need someone else to help with the driving.’

  ‘I will be honoured to do that, milord.’

  ‘You’re a good greengage, Corky.’

  ‘Thank you, milord,’ said the chauffeur, recognising high praise in the young master’s words.

  ‘We sail from Liverpool on Monday, aboard the S.S. Regal. So I want you to ensure that you’ve got the Lag in zing-zing condition for then.’

  Corky Froggett looked slightly affronted as he tapped the car’s long bonnet. ‘I always keep the Lag in zing-zing condition.’

  ‘I know you do. Sorry, shouldn’t have said that – couple of toes in the mouth there.’

  The chauffeur looked gratified by this apology.

  ‘You’ll enjoy driving in America, Corky. Long, wide roads, though the poor saps do insist on driving the wrong side.’

  ‘Well, we could put an end to that, milord.’

  ‘Sorry, not on the same page, Corky?’

  ‘What I’m saying, milord, is that if we insist on driving on the correct side of the road, which is of course the left, I’m sure the Yanks will quickly see the error of their ways and follow suit.’

  ‘Ye–es,’ said Blotto, not entirely convinced. ‘I think that’s an experiment we might pop in the pending file.’

  ‘Very good, milord.’

  ‘Actually, Corky me old fruitbat, it’s not just for your driving skills that I want you in the USA.’

  ‘Oh, milord?’

  ‘I also want you there as a wicketkeeper.’ The chauffeur looked puzzled. ‘Oh, come on, Corky. You know that when it comes to wicketkeeping, you’re the absolute panda’s panties.’

  ‘I do my best, milord,’ came the humble response. ‘But there is one thing I can’t help observing . . .’

  ‘What? Come on, uncage the ferrets.’

  ‘The cricket season has ended, milord.’

  ‘Ah, now this is where everything’s pure strawberry jam with dollops of cream. There are some Americans in Hollywood who play cricket out of season!’

  ‘Well, I’ll be . . .’ When he was with the young master at such moments of surprise, Corky never finished the sentence. Such language might be acceptable below stairs but it was not appropriate in the company of aristocrats.

  ‘And that is the reason why you are making this trip to the USA, is it, milord?’

  ‘Main reason, yes. Also going to see if we can find some pot-brained pineapple rich enough to marry Twinks.’

  ‘Very good, milord. One other thing . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Corky Froggett looked at the Lagonda by his side. ‘The last time you went to America, milord, you came back with a secret compartment fitted to the underside of this car.’

  ‘You’re bong on the nose there, Corky. We gotten it done by some stenchers in the Mafia.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, milord?’

  ‘What is it, Corky?’

  ‘I don’t understand, milord, what you mean by “We gotten it done”.’

  ‘Ah well, you see, I’m kind of doing a bit of prep for pongling off to the States. Americans do say “gotten” quite a lot.’

  ‘Do they, milord? When?’

  ‘That’s the tick in the teacup, Corky. I’m not quite sure when they do say it. So I thought if I practised putting the occasional “gotten” into my conversation, I might be doing it naturally by the time I get there.’

  ‘I understand completely, milord.’

  ‘Beezer! You’ve gotten it in one. Give that pony a rosette!’

  ‘Thank you, milord. Going back to the compartment beneath the Lagonda . . .’

  ‘Good ticket, Corky, yes.’

  ‘Well, I was wondering, milord, whether you wished me to remove it before we take her on the S.S. Regal on Monday.’

  Blotto’s brow furrowed beneath its thatch of hair. But his indecision only lasted a moment. The furrows smoothed themselves out as he announced, ‘Leave it there, Corky. You never know when you’re going to need somewhere secret to hide a load of bullion, say . . . or a dead body.’

  ‘Very good, milord,’ said Corky Froggett.

  A couple of days before they were due to leave, Blotto found himself in London with some time to kill. Twinks had wanted to sharpen up her wardrobe for the American trip and that involved visiting a series of exclusive shops in Mayfair. Blotto had been happy to drive her up in the Lagonda, but shopping wasn’t really his length of banana, so they agreed to separate and meet up three hours later in the bar of The Dorchester.

  Blotto took the opportunity to have a very good lunch at one of his clubs and, while he was wandering back to where he’d parked the Lagonda, he passed a toyshop and noticed that one of the display windows was full of jumping frogs.

  Now normally Blotto didn’t have strong feelings about frogs. His outlook on the natural world was benign. He bore no ill will towards animals. He certainly bore no ill will to the ones he shot in such large numbers. It was nothing personal, just the way he’d been brought up.

  But the jumping frogs in the toyshop window struck a new chord in him. They looked such jolly fun, he wanted to own one
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  Inside the shop an unctuous assistant demonstrated the toy. It was powered by clockwork. Wind the thing up and you got a full minute of jumping around.

  What was more, once inside the shop, Blotto was even more fascinated to discover that the frog croaked as well as jumped.

  The purchase was instantly made. As the assistant wrapped the toy up in its box, he asked, ‘Well, sir, I’m sure that when this is unwrapped in front of the Christmas tree, it’s destined to make some lucky child very happy.’

  ‘No,’ said Blotto. ‘It’s for me.’

  4

  Crossing the Pond

  The journey across the Atlantic on the S.S. Regal was predictable. All the unattached young men – and a good few of the attached ones – fell in love with Twinks. And all the unattached young women – and a good few of the attached, particularly the older ones – fell in love with Blotto.

  The siblings reacted to these attentions in their characteristic but contrasting manners. Twinks maintained her usual midge-swatting insouciance, whereas Blotto remained totally unaware of the stirrings he engendered in female bosoms and did nothing. But the way he did nothing only made the women even more in love with him.

  Brother and sister passed their time on shipboard in ways that suited them. Apart from spending quite a lot of time in his state room playing with his clockwork jumping frog, Blotto got enough young men together to play some entertaining deck cricket matches. And Twinks found in the liner’s library a copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War in the original Chinese from the fifth century BC. It seemed obvious to her to fill her daylight hours by translating it into Gujarati.

  For the duration of the crossing, Corky Froggett didn’t leave the ship’s hold. This was partly in order to keep an eye on – and keep highly polished – the precious Lagonda, which had been lashed into position with strong ropes. On the same level as the hold was the accommodation for the ship’s crew and servants – ‘below stairs’ translated to ‘below decks’ – and it was here that Corky made the acquaintance of one of the waitresses who worked in the First Class dining room. Since she was impressed by his military bearing and of a giving disposition, he passed many pleasant hours in her cabin, enjoying not only her ample charms but also a variety of delicious gourmet dishes she purloined from her place of employment. So despite the fact that he never saw daylight, Corky Froggett’s first experience of transatlantic travel was a very pleasant one.