The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3

by Wodehouse, P. G.

  I mentioned this to Jeeves, and he agreed that the set-up could have been juicier.

  ‘Still,’ I said, taking a pop, as always, at trying to focus the silver lining, ‘it’s flattering, of course.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Being the People’s Choice, Jeeves. Having these birds going around chanting “We Want Wooster”.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. Precisely. Most gratifying.’

  But half a jiffy. I’m forgetting that you haven’t the foggiest what all this is about. It so often pans out that way when you begin a story. You whizz off the mark all pep and ginger, like a mettlesome charger going into its routine, and the next thing you know, the customers are up on their hind legs, yelling for footnotes.

  Let me get into reverse and put you abreast.

  My Aunt Agatha, the one who chews broken bottles and kills rats with her teeth, arriving suddenly in London from her rural lair with her son Thomas, had instructed me in her authoritative way to put the latter up in my flat for three days while he visited dentists and Old Vics and things preparatory to leaving for his school at Bramley-on-Sea and, that done, to proceed to Deverill Hall, King’s Deverill, Hants, the residence of some pals of hers, and lend my services to the village concert. Apparently they wanted to stiffen up the programme with a bit of metropolitan talent, and I had been recommended by the vicar’s niece.

  And that, of course, was that. It was no good telling her that I would prefer not to touch young Thos with a ten-foot pole and that I disliked taking on blind dates. When Aunt Agatha issues her orders, you fill them. But I was conscious, as I have indicated, of an uneasiness as to the shape of things to come, and it didn’t make the outlook any brighter to know that Gussie Fink-Nottle would be among those present at Deverill Hall. When you get trapped in the den of the Secret Nine, you want something a lot better than Gussie to help you keep the upper lip stiff.

  I mused a bit.

  ‘I wish I had more data about these people, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘I like on these occasions to know what I’m up against. So far, all I’ve gathered is that I am to be the guest of a landed proprietor called Harris or Hacker or possibly Hassock.’

  ‘Haddock, sir.’

  ‘Haddock, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The gentleman who is to be your host is a Mr Esmond Haddock.’

  ‘It’s odd, but that name seems to strike a chord, as if I’d heard it before somewhere.’

  ‘Mr Haddock is the son of the owner of a widely advertised patent remedy known as Haddock’s Headache Hokies, sir. Possibly the specific is familiar to you.’

  ‘Of course. I know it well. Not so sensationally good as those pick-me-ups of yours, but none the less a sound stand-by on the morning after. So he’s one of those Haddocks, is he?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mr Esmond Haddock’s late father married the late Miss Flora Deverill.’

  ‘Before they were both late, of course?’

  ‘The union was considered something of a mésalliance by the lady’s sisters. The Deverills are a very old county family – like so many others in these days, impoverished.’

  ‘I begin to get the scenario. Haddock, though not as posh as he might be on the father’s side, foots the weekly bills?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, no doubt he can afford to. There’s gold in them thar Hokies, Jeeves.’

  ‘So I should be disposed to imagine, sir.’

  A point struck me which often does strike me when chewing the fat with this honest fellow – viz. that he seemed to know a hell of a lot about it. I mentioned this, and he explained that it was one of those odd chances that had enabled him to get the inside story.

  ‘My Uncle Charlie holds the post of butler at the Hall, sir. It is from him that I derive my information.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had an Uncle Charlie. Charlie Jeeves?’

  ‘No, sir. Charlie Silversmith.’

  I lit a rather pleased cigarette. Things were beginning to clarify.

  ‘Well, this is a bit of a goose. You’ll be able to give me all the salient facts, if salient is the word I want. What sort of a joint is this Deverill Hall? Nice place? Gravel soil? Spreading views?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good catering?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And touching on the personnel. Would there be a Mrs Haddock?’

  ‘No, sir. The young gentleman is unmarried. He resides at the hall with his five aunts.’

  ‘Five?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The Misses Charlotte, Emmeline, Harriet and Myrtle Deverill and Dame Daphne Winkworth, relict of the late P.B. Winkworth, the historian. Dame Daphne’s daughter, Miss Gertrude Winkworth, is, I understand, also in residence.’

  On the cue ‘five aunts’ I had given at the knees a trifle, for the thought of being confronted with such a solid gaggle of aunts, even if those of another, was an unnerving one. Reminding myself that in this life it is not aunts that matter but the courage which one brings to them, I pulled myself together.

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘No stint of female society.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I may find Gussie’s company a relief.’

  ‘Very possibly, sir.’

  ‘Such as it is.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I wonder, by the way, if you recall this Augustus, on whose activities I have had occasion to touch once or twice before now? Throw the mind back. Goofy to the gills, face like a fish, horn-rimmed spectacles, drank orange juice, collected newts, engaged to England’s premier pill, a girl called Madeline Bassett … Ah, you’ve got him? Fine.

  ‘Tell me, Jeeves,’ I said, ‘how does Gussie come to be mixed up with these bacteria? Surely a bit of an inscrutable mystery that he, too, should be headed for Deverill Hall?’

  ‘No, sir. It was Mr Fink-Nottle himself who informed me.’

  ‘You’ve seen him, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He called while you were out.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Low-spirited, sir.’

  ‘Like me, he shrinks from the prospect of visiting this ghastly shack?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He had supposed that Miss Bassett would be accompanying him, but she has altered her arrangements at the last moment and gone to reside at The Larches, Wimbledon Common, with an old school friend who has recently suffered a disappointment in love. It was Miss Bassett’s view that she needed cheering up.’

  I was at a loss to comprehend how the society of Madeline Bassett could cheer anyone up, she being from topknot to shoe sole the woman whom God forgot, but I didn’t say so. I merely threw out the opinion that this must have made Gussie froth a bit.

  ‘Yes, sir. He expressed annoyance at the change of plan. Indeed, I gathered from his remarks, for he was kind enough to confide in me, that there has resulted a certain coolness between himself and Miss Bassett.’

  ‘Gosh!’ I said.

  And I’ll tell you why I goshed. If you remember Gussie Fink-Nottle, you will probably also remember the chain of circumstances which led up, if chains do lead up, to this frightful Bassett getting the impression firmly fixed in her woollen head that Bertram Wooster was pining away for love of her. I won’t go into details now, but it was her conviction that if ever she felt like severing relations with Gussie, she had only to send out a hurry call for me and I would come racing round, all ready to buy the licence and start ordering the wedding cake.

  So, knowing my view regarding this Bassett, M., you will readily understand why this stuff about coolnesses drew a startled ‘Gosh!’ from me. The thought of my peril had never left me, and I wasn’t going to be really easy in my mind till these two were actually centre-aisling. Only when the clergyman had definitely pronounced sentence would Bertram start to breathe freely again.

  ‘Ah, well,’ I said, hoping for the best. ‘Just a lovers’ tiff, no doubt. Always happening, these lovers’ tiffs. Probably by this time a complete reconciliation has been effected and the laughing Love God is sweating away at the old stand once more
with knobs on. Ha!’ I proceeded as the front-door bell tootled, ‘someone waits without. If it’s young Thos, tell him that I shall expect him to be in readiness, all clean and rosy, at seven forty-five tonight to accompany me to the performance of King Lear at the Old Vic, and it’s no good him trying to do a sneak. His mother said he had got to go to the Old Vic, and he’s jolly well going.’

  ‘I think it is more probable that it is Mr Pirbright, sir.’

  ‘Old Catsmeat? What makes you think that?’

  ‘He also called during your absence and indicated that he would return later. He was accompanied by his sister, Miss Pirbright.’

  ‘Good Lord, really? Corky? I thought she was in Hollywood.’

  ‘I understand that she has returned to England for a vacation, sir.’

  ‘Did you give her tea?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Master Thomas played host. Miss Pirbright took the young gentleman off subsequently to see a picture.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t missed her. I haven’t seen Corky for ages. Was she all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Catsmeat? How was he?’

  ‘Low-spirited, sir.’

  ‘You’re mixing him up with Gussie. It was Gussie, if you recall, who was low-spirited.’

  ‘Mr Pirbright also.’

  ‘There seems to be a lot of low-spiritedness kicking about these days.’

  ‘We live in difficult times, sir.’

  ‘True. Well, bung him in.’

  He oozed out, and a few moments later oozed in again.

  ‘Mr Pirbright,’ he announced.

  He had called his shots correctly. A glance at the young visitor was enough to tell me that he was low-spirited.

  2

  * * *

  AND, MIND YOU, it isn’t often that you find the object under advisement in this condition. A singularly fizzy bird, as a rule. In fact, taking him by and large, I should say that of all the rollicking lads at the Drones Club, Claude Cattermole Pirbright is perhaps the most rollicking, both on the stage and off.

  I say ‘on the stage’, for it is behind the footlights that he earns his weekly envelope. He comes of a prominent theatrical family. His father was the man who wrote the music of The Blue Lady and other substantial hits which I unfortunately missed owing to being in the cradle at the time. His mother was Elsie Cattermole, who was a star in New York for years. And his sister Corky has been wowing the customers with her oomph and espièglerie, if that’s the word I want, since she was about sixteen.

  It was almost inevitable, therefore, that, looking about him on coming down from Oxford for some walk in life which would ensure the three squares a day and give him time to play a bit of county cricket, he should have selected the sock and buskin. Today he is the fellow managers pick first when they have a Society comedy to present and want someone for ‘Freddie’, the lighthearted friend of the hero, carrying the second love interest. If at such a show you see a willowy figure come bounding on with a tennis racket, shouting ‘Hallo, girls’ shortly after the kick-off, don’t bother to look at the programme. That’ll be Catsmeat.

  On such occasions he starts off sprightly and continues sprightly till closing time, and it is the same in private life. There, too, his sprightliness is a byword. Pongo Twistleton and Barmy Phipps, who do each year at the Drones smoker the knockabout Pat and Mike cross-talk act of which he is the author and producer, have told me that when rehearsing them in their lines and business, he is more like Groucho Marx than anything human.

  Yet now, as I say, he was low-spirited. It stuck out a mile. His brow was sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought and his air that of a man who, if he had said ‘Hallo, girls’, would have said it like someone in a Russian drama announcing that Grandpapa had hanged himself in the barn.

  I greeted him cordially and said I was sorry I had been out when he had come seeking an audience before, especially as he had had Corky with him.

  ‘I should have loved a chat with Corky,’ I said. ‘I had no idea she was back in England. Now I’m afraid I’ve missed her.’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’

  ‘Yes, I have. I leave tomorrow for a place called Deverill Hall in Hampshire to help at the village concert. It seems that the vicar’s niece insisted on having me in the troupe, and what’s puzzling me is how this girl of God heard of me. One hadn’t supposed one’s reputation was so far flung.’

  ‘You silly ass, she’s Corky.’

  ‘Corky?’

  I was stunned. There are few better eggs in existence than Cora (‘Corky’) Pirbright, with whom I have been on the matiest of terms since the days when in our formative years we attended the same dancing class, but nothing in her deportment had ever given me the idea that she was related to the clergy.

  ‘My Uncle Sidney is the vicar down there, and my aunt’s away at Bournemouth. In her absence, Corky is keeping house for him.’

  ‘My God! Poor old Sid! She tidies his study, no doubt?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Straightens his tie?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘And tells him he smokes too much, and every time he gets comfortably setted in an armchair boosts him out of it so that she can smooth the cushions. He must be feeling as if he were living in the book of Revelations. But doesn’t she find a vicarage rather slow after Hollywood?’

  ‘Not a bit. She loves it. Corky’s different from me. I wouldn’t be happy out of show business, but she was never really keen on it, though she’s been such a success. I don’t think she would have gone on the stage at all, if it hadn’t been for Mother wanting her to so much. Her dream is to marry someone who lives in the country and spend the rest of her life knee-deep in cows and dogs and things. I suppose it’s the old Farmer Giles strain in the Pirbrights coming out. My grandfather was a farmer. I can just remember him. Yards of whiskers, and always bellyaching about the weather. Messing about in the parish and getting up village concerts is her dish.’

  ‘Any idea what she wants me to give the local yokels? Not the “Yeoman’s Wedding Song”, I trust?’

  ‘No. You’re billed to do the Pat part in that cross-talk act of mine.’

  This came under the head of tidings of great joy. Too often at these binges the Brass Hats in charge tell you to render the ‘Yeoman’s Wedding Song’, which for some reason always arouses the worst passions of the tough eggs who stand behind the back row. But no rustic standees have ever been known not to eat a knockabout cross-talk act. There is something about the spectacle of Performer A sloshing Performer B over the head with an umbrella and Performer B prodding Performer A in the midriff with a similar blunt instrument that seems to speak to their depths. Wearing a green beard and given adequate assistance by my supporting cast, I could confidently anticipate that I should have the clientele rolling in the aisles.

  ‘Right. Fine. Splendid. I can now face the future with an uplifted heart. But if she wanted someone for Pat, why didn’t she get you? You being a seasoned professional. Ah, I see what must have happened. She offered you the role and you drew yourself up haughtily, feeling that you were above this amateur stuff.’

  Catsmeat shook the lemon sombrely.

  ‘It wasn’t that at all. Nothing would have pleased me more than to have performed at the King’s Deverill concert, but the shot wasn’t on the board. Those women at the hall hate my insides.’

  ‘So you’ve met them? What are they like? A pretty stiffish nymphery, I suspect.’

  ‘No, I haven’t met them. But I’m engaged to their niece, Gertrude Winkworth, and the idea of her marrying me gives them the pip. If I showed myself within a mile of Deverill Hall, dogs would be set on me. Talking of dogs, Corky bought one this morning at the Battersea Home.’

  ‘God bless her,’ I said, speaking absently, for my thoughts were concentrated on this romance of his and I was trying to sort out his little ball of worsted from the mob of aunts and what-have-you of whom Jeeves had spoken. Then I got her placed. Gertrude,
daughter of Dame Daphne Winkworth, relict of the late P.B. Winkworth, the historian.

  ‘That’s what I came to see you about.’

  ‘Corky’s dog?’

  ‘No, this Gertrude business. I need your help. I’ll tell you the whole story.’

  On Catsmeat’s entry I had provided him with a hospitable whisky and splash, and of this he had downed up to this point perhaps a couple of sips and a gulp. He now knocked back the residuum, and it seemed to touch the spot, for when it was down the hatch he spoke with animation and fluency.

  ‘I should like to start by saying, Bertie, that since the first human crawled out of the primeval slime and life began on this planet nobody has ever loved anybody as I love Gertrude Winkworth. I mention this because I want you to realize that what you’re sitting in on is not one of those light summer flirtations but the real West End stuff. I love her!’

  ‘That’s good. Where did you meet her?’

  ‘At a house in Norfolk. They were doing some amateur theatricals and roped me in to produce. My God! Those twilight evenings in the old garden, with the birds singing sleepily in the shrubberies and the stars beginning to peep out in the –’

  ‘Right ho. Carry on.’

  ‘She’s wonderful, Bertie. Why she loves me, I can’t imagine.’

  ‘But she does?’

  ‘Oh yes, she does. We got engaged, and she returned to Deverill Hall to break the news to her mother. And when she did, what do you think happened?’

  Well, of course, he had rather given away the punch of his story at the outset.

  ‘The parent kicked?’

  ‘She let out a yell you could have heard at Basingstoke.’

  ‘Basingstoke being –’

  ‘About twenty miles away as the crow flies.’

  ‘I know Basingstoke. Bless my soul yes, know it well.’

  ‘She –’

  ‘I’ve stayed there as a boy. An old nurse of mine used to live at Basingstoke in a semi-detached villa called Balmoral. Her name was Hogg, oddly enough. Nurse Hogg. She suffered from hiccups.’

  Catsmeat’s manner became a bit tense. He looked like a village standee hearing the ‘Yeoman’s Wedding Song’.