Galahad at Blandings

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Colonel Wedge did not reply at once. A strange breathlessness had gripped him as he saw the contents of the case. He was no expert on jewellery, but if this necklace had not set its purchaser back what is technically known as a packet, he would be dashed.

  ‘But—’ he began, and paused, uncertain how to put it. You cannot ask your daughter’s fiancé straight out how he is fixed as regards money in the bank. At least you can, but if you do, you risk the raised eyebrow and the frosty stare. ‘But can you afford it, my dear fellow?’ he asked, feeling that was a delicate way of approaching the subject.

  Tipton was puzzled. He had been rich long enough for people to take his extravagances for granted.

  ‘Why, sure,’ he said. ‘It only cost eight thousand pounds. They knocked off a bit for cash.’

  It was established earlier in this narrative that Blandings Castle was a solidly constructed building, a massive pile with no tendency as a rule to wobble on its foundations, but to Colonel Wedge as he heard these words it seemed to be behaving like one of those Ouled Nail dancers he remembered having seen when a subaltern in Cairo. The same uninhibited twists and twiggles. Though not an unusually intelligent man, he was bright enough to gather that the Wedge family had done a remarkably foolish thing, in their haste depriving themselves of a son-in-law who drove around in five-thousand-guinea cars and thought nothing of paying eight thousand pounds for necklaces. They had, in short, goofed to precisely the same extent as the celebrated Indian who threw a pearl away richer than all his tribe. Veronica’s letter breaking the engagement must even now be on its way to the castle, and the thought of what would happen when Tipton opened it and read the contents made Colonel Wedge look and feel as if he had received a crushing blow on the solar plexus.

  ‘Not feeling well, Colonel?’ asked Tipton, concerned.

  A touch of my old malaria,’ the colonel managed to say.

  ‘You get it often?’

  ‘Fairly often. It comes on suddenly.’

  ‘Too bad. Nasty thing to have.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Colonel Wedge, unaware that he was infringing Lord Emsworth’s copyright material.

  There remained one faint hope, that the letter, if written, had not yet been dispatched, and he was examining this hope and not thinking very highly of it, when Wilfred Allsop appeared at the head of the steps.

  ‘Phone, Uncle Egbert,’ he said. Aunt Hermione on the phone for you,’ and few shots out of guns had ever travelled more briskly than did Colonel Wedge en route for the instrument.

  ‘Hullo, old girl,’ he panted, having reached and clutched the receiver.

  ‘I am coming home the day after tomorrow, Egbert. You will have left for Worcestershire by then, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m leaving this afternoon.

  ‘Don’t stay there longer than you can help.’

  ‘I won’t. How about that letter?’

  ‘Letter?’

  ‘The one you were going to get Vee to write.’

  ‘Oh, that? Have you been worrying about it? There was no need. You know what a sensible girl Veronica is. She quite saw that it was the only thing to do.’

  ‘You mean she’s written it?’

  ‘Of course. I posted it just now. What did you say, Egbert?’ Colonel Wedge had not spoken. The sound to which she referred had been merely his hollow groan at the death bed of that hope. It had always been a sickly little thing, plainly not long for this world, and at these five words it had coughed quietly and expired.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing. I am just clearing my throat.’ He debated within himself whether or not to break the bad news, and decided against it. Time enough for the old girl to learn the awful truth when she returned to the castle. Let her have one more day of happiness. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be getting along,’ he said. ‘Voules is waiting to take me to the train. When do you think that letter will get here?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, I imagine. Why?’

  ‘I was just wondering.’

  ‘Tipton will find it when he arrives.

  ‘He has arrived.’

  ‘Oh, has he? Does he seem terribly depressed, poor fellow?’

  A vision of Tipton gloating over that necklace, his face split by an outsize in grins, rose before Colonel Wedge.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, not terribly.’

  ‘How brave of him. I hope the letter will not upset him too much.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Colonel Wedge. ‘So do I.’

  A passer-by, seeing him as he came away from the telephone, would probably have supposed that the conversation just concluded had been one of no great importance, for there was nothing in his bearing to hint at the blow he had received. His backbone was rigid, his upper lip had not ceased to be stiff, nor did his moustache droop. Where Othello, with much less on his mind, had allowed his subdu’d eyes to drop tears as fast as the Arabian tree their med-cinable gum, he contrived to preserve an outward serenity. The British Army trains its sons well.

  Nevertheless, his mind was in a whirl, the only thought in it that could possibly be called coherent being a wild regret that he had ever been misguided enough to believe in any statement made by his brother-in-law Clarence. Rashly he had forgotten the lesson that everyone who came in contact with the ninth Earl of Emsworth had to learn, that nothing he said was ever to be taken as making the remotest sense. The rule to live by was to ignore his every utterance.

  He was still thinking bitterly about his relative by marriage as he came out of the front door. Tipton had disappeared, but his place had been taken by Gally. He was talking to Voules and seemed to be telling him a humorous story, for while the chauffeur was not actually smiling, chauffeurs not being permitted by their guild to do that, one noted a distinct twitching of the muscles around the lips.

  ‘Ah, Egbert,’ said Gally. ‘You just off?’

  At the sight of him something had seemed to explode inside Colonel Wedge’s head like a firecracker. It was an inspiration.

  ‘Could I have a word with you, Galahad?’ he said.

  ‘Say on,’ said Gally.

  Colonel Wedge had no intention of saying on in the hearing of Voules, though he could see by the way the latter’s ears were sticking up that he was perfectly willing to act as a confidant. He drew Gally aside to a spot where even the most clairaudient chauffeur, all eagerness to gather material for his memoirs, would be left out of the conversation. Privacy thus secured, he embarked on his narrative.

  He told it well. At first perhaps there was a disposition on his part to diverge from the straight story line in order to insert acid criticism of Lord Emsworth, but he quickly overcame this tendency and placed the facts so clearly before Gally that the latter had no difficulty in grasping them and realising the full gravity of the situation.

  He felt that he did not need to look into a crystal ball to foresee what would happen when Tipton read that letter. His first move, one presumed, would be to ask Veronica for an explanation, and one could readily guess what explanation Veronica, the dumbest blonde in Shropshire and its adjoining counties, would give. ‘But I thought you had lost all your money, Tip-pee,’ she would say, rolling her lovely eyes, and it would be all over except for returning the presents, countermanding the bridesmaids, telling the caterer his services would not be required and breaking it to the bishop and assistant clergy that they would have to look for employment elsewhere. Those wedding bells, in short, would not ring out and Sam’s sweepstake ticket would become a mere worthless scrap of paper, no good to man or beast. It would not be too much to say that Gally was appalled. In his consternation he even removed his monocle and started to polish it, a thing he never did except when greatly stirred.

  ‘Egbert,’ he said, ‘that letter must not be allowed to reach Tipton.’

  ‘Exactly the idea that occurred to me,’ said Colonel Wedge. ‘And what I was going to suggest was that you should intercept it. You see,’ he hastened to explain, ‘I can’t do it myself, because I shan’t be here. I’v
e got to go to my godmother’s.’

  ‘You can’t give her a miss?’

  ‘She would never forgive me.’

  ‘Then, of course, my dear fellow, I shall be delighted to place my services at your disposal.’

  In the twenty-five years in which Colonel Egbert Wedge had been married to Lord Emsworth’s sister Hermione quite a good deal of his wife’s conversation had dealt with the moral and spiritual defects of her brother Galahad, but though he had prudently kept his opinion to himself, she had never been able to shake him in his view that Gally was the salt of the earth. He had always been devoted to him and never more so than at this moment.

  ‘Good heavens, what a relief! You’re sure you can manage it?’ he said, though he hardly knew why he had bothered to ask the question. If good old Gally said he would intercept a letter, that letter was as good as intercepted. ‘It’ll mean getting up at some unearthly hour.’

  Gally waved his apologies aside.

  ‘That’s all right. If larks can do it, I can do it. So you can go off and suck up to your godmother with a light heart. And you ought to be starting, or you’ll miss your train.’

  ‘I’m just waiting for that girl.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘That secretary of Clarence’s. Her father has been suddenly taken ill and she has to go away for a few days. Ah, here she is,’ said Colonel Wedge as Sandy came down the steps. Her face was grave, as any girl’s might be who was on her way to a parent’s sick bed.

  ‘I hope I have not kept you waiting, Colonel.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all. Plenty of time.’

  ‘I’m afraid I shall miss Visitors’ Day, Gally.’

  ‘Yes, I gathered that. I’m sorry to hear about your father.’

  ‘Thank you, Gally. I knew you would be.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘The doctors are baffled. Hadn’t we better be starting, Colonel?’

  ‘Yes, carry on, Voules.’

  The car drove off. Gally, a thoughtful frown on his face, continued to polish his monocle.

  CHAPTER 8

  I

  There is nothing that keys up the system like an eloquent pep talk, and Wilfred Allsop awoke next morning full of optimism and the will to win. ‘My woman’ he was murmuring as he shaved, ‘My woman’ he was saying to himself over the coffee and eggs at breakfast, and the words were still on his lips as he approached the Empress’s sty some hour or two later with Tipton’s flask in his pocket. Only when he reached his destination did there come to him the discouraging thought that things might not be going to go so neatly in accordance with plan as he had anticipated. The sty was there, the Empress was there, but of Monica Simmons there was no sign. He did not know what were the duties of a pig girl, but whatever they might be they had taken her elsewhere. To keep the record straight, one may mention that she was down at the pump in the kitchen garden, washing her face. A girl who is expecting an emotional scene with the man she loves naturally wishes to be at her best.

  If there is one thing that damps a lover’s spirit, it is the absence from the scene of action of the party of the second part who is so essential to a proposal of marriage, and this unforeseen stage wait had the worst effect on Wilfred’s morale. The effervescent mood in which he had started out suffered a severe setback. He could feel his courage ebbing with every moment that passed. For the first time that day ‘My woman’ seemed to him a silly thing to say to anyone.

  It was a moment for prompt action. He had taken one draught from the Tipton flask and had supposed that that would be sufficient but now he saw that the prudent course would be to take another. The old saying about spoiling ships for ha’porths of tar crossed his mind, together with the one that says that if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well. Convinced that he was on the right lines, he raised the flask to his lips, and he was leaning against the rail of the sty, his head tilted, when out of the corner of his eye he became conscious of a moving object not a dozen yards away and recognised it as Dame Daphne Winkworth’s son Huxley, who, though Wilfred was not aware of it, had come to ascertain how chances were for letting the Empress out of her sty. He was a child with a one-track mind, and the desire to do this and see what happened had become something of an obsession with him.

  To say that Wilfred was appalled would in no way be overstating the case. Huxley, he knew instinctively, was one of those boys who tell their mother everything. To be found fortifying himself from a flask by Huxley was precisely the same thing as being found by Dame Daphne in person. Quick thought was called for, and he thought quickly. Reaching behind him, he dropped the flask in the sty. It fell into the Empress’s bran mash, which, he was relieved to see from a rapid glance, completely covered it. Feeling slightly restored, though still far from nonchalant, he turned to face the child, prepared to meet his charges, if any, with stout denial. All his life he had put great trust in stout denial, and it had always served him well.

  Huxley, like Tipton, believed in getting down to brass tacks.

  He was not the boy to beat about bushes. He said, without preamble: ‘I saw you drinking!’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Let me smell your breath.’

  ‘I will not let you smell my breath.’

  ‘Suspicious,’ said Huxley. ‘Highly suspicious.’

  There was a pause, occupied by Wilfred in perspiring at every pore. Huxley resumed the conversational exchanges.

  ‘Do you know what alcohol does to the common earthworm?’

  ‘No, I don’t. What does it do?’

  ‘Plenty,’ said Huxley darkly. He was silent for a moment, seeming to be musing on the tragic end of earth-worms he had known. ‘Mother says you’re going to teach music at her school,’ he resumed at length. ‘Are you?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘She won’t like it if you spend your whole time drinking.’

  ‘I do not spend my whole time drinking.’

  ‘The hags aren’t allowed to drink.’

  ‘What do you mean, the hags?’

  ‘The teachers. I call them the hags.’

  ‘Try calling them the ladies of the staff.’

  ‘Crumbs!’ said Huxley, apparently not thinking well of the suggestion. He laughed an eldritch laugh. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘You being a lady of the staff Will they call you Ma’am?’

  Ah, shut up.

  ‘Or Miss?’

  ‘I’m not keeping you, am I?’

  Huxley said no, he was at a loose end. He returned to the aspect of the matter on which he had touched originally.

  ‘Mother would sack you if she knew you were an alcoholic.’

  ‘I am not an alcoholic.’

  ‘She once sacked a hag for having a glass of sherry.’

  ‘Very properly.’

  ‘I shall have to tell her you were mopping it up.’

  ‘I deny it categorically.’

  ‘Let me smell your breath,’ said Huxley, coming full circle, as it were.

  Wilfred groaned in spirit. There was something about this child’s conversational methods that gave him the illusion that he had fallen into the hands of the police. He did not know what future Dame Daphne Winkworth was planning for her son, but she would, he felt, be wise to have him study for the Bar. The boy seemed to him to possess all the qualities of a keen cross-examining counsel, the sort that traps a witness into damaging admissions and thunders an ‘I suggest—” or a ‘Then am I to understand — ?‘ at him. And he was asking himself how long he would be able to hold his own in this battle of wills, when a hand reached past him and attached itself to the stripling’s left ear, drawing from him an ‘Ouch!’ of anguish.

  It was not merely the sight of Huxley in such close proximity to the Empress that had caused Monica, returning from her ablutions at the kitchen garden pump, to come galloping
to the sty. She had also seen Wilfred Allsop, and the last thing she desired was to have a small boy a spectator of the tender scene which she hoped would shortly take place. If you have to have a small boy looking on when you have a tender scene, you might just as well not have a tender scene at all.

  Accordingly, having grasped his ear and twisted it for the third time, she proceeded to lead Huxley across the meadow. She opened the gate at the end of it and pushed him through. Then, with a brief word to the effect that if she ever found him near the sty again she would strangle him with her bare hands, she came back to the man she loved.

  Tumultuous emotions were stirring in Wilfred’s bosom as he watched them go. Behind him he could hear the golloping sound of the Empress tucking into her bran mash, and at another and less tense moment he might have experienced some anxiety as to what the Scotch he had added to it would do to her if it acted so disastrously on earth-worms. But now his thoughts were not on the Empress. There is a time for worrying about pigs and a time for not worrying about pigs.

  His morale, lowered by those long minutes of waiting and further weakened by his chat with Huxley, had, he was glad to find, become completely restored. The few mouthfuls he had had time to imbibe from Tipton’s flask had done their beneficent work. Once more he was feeling strong and masterful, and when she came back, he was ready for her. He strode up, he clasped her in his arms, he kissed her.

  ‘My woman!’ he bellowed in a tone somewhat reminiscent of a costermonger calling attention to his brussels sprouts. Tipton had been perfectly right. It was, as he had said, as easy as falling off a log.

  II

  Visitors’ Day at the castle always found Lord Emsworth ill at ease. It gave him the same apprehensive feeling as did the annual school treat, except that on Visitors’ Day he did not have to wear a top hat. He was amiable and on the whole fond of his fellow men, but he preferred them when they remained aloof It disturbed him when they came surging into his demesne, especially when their unions had been blessed and they brought their children with them. Children, unless closely watched, were apt to sneak off to the Empress’s sty and do things calculated to wound that supreme pig’s sensibilities. He would not readily forget the day when he had found her snapping feverishly at a potato on the end of a string, the vegetable constantly jerked from her lips by an uncouth little pip-squeak from Wolverhampton named Basil.