Jeeves and the Wedding Bells

by Sebastian Faulks

  ‘A most disagreeable sensation, one would be disposed to imagine, sir.’

  ‘Well, “one” would be absolutely spot on. So let’s hear no more about it. And if in some ludicrous fairy story these “feelings” you talk of became a reality and some sort of match took place … Well, I mean … imagine!’

  ‘Imagine what, sir?’

  ‘The offspring. Suppose they had my brain and not hers!’

  ‘It may not be a matter of inheriting the qualities of one parent or the other, sir.’

  ‘What? Are you saying it’s a sort of cocktail?’

  ‘A Moravian monk by the name of Mendel produced some remarkable results using peas or beans in his monastery garden. In the question of the colour and shape of the pod, he deduced that—’

  ‘Jeeves, are you comparing the Wooster offspring to a broad bean?’

  ‘Not as such, sir – though a comparable mechanism is believed to operate throughout the natural world. Certain heritable qualities may predominate – brown eyes over blue, for instance. However, in the event of both parents carrying the potential for blue, then two minuses may make a plus, as it were.’

  ‘Are we still with garden vegetables?’

  ‘No, sir. A close study of fruit flies seemed to contradict the principle, but—’

  ‘One thing we can say for certain, Jeeves, is that Miss Meadowes is unlikely ever to be the mother of a fruit fly.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. The science is as yet in its infancy. For the time being, the empirical evidence of one’s own observation is perhaps as good a guide as anything.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘One need only to compare Miss Madeline Bassett or Miss Pauline Stoker to their respective fathers to see that many factors were at play.’

  ‘Golly, Jeeves. I see what you mean. Who would have thought an armour-plated tank like J. Washburn Stoker could have sired such an absolute popsy?’

  Jeeves raised a polite eyebrow, which was as close as he could come to saying, ‘You betcher.’

  I stopped my pacing for a moment. ‘Let us leave fantasy behind, Jeeves, and return to the real world.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  ‘It is improper even to speculate on such matters. By her own choice, Miss Meadowes is engaged to Mr Venables. All that remains for us is to clear the diary, press the morning coat and order the silver fish slice.’

  ‘Indubitably, sir. Unless the arrangement were to be brought to an end by the mutual agreement of both parties.’

  ‘Yes. Or a flight of Berkshire Whites went oinking over Melbury Hall.’

  ‘“Dear as remembered kisses after death, sir, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d On lips that are for others.”’

  ‘Is that helpful?’

  ‘It was intended by the poet Tennyson as a consolation, I believe, sir.’

  ‘Well, you tell him from me what to do with his consoling.’

  ‘A certain melancholy doubtless underlies the verse, sir.’

  I made for the door. ‘Jeeves, would you be so kind as to forget everything I’ve said since I came into the room.’

  ‘Consider it forgotten, sir.’

  ‘We shall not refer to the lady in question again.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  ‘Just one last thing. I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to speak to her since the failure of Plan A?’

  ‘No, sir. I feel the explanation of your behaviour towards Miss Hackwood would carry more weight if it came from yourself.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ I said gloomily. ‘What time have you earmarked for tea in the morning?’

  ‘I have arranged with Mrs Tilman that she will bring a tray, sir. So there is no need to inconvenience yourself if you prefer to rise at a later hour.’

  It was another spiffing June day, and for all the lumbago after a second night on the fakir’s cot, it was difficult not to feel a certain lightness of spirit as I strode down the back drive of Melbury Hall with a plateful of Mrs Padgett’s hot scrambled eggs and bacon inside me.

  The post office in Kingston St Giles was in the main street, between the butcher and the Red Lion. It was a musty sort of place that also served as a sweet shop for the local youth. Resting the telegram form between a jar of bullseyes and a box of sherbet dips, I set about composing.

  ‘STINKER URGENT YOU COME MELBURY HALL KINGSTON ST GILES TOMORROW BY NOON STOP KEY CRICKET MATCH STOP YOUR BATTING CRUCIAL STOP MARITAL BLISS DEPENDS STOP DO BRING STIFFY STOP AT ALL COSTS DO NOT LET ON YOU KNOW ME STOP REGARDS BERTIE’.

  I passed the form back to the elderly female behind her wire protection. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘And please send another exactly the same to the Hall, Kings Deverill.’

  The old dear read the message and began to shake her head. Then she peered at me in a way I have grown used to over the years: as though I had been licensed for day release from some corrective institution, but only by a majority vote.

  ‘Oh, and in the second one, though, change “Stiffy” to “Corky”. Otherwise Esmond’ll think I’m off my chump.’

  ‘Then I’ll send them off, shall I? As they are?’

  ‘Yes, though maybe in the first one also say, “No Bartholomew, thanks”. Stiffy’s Aberdeen terrier, you see. He bites first, asks questions later. Be an absolute menace on the pitch.’

  ‘And that one’s for the Rectory, Totleigh-in-the-Wold?’

  ‘Spot on. For the return, put Etringham, Melbury Hall.’

  Leaving the good woman to her telegraphing, I strode out in the sunshine; and there being little to detain me in the village, I made my way back to the Hall, found Jeeves and told him to expect some telegrams.

  By noon, the first bicyclist was coming up the drive. Lord Etringham was poised at the receipt of custom, or more accurately in the porch, between a couple of hefty Egyptian urns. ‘BERTIE YOU ASS WILL BE THERE STOP NO STIFFY WITHOUT BARTHOLOMEW STOP YEARS SINCE BATTED REGARDS HP.’

  An hour later came tidings from Deverill Hall. Esmond Haddock sounded delighted, as I had foreseen, to be spared the company of his aunts for a day or so. ‘RUSTY BUT WILLING STOP REGRET CORKY IN HOLLYWOOD STOP TALLY-HO! WHY MUST I NOT KNOW YOU? REGARDS ESMOND’.

  I gave the post office till half-past two to reopen after lunch, then sent the following to Harold ‘Stinker’ Pinker. ‘MUCH REGRET MUST BE INFLEXIBLE ON DOG EVEN IF NO STIFFY AS RESULT STOP LUNCHEON AT TWELVE FORTY-FIVE STOP YOU OPENING BATTING WITH VISHNU VENABLES EX COLLECTOR CHANAMASALA STOP REGARDS WOOSTER.’

  To Esmond, I cabled: ‘WOULD TAKE TOO LONG TO EXPLAIN WHY NOT KNOW ME STOP BETRAY NO SURPRISE IF YOU FIND ME IN UNLIKELY ROLE STOP WOOSTER’.

  The elderly female did a bit more head-shaking as she bent to her task.

  Since Jeeves had gone off in the two-seater to construct his wager of many parts with Dorchester’s answer to Honest Sid Levy, I thought I might try and catch a moment or two of shuteye in the third floor back. It was with some surprise that I discovered an envelope sticking out from under my door.

  ‘Mr Wilberforce’ was written on it in what they call an educated hand – by which I suppose they mean it was clearly not the work of Liddle, Hoad or any rude mechanical. Inside was a folded sheet of Melbury Hall paper on which the same elegant hand had written in blue ink: ‘Mr W, Knowing how busy you have been – and perhaps unfamiliar with the servants’ eating hours – I have left a small picnic lunch, including a half-bottle, on the bench in the sunken garden, far from prying eyes. Do enjoy it if you can find time.’ It was signed with an illegible hieroglyph, or cuneiform, perhaps – though I had no intention of consulting on that particular point.

  It’s true that I had been at the post office when the other servants took an early lunch; true also that Mrs Padgett had dug out a knob of cheddar for the latecomer, but, while moderation is the Wooster watchword where any form of refreshment is concerned, it had been a busy day and I felt I could squeeze in a little more. The advantage of this sunken garden was that it was far from lawn-tennis cou
rt, rockery or anywhere else I was likely to encounter enemy shipping.

  I approached via the greenhouse, cold frames and asparagus beds, through a rustic gate. On a wrought-iron bench sat a wicker basket with a sprig of wild flowers on top. From this last touch I deduced – being pretty quick at these things – that my benefactor was female. Inside, the half-bot was a loosely recorked red of a most fruity provenance; the solids included a wedge of veal-and-ham pie that could have jammed open the west doors of Salisbury Cathedral.

  A satisfactory ten minutes later, I was just lighting a cigarette when I heard a contralto voice with a warmish timbre say, ‘Ah, Wilberforce, I thought I might find you here.’

  I leapt to my feet and saw Georgiana in a straw hat, carrying a trug and a pair of secateurs.

  ‘Ah! What ho! Doing some pruning, what?’

  Not exactly Mark Antony, I admit, nor even Beeching, P., but I hadn’t been expecting company.

  She looked down at the contents of her hands, as though remembering. ‘Yes … Ah, yes, absolutely. Pruning. How was the picnic?’

  ‘Top-hole. Very sustaining.’

  ‘Mrs Padgett does make a good pie. You should try her steak and kidney.’

  ‘I intend to. Cigarette?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Looking forward to the game tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, rather. Amelia and I are in charge of tea. I shall be driving it down through the village in Uncle Henry’s car.’

  ‘And then in through the gate in the lane?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘These Dorset Gents are probably a hungry lot.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so.’ She breathed in deeply. ‘Bertie …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know yesterday, when I … I bumped into you by the tennis court with Amelia.’

  ‘Yes, I can explain. You must have thought me an awful cad when I’m Woody’s best pal, but—’

  ‘It’s all right. Woody told me this morning. I understand.’

  ‘Thank goodness. I wouldn’t want you to think that I was the sort of chap who—’

  ‘Bertie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you remember that week in France?’

  ‘Rather. Absolutely topping. I never had a sister, but I imagine that’s the sort of fun we would have had.’

  There was a longish pause. I decided to end it. ‘I didn’t quite finish the pie,’ I said. ‘I could easily cut you a slice.’

  Georgiana sat down on the bench and raised a polite hand. ‘I’ve rather lost my appetite for some reason.’

  ‘I noticed that at dinner last night.’

  I perched at the other end of the wrought-iron seat. Georgiana fixed the big brown eyes on me and began to smile.

  ‘Bertie,’ she said, ‘how much longer are you going to keep up this act?’

  ‘Just until Sunday. Then Jeeves and I are going back to London. By which time I trust that Amelia and Woody will have buried the hatchet and you and Venables will have named the day. Our work here will be done.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘I do hope you don’t get found out, Bertie. I know you’re clever, but it’s quite—’

  ‘Clever! No one’s ever called me that before. Bottom of the class, dunce’s hat, that was me.’

  ‘Well, we’re not at school any more. And there are lots of ways of being clever. I remember at Saint-Raphaël you told me you ran the book on the darts competition at your club.’

  ‘The Drones? Yes, I do. Why?’

  ‘Tell me how you do it.’

  ‘Well, first of all you think who’s most likely to win and put the runners in order. You put a price on each one. But you leave a margin for the book. So whoever wins, unless it’s a short-priced favourite everyone’s piled into, the book should always make a profit of about five per cent of the total stakes. Then you buy everyone a drink with it.’

  ‘And what if someone puts a huge bet on?’

  ‘Well, then you lay it off by changing the odds on other runners. So if Boko Fittleworth has a fiver on Bingo Little and I stand to lose fifty, then I’ll lengthen the odds on Oofy Prosser and make Bingo odds-on.’

  ‘You’ve lost me, Bertie. But has it always worked out?’

  ‘So far. Honest Sid Wooster. But I bet you were top of the class in everything, weren’t you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She let out a rich, tinkling one. ‘The only prize I won was for baking!’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say and I felt another silence coming down. It was a jolly odd thing with Georgiana: you were either at it hammer and tongs like a Pat and Mike crosstalk act, or you were pushing through a treacly sort of pause, like the ones actors bung into Hamlet when they want to give you time to ponder.

  ‘About Woody and Amelia,’ I said. ‘Do you think it would help if she could see him resisting the advances of some girl? Then she’d know for sure that he doesn’t have a roving eye and is entirely devoted to her.’

  ‘I suppose it might. She’s a funny girl, Amelia. I love her like a sister, but she’s headstrong. And sometimes she’s just plain stubborn.’

  ‘But if she could see some gorgeous girl running her hands up and down his sleeve and telling him what a splendid chap he is, and then him giving her the brush-off, then—’

  ‘Are you suggesting we get those two girls from the village back for tea?’

  Georgiana did a bit of the arranging-a-fold-of-cotton-dress-over-endless-limb routine that I’d seen before at Seaview Cottage. Meanwhile I sprang from the bench like the fellow in his bath when inspiration suddenly struck him.

  ‘Bazooka!’ I cried.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s what that Greek chap said when—’

  ‘You mean “Eureka!”’

  ‘Do I? Anyway. I’ve had a brainwave. You do the canoodling, Georgie. You sidle up to old Woody. Don’t do anything too extreme. Just a gentle hand on the sleeve, a few sweet nothings … And Woody says, “Listen, Georgie, old thing, I’m fond of you, but my heart is taken.” At that moment, Amelia comes on to the scene and sees Woody giving you the old elbow and she thinks, “He’s not a flirt at all. He’s the one for me. If he can resist Georgiana, he can resist anyone.” And then the wedding bells are on again and we all live happily ever after.’

  ‘Bertie, if Amelia sees me making up to Woody she’ll tear me limb from limb. It won’t just be the straight-sets spanking on the tennis court, she’ll grind my bones to powder.’

  ‘But you can explain later. Anyway, you’re marrying Venables, so that’ll put an end to any lingering doubts.’

  Georgiana stood up. ‘Yes, that’ll put an end to all doubts.’

  ‘So will you do it?’

  There had been more silences now than at a Trappist convention – if they have such things – so another one at this juncture didn’t much surprise me.

  ‘Bertie,’ Georgiana said eventually, ‘I have to go back to work next week in London. We’ve been moving offices, which is why I’ve been able to have a few days down here. I’ve been working in my room.’

  ‘Have you by Jove? What on? Another potboiler from the intended?’

  ‘No, it’s a novel. It’s rather good, as a matter of fact. I’ll ask them to send you a copy. It’s a love story, but written by a man.’

  ‘Golly, that sounds unusual.’

  ‘Very.’

  Georgiana was poised to go, with basket and secateurs aligned and ready for the off, but for some reason she hesitated.

  She looked at me in a puzzled way. ‘You’re very kind, aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes. All this malarkey just to help an old friend. And I’ve seen the way you talk to the servants. Mrs Tilman told me they think the world of you. “A proper gentleman is Mr Wilberforce,” she said.’

  ‘She seems a thoroughly good egg herself.’

  Still she hesitated. The length of limb, the wooden basket over the arm, the melancholy look … I wondered where the old Georgiana w
ith the sparkle and appetite for crustacea had gone; the Mark Two version had a hint of the Lady of the Shalott, if that’s the girl I mean.

  Then an odd thing happened. The big eyes filled and, all in a moment, overflowed.

  She put a hand to her face and turned quickly, saying, ‘I’d better go back to work’, then vanished across the lawn.

  I stilled an impulse to run after and console. It took some stilling, I admit; the Wooster code does not allow us to see a girl in tears without at least offering a shoulder and a pat on the back.

  I hadn’t the faintest idea what had caused her to spring a leak, but some instinct told me to mind my own business as, with a plod like that of a ploughman on his homeward way, I took up the picnic basket and headed for the servants’ entrance.

  My mood improved considerably when an hour or so later I had a cup of tea with Mrs Tilman in the kitchen.

  ‘You’re not needed at dinner tonight, Mr Wilberforce. Mr Hoad’s recovered from his funny turn.’

  ‘That’s exceptionally good news, Mrs T. I don’t think I was really cut out for waiting at table. It takes it out of a chap.’

  ‘Mr Bicknell had to drive Dame Judith’s dress to the cleaners in Dorchester. Lord Etringham told me he volunteered to pay the bill, seeing as it was his man who—’

  ‘Quite right too.’ I made a mental note to reimburse his lordship. ‘What’s Mrs Padgett cooking tonight?’

  ‘It’s a rack of lamb, come up from the butcher’s this morning. And then a tart with some strawberries.’

  ‘Sounds safe enough. Not too much fluid.’

  ‘And Lord Etringham says you’re to go up with him and Mr Beeching for a cricket practice at six o’clock.’

  ‘Right ho. You seem to bump into Lord Etringham rather a lot in the space of a single day.’

  Mrs Tilman flushed a little. ‘It’s the housekeeper’s job to make sure everyone’s happy. Another cup, Mr W?’

  The cricket pitch at Melbury Hall was a goodish walk from the house, at the far end of the estate. A five-bar gate beyond the boundary gave on to a lane leading down to the village; through this entrance the local yeomen had come and gone on a hundred years of Sundays, to play out their historic rivalries with Melbury Tetchett, Magnum in Parvo, Kingston St Jude and all points west.