The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3 (31 page)

It gave me a pang to hand in my portfolio, for I had been looking forward to a sensational triumph, but I know when I’m licked. I resolved that bright and early tomorrow morning word must be sent to Corky that Bertram was out and that she would have to enlist the services of another artist for the role of Pat.

‘From all I have heard of Mr Wooster,’ said an aunt with a beaky nose, continuing the theme, ‘this kind of vulgar foolery will be quite congenial to him. By the way, where
is
Mr Wooster?’

‘Yes,’ chimed in the aunt with spectacles. ‘He was to have arrived this afternoon, and he has not even sent a telegram.’

‘He must be a most erratic young man,’ said a third aunt, who would have been the better for a good facial.

Dame Daphne took command of the conversation like a headmistress at a conference of her subordinates.

‘“Erratic”,’ she said, ‘is a kindly term. He appears to be completely irresponsible. Agatha tells me that sometimes she despairs of him. She says she often wonders if the best thing would not be to put him in a home of some kind.’

You may picture the emotions of Bertram on learning that his flesh and blood was in the habit of roasting the pants off him in this manner. One doesn’t demand much in the way of gratitude, of course, but
when
you have gone to the expense and inconvenience of taking an aunt’s son to the Old Vic, you are justified, I think, in expecting her to behave like an aunt who has had her son taken to the Old Vic – in expecting her, in other words, to exhibit a little decent feeling and a modicum of the live-and-let-live spirit. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth, I remember Jeeves saying once, it is to have a thankless child, and it isn’t a dashed sight better having a thankless aunt.

I flushed darkly, and would have drained my glass if it had contained anything restorative. But it didn’t. Champagne of a sound vintage was flowing like water elsewhere, Uncle Charlie getting a stiff wrist pouring the stuff, but I, in deference to Gussie’s known tastes, had been served with that obscene beverage which is produced by putting half an orange on a squeezer and pushing.

‘There seems,’ proceeded Dame Daphne in the cold and disapproving voice which in the old days she would have employed when rebuking Maud or Beatrice for smoking gaspers in the shrubbery, ‘to be no end to his escapades. It is not so long ago that he was arrested and fined for stealing a policeman’s helmet in Piccadilly.’

I could put her straight there, and did so.

‘That,’ I explained, ‘was due to an unfortunate oversight. In pinching a policeman’s helmet, as of course I don’t need to tell you, it is essential before lifting to give a forward shove in order to detach the strap from the officer’s chin. This Wooster omitted to do, with the results you have described. But I think you ought to take into consideration the fact that the incident occurred pretty late on Boat Race night, when the best of men are not quite themselves. Still, be that as it may,’ I said, quickly sensing that I had not got the sympathy of the audience and adroitly changing the subject, ‘I wonder if you know the one about the strip-tease dancer and the performing flea. Or, rather, no, not that one,’ I said, remembering that it was a
conte
scarcely designed for the gentler sex and the tots. ‘The one about the two men in the train. It’s old, of course, so stop me if you’ve heard it before.’

‘Pray go on, Augustus.’

‘It’s about these two deaf men in the train.’

‘My sister Charlotte has the misfortune to be deaf. It is a great affliction.’

The thin aunt bent forward.

‘What is he saying?’

‘Augustus is telling us a story, Charlotte. Please go on, Augustus.’

Well, of course, this had damped the fire a bit, for the last thing one desires is to be supposed to be giving a maiden lady the horse’s
laugh
on account of her physical infirmities, but it was too late now to take a bow and get off, so I had a go at it.

‘Well, there were these two deaf chaps in the train, don’t you know, and it stopped at Wembley, and one of them looked out of the window and said “This is Wembley”, and the other said, “I thought it was Thursday”, and the first chap said “Yes, so am I”.’

I hadn’t had much hope. Right from the start something had seemed to whisper in my ear that I was about to lay an egg. I laughed heartily to myself, but I was the only one. At the point where the aunts should have rolled out of their seats like one aunt there occurred merely a rather ghastly silence as of mourners at a death-bed, which was broken by Aunt Charlotte asking what I had said.

I would have been just as pleased to let the whole thing drop, but the stout aunt spoke into her ear, spacing her syllables carefully.

‘Augustus was telling us a story about two men in a train. One of them said “Today is Wednesday”, and the other said “I thought it was Thursday”, and the first man said “Yes, so did I”.’

‘Oh?’ said Aunt Charlotte, and I suppose that about summed it up.

Shortly after this, the browsing and sluicing being concluded, the females rose and filed from the room. Dame Daphne told Esmond Haddock not to be too long over his port, and popped off. Uncle Charlie brought the decanter, and also popped off. And Esmond Haddock and I were alone together, self wondering how chances were for getting a couple of glassfuls.

I moved up to his end of the table, licking the lips.

ESMOND HADDOCK, SEEN
close to, fully bore out Catsmeat’s description of him as a Greek god, and I could well understand the concern of a young lover who saw his girl in danger of being steered into rose gardens by such a one. He was a fine, upstanding – sitting at the moment, of course, but you know what I mean – broad-shouldered bozo of about thirty, with one of those faces which I believe, though I should have to check up with Jeeves, are known as Byronic. He looked like a combination of a poet and an all-in wrestler.

It would not have surprised you to learn that Esmond Haddock was the author of sonnet sequences of a fruity and emotional nature which had made him the toast of Bloomsbury, for his air was that of a man who could rhyme ‘love’ and ‘dove’ as well as the next chap. Nor would you have been astonished if informed that he had recently felled an ox with a single blow. You would simply have felt what an ass the ox must have been to get into an argument with a fellow with a chest like that.

No, what was extraordinary was that this superman was in the habit, as testified to by the witness Corky, of crawling to his aunts. But for Corky’s evidence I would have said, looking at him, that there sat a nephew capable of facing the toughest aunt and making her say Uncle. Not that you can ever tell, of course, by the outward appearance. Many a fellow who looks like the dominant male and has himself photographed smoking a pipe curls up like carbon paper when confronted with one of these relatives.

He helped himself to port, and there was a momentary silence, as so often occurs when two strong men who have not been formally introduced sit face to face. He worked painstakingly through his snootful, while I continued to fix my bulging eyes on the decanter. It was one of those outsize decanters, full to the brim.

He swigged away for some little while before opening the conversation. His manner was absent, and I got the impression that he was thinking deeply. Presently he spoke.

‘I say,’ he said, in an odd, puzzled voice. ‘That story of yours.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘About the fellows in the train.’

‘Quite.’

‘I was a bit
distrait
when you were telling it, and I think I may possibly have missed the point. As I got it, there were two men in a train, and it stopped at a station.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And one of them said “This is Woking”, and the other chap said “I’m thirsty”. Was that how it went?’

‘Not quite. It was Wembley the train stopped at, and the fellow said he thought it was Thursday.’

‘Was it Thursday?’

‘No, no, these chaps were deaf, you see. So when the first chap said “This is Woking”, the other chap, thinking he had said “Wednesday”, said “So am I”. I mean –’

‘I see. Yes, most amusing,’ said Esmond Haddock.

He refilled his glass, and I think that as he did so he must have noticed the tense, set expression on my face, rather like that of a starving wolf giving a Russian peasant the once-over, for he started, as if realizing that he had been remiss.

‘I say, I suppose it’s no good offering you any of this?’

I felt the table-talk could not have taken a more satisfactory turn.

‘Well, do you know,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t mind trying it. It would be an experience. It’s whisky, or claret or something, isn’t it?’

‘Port. You may not like it.’

‘Oh, I think I shall.’

And a moment later I was in a position to state that I did. It was a very fine old port, full of buck and body, and though my better self told me that it should be sipped, I lowered a beakerful at a gulp.

‘It’s good,’ I said.

‘It’s supposed to be rather special. More?’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll have another myself,’ he said. ‘One needs a lot of bracing up these days, I find. Do you know the expression “These are the times that try men’s souls”?’

‘New to me. Your own?’

‘No, I heard it somewhere.’

‘It’s very neat.’

‘It is, rather. Another?’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll join you. Shall I tell you something?’

‘Do.’

I inclined the ear invitingly. Three goblets of the right stuff had left me with a very warm affection for this man. I couldn’t remember when I had liked a fellow more at a first meeting, and if he wanted to tell me his troubles, I was prepared to listen as attentively as any barman to an old and valued customer.

‘The reason I mentioned the times that try men’s souls is that I am right up against those identical times at this very moment. My soul is on the rack. More port?’

‘Thanks. I find this stuff rather grows on you. Why is your soul on the rack, Esmond? You don’t mind me calling you Esmond?’

‘I prefer it. I’ll call you Gussie.’

This, of course, came as rather an unpleasant shock, Gussie being to my mind about the ultimate low in names. But I quickly saw that in the role I had undertaken I must be prepared to accept the rough with the smooth. We drained our glasses, and Esmond Haddock refilled them. A princely host, he struck me as.

‘Esmond,’ I said, ‘you strike me as a princely host.’

‘Thank you, Gussie,’ he replied. ‘And you’re a princely guest. But you were asking me why my soul was on the rack. I will tell you, Gussie. I must begin by saying that I like your face.’

I said I liked his.

‘It is an honest face.’

I said his was, too.

‘A glance at it tells me that you are trustworthy. By that I mean that I can trust you.’

‘Quite.’

‘If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, if you follow what I mean. Because what I am about to tell you must go no further, Gussie.’

‘Not an inch, Esmond.’

‘Well, then, the reason my soul is on the rack is that I love a girl with every fibre of my being, and she has given me the brush-off. Enough to put anyone’s soul on the rack, what?’

‘I should say so.’

‘Her name … But naturally I can’t mention names.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Not cricket.’

‘Not at all.’

‘So I will merely say that her name is Cora Pirbright. Corky to her pals. You don’t know her, of course. I remember when I told her you were coming here she said she had heard from mutual friends that you were a freak of the first water and practically dotty, but she had never met you. But she is probably familiar to you on the
screen
. The name she goes by professionally is Cora Starr. You’ve seen her?’

‘Oh, rather.’

‘An angel in human shape, didn’t you think?’

‘Definitely.’

‘That was my view, too, Gussie. I was in love with her long before I met her. I had frequently seen her pictures in Basingstoke. And when old Pirbright, the vicar here, mentioned that his niece was coming to keep house for him and that she was just back from Hollywood and I said “Oh really? Who is she?” and he said “Cora Starr”, you could have knocked me down with a feather, Gussie.’

‘I bet I could, Esmond. Proceed. You are interesting me strangely.’

‘Well, she arrived. Old Pirbright introduced us. Our eyes met.’

‘They would, of course.’

‘And it wasn’t more than about two days after that that we talked it over and agreed that we were twin souls.’

‘And then she gave you the brusheroo?’

‘And then she gave me the brusheroo. But mark this, Gussie. Even though she has given me the brusheroo, she is still the lodestar of my life. My aunts … More port?’

‘Thanks.’

‘My aunts, Gussie, will try to kid you that I love my cousin Gertrude. Don’t believe a word of it. I’ll tell you how that mistake arose. Shortly after Corky handed me my papers, I went to the pictures in Basingstoke, and in the thing they were showing there was a fellow who had been turned down by a girl, and in order to make her think a bit and change her mind he started surging around another girl.’

‘To make her jealous?’

‘Exactly. I thought it a clever idea.’

‘Very clever.’

‘And it occurred to me that if I started surging round Gertrude, it might make Corky change her mind. So I surged.’

‘I see. A bit risky, wasn’t it?’

‘Risky?’

‘Suppose you overdid it and got too fascinating. Broke her heart, I mean.’

‘Corky’s heart?’

‘No, your cousin Gertrude’s heart.’

‘Oh, that’s all right. She’s in love with Corky’s brother. No chance of breaking Gertrude’s heart. We might drink to the success of my scheme, don’t you think, Gussie?’

‘An excellent idea, Esmond.’

I was, as you may imagine, profoundly bucked. What this meant what that the dark menace of Esmond Haddock had passed from Catsmeat’s life. No more need for him to worry about that rose garden. You could unleash Esmond Haddock in the rose gardens with Gertrude Winkworth by the hour, and no business would result. I raised my glass and emptied it to Catsmeat’s happiness. Whether or not a tear stole into my eye, I couldn’t say, but I should think it very probable.