Pigs Have Wings (27 page)

‘I saw now,’ he resumed, ‘that I had touched the spot and got him where I wanted him. You have probably no conception of Clarence’s frame of mind, now that he has got that blighted pig of his back. Exalted ecstasy is about the nearest I can come to it. I should imagine that you felt rather the same, Jerry, when you asked Penny to marry you and her shy response told you that you had brought home the bacon. You leaped, I presume. You sang, no doubt. You scoured the countryside looking for someone to do a good turn to, I should suppose – it is the same with Clarence. As the car drove in at the gate, we struck a bumpy patch, and I could hear the milk of human kindness sloshing about inside him. So I hesitated no longer. I got him to the library, dumped him in a chair, and told him all about your hard case. “Here are these two excellent young eggs, Clarence,” I said, “linked in the silken fetters of love, and unable to do anything constructive about it because the funds are a bit low. Tragic, eh, Clarence?” “Dashed tragic,” he said. “Brings the bally tear to the eye. Can nothing be done about it before my heart breaks?” “The whole matter can be satisfactorily adjusted, Clarence,” I said, “if somebody, as it might be you, slips Jerry Vail two thousand pounds. That is the sum he requires in order to unleash the clergyman and set him bustling about his business.” He stared at me, amazed. “Two thousand pounds?” he said. “Is that all? Why, I feed such sums to the birds. You’re sure he doesn’t need more?” “No, two thousand will fix it,” I said. “Then I’ll write him a cheque immediately,” he said. And to cut a long story short, he did, grumbling a little because he wasn’t allowed to make it larger, and here it is.’

Jerry and Penny stared at the cheque. They could not speak. In moments of intense emotion words do not come readily.

‘He made but one stipulation,’ said Gally, ‘that you were not to thank him.’

Penny gasped.

‘But we must thank him!’

‘No. He is a shy, shrinking, nervous fellow. It would embarrass him terribly.’

‘Well, we can thank you.’

‘Yes, you can do that. I enjoy that sort of thing. You can kiss me, if you like.’

‘I will. Oh, Gally!’ said Penny, her voice breaking.

‘There, there,’ said Gally. ‘There, there, there!’

It was some little time later that Gally, a good deal dishevelled, turned to Beach. The door had closed, and they were alone.

‘Ah, love, love!’ he said. ‘Is there anything like it? Were you ever in love, Beach?’

‘Yes, sir, on one occasion, when I was a young under-footman. But it blew over.’

‘Nice, making the young folks happy.’

‘Yes, indeed, Mr Galahad.’

‘I feel all of glow. But what of the old folks?’

‘Sir?’

‘I was only thinking that you don’t seem to have got much out of this. And you ought to have your cut. You don’t feel like bringing an action against Parsloe?’

Beach was shocked.

‘I wouldn’t take such a liberty, Mr Galahad.’

‘No, I suppose it would be awkward for you, suing your future nephew by marriage. But you certainly are entitled to some compensation for all you have been through, and I think with a little tact I can get it for you. About how much would you suggest? A hundred? Two hundred? Five hundred is a nice round sum,’ said Gally. ‘I’ll see what I can do about it.’

In her bedroom on the first floor, the second on the right – not the left – as you went along the corridor, Lady Constance, despite her nasty cold, was feeling on the whole, pretty good.

There is this to be said for a nasty cold, that when you get it, you can go to bed and cuddle up between the sheets and reflect that but for this passing indisposition you would have been downstairs, meeting your brother Galahad. After all, felt Lady Constance philosophically, kneading the hot water bottle with her toes, a couple of sniffs and a few sneezes are a small price to pay for the luxury of passing an evening away from a brother the mere sight of whom has always made you wonder if Man can really be Nature’s last word.

It was consequently with something of the emotions of a character in a Greek Tragedy pursued by the Fates that she saw the door open and observed this brother enter in person, complete with the monocle which had always aroused her worst passions. Lying awake in the still watches of the night, she had sometimes thought that she could have endured Gally if he had not worn an eyeglass.

‘Go away!’ she said.

‘In due season,’ said Gally. ‘But first a word with you, Connie.’ He seated himself on the bed, and ate one of the grapes which loving hands had placed on the table. ‘How’s your cold?’

‘Very bad.’

‘Clarence’s recent cold was cured, he tells me, by a sudden shock.’

‘I am not likely to get a sudden shock.’

‘Oh, aren’t you?’ said Gally. ‘That’s what
you
think. Beach is bringing an action against Sir Gregory Parsloe, claiming thousands of pounds damages. Try that one on your nasal douche.’

Lady Constance sneezed bitterly. She was feeling that if there was one time more than another when this established blot on the family exasperated her, it was when he attempted to be humorous.

‘Is this one of your elaborate jokes, Galahad?’

‘Certainly not. Straight, serious stuff. A stark slice of life.’

Lady Constance stared.

‘But how can Beach possibly be bringing an action against Sir Gregory? What for?’

‘Wrongful arrest. Injury to reputation. Defamation of character.’

‘Wrongful
arrest
? What do you mean?’

Gally clicked his tongue.

‘Come, come. You know perfectly well what wrongful arrest is. Suppose you were doing a bit of shopping one afternoon at one of the big London stores and suddenly a bunch of store detectives piled themselves on your neck and frog’s-marched you off to the coop on a charge of shoplifting. It happening to be one of the days when you weren’t shoplifting, you prove your innocence. What then? Are you satisfied with an apology? You bet you’re not. You race off to your lawyer and instruct him to bring an action against the blighters and soak them for millions. That’s Beach’s position. Parsloe, for some reason known only to himself, got the idea that Beach had pinched his pig, and instead of waiting like a sensible man and sifting the evidence had him summarily arrested and taken off to Market Blandings prison, courtesy of Constable Evans. Beach now, quite naturally, proposes to sue him.’

The full horror of the situation smote Lady Constance like a blow.

‘The scandal!’ she wailed.

Gally nodded.

‘Yes, I thought of that.’

Lady Constance’s eyes flashed imperiously.

‘I will speak to Beach!’

‘You will not speak to Beach,’ said Gally firmly. ‘Start giving him that
grande dame
stuff of yours, and you’ll only put his back up worse.’

‘Then what is to be done?’

Gally shrugged his shoulders.

‘Nothing, as far as I can see. The situation seems hopeless to me. It would all be simple, if Parsloe would only agree to a settlement out of court, but he refuses to consider it. And Beach wants five hundred pounds.’

Lady Constance stared.

‘Five hundred? You said thousands of pounds.’

‘Just a figure of speech.’

‘You really mean that Beach would consent to drop this action of his for five hundred pounds?’

‘It’s a lot of money.’

‘A lot of money? To avoid a scandal that would make us all the laughing stock of the county? Give me my cheque book. It’s in the drawer over there.’

Amazement showed itself on every feature of Gally’s face.

‘You aren’t telling me that
you
are going to brass up?’

‘Of course I am.’

Gally, infringing Lord Emsworth’s copyright, drew in his breath sharply.

‘Well, this opens up a new line of thought,’ he said. ‘I’m bound to say that that solution of the problem never occurred to me. And yet I ought to have known that you would prove equal to the situation. That’s you!’ said Gally admiringly. ‘Where weaker vessels like myself lose their heads and run round in circles, wringing their hands and crying “What to do? What to do?” you act. Just like that! It’s character. That’s what it is – character. It comes out in a crisis. Make the cheque payable to Sebastian Beach, and if you find any difficulty in spelling it, call on me. Were you aware that Beach’s name is Sebastian? Incredible though it may seem, it is. Showing, in my opinion, that one half of the world never knows how the other half lives, or something of that sort.’

Blandings Castle was preparing to call it a day. Now slept the crimson petal and the white, and pretty soon the sandman would be along, closing tired eyes.

Maudie, in her bedroom, was creaming her face and thinking of her Tubby.

Lady Constance, in hers, was having the time of her life. Lord Emsworth, being in no further need of it, had passed on to her his store of cinnamon, aspirin, vapex, glycerine of thymol, black currant tea, camphorated oil and thermogene wool, and she was trying them one by one. As she did so, she was feeling that pleasant glow of satisfaction which comes to women who, when men are losing their heads and running round in circles, wringing their hands and crying ‘What to do? What to do?’ have handled a critical situation promptly and well. She was even thinking reasonably kindly of her brother Galahad, for his open admiration of her resourcefulness had touched her.

Beach was in his pantry. From time to time he sipped port, from time to time raised his eyes thankfully heavenwards. He, too, was thinking kindly of Gally. Mr Galahad might ask a man to steal rather more pigs than was agreeable, but in the larger affairs of life, such as making cheques for five hundred pounds grow where none had been before, he was a rock to lean on.

Gally, in the library, was having a last quick one with his brother Clarence. He was planning to turn in before long. It was some hours before his usual time for bed, but he had had a busy day and was not so young as he had been. Fighting the good fight takes it out of a man.

He heaved himself out of his chair with a yawn.

‘Well, I’m off,’ he said. ‘Oddly fatigued, for some reason. Have you ever been kissed by the younger daughter of an American manufacturer of dog biscuits, Clarence?’

‘Eh? No. No, I don’t think so.’

‘You would remember, if you had been. It is an unforgettable experience. What’s the matter?’

Lord Emsworth was chuckling.

‘I was only thinking of something that girl Monica Simmons said to me down at the sty,’ he replied. ‘She said “Oh, Lord Emsworth, I thought I was never going to see the piggy-wiggy again!” She meant the Empress. She called the Empress a piggy-wiggy. Piggy-wiggy! Most amusing.’

Gally gave him a long look.

‘God bless you, Clarence!’ he said. ‘Good night.’

Down in her boudoir by the kitchen garden, Empress of Blandings had just woken refreshed from a light sleep. She looked about her, happy to be back in the old familiar surroundings. It was pleasant to feel settled once more. She was a philosopher and could take things as they came, but she did like a quiet life. All that whizzing about in cars and being dumped in strange kitchens didn’t do a pig of regular habits any good.

There seemed to be edible substances in the trough beside her. She rose, and inspected it. Yes, substances, plainly edible. It was a little late, perhaps, but one could always do with a snack. Whiffle, in his monumental book, had said that a pig, if aiming at the old mid-season form, should consume daily nourishment amounting to not less than fifty-seven thousand eight hundred calories, and what Whiffle said today, Empress of Blandings thought tomorrow.

She lowered her noble head and got down to it.

In the tap room of the Emsworth Arms a good time was being had by all. It was the hour when business there was always at its briskest, and many a sun-burned son of the soil had rolled up to slake a well-earned thirst. Strong men, their day’s work done, were getting outside the nightly tankard. Other strong men, compelled by slender resources to wait for someone to come along and ask them to have one, were filling in the time by playing darts. It was a scene of gay revelry, and of all the revellers present none was gayer than George Cyril Wellbeloved, quaffing at his ease in the company of Mr Bulstrode, the chemist in the High Street. His merry laugh rang out like the voice of the daughter of the village blacksmith, and on no fewer than three occasions G. Ovens, the landlord, had found it necessary to rebuke him for singing.

Carpers and cavillers, of whom there are far too many around these days, will interrupt at this point with a derisive ‘Hoy cocky! Aren’t you forgetting something?’ thinking that they have caught the historian out in one of those blunders which historians sometimes make. But the historian has made no blunder. He has not forgotten Sir Gregory Parsloe’s edict that no alcoholic liquors were to be served to George Cyril Wellbeloved. It is with a quiet smile that he confounds these carpers and cavillers by informing them that as a reward to that faithful pig man for his services in restoring Queen of Matchingham to her sty the edict had been withdrawn.

‘Go and lower yourself to the level of the beasts of the field, if you want to, my man,’ Sir Gregory had said heartily, and had given George Cyril a princely sum to do it with. So now, as we say, he sat quaffing at his ease in the company of Mr Bulstrode, the chemist in the High Street. And Mr Bulstrode was telling him a story which would probably have convulsed him, if he had been listening to it, when through the door there came the jaunty figure of Herbert Binstead.

In response to George Cyril’s ‘Oi! Herb!’ the butler joined him and his companion, but it speedily became apparent that he was to prove no pleasant addition to the company. Between him and Mr Bulstrode there seemed to be bad blood. When the latter started his story again and this time brought it to a conclusion, Herbert Binstead sneered openly, saying in a most offensive manner that he had heard that one in his cradle. And when Mr Bulstrode gave it as his opinion that the current spell of fine weather would be good for the crops, Herbert Binstead said No, it wouldn’t be good for the crops, adding that he did not suppose that the other would know a ruddy crop if he saw one. In short, so unco-operative was his attitude that after a short while the chemist said ‘Well, time to be getting along, I suppose,’ and withdrew.