Blandings Castle and Elsewhere (3 page)

The Force had materialized in the shape of a large, solid
constable.

The park-keeper seemed to understand that he had been
superseded. He still spoke, but no longer like a father rebuking
an erring son. His attitude now was more that of an elder brother
appealing for justice against a delinquent junior. In a moving
passage he stated his case.

"E Says,' observed the constable judicially, speaking slowly
and in capitals, as if addressing an untutored foreigner, "E Says
You Was Pickin' The Flowers.'

'I saw 'im. I was standin' as close as I am to you.'

"E Saw You,' interpreted the constable. "E Was Standing At
Your Side.'

Lord Emsworth was feeling weak and bewildered. Without
a thought of annoying or doing harm to anybody, he seemed to
have unchained the fearful passions of a French Revolution; and
there came over him a sense of how unjust it was that this sort of
thing should be happening to him, of all people – a man already
staggering beneath the troubles of a Job.

'I'll 'ave to ask you for your name and address,' said the
constable, more briskly. A stubby pencil popped for an instant
into his stern mouth and hovered, well and truly moistened, over
the virgin page of his notebook- that dreadful notebook before
which taxi-drivers shrink and hardened bus-conductors quail.

'I – I – why, my dear fellow – I mean, officer – I am the Earl of
Emsworth.'

Much has been written of the psychology of crowds, designed
to show how extraordinary and inexplicable it is, but most of
such writing is exaggeration. A crowd generally behaves in a
perfectly natural and intelligible fashion. When, for instance, it
sees a man in a badly-fitting tweed suit and a hat he ought to be
ashamed of getting put through it for pinching flowers in the
Park, and the man says he is an earl, it laughs. This crowd
laughed.

'Ho?' The constable did not stoop to join in the merriment of
the rabble, but his lip twitched sardonically. 'Have you a card,
your lordship?'

Nobody intimate with Lord Emsworth would have asked
such a foolish question. His card-case was the thing he always
lost second when visiting London – immediately after losing his
umbrella.

'I – er – I'm afraid—'

'R!' said the constable. And the crowd uttered another
happy, hyena-like laugh, so intensely galling that his lordship
raised his bowed head and found enough spirit to cast an indignant
glance. And, as he did so, the hunted look faded from his
eyes.

'McAllister!' he cried.

Two new arrivals had just joined the throng, and, being of
rugged and nobbly physique, had already shoved themselves
through to the ringside seats. One was a tall, handsome,
smooth-faced gentleman of authoritative appearance, who, if
he had not worn rimless glasses, would have looked like a
Roman emperor. The other was a shorter, sturdier man with a
bristly red beard.

'McAllister!' moaned his lordship piteously. 'McAllister, my
dear fellow, do please tell this man who I am.'

After what had passed between himself and his late employer,
a lesser man than Angus McAllister might have seen in Lord
Emsworth's predicament merely a judgment. A man of little
magnanimity would have felt that here was where he got a bit of
his own back.

Not so this splendid Glaswegian.

Aye,' he said. 'Yon's Lorrud Emsworruth.'

'Who are you?' inquired the constable searchingly.

'I used to be head-gardener at the cassel.'

'Exactly,' bleated Lord Emsworth. 'Precisely. My head-gardener.'

The constable was shaken. Lord Emsworth might not
look like an earl, but there was no getting away from the
fact that Angus McAllister was supremely head-gardeneresque.
A staunch admirer of the aristocracy, the constable perceived
that zeal had caused him to make a bit of a bloomer.

In this crisis, however, he comported himself with masterly
tact. He scowled blackly upon the interested throng.

'Pass along there, please. Pass along,' he commanded austerely.
'Ought to know better than block up a public thoroughfare
like this. Pass along!'

He moved off, shepherding the crowd before him. The
Roman emperor with the rimless glasses advanced upon Lord
Emsworth, extending a large hand.

'Pleased to meet you at last,' he said. 'My name is Donaldson,
Lord Emsworth.'

For a moment the name conveyed nothing to his lordship.
Then its significance hit him, and he drew himself up with
hauteur.

'You'll excuse us, Angus,' said Mr Donaldson. 'High time you
and I had a little chat, Lord Emsworth.'

Lord Emsworth was about to speak, when he caught the
other's eye. It was a strong, keen, level grey eye, with a curious
forcefulness about it that made him feel strangely inferior. There
is every reason to suppose that Mr Donaldson had subscribed for
years to those personality courses advertised in the magazines
which guarantee to impart to the pupil who takes ten correspondence
lessons the ability to look the boss in the eye and make
him wilt. Mr Donaldson looked Lord Emsworth in the eye, and
Lord Emsworth wilted.

'How do you do?' he said weakly.

'Now listen, Lord Emsworth,' proceeded Mr Donaldson.
'No sense in having hard feelings between members of a family.
I take it you've heard by this that your boy and my girl have gone
ahead and fixed it up? Personally, I'm delighted. That boy is a
fine young fellow.'

Lord Emsworth blinked.

'You are speaking of my son Frederick?' he said incredulously.

'Of your son Frederick. Now, at the moment, no doubt, you
are feeling a trifle sore. I don't blame you. You have every right to
be sorer than a gumboil. But you must remember – young blood,
eh? It will, I am convinced, be a lasting grief to that splendid
young man—'

'You are still speaking of my son Frederick?'

'Of Frederick, yes. It will, I say, be a lasting grief to him if he
feels he has incurred your resentment. You must forgive him,
Lord Emsworth. He must have your support.'

'I suppose he'll have to have it, dash it!' said his lordship
unhappily. 'Can't let the boy starve.'

Mr Donaldson's hand swept round in a wide, grand gesture.

'Don't you worry about that. I'll look after that end of it. I am
not a rich man—'

'Ah!' said Lord Emsworth rather bleakly. There had been
something about the largeness of the other's manner which
had led him to entertain hopes.

'I doubt,' continued Mr Donaldson frankly, for he was a man
who believed in frankness in these matters, 'if, all told, I have as
much as ten million dollars in the world.'

Lord Emsworth swayed like a sapling in the breeze.

'Ten million? Ten million? Did you say you had ten million
dollars?'

'Between nine and ten, I suppose. Not more. You must
remember,' said Mr Donaldson, with a touch of apology, 'that
conditions have changed very much in America of late. We have
been through a tough time, a mighty tough time. Many of my
friends have been harder hit than I have. But things are coming
back. Yes, sir, they're coming right back. I am a firm believer in
President Roosevelt and the New Deal. Under the New
Deal, the American dog is beginning to eat more biscuits.
That, I should have mentioned, is my line. I am Donaldson's
Dog-Biscuits.'

'Donaldson's Dog-Biscuits? Indeed? Really! Fancy that!'

'You have heard of Donaldson's Dog-Biscuits?' asked their
proprietor eagerly.

'Never,' said Lord Emsworth cordially.

'Oh! Well, that's who I am. And, as I say, the business is
beginning to pick up nicely after the slump. All over the country
our salesmen are reporting that the American dog is once more
becoming biscuit-conscious. And so I am in a position, with
your approval, to offer Frederick a steady and possibly a lucrative
job. I propose, always with your consent, of course, to send him
over to Long Island City to start learning the business. I have no
doubt that he will in time prove a most valuable asset to the firm.'

Lord Emsworth could conceive of no way in which Freddie
could be of value to a dog-biscuit firm, except possibly as a taster;
but he refrained from damping the other's enthusiasm by saying
so. In any case, the thought of the young man actually earning
his living, and doing so three thousand miles from Blandings
Castle, would probably have held him dumb.

'He seems full of keenness. But, in my opinion, to be able to
give of his best and push the Donaldson biscuit as it should be
pushed, he must feel that he has your moral support, Lord
Emsworth – his father's moral support.'

'Yes, yes, yes!' said Lord Emsworth heartily. A feeling of
positive adoration for Mr Donaldson was thrilling him. The
getting rid of Freddie, which he himself had been unable to
achieve in twenty-six years, this godlike dog-biscuit manufacturer
had accomplished in less than a week. What a man! felt
Lord Emsworth. 'Oh, yes, yes, yes!' he said. 'Yes, indeed. Most
decidedly.'

'They sail on Wednesday.'

'Capital!'

'Early in the morning.'

'Splendid!'

'I may give them a friendly message from you? A forgiving,
fatherly message?'

'Certainly, certainly, certainly. Inform Frederick that he has
my best wishes.'

'I will.'

'Mention that I shall watch his future progress with considerable
interest.'

'Exactly.'

'Say that I hope he will work hard and make a name for
himself.'

'Just so.'

'And,' concluded Lord Emsworth, speaking with a paternal
earnestness well in keeping with this solemn moment, 'tell him – er – not
to hurry home.'

He pressed Mr Donaldson's hand with feelings too deep for
further speech. Then he galloped swiftly to where Angus
McAllister stood brooding over the tulip bed.

'McAllister!'

The head-gardener's beard waggled grimly. He looked at his
late employer with cold eyes. It is never difficult to distinguish
between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine, and
Lord Emsworth, gazing upon the dour man, was able to see at a
glance into which category Angus McAllister fell. His tongue
seemed to cleave to his palate, but he forced himself to speak.

'McAllister ... I wish ... I wonder ...'

'Weel?'

'I wonder ... I wish ... What I want to say,' faltered Lord
Emsworth humbly, 'is, have you accepted another situation yet?'

'I am conseederin' twa.'

'Come back to me!' pleaded his lordship, his voice breaking.
'Robert Barker is worse than useless. Come back to me!'

Angus McAllister gazed woodenly at the tulips.

'A' weel—' he said at length.

'You will?' cried Lord Emsworth joyfully. 'Splendid! Capital!
Excellent!'

'A' didna say I wud.'

'I thought you said "I will,"' said his lordship, dashed.

'I didna say "A' weel"; I said "A weel,"' said Mr McAllister
stiffly. 'Meanin' mebbe I might, mebbe not.'

Lord Emsworth laid a trembling hand upon his shoulder.

'McAllister, I will raise your salary.'

The beard twitched.

'Dash it, I'll double it!'

The eyebrows flickered.

'McAllister ... Angus ...' said Lord Emsworth in a low voice.
'Come back! The pumpkin needs you.'

In an age of rush and hurry like that of to-day, an age in which
there are innumerable calls on the time of everyone, it is possible
that here and there throughout the ranks of those who have read
this chronicle there may be one or two who for various reasons
found themselves unable to attend the last Agricultural Show at
Shrewsbury. For these a few words must be added.

Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe, of Matchingham Hall, was there,
of course, but it would not have escaped the notice of a close
observer that his mien lacked something of the haughty arrogance
which had characterized it in other years. From time to time, as he
paced the tent devoted to the exhibition of vegetables, he might
have been seen to bite his lip, and his eye had something of that
brooding look which Napoleon's must have worn at Waterloo.

But there was the right stuff in Sir Gregory. He was a gentleman
and a sportsman. In the Parsloe tradition there was nothing
small or mean. Half-way down the tent he stopped, and with a
quick, manly gesture thrust out his hand.

'Congratulate you, Emsworth,' he said huskily.

Lord Emsworth looked up with a start. He had been deep in
his thoughts.

'Eh? Oh, thanks. Thanks, my dear fellow, thanks, thanks.
Thank you very much.' He hesitated. 'Er – can't both win, eh?'

Sir Gregory puzzled it out and saw that he was right.

'No,' he said. 'No. See what you mean. Can't both win. No
getting round that.'

He nodded and walked on, with who knows what vultures
gnawing at his broad bosom. And Lord Emsworth – with
Angus McAllister, who had been a silent, beard-waggling witness
of the scene, at his side – turned once more to stare
reverently at that which lay on the strawy bottom of one of the
largest packing-cases ever seen in Shrewsbury town.

A card had been attached to the exterior of the packing-case.
It bore the simple legend:

PUMPKINS. FIRST PRIZE

T
HE
housekeeper's room at Blandings Castle, G.H.Q. of
the domestic staff that ministered to the needs of the Earl
of Emsworth, was in normal circumstances a pleasant and cheerful
apartment. It caught the afternoon sun; and the paper which
covered its walls had been conceived in a jovial spirit by someone
who held that the human eye, resting on ninety-seven simultaneous
pink birds perched upon ninety-seven blue rose-bushes,
could not but be agreeably stimulated and refreshed. Yet, with
the entry of Beach, the butler, it was as though there had crept
into its atmosphere a chill dreariness; and Mrs Twemlow, the
housekeeper, laying down her knitting, gazed at him in alarm.

'Whatever is the matter, Mr Beach?'

The butler stared moodily out of the window. His face was
drawn and he breathed heavily, as a man will who is suffering
from a combination of strong emotion and adenoids. A ray of
sunshine, which had been advancing jauntily along the carpet,
caught sight of his face and slunk out, abashed.

'I have come to a decision, Mrs Twemlow.'

'What about?'

'Ever since his lordship started to grow it I have seen the
writing on the wall plainer and plainer, and now I have made
up my mind. The moment his lordship returns from London,
I tender my resignation. Eighteen years have I served in his
lordship's household, commencing as under-footman and rising
to my present position, but now the end has come.'

'You don't mean you're going just because his lordship has
grown a beard?'

'It is the only way, Mrs Twemlow. That beard is weakening
his lordship's position throughout the entire country-side. Are
you aware that at the recent Sunday school treat I heard cries of
"Beaver!"?'

'No!'

'Yes! And this spirit of mockery and disrespect will spread.
And, what is more, that beard is alienating the best elements in
the County. I saw Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe look very sharp at
it when he dined with us last Friday.'

'It is not a handsome beard,' admitted the housekeeper.

'It is not. And his lordship must be informed. As long as I
remain in his lordship's service, it is impossible for me to speak.
So I shall tender my resignation. Once that is done, my lips will
no longer be sealed. Is that buttered toast under that dish, Mrs
Twemlow?'

'Yes, Mr Beach. Take a slice. It will cheer you up.'

'Cheer me up!' said the butler, with a hollow laugh that
sounded like a knell.

It was fortunate that Lord Emsworth, seated at the time of
this conversation in the smoking-room of the Senior Conservative
Club in London, had no suspicion of the supreme calamity
that was about to fall upon him; for there was already much upon
his mind.

In the last few days, indeed, everything seemed to have gone
wrong. Angus McAllister, his head-gardener, had reported an
alarming invasion of greenfly among the roses. A favourite and
respected cow, strongly fancied for the Milk-Giving Jerseys
event at the forthcoming Cattle Show, had contracted a mysterious
ailment which was baffling the skill of the local vet. And on
top of all this a telegram had arrived from his lordship's younger
son, the Hon. Frederick Threepwood, announcing that he was
back in England and desirous of seeing his father immediately.

This, felt Lord Emsworth, as he stared bleakly before him at
the little groups of happy Senior Conservatives, was the most
unkindest cut of all. What on earth was Freddie doing in
England? Eight months before he had married the only daughter
of Donaldson's Dog-Biscuits, of Long Island City, in the
United States of America; and in Long Island City he ought
now to have been, sedulously promoting the dog-biscuit industry's
best interests. Instead of which, here he was in London – and,
according to his telegram, in trouble.

Lord Emsworth passed a hand over his chin, to assist
thought, and was vaguely annoyed by some obstacle that
intruded itself in the path of his fingers. Concentrating his
faculties, such as they were, on this obstacle, he discovered it
to be his beard. It irritated him. Hitherto, in moments of stress,
he had always derived comfort from the feel of a clean-shaven
chin. He felt now as if he were rubbing his hand over seaweed;
and most unjustly – for it was certainly not that young man's
fault that he had decided to grow a beard – he became aware of
an added sense of grievance against the Hon. Freddie.

It was at this moment that he perceived his child approaching
him across the smoking-room floor.

'Hullo, guv'nor!' said Freddie.

'Well, Frederick?' said Lord Emsworth.

There followed a silence. Freddie was remembering that he
had not met his father since the day when he had slipped into the
latter's hand a note announcing his marriage to a girl whom
Lord Emsworth had never seen – except once, through a telescope,
when he, Freddie, was kissing her in the grounds of
Blandings Castle. Lord Emsworth, on his side, was brooding
on that phrase 'in trouble,' which had formed so significant a
part of his son's telegram. For fifteen years he had been reluctantly
helping Freddie out of trouble; and now, when it had
seemed that he was off his hands for ever, the thing had started
all over again.

'Do sit down,' he said testily.

Freddie had been standing on one leg, and his constrained
attitude annoyed Lord Emsworth.

'Right-ho,' said Freddie, taking a chair. 'I say, guv'nor, since
when the foliage?'

'What?'

'The beard. I hardly recognized you.'

Another spasm of irritation shot through his lordship.

'Never mind my beard!'

'I don't if you don't,' said Freddie agreeably. 'It was dashed
good of you, guv'nor, to come bounding up to town so promptly.'

'I came because your telegram said that you were in trouble.'

'British,' said Freddie approvingly. 'Very British.'

'Though what trouble you can be in I cannot imagine. It is
surely not money again?'

'Oh, no. Not money. If that had been all, I would have applied
to the good old pop-in-law. Old Donaldson's an ace. He thinks
the world of me.'

'Indeed? I met Mr Donaldson only once, but he struck me as
a man of sound judgment.'

'That's what I say. He thinks I'm a wonder. If it were simply
a question of needing a bit of the ready, I could touch him like
a shot. But it isn't money that's the trouble. It's Aggie. My wife,
you know.'

'Well?'

'She's left me.'

'Left you!'

'Absolutely flat. Buzzed off, and the note pinned to the pincushion.
She's now at the Savoy and won't let me come near her;
and I'm at a service-flat in King Street, eating my jolly old heart
out, if you know what I mean.'

Lord Emsworth uttered a deep sigh. He gazed drearily at his
son, marvelling that it should be in the power of any young man,
even a specialist like Freddie, so consistently to make a mess of
his affairs. By what amounted to a miracle this offspring of his
had contrived to lure a millionaire's daughter into marrying him;
and now, it seemed, he had let her get away. Years before, when a
boy, and romantic as most boys are, his lordship had sometimes
regretted that the Emsworths, though an ancient clan, did not
possess a Family Curse. How little he had suspected that he was
shortly about to become the father of it.

'The fault,' he said tonelessly, 'was, I suppose, yours?'

'In a way, yes. But—'

'What precisely occurred?'

'Well, it was like this, guv'nor. You know how keen I've
always been on the movies. Going to every picture I could
manage, and so forth. Well, one night, as I was lying awake,
I suddenly got the idea for a scenario of my own. And dashed
good it was, too. It was about a poor man who had an accident,
and the coves at the hospital said that an operation was the only
thing that could save his life. But they wouldn't operate without
five hundred dollars down in advance, and he hadn't got five
hundred dollars. So his wife got hold of a millionaire.'

'What,' inquired Lord Emsworth, 'is all this drivel?'

'Drivel, guv'nor?' said Freddie, wounded. 'I'm only telling you
my scenario.'

'I have no wish to hear it. What I am anxious to learn from
you – in as few words as possible – is the reason for the breach
between your wife and yourself.'

'Well, I'm telling you. It all started with the scenario. When
I'd written it, I naturally wanted to sell it to somebody; and just
about then Pauline Petite came East and took a house at Great
Neck, and a pal of mine introduced me to her.'

'Who is Pauline Petite?'

'Good Heavens, guv'nor!' Freddie stared, amazed. 'You
don't mean to sit there and tell me you've never heard of
Pauline Petite! The movie star. Didn't you see "Passion's
Slaves"?'

'I did not.'

'Nor "Silken Fetters"?'

'Never.'

'Nor "Purple Passion"? Nor "Bonds of Gold"? Nor "Seduction"?
Great Scott, guv'nor, you haven't lived!'

'What about this woman?'

'Well, a pal introduced me to her, you see, and I started to
pave the way to getting her interested in this scenario of mine.
Because, if she liked it, of course it meant everything. Well, this
involved seeing a good deal of her, you understand, and one
night Jane Yorke happened to come on us having a bite together
at an inn.'

'Good God!'

'Oh, it was all perfectly respectable, guv'nor. All strictly
on the up-and-up. Purely a business relationship. But the
trouble was I had kept the thing from Aggie because I wanted
to surprise her. I wanted to be able to come to her with the
scenario accepted and tell her I wasn't such a fool as I looked.'

'Any woman capable of believing that—'

'And most unfortunately I had said that I had to go to
Chicago that night on business. So, what with one thing and
another— Well, as I said just now, she's at the Savoy and I'm—'

'Who is Jane Yorke?'

A scowl marred Freddie's smooth features.

A pill, guv'nor. One of the worst. A Jebusite and Amalekite.
If it hadn't been for her, I believe I could have fixed the thing.
But she got hold of Aggie and whisked her away and poisoned
her mind. This woman, guv'nor, has got a brother in the background,
and she wanted Aggie to marry the brother. And my
belief is that she is trying to induce Aggie to pop over to Paris
and get a divorce, so as to give the blighted brother another look
in, dash him! So now, guv'nor, is the time for action. Now is the
moment to rally round as never before. I rely on you.'

'Me? What on earth do you expect me to do?'

'Why, go to her and plead with her. They do it in the movies.
I've seen thousands of pictures where the white-haired old
father—'

'Stuff and nonsense!' said Lord Emsworth, stung to the quick
– for, like so many well-preserved men of ripe years, he was
under the impression that he was merely slightly brindled. 'You
have made your bed, and you must stew in it.'

'Eh?'

'I mean, you must stew in your own juice. You have brought
this trouble on yourself by your own idiotic behaviour, and you
must bear the consequences.'

'You mean you won't go and plead?'

'No.'

'You mean yes?'

'I mean no.'

'Not plead?' said Freddie, desiring to get this thing clear.

'I refuse to allow myself to be drawn into the matter.'

'You won't even give her a ring on the telephone?'

'I will not.'

'Oh, come, guv'nor. Be a sport. Her suite's Number Sixty-seven.
You can get her in a second and state my case, all for the
cost of twopence. Have a pop at it.'

'No.'

Freddie rose with set face.

'Very well,' he said tensely. 'Then I may as well tell you,
guv'nor, that my life is as good as over. The future holds nothing
for me. I am a spent egg. If Aggie goes to Paris and gets that
divorce, I shall retire to some quiet spot and there pass the few
remaining years of my existence, a blighted wreck. Good-bye,
guv'nor.'

'Good-bye.'

'Honk-honk!' said Freddie moodily.

As a general rule, Lord Emsworth was an early and a sound
sleeper, one of the few qualities which he shared with Napoleon
Bonaparte being the ability to slumber the moment his head
touched the pillow. But that night, weighed down with his
troubles, he sought unconsciousness in vain. And somewhere
in the small hours of the morning he sat up in bed, quaking.
A sudden grisly thought had occurred to him.

Freddie had stated that, in the event of his wife obtaining a
divorce, he proposed to retire for the rest of his life to some quiet
spot. Suppose by 'quiet spot' he meant Blandings Castle! The
possibility shook Lord Emsworth like an ague. Freddie had
visited Blandings for extended periods before, and it was his
lordship's considered opinion that the boy was a worse menace
to the happy life of rural England than botts, green-fly, or foot-and-mouth
disease. The prospect of having him at Blandings
indefinitely affected Lord Emsworth like a blow on the base of
the skull.

An entirely new line of thought was now opened. Had he in
the recent interview, he asked himself, been as kind as he should
have been? Had he not been a little harsh? Had he been just a
shade lacking in sympathy? Had he played quite the part a father
ought to have played?

The answers to the questions, in the order stated, were as
follows: No. Yes. Yes. And No.

Waking after a belated sleep and sipping his early tea, Lord
Emsworth found himself full of a new resolve. He had changed
his mind. It was his intention now to go to this daughter-in-law
of his and plead with her as no father-in-law had ever pleaded
yet.

A man who has had a disturbed night is not at his best on the
following morning. Until after luncheon Lord Emsworth felt
much too heavy-headed to do himself justice as a pleader. But a
visit to the flowers at Kensington Gardens, followed by a capital
chop and half a bottle of claret at the Regent Grill, put him into
excellent shape. The heaviness had vanished, and he felt alert
and quick-witted.