Gieves to the Fore
The Return of Jeeves and Wooster
Barry Tighe
Published 2010 by Can Write Will Write at Smashwords
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Copyright © Barry Tighe 2010
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Barry Tighe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available in the British Library
Names have been changed because the copyright people threatened to loose bears into my garden.
Gieves to the Fore
Gieves to the Fore
Chapter One
The musical twittering of a bird or two at the window nudged my slumbering thoughts into gentle consciousness and heralded the beginning of a new day. Eyes still peacefully closed, for one does not wish to rush these things, I listened to the birds reaching the end of their first verse and spiral into the chorus, wondering idly which bird took the lead tenor and which the bass. Gradually, I became aware of a new animal joining in from afar, as the distant coughing of an elderly sheep took up the baritone.
‘Good morning, sir. Your tea.’
This was no elderly sheep, I realised, reason returning to its throne. It was Gieves, my gentleman’s personal gentleman. Gieves, though a man of many parts, is neither elderly nor a sheep. Nor, for the matter of that, afar.
‘Good morning, Gieves,’ I uttered, sleep banished for the nonce. Dimly I perceived the birds wrapping up and folding their song sheets, their work here done.
‘Tell me, Gieves,’ I asked, for Gieves is a font of wisdom, ‘which bird takes the bass?’
‘Sir?’
I saw I had not made myself clear. ‘The dawn chorus. Well, dawnish. How do they allocate singing roles? My guess is the blackbird or raven would insist on singing the bass, whereas the higher notes might be more suited to a smaller bird. Do you agree?’
‘It may well be as you say, sir,’ he replied, placing the tea things just so on the bed. ‘Although Ravens, I believe, do not sing. May I add, sir, that you seem to be in good spirits this morning?’
‘Indeed you may, Gieves, indeed you may, with knobs on. You find Bartrum Wilberforce Wooster at the top of his form. The snail is on the thorn and all that.’
‘Yes sir. The poet Browning…’
‘…Says all is right with the world. Yes I know. And you may tell him from me that he is on to something there.’
‘Very good sir.’
I was in the apartment, London W1, enjoying a tête-à-tête over the breakfast doings with Gieves, my, as I said, gentleman’s personal gentleman. Having recently returned from two weeks in Cannes with my Aunt Dahlia, I was taking things easy and generally picking up the threads. London on a fine June morning was just the place to be.
‘Oh to be in England now that April’s here. Well, June actually, but let’s not split hairs.’ I reached for the tea. ‘Any communications?’
‘Yes, sir. Mrs Travers telephoned. Three times.’
‘A three line whip, eh?’ I mused thoughtfully over the steaming brew. ‘This seems a bit strong, even for Aunt Dahlia. She normally issues her orders in one fell swoop. Two above par is a bit strong. Any idea what she wants?’
‘Yes, sir. Mrs Travers asked me to convey her compliments. She requests your presence at her town house for luncheon.’
‘Lunch?’ Pleased, I beamed at the honest fellow and stretched for the breakfast things. ‘Why certainly, nothing would give me greater pleasure.’
And indeed, lunch with Aunt Dahlia is always a pleasure, she being my good and deserving Aunt, unlike my Aunt Agatha whose idea of a satisfying meal is neck of villager at the height of the full moon. ‘Nothing,’ I continued, buttering merrily, ‘would give me greater pleasure than to don the nosebag with the ancient relative. Especially with Anatole wielding the skillet. But three telephone calls? Mysterious, Gieves.’
‘Yes Indeed sir.’
‘But then, the ways of aunts always are. Ours not to reason why, eh?’
‘Quite, sir.’
‘Aunts move in mysterious ways… how does it go?’
‘…their wonders to perform. Cowper, sir.’
‘Oom beroofen. So Gieves, Aunt Dahlia requires me to be present at the luncheon table.’
‘That was the central thrust of her communication, sir.’
‘Yes, but why? That is the question, Gieves. After all, I gave her lunch at the Ritz only yesterday. And this not long after our two weeks in Cannes. That should have kept her Wooster requirements topped up for a week or two, to say the least. Some say one meal with me is sufficient for up to a year. Ah well, aunts are only human.’ I swallowed a satisfied morsel of kipper. ‘Any other telephone calls?’
‘Yes, sir.’
At this point a cloud passed by the window. Perspicuously, if that is the word I want, or rather perspicaciously, Gieves’s left eyebrow flickered downwards, just visible in the faltering light, signifying disapproval.
‘Mr Prossor rang.’
‘Oofy? Another Cannes refugee. I wonder what on Earth he wanted. Did he enlighten you?’
‘No, sir. Mr Prossor did not see fit to take me into his confidence. He said he will see you tonight at your club.’ Gieves spoke with a certain amount of perspicacious what-cha-call-it in his voice. Respectful, but…
‘You don’t like Oofy, do you, Gieves?’
Gieves instantly assumed his customary expression; that of a particularly taciturn stuffed frog.
‘It is scarcely fitting for me to venture an opinion, sir.’
‘No? Well I don’t greatly admire him either. Oofy gives skinflint millionaires a bad name.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
Gieves, as always, seemed unwilling to commit himself to a position on what he refers to as the Quality, so I let it go.
‘Any other communications?’
‘Yes, sir. Mr Fink-Nottle. He too is desirous of your advice at your earliest convenience.’
‘Gussie?’ This was odd. Gussie Fink-Nottle, an old school pal, face like a fish, was to my certain knowledge somewhere in the American southern states, squaring up to his prospective father-in-law. A long story, but the gist was that Gussie Fink-Nottle had parted brass rags with his long-time fiancée Madeline Bassett and eloped with Emerald Stoker, her father’s cook. Before the happy couple could tie the knot, Old Pop Stoker mysteriously found out about it and requested Gussie’s attendance at a get-to-know-the-family gathering. Pop Stoker being a mafia millionaire with a penchant for kidnapping prospective suitors, I did not expect to hear again from Gussie for quite some time. Still, a friend should bear his friend’s infirmities, especially if they once shared detention for talking in the Latin class. We did our stretch at the same school together and if Gussie wanted my advice it was there for the asking.
Just between us, for one does not bandy a woman’s name, Gussie eloping turned out to be a bit of a goose for me. You see, by eloping with the cook, Gussie freed up Madeline Bassett, thus enabling Roderick Spode, or rather Lord Sidcup as he is now known, having murdered his way to the title, to declare his secret love and scoop Madeline in for himself. I am no friend of Spode, preferring my gorillas caged, but in proposing to Madeline , he saved me from the fate that is worse than death.
I see my public, at any rate the newcomers, scratching their heads and seeking footnotes. For their benefit I shall try to explain the posish in as short a space as I can, and ask the regulars to bear with me. It is a bit of a tale, but essential in order to understand the peril in which I was soon to find myself.
This is what happened. A long time ago, when dragons roared and the world was young, Gussie Fink-Nottle tumbled snout over tail in love with Madeline Bassett. This of itself was much against the form book, Gussie being a hermit residing in Lincolnshire with a pond wherein he studied the lives and loves of the common newt, and Madeline the soupiest girl in Gloucestershire. Love, however, will find a way, and in this instance found its way to Brinkley Court, home of my Aunt Dahlia. With Gussie and Madeline both in residence, all Gussie needed to do was produce the flowers and chocolates on bended knee and Madeline was his, for she returned his love. Or would have, I should say, had Gussie the nerve to offer it in the first place. For Gussie, weakened by his stubborn refusal to drink anything but orange juice, shrank from the task, leaving Madeline to seek solace among the pixies and fairies who apparently infested the Brinkley grounds. She was, as I say, a soupy girl.
Panicking, Gussie turned to me for help, invoking the old school tie, and like an ass, I obliged. Taking Madeline aside, I plighted Gussie’s troth for him, telling her that there was a lonely heart pining away, too timid to utter the love that it cried out from within. “I know,” she replied, grabbing hold of the wrong end of the stick and barking up the wrong tree with it. “A woman can tell. But alas,” she really speaks like that, “it cannot be, for I love another.”
That’s Gussie dished then, thought I. But I thought too soon. “Yes Bertie, if I may call you Bertie, I love another, I love Mr Fink-Nottle.”
In two shakes of a pixie’s tail - if pixies have a tail, I shall have to ask Madeline - I realised my peril. When plighting Gussie’s troth Madeline , the boobie, had thought I was plighting mine. And herein lay my peril. For Madeline went on to say that should her love for Gussie not pan out, or words to that effect, she thought me a handy standby. In other words, if Gussie failed to live up to his early promise, she would accept my marriage proposal - forsooth! - and marry me. And having, to all intents and purposes, proposed to the impossible woman, I would have no choice but to go along with it. I am bound, you see, by the code of the Woosters, a rigid code which insists I never let down a pal, or for that matter, a gal, and am a preux chevalier to boot.
So you see, if the Madeline -Fink-Nottle axis ever broke asunder, I was for it. I faced a life of speculation about the origins of the bunny rabbit queen from a sap who believes that every time a fairy blows its wee nose, a star is born in the galaxy. To escape this fate I moved heaven and earth to ensure nothing came between them. Time and oft in the long, subsequent months, the rift within the lute threatened to widen and make the music mute, but Providence, ably assisted by Gieves, always managed to repair the damage, allowing Gussie and Madeline to wend their way slowly to the altar.
The snag was, they never seemed to get there, so when Gussie departed for the New World and Spode stepped into the brink, I felt that, at last, the curse was lifted. For Spode, unlike Gussie, is a man of action. Not for him the long, dangerous courtship. Any day now I expected to see the wedding announcement in The Times, an announcement I awaited with the eagerness of the man on the scaffold spotting the galloping rider in the distance waving what can only be a last-minute reprieve, and wishing he would put the horse’s foot down and step on it.
Sorry about the lengthy explanation but you never know with new readers. Anyway, with Madeline and Spode under starter’s orders, all was well at last.
‘Gussie?’ I repeated, in case Gieves thought I had fallen back to sleep.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you the telegram?’
‘No, sir, Mr Fink-Nottle did not avail himself of the telegram service.’
‘No?’ I said, a bit tetchily, for Gieves was indulging in his habit of splitting straws. Or is it hairs? ‘Then pass me his letter. I must say, Gussie cannot be in much of a hurry for my words of wisdom, if he is willing to await the post.’
‘No, sir, Mr Fink-Nottle did not entrust his message to the post either. He used the telephone.’
‘The telephone, Gieves?’ Even with a clear head, for I had left the Drones club well before midnight yester eve, I was baffled. ‘From America?’
‘No, sir. From London. He is staying at the residence of his uncle. I advised him to call back in the early evening.’
‘Very white of you.’ All became clear. ‘Gussie is back in England? That was quick. So he survived his meeting with Pop Stoker eh? Well, I know he is a monster but Gussie lived for years under the threat of having Sir Wytkan ‘Pop’ Bassett C.B.E. as a father-in-law, so Pop Stoker, monster though he is, must have been an improvement. I mean,’ I continued through a forkful of kipper, ‘compared to a fire-breathing dragon, I suppose an angry bear is just a minor nuisance. I must say, though,’ I reached for the tea, ‘I would have appreciated an invite to the wedding. I wouldn’t have gone, of course. The deep southern states of America have managed without me so far and can cope a little longer, but it’s the thought that counts. So him and the little woman are back, then?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No, sir?’ I tutted. ‘I may be in mid-season form, Gieves, but don’t try me too high. Did you or did you not say that Gussie and wife were at his uncle’s place in London and that Gussie wanted to see me?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir. I should have explained that Mr Fink-Nottle is not married. I have only sketchy details but it appears his prospective father-in-law prohibited the match in strident terms and Mr Fink-Nottle left under something of a cloud. He and Miss Emerald Stoker are, if I may use the vernacular, no longer an item.’
‘Golly!’
‘Indeed, sir,’ replied the honest fellow, stabilising the tea plate and retrieving the marmalade, ‘Mr Fink-Nottle seemed a little distrait.’
‘How can you tell? Gussie always seems distrait, or at any rate, less than trait. Still, if Gussie has fallen foul of the Stoker Mafia, there is nothing to be done but pick himself up, dust himself down and start all over again. Crikey, Gieves. That’s two fiancées Gussie has lost straight off the bat. No wonder he wants my advice and solace.’
‘Indeed, sir. Meanwhile, Mrs Travers is especially desirous of your company. Shall I apprise her of your acceptance to luncheon?’
‘You mean, shall you telephone Aunt Dahlia and tell her to expect me, knife and fork poised over Anatole’s offerings, at the appointed hour?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Telephone on, MacGieves. Oh, and run my bath.’
‘It is already run, sir.’
Gieves to the Fore
Chapter Two
But hold on. Steady the horses. Before I give my account of lunch with Aunt Dahlia, I see I shall have to put in some preliminary Spode work to bring my public up to date. After all, they pay their dues and as a conscientious chronicler, I aim to give value. So let us rewind the reel back to Cannes.
Yes, Cannes is where Aunt Dahlia and I, whilst spending a relaxing week or two soaking up the sun, self riding shotgun and keeping the said ancient relative’s forays into the casino to a minimum, she having form, bumped into the aforementioned Oofy Prossor at the tables. Oofy himself was recuperating from several particularly nasty bites to the ear, incurred in the Drones Club for Gentlemen, of which he and I are members.
‘Your pal Bingo Little and his blasted relatives are to blame,’ muttered Oofy over the lunch I gave him. ‘And Pongo Twistleton, and Freddie Widgeon and Horace Devonport and Tuppy Glossop and waiter?’
This last call was no ear biter at all, but a call for a gentleman of the establishment wherein I was paying to listen to Oofy blacken the names of my pals. While Oofy, prey to dyspeptic headaches which regularly travelled south to his stomach, harangued the poor fellow for delivering his Timbale De Ris Veau Toulousaine before he had prepared his stomach to take delivery, I ruminated on his remarks. Ear biter was a bit harsh. Bingo Little was no ear biter no matter how hard he tried, his fellow Drones Club members all being aware that, though as sole owner of a particularly well upholstered uncle he would eventually inherit wads of the folding stuff, for the nonce he was generally not more than two steps ahead of the bookies. Pongo, I knew, had persuaded Oofy to invest fifty pounds in an unsuccessful sporting venture, hardly ear biting. And Freddie had bested him fairly in the great uncle sweep. Horace had married and the others had equally strong alibis, leaving me to marvel, as many had done when in possession of a stand up certainty and no funds to pop, just how it was that the richest man in the Drones, the club millionaire in fact, would splutter like a man going down for the third time at the merest drip of a leaky pocket. And all over the continent.
Of course, this is often the case with broad-belted men. Take my Uncle Tom Travers, spouse unto death us do part of my Aunt Dahlia. They married the year Bluebottle won the Cambridgeshire. Uncle Tom wails like a banshee in a gin-trap every April when Seppings delivers him the brown envelope from the income tax people. Uncle Tom knows it is coming, like the cuckoo each spring, but as he explains, knowing the 12:20 from Aberdeen is coming is no comfort when you are tied to the railway track. ‘Where does discretion end, and avarice begin?’ says Gieves, and I suppose he knows.
Oofy’s father was Prossor's Pep Pills. Oofy, shunning such respectable trade, now owns a major share of the literary agency Saxby's, and you know what literary agents are like. His uncles having run out of pep some years back, Oofy is the sole heir, and if his father was worried his son might fritter away his hard earned stack, his worries were bootless. Oofy would no more fritter away his fortune than a trappist monk would seek employment in Billingsgate fish market. The desire, you might say, was just not there.
He’s married now, of course, after getting hooked a while back, and so is to be found in the Drones most evenings, clutching his wallet with wild eyes and seeking what he might devour by way of an easy buck. He nearly bought a place in Sussex, until the ungrateful Sussexians demanded money before they would rebuild the prospective pile from scratch, or so I was told.
Anyway, the upshot was that any passing film magnate, seeking a town to deposit Hollywood’s best safely out of sight during the season, would have espied Oofy and self dining in Cannes, and cried “Eureka, just the quiet resort for my shy actors.” The magnate’s goof, however, was that he had not budgeted for Aunt Dahlia, she having slipped her leash earlier and was now running amok among the tables elsewhere.
And here is the nub. Oofy Prossor did not dine out with a fellow Drones member just because he was hungry. Even in the unlikely event of him actually desiring a fellow Drone’s company, a stomach as volcanic as his would hardly permit eating for pleasure. Bingo Little once bought him dinner just down the road in Nice, and he tells me Oofy only lit up when ordering the dearest champagne in the joint and when palming off Bingo’s inevitable touch with a tip on a horse which demonstrated the adage that although the tortoise once beat the hare, the hare is the better bet in the long run.
Oofy Prossor could rival Uncle Tom in the volcanic stomach stakes and no takers. Uncle Tom, as I have remarked elsewhere, has a digestive system to rival a particularly bad-tempered geyser at high tide. Only Anatole, the Maurice Chevalier of the culinary world, could quieten Uncle Tom’s personal Montezuma with his roasts, broils and ragouts, which is why Aunt Dahlia had engaged him, doubling his wages when necessary to prevent his being poached.
Lacking such a ministering angel as Anatole, Oofy’s stomach had to grin and bear it, thus ensuring Oofy seldom dined out with club members unless snookered by the likes of Bingo. When Oofy dined with a club member, his main course was the diner himself. Which brings me to the point at issue. What made me Oofy Prossor’s main course?
Shooing away the waiter with a flea in his ear, thus ensuring I would have to forsake the sweet for fear of kitchens’ revenge, Oofy laid his cards on the table.
‘Bertie, old man,’ he cooed pleasantly, and if I did not know that it was not long after the cocktail hour, even for France, I might have thought he was stewed, ‘I need your help.’
‘Help? Why yes,’ I replied, pleased to be appreciated. Some people, my Aunt Agatha springs to mind, would not touch my help with a bargepole. ‘If your literary agents are short of talent, I may be able to help out. I once wrote an article called “What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing” for my Aunt Dahlia’s magazine, Milady’s Boudoir. Of course, she has sold it now. To a Mr LG Trotter of Liverpool.’
‘To hell with what the well-dressed man is wearing and to hell with Mr LG Trotter of Liverpool,’ roared Oofy, showing a quick return to his more usual form. ‘What I want, what I need, is, er…’ He gurgled, a thing he probably hadn’t done since he found himself holding Bingo Little’s baby at the font.
‘Yes?’ I urged, prompting him on. Oofy is not the most enthralling of dinner guests at the best of times and his in and out form, from cooing dove to dyspeptic millionaire in the time it takes for an aunt off the leash to wager the family silver, was taking its toll. Gieves was not in Cannes, having taken his early summer break in a cottage adjacent to the river for the fishing in Steeple Bumpleigh, Hampshire, and bereft of my keeper, as Aunt Agatha calls him, I felt my best course of action was to find out what Oofy wanted, politely turn him down and settle the bill. Then I could try to flush out Aunt Dahlia before she wagered the roof over Uncle Tom’s head.
Oofy cheesed the cooing and arrived at the point.
‘Wooster, I am, if not a rich man, not when you deduct the wages of my literary agents, at any rate comfortable. Honest endeavours such as the wrestling promotion or bonny babies’ contests aside, I have little need to increase my income by putting my shoulder to the wheel of commerce any more than I do already. Like you when you wrote your doubtless splendid article for your Aunt’s excellent magazine, I am one of the world’s workers.’ He leant forward and placed his arm on my shoulder, a nauseating experience.
‘Bertie, there is one thing money cannot buy. One thing my, er… one thing I have always sought after but never quite achieved.’
I wondered if I could recommend a good dermatologist. Oofy, you see, while blessed in the pocket, is not only cursed by the Roman god Bacchus with a stomach Ghandi himself would consider lacking in the basic nutrients, but is host to a number of pimples the likes of which would have Florence Nightingale swimming back from the Crimea with her lamp in her teeth. Thinking about it, I gained an awed respect for Oofy’s new wife.
‘Are you there, Wooster?’ Oofy showed signs of returning to form, so I pricked up my ears, all attention.
‘Of course, Oofy old man. Please state your case. I am at your disposal.’ I looked on encouragingly. Oofy was no pal of mine but humanity is just a work in progress, says Gieves, who knows best, and we must all help it along.
Faced by my relentless openness, Oofy unwound.
‘Well you see, let’s face it Bertie, we are both men of the world, and the fact is that I, well, my wife actually…’
‘Say no more, Oofy,’ said I, a wave of sympathy flooding over me like Pharaoh on his summer holidays. ‘I see all.’ And I did; I saw all. Oofy was not a free man in this instance, and were I the judge at Oofy’s court of public opinion, I would have pleaded special circumstance. Oofy is freshly married. Clearly, Mrs Oofy wanted more than a husband stuffed to the gills with the folding stuff and a renewal reminder from the Drones’ committee.
The wives of millionaires want more. They always do. And I knew exactly what Oofy, who I now saw as my fellow club member in a fix, a drowning man rather than his usual persona as one of the things sent to try us, wanted. Oofy wanted to placate the little woman. Oofy’s wife, a person of character as I have already noted, was clearly not the kind of millionaire’s wife who would sit at home, counting her blessings while the lord and master sought out safe havens in London W1. Not a chance. Any wife of a millionaire worth her husband’s salt, and any wife with the gumption to marry Mr O. Prossor, nee Prossor's Pep Pills, must be worth at least a couple of Lot’s wives, would want more than mere purses of gold.
The Woosters are sharper than most. We backed the right side at Hastings and generally managed to stay one jump ahead of Cromwell, so I was not surprised at Oofy’s next statement. Looking at me pleadingly yet with confidence, like a small child perched on Father Christmas’s lap armed with a shopping list, Oofy stated his mission.
‘My wife wants to join the county set.’
‘The county set?’
‘Yes, the county set. My wife wants to be one of their number.’
I did not see what this had to do with me. A denizen of the metrop, I had little influence with the county set, preferring bright lights and late-night jazz in the Mottled Oyster and similar low dives to the early mornings and afternoon tea delights of the rural gatherings favoured by my Aunt Agatha. Country residences are always enjoyable in small doses, especially Brinkley Court, with the solid provision that the hosts are genial. Tatleigh Towers, for instance, home of Madeline ’s father, is a case in point. Fine gravel paths, spreading grounds, company’s own water, but what use these, you ask, where man is vile? And they don’t come viler than Pop Bassett, unless you count his lodger Spode, though presumably Spode, having scooped Madeline , had retreated to his own lair by even date. Yet even Spodeless, the Gloucestershire county set still included Pop Bassett, and that ranked it out of bounds to all decent folk, and even Oofy, for that matter. After all, though the hippogriff has departed, the dragon remained, and the dragon alone was more than enough for me.
‘Which county set?’ I queried, not that I particularly cared, but Aunt D. was gone for the evening by the shape of things, so I might as well make the best of it with Oofy.
‘Any county set,’ replied the club millionaire testily. ‘What's the difference? One county set must be the same as another.’ He simmered down once more.
‘You see, Bertie old man, her material wants satisfied, my wife now wants the respectability that should accrue to a man in my position. And she does not get this in the metropolis. She wants me, Bertie, to purchase a country house with all the trimmings, but not until we have established ourselves with the county set.’
‘Which county set?’ I repeated, just to observe Oofy switch back from cooing dove to dyspeptic millionaire once more. Heartless of me, I know, but it was the best entertainment I was likely to get this evening.
‘Any blasted county set,’ obliged Oofy, his pimples aglow.
‘Well then, you have no problem. Just send your wife out into the open countryside armed with your chequebook, primed with instructions to send for you when she has bought a country house that meets her requirements.’
‘Ass,’ replied Oofy. ‘What is the use of a country pile if she does not know anyone in a hundred square miles? If we did not become the social centre of the county in six weeks she would want to buy a country house in the next county. And then the one next to that. Do you know how many counties there are in this country, Bertie?’ He shuddered. ‘I should run out of cheques.’
It is not easy to empathise with a dyspeptic millionaire who has recently insulted one’s pals, but I managed it. A man as attached to his chequebook as Oofy, yet married to a latter day Lady Macbeth, deserves all the empathy going. I put this later to Gieves, who suggested Oofy would mingle with society and play the humble host, and Gieves knows these things.
‘No, we must first establish ourselves with the county set - any county set -’ he emphasised, forestalling my intended crack, ‘and then, and only then, will we buy a suitable residence.’
Again, I did not see what this had to do with me. This time I said so.
Oofy reached for the champagne.
‘Ah, well, you see Bertie; you have friends in high places. The Drones is full of stories about you and your adventures in country houses with the county set, any county set, all about the place. I want you to introduce me to them.’ He filled both our glasses, presumably so we could drink to Oofy and Mrs Oofy launching themselves into society.
I stifled a laugh. ‘You don’t imagine, Oofy, that I have any influence over the county set? I mean, any county set?’ I kept the voice at a temperate level. Oofy has his faults but I had no wish to humiliate the man.
He looked pained. A desperate expression, like that of the Stag at Bay, a copy of which adorned a wall in one of my aunts’ country houses of which Oofy was so admiring, illuminated the pimples on his reddening face. He resembled a dyspeptic strawberry.
‘But you must! You see, Bertie, my wife, wonderful woman that she is, thinks I am not good enough for her.’ He patted my arm like a dog proffering a rat to its master, unaware that the market for rats is sluggish. Indeed, the market could hardly be more sluggish had he proffered a slug.
‘But Oofy, much as I empathise, what can I do? I have no influence with any county set.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ he snapped, his dyspeptic side uppermost once more. ‘But your aunt does. Bertie, for a fellow Drones member of long-standing, will you swing me an invitation to Brinkley Court?’
Gieves to the Fore
Chapter Three
‘Ah, there you are, my young tapeworm, arriving at the coos tail, as our Scottish brethren say, just in time for vittles as usual. Tell me, what do you do for your calories when Anatole is out of range? Fill yourself up with drink and dance on the tiles till he comes home, wagging his tail behind him, devil a doubt.’
‘Good afternoon, aged relative,’ I replied with affection, for this aunt, as I have had cause to mention more than once in the past, is my good and deserving aunt, and as such I ride her waves of Auntish disapproval of my occasional late night with cheerful nephewed forbearance.
‘Since you raise the matter, what is Anatole giving us?’
‘Ha. Never you mind, Bertie my lad. You eat what you are given.’
The natural order of aunt and nephew being nicely established, Aunt Dahlia switched off the formalities and got down to brass tacks
‘To tell you the truth, young Bertie, I don’t know today’s offering myself. I generally leave it to Anatole to come up with the goods and he never lets me down. I gave up trying to run my own kitchen when I realised Anatole could do things so much better. Just as,’ she added, for Aunts never stop, ‘you wisely gave up trying to run your own life when Gieves flew into your orbit.’
I felt a hackle or two rise at this remark, if remark it was. Gieves, I freely concede, is hot stuff, his wonders to behold, and I wisely surrender day-to-day maintenance to him, but he is not the only pepper in the Tabasco. We Woosters know when to take command and when to take a break, but you cannot explain this to Aunts.
Aloud I replied, ‘I have the utmost respect for Gieves, naturally, Aunt D. But when you suggest I am a mere cipher and Gieves rules the roost in all matters of consequence, you are in error. Why, Gieves himself admits I am capable of acting very shrewdly when occasion demands.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Aunt Dahlia replied, but I could see her heart was not in it. Distracted, if you see what I mean.
‘You seem distracted, aged relative. Trouble in the old homestead?’
‘Trouble in the what?’ This brought the a.r. back to earth with a bump. Face reddening even more than usual, she continued in irked mode. ‘What are you gassing about, you young Perry Mason? You think I cannot handle trouble in my own home?’
Actually, I didn’t think anything of the sort. After a lifetime of riding to hounds and giving Brer Fox what for, Aunt Dahlia can handle just about anything with the possible exception of baccarat at the tables of Cannes. Then again, had the tables of Cannes been run by foxes, Aunt D would have handled them too.
‘Though actually, young Bertie, and I don’t know how you did it, you have touched upon the exact point I was about to mention over lunch.’
‘Rem acu tetigisti.’
‘What?’
‘You have hit the nail on the head. One of Gieves’s.’
‘Well lay off or I will hit another nail on your head. And listen.’
‘I’m all ears.’
Aunt Dahlia looked as though she was about to make another crack, then got to the point.
‘I invited you over to lunch because there is something I wish to discuss with you. Well, two things actually, but one at a time will be less taxing for your little brain.’
I felt a third hackle rising but squashed it for love of an aunt who once, when I was in the nursery, pulled a rubber comforter from my throat, saving me from choking.
‘Yes?’ I replied with a certain asperity.
‘Although, when you get right down to it, both problems require the same remedy, which will make things easier for you to grasp.’
I resisted the temptation to grasp the aged relative around the neck, for a preux chevalier does not introduce the physical motif, no matter the provocation; besides which Aunt Dahlia is a middling to large light-heavyweight, built rather on the lines of Mae West, and is likely to retaliate first and ask questions later.
‘Go on…’
‘Problem one, Market Snodsbury Grammar School.’
I was with her there. This aunt, you see, is one of the Governors of the aforementioned boot camp and is forever seeking out poor saps to give speeches to the inmates on prize day. She once very nearly inveigled me onto the prize giving platform against my better judgement, but with a flash of inspiration characteristic of the Woosters I managed to pass the poisoned chalice on to Gussie Fink-Nottle. Gussie, whom Gieves describes as a sensitive plant and I describe as a fathead and a poop, was unequal to the task of delivering a speech to a hall bursting at the seams with slavering schoolboys until, abetted by Gieves and self, he broke a lifetime of abstinence and dived, tongue first, into a vat of the right stuff five minutes to curtain up. Unfortunately, being unused to the juice, Gussie rather overdid it, with consequences that are still discussed in hushed tones in the taprooms of the village pubs when the moon is full.
‘What about Market Snodsbury Grammar School?’ I asked hopefully. ‘Are they closing it down?’
‘Of course not, fathead. Now stop interrupting or we shall be here all day and I for one want to get the business over so we are not late for the dinner gong.’
I stopped interrupting.
‘Market Snodsbury Grammar School,’ resumed the aged relative, ‘needs a new roof. Or rather, the Great Hall does. The original one was constructed in the year 1416 and although it has been patched up and bolstered once or twice since then, I believe, it is now about to give up the ghost. We cannot let the schoolboys catch their deaths from rainwater dripping down the back of their necks during matins, can we?’
‘Can’t we? Why not?’ From what I had seen of the youth of Market Snodsbury when Gussie was lighting up their prize day stage, catching their deaths was no more than they deserved. Besides, their necks could probably benefit from the wash. I put this to Aunt Dahlia.
‘Ass. It is not the children who are the worry. Most of them would be delighted to catch their deaths; it would give them an excuse to dodge prep. No, it is the parents who will kick when little Jeremy or Jonathon or whatever the little tykes call themselves come home with the ague. Parents aren’t as hardy in these post-war days as they once were, young Bertie, and they will not suffer soggy sons. So the school must have a new roof.’
‘Well, why can it not get one?’
Aunt Dahlia sighed and replied slowly, giving the impression she thought she was talking to an idiot nephew. This is so often the case with aunts. No matter how high you have risen through life, no matter what accomplishments adorn your résumé, aunts remember when you were unable to pick up a spoon without assistance and assume similar conditions prevail today. I bet the Prime Minister takes criticism from his aunts, and so do the Dalai Lama and the Archbishop of Canterbury.
‘Because roofs cost money, my little Rockefeller, and money, in case it escapes your notice, does not grow on trees.’
I could not pass this.
‘Yes, but surely the local council or the government or somebody will stump up the cash? I mean, is that not how these things work?’
To my surprise, the aged relative nodded in agreement.
‘Well yes, Bertie, if we ask them, the council will put a new roof on the Great Hall.’
‘Well there we are then. Just ask the council to open their treasure chest and cancel your order for a gross of umbrellas.’ I was glad to solve Aunt Dahlia’s problem for her. An easier one than most.
‘Now that we have solved problem number one,’ I pressed, for I imagined I could smell the aroma of Anatole’s cooking seeping through to Aunt Dahlia’s den where we were having our little pow-wow. Funnily enough, this aunt’s den was the very den wherein Aunt Dahlia had formerly run her magazine, Milady’s Boudoir. Though she had sold it off some time back, she had not, I noticed, altered her den. It still contained typewriter, telephone, desk and all the accoutrements of a busy magazine. ‘Let us move on to problem number two, after which, appetites whetted, we can go to the dining room and don the nosebag together.’
When Aunt Dahlia rode with the Quorn and Pytchley, she had a special look reserved for any errant hound who took time off from chivvying the fox, by which it earned its dog biscuits, and larked away for a spot of private rabbiting. She gave me that look now.
‘Will you leave off thinking about your stomach, just for a moment, and address yourself to the issue at hand? Now, as I said some time ago, if the Market Snodsbury Grammar School Board of Governors asks the local council for a new roof, they will dig into the coffers and pay for one. Nothing would please them more than to have us approach them cap-in-hand. However, once we were into their ribs for a largish sum of money, they would make certain we never heard the end of it. It would be like being in debt to the Mob. We could no longer call our school our own. The parents would jib at being in hock to the council and take their little darlings off elsewhere.’
She shuddered slightly, then remembered her ancient lineage and stiffened her sinews.
‘No, Bertie, we will not allow the council to get its hooks into our school. Not while I am a governor. Besides, what sort of roof do you think the council would spring for? The old roof lasted for hundreds of years. The jerrybuilt council roof would be lucky to withstand a spot of hail. And it would probably be corrugated.’ She shook her head, clinching the matter. ‘No, no a thousand times no. What we need are funds, and we need them fast. We must embark upon the fundraising jag to end all fundraising jags.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘And this is where you come in, Bertie.’
I was much moved. This call to defy the council and unfurl the Jolly Roger had the same backs-to-the-wall valiant appeal as Horatio on the bridge, who, you may recall, defied the hosts of Midian and saved the day. Although, I seem to remember he was speared for his pains, I shall have to ask check with Gieves, so it was not all tipsy-topsy. When defying the hosts of Midian, tipsy-topsy it seldom is.
‘Say no more, Aunt Dahlia. In your quest for the fundraising jag to end all fundraising jags, you shall find me on the bridge, telescope to eye, scouring the horizon like Columbus seeking out new lands to conquer.’
‘Thank you Bertie. I knew I could rely upon you.’
‘Always, Aunt D, always.’ I relaxed back in my armchair, the better to drink in Aunt Dahlia’s approval. I don’t say I actually preened, for I had not accomplished anything yet and the Woosters do not preen lightly, but I came as near to preening as makes no difference. Only the trained eye of a Sherlock Holmes could spot the difference.
‘And of course, Gieves, which is the main thing.’
I shrugged.
The armchair on which I was relaxing was one of those sturdy, comfortably cushioned dreadnaughts much favoured by magazine owners trying to lull authors into donating articles to them on the cheap. Heavy, I mean to say, not easily upturned.
‘Stop playing games, ass. If you want to hide behind the furniture, do it in your own apartment, not in my office.’
‘I was not hiding behind the furniture,’ I replied with a measured t’cha tremolo, clambering up from south of the upturned armchair and righting it with an effort. ‘I was merely responding to your imprecation, or is it implication, that you regard Gieves as the only font of wisdom in the Wooster household. May I inform you once and for all that there are two brains residing in my apartment?’
‘Why, have you hired a live-in bootblack?’
You cannot reason with aunts. It is foolish to try.
‘Very well, Aunt Dahlia,’ I responded, climbing back into the chair and into my dignity. ‘Reading between the lines, I can see that you want me to ask Gieves if he has any suggestions for money-raising jags to pay for your new school roof. I shall, of course, put this to him. But, may I say…’
‘If you must.’
‘…may I say in passing that you have wounded me deeply with your imprecation or rather implication that I am not capable of an idea that will bring home the bacon, or in this case the roof, myself.’
‘You may,’ agreed Aunt D, ‘just so long as you ask Gieves for his suggestions. Bringing home the bacon indeed. Even when wounded deeply you can’t stop talking about food. Now,’ she continued briskly, ‘before you collapse from luncheon deprivation, on to problem number two.’
Gieves to the Fore
Chapter Four
Arriving breathless at my apartment, I reached for the bell and summoned Gieves to my side. He might be the unwitting cause of an occasional rift in the lute betwixt aunt and nephew, but he is undoubtedly the man to have on your side in a fix. Had Robinson Crusoe encountered Gieves on the Island, while Man Friday was spending his vacation on a beach somewhere, Gieves would have supplied him with a boat, crew and some pieces of eight for the ticket. Perhaps even a bottle of Rum, though knowing Gieves’s sense of what is fitting, no yo ho ho-ing.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Gieves, answering my summons. ‘I trust you found Mrs Travers in good spirits?’
‘Ha,’ I replied, and meant it. ‘Gieves, fetch me a livener. The Wooster soul has been tried once more in the furnace, as few souls have been tried before.’
Say what you like about Gieves, but when the young master informs him that his, the young master’s, soul has been tried in the furnace and he needs a livener instanter, he, Gieves, does not stand on ceremony but rushes to his, the young master’s, assistance. In eight shakes of a cat’s tail he returned with the lifesaving ingredients.
One further shake and I had fastened on to the livener and availed myself of its refreshing contents. Restored, if not to mid-season form then at least the form I had before the aunt’s bombshell, I gave Gieves my thought for the day.
‘Aunts, Gieves. Aunts.’
‘Sir?’
‘What folly it is to have aunts, Gieves. Even the best of them are only two courses from the soup of the day, ready to drop you in.’
‘Very true, sir. I am reminded of one of my own aunts, who was in the habit of hiring hackney carriages without the wherewithal to pay the driver. We frequently had to hire anther hackney carriage in order to give pursuit.’
‘Please stow your aunts for the nonce, Gieves. I am having enough troubles with one of my own. I require reinforcements of aunts, even those of another, about as much as General Custer required more Indians at the Little Big Horn.’
‘Colonel Custer, sir. The late George Armstrong Custer attained the rank of General during the war between the states of North America, but was demoted to Colonel at its conclusion. Some believe that this demotion led to his embitterment and consequently to his rash action in attacking a numerically superior force of Sioux and Cheyenne led by Messrs Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull.’
‘Colonel, General, what does it matter at a time like this?’ If Gieves has a fault, it is his tendency to wander from the point at issue, addressing the shadow not the substance. ‘It is not Custer’s last stand that is the point at issue, Gieves. It is Wooster’s last stand of which we speak. And how, I might add, I may avoid the fate of the aforementioned George Armstrong Custer, Colonel notwithstanding.’ I finished the restorative. ‘So rally round, Gieves, with comfort and solace, esp. solace, for the young master is up against it.’
Gieves dispensed with the lecture on how the west was nearly lost and rallied round.
‘Indeed, sir, if you would be so kind as to confide in me the nature of your concerns, I shall undertake to do all within my power to ameliorate them.’
‘Thank you, Gieves.’ I found this characteristic display of the feudal spirit most reassuring. Unlike General or rather Colonel Custer, I did not stand alone. When Saint George went out to face a fire-breathing dragon, he probably stroked his chin, not liking the shape of things to come. Had Sir Lancelot hove alongside, lance at the ready, and offered to share the strain, he would have felt much better about the whole dragon imbroglio. That is how I felt, having Gieves alongside when peril was nigh. And nigh it was.
‘Gieves,’ I said, ‘I am much reassured, you are a parfait knight, and do not let any dragon tell you otherwise.’
‘Why thank you, sir. He hadde a seemly nose. The tale of Sir Topas, sir, by the poet Mr Geoffrey Chaucer,’ he added by way of explanation. Seeing my expression, he returned to the res.
‘How, sir, may be of assistance?’
‘What? Oh yes. Gieves, my aunt had two matters on the agenda today. Let us start with item number one, viz the Market Snodsbury Grammar School roof.’
‘Sir?’
‘Less of the sir and more of the ear, please Gieves. I have had a trying day.’
Gieves listened respectfully while I outlined Aunt Dahlia’s quest for a fundraising jag to save the necks of the Market Snodsbury Grammar School boys.
‘So you see, Gieves,’ I said upon finishing my tale, ‘Aunt Dahlia seeks your assistance in finding the moneymaking jag to end all moneymaking jags. Can you think of anything?’
‘Nothing springs to the mind immediately, sir, but I will endeavour to give my thoughts to a possible means of raising the necessary funds.’
‘Thank you, Gieves, I knew we could rely on you.’ I paused. All was calm on the western front, but now I was obliged to turn to the east.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘You informed me that Mrs Travers had two items on the agenda?’
‘Yes, Gieves. We have dealt with the western front, now we turn to the east.’
‘Sir?’
‘Never mind sir, Gieves. Look east.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And what do we find to the east? Why, we find storm clouds, storm clouds gathering.’
At this moment the door bell chose to ring. Excusing himself, for Gieves is a stickler for the proprieties, he exited the room to see who was disturbing us. Moments later he trickled back in, accompanied by what I first took to be some large specious of halibut and moreover, a halibut which had spent too long in town. However, on closer inspection the halibut turned out to be an old school friend.
‘Mr Fink-Nottle, sir.’
And in walked Gussie.
Well, when I say in walked Gussie, I am misleading my public. Gussie crept in like a veteran burglar who was wondering whether he should jack it in and become a white collar criminal instead. A sort of wary listlessness accompanied him, if you see what I mean.
Gussie’s timing was as off as ever, but notwithstanding, I gave him a rousing welcome. After all, for years he had been the bulwark between me and Madeline Bassett, and for that I felt I owed him an eternal debt of gratitude. Besides, Gussie looked like he was incapable of speech and without my opening gambit we would have resembled a couple of deaf adders.
‘What ho, Gussie,’ I jovially called, for one must make the effort. ‘Back from the home of the brave, land of the free, I see. The home of Colonel Custer and Messrs Horse and Bull, from the Sioux and Cheyenne branch of the families. Not, I should add, the Home Counties variety.’
I spoke with some levity, recognising my duty as a host, albeit an unexpected one, but to little avail. From the way Gussie proceeded to damn Colonel Custer, Messrs Horse, Bull and all their relatives, I could see that levity did not fit the bill. Then, realising the duties of a guest, for guest and host must meet each other half way, Gussie dropped the curses and entered into the customary pip-pippings of two old school friends meeting again after a longish absence.
Over a couple of refreshers, whisky and soda on my part and orange juice on his, Gussie and I began to pick up the threads.
‘So tell me, Gussie,’ I asked when we were settled, ‘the last dispatch in which you were mentioned proclaimed your ambition to tie the knot with Miss Emerald Stoker, and you were popping over to see her father in order to obtain the parental go-ahead. And no group of people,’ I added wittily, ‘are more go-ahead than our American cousins. Yet here you are, as unmarried as the day you were born. Single to the heavens. So tell me Gussie, what happened?’
This was mischievous of me, I fully admit, but Gussie resurfacing on the London or Old World side of the Atlantic Ocean, completely bereft of the cook he had eloped to the New World with, had given me something of a jolt. After all, until Spode, or Lord Sidcup as Madeline Bassett no doubt calls him, did the one good deed of his life and proposed to her, only this poop, currently infesting my apartment and drinking orange juice as though he actually liked the stuff, stood between me and marriage to the Bassett myself.
It confirmed my long-held belief that Gussie was a poop and a poop of the first order. Who else but a poop, first class, could elope with the girl, and a cook at that, and not marry her?
On asking the poop opposite, in my direct way, what had happened, Gussie took an extra large swig of orange juice. It seemed to strengthen him.
‘Oh Bertie, he was awful. Pop Stoker, I mean. What a pill, what a hound, what a stinker, what a…’
I decided to put a stop to this before Gussie began describing Pop Stoker in words unfit for mixed company.
‘Yes, quite,’ I soothed. ‘I have had run-ins with him myself. He once kidnapped me on his yacht.’
But Gussie refused to swap the sob-stories inevitably incurred by anyone having the misfortune to encounter Pop Stoker, preferring instead to judge only on personal experience. A pity, as a pill, a hound and a stinker shared is a pill, a hound and a stinker halved. Had Messrs Horse and Bull crossed swords with Pop Stoker before going into battle at the Little Big Horn, they would have looked upon Colonel Custer in a more kindly light, realising that there were foes far worse than the Colonel, two sides to any argument and much to say in Colonel Custer’s favour. Or favor, as they would have spelt it.
As if by a prescient Gieves appeared with reinforcements of refreshments. Gussie attached himself to his orange juice as a drowning man attaches himself to a lifebelt. Clearly, recounting his experiences with the pill, hound and stinker had caused dehydration. He drained about a pint, then resurfaced.
‘Let’s not discuss it further, Bertie,’ he finally uttered when he had dried off. ‘I do not want to think about it. In fact I never wish to discuss that man again in this world or the next.’
I wasn’t aware Gussie had discussed that man at all, in any world, but I let it pass. I also let pass the fact that Gussie had lived for some time with the expectation of having Pop Bassett, Madeline ’s father, as a father-in-law, a fate at least as bad as having Pop Stoker up for the Eton and Harrow match once a year, and with no ocean to hide behind. Clearly, Pop Stoker, faced with the prospect of Gussie as a son-in-law, ocean apart or not, had excelled even his own high standards of inhospitality. In fact, the more I considered it, the more I felt that this must indeed be the case. True, he had only kidnapped me and threatened to break my neck, but this was in England, an away match, as it were, for an American. Gussie had found him at home on his range, where he doubtless had greater scope to express himself.
At the same time, for I am a fair-minded man, I spared a thought for the old pill, bounder and stinker. After all, from his side of the field, here he was, as rich a bounder as ever robbed his relatives and forged their wills, facing a life sentence as the father-in-law of the premier newt fancier of Olde England, and a poop to boot. I held no brief for Pop Stoker, but considering what his daughter proposed to land him with as a son and possibly heir, I had to admit there were faults on both sides.
Which musings brought me back to the present situation.
‘Yes, but Gussie, what is the current position?’
Gussie had sunk once more into a reverie, but this seemed to snap him out of it.
‘The current position? Ah, well, you see, Bertie old man…’
This reminded me of my discussion with Oofy Prossor in Cannes, this reticence to get to the meat of the matter. In the case of Oofy, it meant that, like a hungry tiger in the inimitable jungle, he was preparing to spring a nasty surprise on me, to wit, to cadge an invitation to Brinkley Court. I told Oofy, in my customary courteous way, that I would pass on the message to my Aunt Dahlia and see what she could do. In fact, I did indeed pass the message on, and Aunt D and self had a good laugh over Oofy’s presumption. Or is it presumptuousness? In Gussie’s case I suspected a similar touch, and as an old school pal I would find it harder to refuse with a stout nolle prosequi. I mean to say, if an old school pal asks for my help, especially one who is a first class poop with limited ability to help himself, it is my duty to oblige.
Not that I minded, you understand. We Woosters have our code, as I may have previously remarked. Scratch Bertie Wooster, I always say, and you find a boy scout.
‘Say on, Gussie,’ I soothed encouragingly, ‘say on.’
Faced with my frankness, Gussie said on.
‘Well Bertie, old man…’
‘…Yes?’
‘Bertie old man, I need an invitation to Brinkley Court.’
I stifled a titter. The rummy coincidence of first Oofy and then Gussie trying to cadge a free lunch or two chez Aunt Dahlia struck me as droll. I cast the mind back to when Gussie had first infested the aged ancestor’s house and stifled another. That was the time he, vibrating his tail in hot pursuit of Madeline Bassett, had given of his best in the Great Hall of Market Snodsbury Grammar School. In fact, on reflection, it may well have been Gussie’s fault it needed a new roof, Gussie having raised the old one to the rafters.