Blanding Castle Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  The ironical thing, he saw now, was that his original capital would have seen him through. There had been no need whatsoever for him to go plunging like that in the endeavour to bump up the kitty. When he reflected that, but for getting his figures twisted, he would now have been striding through Notting Hill with his chin up and his chest out and not a care on his mind, he groaned in spirit. He told me so himself. 'I groaned in spirit,' he said.

  And then one afternoon, after he had explored every possible avenue, as he thought, without getting a bite, he suddenly stumbled on one that promised to bring home the gravy. Other avenues had let him down with a bump, but this one really did look the goods.

  For what happened was that he learned that on that very evening the East Bottleton Palace of Varieties was holding its monthly Amateur Night and that the prize of victory - he reeled as he read the words - was a handsome five-pound note.

  At the moment when he made this discovery, things had been looking their darkest. Freddie, in fact, was so up against it that he had come to the conclusion that the only thing to do, if he was to fulfil his honourable obligations, was to go to his uncle, confess all, and try to tap him again.

  The old boy, apprised of the facts in the matter of his ruined topper, would unquestionably want to disembowel him, but he was so keen on the wedding coming off that it might just conceivably happen that he would confine himself to harsh words and at the end of a powerful harangue spring the much-needed.

  Anyway, it was his only chance. He rang up the Blicester residence and was informed that the big chief was again down at Bottleton East presiding at one of those political meetings. At the Bottleton Palace of Varieties, said the butler. So, though he would much have preferred to go to Whipsnade and try to take a mutton chop away from a tiger, Freddie had a couple of quick ones, ate a clove and set off.

  I don't suppose you are familiar with Bottleton East, except by name. It is a pretty tough sort of neighbourhood, rather like Limehouse only with fewer mysterious Chinamen. The houses are small and grey, cats abound, and anyone who has a bit of old paper or a piece of orange peel throws it on the pavement. It depressed Freddie a good deal, and he was feeling pretty well down among the wines and spirits when a burst of muffled cheering came to his ears, and he found that he was approaching the Bottleton Palace of Varieties.

  And he was just toddling round to send in his name to old Blicester when he saw on the wall this poster announcing the Grand Amateur Night and the glittering reward offered to the performer who clicked.

  It altered the whole aspect of things in a flash. What b meant was that that distressing interview with Lord Blicester could now be pigeonholed indefinitely. Here was the five he needed, as good as in his pocket.

  This gay confidence on his part may surprise you. But you must remember that it was only a day or two since he had burned up the Notting Hill mothers with his crooning. A man who could put over a socko like that had little to fear, he felt, from any opposition a place like Bottleton East could brie against him.

  There was just one small initial difficulty. He would require an accompanist, and it was rather a problem to see where he was to get one. At Notting Hill, you will recall, the girl Dora had tinkled the ivories on his behalf, but he could scarcely ask her to officiate on the present occasion, for - apart from anything else - secrecy was of the essence. For the same reason he could not get anyone from the Drones. The world must never know that Frederick Widgeon had been raising the wind by performing at Amateur Nights in the East End of London.

  He walked on, musing. It was an annoying little snag to crop up just as everything looked nice and smooth.

  However, his luck was in. Half-way down a grubby little street he saw a card in a window announcing that Jos. Water-bury gave piano lessons on those premises: and rightly reasoning that a bloke who could teach the piano would also know how to accompany, he knocked at the door. And after he had been subjected to a keen scrutiny by a mysterious eye through the keyhole, the door opened and he found himself vis-a-vis with the greasy bird whom you saw outside there just now.

  The first few minutes of the interview were given up to mutual explanations. Freddie handed the greasy bird his card. The greasy bird said that he would not have kept Freddie waiting only something in the timbre of his knock had given him the idea that he was Ginger Murphy, a gentleman friend of his with whom he had had a slight difference and who had expressed himself desirous of seeing the colour of his insides. Freddie explained that he wanted the greasy bird to accompany him On the piano at Amateur Night. And the greasy bird said that Freddie couldn't have made a wiser move, because he was an expert accompanist and having him with you on such an occasion was half the battle.

  After this, there was a bit of haggling about terms, but in the end it was arranged that Freddie should pay the greasy bird five bob - half a crown down and the rest that night, and that they should meet at the stage door at eight sharp.

  ‘If I'm not there,' said the greasy bird, 'you'll find me in the public bar of the Green Goose round the corner.'

  'Right ho,' said Freddie. ‘I shall sing "When the Silver of the Moonlight Meets the Lovelight in Your Eyes".'

  'Ah, well,' said the greasy bird, who seemed a bit of a philosopher, ‘I expect worse things happen at sea.'

  Freddie then pushed off, on the whole satisfied with the deal. He hadn't liked this Jos. Waterbury much. Not quite the accompanist of his dreams. He would have felt kindlier towards him if he had bathed more recently and had smelled less strongly of unsweetened gin. Still, he was no doubt as good as could be had at the price. Freddie was not prepared to go higher than five bob, and that ruled out the chaps who play at Queen's Hall.

  Having completed the major preliminary arrangements, Freddie now gave thought to make-up and appearance. The other competitors, he presumed, would present themselves to their public more or less as is, but their circumstances were rather different from his own. In his case, a certain caution was indicated. His uncle appeared to be making quite a stamping ground of Bottleton East just now, and it would be disastrous if he happened to come along and see him doing his stuff. So, though it was not likely that Lord Blicester would attend Amateur Night at the Palace of Varieties, he thought it best to be on the safe side and adopt some rude disguise.

  After some meditation, he decided to conceal his features behind a strip of velvet and have himself announced as The Masked Troubadour.

  He dined lightly at the club off oysters and a pint of stout, and at eight o'clock, after an afternoon spent in gargling throat tonic and saying 'Mi-mi-mi' to limber up the larynx, he arrived at the stage door.

  Jos. Waterbury was there, wearing the unmistakable air of a man who has been more or less submerged in unsweetened gin for several hours, and, half a crown having changed hands, they proceeded to the wings together to await their turn.

  It was about a quarter of an hour before they were called upon, and during this quarter of an hour Freddie tells me that his spirits soared heavenwards. It was so patently absurd, he felt, as he watched the local talent perform, to suppose that there could be any question of his ability to cop the gage of victory. He didn't know how these things were decided - by popular acclamation, presumably - but whatever system of marking might prevail it must inevitably land him at the head of the poll.

  These Bottleton song-birds were all well-meaning - they spared no pains and gave of their best - but they had nothing that could by the remotest stretch of the word be described as Class. Five of them preceded him, and not one of the five could have held those Notting Hill mothers for a minute - let alone have wowed them as he had wowed them. These things are a matter of personality and technique. Either you have got personality and technique or you haven't. These chaps hadn't. He had. His position, he saw, was rather that of a classic horse put up against a lot of selling platers.

  So, as I say, he stood there for a quarter of an hour, muttering 'Mi-mi-mi' and getting more and more above himself: arid finally, after a
cove who looked like a plumber's mate had finished singing 'Just Break the News to Mother' and had gone off to sporadic applause, he saw the announcer jerking his thumb at him and realized that the moment had come.

  He was not a bit nervous, he tells me. From what he had heard of these Amateur Nights, he had rather supposed that he might for the first minute or so have to quell and dominate a pretty tough audience. But the house seemed in friendly mood, arid he walked on to the stage, adjusting his mask, with a firm and confident tread.

  The first jarring note was struck when the announcer turned to inquire his name. He was a stout, puffy man with bags under his eyes and a face the colour of damson, and on seeing Freddie he shied like a horse. He backed a step or two, throwing up his arms, as he did so, in a defensive sort of way.

  'It's all right,' said Freddie.

  The man seemed reassured. He gulped once or twice, but became calmer.

  'What's all this? he asked.

  'It's quite all right,' said Freddie. 'Just announce me as The Masked Troubadour.'

  'Coo! You gave me a nasty shock. Masked what?'

  'Troubadour,' said Freddie, spacing the syllables carefully.

  He walked over to the piano, where Jos. Waterbury had seated himself and was playing chords.

  'Ready?' he said.

  Jos. Waterbury looked up, and a slow look of horror began to spread itself over his face. He shut his eyes, and his lips moved silently. Freddie thinks he was praying.

  'Buck up,' said Freddie sharply. 'We're just going to kick off.'

  Jos. Waterbury opened his eyes.

  'Gawd?' he said. 'Is that you?'

  'Of course it's me.'

  'What have you done to your face?'

  This was a point which the audience, also, seemed to wish thrashed out. Interested voices made themselves heard from the gallery.

  'Wot's all this, Bill?'

  'It's a masked trebudder,' said the announcer. 'Wot's a trebudder?'

  'This is.' The damson-faced man seemed to wash his hands of the whole unpleasant affair. 'Don't blame me, boys,' he begged. 'That's what he says he is.'

  Jos. Waterbury bobbed up again. For the last few moments he had just been sitting muttering to himself.

  'It isn't right,' said Jos. Waterbury. 'It isn't British. It isn't fair to lead a man on and then suddenly turn round on him -'

  'Shut up!' hissed Freddie. All this, he felt, was subversive. Getting the audience into a wrong mood. Already the patrons' geniality was beginning to ebb. He could sense a distinct lessening of that all-pals-together spirit. One or two children were crying.

  'Ladyeezun-gennelmun,' bellowed the damson-faced man, 'less blinking noise, if you please. I claim your kind indulgence for this 'ere trebudder.'

  'That's all right,' said Jos. Waterbury, leaving the piano and coming downstage. 'He may be a trebudder or he may not, but I appeal to this fair-minded audience - is it just, is it ethical, for a man suddenly to pop out on a fellow who's had a couple -'

  'Come on,' cried the patrons. 'Less of it.' And a voice from the gallery urged Jos. Waterbury to put his head in a bucket.

  'All right,' said Jos. Waterbury, who was plainly in dark mood. 'All right. But you haven't heard the last of this by any means.'

  He reseated himself at the piano, and Freddie began to sing ‘When the Silver of the Moonlight Meets the Lovelight in Your Eyes'.

  The instant he got going, he knew that he had never been in better voice in his life. Whether it was the oysters or the stout or the throat tonic, he didn't know, but the notes were floating out as smooth as syrup. It made him feel a better man to listen to himself.

  And yet there was something wrong. He spotted it almost from the start. For some reason he was falling short of perfection. And then suddenly he got on to it. In order to make a song a smash, it is not enough for the singer to be on top of his form. The accompanist, also, must do his bit. And the primary thing a singer expects from his accompanist is that he shall play the accompaniment of the song he is singing.

  This Jos. Waterbury was not doing, and it was this that was causing the sweet-bells-jangled effect which Freddie had observed. What the greasy bird was actually playing, he could not say, but it was not the twiddly-bits to 'When the Silver of the Moonlight Meets the Lovelight in Your Eyes'.

  It was obviously a case for calling a conference. A bit of that inter-office communication stuff was required. He made a sideways leap to the piano, encouraging some of the audience to suppose that he was going into his dance.

  ""There is silver in the moonlight... What the hell are you playing?' sang Freddie.

  'Eh?' said Jos. Waterbury.

  'But its silver tarnished seems ... You're playing the wrong song.'

  'What are you singing?'

  'When it meets the golden lovelight. . . I'm singing "When the Silver of the Moonlight Meets the Lovelight in Your Eyes", you silly ass.'

  'Coo!' said Jos. Waterbury. T thought you told me "Top Hat, White Tie and Tails". All right, cocky, now we're off.'

  He switched nimbly into the correct channels, and Freddie Was able to sing ‘In your eyes that softly beams' without that set-your-teeth-on-edge feeling that he had sometimes experienced when changing gears unskilfully in his two-seater. But the mischief had been done. His grip on his audience had weakened. The better element on the lower floor were still sticking it out like men, but up in the gallery a certain liveliness had begun to manifest itself. The raspberry was not actually present, but he seemed to hear the beating of its wings.

  To stave it off, he threw himself into his warbling with renewed energy. And such was his magnetism and technique that he very nearly put it over. The muttering died away. One of the crying children stopped crying. And though another was sick Freddie thinks this must have been due to something it had eaten. He sang like one inspired.

  'Oh, the moon is bright and radiant.

  But its radiance fades and dies When the silver of the moonlight

  Meets the lovelight in your eyes.'

  It was when he had reached this point, with that sort of lingering, caressing, treacly tremolo on the 'eyes' which makes all the difference, that the mothers of Notting Hill, unable to restrain themselves any longer, had started whooping and stamping and whistling through their fingers. And there is little doubt, he tells me, that ere long these Bottletonians would have begun expressing themselves in similar fashion, had not Jos. Waterbury, who since the recent conference had been as good as gold, at this moment recognized an acquaintance in the front row of the stalls.

  This was a large, red-haired man in a sweater and corduroy trousers who looked as if he might be in some way connected with the jellied eel industry. His name was Murphy, and it was he who, as Jos. Waterbury had informed Freddie at their first meeting, wished to ascertain the colour of the accompanist's insides.

  What drew Jos. Waterbury's attention to this eel-jellier - if eel-jellier he was - was the circumstance of the latter, at this juncture, throwing an egg at him. It missed its mark, but it had the effect of causing the pianist to stop playing and rise and advance to the footlights. There was a cold look of dislike in his eyes. It was plain that there was imperfect communion of spirit between these two men. He bent over and asked:

  'Did you throw that egg?'

  To which the red-haired man's reply was:

  'R.'

  You did, did you?' said Jos. Waterbury. 'Well, what price sausage and mashed?'

  Freddie says he cannot understand these East End blokes. Their psychology is a sealed book to him. It is true that Jos. Waterbury had spoken in an unpleasant sneering manner, but even so he could see nothing in his words to stir the passions and cause a human being to lose his kinship with the divine. Personally, I am inclined to think that there must have been some hidden significance in them, wounding the eel-jellier's pride, so that when Jos. Waterbury said 'What price sausage and mashed?' the phrase did not mean to him what it would to you or me, but something deeper. Be that as it may, it b
rought the red-haired chap to his feet, howling like a gorilla.

  The position of affairs was now as follows: The red-haired chap was saying wait till he got Jos. Waterbury outside. Jos. Waterbury was saying that he could eat the red-haired chap for a relish with his tea. Three more children had begun to cry, and the one who had stopped crying had begun again. Forty, perhaps - or it may have been fifty voices were shouting 'Oy!' The announcer was bellowing 'Order, please, order!' Another infant in the gallery was being sick. And Freddie was singing verse two of 'When the Silver of the Moonlight Meets the Lovelight in Your Eyes'.

  Even at Queen's Hall I don't suppose this sort of thing could have gone on long. At the Bottleton Palace of Varieties the pause before the actual outbreak of Armageddon was only of a few seconds' duration. Bottleton East is crammed from end to end with costermongers dealing in tomatoes, potatoes, Brussels sprouts and fruits in their season, and it is a very negligent audience there that forgets to attend a place of entertainment with full pockets.

  Vegetables of all kinds now began to fill the air, and Freddie, abandoning his Art as a wash-out, sought refuge behind the piano. But this move, though shrewd, brought him only a temporary respite. No doubt this audience had had to deal before with singers who hid behind pianos. It took them perhaps a minute to find the range, and then some kind of a dried fish came dropping from the gallery and caught him in the eye. Very much the same thing, if you remember, happened to King Harold at the battle of Hastings.