The Jeeves Omnibus (292 page)

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then hold on to your hat and don’t miss a word.’

When I had finished unfolding, he said, ‘I can readily appreciate your concern, sir. The situation, as you say, is one fraught with anxiety,’ which is pitching it strong for Jeeves, he as a rule coming through with a mere ‘Most disturbing, sir.’

‘I will come to Brinkley Court immediately, sir.’

‘Will you really? I hate to interrupt your holiday.’

‘Not at all, sir.’

‘You can resume it later.’

‘Certainly, sir, if that is convenient to you.’

‘But now –’

‘Precisely sir. Now, if I may borrow a familiar phrase –’

‘– is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party?’

‘The very words I was about to employ, sir. I will call at the apartment at as early an hour tomorrow as is possible.’

‘And we’ll drive down together. Right,’ I said, and went off to my simple but wholesome dinner.

It was with … well, not quite an uplifted heart … call it a heart lifted about half way … that I started out for Brinkley on the following afternoon. The thought that Jeeves was at my side, his fish-fed brain at my disposal, caused a spot of silver lining to gleam through the storm clouds, but only a spot, for I was asking myself if even Jeeves might not fail to find a solution of the problem that had raised its ugly head. Admittedly expert though he was at joining sundered hearts, he had rarely been up against a rift within the lute so complete as that within the lute of Roberta Wickham and Reginald Herring,
and
as I remember hearing him say once, ’tis not in mortals to command success. And at the thought of what would ensue, were he to fall down on the assignment, I quivered like something in aspic. I could not forget that Bobbie, while handing Kipper his hat, had expressed in set terms her intention of lugging me to the altar rails and signalling to the clergyman to do his stuff. So as I drove along the heart, as I have indicated, was uplifted only to a medium extent.

When we were out of the London traffic and it was possible to converse without bumping into buses and pedestrians, I threw the meeting open for debate.

‘You have not forgotten our telephone conversation of yestreen, Jeeves?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You have the salient points docketed in your mind?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have you been brooding on them?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Got a bite of any sort?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘No, I hardly expected you would. These things always take time.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The core of the matter is,’ I said, twiddling the wheel to avoid a passing hen, ‘that in Roberta Wickham we are dealing with a girl of high and haughty spirit.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And girls of high and haughty spirit need kidding along. This cannot be done by calling them carrot-topped Jezebels.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I know if anyone called me a carrot-topped Jezebel, umbrage is the first thing I’d take. Who was Jezebel, by the way? The name seems familiar, but I can’t place her.’

‘A character in the Old Testament, sir. A queen of Israel.’

‘Of course, yes. Be forgetting my own name next. Eaten by dogs, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Can’t have been pleasant for her.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Still, that’s the way the ball rolls. Talking of being eaten by dogs, there’s a dachshund at Brinkley who when you first meet him will give you the impression that he plans to convert you into a light snack between his regular meals. Pay no attention. It’s all eyewash. His belligerent attitude is simply –’

‘Sound and fury signifying nothing, sir?’

‘That’s it. Pure swank. A few civil words, and he will be grappling you … what’s that expression I’ve heard you use?’

‘Grappling me to his soul with hoops of steel, sir?’

‘In the first two minutes. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, but he has to put up a front because his name’s Poppet. One can readily appreciate that when a dog hears himself addressed day in and day out as Poppet, he feels he must throw his weight about. His self-respect demands it.’

‘Precisely, sir.’

‘You’ll like Poppet. Nice dog. Wears his ears inside out. Why do dachshunds wear their ears inside out?’

‘I could not say, sir.’

‘Nor me. I’ve often wondered. But this won’t do, Jeeves. Here we are, yakking about Jezebels and dachshunds, when we ought to be concentrating our minds on …’

I broke off abruptly. My eye had been caught by a wayside inn. Well, not actually so much by the wayside inn as by what was standing outside it – to wit, a scarlet roadster which I recognized instantly as the property of Bobbie Wickham. One saw what had happened. Driving back to Brinkley after a couple of nights with Mother, she had found the going a bit warm and had stopped off at this hostelry for a quick one. And a very sensible thing to do, too. Nothing picks one up more than a spot of sluicing on a hot summer afternoon.

I applied the brakes.

‘Mind waiting here a minute, Jeeves?’

‘Certainly, sir. You wish to speak to Miss Wickham?’

‘Ah, you spotted her car?’

‘Yes, sir. It is distinctly individual.’

‘Like its owner. I have a feeling that I may be able to accomplish something in the breach-healing way with a honeyed word or two. Worth trying, don’t you think?’

‘Unquestionably, sir.’

‘At a time like this one doesn’t want to leave any avenue unturned.’

The interior of the wayside inn – the ‘Fox and Goose’, not that it matters – was like the interiors of all wayside inns, dark and cool and smelling of beer, cheese, coffee, pickles and the sturdy English peasantry. Entering, you found yourself in a cosy nook with tankards on the walls and chairs and tables dotted hither and thither. On one of the chairs at one of the tables Bobbie was seated with a glass and a bottle of ginger ale before her.

‘Good Lord, Bertie!’ she said as I stepped up and what-ho-ed. ‘Where did you spring from?’

I explained that I was on my way back to Brinkley from London in my car.

‘Be careful someone doesn’t pinch it. I’ll bet you haven’t taken out the keys.’

‘No, but Jeeves is there, keeping watch and ward, as you might say.’

‘Oh, you’ve brought Jeeves with you? I thought he was on his holiday.’

‘He very decently cancelled it.’

‘Pretty feudal.’

‘Very. When I told him I needed him at my side, he didn’t hesitate.’

‘What do you need him at your side for?’

The moment had come for the honeyed word. I lowered my voice to a confidential murmur, but on her inquiring if I had laryngitis raised it again.

‘I had an idea that he might be able to do something.’

‘What about?’

‘About you and Kipper,’ I said, and started to feel my way cautiously towards the core and centre. It would be necessary, I knew, to pick my words with c., for with girls of high and haughty spirit you have to watch your step, especially if they have red hair, like Bobbie. If they think you’re talking out of turn, dudgeon ensues, and dudgeon might easily lead her to reach for the ginger ale bottle and bean me with it. I don’t say she would, but it was a possibility that had to be taken into account. So I sort of eased into the agenda.

‘I must begin by saying that Kipper has given me a full eyewitness’s – well, earwitness’s I suppose you’d say – report of that chat you and he had over the telephone, and no doubt you are saying to yourself that it would have been in better taste for him to have kept it under his hat. But you must remember that we were boys together, and a fellow naturally confides in a chap he was boys together with. Anyway, be that as it may, he poured out his soul to me, and he hadn’t been pouring long before I was able to see that he was cut to the quick. His blood pressure was high, his eye rolled in what they call a fine frenzy, and he was death-where-is-thy-sting-ing like nobody’s business.’

I saw her quiver and kept a wary eye on the ginger ale bottle. But even if she had raised it and brought it down on the Wooster bean, I couldn’t have been more stunned than I was by the words that left her lips.

‘The poor lamb!’

I had ordered a gin and tonic. I now spilled a portion of this.

‘Did you say poor lamb?’

‘You bet I said poor lamb, though “Poor sap” would perhaps be a better description. Just imagine him taking all that stuff I said seriously. He ought to have known I didn’t mean it.’

I groped for the gist.

‘You were just making conversation?’

‘Well, blowing off steam. For heaven’s sake, isn’t a girl allowed to blow off some steam occasionally? I never dreamed it would really upset him. Reggie always takes everything so literally.’

‘Then is the position that the laughing love god is once more working at the old stand?’

‘Like a beaver.’

‘In fact, to coin a phrase, you’re sweethearts still?’

‘Of course. I may have meant what I said at the time, but only for about five minutes.’

I drew a deep breath, and a moment later wished I hadn’t, because I drew it while drinking the remains of my gin and tonic.

‘Does Kipper know of this?’ I said, when I had finished coughing.

‘Not yet. I’m on my way to tell him.’

I raised a point on which I particularly desired assurance.

‘Then what it boils down to is – No wedding bells for me?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Quite all right. Anything that suits you.’

‘I don’t want to get jugged for bigamy.’

‘No, one sees that. And your selection for the day is Kipper. I don’t blame you. The ideal mate.’

‘Just the way I look at it. He’s terrific, isn’t he?’

‘Colossal.’

‘I wouldn’t marry anyone else if they came to me bringing apes, ivory and peacocks. Tell me what he was like as a boy.’

‘Oh, much the same as the rest of us.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘Except, of course, for rescuing people from burning buildings and saving blue-eyed children from getting squashed by runaway horses.’

‘He did that a lot?’

‘Almost daily.’

‘Was he the Pride of the School?’

‘Oh, rather.’

‘Not that it was much of a school to be the pride of, from what he tells me. A sort of Dotheboys Hall, wasn’t it?’

‘Conditions under Aubrey Upjohn were fairly tough. One’s mind reverts particularly to the sausages on Sunday.’

‘Reggie was very funny about those. He said they were made not from contented pigs but from pigs which had expired, regretted by all, of glanders, the botts and tuberculosis.’

‘Yes, that would be quite a fair description of them, I suppose. You going?’ I said, for she had risen.

‘I can’t wait for another minute. I want to fling myself into Reggie’s arms. If I don’t see him soon, I shall pass out.’

‘I know how you feel. The chap in the Yeoman’s Wedding Song thought along those same lines, only the way he put it was “Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, I hurry along.” At one time I often used to render the number at village concerts, and there was a nasty Becher’s Brook to get over when you got to “For it is my wedding morning,” because you had to stretch out the “mor” for about ten minutes, which tested the lung power severely. I remember the vicar once telling me –’

Here I was interrupted, as I’m so often interrupted when giving my views on the Yeoman’s Wedding Song, by her saying that she was dying to hear all about it but would rather wait till she could get it in my autobiography. We went out together, and I saw her off and returned to where Jeeves kept his vigil in the car, all smiles. I was all smiles, I mean, not Jeeves. The best he ever does is to let his mouth twitch slightly on one side, generally the left. I was in rare fettle, and the heart had touched a new high. I don’t know anything that braces one up like finding you haven’t got to get married after all.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘Hope you weren’t bored?’

‘Oh no, sir, thank you. I was quite happy with my Spinoza.’

‘Eh?’

‘The copy of Spinoza’s
Ethics
which you kindly gave me some time ago.’

‘Oh, ah, yes, I remember. Good stuff?’

‘Extremely, sir.’

‘I suppose it turns out in the end that the butler did it. Well, Jeeves, you’ll be glad to hear that everything’s under control.’

‘Indeed, sir?’

‘Yes, rift in lute mended and wedding bells liable to ring out at any moment. She’s changed her mind.’

‘
Varium et mutabile semper femina
, sir.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder. And now,’ I said, climbing in and taking the wheel, ‘I’ll unfold the tale of Wilbert and the cow-creamer, and if that doesn’t make your knotted locks do a bit of starting from their spheres, I for one shall be greatly surprised.’

ARRIVING AT BRINKLEY
in the quiet evenfall and putting the old machine away in the garage, I noticed that Aunt Dahlia’s car was there and gathered from this that the aged relative was around and about once more. Nor was I in error. I found her in her boudoir getting outside a dish of tea and a crumpet. She greeted me with one of those piercing view-halloos which she had picked up on the hunting field in the days when she had been an energetic chivvier of the British fox. It sounded like a gas explosion and went through me from stem to stern. I’ve never hunted myself, but I understand that half the battle is being able to make noises like some jungle animal with dyspepsia, and I believe that Aunt Dahlia in her prime could lift fellow-members of the Quorn and Pytchley out of their saddles with a single yip, though separated from them by two ploughed fields and a spinney.

‘Hullo, ugly,’ she said. ‘Turned up again, have you?’

‘Just this moment breasted the tape.’

‘Been to Herne Bay, young Herring tells me.’

‘Yes, to fetch Jeeves. How’s Bonzo?’

‘Spotty but cheerful. What did you want Jeeves for?’

‘Well, as it turns out, his presence isn’t needed, but I only discovered that when I was half-way here. I was bringing him along to meditate … no, it isn’t meditate … to mediate, that’s the word, between Bobbie Wickham and Kipper. You knew they were betrothed?’

‘Yes, she told me.’

‘Did she tell you about shoving that thing in
The Times
saying she was engaged to me?’