The Jeeves Omnibus (296 page)

However, there was good stuff in the lad, and though for a while the temperature of his feet had dropped sharply, threatening to reduce him to the status of a non-cooperative cat in an adage, at 3.30 Greenwich Mean Time he was at his post behind the selected tree, resolved to do his bit. He poked his head round the tree as I arrived, and when I waved a cheery hand at him, waved a fairly cheery hand at me. Though I only caught a glimpse of him, I could see that his upper lip was stiff.

There being no signs as yet of the female star and her companion, I deduced that I was a bit on the early side. I lit a cigarette and stood awaiting their entrance, and was pleased to note that conditions could scarcely have been better for the coming water fête. Too often on an English summer day you find the sun going behind the clouds and a nippy wind springing up from the north east, but this afternoon was one of those still, sultry afternoons when the slightest movement brings the persp. in beads to the brow, an afternoon, in short, when it would be a positive pleasure to be shoved into a lake. ‘Most refreshing,’ Upjohn would say to himself as the cool water played about his limbs.

I was standing there running over the stage directions in my mind to see that I had got them all clear, when I beheld Wilbert Cream approaching, the dog Poppet curvetting about his ankles. On seeing me, the hound rushed forward with uncouth cries as was his wont, but on heaving alongside and getting a whiff of Wooster Number Five calmed down, and I was at liberty to attend to Wilbert, who I could see desired speech with me.

He was looking, I noticed, fairly green about the gills, and he conveyed the same suggestion of having just swallowed a bad oyster which I had observed in Kipper on his arrival at Brinkley. It was plain that the loss of Phyllis Mills, goofy though she unquestionably was, had hit him a shrewd wallop, and I presumed that he was coming to me for sympathy and heart balm, which I would have been only too pleased to dish out. I hoped, of course, that he would make it crisp and remove himself at an early date, for when the moment came for the balloon to go up I didn’t want to be hampered by an audience. When you’re pushing someone into a lake, nothing embarrasses you more than having the front seats filled up with goggling spectators.

It was not, however, on the subject of Phyllis that he proceeded to touch.

‘Oh, Wooster,’ he said, ‘I was talking to my mother a night or two ago.’

‘Oh, yes?’ I said, with a slight wave of the hand intended to indicate that if he liked to talk to his mother anywhere, all over the house, he had my approval.

‘She tells me you are interested in mice.’

I didn’t like the trend the conversation was taking, but I preserved my aplomb.

‘Why, yes, fairly interested.’

‘She says she found you trying to catch one in my bedroom!’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Good of you to bother.’

‘Not at all. Always a pleasure.’

‘She says you seemed to be making a very thorough search of my room.’

‘Oh, well, you know, when one sets one’s hand to the plough.’

‘You didn’t find a mouse?’

‘No, no mouse. Sorry.’

‘I wonder if by any chance you happened to find an eighteenth-century cow-creamer?’

‘Eh?’

‘A silver jug shaped like a cow.’

‘No. Why, was it on the floor somewhere?’

‘It was in a drawer of the bureau.’

‘Ah, then I would have missed it.’

‘You’d certainly miss it now. It’s gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Gone.’

‘You mean disappeared, as it were?’

‘I do.’

‘Strange.’

‘Very strange.’

‘Yes, does seem extremely strange, doesn’t it?’

I had spoken with all the old Wooster coolness, and I doubt if a casual observer would have detected that Bertram was not at his ease, but I can assure my public that he wasn’t by a wide margin. My heart had leaped in the manner popularized by Kipper Herring and Scarface McColl, crashing against my front teeth with a thud which must have been audible in Market Snodsbury. A far less astute man would have been able to divine what had happened. Not knowing the score owing to having missed the latest stop-press news and looking on the cow-creamer purely in the light of a bit of the swag collected by Wilbert in the course of his larcenous career, Pop Glossop, all zeal, had embarked on the search he had planned to make, and intuition, developed by years of hunt-the-slipper, had led him to the right spot. Too late I regretted sorely that, concentrating so tensely on Operation Upjohn, I had failed to place the facts before him. Had he but known, about summed it up.

‘I was going to ask you,’ said Wilbert, ‘if you think I should inform Mrs. Travers.’

The cigarette I was smoking was fortunately one of the kind that make you nonchalant, so it was nonchalantly – or fairly nonchalantly – that I was able to reply.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Might upset her.’

‘You consider her a sensitive plant?’

‘Oh, very. Rugged exterior, of course, but you can’t go by that. No, I’d just wait awhile, if I were you. I expect it’ll turn out that the thing’s somewhere you put it but didn’t think you’d put it. I mean, you often put a thing somewhere and think you’ve put it somewhere else and then find you didn’t put it somewhere else but somewhere. I don’t know if you follow me?’

‘I don’t.’

‘What I mean is, just stick around and you’ll probably find the thing.’

‘You think it will return?’

‘I do.’

‘Like a homing pigeon?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘Oh?’ said Wilbert, and turned away to greet Bobbie and Upjohn, who had just arrived on the boathouse landing stage. I had found his
manner
a little peculiar, particularly that last ‘Oh?’ but I was glad that there was no lurking suspicion in his mind that I had taken the bally thing. He might so easily have got the idea that Uncle Tom, regretting having parted with his ewe lamb, had employed me to recover it privily, this being the sort of thing, I believe, that collectors frequently do. Nevertheless, I was still much shaken, and I made a mental note to tell Roddy Glossop to slip it back among his effects at the earliest possible moment.

I shifted over to where Bobbie and Upjohn were standing, and though up and doing with a heart for any fate couldn’t help getting that feeling you get at times like this of having swallowed a double portion of butterflies. My emotions were somewhat similar to those I had experienced when I first sang the Yeoman’s Wedding Song. In public, I mean, for of course I had long been singing it in my bath.

‘Hullo, Bobbie,’ I said.

‘Hullo, Bertie,’ she said.

‘Hullo, Upjohn,’ I said.

The correct response to this would have been ‘Hullo, Wooster’, but he blew up in his lines and merely made a noise like a wolf with its big toe caught in a trap. Seemed a bit restive, I thought, as if wishing he were elsewhere.

Bobbie was all girlish animation.

‘I’ve been telling Mr. Upjohn about that big fish we saw in the lake yesterday, Bertie.’

‘Ah yes, the big fish.’

‘It was a whopper, wasn’t it?’

‘Very well-developed.’

‘I brought him down here to show it to him.’

‘Quite right. You’ll enjoy the big fish, Upjohn.’

I had been perfectly correct in supposing him to be restive. He did his wolf impersonation once more.

‘I shall do nothing of the sort,’ he said, and you couldn’t find a better word than ‘testily’ to describe the way he spoke. ‘It is most inconvenient for me to be away from the house at this time. I am expecting a telephone call from my lawyer.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t bother about telephone calls from lawyers,’ I said heartily. ‘These legal birds never say anything worth listening to. Just gab gab gab. You’ll never forgive yourself if you miss the big fish. You were saying, Upjohn?’ I broke off courteously, for he had spoken.

‘I am saying, Mr. Wooster, that both you and Miss Wickham are labouring under a singular delusion in supposing that I am interested
in
fish, whether large or small. I ought never to have left the house. I shall return there at once.’

‘Oh, don’t go yet,’ I said.

‘Wait for the big fish,’ said Bobbie.

‘Bound to be along shortly,’ I said.

‘At any moment now,’ said Bobbie.

Her eyes met mine, and I read in them the message she was trying to convey – viz. that the time had come to act. There is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood leads on to fortune. Not my own. Jeeves’s. She bent over and pointed with an eager finger.

‘Oh, look!’ she cried.

This, as I had explained to Jeeves, should have been the cue for Upjohn to bend over, too, thus making it a simple task for me to do my stuff, but he didn’t bend over an inch. And why? Because at this moment the goof Phyllis, suddenly appearing in our midst, said:

‘Daddy, dear, you’re wanted on the telephone.’

Upon which, standing not on the order of his going, Upjohn was off as if propelled from a gun. He couldn’t have moved quicker if he had been the dachshund Poppet, who at this juncture was running round in circles, trying, if I read his thoughts aright, to work off the rather heavy lunch he had had earlier in the afternoon.

One began to see what the poet Burns had meant. I don’t know anything that more promptly gums up a dramatic sequence than the sudden and unexpected exit of an important member of the cast at a critical point in the proceedings. I was reminded of the time when we did
Charley’s Aunt
at the Market Snodsbury Town Hall in aid of the local church organ fund and half-way through the second act, just when we were all giving of our best, Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright, who was playing Lord Fancourt Babberley, left the stage abruptly to attend to an unforeseen nose bleed.

As far as Bobbie and I were concerned, silence reigned, this novel twist in the scenario having wiped speech from our lips, as the expression is, but Phyllis continued vocal.

‘I found this darling pussycat in the garden,’ she said, and for the first time I observed that she was bearing Augustus in her arms. He was looking a bit disgruntled, and one could readily see why. He wanted to catch up with his sleep and was being kept awake by the endearments she was murmuring in his ear.

She lowered him to the ground.

‘I brought him here to talk to Poppet. Poppet loves cats, don’t you angel? Come and say how-d’you-do to the sweet pussykins, darling.’

I shot a quick look at Wilbert Cream, to see how he was reacting to this. It was the sort of observation which might well have quenched the spark of love in his bosom, for nothing tends to cool the human heart more swiftly than babytalk. But so far from being revolted he was gazing yearningly at her as if her words were music to his ears. Very odd, I felt, and I was just saying to myself that you never could tell, when I became aware of a certain liveliness in my immediate vicinity.

At the moment when Augustus touched ground and curling himself into a ball fell into a light doze, Poppet had completed his tenth lap and was preparing to start on his eleventh. Seeing Augustus, he halted in mid-stride, smiled broadly, turned his ears inside out, stuck his tail straight up at right angles to the parent body and bounded forward, barking merrily.

I could have told the silly ass his attitude was all wrong. Roused abruptly from slumber, the most easy-going cat is apt to wake up cross. Already Augustus had had much to endure from Phyllis, who had doubtless jerked him out of dreamland when scooping him up in the garden, and all this noise and heartiness breaking out just as he dropped off again put the lid on his sullen mood. He spat peevishly, there was a sharp yelp, and something long and brown came shooting between my legs, precipitating itself and me into the depths. The waters closed about me, and for an instant I knew no more.

When I rose to the surface, I found that Poppet and I were not the only bathers. We had been joined by Wilbert Cream, who had dived in, seized the hound by the scruff of the neck, and was towing him at a brisk pace to the shore. And by one of those odd coincidences I was at this moment seized by the scruff of the neck myself.

‘It’s all right, Mr. Upjohn, keep quite cool, keep quite … What the hell are you doing here, Bertie?’ said Kipper, for it was he. I may have been wrong, but it seemed to me that he spoke petulantly.

I expelled a pint or so of H
₂
O.

‘You may well ask,’ I said, moodily detaching a water beetle from my hair. ‘I don’t know if you know the meaning of the word “agley”, Kipper, but that, to put it in a nutshell, is the way things have ganged.’

REACHING THE MAINLAND
some moments later and squelching back to the house, accompanied by Bobbie, like a couple of Napoleons squelching back from Moscow, we encountered Aunt Dahlia, who, wearing that hat of hers that looks like one of those baskets you carry fish in, was messing about in the herbaceous border by the tennis lawn. She gaped at us dumbly for perhaps five seconds, then uttered an ejaculation, far from suitable to mixed company, which she had no doubt picked up from fellow-Nimrods in her hunting days. Having got this off the chest, she said:

‘What’s been going on in this joint? Wilbert Cream came by here just now, soaked to the eyebrows, and now you two appear, leaking at every seam. Have you all been playing water polo with your clothes on?’

‘Not so much water polo, more that seaside bathing belles stuff,’ I said. ‘But it’s a long story, and one feels that the cagey thing for Kipper and me to do now is to nip along and get into some dry things, not to linger conferring with you, much,’ I added courteously, ‘as we always enjoy your conversation.’

‘The extraordinary thing is that I saw Upjohn not long ago, and he was as dry as a bone. How was that? Couldn’t you get him to play with you?’

‘He had to go and talk to his lawyer on the phone,’ I said, and leaving Bobbie to place the facts before her, we resumed our squelching. And I was in my room, having shed the moistened outer crust and substituted something a bit more
sec
in pale flannel, when there was a knock on the door. I flung wide the gates and found Bobbie and Kipper on the threshold.