Jeeves and the Wedding Bells

  There are times to take offence, but this was not one of them. I left my high horse unmounted – though tethered pretty close. ‘What else?’

  ‘If you were to part your hair centrally, sir … It is surprising how much difference such a small alteration can make.’

  ‘Anything further? An eyepatch? A kilt and sporran?’

  ‘Nothing so drastic, sir. I think that if you were to wear my reading glasses for the evening the disguise would be complete without being histrionic.’

  I went over to the window and did a bit of the fashionable deer-gazing.

  The diners, I thought, could be divided into three camps. There were those who had never clapped eyes on me: three Venableses and a brace of Hackwoods. There were those who were in on the plot and could be relied on: Lord Etringham and Georgiana. Then there was the problematic trio of Woody, Amelia and Dame Judith Puxley.

  The episode of J. Caesar and the Shropshire roof had taken place some years earlier, and I was the last person Dame Judith would expect to see shovelling round the petits pois. Even if she deigned to look my way, the disguise should suffice. The danger lurked with Woody and Amelia. Woody, for all I knew, was even as we spoke planning to flatten my nose, while Amelia … Well, who could say what Amelia planned – or thought, or felt?

  I outlined the above to Jeeves, who did not disagree.

  ‘Might I suggest a division of labour, sir? If you take it on yourself to find Mr Beeching, explain your behaviour of this afternoon and beg his indulgence, I shall draw Miss Hackwood aside before dinner and endeavour to explain that her best interests could be served by allowing the subterfuge to continue.’

  ‘But won’t the other servants think it odd that I’ve changed my parting and taken to wearing gig lamps?’

  ‘I doubt it, sir. They hardly know you, and would think it only a mild eccentricity at worst.’

  ‘Right ho, Jeeves. Give me the specs. There’s no time to be lost. Where can I find Woody?’

  ‘I suspect he may be in his bedroom, sir. He has not been made to feel welcome downstairs.’

  Woody had been moved from the corner room to a modest bolt-hole on the second floor. Following Jeeves’s instructions, I made it up there in no time, but there was something a fraction tentative in my knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said a voice. And if a voice can be described as listless, this was that v.

  Woody was sitting in an armchair with his feet up on the windowsill, looking down the crazy paving towards the yew hedge. He was smoking a cigarette and his eye seemed fixed. It was as though he was trying somehow to see through the hedge to what lay beyond.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, the v. still l.

  The only place to sit was the end of the bed and it struck me I was conducting a pretty extensive trial of Melbury Hall mattresses. This one gave a bit, but nothing like the model in the Etringham corner room.

  ‘I was wondering when you’d pluck up courage,’ said Woody, still not looking at me.

  ‘Did Amelia mention that we’d … Had a slight misunderstanding?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Woody ground out his cigarette in a not altogether friendly way. ‘Amelia,’ he said, ‘told me she had been set upon by a lunatic who started stroking her arm and then had the impudence to kiss her. I don’t think there is any “misunderstanding” there, do you?’

  ‘Well, no … I mean, yes.’

  ‘You’re babbling.’

  ‘Listen, Woody old man, let’s not fall out over this. I was making eyes at Amelia in order to help you.’

  ‘To help me? Have you lost your last brain cell? Shall I finally place that telephone call to Colney Hatch?’

  I didn’t think this sort of language would have gone down well in the Court of Appeal; there was also the matter of the telephone being out of action, but I let that pass.

  ‘Let me explain, Woody. Look at me, please.’

  Woody finally unhooked his ankles from the windowsill and swung round to face me. I had half a mind to ask him to turn back again, as the new vista did little for the Wooster morale. The look on his face was one I had not seen since that evening in the Savoy hotel, when, at seven-thirty on the dot, he stepped into the ring.

  After a standing count of ten, I launched into an explanation of Plan A. I saw the old pal’s features register curiosity, disbelief, anger and then something I couldn’t put my finger on.

  I finished and waited.

  Finally, he spoke. ‘I’d like you to understand something, Bertie. Once and for all. Amelia is out of bounds. No touching, pawing, kissing, slobbering or anything else. Do you understand?’

  ‘Couldn’t be clearer, Woody, old man. Daylight itself is murky when compared to—’

  ‘I haven’t finished. Amelia is a very clever young woman, well educated and—’

  ‘I should say so! Brainy as anything.’

  ‘Will you please put a sock in it, Wooster. I’ll tell you when I want to hear from you next.’

  Woody was now standing up, a couple of feet away, and I had that old Gonville and Caius feeling in the knees. ‘Right ho, Woody. Speak on.’

  ‘As well as being an exceptionally bright girl and a very beautiful one, she is also an innocent. She’s lived a sheltered life. I see in her great qualities which have yet to come to full maturity. They are there to be nurtured carefully over the years. What that girl doesn’t know about butterflies is not worth knowing. She has the finest collection in the west of England. Amelia is the girl I am going to marry and I don’t want any bunglers getting in the way. I’m going to marry her even if old Hackwood doesn’t give his blessing. We’ll elope if necessary. For old times’ sake I’m prepared to believe your ridiculous story. I wouldn’t credit such a hare-brained tale from anyone else. And you can take that whichever way you like. I’m not a jealous type and I don’t want to become one. Let’s not mention the incident again. But I warn you, Bertie, I shall be watching you. Like a hawk.’

  I said nothing, as per instruction.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Am I allowed to speak now?’

  ‘Yes. Have you the faintest idea what I’ve been talking about?’

  ‘Yes, I have. You love Amelia and intend to make her Mrs Beeching if it’s the last thing you do.’

  ‘Oh, hallelujah! He’s got it. Hold tight to that thought, Bertie. Don’t get confused or misled by anything else. And don’t try to imagine the feelings that lie behind it. You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘You never know, Woody. Perhaps I might.’

  There was an awkward one, during which I caught sight of that look again.

  ‘Or possibly not,’ I footnoted, as I made my escape.

  It being now almost seven o’clock, I went down a floor, through the green baize and up the back stairs to my quarters. I had fulfilled my share of the division of labours between Jeeves and me, and though Woody may have been a little graceless, I felt he had a point. A chap who’s completely lost his head over a girl doesn’t want some other chap giving her the come-on. It confuses. It enrages. I had no doubt about his passion for this Amelia, mysterious though she remained to me. And I had at least avoided a series of left-right combinations to the person. I could only hope Jeeves had pulled off a result with Amelia.

  A bracing encounter with the chill waters of the bathroom was followed by a change of clothing and a re-parting of the hair. When I peered into the glass above the basin, it seemed to me I looked like Dan Leno about to go on stage at the Shoreditch Empire, but I trusted Jeeves’s judgement. I took the spectacles he’d lent me and hooked them over the ears, thinking as I did so, how much of Plato and the gang had passed through the lenses on the way to that great brain. It was an honour to wear them. Then I went downstairs – rather unsteadily, as the glasses seemed to make the steps rise up to meet me, like the gangway of a Channel steamer.

  In the kitchen, Mrs Padgett filled me in on what to expect. The first course was soup, unfortunately. There was to be n
o less than five minutes but not more than ten between courses. Bicknell was on wine duty, but would help distribute the plates if I was getting behind.

  ‘But ’ark at me going on,’ said Mrs P. ‘’Appen you’ve done this all an ’undred times before.’

  ‘Not really.’

  I shall never, if I live to be as old as Methuselah, forget my first sight of the dining room at Melbury Hall. As I think I’ve mentioned, the Hackwoods used only a few rooms for themselves: drawing room, library, long room with billiard table and this dining room, with conservatory off. But what rooms they were.

  The dining table could have seated thirty; and if you’d shoved it to one side of the room, you could have got another thirty down a second table alongside. No wonder a private school was baying at the gates.

  I entered through a swing door in the corner, bearing a tray with several bowls of cold cucumber soup. I put it on the sideboard, as instructed, turned, and let my eyes take in the awful scene.

  The company was in the process of sitting down. At the head of the table was Sir Henry Hackwood, a rubicund old villain with a face like a fox and a glittering eye. Desperation and bad temper had coloured his features, though Scotch whisky may have lent a hand. On his right was what looked like a Persian cat in human form, which, I took it from Woody’s description, was Mrs Venables.

  Georgiana wore a plain satin dress and a distant look. Amelia was in blue, though the rims of her eyes were red. Lord Etringham in his Drones club shirt-studs and exact bow tie was placed between them, exuding poise. Woody was below the salt, brooding. The Venables father and son filled in the gaps, the latter without drawing breath as he told a story about a visit to the Maharajah of Jodhpur.

  The real horror lay in mid-table where, opposite one another, sat Lady Hackwood and her old school friend Dame Judith Puxley. Dame Judith had rows of black beads over her evening dress and an unblinking gaze, like a rattlesnake that’s just spotted its lunch. In appearance, her old classmate, Lady H, ran more to the blowsy end of things, but her voice was a pure icicle of disappointment. Between them they were about as welcoming as Goneril and Regan on being told that old Pop Lear had just booked in for a month with full retinue.

  It was with a palsied hand that I began the soup service.

  ‘Damned annoying thing just happened,’ Sir Henry announced to the table. ‘Shields and Caldecott, couple of my best players for Saturday, have pulled out. Motoring off to Kent to play for some wandering outfit. It’s very short notice to replace batsmen of that quality.’

  ‘Really, Henry, it’s just a game,’ said Lady H. ‘What does it matter who plays for you?’

  ‘Because, my dear, the rest of the team are fellows from the house – guests and staff. We need a couple of strong players. Beeching?’

  Woody looked up from his soup. ‘I’ll see if I can think of someone, Sir Henry. It’s Thursday, so—’

  ‘I know what day of the week it is, man. I thought you were supposed to be a sportsman.’

  ‘My work at the Bar has meant that I haven’t had much time recently, but I could try a few old friends from the Oxford eleven.’

  ‘We don’t want swots, you fool, we want batsmen.’

  ‘We did beat Surrey that year, and drew with Yorkshire, so …’

  It was a couple of furlongs from Sir Henry’s seat to the Coventry occupied by Woody, but a glare made itself felt across the gulf and silenced the playmate of my youth.

  ‘Might I make a suggestion, Sir Henry?’ said Jeeves.

  ‘Ah, Etringham. I knew I could rely on you.’

  ‘My man Wilberforce is a keen cricketer. He has frequently boasted to me of his triumphs with leather and willow. I believe that when younger he had a trial for the county.’

  I had got four soup bowls almost back to safety, but at this moment they broke into a spontaneous dance, the spoons going like castanets as I plonked the whole lot on to the sideboard.

  I was about to protest, when I heard Jeeves continuing, ‘I feel sure that he would be able to find another player or two at short notice. His acquaintance is formed in large part from the sporting underworld.’

  ‘Sounds like an excellent chap,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Tell him to see what he can do. He’s got carte blanche.’

  I don’t know if anything about this exchange has struck you as odd. No? Well, the thing that seemed peculiar to me was that no one consulted the fellow Wilberforce himself. It was as though I wasn’t there.

  I heard the high horse neigh impatiently, and I cast a wistful glance in the direction of the saddle. Then I remembered what Jeeves had told me about Easton, the stand-in butler at Aunt Dahlia’s; I bit the lip and took the tray back to the kitchen.

  By the time I came back with some sole fillets, Sidney Venables was addressing Lady Hackwood at the top of his voice.

  ‘The Pathan,’ he bellowed, ‘is a splendid chap and we always got on well with them, didn’t we, my dear? The Bengali, on the other hand, is a slippery customer.’

  ‘And did you spend much time in Calcutta?’ asked Dame Judith Puxley. ‘My late husband once lectured there.’

  ‘Heavens, no, frightful place. All plagues and bad drains. Appalling climate.’

  ‘Did you in fact ever visit?’ Dame Judith persisted.

  ‘I was due to go once, but there was a deal of trouble with the Sepoys in the local cantonment. The CO was out of his depth so guess who had to step in and sort it out! “Send for Venables!” That was always the cry if there was dirty work afoot, wasn’t it, my dear?’

  ‘Sidney was ever so busy,’ said the Persian cat.

  Dame Judith was not deterred. ‘I was simply trying to establish, Mr Venables,’ she went on, ‘how you came to have such a view about Bengalis without having actually visited Bengal.’

  If you were a Sumerian tablet beneath Dame Judith’s scrutiny, one imagined, you would give up your secrets pretty quick, cuneiform or not.

  Old Venables, however, seemed oblivious. ‘Oh, it’s well known,’ he said. ‘Kipling couldn’t stand the blighters either. Now the Punjab is a different matter.’

  ‘We liked the Punjabis,’ said Mrs Venables to Sir Henry Hackwood.

  ‘What?’

  Sir Henry had been staring out of the window while the Indian chatter went on, doubtless wondering whether it was too late to send a car to London for Patsy Hendren to open the batting on Saturday.

  ‘I said, we liked the Punjabis, Sidney and me.’

  ‘Did you by Jove!’ Sir Henry gave her a quick once-over, as though trying to remember who she was. ‘Well, jolly good for you.’

  ‘And then of course,’ old Venables boomed on, ‘some fool in Delhi raised the question of independence.’

  ‘And what did you think of that?’ said Lady H wearily.

  ‘Well,’ said Venables wiping his lips on his napkin, ‘I was very interested by my own response.’

  On my next return to the kitchen, I found Mrs Padgett dishing up the meat course, with the help of a stout female from the village. This was Mrs P’s big moment, and it was all hands to the pump. The noisettes of veal didn’t look a patch on those that Anatole’s legerdemain conjured up in Aunt Dahlia’s kitchen, but in any normal light appeared toothsome enough. While all was being transferred from cooking vessel to china, I slipped back into the dining room to make myself useful.

  As I was pouring a glass of water for Rupert Venables, I caught Georgiana’s eye across the table. It held an expression I had never seen in all those evenings in France, or in our brief encounters since. Reproach was the first thing I spotted; though there was a lingering friendliness, too. What was new in those deep brown pools was … I’m not sure what the word is. Melancholy? I can’t put my finger on it. But the light that had sparkled when she used to say, ‘Come on, Bertie, couldn’t we just share a few langoustines’ had been extinguished.

  It hit me hard. Pausing only to mop up the worst of the overspill from young Venables’s tumbler, I moved hastily down the row of chairs.
br />   Dame Judith had by now wrenched the conversation from the subcontinent to the question of the female vote, where she seemed to sense blood.

  ‘My dear Henry,’ she was saying, ‘surely you can’t imagine that women will give up the battle until they have the same rights as men.’

  ‘Henry can imagine anything if he tries hard enough,’ said his wife. ‘He can picture a pot of gold under the mulberry tree in Snooks Farm Lane when he’s in the mood. Ask him to imagine selling a couple of racehorses, though, and his mind goes completely blank.’

  ‘A great mistake giving women the vote at all,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Whatever next? They’ll try and form an all-women government.’

  ‘That would be a splendid idea,’ said Dame Judith. ‘They would make a better job of it than the dunderheads we usually have in office.’

  ‘Absolute stuff and nonsense,’ said Sir Henry, blind to Lady H’s warning look. ‘Anyway, the wretched suffragettes have got their way.’

  ‘Only for women over thirty,’ said Dame Judith.

  ‘Quite right,’ chipped in Amelia. ‘Cousin Toby can vote, and he’s younger than I am. He’s only twenty-two. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘If you think a couple of young girls like you and Georgiana would know how to cast a vote sensibly then I …’ Sir Henry seemed finally to catch his wife’s eye. ‘I’ll eat my head,’ he trailed off.

  I was manoeuvring the dish of what I took to be pommes dau-phinoises between Sidney Venables and Georgiana Meadowes when I heard a familiar soft cough – probably not audible to the untrained ear. I looked up to see Jeeves’s eye flicker meaningfully from right to left, telling me that I was on the wrong side.

  I had wondered why old Sidney, who looked every inch a potato wallah, was giving me the cold shoulder. I had come in hard to starboard and he was braced for a portside docking. I began to withdraw the heavy dish for a fresh approach, without thinking that what was right to Venables was left to Georgiana, who at that moment reached for the spoon and fork. The combination of her digging and my pulling back caused a sort of leverage to take place. Three slices of King Edward’s with accompanying sauce flipped on to the table.