He was unable to complete what would no doubt have been a diverting anecdote full of inspiring hints for the younger generation, for at this moment a stalwart figure in smock and trousers came striding up. Monica Simmons back from lunch. She greeted her employer with a hearty bellow which echoed over hill and dale.
‘Heard you’d arrived, Lord Emsworth,’ she boomed. ‘Glad to be back, I shouldn’t wonder. No place like home, I often say. How do you think the piggy-wiggy’s looking?’
‘Capital, capital,’ said Lord Emsworth. ‘Capital, capital, capital.’
He spoke with genuine enthusiasm. There had been a time when both he and Gally had entertained the gravest doubts as to Monica Simmons’s fitness for her high position, due to this habit of hers of referring to the Empress as the piggy-wiggy. As Gally had said, it was the wrong tone and seemed to show that she was too frivolous in her outlook to hold so responsible a post. The girl, he pointed out, who carelessly dismisses a three-times silver medalist at the Shropshire Agricultural Show as a piggy— wiggy today is a girl who may quite easily forget to give the noble animal lunch tomorrow. And according to Augustus Whipple in his monumental work a pig cannot afford to skip meals. If it does not consume daily nourishment amounting to fifty-seven hundred calories, these to consist of proteins four pounds five ounces, carbohydrates twenty—five pounds, it becomes a spent force.
But that was all in the past. The term piggy-wiggy no longer made him wince. Monica Simmons had proved herself a worthy daughter of the agricultural college from which she had graduated and more than equal to the tremendous task of keeping Empress of Blandings up to bursting point.
Nor did her conception of her duties stop at providing her charge with calories. Her next words showed that she had its welfare at heart in other directions.
‘Oh, by the way, Lord Emsworth,’ she said, ‘I nearly forgot to ask you. Who would that boy be? A small boy with a face like a prune run over by a motor bus.’
Lord Emsworth was baffled. He had no solution to offer. It was left to Gally to supply the information. The description, he said, fitted Dame Daphne Winkworth’s son Huxley like the paper on the wall and could scarcely have been improved upon by the most meticulous stylist.
‘But why do you bring him up?’ he asked. ‘How has he thrust himself on your attention?’
‘He keeps hanging round trying to let the Empress out of her sty.’
‘He does that?’ cried Lord Emsworth, appalled.
‘I caught him at it yesterday and again this morning.’
‘The next time he does it, give him a good hard knock.’
‘I’ll rub his face in the mud.’
And Sandy Callender will rub yours in the mud, Clarence, if you don’t go back and attend to your correspondence,’ said Gally. ‘Come along. The party’s over.’
II
Left alone with Monica Simmons and scanning her with a critical eye, Tipton found a difficulty in detecting those glamorous qualities in her which appeared to make so strong an appeal to Wilfred Allsop. He willingly conceded that if attacked by a mad bull or a gang of youths with switch knives and brass knuckles he would be happy to have her at his side, for the muscles of her brawny arms were obviously strong as iron bands, if not stronger, but as an arouser of the softer emotions he could not see her with a spyglass. He was thinking, indeed, as so many men have thought on meeting their friends’ loved ones, that given the choice between linking his lot with hers and going over Niagara Falls in a barrel he would greatly prefer the latter form of unpleasantness.
However, being aware that Wilfred held other views, he prepared to do all that was within his power to further his interests, employing more direct methods than his friend had done. Wilfred, he had gathered from his observations in their mutual cell, had been conducting his wooing on remote control or Patience-on-a-monument lines, and it was a policy of which he thoroughly disapproved. In matters of the heart he was solidly in favour of laying cards on the table and talking turkey. Only so could business result.
‘Fat pig, that,’ he said by way of easing into the deeper topic he had in mind.
‘The fattest in Shropshire, Herefordshire and South Wales,’ said Monica proudly.
‘Not on a diet, I notice.’
‘No, sir, you don’t catch this piggy—wiggy slimming. She believes in getting hers and to hell with what it does to her figure. You’re the fellow who’s marrying Veronica Wedge, aren’t you?’
‘That’s me. Plimsoll is the name. Tipton Plimsoll.’
‘Monica Simmons at this end.’
‘I thought as much. Willie Allsop was speaking to me of you not long ago.
‘Oh, was he?’
And in the highest terms, I don’t mind telling you. He gave you a rave notice. He couldn’t have gone overboard more completely if you had been the current Miss America.’
When it came to blushing, Monica Simmons was handicapped by the fact that her face was obscured by the mud inseparable from her chosen walk in life. It is virtually impossible to retain that schoolgirl complexion unimpaired if you are looking after pigs all the time. Even more closely than Sandy Callender when tidying up Lord Emsworth’s study she resembled one of those sons of toil buried beneath tons of soil of whom Gally had spoken. Nevertheless, probing beyond the geological strata Tip— ton thought he could discern a pinkness. Her substantial foot, moreover, had begun to trace coy arabesques on the turf These phenomena encouraged him to proceed.
‘In fact,’ he went on, laying the whole deck of cards on the table and talking turkey without reserve, ‘he loves you like a ton of bricks, and his dearest wish is that you will consent to sign your future correspondence Monica Allsop.’
It was impossible for a girl constructed on Monica’s lines to leap like a startled fawn, but she quivered perceptibly. A sound not unlike the Empress’s grunt proceeded from her, and her eyes rounded to about the dimensions of standard golf balls. It was some moments before she could speak. When she did, the words came out in a husky whisper.
‘I can’t believe it!’
‘Why not? All pretty straightforward, it seems to me. What’s your problem?’
‘He’s so far above me.’
‘Couple of inches shorter, I’d have said.’
‘Intellectually, I mean.’
‘Who ever told you Willie Allsop had an intellect?’
‘He looks so spiritual.’
‘So do I, but you can’t go by that. He may look spiritual, but you can take it from me that he’s a regular guy all right. I’ve seen him when he was going good, and he’s well worth watching. But putting that aside for the moment, what I want to know is what his rating is with you. Where does he stand in your book? How would you react if he asked you to marry him? Would you feel he had the right idea, or would you give him the horse’s laugh and say “Drop dead, you little squirt”?’
Beneath the mud Monica Simmons flushed hotly. It was plain that an exposed nerve had been touched.
‘He is not a little squirt!’
‘Well, that’s what he says he is. It was precisely how he described himself when he was talking to me about you. “She’s so majestic, and I’m such a little squirt” were his exact words. But you appear to think otherwise, so am I to infer that he’d really have a chance of bringing home the bacon?’
‘If you mean would I accept him if he asked me to marry him, yes I would. I’d jump into his arms.
‘Well, I’m not sure I’d advise that. I don’t want to seem personal, but you’re on the solid side and he’s kind of flimsy. You might fracture something. Still, the point, the thing we’ve been trying to get at, is that your views on the subject of centre-aisleing coincide with his, so that’s all right. I’ll go and tell him.’
‘Will you really?’
‘Right away.’
‘Oh, Mr Plimsoll!’
‘Call me Tipton.’
‘Oh, Tipton!’
‘Or, rather, Tippy.’
‘Oh, Tippy, you?
??re an angel.’
‘I’m like Officer Garroway, a buddy of mine whom you haven’t met,’ said Tipton. ‘I started out in life as a Boy Scout, and I can’t seem to shake off the habit of doing my day’s good deed. And now to find Willie.’
III
It was no easy task to do this, for Wilfred Allsop had been detained on the terrace by Dame Daphne Winkworth. Dame Daphne liked to become acquainted with her staff and she had kept him answering personal questions for a full hour, after which he had gone to his room to bathe his forehead. When he emerged, feeling somewhat better though still weak, the first person he met was Tipton, who had almost decided to give up the search.
There took place, of course, something in the nature of a joyous reunion. It was their first meeting since they had parted with mutual civilities outside the New York police station, and each was thinking how greatly the other’s looks had improved in the interim. Tipton’s face then had seemed to Wilfred to be an unwholesome yellow in colour and to flicker a good deal like an early silent motion picture, and so had Wilfred’s to Tipton. Even now neither could have entered a beauty competition with any real confidence of success unless Officer Garroway had been the sole other contestant, but there had been a distinct change for the better.
When two friends meet after a separation, the conversation tends as a rule to begin with enquiries from both regarding old Joes and Jacks and Jimmys whom they have seen or not seen anything of lately, but as Tipton Plimsoll and Wilfred Allsop had met only once and the only acquaintance they had in common was Officer Garroway, a few exchanges on the subject of that golden-hearted city employee were enough to cover these preliminaries and Tipton was almost immediately at liberty to get down to those brass tacks to which he always liked to get down as soon as possible.
‘Well, Willie,’ he said, going straight to the res. ‘I’ve just been having a chat with the Simmons broad. We had quite a visit.’
An austere look came into Wilfred’s face. He had had to complain before of Tipton’s freedom of speech when alluding to the girl he worshipped. It was the other’s only fault, but a grave one.
‘Would you mind not referring to Miss Simmons as a broad,’ he said coldly.
‘Sorry. Slip of the tongue. I should have said I’ve been talking to your little serving of peaches and cream, and I have some rather interesting news to impart. It appears that you are her dream man.
‘What!’
‘That’s what she told me. You’re ace high with her. She didn’t actually say she would die for one little rose from your hair, but that was the impression she conveyed. What she said was that if you asked her to marry you, she would jump into your arms. I don’t see what more you want than that.’
Wilfred stared, gulped and tottered.
‘You aren’t kidding?’
‘No, I’m not, and nor was she. All you’ve got to do is walk up to her, wipe some of the mud off her face, clasp her in your arms, and you’re home.’
The programme, as outlined, plainly attracted Wilfred. Nevertheless he hesitated.
‘Clasp her in my arms?’
‘And kiss her. Having of course cleaned her up a little first. She needs thoroughly going over with soap and hot water.’
Wilfred shook his head.
‘I couldn’t do it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I haven’t the nerve.’
Tipton smiled indulgently.
‘The very words I said to a girl called Prudence Garland when she urged me to propose to Vee.’
‘You mean my cousin Prue?’
‘Is she your cousin? Everybody seems to be your cousin.
‘She’s my Aunt Dora’s daughter. She’s married to a man named Lister. Bill Lister. They run a sort of roadhouse place near Oxford.’
‘Yes, I remember they wanted me to put money into it, but I was light on my feet and kept away. Well, she was staying here when I first met Vee, and one day she drew me aside and said “You’re in love with Vee, aren’t you, Mr Plimsoll?”‘
‘To which you replied?’
‘I didn’t reply, because I was busy falling off a wall at the time. We were sitting on the wall of the terrace, and her words gave me such a start that I overbalanced. Returning to my seat, I said I was, and she said Well, why don’t you ask her to marry you, and just like you I said it couldn’t be done, because I hadn’t the nerve. And do you know what she suggested?’
‘What?’
‘She said that that could be readily adjusted if I had a good quick snort by way of a send—off’
And you did?’
‘I did, and it altered the whole set—up. It made a new man of me and I approached the matter in hand in an entirely different spirit.’
‘You became the dominant male?’
‘With bells on.’
And asked Vee to marry you?’
‘Ordered would be a better word. I just gave her her instructions.’
‘What did you actually say?’
‘By way of leading into the thing? “My woman!”, if I remember rightly. Yes, that was it. “My woman!” I thought for a moment of saying “My mate!”, but decided against it because it seemed to me to have too nautical a ring. But you don’t need to worry about the dialogue. That’s a side issue. It’s the clasping in arms and kissing that puts the act across. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you, Willie. In the glove compartment of my car there is a well-filled flask. It’s yours. Slip it in your pocket and about five minutes before the kick-off drain its contents. You’ll be surprised.’
For an instant Wilfred Allsop’s face lit up, as that of the poet Shelley whom he so closely resembled must have done when he suddenly realised that ‘blithe spirit’ rhymes with ‘near it’, not that it does, and another ode was as good as off the assembly line. Then it fell. He fingered his chin dubiously.
‘Can I risk it?’
‘No risk involved. It’s good Scotch.’
‘I was thinking of Dame Daphne Winkworth.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘She runs the school where I’m going to teach music.’
‘Of course, yes. You mentioned her that night in New York. But how does she come into it?’
‘She’s staying here. She would fire me like a shot if she caught me drinking. And while drumming the elements of music into the heads of a bunch of goggle—eyed schoolgirls isn’t what I’d call an ideal form of employment, it’s a job and carries a salary with it. Do you think I ought to take a chance?’
‘You’ll never get to first base if you don’t. When were you planning to contact Miss Simmons?’
‘Tomorrow morning, I thought.’
‘I’ll tell her to expect you then.’
‘Though I’m still nervous about Ma Winkworth.’
‘Relax. I’ll see that she isn’t around. I’ll get hold of her and keep her talking.’
‘You’re a true friend, Tippy.’
‘I like to do my bit. That’s settled, then. Shall we just run through the scenario to make sure you’ve got it straight?’
‘It might be as well.’ ‘Walk up.’ ‘Walk up.’ ‘Clasp in arms. ‘Clasp in arms. ‘Kiss.’
‘Kiss.’
‘And say “My woman!” It’s as easy as falling off a log. You can’t miss.’
CHAPTER 7
I
It is never pleasant for a girl to find that she is being followed, and if she has to be followed she would always prefer it not to be by a man who has recently called her a ginger-haired little fathead. Sandy, as she passed through the front door of the castle on her return from Market Blandings, was seething with indignation, resentment and a number of other disagreeable emotions. She was also conscious of a choking sensation. The sight of a Sam Bagshott where no Sam Bagshott should have been had taken her breath away and she was still in the process of recovering it.
The front door opened on a spacious hall, and as she entered it a footman appeared at the other end. He was carrying a coiled-up red rope, and th
is he hooked to a ring in the wall. He then carried it to the opposite wall and hooked it there. After which, he hung up in prominent positions two printed notices, both on the brusque side. One said:
KINDLY KEEP IN LINE
the other:
NO SMOKING
He then dusted his hands and stepped back with the air of a man who has done a good day’s work.
Surprise at these peculiar goings-on made Sandy momentarily forget Sam and his adhesiveness. She would come back to him later, but in the meantime she wanted to know what all this was about. The footman, when she put this question to him, smiled the indulgent smile of the expert illuminating a novice.
‘Visitors’ Day, miss.’
‘Today?’
‘No, miss, tomorrow. Premises thrown open to the public every Thursday. Mr Beach shows them round.’
‘Do a lot of them come?’
‘This hot weather seems to bring them out like flies. Three charabangs and a girls’ school last week.’
‘I didn’t get here till the Friday, so I missed them.’
‘You were lucky,’ said the footman, his eyes bleak. He seemed to be brooding on past horrors. ‘Draw that rope tight, Thomas, ‘he added as another footman entered bearing a sign that read:
KINDLY DO NOT FINGER OBJECTS OF ART
‘Last Thursday a couple of hussies climbed over it and sat on that fender as bold as brass.’
A sudden disquieting thought struck Sandy like a blow. Only now did that phrase ‘Premises thrown open to the public’ come home to her.
‘Can anyone come on Visitors’ Day?’
Anyone that’s got half-a-crown, miss,’ said the footman, giving the rope another pull.
There was a thoughtful look on Sandy’s face as she made her way to the library, to which she planned to give a thorough straightening and tidying. And indeed she had been provided with food for thought. No doubt Gally would have told Sam about Visitors’ Day, and if she knew her Gally would have pointed out to him how admirable an opportunity it provided for invading the castle. And once Sam was in the castle a meeting between them, he being the thrustful young man he was, would be inevitable. He might refrain from smoking, and he might not finger objects of art, but the one thing of which she was certain was that he would not kindly keep in line. It would take more than a mere butler and two footmen to restrain him from roaming at large about the place until he found her.