The Mating Season

by P. G. Wodehouse

  And now, of course, came the danger spot. A feeble piping at this point, like gas escaping from a pipe, or let us say a failure to remember more than an odd word or two of the subject matter, and a favourable first impression might well be undone. True, the tougher portion of the audience had been sedulously stood beers over a period of days and in return had entered into a gentleman’s agreement to be indulgent, but nevertheless it was unquestionably up to Esmond Haddock to deliver the goods.

  He did so abundantly and in heaping measure. That first night over the port, when we had been having our run-through, my thoughts at the outset had been centred on the lyric and I had been too busy polishing up Aunt Charlotte’s material to give much attention to the quality of his voice. And later on, of course, I had been singing myself, which always demands complete concentration. When I was on the chair, waving my decanter, I had been aware in a vague sort of way of some kind of disturbance in progress on the table, but if Dame Daphne Winkworth on her entry had asked me my opinion of Esmond Haddock’s timbre and brio, I should have had to reply that I really hadn’t noticed them much.

  He now stood forth as the possessor of a charming baritone – full of life and feeling and, above all, loud. And volume of sound is what you want at a village concert. Make the lights flicker and bring plaster down from the ceiling, and you are home. Esmond Haddock did not cater simply for those who had paid the price of admission, he took in strollers along the High Street and even those who had remained at their residences, curled up with a good book. Catsmeat, you may recall, in speaking of the yells which Dame Daphne and the Misses Deverill had uttered on learning of his betrothal to Gertrude Winkworth, had hazarded the opinion that they could have been heard at Basingstoke. I should say that Basingstoke got Esmond Haddock’s hunting song nicely.

  If so, it got a genuine treat and one of some duration, for he took three encores, a couple of bows, a fourth encore, some bows and then the chorus once over again byway of one for the road. And even then his well-wishers seemed reluctant to let him go.

  This reluctance made itself manifest during the next item on the programme – Glee (Oh, come unto these yellow sands) by the Church Choir, conducted by the school-mistress – in murmurs at the back and an occasional ‘Hallo’, but it was not until Miss Poppy Kegley-Bassington was performing her rhythmic dance that it found full expression.

  Unlike her sister Muriel, who had resembled a Criterion barmaid of the old school, Poppy Kegley-Bassington was long and dark and supple, with a sinuous figure suggestive of a snake with hips; one of those girls who do rhythmic dances at the drop of a hat and can be dissuaded from doing them only with a meat-axe. The music that accompanied her act was Oriental in nature, and I should be disposed to think that the thing had started out in life as a straight Vision of Salome but had been toned down and had the whistle blown on it in spots in deference to the sensibilities of the Women’s Institute. It consisted of a series of slitherings and writhings, punctuated with occasional pauses when, having got herself tied in a clove-hitch, she seemed to be waiting for someone who remembered the combination to come along and disentangle her.

  It was during one of these pauses that the plug-ugly with the hair oil made an observation. Since Esmond’s departure he had been standing with a rather morose expression on his face, like an elephant that has had its bun taken from it, and you could see how deeply he was regretting that the young Squire was no longer with us. From time to time he would mutter in a peevish undertone, and I seemed to catch Esmond’s name. He now spoke, and I found that my hearing had not been at fault.

  ‘We want Haddock,’ he said. ‘We want Haddock, we want Haddock, we want Haddock, we want HADDOCK!’

  He uttered the words in a loud, clear, penetrating voice, not unlike that of a costermonger informing the public that he has blood oranges for sale, and the sentiment expressed evidently chimed in with the views of those standing near him. It was not long before perhaps twenty or more discriminating concert-goers were also chanting:

  ‘We want Haddock, we want Haddock, we want Haddock, we want Haddock, we want HADDOCK!’

  And it just shows you how catching this sort of thing is. It wasn’t more than about five seconds later that I heard another voice intoning.

  ‘We want Haddock, we want Haddock, we want Haddock, we want Haddock, we want HADDOCK!’ and discovered with a mild surprise that it was mine. And as the remainder of the standees, some thirty in number, also adopted the slogan, this made us unanimous.

  To sum up, then, the fellow with the hair oil, fifty other fellows, also with hair oil, and I had begun to speak simultaneously and what we said was:

  ‘We want Haddock, we want Haddock, we want Haddock, we want Haddock, we want HADDOCK!’

  There was some shushing from the two-bobbers, but we were firm, and though Miss Kegley-Bassington pluckily continued to slither for a few moments longer, the contest of wills could have but one ending. She withdrew, getting a nice hand, for we were generous in victory, and Esmond came on, all boots and pink coat. And what with him going a-hunting at one end of the hall and our group of thinkers going a-hunting at the other, the thing might have occupied the rest of the evening quite agreeably, had not some quick-thinking person dropped the curtain for the intermission.

  You might have supposed that my mood, as I strolled from the building to enjoy a smoke, would have been one of elation. And so, for some moments, it was. The whole aim of my foreign policy had been to ensure the making of a socko by Esmond, and he had made a socko. He had slain them and stopped the show. For perhaps the space of a quarter of a cigarette I rejoiced unstintedly.

  Then my uplifted mood suddenly left me. The cigarette fell from my nerveless fingers, and I stood rooted to the spot, the lower jaw resting negligently on the shirt front. I had just realized that, what with one thing and another – my disturbed night, my taxing day, the various burdens weighing on my mind and so forth – every word of those Christopher Robin poems had been expunged from my memory.

  And I was billed next but two after intermission.

  CHAPTER 23

  How long I stood there, rooted to the s., I cannot say. A goodish while, no doubt, for this wholly unforeseen development had unmanned me completely. I was roused from my reverie by the sound of rustic voices singing ‘Hallo, hallo, hallo, hallo, a-hunting we will go, my lads, a-hunting we will go’ and discovered that the strains were proceeding from the premises of the Goose and Cowslip on the other side of the road. And it suddenly struck me – 1 can’t think why it hadn’t before – that here might possibly be the mental tonic of which I was in need. It might be that all that was wrong with me was that I was faint for lack of nourishment. Hitching up the lower jaw, I hurried across and plunged into the saloon bar.

  The revellers who were singing the gem of the night’s Hit Parade were doing so in the public bar. The only occupant of the more posh saloon bar was a godlike man in a bowler hat with grave, finely chiselled features and a head that stuck out at the back, indicating great brain power. To cut a long story short, Jeeves. He was having a meditative beer at the table by the wall.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said, rising with his customary polish. ‘I am happy to inform you that I was successful in obtaining the cosh from Master Thomas. I have it in my pocket.’

  I raised a hand.

  ‘This is no time for talking about coshes.’

  ‘No, sir. I merely mentioned it in passing. Mr Haddock’s was an extremely gratifying triumph, did you not think, sir?’

  ‘Nor is it a time for talking about Esmond Haddock. Jeeves,’ I said, ‘I’m sunk.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’

  ‘Jeeves!’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I should have said “Really, sir?”’

  ‘“Really, sir?” is just as bad. What the crisis calls for is a “Gosh!” or a “Gorblimey!” There have been occasions, numerous occasions, when you have beheld Bertram Wooster in the bouillon, but never so deeply immersed in it as now. You know
those damned poems I was to recite? I’ve forgotten every word of them. I need scarcely stress the gravity of the situation. Half an hour from now I shall be up on that platform with the Union Jack behind me and before me an expectant audience, waiting to see what I’ve got. And I haven’t got anything. I shan’t have a word to say. And while an audience at a village concert justifiably resents having Christopher Robin poems recited at it, its resentment becomes heightened if the reciter merely stands there opening and shutting his mouth in silence like a goldfish.’

  ‘Very true, sir. You cannot jog your memory?’

  ‘It was in the hope of jogging it that I came in here. Is there brandy in this joint?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I will procure you a double.’

  ‘Make it two doubles.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  He moved obligingly to the little hatch thing in the wall and conveyed his desire to the unseen provider on the other side, and presently a hand came through with a brimming glass and he brought it to the table.

  ‘Let’s see what this does,’ I said. ‘Skin off your nose, Jeeves.’

  ‘Mud in your eye, sir, if I may use the expression.’

  I drained the glass and laid it down.

  ‘The ironical thing,’ I said, while waiting for the stuff to work, ‘is that though, except for remembering in a broad, general way that he went hoppity-hoppity-hop, I am a spent force as regards Christopher Robin, I could do them “Ben Battle” without a hitch. Did you hear Master George Kegley-Bassington on the subject of “Ben Battle”?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A barely adequate performance, I thought.’

  ‘That is not the point, Jeeves. What I’m trying to tell you is that listening to him has had the effect of turning back time in its flight, if you know what I mean, so that from the reciting angle I am once more the old Bertram Wooster of bygone days and can remember every word of “Ben Battle” as clearly as in the epoch when it was constantly on my lips. I could do the whole thing without fluffing a syllable. But does that profit me?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No, sir, is correct. Thanks to George, saturation point has been reached with this particular audience as far as “Ben Battle” is concerned. If I started to give it them, too, I shouldn’t get beyond the first stanza. There would be an ugly rush for the platform, and I should be roughly handled. So what do you suggest?’

  ‘You have obtained no access of mental vigour from the refreshment which you have been consuming, sir?’

  ‘Not a scrap. The stuff might have been water.’

  ‘In that case, I think you would be well advised to refrain from attempting to entertain the audience, sir. It would be best to hand the whole conduct of the affair over to Mr Haddock.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I am confident that Mr Haddock would gladly deputize for you. In the uplifted frame of mind in which he now is, he would welcome an opportunity to appear again before his public’

  ‘But he couldn’t learn the stuff in a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘No, sir, but he could read it from the book. I have a copy of the book on my person, for I had been intending to station myself at the side of the stage in order to prompt you, as I believe the technical expression is, should you have need of my services.’

  ‘Dashed good of you, Jeeves. Very white. Very feudal.’

  ‘Not at all, sir. Shall I step across and explain the position of affairs to Mr Haddock and hand him the book?’

  I mused. The more I examined his suggestion, the better I liked it. When you are slated to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel, the idea of getting a kindly friend to take your place is always an attractive one; the only thing that restrains you, as a rule, from making the switch being the thought that it is a bit tough on the kindly f But in the present case this objection did not apply. On this night of nights Esmond Haddock could get away with anything. There was, I seemed to remember dimly, a poem in the book about Christopher Robin having ten little toes. Even that, dished out by the idol of King’s Deverill, would not provoke mob violence.

  ‘Yes, buzz straight over and fix up the deal, Jeeves,’ I said, hesitating no longer. ‘As always, you have found the way’

  He adjusted the bowler hat which he had courteously doffed at my entry, and went off on his errand of mercy. And I, too agitated to remain sitting, wandered out into the street and began to pace up and down outside the hosterly. And I had paused for a moment to look at the stars, wondering, as I always did when I saw stars, why Jeeves had once described them to me as quiring to the young-eyed Cherubim, when a tapping on my arm and a bleating voice saying ‘I say, Bertie’ told me that some creature of the night was trying to arrest my attention. I turned and beheld something in a green beard and a check suit of loud pattern which, as it was not tall enough to be Catsmeat, the only other person likely to be going about in that striking get-up, I took correctly to be Gussie.

  ‘I say, Bertie,’ said Gussie, speaking with obvious emotion, ‘do you think you could get me some brandy?’

  ‘You mean orange juice?’

  ‘No, I do not mean orange juice. I mean brandy. About a bucketful.’

  Puzzled, but full of the St-Bernard-dog spirit, I returned to the saloon bar and came back with the snifter. He accepted it gratefully and downed about half of it at a gulp, gasping in a struck-by-lightning manner, as I have seen men gasp after taking one of Jeeves’s special pick-me-ups.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, when he had recovered. ‘I needed that. And I didn’t like to go in myself with this beard on.’

  ‘Why don’t you take it off?’

  ‘I can’t get it off. I stuck it on with spirit gum, and it hurts like sin when I pull at it. I shall have to get Jeeves to see what he can do about it later. Is this stuff brandy?’

  ‘That’s what they told me.’

  ‘What appalling muck. Like vitriol. How on earth can you and your fellow topers drink it for pleasure?’

  ‘What are you drinking it for? Because you promised your mother you would?’

  ‘I am drinking it, Bertie, to nerve myself for a frightful ordeal.’

  I gave his shoulder a kindly pat. It seemed to me that the man’s mind was wandering.

  ‘You’re forgetting, Gussie. Your ordeal is over. You’ve done you act. And pretty lousy it was,’ I said, unable to check the note of censure. ‘What was the matter with you?’

  He blinked like a chidden codfish.

  ‘Wasn’t I good?’

  ‘No, you were not good. You were cheesy. Your work lacked fire and snap.’

  ‘Well, so would your work lack fire and snap, if you had to play in a knockabout cross-talk act and knew that directly the thing was over, you were going to break into a police station and steal a dog.’

  The stars, ceasing for a moment to quire to the young-eyed Cherubim, did a quick buck-and-wing.

  ‘Say that again!’

  ‘What’s the point of saying it again? You heard. I’ve promised Corky I’ll go to Dobbs’s cottage and extract that dog of hers. She will be waiting in her car near at hand and will gather the animal in and whisk it off to the house of some friends of hers who live about twenty miles along the London road, well out of Dobbs’s sphere of influence. So now you know why I wanted brandy’

  I wanted brandy, too. Either that or something equally restorative. Oh, I was saying to myself, for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene. I have spoken earlier of the tendency of the spirit of the Woosters to rise when crushed to earth, but there is a limit, and this limit had now been reached. At these frightful words, the spirit of the Woosters felt as if it had been sat on by an elephant. And not one of your streamlined, schoolgirl-figured elephants, either. A big, fat one.

  ‘Gussie! You mustn’t!’

  ‘What do you mean, I mustn’t? Of course I must. Corky wishes it.’

  ‘But you don’t realize the peril. Dobbs is laying for you. Esmond Haddock is laying for you. They’re just waiting to spring.’r />
  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Esmond Haddock told me so himself. He dislikes you intensely and it is his dearest hope some day to catch you bending and put you behind the bars. And he’s a J.P., so is in a strong position to bring about the happy ending. You’ll look pretty silly when you find yourself doing thirty days in the jug.’

  ‘For Corky’s sake I’d do a year. As a matter of fact,’ said Gussie in a burst of confidence, ‘though you might not think it from the way I’ve been calling for brandy, there’s no chance of my being caught. Dobbs is watching the concert.’

  This, of course, improved the outlook. I don’t say I breathed freely, but I breathed more freely than I had been breathing.

  ‘You’re sure ofthat?’

  ‘I saw him myself.’

  ‘You couldn’t have been mistaken?’

  ‘My dear Bertie, when Dobbs has come into a room in which you have been strewing frogs and stood face to face with you for an eternity, chewing his moustache and grinding his teeth at you, you know him when you see him again.’

  ‘But all the same –’

  ‘It’s no good saying “All the same”. Corky wants me to extract her dog, and I’m going to do it. “Gussie”, she said to me, “you’re such a help”, and I intend to be worthy of those words.’

  And, having spoken thus, he gave his beard a hitch and vanished into the silent night, leaving me to pay for the brandy.

  I had just finished doing so when Jeeves returned.

  ‘Everything has been satisfactorily arranged, sir,’ he said. ‘I have seen Mr Haddock, and, as I anticipated, he is more than willing to deputize for you.’

  A great weight seemed to roll off my mind.

  ‘Then God bless Mr Haddock!’ I said. ‘There is splendid stuff in these young English landowners, Jeeves, is there not?’

  ‘Unquestionably, sir.’

  ‘The backbone of the country, I sometimes call them. But I gather from the fact that you have been gone the dickens of a time that you had to do some heavy persuading.’

  ‘No, sir. Mr Haddock consented immediately and with enthusiasm. My delay in returning was due to the fact that I was detained in conversation by Police Constable Dobbs. There were a number of questions of a theological nature on which he was anxious to canvass my views. He appears particularly interested in Jonah and the Whale.’