Blanding Castle Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Pongo roused himself from a brown study.

  ‘She’s in her room, Pott told me. Dressing or something, I take it.’

  Lord Ickenham went to the door.

  ‘Ahoy!’ he shouted. ‘Polly!’

  There came in reply from somewhere in the distance a voice which even in his gloom Pongo was able to recognize as silvery.

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Come here. I want to see you.’

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Frederick Altamont Cornwallis Twistleton, fifth Earl of good old Ickenham. Have you forgotten your honorary uncle Fred?’

  ‘Oo!’ cried the silvery voice. There was a patter of feet in the passage, and a kimono-clad figure burst into the room.

  ‘Uncle Fur-RED! Well, it is nice seeing you again!’

  ‘Dashed mutual, I assure you, my dear. I say, you’ve grown.’

  ‘Well, it’s six years.’

  ‘So it is, by Jove.’

  ‘You’re just as handsome as ever.’

  ‘Handsomer, I should have said. And you’re prettier than ever. But what’s become of your legs?’

  ‘They’re still there.’

  ‘Yes, but when I saw you last they were about eight feet long, like a colt’s.’

  ‘I was at the awkward age.’

  ‘You aren’t now, by George. How old are you, Polly?’

  ‘Twenty—one.’

  ‘Gol durn yuh, l’il gal, as my spooked-up-with-vinegar friend would say, you’re a peach!’

  Lord Ickenham patted her hand, put his arm about her waist and kissed her tenderly. Pongo wished he had thought of that himself. He reflected moodily that this was always the way. In the course of their previous adventures together, if there had ever been any kissing or hand-patting or waist-encircling to be done, it had always been his nimbler uncle who had nipped in ahead of him and attended to it. He coughed austerely.

  ‘Oh, hullo! I’d forgotten you were there,’ said Lord Ickenham, apologetically. ‘Miss Polly Pott…. My nephew — such as he is — Pongo Twistleton.’

  ‘How do you do?’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Pongo.

  He spoke a little huskily, for he had once more fallen in love at first sight. The heart of Pongo Twistleton had always been an open door with ‘Welcome’ clearly inscribed on the mat, and you never knew what would walk in next. At brief intervals during the past few years he had fallen in love at first sight with a mixed gaggle or assortment of females to the number of about twenty, but as he gazed at this girl like an ostrich goggling at a brass door-knob it seemed to him that here was the best yet. There was something about her that differentiated her from the other lodgers.

  It was not the fact that she was small, though the troupe hitherto had tended to be on the tall and willowy side. It was not that her eyes were grey and soft, while his tastes previously had rather lain in the direction of the dark and bold and flashing. It was something about her personality — a matiness, a simplicity, an absence of that lipsticky sophistication to which the others had been so addicted. This was a cosy girl. A girl you could tell your troubles to. You could lay your head in her lap and ask her to stroke it.

  Not that he did, of course. He merely lit a cigarette.

  ‘Won’t you… sit down?’ he said.

  ‘What I’d really like to do,’ said Polly Pott, ‘is to lie down — and go to sleep. I’m a wreck, Uncle Fred. I was up nearly all last night at a dance.’

  ‘We know all about your last night’s goings-on, my child,’ said Lord Ickenham. ‘That is why we are here. We have come on behalf of Horace Davenport, who is in a state of alarm and despondency on account of the unfriendly attitude of your young man.’

  The girl laughed — the gay, wholehearted laugh of youth. Pongo remembered that he had laughed like that in the days before he had begun to see so much of his Uncle Fred.

  ‘Ricky was marvellous last night. You ought to have seen him jumping about, trying to dodge Horace’s spear.’

  ‘He speaks of breaking Horace’s neck.’

  ‘Yes, I remember he said something about that. Ricky’s got rather a way of wanting to break people’s necks.’

  ‘And we would like you to get in touch with him immediately and assure him that this will not be necessary, because Horace’s behaviour towards you has always been gentlemanly, respectful — in short, preux to the last drop. I don’t know if this public menace you’re engaged to has ever heard of Sir Galahad but, if so, convey the idea that the heart of that stainless knight might have been even purer if he had taken a tip or two from Horace.’

  ‘Oh, but everything is quite all right now. I’ve calmed Ricky down, and he has forgiven Horace. Has Horace been worrying?’

  ‘That is not overstating it. Horace has been worrying.’

  ‘I’ll ring him up and tell him there’s no need to, shall I?’

  ‘On no account,’ said Lord Ickenham. ‘Pongo will handle the whole affair, acting as your agent. It would be tedious to go into the reasons for this, but you can take it from me that it is essential. You had better be toddling off, Pongo, and bring the roses back to Horace’s cheeks.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘The sooner you get that cheque, the better. Run along. I will remain and pick up the threads with Polly. I feel that she owes me an explanation. The moment my back is turned, she appears to have gone and got engaged to a young plug-ugly who seems to possess all the less engaging qualities of a Borneo head-hunter. Tell me about this lad of yours, Polly,’ said Lord Ickenham, as the door closed. ‘You seem to like them tough. Where did you find him? On Devil’s Island?’

  ‘He brought Father home one night.’

  ‘You mean Father brought him home.’

  ‘No. I don’t. Father couldn’t walk very well, and Ricky was practically carrying him. Apparently Father had been set upon in the street by some men who had a grudge against him — I don’t know why.’

  Lord Ickenham thought he could guess. He was well aware that, given a pack of cards, Claude Pott could offend the mildest lamb. Indeed, it was a tenable theory that this might have been the cause of his once having been bitten by one.

  ‘And Ricky happened to be passing, and he jumped in and rescued him.’

  ‘How many men were there?’

  ‘Thousands, I believe.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t mind that?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘He just broke their necks.’

  ‘I expect so. He had a black eye. I put steak on it.’

  ‘Romantic. Did you fall in love at first sight?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘My nephew Pongo always does. Perhaps it’s the best way. Saves time. Did he fall in love with you at first sight?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I begin to think better of this Borstal exhibit. He will probably wind up in Broad-moor, but he has taste.’

  ‘You would never have thought so, though; he just sat and glared at me with his good eye, and growled when I spoke to him.’

  ‘Uncouth young wart—hog.’

  ‘He’s nothing of the kind. He was shy. Later on, he got better.’

  ‘And when he was better, was he good?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wish I could have heard him propose. The sort of chap who would be likely to think up something new.’

  ‘He did, rather. He grabbed me by the wrist and nearly broke it and told me to marry him. I said I would.’

  ‘Well, you know your own business best, of course. What does your father think of it?’

  ‘He doesn’t approve. He says Ricky isn’t worthy of me.’

  ‘What a judge!’

  ‘And he’s got an extraordinary idea into his head that if I’m encouraged I may marry Horace. He was encouraging me all this morning. It’s just because Ricky hasn’t any money, of course. But I don’t care. He’s sweet.’

  ‘Would you call that the mot juste?’

  ‘Yes, I would. Most of the time he’s an absolute da
rling. He can’t help being jealous.’

  ‘Well, all right. I suppose I shall have to give my consent. Bless you, my children. And here is a piece of advice which you will find useful in your married life. Don’t watch his eyes. Watch his knees. They will tell you when he is setting himself for a swing. And when he swings, roll with the punch.’

  ‘But when am I going to get any married life? He makes practically nothing with his poetry.

  ‘Still, he may have a flair for selling onion soup.’

  ‘But how are we going to find the money to buy the bar? And his friend won’t hold the offer open for ever.’

  ‘I see what you mean, and I wish I could help you, my dear. But I can’t raise anything like the sum you need. Hasn’t he any money at all?’

  ‘There’s a little bit his mother left him, but he can’t get at the capital. He tried to borrow some from his uncle. Do you know the Duke of Dunstable?’

  ‘Only from hearing Horace speak of him.’

  ‘He seems an awful old man. When Ricky told him he wanted five hundred pounds to buy an onion soup bar, he was furious.’

  ‘Did he say he wanted to get married?’

  ‘No. He thought it would be better not to.’

  ‘I don’t agree with him. He should have told Dunstable all about it and shown him your photograph.’

  ‘He didn’t dare risk it.’

  ‘Well, I think he missed a trick. The ideal thing, of course, would be if you could meet Dunstable without him knowing who you are and play upon him like a stringed instrument. Because you could, you know. You’ve no notion what a pretty, charming girl you are, Polly. You’d be surprised. When you came in just now, I was stunned. I would have given you anything you asked, even unto half my kingdom. And I see no reason why Dunstable’s reactions should not be the same. Dukes are not above the softer emotions. If somehow we could work it so that you slid imperceptibly into his life….’

  He looked up, annoyed. The door-bell had rung.

  ‘Callers? Just when we need to be alone in order to concentrate. I’ll tell them to go to blazes.’

  He went down the passage. His nephew Pongo was standing on the mat.

  7

  Pongo’s manner was marked by the extreme of agitation. His eyes were bulging, and he began to pour out his troubles almost before the door was open. There was nothing in his bearing of a young man who has just concluded a satisfactory financial deal.

  ‘I say, Uncle Fred, he’s not there! Horace, I mean. At his flat, I mean. He’s gone, I mean.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Webster told me he had just left in his car with a gentleman.’

  Lord Ickenham, while appreciating his nephew’s natural chagrin, was disposed to make light of the matter.

  ‘A little after-luncheon spin through the park with a crony, no doubt. He will return.’

  ‘But he won’t, dash it!’ cried Pongo, performing the opening steps of a sort of tarantella. ‘That’s the whole point. He took a lot of luggage with him. He may be away for weeks. And George Budd planning to unleash Erb on me if I don’t pay up by Wednesday!’

  Lord Ickenham perceived that the situation was more serious than he had supposed.

  ‘Did Webster say where he was off to?’

  ‘No. He didn’t know.’

  ‘Tell me the whole story in your own words, my boy, omitting no detail, however slight.’

  Pongo marshalled his facts.

  ‘Well, apparently the first thing that happened was that Horace, having lunched frugally off some tinned stuff, sent Webster out to take a look round and see if Ricky was hanging about, telling him — if he wasn’t — to go round to the garage and get his car, as he thought he would take a drive in order to correct a slight headache. He said it caught him just above the eyebrows,’ added Pongo, mindful of the injunction not to omit details.

  ‘I see. And then?’

  ‘Webster came back and reported that the car was outside but Ricky wasn’t, and Horace said “Thanks”. And Horace went to the front door and opened it, as a preliminary to making his getaway, and there on the mat, his hand just raised to press the bell, was this bloke.’

  ‘What sort of bloke?’

  ‘Webster describes him as a pink chap.’

  ‘Park Lane seems to have been very much congested with pink chaps today. I had a chat there with one this morning. Some convention up in town, perhaps. What was his name?’

  ‘No names were exchanged. Horace said “Oh, hullo!” and the chap said “Hullo!” and Horace said “Did you come to see me?” and the chap said “Yes,” and Horace said “Step this way,” or words to that effect, and they went into the library. Webster states that they were closeted there for some ten minutes, and then Horace rang for Webster and told him to pack his things and put them in the car. And Webster packed his things and put them in the car and came back to Horace and said “I have packed your things and put them in the car, sir,” and Horace said “Right ho” and shot out, followed by the pink chap. Webster describes him as pale and anxious-looking, as if he were going to meet some doom.’

  Lord Ickenham pondered. The story, admirably clear in its construction and delivery, left no room for doubt concerning the probability of an extended absence on the part of the young seigneur of 52, Bloxham Mansions.

  ‘H’m!’ he said. ‘Well, it’s a little awkward that this should have arisen just now, my boy, because I am not really at liberty to weigh the thing and decide what is to be done for the best. Just at the moment my brain is bespoke. I am immersed in a discussion of ways and means with Polly. She is in trouble, poor child.’

  All that was fine and chivalrous in Pongo Twistleton rose to the surface. He had been expecting to reel for some time beneath the stunning blow of Horace’s disappearance, but now he forgot self.

  ‘Trouble?’

  He was deeply concerned. As a rule, when he fell in love at first sight, his primary impulse was a desire to reach out for the adored object and start handling her like a sack of coals, but the love with which this girl inspired him was a tender, chivalrous love. Her appeal was to his finer side, not to the caveman who lurked in all the Twistletons. He wanted to shield her from a harsh world. He wanted to perform knightly services for her. She was the sort of girl he could see himself kissing gently on the forehead and then going out into the sunset. And the thought of her being in trouble gashed him like a knife.

  ‘Trouble? Oh, I say! Why, what’s the matter?’

  ‘The old, old story. Like so many of us, she is in sore need of the ready, and does not see where she is going to get it. Her young man has this glittering opportunity of buying a lucrative onion-soupery, which would enable them to get married, but he seeks in vain for someone to come across with the purchase price. Owing to that unfortunate affair at the Ball, he failed to enlist Horace’s sympathy. The Duke of Dunstable, whom he also approached, proved equally unresponsive. I was starting to tell Polly, when you arrived, that the only solution is for her to meet Dunstable and fascinate him, and we were wondering how this was to be contrived. Step along and join us. Your fresh young intelligence may be just what we require. Here is Pongo, Polly,’ he said, rejoining the girl. ‘It is possible that he may have an idea. He nearly had one about three years ago. At any rate, he wishes to espouse your cause. Eh, Pongo?’

  ‘Oh, rather.’

  ‘Well, then, as I was saying, Polly, the solution is for you to meet the Duke, but it must not be as Ricky’s fiancée —’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Pongo, starting to display the fresh young intelligence.

  ‘Because he wouldn’t think me good enough,’ said Polly.

  ‘My dear,’ Lord Ickenham assured her, patting her hand, ‘if you are good enough for me, you are good enough for a blasted, pop-eyed Duke. But the trouble is that he is the one who has to be conciliated, and it would be fatal to make a bad start. You must meet him as a stranger. You must glide imperceptibly into his life and fascinate him before he knows who you are. We w
ant to get him saying to himself “A charming girl, egad! Just the sort I could wish my nephew Ricky to marry.” And then along comes the anthropoid ape to whom you have given your heart and says he thinks so, too. All that is quite straight. But how the dickens are you to glide imperceptibly into his life? How do you establish contact?’

  Pongo bent himself frowningly to the problem. He was aware of a keen agony at the reflection that the cream of his brain was being given to thinking up ways of getting this girl married to another man, but together with the agony there was a comfortable glow, as he felt that the opportunity of helping her had been accorded him. He reminded himself of Cyrano de Bergerac.

  ‘Difficult,’ he said. ‘For one thing, the Duke’s away somewhere. I remember Horace telling me that it was because he wouldn’t go to the station and see him off that he broke up the sitting room with the poker. Of course, he may just have been going home. He has a lair in Wiltshire, I believe.’

  ‘No, I know where he’s gone. He is at Blandings Castle.’

  ‘Isn’t that your pal Emsworth’s place?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Well, then, there you are,’ said Pongo, feeling how lucky it was that there was a trained legal mind present to solve all perplexities. ‘You get Emsworth to invite Miss Pott down there.’

  Lord Ickenham shook his head.

  ‘It is not quite so simple as that, I fear. You have a rather inaccurate idea of Emsworth’s position at Blandings. He was telling me about it at lunch and, broadly, what it amounts to is this. There may be men who are able to invite unattached and unexplained girls of great personal charm to their homes, but Emsworth is not one of them. He has a sister, Lady Constance Keeble, who holds revisionary powers over his visiting list.’

  Pongo caught his drift. He remembered having heard his friend Ronnie Fish speak of Lady Constance Keeble in a critical spirit, and Ronnie’s views had been endorsed by others of his circle who had encountered the lady.