Uncle Dynamite

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘A letter?’

  ‘You might find it less embarrassing.’

  ‘I might,’ said Pongo, and, quivering with gratitude to his helpmeet for her timely suggestion, he clasped her to his bosom and showered kisses on her upturned face.

  This would probably have gone on for some time, had not Elsie Bean at this moment entered softly with a tray in her hands containing a tea-pot, a cup, some slices of buttered toast and a piece of cake.

  ‘Tea,’ said Elsie, and Pongo, soaring ceilingwards, came down and regarded her wrathfully.

  ‘Why the dickens can’t you blow your horn?’ he demanded with a good deal of heat. Elsie remained unmoved. The passionate scene which she had interrupted had made little impression upon her. It was the sort of thing that was happening all the time in Bottleton East.

  ‘Tea, toast and a bit-er-cake,’ she said. ‘Have you pushed Harold into the pond yet, Mr Twistleton?’

  Sally took charge of the situation in her competent way.

  ‘Of course he has pushed him into the pond. He said he would, didn’t he? You don’t suppose Mr Twistleton would fail you?’

  ‘Did he go in with a splash?’

  ‘With a terrific splash. You could hear it for miles.’

  ‘Coo. Well, I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, Mr Twistleton. Have you seen Miss Hermione?’

  Pongo leaped an inch or two.

  ‘She isn’t here?’

  ‘Yes, she is. I saw her drive up in her car.’

  Pongo remained silent for a space. He was clutching his head.

  ‘I think I’ll go and walk up and down on the tennis lawn for a while,’ he said. ‘This wants brooding over.’

  With a brief groan he left the room, once more with that suggestion in his manner of a cat on hot bricks, and Elsie followed him with a critical eye.

  ‘Nice young gentleman, Mr Twistleton,’ she said. ‘A bit barmy, isn’t he?’

  ‘A bit,’ agreed Sally. ‘I love it.’

  The Bull’s Head was still standing in its old place in the High Street when Hermione drove up, but Otis was no longer on the premises. She was informed that he had stepped out some little time previously, but whither he had stepped was not known. Annoyed, for no girl bringing the good news from Aix to Ghent likes to find Ghent empty when she gets there, Hermione returned to her two-seater and started to drive back along the road by which she had come. It had occurred to her that, now that she was in the Ashenden Manor neighbourhood, she ought to take the opportunity of exchanging a few words with her betrothed. It was the first time since lunch that she had given him a thought.

  But her annoyance did not last long, nor did the desire to seek out Pongo. She had just reached the first milestone when something seemed to hit her between the eyes. It felt like a thunderbolt, but actually it was the central idea for the first of that series of three novels at twenty per cent rising to twenty-five above three thousand which Otis Painter would now be in a position to publish. This sort of thing is always happening to authors. They are driving along or walking along or possibly just sitting in a chair, their minds a blank, when all of a sudden — bing.

  And the first thing an author learns is that it is fatal on these occasions to pigeon-hole the inspiration away at the back of the mind, trusting that memory will produce it when required. Notes must be made immediately. Drawing up her two-seater at the side of the road, Hermione found an old envelope and began to write. She wrote rapidly, breathing tensely through the nose.

  At about the same moment Lord Ickenham reached the Bull’s Head and turned in at the door of the saloon bar.

  It was with the easy assurance of one confident of his welcome that Lord Ickenham entered the saloon bar, for on his previous visit there he had had an outstanding social success. The stout blonde behind the counter, her uncle the landlord (Jno. Humphreys, licensed to sell ales, wines and spirits) and quite a number of the inn’s clients had hung upon his lips. It is not often given to the natives of remote Hampshire hamlets to sit at the feet of a man who knows Brazil like the back of his hand, who has looked his alligator in the eye and made it wilt and who can talk of his adventures fluently and well.

  Today he saw that his audience was to be smaller. Indeed, at the moment only the barmaid was present. He seemed to have struck one of those slack periods which come to all saloon bars. With the best will in the world English villagers cannot be drinking all the time, and this appeared to be one of the times when those of Ashenden Oakshott had decided to allow their gullets a brief respite, no doubt on the reculer pour mieux sauter principle.

  But your true artist will always give of his best, however thin the house. As Lord Ickenham placed an elbow on the counter and requested the stout blonde to start pouring, there was no suggestion in his manner that he was going to walk through his part. He resumed his saga of life on the Lower Amazon as if he had been addressing a crowded hall, and the barmaid listened with all the impressment which she had shown on the previous day.

  ‘Well, I do call that a pity,’ she said, as he paused for an instant to raise his tankard.

  ‘A pity?’ said Lord Ickenham, a little hurt, for he had been speaking of the occasion when a puma had only just failed to add him to its bill of fare. ‘Ah, I see. You are looking at the incident from the puma’s view-point, and your womanly sympathy has been aroused by its failure to get the square meal for which it had been budgeting. Yes, it was tough on the puma. I remember noticing at the time that the animal’s eyes were wet with unshed tears.’

  ‘A pity you should have missed that gentleman, I mean. There was a gentleman in here for a quick one not five minutes ago,’ explained the barmaid, ‘who was telling me he had just come from Brazil. He’d have liked to meet you.’

  Lord Ickenham gave her to understand that this was an almost universal aspiration on the part of his fellow men, but privately he was relieved that he had not arrived five minutes earlier. In his present rather delicate circumstances he greatly preferred to avoid gentlemen who had just come from Brazil.

  ‘Too bad,’ he said. ‘One of the boys, eh? It would have been delightful to have got together and swapped yarns.’

  ‘Why, here he is,’ said the barmaid.

  The door had opened, revealing an elderly man of square build with a pugnacious, sunburned face. Such was the excellence of the Bull’s Head beer that those who went out after having a quick one nearly always came homing back again to have another.

  ‘This is the gentleman I was speaking of. Excuse me, sir,’ said the barmaid, addressing the gentleman, who had approached the counter and placed an elbow on it and was now licking his lips in quiet anticipation, ‘here’s a gentleman you ought to know, you being from Brazil. He knows more about Brazil than you could shake a stick at. Major Plank, the great explorer.’

  At this moment a voice from without, recognizable as that of Jno. Humphreys, licensed to sell ales, wines and spirits, made itself heard. It was bellowing ‘Myrtle’, and the barmaid, whose parents had inflicted that name on her, vanished with a brief ‘Excuse me.’ The voice had been urgent, and it was evident that stern experience had taught this niece that her uncle Jno. was a man who did not like to be kept waiting.

  ‘Tell him about the puma, Major Plank,’ she said, pausing for an instant in her flight. Normally, Lord Ickenham would have done this without delay, for he enjoyed telling people about pumas and knew that he was good at it. But one of the things which a man of the world learns early in his career is that there are times when it is best to keep silent on the subject of these fascinating fauna. The gentleman was looking at him fixedly, and in his eye there was no spark of the encouraging light which indicates a willingness to be informed about pumas. There have been some bleak and fishy eyes scattered through this chronicle — those of Coggs, the butler at Ickenham Hall, spring to the mind — but none bleaker and fishier than the gentleman’s at this juncture.

  ‘Plank?’ he said, speaking raspingly. ‘Did I hear her call you Major Plank
?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Lord Ickenham. ‘Major Plank.’

  ‘Are you Major Brabazon-Plank, the explorer?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So am I,’ said the gentleman, evidently rather impressed by the odd coincidence.

  12

  When two strong men stand face to face, each claiming to be Major Brabazon-Plank, it is inevitable that there will be a sense of strain, resulting in a momentary silence. There was on this occasion. Lord Ickenham was the first to speak.

  ‘Oh, are you?’ he said. ‘Then you owe me two bob.’

  His companion blinked. The turn the conversation had taken seemed to have surprised him.

  ‘Two bob?’

  ‘If you have nothing but large bills, I can give you change. ‘Major Plank’s mahogany face took on a richer hue.

  ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

  ‘Two bob.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘It is a point on which opinions differ. Some say yes. I maintain no. Two bob,’ said Lord Ickenham patiently. ‘It is useless for you to pretend that you do not owe me that sum, Bimbo. You took it off me forty-three years ago as we were crossing the cricket field one lovely summer evening. “Barmy,” you said, “would you like to lend me two bob?” And I said “No, but I suppose I’ll have to,” and the money changed hands.’

  Major Plank clutched the counter.

  ‘Bimbo? Barmy? Cricket field?’ He stared with terrific concentration, and his face suddenly cleared. ‘Good God! You’re Barmy Twistleton.’

  ‘I was in those days, but I’ve come on a lot since then, Bimbo. You see before you Frederick Altamont Cornwallis, fifth Earl of Ickenham, and one of the hottest earls that ever donned a coronet. The boy you knew as a wretched Hon. is now a peer of the realm, looked up to like the dickens by one and all. Just mention to anyone that you know Lord Ickenham, and they’ll fawn on you and stand you lunch.’

  Major Plank took an absent sip from the tankard.

  ‘Barmy Twistleton!’ he murmured. It was plain that the encounter had affected him greatly. ‘But why did you tell that girl you were me?’

  ‘One has to say something to keep the conversation going.’

  ‘Barmy Twistleton. Well, I’ll be damned. After all these years. I wouldn’t have recognized you.’

  ‘Exactly what Mugsy Bostock said when we met. You remember Mugsy Bostock? Did you know that he lived in these parts?’

  ‘I knew his nephew, Bill Oakshott, did. I motored down to see him.’

  ‘You aren’t on your way to Ashenden Manor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Turn round and go back, Bimbo,’ said Lord Ickenham, patting his shoulder kindly. ‘You must not visit Ashenden Manor.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I am already in residence there under your name. It would confuse Mugsy and give him a headache if he were confronted with a couple of us. No doubt you will say that you can’t have too many Brabazon-Planks about the home, but Mugsy wouldn’t look at it that way. He would get bewildered and fret.’

  Major Plank took another sip at the tankard, and when Lord Ickenham mentioned that he had paid for its contents and that if his old friend proposed to treat it as a loving cup he would be obliged to charge him a small fee, seemed disinclined to go into the matter. It was the earlier portion of the conversation that was engaging his mind.

  ‘You’re staying with Mugsy under my name?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘He thinks you’re me?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Why?’ said Major Plank, going right to the core of the problem. ‘Why are you staying with Mugsy under my name?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Bimbo, and would bore you. But have no uneasiness. Just say to yourself “Would my old crony do this without a motive?” and “Is his motive bound to be a good one?” The answers to these questions are “No” to the first, “Yes” to the second.’

  Major Plank relapsed into a sandbagged silence. His was a slow mind, and you could almost hear it creaking as it worked.

  ‘Good God!’ he said again.

  And then abruptly the full horror of the situation seemed to come home to him. No doubt he had been diving into the past and had brought memories of the boy Twistleton to the surface. It was not for nothing that this man before him had been called ‘Barmy’ at school. He had applied himself absently to the tankard once more, and his eyes above it suddenly grew round and wrathful.

  ‘What the devil do you mean by staying with people under my name?’

  ‘It’s a good name, Bimbo. Got a hyphen and everything.’

  ‘You’ll ruin my reputation.’

  ‘On the contrary. The image which I have been building up in the minds of all and sundry is that of what I should describe as a super-Plank or Plank plus. You ought to think yourself lucky that a man like me has gone out of his way to shed lustre on your name.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. So you had better get back to Mugsy’s and start packing, quick. Because as soon as I’ve had some more of this excellent beer I’m coming up there to expose you.’

  ‘Expose me?’ Lord Ickenham’s eyebrows rose reproachfully. ‘Your old friend?’

  ‘Old friend be damned.’

  ‘A fellow you used to throw inked darts at?’

  ‘Inked darts have nothing to do with the case. ‘‘And who once lent you two bob?’

  ‘Curse the two bob.’

  ‘You’re a hard man, Bimbo.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’ve a right to think of my reputation.’

  ‘I have already assured you that it is in safe hands.’

  ‘God knows what you may not have been up to. If I don’t act like lightning, my name will be mud. Listen,’ said Major Plank, consulting his watch. ‘I shall start exposing you at five sharp. That gives you twenty-three minutes. Better look slippy.’

  Lord Ickenham did not look slippy. He stood regarding the friend of his youth with the same gentle commiseration which he had displayed when dealing, in somewhat similar circumstances, with Constable Potter. Essentially kind-hearted, he disliked being compelled to thwart these eager spirits who spoke so hopefully of exposing him. But it had to be done, so with a sigh he embarked on the distasteful task.

  ‘Dismiss all ideas of that sort from your mind, Bimbo. It is hopeless for you to dream of exposing me. Bill Oakshott has told me all about you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You are a man with an Achilles heel, a man with a fatal chink in your armour. You suffer from a strongly marked baby phobia. If anyone points a baby at you, Bill tells me, you run like a rabbit. Well, if you betray my little secret to Mugsy, you will immediately find yourself plunging into a foaming sea of them. A fete is taking place here shortly, and among its numerous features is a contest for bonny babies. And here is the point. In my capacity of Major Brabazon-Plank I have undertaken to act as judge of it. You begin to see the hideous peril confronting you? Eliminate me, and you automatically step into my place.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, my dear fellow, some variety of Brabazon-Plank has got to judge those bonny babies. This has been officially announced, and the whole village is agog. And after my departure you will be the only Brabazon-Plank available. And if you imagine that Mugsy, a determined man, and his wife, a still more determined woman, will let you sneak away, you are living in a fool’s paradise. You haven’t a hope, Bimbo. You will be for it.’

  His pitiless clarity had its effect. Major Plank’s tan was so deep that it was impossible to say whether or not he paled beneath it, but he shuddered violently and in his eyes was the look that comes into the eyes of men who peer into frightful abysses.

  ‘Why don’t they get the curate to do it?’ he cried, plainly struggling with a strong sense of grievance. ‘When we had these damned baby competitions at Lower Shagley, it was always the curate who judged them. It’s what curates are for.’

  ‘The curate has got measles.’

>   ‘Silly ass.’

  ‘An unsympathetic thing to say of a man who is lying on a bed of pain with pink spots all over him, but I can make allowances for your feelings, appreciating how bitter a moment this must be for you, my poor old Bimbo. I suppose there is nothing much more sickening than wanting to expose a fellow and not being able to, and I would love to help you out if I could. But I really don’t know what to suggest. You might…. No, that’s no good. Or…. No, I doubt if that would work, either. I’m afraid you will have to give up the idea. The only poor consolation I can offer you is that it will be all the same in another hundred years. Well, my dear chap, it’s been delightful running into you again after all this time, and I wish I could stay and chat, but I fear I must be pushing along. You know how busy we Brabazon-Planks always are. Look me up some time at my residence, which is quite near here, and we will have a long talk about the old school days and Brazil and, of course,’ said Lord Ickenham indulgently, ‘any other subject you may wish to discuss. If you can raise it by then, bring the two bob with you.’

  With another kindly pat on the shoulder he went out, and Major Plank, breathing heavily, reached for the tankard and finished its contents.

  The plot of Hermione’s novel was coming out well. As so often happens when an author gets the central idea for a story and starts to jot it down, all sorts of supplementary ideas had come trooping along, demanding to be jotted down too. It was not many minutes before the envelope proved quite inadequate to contain the golden thoughts which were jostling one another in her brain, and she had just started to use the back of her motor licence when, looking up, she perceived approaching an elderly man of distinguished appearance, who raised his hat with an old-world polish.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

  In this lax age in which we live, it not infrequently happens to girls of challenging beauty to find themselves approached by hat-raising strangers of the opposite sex. When Hermione Bostock had this experience, her manner was apt to become a little brusque, so much so that the party of the second part generally tottered off feeling as if he had incurred the displeasure of a wild cat. It is a tribute, therefore, to Lord Ickenham’s essential respectability that he gave her pause. Her eyebrows quivered slightly, as if about to rise, but she made no move to shoot the works.