4
Lying on his sofa, watching the shadows flit across the lawn outside, the Duke was in what practically amounted to a sunny mood. Serene is perhaps the word one is groping for. He was feeling serene.
But when some human substance appeared in the french windows and he saw that it was Gally, his benevolence noticeably waned. He had never been fond of this companion of his early days, and his stare was the cold stare of a man anxious to know to what he is indebted for the honour of this visit.
‘I thought I’d look in,’ said Gally.
‘Oh?’
‘To ask after your ankle.’
‘Oh?’
‘How is it?’
‘Bad.’
‘Good. I mean, I’m sorry. What does the doctor say? Any signs of gangrene? That’s what you want to watch out for, gangrene. Do you remember a fellow in the old days called Postlethwaite? He was bitten in the leg by a Siamese cat, got gangrene and as near as a toucher passed beyond the veil. You will probably argue that you have not been bitten in the leg by a Siamese cat, and that’s of course a good point, but even so you can’t feel safe. Have you a funny burning sensation? High temperature? Floating spots before the eyes? But, good heavens,’ said Gally, ‘I ought not to be talking to you like this. The great thing when visiting the afflicted is to present a cheerful front, to be all hearty and jolly and make them forget their troubles. I should be cheering you up with something funny. But what? Ha! Of course, yes, the Polk wench. That’ll amuse you. It turns out that she’s an impostor. It’s an odd thing about Blandings Castle, it seems to attract impostors as catnip does cats. They make a bee line for the place. When two or three impostors are gathered together, it’s only a question of time before they’re saying “Let’s all go round to Blandings”, and along they come. It shakes one. I’ve sometimes asked myself if Connie is really Connie. How can we be certain that she’s not an international spy cunningly made up as Connie? The only one of the local fauna I feel really sure about is Beach. He seems to be genuine. Returning to the case of the Polk wench—’
All through this long harangue the Duke had been struggling to speak, but had failed to do so, partly because he lacked the special gifts which a man had to have if he hoped to interrupt Gally, but principally owing to a restriction of his vocal cords, which seemed to have seized up, preventing speech. He now contrived to utter. His words came out in a hoarse whisper, but they emerged.
‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘What’s that? Are you telling me Vanessa Polk is not Vanessa Polk?’
‘Well, yes and no.’
‘What the devil do you mean, Yes and no?’
‘It’s a bit intricate, but I think I can explain. She’s Vanessa Polk all right, but not, as she gave us to understand, the daughter of the plutocratic J. B. Polk. She is the offspring or issue of P. P. Polk, one of the Norfolk Polks. Polk is a good Norfolk name, so they tell me. He was a valet.’
‘What!’
‘Or gentleman’s personal gentleman, if you prefer it. Her mother used to be a parlourmaid here. The popsy herself is a secretary. Makes you laugh, doesn’t it, to think of Connie of all people being taken in. It’ll be a lesson to her not to be so fussy about impostors sponsored by others.’
The Duke was not laughing. The sound that had escaped him had been more like a death rattle. His jaw had dropped, and his eyes were threatening to part from their sockets.
‘Threepwood!’
‘Yes?’
‘I … I …’
‘Yes?’
‘Threepwood, I have written that woman a letter, proposing marriage!’
‘So Connie told me, and I was thrilled. It’s a real Cinderella story—the humble little secretary marrying the great Duke,’ said Gally. He had been about to say ‘the popeyed Duke’, but thought it more tactful to substitute the other adjective. ‘You’ll never regret it, Dunstable. You will be getting a prize. One of the nicest girls I ever met. You couldn’t have a better prop for your declining years.’
The Duke snorted emotionally.
‘You don’t think I’m going to marry her now, do you?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Of course I’m not.’
‘How about her suing you for breach of promise?’
‘She mustn’t get that letter! Ring for Beach.’
‘Why?’
‘He may not have started yet.’
‘With the letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Beach hasn’t got it. I have. Clarence was concerned about asking Beach to go hiking with the sun’s ultra-violet rays so sultry, so I said I would take it. I have it here.’
The Duke expelled a deep breath. His lower jaw resumed its place, and his eyes returned to their sockets.
‘Thank heaven! You might have told me before,’ he added with a venomous glance. ‘I was half out of my mind.’
‘I know. But it was great fun, wasn’t it?’
‘Give it to me!’
‘Certainly, my dear fellow. It was what I came here to do. But before the handing-over ceremony I shall have to make one or two simple conditions. Clarence tells me you are planning to bring an action against him for having such slippery stairs. That must be dropped.’
‘Of course, of course, of course. To hell with Emsworth and his stairs. Give me that letter.’
‘Just one more article of agreement, if that’s the right expression. You must also jettison these fanciful objections you have to my godson marrying your niece.’
‘What!’
Gally was all sympathy and understanding. His voice was very gentle.
‘I know just how you feel. Every time your ankle gives you a twinge you think harsh thoughts of him, and I’m not surprised. But there it is. Nothing to be done about it. You must bite the bullet. Because, if you don’t, this letter goes to La Polk, registered.’
A silence of the kind usually described as pregnant fell on the garden suite. It might have been broken by the Duke calling Gally a low blackmailer and he had every inclination to do so, but even as his lips started to frame the words, prudence told him that they were better left unsaid. The thought of that breach of promise case restrained him.
He knew all about breach of promise cases. He had had one himself in his youth. They read your letters out in court, and everybody there laughed his or her fat head off. And it all came out in the papers next morning. To yield was bitter, but rather that than to have to sit and listen while a blasted barrister intoned that bit about the church steeple and the cloud. He swallowed several times, and eventually was able to speak. When he did so, it was in a peevish vein.
‘What the devil does he want to marry her for?’
‘Love, Dunstable, love.’
‘She hasn’t got a penny.’
‘That doesn’t weigh with these vintage Lochinvars.’
‘Has he any money?’
‘Quite enough.’
‘I mean, they won’t expect me to support them?’
‘Good Lord, no. He’s doing well at the bar, and he has an interest in that gallery where you bought the picture. It’s a very prosperous concern. Mugs coming in all the time with their cheque books and fountain pens. You need have no anxiety about Johnny’s finances. So is it a deal?’
‘I suppose so.’
If a criticism could be made of the Duke’s vocal delivery as he said these three words, it would be that it lacked geniality and enthusiasm. It fell somewhat short of the snarl of a timber wolf which has hurt its shinbone on a passing rock, but it was not enthusiastic and genial. Gally, however, found no fault in it.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Excellent. Capital. Then all that remains is to complete the formalities by putting it in writing. Can you hop to that desk?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then hop,’ said Gally.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Another summer day was drawing to a close, and dusk had fallen once more on Blandings Castle. The Empress had turned in. Chauffeur Voules was playi
ng his harmonica. The stable cat was having a quick wash and brush up before starting on its night out. And in the kitchen Mrs. Willoughby, the cook, was putting the final touches on the well-jammed roly-poly pudding which Beach would soon be taking to the library, where Gally and Lord Emsworth were enjoying their dinner of good plain English fare. Now that they were alone, Lord Emsworth had said, it was cosier there than in the vast salon where the meal had been served during the reign of Lady Constance, who was now on the ocean with only a few hours to go before her reunion with James Schoonmaker.
Through the open window the scent of stocks and tobacco plant floated in, competing with the aroma of the leg of lamb, the boiled potatoes and the spinach with which dinner had begun. Beach brought in the roly-poly pudding and withdrew, and Lord Emsworth heaved a contented sigh. In Lady Constance’s time it would have made his stiff shirt front go pop, but now it merely stirred the bosom of his shooting coat with the holes in the elbows. His toes wriggled sensuously inside his bedroom slippers.
‘This is very pleasant, Galahad,’ he said, and Gally endorsed the sentiment.
‘I was thinking the same thing, Clarence. No Connie, no Dunstable. Peace, perfect peace with loved ones far away, as one might say. I’m sorry I’m leaving.’
‘You must, I suppose?’
‘I doubt if the marriage would be legal without me.’
‘Someone you know is being married?’
‘My godson.’
‘I’ve never met him, have I?’
‘Certainly you have. The chap who falls downstairs.’
‘Ah yes. Who is he marrying?’
‘Linda Gilpin.’
‘Who is Linda Gilpin?’
‘The girl who kisses him after he’s fallen downstairs. I am to be Johnny’s best man.’
‘Who—’
‘Yes, I see I’m confusing you, Clarence. Johnny and my godson are one and the same. All straight now?’
‘Perfectly, perfectly. Your godson Johnny is marrying Linda Gilpin.’
‘You put it in a nutshell. And I have to be there when the firing squad assembles. Furthermore, Trout and Vanessa Polk insist on me dining with them before they go off on their honeymoon.’
‘Who is Trout?’
‘The chap who has married Vanessa Polk.’
‘Who is Vanessa Polk?’
‘The girl who has married Trout. They’ve both married each other, and they’re going for the honeymoon to Nassau.’
‘That’s where the Falls are, isn’t it? People go over them in barrels, which is a thing I don’t suppose many young couples would care to do. But no doubt Mr. and Mrs. Trout will find some other way of passing the time. Vanessa Polk, did you say? Wasn’t she staying here?’
‘That’s right, and so was Trout.’
‘I thought the names were familiar. Nice girl. Very sound on pigs. I hope she will be very happy.’
‘I’m sure she will.’
‘And I hope your godson will be very happy.’
‘Have no uneasiness about that. He loves his popsy.’
‘I thought you said her name was Linda.’
‘Popsy is the generic term. By the way, did Connie confide in you much while she was here?’
‘Not very much.’
‘Then you probably don’t know that serious obstacles had to be surmounted before the Johnny-Linda Gilpin merger could be put through. It was touch and go for quite a time. Snags arose. Tricky corners had to be rounded. It was only at long last that they were given the green light. But all that’s over now. It makes me feel as if I were sitting in at the end of a play, one of those charming delicate things the French do so well. You know the sort of thing I mean—lightly sentimental, the smile following the tear. I am having my dinner. The storm is over, there is sunlight in my heart. I have a glass of wine and sit thinking of what has passed. And now we want something to bring down the curtain. A toast is indicated. Let us drink to the Pelican Club, under whose gentle tuition I learned to keep cool, stiffen the upper lip and always think a shade quicker than the next man. To the Pelican Club,’ said Gally, raising his glass.
‘To the Pelican Club,’ said Lord Emsworth, raising his. ‘What is the Pelican Club, Galahad?’
‘God bless you, Clarence,’ said Gally. ‘Have some more roly-poly pudding.’
P.G. Wodehouse
IN ARROW BOOKS
If you have enjoyed Blandings, you’ll love Jeeves and Wooster
FROM
Aunts Aren’t Gentlemen
My attention was drawn to the spots on my chest when I was in my bath, singing, if I remember rightly, the Toreador song from the opera Carmen. They were pink in colour, rather like the first faint flush of dawn, and I viewed them with concern. I am not a fussy man, but I do object to being freckled like a pard, as I once heard Jeeves describe it, a pard, I take it, being something in the order of one of those dogs beginning with d.
‘Jeeves,’ I said at the breakfast table, ‘I’ve got spots on my chest.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Pink.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘I don’t like them.’
‘A very understandable prejudice, sir. Might I enquire if they itch?’
‘Sort of.’
‘I would not advocate scratching them.’
‘I disagree with you. You have to take a firm line with spots. Remember what the poet said.’
‘Sir?’
‘The poet Ogden Nash. The poem he wrote defending the practice of scratching. Who was Barbara Frietchie, Jeeves?’
‘A lady of some prominence in the American war between the States, sir.’
‘A woman of strong character? One you could rely on?’
‘So I have always understood, sir.’
‘Well, here’s what the poet Nash wrote. “I’m greatly attached to Barbara Frietchie. I’ll bet she scratched when she was itchy.” But I shall not be content with scratching. I shall place myself in the hands of a competent doctor.’
‘A very prudent decision, sir.’
The trouble was that, except for measles when I was just starting out, I’ve always been so fit that I didn’t know any doctors. Then I remembered that my American pal, Tipton Plimsoll, with whom I had been dining last night to celebrate his betrothal to Veronica, only daughter of Colonel and Lady Hermione Wedge of Blandings Castle, Shropshire, had mentioned one who had once done him a bit of good. I went to the telephone to get his name and address.
Tipton did not answer my ring immediately, and when he did it was to reproach me for waking him at daybreak. But after he had got this off his chest and I had turned the conversation to mine he was most helpful. It was with the information I wanted that I returned to Jeeves.
‘I’ve just been talking to Mr Plimsoll, Jeeves, and everything is straight now. He bids me lose no time in establishing contact with a medico of the name of E. Jimpson Murgatroyd. He says if I want a sunny practitioner who will prod me in the ribs with his stethoscope and tell me an anecdote about two Irishmen named Pat and Mike and then another about two Scotsmen named Mac and Sandy, E. Jimpson is not my man, but if what I’m after is someone to cure my spots, he unquestionably is, as he knows his spots from A to Z and has been treating them since he was so high. It seems that Tipton had the same trouble not long ago and Murgatroyd fixed him up in no time. So while I am getting out of these clothes into something more spectacular will you give him a buzz and make an appointment.’
When I had doffed the sweater and flannels in which I had breakfasted, Jeeves informed me that E. Jimpson could see me at eleven, and I thanked him and asked him to tell the garage to send the car round at ten-forty-five.
‘Somewhat earlier than that, sir,’ he said, ‘if I might make the suggestion. The traffic. Would it not be better to take a cab?’
‘No, and I’ll tell you why. After I’ve seen the doc, I thought I might drive down to Brighton and get a spot of sea air. I don’t suppose the traffic will be any worse than usual, will it?’
‘I fear so, sir. A protest march is taking place this morning.’
‘What, again? They seem to have them every hour on the hour these days, don’t they?’
‘They are certainly not infrequent, sir.’
‘Any idea what they’re protesting about?’
‘I could not say, sir. It might be one thing or it might be another. Men are suspicious, prone to discontent. Subjects still loathe the present Government.’
‘The poet Nash?’
‘No, sir. The poet Herrick.’
‘Pretty bitter.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I wonder what they had done to him to stir him up like that. Probably fined him five quid for failing to abate a smoky chimney.’
‘As to that I have no information, sir.’
Seated in the old sports model some minutes later and driving to keep my tryst with E. Jimpson Murgatroyd, I was feeling singularly light-hearted for a man with spots on his chest. It was a beautiful morning, and it wouldn’t have taken much to make me sing Tra-la as I bowled along. Then I came abaft of the protest march and found myself becalmed. I leaned back and sat observing the proceedings with a kindly eye.
CHAPTER TWO
Whatever these bimbos were protesting about, it was obviously something they were taking to heart rather. By the time I had got into their midst not a few of them had decided that animal cries were insufficient to meet the case and were saying it with bottles and brickbats, and the police who were present in considerable numbers seemed not to be liking it much. It must be rotten being a policeman on these occasions. Anyone who has got a bottle can throw it at you, but if you throw it back, the yell of police brutality goes up and there are editorials in the papers next day.
But the mildest cop can stand only so much, and it seemed to me, for I am pretty shrewd in these matters, that in about another shake of a duck’s tail hell’s foundations would be starting to quiver. I hoped nobody would scratch my paint.
Leading the procession, I saw with surprise, was a girl I knew. In fact, I had once asked her to marry me. Her name was Vanessa Cook, and I had met her at a cocktail party, and such was her radiant beauty that it was only a couple of minutes after I had brought her a martini and one of those little sausages on sticks that I was saying to myself, ‘Bertram, this is a good thing. Push it along.’ And in due season I suggested a merger. But apparently I was not the type, and no business resulted.
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