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It has been well said of Bertram Wooster that, while no one views hisflesh and blood with a keener and more remorselessly critical eye, he isnevertheless a man who delights in giving credit where credit is due. Andif you have followed these memoirs of mine with the proper care, you willbe aware that I have frequently had occasion to emphasise the fact thatAunt Dahlia is all right.
She is the one, if you remember, who married old Tom Travers _en secondesnoces_, as I believe the expression is, the year Bluebottle won theCambridgeshire, and once induced me to write an article on What theWell-Dressed Man is Wearing for that paper she runs--_Milady's Boudoir_.She is a large, genial soul, with whom it is a pleasure to hob-nob. In herspiritual make-up there is none of that subtle gosh-awfulness whichrenders such an exhibit as, say, my Aunt Agatha the curse of the HomeCounties and a menace to one and all. I have the highest esteem for AuntDahlia, and have never wavered in my cordial appreciation of herhumanity, sporting qualities and general good-eggishness.
This being so, you may conceive of my astonishment at finding her at mybedside at such an hour. I mean to say, I've stayed at her place many atime and oft, and she knows my habits. She is well aware that until Ihave had my cup of tea in the morning, I do not receive. This crashing inat a moment when she knew that solitude and repose were of the essencewas scarcely, I could not but feel, the good old form.
Besides, what business had she being in London at all? That was what Iasked myself. When a conscientious housewife has returned to her homeafter an absence of seven weeks, one does not expect her to start racingoff again the day after her arrival. One feels that she ought to besticking round, ministering to her husband, conferring with the cook,feeding the cat, combing and brushing the Pomeranian--in a word, stayingput. I was more than a little bleary-eyed, but I endeavoured, as far asthe fact that my eyelids were more or less glued together would permit,to give her an austere and censorious look.
She didn't seem to get it.
"Wake up, Bertie, you old ass!" she cried, in a voice that hit me betweenthe eyebrows and went out at the back of my head.
If Aunt Dahlia has a fault, it is that she is apt to address a _vis-a-vis_as if he were somebody half a mile away whom she had observed ridingover hounds. A throwback, no doubt, to the time when she counted the daylost that was not spent in chivvying some unfortunate fox over thecountryside.
I gave her another of the austere and censorious, and this time itregistered. All the effect it had, however, was to cause her to descendto personalities.
"Don't blink at me in that obscene way," she said. "I wonder, Bertie,"she proceeded, gazing at me as I should imagine Gussie would have gazedat some newt that was not up to sample, "if you have the faintestconception how perfectly loathsome you look? A cross between an orgyscene in the movies and some low form of pond life. I suppose you wereout on the tiles last night?"
"I attended a social function, yes," I said coldly. "Pongo Twistleton'sbirthday party. I couldn't let Pongo down. _Noblesse oblige_."
"Well, get up and dress."
I felt I could not have heard her aright.
"Get up and dress?"
"Yes."
I turned on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeevesentered with the vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man at astraw hat. A deep sip or two, and I felt--I won't say restored, because abirthday party like Pongo Twistleton's isn't a thing you get restoredafter with a mere mouthful of tea, but sufficiently the old Bertram to beable to bend the mind on this awful thing which had come upon me.
And the more I bent same, the less could I grasp the trend of thescenario.
"What is this, Aunt Dahlia?" I inquired.
"It looks to me like tea," was her response. "But you know best. You'redrinking it."
If I hadn't been afraid of spilling the healing brew, I have little doubtthat I should have given an impatient gesture. I know I felt like it.
"Not the contents of this cup. All this. Your barging in and telling meto get up and dress, and all that rot."
"I've barged in, as you call it, because my telegrams seemed to produceno effect. And I told you to get up and dress because I want you to getup and dress. I've come to take you back with me. I like your crust,wiring that you would come next year or whenever it was. You're comingnow. I've got a job for you."
"But I don't want a job."
"What you want, my lad, and what you're going to get are two verydifferent things. There is man's work for you to do at Brinkley Court. Beready to the last button in twenty minutes."
"But I can't possibly be ready to any buttons in twenty minutes. I'mfeeling awful."
She seemed to consider.
"Yes," she said. "I suppose it's only humane to give you a day or two torecover. All right, then, I shall expect you on the thirtieth at thelatest."
"But, dash it, what is all this? How do you mean, a job? Why a job? Whatsort of a job?"
"I'll tell you if you'll only stop talking for a minute. It's quite aneasy, pleasant job. You will enjoy it. Have you ever heard of MarketSnodsbury Grammar School?"
"Never."
"It's a grammar school at Market Snodsbury."
I told her a little frigidly that I had divined as much.
"Well, how was I to know that a man with a mind like yours would grasp itso quickly?" she protested. "All right, then. Market Snodsbury GrammarSchool is, as you have guessed, the grammar school at Market Snodsbury.I'm one of the governors."
"You mean one of the governesses."
"I don't mean one of the governesses. Listen, ass. There was a board ofgovernors at Eton, wasn't there? Very well. So there is at MarketSnodsbury Grammar School, and I'm a member of it. And they left thearrangements for the summer prize-giving to me. This prize-giving takesplace on the last--or thirty-first--day of this month. Have you got thatclear?"
I took another oz. of the life-saving and inclined my head. Even after aPongo Twistleton birthday party, I was capable of grasping simple factslike these.
"I follow you, yes. I see the point you are trying to make, certainly.Market ... Snodsbury ... Grammar School ... Board of governors ...Prize-giving.... Quite. But what's it got to do with me?"
"You're going to give away the prizes."
I goggled. Her words did not appear to make sense. They seemed the mereaimless vapouring of an aunt who has been sitting out in the sun withouta hat.
"Me?"
"You."
I goggled again.
"You don't mean me?"
"I mean you in person."
I goggled a third time.
"You're pulling my leg."
"I am not pulling your leg. Nothing would induce me to touch your beastlyleg. The vicar was to have officiated, but when I got home I found aletter from him saying that he had strained a fetlock and must scratchhis nomination. You can imagine the state I was in. I telephoned all overthe place. Nobody would take it on. And then suddenly I thought of you."
I decided to check all this rot at the outset. Nobody is more eager tooblige deserving aunts than Bertram Wooster, but there are limits, andsharply defined limits, at that.
"So you think I'm going to strew prizes at this bally Dotheboys Hall ofyours?"
"I do."
"And make a speech?"
"Exactly."
I laughed derisively.
"For goodness' sake, don't start gargling now. This is serious."
"I was laughing."
"Oh, were you? Well, I'm glad to see you taking it in this merry spirit."
"Derisively," I explained. "I won't do it. That's final. I simply willnot do it."
"You will do it, young Bertie, or never darken my doors again. And youknow what that means. No more of Anatole's dinners for you."
A strong shudder shook me. She was alluding to her _chef_, that superbartist. A monarch of his profession, unsurpassed--nay, unequalled--atdishing up the raw material so that it melted in the mouth of theultimate consumer, Anatole had alway
s been a magnet that drew me toBrinkley Court with my tongue hanging out. Many of my happiest momentshad been those which I had spent champing this great man's roasts andragouts, and the prospect of being barred from digging into them in thefuture was a numbing one.
"No, I say, dash it!"
"I thought that would rattle you. Greedy young pig."
"Greedy young pigs have nothing to do with it," I said with a touch ofhauteur. "One is not a greedy young pig because one appreciates thecooking of a genius."
"Well, I will say I like it myself," conceded the relative. "But notanother bite of it do you get, if you refuse to do this simple, easy,pleasant job. No, not so much as another sniff. So put that in yourtwelve-inch cigarette-holder and smoke it."
I began to feel like some wild thing caught in a snare.
"But why do you want me? I mean, what am I? Ask yourself that."
"I often have."
"I mean to say, I'm not the type. You have to have some terrific nib togive away prizes. I seem to remember, when I was at school, it wasgenerally a prime minister or somebody."
"Ah, but that was at Eton. At Market Snodsbury we aren't nearly sochoosy. Anybody in spats impresses us."
"Why don't you get Uncle Tom?"
"Uncle Tom!"
"Well, why not? He's got spats."
"Bertie," she said, "I will tell you why not Uncle Tom. You remember melosing all that money at baccarat at Cannes? Well, very shortly I shallhave to sidle up to Tom and break the news to him. If, right after that,I ask him to put on lavender gloves and a topper and distribute theprizes at Market Snodsbury Grammar School, there will be a divorce in thefamily. He would pin a note to the pincushion and be off like a rabbit.No, my lad, you're for it, so you may as well make the best of it."
"But, Aunt Dahlia, listen to reason. I assure you, you've got hold of thewrong man. I'm hopeless at a game like that. Ask Jeeves about the time Igot lugged in to address a girls' school. I made the most colossal ass ofmyself."
"And I confidently anticipate that you will make an equally colossal assof yourself on the thirty-first of this month. That's why I want you. Theway I look at it is that, as the thing is bound to be a frost, anyway,one may as well get a hearty laugh out of it. I shall enjoy seeing youdistribute those prizes, Bertie. Well, I won't keep you, as, no doubt,you want to do your Swedish exercises. I shall expect you in a day ortwo."
And with these heartless words she beetled off, leaving me a prey to thegloomiest emotions. What with the natural reaction after Pongo's partyand this stunning blow, it is not too much to say that the soul wasseared.
And I was still writhing in the depths, when the door opened and Jeevesappeared.
"Mr. Fink-Nottle to see you, sir," he announced.
Right Ho, Jeeves Page 4
