Uncle Fred in the Springtime

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘Oh does it? Well —’

  ‘Valerie, darling!’

  The girl turned to Pongo.

  ‘Would you,’ she said formally, ‘be good enough to ask your friend not to address me as “Valerie, darling.” My name is Miss Twistleton.’

  ‘Your name,’ said Pongo, with brotherly sternness, ‘will be mud if you pass up an excellent bet like good old Horace Davenport — the whitest man I know — simply because his great love made him want to keep an eye on you during Drones Club weekend.’

  ‘I did not—’

  ‘And as events have proved he was thoroughly justified in the course he took. You appear to have been cutting up like a glamour girl at a Hollywood party. What about those two males, one with cocktail shaker?’

  ‘I did not —’

  ‘And the m. you drove to Montreuil with?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Horace, for the first time perking up and showing a little of the Pendlebury-Davenport fire. ‘What about the m. you drove to Montreuil with?’

  Valerie Twistleton’s face was cold and hard.

  ‘If you will allow me to speak for a moment and not keep interrupting every time I open my mouth, I was about to say that I did not come here to argue. I merely came to inform you that our engagement is at an end, and that a notice to that effect will appear in The Times tomorrow morning. The only explanation I can think of that offers a particle of excuse for your conduct is that you have finally gone off your rocker. I’ve been expecting it for months. Look at your Uncle Alaric. Barmy to the back teeth.’ Horace Davenport was in the depths, but he could not let this pass.

  ‘That’s all right about my Uncle Alaric. What price your Uncle Fred?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Loopy to the tonsils.’

  ‘My Uncle Fred is not loopy to the tonsils.’

  ‘Yes, he is. Pongo says so.’

  ‘Pongo’s an ass.’

  Pongo raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Cannot we,’ he suggested coldly, ‘preserve the decencies of debate?’

  ‘This isn’t a debate. As I told you before, I came here simply to inform Mr Davenport that our engagement is jolly well terminated.’

  There was a set look on Horace’s face. He took off his spectacles, and polished them with an ominous calm.

  ‘So you’re handing me the mitten?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry.’

  ‘No. I shan’t.’

  ‘I shall go straight to the devil.’

  ‘All right, trot along.’

  ‘I shall plunge into a riot of reckless living.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘And my first step, I may mention, will be to take Polly Pott to that Bohemian Ball at the Albert Hall.’

  ‘Poor soul! I hope you will do the square thing by her.’

  ‘I fail to understand you.’

  ‘Well, she’ll need a pair of crutches next day. In common fairness you ought to pay for them.’

  There was a silence. Only the sound of tense breathing could be heard — the breathing of a man with whom a woman has gone just too far.

  ‘If you will be kind of enough to buzz off,’ said Horace icily, ‘I will be ringing her up now.’

  The door slammed. He went to the telephone.

  Pongo cleared his throat. It was not precisely the moment he would have chosen for putting his fortune to the test, had he been free to choose, but his needs were immediate, the day was already well advanced and no business done, and he had gathered that Horace’s time in the near future was likely to be rather fully occupied. So now he cleared his throat and, shooting his cuffs, called upon the splendid Twistleton courage to nerve him for his task.

  ‘Horace, old man.’ ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Horace, old chap.’

  ‘Hullo? Polly?’

  ‘Horace_ old egg.’

  ‘Half a minute. There’s somebody talking. Well?’

  ‘Horace, old top, you remember what we were starting to chat about when the recent Pott blew in. What I was going to say, when we were interrupted, was that owing to circumstances over which I had no — or very little — control….’

  ‘Buck up. Don’t take all day over it.’

  Pongo saw that preambles would have to be dispensed with.

  ‘Can you lend me two hundred quid?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh? Right ho. Well, in that case,’ said Pongo stiffly, ‘tinkerty-tonk.’

  He left the room and walked round to the garage where he kept his Buffy-Porson two-seater, and instructed the proprietor to have it in readiness for him on the morrow.

  ‘Going far, sir?’

  ‘To Ickenham, in Hampshire,’ said Pongo.

  He spoke moodily. He had not planned to reveal his financial difficulties to his Uncle Fred, but he could think of no other source of revenue.

  2

  Having put the finishing touches to his nephew’s sitting-room and removed himself from Bloxham Mansions in a cab, the Duke of Dunstable, feeling much better after his little bit of exercise, had driven to Paddington Station and caught the 2.45 train to Market Blandings in the county of Shropshire. For he had invited himself — he was a man of too impatient spirit to hang about waiting for other people to invite him — to spend an indefinite period as the guest of Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth, and his sister, Lady Constance Keeble, at that haunt of ancient peace, Blandings Castle.

  The postcard which he had dispatched some days previously announcing his impending arrival and ordering an airy ground-floor bedroom with a southern exposure and a quiet sitting-room in which he could work with his secretary, Rupert Baxter, on his history of the family had had a mixed reception at the Blandings breakfast table.

  Lord Emsworth, frankly appalled, had received the bad news with a sharp ‘Eh, what? Oh, I say, dash it!’ He had disliked the Duke in a dreamy way for forty-seven years, and as for Rupert Baxter he had hoped never to be obliged to meet him again either in this world or the next. Until fairly recently that efficient young man had been his own secretary, and his attitude towards him was a little like that of some miraculously cured convalescent towards the hideous disease which has come within an ace of laying him low. It was true, of course, that this time the frightful fellow would be infesting the castle in the capacity of somebody else’s employee, but he drew small comfort from that. The mere thought of being under the same roof with Rupert Baxter was revolting to him.

  Lady Constance, on the other hand, was pleased. She was a devoted admirer of the efficient Baxter, and there had been a time, when the world was young, when she and the Duke of Dunstable had whispered together in dim conservatories and been the last couple to straggle home from picnics. And though nothing had come of it — it was long before he succeeded to the title, and they shipped him abroad at about that time to allow an England which he had made too hot for him to cool off a little — the memory lingered.

  Lord Emsworth lodged a protest, though realizing as he did so that it was purely formal. He was, and always had been, a cipher in the home.

  ‘It’s only about a week since he was here last.’

  ‘It is nearly seven months.’

  ‘Can’t you tell him we’re full up?’

  ‘Of course I can’t.’

  ‘The last time he was here,’ said Lord Emsworth broodingly, ‘he poked the Empress in the ribs with an umbrella.’

  ‘Well, I am certainly not going to offend one of my oldest friends just because he poked your pig with an umbrella,’ said Lady Constance. ‘I shall write to Alaric and tell him that we shall be delighted to have him for as long as he cares to stay. I see that he says he must be on the ground floor, because he is nervous of fire. He had better have the Garden Suite.’

  And so it was in that luxurious set of apartments that the Duke awoke on the morning following his luncheon party at Bloxham Mansions. For some time he lay gazing at the sunlight that filtered through the curtains which covered the french windows opening
on the lawn: then, ringing the bell, he instructed the footman to bring him toast, marmalade, a pot of China tea, two lightly boiled eggs and The Times. And it was perhaps twenty minutes later that Lady Constance, sunning herself on the terrace, was informed by Beach, her butler, that His Grace would be glad if she would step to his room for a moment.

  Her immediate sensation, on receiving this summons, was one of apprehension and alarm. The story which the Duke had told at dinner on the previous night, at great length and with a ghoulish relish, of the lesson which he had taught his nephew Horace had made a deep impression on her, and she fully expected on reaching the Blue Room to find it — possibly owing to some lapse from the required standard in His Grace’s breakfast — a devastated area. It was with profound relief that she saw that all was well. The ducal poker remained a potential threat in the background, but it had not been brought into operation as yet, and she looked at the mauve-pajamaed occupant of the bed with that quiet affection which hostesses feel towards guests who have not smashed their furniture — blended with the tenderness which a woman never quite loses for the man who has once breathed words of love down the back of her neck.

  ‘Good morning, Alaric.’

  ‘Morning, Connie. I say, who the devil’s that whistling feller?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean a whistling feller. A feller who whistles. There’s been a blighter outside my window ever since I woke up, whistling the “Bonny Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond.”‘

  ‘One of the gardeners, I expect.’

  ‘Ah!’ said the Duke quietly.

  Pongo Twistleton had been surprised that a private investigator could look like Claude Pott, and he would have been equally surprised if he had been introduced to the Duke of Dunstable and informed that this was the notorious sitting-room wrecker of whom he had heard so much. The Duke did not look a killer. Except for the Dunstable nose, always a little startling at first sight, there was nothing obviously formidable and intimidating about Horace’s Uncle Alaric. A bald head … A cascade of white moustache … Prominent blue eyes … A rather nice old bird, you would have said.

  ‘Was that what you wanted to see me about?’

  ‘No. Have the car ready to take me to the station directly after lunch. I’ve got to go to London.’

  ‘But you only came last night.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what happened last night. It’s what has happened this morning. I glance through my Times, and what do I see? My nephew Horace has gone and got his engagement broken off.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘How the dickens should I know why? It’s just because I don’t know why that I’ve got to go and find out. When an engagement has been broken off The Times doesn’t print long reports from its special correspondent. It simply says “The marriage arranged between George Tiddlypush and Amelia Stick-in-the-mud will not take, place.”‘

  ‘The girl was Lord Ickenham’s niece, wasn’t she?’ ‘Still is.’

  ‘I know Lady Ickenham, but I have never met Lord Ickenham.’

  ‘Nor have I. But she’s his niece, just the same.’

  ‘They say he is very eccentric.’

  ‘He’s potty. Everybody’s potty nowadays, except a few people like myself. It’s the spirit of the age. Look at Clarence. Ought to have been certified years ago.’

  ‘Don’t you think that it’s simply that he is dreamy and absent-minded?’

  ‘Absent-minded be blowed. He’s potty. So’s Horace. So’s my other nephew, Ricky. You take my advice, Connie. Never have nephews.’

  Lady Constance’s sigh seemed to say that he spoke too late.

  ‘I’ve got dozens, Alaric.’

  ‘Potty?’

  ‘I sometimes think so. They seem to do the most extraordinary things.’

  ‘I’ll bet they don’t do such extraordinary things as mine.’

  ‘My nephew Ronald married a chorus girl.’

  ‘My nephew Ricky writes poetry.’

  ‘My nephew Bosham once bought a gold brick from a man in the street.’

  ‘And now he wants to sell soup.’

  ‘Bosham?’

  ‘Ricky. He wants to sell soup.’

  ‘Sell soup?’

  ‘Good God, Connie, don’t repeat everything I say, as if you were an echo in the Swiss mountains. I tell you he wants to sell soup. I go and see him yesterday, and he has the impertinence, if you please, to ask me to give him five hundred pounds to buy an onion soup bar. I refused to give him a penny, of course. He was as sick as mud. Not so sick as Horace will be, though, when he’s finished with me. I shall start by disembowelling him. Go and order that car.’

  ‘Well, it does seem a shame that you should have to go to London on a lovely day like this.’

  ‘You don’t think I want to go, do you? I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Couldn’t you tell Mr Baxter to go and see Horace? He is still in London, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he is, the shirking, skrimshanking, four-eyed young son of a what-not, and I’m quite convinced that he stayed there because he was planning to go on a toot the moment my back was turned. If I can bring it home to him, by George, I’ll sack him as soon as he shows his ugly face here. No, I couldn’t tell Baxter to go and see Horace. I’m not going to have my nephew, half-witted though he is, subjected to the inquisition of a dashed underling.’

  There were several points in this speech, which, if it had not been for the thought of that poker which hung over Blandings Castle like a sword of Damocles, Lady Constance would have liked to criticize. She resented the suggestion that Rupert Baxter was a man capable of going on toots. She did not consider his face ugly. And it pained her to hear him described as a dashed underling. But there are times when the tongue must be curbed. She maintained a discreet silence, from which she emerged a few moments later with a suggestion.

  ‘I know! Bosham is going to London this morning. Why couldn’t Horace drive him back in his car? Then you could have your talk with him without any trouble or inconvenience.’

  ‘The first sensible word you’ve spoken since you came into this room,’ said the Duke approvingly. ‘Yes, tell Bosham to rout him out and bring him back alive or dead. Well, I can’t stay here talking to you all day, Connie. Got to get up, got to get up. Where’s Clarence?’

  ‘Down at the pig sty, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s still mooning over that pig of his.’

  ‘He’s quite absurd about it.’

  ‘Quite crazy, you mean. If you want to know what I think, Connie, it’s that pig that’s at the root of his whole trouble. It’s a very bad influence in his life, and if something isn’t done soon to remove it you’ll find him suddenly sticking straws in his hair and saying he’s a poached egg. Talking of eggs, send me up a dozen.’

  ‘Eggs? But haven’t you had your breakfast?’

  ‘Of course I’ve had my breakfast.’

  ‘I see. But you want some more,’ said Lady Constance pacifically. ‘How would you like them done?’

  ‘I don’t want them done at all. I don’t want eating eggs. I want throwing eggs. I intend to give that whistling feller a sharp lesson. Hark! There he is again. Singing now.’

  ‘Alaric,’ said Lady Constance, a pleading note in her voice, ‘must you throw eggs at the gardeners?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Lady Constance resignedly, and went off to avert the threatened horror by removing the vocalist from the danger zone.

  Her thoughts, as she went, were long, long thoughts.

  Lord Emsworth, meanwhile, unaware of the solicitude which he was causing, was down in the meadow by the kitchen garden, drooping over the comfortable sty which housed his pre-eminent sow, Empress of Blandings, twice in successive years silver medallist in the Fat Pigs’ class at the Shropshire Agricultural Show. The noble animal, under his adoring eyes, was finishing a late breakfast.

  The ninth Earl of Ems
worth was a resilient man. It had not taken him long to get over the first sharp agony of the discovery that Rupert Baxter was about to re-enter his life. This morning, Baxter was forgotten, and he was experiencing that perfect happiness which comes from a clear conscience, absence of loved ones, congenial society and fine weather. For once in a way there was nothing which he was trying to conceal from his sister Constance, no disrupting influences had come to mar his communion with the Empress, and the weather, as almost always in this favoured spot, was wonderful. We have seen spring being whimsical and capricious in London, but it knew enough not to try anything of that sort on Blandings Castle.

  The only concern Lord Emsworth had was a fear that this golden solitude could not last, and the apprehension was well founded. A raucous cry shattered the drowsy stillness and, turning, he perceived, as Claude Pott would have said, one male. His guest, the Duke, was crossing the meadow towards him.

  ‘Morning, Clarence.’

  ‘Good morning, Alaric.’

  Lord Emsworth forced a welcoming smile to his lips. His breeding — and about fifteen thousand words from Lady Constance from time to time — had taught him that a host must wear the mask. He tried his hardest not to feel like a stag at bay.

  ‘Seen Bosham anywhere?’

  ‘No. No, I have not.’

  ‘I want a word with him before he leaves. I’ll wait here and intercept him on his way out. He’s going to London today, to bring Horace here. His engagement has been broken off.’

  This puzzled Lord Emsworth. His son and heir, Lord Bosham, who was visiting the castle for the Bridgeford races, had been, he felt pretty sure, for some years a married man. He mentioned this.

  ‘Not Bosham’s engagement. Horace’s. ‘Again Lord Emsworth was at a loss.

  ‘Who is Horace?’ ‘My nephew.’

  ‘And he is engaged?’

  ‘He was. Ickenham’s niece.’ ‘Who is?’

  ‘The girl he was engaged to.’

  ‘Who is Ickenham?’

  ‘Her uncle.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lord Emsworth, brightening. The name had struck a chord in his memory. Oh, Ickenham? Of course. Ickenham, to be sure. I know Ickenham. He is a friend of my brother Galahad. I think they used to be thrown out of night clubs together. I am glad Ickenham is coming here.’