Sunset at Blandings (3 page)

Young
male members who fell in love with the wrong girls were sent to South Africa,
as Gally had been thirty years ago. It was all rather unpleasant for the
lovelorn juveniles, but better than if they had been living in the Middle Ages,
when they would probably have had their heads cut off.

Gally,
taking for granted that the reply to his question would be in the affirmative,
became reminiscent.

‘Lord
love a duck,’ he said emotionally, ‘it seems only yesterday that they had me
serving a term in the lowest dungeon below the castle moat because of Dolly
Henderson.’
[13]

Feminine
curiosity momentarily overcame Vicky’s depression. She knew vaguely that there
had been some sort of trouble with Uncle Gally centuries ago, and she was glad
to be about to get the facts.

‘Were
you imprisoned at Blandings?’

‘With
gyves upon my wrists.’

‘I
thought you were sent to South Africa.’

‘Later,
after I had been well gnawed by rats.’

‘Who
was Dolly Henderson?’

‘Music
halls. She sang at the old Oxford and the Tivoli.’

‘Tights?’

‘Pink.
And she was the only woman I ever wanted to marry.’

‘Poor
Gally.’

‘Yes,
it was rather a nasty knock when my father bunged a spanner into the works. You
never knew him, did you?’

‘I met
him once when I was a very small child. He paralysed me.’

‘I don’t
wonder. That voice, those bushy eyebrows. You must have thought you were seeing
some sinister monster out of a fairy story.
[14]
Clarence is a great improvement as head of the family. If I told Clarence I
wanted to marry somebody, there wouldn’t be any family curses and thumping of
tables; he would just say “Capital, capital, capital”, and that would be that.
But don’t let’s talk about me. Are you very much in love?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s
his name?’

‘Jeff
Bennison.’

‘Any
money?’

‘No.’

‘Which
of course makes your stepmother shudder at the sight of him.’

‘She’s
never seen him.’

‘But
she would shudder if she did. Lack of the stuff is always the rock on which the
frail craft of love comes a stinker where Blandings Castle is concerned.’

‘And
there’s another thing.’

‘What
is that?’

‘Jeff’s
an artist.’

Gally
looked grave. To his sister Florence, he knew, an artist would be automatically
suspect.
La vie de Bohème,
she would say to herself. Uninhibited
goings-on at the Bohemian Ball. Nameless orgies in the old studio. Now more
than ever he saw how grievously the cards were stacked against this young
couple, and his heart went out to them.

‘He
started as an architect, but his father lost all his money and he couldn’t
carry on. So he tried to make a living painting, but you know how it is. Poor
darling, he has had to take a job teaching drawing at a girls’ school.’

‘Good
God!’

‘Yes, I
think that’s how he feels about it. Do you mind if I leave you now, Gally? I
feel a flood of tears coming on.’

‘I am
open at the moment to be cried in front of.’

‘No, I’d
rather be alone.’

‘I’m
sorry. I was hoping I could do something to cheer you up. But naturally at a
time like this you don’t want an old gargoyle like me hanging around.’

Gally
proceeded on his way, brooding. He would have given much to have been able to
do something to brighten life for the unfortunate girl, but no inspiration came
beyond a vague determination to speak to his sister Florence like a Dutch
uncle, and he was given the opportunity of doing this as he crossed the lawn
which led to the Empress’s residence. Florence was there, reading a book in the
hammock under the big cedar tree which he, though there was no actual ruling on
the point, had always looked on as his own property. Many of his deepest
thoughts had come to him when on its cushions, and it was with a sense of
outrage that he drew up beside it. If people went about pinching one’s personal
hammock, he felt, what were things coming to?

‘Comfortable?’
he said.

Florence
looked up from her book, expressing no pleasure at seeing him.

‘Oh,
you’re back, Galahad? Did you enjoy yourself in London?’

‘Never
mind about my enjoying myself in London,’ said Gally as sternly as any uncle
that ever came out of Holland. ‘I’ve just been talking to Vicky.’

‘Oh?’

‘She’s
upset.’

‘Oh?’

‘Crying
buckets, poor child.’

‘Oh?’

‘She
tells me you object to this dream man of hers.’

‘I do.
Very strongly.’

‘Although
you’ve never seen him. Just because he’s short of money. As if everybody wasn’t
nowadays except Clarence and you. Your late husband must have left you enough
to sink a ship. Didn’t he leave Vicky any?’

‘He
did. I’m the trustee for it.’

‘And
sitting on it like a buzzard on a rock, I gather. What’s wrong with this fellow
she wants to marry? Is he a criminal of some kind?’

‘Probably.
His father was.’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘Didn’t
she tell you his name?’

‘Jeff
something.’

‘Bennison.
His father was Arthur Bennison.’

‘So
what?’

‘Have
you never heard of Arthur Bennison? It was the great sensation years ago.’

‘I must
have been out of England. What did he do? Murder somebody?’

‘No,
just swindled all the people who had invested in his companies. My first
husband was one of them. He left the country to avoid arrest and took refuge in
one of those South American republics where they don’t have extradition. He
died five years ago. So now perhaps you can see why I don’t want Victoria to
marry his son.’

Gally
shook his head.

‘I don’t
get it. Is that all you’ve got against him?’

‘Isn’t
it enough?’

‘Not
from where I sit. You might just as well refuse to associate with yourself
because you had a father like ours.’

‘Father
was a bully and a tyrant, but he didn’t swindle people.’

‘Probably
because he didn’t think of it. As a matter of fact, you know perfectly well
that swindling fathers have nothing to do with your objection to Vicky’s young
man. What gashes you like a knife is his being short of cash. You’re a hard
woman, Florence. What you need are a few quarts of the milk of human kindness.
Look at the way you’re treating that husband of yours. Driving him out into the
snow and bringing his clipped moustache in sorrow to the grave. Who do you
think you are?
La belle dame sans merci
or something?’

Florence
picked up her book.

‘Oh, go
away, Galahad. You’re impossible.’

‘Just
off. I can’t bring you another cushion?’

‘No,
thanks.’

‘I’ve
heard it said that lying in a hammock is bad for the spine.’

‘Who
did you hear it said by?’

‘A
doctor at the Pelican Club.’

‘I
suppose all members of the Pelican Club were half-witted.’

Gally
withdrew. He was thinking as he resumed his search for his brother Clarence
that talking like a Dutch uncle to somebody was all right unless that somebody
happened to be a Dutch aunt.

CHAPTER
FOUR

HE FOUND Lord Emsworth, as
he had expected, drooping over the Empress’s sty like a wet sock and gazing at
its occupant with a rapt expression.

His
devotion to the silver medallist had long been the occasion for adverse comment
from his nearest and dearest. His severest critic, his sister Constance, was
now in America, but there were others almost equally outspoken.

‘Old
girl,’ his brother-in-law Colonel Wedge had said on one occasion to his wife
Hermione, returning late at night from a visit to London, ‘we’ve got to face
it, Clarence is dotty. Where do you think I found him just now? Down at the pig
sty. I noticed something hanging over the rail and thought the pig man must
have left his overalls there, and then it suddenly reared itself up and said “Ah,
Egbert”. Gave me a nasty shock. Questioned as to what he was doing there at
that time of night, he said he was listening to his pig.
[15]
And what, you will ask, was
the pig doing? Singing? Reciting “Dangerous Dan McGrew”? Nothing of the kind.
Just breathing.’

Nor had
Gally, fond though he was of his brother, abstained from criticism.

‘I have
been closely associated with Clarence for more than half a century, and I know
him from caviare to nuts,’ had been his verdict. ‘His I.Q. is about thirty
points lower than that of a not too agile-minded jellyfish. Capital chap,
though. One of the best.’

As
Gally approached, he peered at him with a puzzled look on his face, as if he
knew he had seen him before somewhere, but could not think where. With an
effort he identified him and gave him a brotherly nod.

‘Ah,
Galahad.’

‘Ah to
you, Clarence, with knobs on.’

‘You’re
here, eh?’

‘Yes,
right here.’

‘Someone
told me you had gone to London.’

‘I’ve
come back.’

‘Come
back. I see. Come back, you mean. Yes, quite. What did you go to London for?’

‘Primarily
to attend the Loyal Sons of Shropshire dinner. But I heard that a pal of mine
was in a nursing home with a broken leg, so I stayed on to cheer him up.’

‘Nasty
thing, a broken leg.’

‘Yes,
it annoyed Stiffy a good deal.’

‘It was
he who broke his leg?’

‘Yes.
Friend of mine from the old Pelican days. Stiffy Bates.’

‘How
did he break his leg?’

‘Getting
off an omnibus.’

‘He
should have taken a cab.’

‘Yes,
he’ll know better next time.’

They
brooded in silence for a while their thoughts busy with the ill-starred Stuffy.
Then Gaily, though nothing could be more enjoyable than this exchange of ideas
on the subject of broken legs, felt that it was time for the condolences which
he had come to deliver. Stiffy Bates night have his leg in plaster, but how
much more in need of cheering up was a man who would shortly have Jimmy Piper’s
sister Brenda staying with him.

‘And
while I was cheering Stiffy up, I ran into Kevin and had to cheer him up too. I
was busy for days.’

‘Who is
Kevin?’

‘Come,
come, Clarence, this is not worthy of your lightning brain. Kevin Moresby,
Florence’s husband.’

The
words ‘Who is Florence?’ trembled on Lord Emsworth’s lips, but he was able to
choke them back and substitute ‘And why did Kevin need cheering up?’

‘Because
he and Florence are separated. She has cast him off like a used tube of
toothpaste, and he doesn’t like it. I don’t know why,’ Gally added, for it was
his private opinion that Kevin was in luck.

‘I
never approved of that marriage,’ said Lord Emsworth.

‘It was
entirely unexpected.’

‘Most.’

It was
about a year since Florence, left a widow by the death of J. B. Underwood, and
inheriting from him several million dollars, had startled a good many people by
marrying the very handsome but impoverished Kevin Moresby, referred to in the
press as ‘the playwright’. Kevin was one of those dramatists who start when
very young with a colossal hit and cannot repeat. His last seven plays had been
failures, and Florence’s money had been a welcome windfall. It was easy to
imagine what a blow their separation must have been to him.

‘Married
her for her money, I’ve always thought,’ said Lord Emsworth.

‘The
same idea occurred to me,’ said Gally.

‘This
is grave news,’ he continued, ‘about Jimmy Piper’s sister.’

‘Who is
Jimmy Piper?’

‘He’s
staying here.’

‘Ah
yes, I think I may have seen him. Has he a sister?’

‘Yes,
and … Haven’t you heard?’

‘Not to
my recollection. What about her?’

On the
point of answering the question, Gally paused. His brother, he perceived, had
completely forgotten what he had been told about the Brenda menace. It was his
custom to forget in a matter of minutes anything said to him. It would not be
humane, Gally felt, to spoil his day by refreshing his memory. Let him be happy
while he could.

‘I can’t
remember,’ he said. ‘Somebody told me something about her but it’s slipped my
mind. The Empress looks as fit as ever,’ he added, to change the subject.