Uncle Fred in the Springtime

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘We won’t discuss my father. And if you’re suggesting that it’s the merest trifle, the girl who’s supposed to love you going and hobnobbing with Horace Davenport after she had promised —’

  ‘But, my dear boy, don’t you understand that it was precisely because she loved you that she did hobnob with Horace? … Let me explain, and if when I have finished you are not bathed in shame and remorse, you must be dead to all human feeling. In the first place, nothing but her love for you could have dragged her to that Ball at the Albert Hall. You don’t suppose a girl enjoys being seen in public with a fellow wearing the costume of a Zulu warrior and tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, do you? Polly went to that Ball because she was prepared to endure physical and spiritual agony in order to further your interest. It was her intention to catch Horace in mellow mood and plead with him to advance you the sum which you require for that onion soup bar of yours.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘For weeks she had been sedulously sweetening him by giving him dancing lessons, and that night was to have marked the culmination of the enterprise. She was hoping to be able to come to you and tell you that the weary waiting was over and that you and she could get married and live happy ever after, dishing out onion soup to the blotto survivors of bottle parties. By your headstrong conduct you ruined her plans that night. A girl can’t try to borrow money from a man while he’s being taken off to Marlborough Street Police Station. Her instinct tells her that he will not be in the mood. So she had to wait for another opportunity. Learning that Horace was expected here, she came, too. She met him. She got the money —’She — what?’

  ‘Certainly. It’s in her possession now. She was bringing it to you.’ ‘But how did she know I was here?’

  For perhaps a third of a split second this question had Lord Ickenham in difficulties.

  ‘Woman’s intuition,’ he suggested. ‘But —’Well, there it is,’ said Lord Ickenham bluffly. ‘What does it matter how she knew you were here? Suffice it that she did know, and she came running to you with the money in her hand like a child about to show some cherished treasure. And you — what did you do?. You behaved like a cad and a scoundrel. I’m not surprised that she feels she has had a lucky escape.

  ‘Oh, my gosh! Does she?’

  ‘That is what she was saying when I saw her just now. And I don’t blame her. There can be no love without trust, and a pretty exhibition of trustfulness you gave, did you not?’

  To Horace Davenport, could he have seen it at this moment, Ricky Gilpin’s face would have come as a revelation. He would scarcely have been able to believe that those incandescent eyes had it in them to blink so sheepishly, or that that iron jaw could have sagged so like a poorly set blancmange. The future Onion Soup King was exhibiting all the symptoms of one who has been struck on the back of the head with a sock full of wet sand.

  ‘I’ve made a fool of myself,’ he said, and his voice was like the earliest pipe of half-awakened birds.

  ‘You have.’

  ‘I’ve mucked things up properly.’

  ‘I’m glad you realize it.’

  ‘Where is Polly? I must see her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise it. You don’t appear to understand what it means, behaving to a girl of spirit as you have behaved to Polly. She’s furious with you. It would be madness to see her. There is only one thing you can do. When are you returning to London?’

  ‘I had meant to catch the evening train.’

  ‘Do so. Polly will be back at her home shortly. As soon as she arrives, go and buy her chocolates — lots of chocolates — and send them round with a grovelling note.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You might then plead for an interview. And when I say plead, I mean plead.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If you display a sufficiently humble and contrite spirit, I see no reason for you to despair. She was fond of you once, and it may be that she will grow fond of you again. I will talk to her and do what I can for you.’

  ‘That’s awfully kind of you.’

  ‘Not at all. I would like to do a good turn for the son of an old friend. Good evening, Gilpin, my boy, and remember … chocolates — humble, remorseful chocolates — and plenty of them.’

  It was perhaps fortunate that Pongo Twistleton was not present when his uncle, rejoining Polly, concluded the recital of what had passed between Ricky Gilpin and himself, for there ensued an emotional scene which would have racked him to the foundations of his being.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Lord Ickenham, at length. ‘That is how matters stand, and all you have to do is sit tight and reap the strategic advantages. I’m glad I told him to send you chocolates. I don’t suppose a rugged he-man like that would ever dream of giving a girl chocolates in the ordinary course of things. He struck me as a fellow lacking in the softer social graces.’

  ‘But why wouldn’t you let him see me?’

  ‘My dear child, it would have undone all the good work I had accomplished. You would have flung yourself into his arms, and he would have gone on thinking he was the boss. As it is, you have got that young man just where you want him. You will accept his chocolates with a cool reserve which will commit you to nothing, and eventually, after he has been running round in circles for some weeks, dashing into his tailors’ from time to time for a new suit of sackcloth and ashes and losing pounds in weight through mental anguish, you will forgive him — on the strict understanding that this sort of thing must never occur again. It doesn’t do to let that dominant male type of chap think things are too easy.’

  Polly frowned. In a world scented with flowers and full of soft music, these sentiments jarred upon her.

  ‘I don’t see why it’s got to be a sort of fight.’

  ‘Well, it has. Marriage is a battlefield, not a bed of roses. Who said that? It sounds too good to be my own. Not that I don’t think of some extraordinarily good things, generally in my bath.’

  ‘I love Ricky.’

  ‘And very nice, too. But the only way of ensuring a happy married life is to get it thoroughly clear at the outset who is going to skipper the team. My own dear wife settled the point during the honeymoon, and ours has been an ideal union.’

  Polly halted abruptly.

  ‘It’s all nonsense. I’m going to see him.’

  ‘My dear, don’t.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll regret it.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Think of all the trouble I’ve taken.’

  ‘I do, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Uncle Fred. You’ve been wonderful. You’ve picked me up out of the mud and changed the whole world for me. But I can’t treat Ricky like that. I’d hate myself. I don’t care if he does go on thinking he’s the boss. So he is, and I like it!’

  Lord Ickenham sighed.

  ‘Very well, if that’s the way you feel. “His fair large front and eye sublime declared Absolute rule.” If that’s the sort of thing you want, I suppose it’s no use arguing. If you are resolved to chuck away a heaven-sent opportunity of putting this young man in his place, go ahead, my dear, and God bless you. But you can’t see him now. He has gone to catch his train. You must wait till tomorrow.’

  ‘But it’s such ages. Couldn’t I send him a telegram?’

  ‘No,’ said Lord Ickenham firmly. ‘There are limits. At least preserve a semblance of womanly dignity. Why not get Horace to drive you to London tonight in his car?’

  ‘Would he, do you think? He’s had one long drive already today.’

  ‘It is his dearest wish to have another, provided you are at his side. Pongo and I can come on in the morning by that eight-twenty-five train of which everybody speaks so highly.’

  ‘But are you leaving, too?’

  ‘We are. Get Horace to tell you all about it. You will find him in my bedroom. If you don’t see him, look in the cupboard. I, meanwhile, must be getting in touch with Pongo and communicating the arrangements to him. The news that we are flitti
ng should please him. For some reason, Pongo has not been happy at Blandings Castle. By the way, did you meet him?’

  ‘Yes. As I was coming back after seeing Ricky.’

  ‘Good. I was only wondering if you had got that money all right.’

  ‘He did offer me some money, but I gave it back to him.’

  ‘Gave it back?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t want it.’

  ‘But, my good child, it was the purchase price of the onion soup bar. Your wedding portion!’

  ‘I know. He told me.’ Polly laughed amusedly. ‘But I had just had that frightful row with Ricky, and we had parted for ever, and I was thinking of drowning myself, so I didn’t want a wedding portion. Will you tell him I should like it, after all.’

  Lord Ickenham groaned softly.

  ‘You would not speak in that airy, casual way, if you knew the circumstances. Informing Pongo that you would like it, after all, is not going to be the pleasant task you seem to think it. I dare say that with the aid of anaesthetic and forceps I shall eventually be able to extract the money from the unhappy young blighter, but there will be a nasty, hacking sound as he coughs up. Still, you may rely on me to protect your interests, no matter what the cost. I will bring the stuff round to the Pott home tomorrow afternoon. And now run along and find Horace. I know he would appreciate an early start.’

  ‘All right. Uncle Fred, you’re an angel.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’

  ‘If it hadn’t been for you —’

  Once more Lord Ickenham found his arms full and behaved with a warmth far greater than one of his nephew’s austere views would have considered either necessary or suitable. Then he was alone, and Polly a voice in the darkness, singing happily as she went on her way.

  It was some ten minutes later that Lord Ickenham, sauntering along the high road in the direction of Market Blandings, heard another voice, also singing happily. He recognized it with a pang. It was not often that Pongo Twistleton cast off his natural gloom in order to carol like a lark, and the thought that it was for him to wipe this unaccustomed melody from the lips of a young man of whom he was very fond was not an agreeable one.

  ‘Pongo?’

  ‘Hullo, Uncle Fred. I say, what a lovely evening!’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘The air! The stars! The scent of growing things!’

  ‘Quite. Er — Pongo, my boy, about that money.’

  ‘The money you gave me to give to Miss Pott? Oh, yes — I was going to tell you about that. I offered it to her, but she would have none of it.’

  ‘Yes — But —’

  ‘She told me that owing to her having parted brass rags with Ricky, she had no need of it.’

  ‘Precisely. But since then —’

  ‘So I trousered it, and toddled along to Market Blandings, and breezed into the post office, and shoved two hundred quid into an envelope addressed to George Budd and fifty into an envelope addressed to Oofy Prosser and sent them off, registered. So all is now well. The relief,’ said Pongo, ‘is stupendous.’

  It was not immediately that Lord Ickenham spoke. For some moments he stood fingering his moustache and gazing at his nephew thoughtfully. He was conscious of a faint resentment against a Providence which was unquestionably making things difficult for a good man.

  ‘This,’ he said, ‘is a little awkward.’

  ‘Awkward?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you mean? It seems to me….

  Pongo’s voice trailed away. A hideous thought had come to him.

  ‘Oh, my aunt! Don’t tell me she’s changed her mind and wants the stuff, after all?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘You mean she’s made it up with Ricky?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And needs this money to get married on?’.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Oh, my sainted bally aunt!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lord Ickenham, ‘it is awkward. No getting away from that. I told Ricky the money was actually in her possession, and he went off to catch his train with golden visions of soup-swilling multitudes dancing before his eyes. I told Polly I would bring her the stuff tomorrow, and she went off singing. It is not going to be pleasant to have to reveal the facts. Disappointment will be inevitable.’

  ‘Would it be any good to ring up Budd and Oofy and ask them to give the money back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. I suppose not. Then what?’

  Lord Ickenham’s face brightened. He had seen that all was not lost. That busy brain was seldom baffled for long.

  ‘I have it! Mustard!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Mustard Pott. He must handle this for us. Obviously, what we must do is unleash Mustard once more. I think he may be a little annoyed when he learns that his former donation, instead of ensuring the happiness of a loved daughter, has gone to ease the financial difficulties of a comparative stranger like yourself, but I have no doubt that a few minutes of my eloquence will persuade him to forget his natural chagrin and have another pop.’

  ‘At Bosham?’

  ‘Not at Bosham. People who play Persian Monarchs with Mustard in the afternoon are seldom in a frame of mind to play again in the evening. Emsworth is the man.’

  ‘Old Emsworth? Oh, I say, dash it!’

  Lord Ickenham nodded.

  ‘I know what you mean. You feel that one ought to draw the line at nicking a kindly host, with whose bread and meat we are bursting, and considering the thing as a broad general proposition I agree with you. It will undoubtedly tarnish the Ickenham escutcheon, and I wish it hadn’t got to be done. But in a crisis like this one must sink one’s finer feelings. I don’t believe I told you, did I, that your sister Valerie is expected here shortly?’

  ‘What!’

  ‘So Horace informs me, and you may look on him as a reliable source. This means that we have got to get out of here by tomorrow’s eight-twenty-five train without fail, so you will see that we cannot loiter and dally, if we are to secure funds for Polly. It is not a question of asking ourselves “Is it right to take it off Emsworth?” and “Are we ethically justified in skinning this good old man?” but rather “Has he got it?” And he has. Emsworth, therefore, shall give us of his plenty, and I will be going along now and putting the thing in train. I will look in at your room later and report.’

  18

  It was a sombre, preoccupied Pongo Twistleton who dressed for dinner that night in the small apartment which had been allotted to him on the second floor. As a rule, the process of transforming himself from the chrysalis of daytime to the shimmering butterfly of night was one that gave him pleasure. He liked the soothing shave, the revivifying bath, the soft crackle of the snowy shirt-front and the general feeling that in a few minutes he would be giving the populace an eyeful. But tonight he was moody and distrait. His lips were tight, and his eyes brooded. Even when he tied his tie, he did it without any real animation.

  The news that his sister was on her way to join the little circle at Blandings Castle had shaken him a good deal. It had intensified in him the sensation, which he had been experiencing ever since his arrival, of being beset by perils and menaced by bad citizens. A cat in a strange alley, with an eye out for small boys with bricks, would have understood how he felt. And this nervous apprehension would alone have been enough to take his mind off his toilet.

  But far more powerful than apprehension as an agent for wrecking his mental peace was remorse. Ever since he had fallen in love at first sight with Polly Pott, he had been dreaming that an occasion might arise which would enable him to make some great sacrifice for her sake. He had pictured himself patting her little hand, as she thanked him brokenly for that astounding act of nobility. He had seen himself gazing down into her eyes with one of those whimsical, twisted, Ronald Colman smiles. He had even gone so far as to knock together a bit of dialogue for the scene — just in case — starting ‘There, there, little girl, it was nothing. All I want is your happiness’ and gettin
g even more effective as it went on.

  And what had actually happened was that, unless her Persian-Monarchs-playing father intervened and saved the situation at the eleventh hour, he had ruined her life. It takes an unusually well-tied tie to relieve a mind tottering under a reflection like that, and his, he found, looking in the mirror, was only so-so. Indeed, it seemed to him to fall so far short of the ideal that he was just about to scrap it and start another, when the door opened and Lord Ickenham came in.

  ‘Well?’ cried Pongo eagerly.

  Then his heart sank far beyond what a few moments before he had supposed to have been an all-time low. One glance at his uncle’s face was enough to tell him that this was no exultant bearer of glad tidings who stood before him.

  Lord Ickenham shook his head. There was a gravity in his manner that struck a nameless chill.

  ‘The United States Marines have failed us, my boy. The garrison has not been relieved, the water supply is giving out, and the savages are still howling on the outskirts. In other words, Mustard has let us down.’

  Pongo staggered to a chair. He sat down heavily. And some rough indication of his frame of mind may be gathered from the fact that he forgot to pull the knees of his trousers up.

  ‘Wouldn’t he take it on?’

  ‘He would, and did. As I had anticipated, there was a certain huffiness at first, but I soon talked him round and he assented to the plan, saying in the most sporting spirit that all I had got to do was to provide Emsworth, and he would do the rest. He pulled out his pack of cards and fingered it lovingly, like some grand old warrior testing the keenness of his blade before a battle. And at this moment Emsworth entered.’

  Pongo nodded heavily.

  ‘I see where you’re heading. Emsworth wouldn’t play?’

  ‘Oh yes, he played. This is a long and intricate story, my boy, and I think you had better not interrupt too much, or it will be dinner-time before we can get down to the agenda.’