Jeeves and the Wedding Bells (22 page)

‘Yes. And lucky gentry, you might well say. It was all a bit sad. I think he accepted my explanation of this hare-brained flirting scheme I’d been talked into, but he seemed a bit wistful.’

‘Wistful?’

‘It was as though he and Georgie were both trying to please the elder generation, whereas Amelia and I are pledged to one another despite anything the old folks can throw at us.’

I speared a moody winkle. ‘And what about Amelia? Is she still of the view that you’re a modern Bluebeard and that Georgiana’s a scarlet woman?’

‘I’ve been asked back this weekend. That must be a good sign. As for Georgiana’s behaviour, Amelia accepted her story. She presumed Georgie had been talked into this typically loony scheme by you.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been on the blower, have you?’

‘Yes. Now it’s been mended, Amelia’s been in touch a fair bit. Between you and me, Bertie – but please don’t tempt providence by blurting this out – the whole thing’s on again.’

‘Congratulations, old man. I couldn’t be more pleased. She’s a splendid girl.’

‘She certainly is.’

‘I hope one day she’ll show me her butterfly collection.’

Woody’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘You keep away.’

I poured a glass of frosty white to toast the news. ‘So what’s this other iron in the Venables fire?’

‘He mentioned no names,’ said Woody, ‘but he spoke of someone he’d met on his travels. In Constantinople, I think. Her parents have a place in Nottinghamshire.’

‘Well, that’s far enough away.’

‘And it’s where the Persian cat comes from originally.’

‘So they’d know a few people,’ I said.

‘Presumably, yes, and I gathered the family had some scratch of their own so they wouldn’t need the Spanier riches.’

‘Better and better,’ I said, replacing the glass on the table.
‘Meanwhile, all is for the best though often we doubt what the unsearchable something of whatsit brings to pass.’

‘What are you on about, Bertie?’

‘The poet Milton, Woody. Jeeves passed the thought my way.’

‘It may have lost something en route.’

‘Possibly,’ I conceded. ‘Talking of routes, are you still driving your Underground train?’

‘No, sadly that’s all gone back to normal. Jolly good fun, the General Strike. It just didn’t last nearly long enough.’

‘It more or less passed me by,’ I admitted.

‘You chump, Bertie. Even the girls came up from Kingston St Giles to lend a hand.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Amelia sold tickets and Georgie drove the 27 bus.’

I managed to keep a grip on the slippery glass as I stopped it halfway to the lips.

‘Georgiana drove a bus?’

‘Yes.’

‘With people on it?’

‘Yes. The 27. From Hounslow to Muswell Hill.’

‘Were there many … injured?’

‘I gather not, though it was believed that she set an all-comers’ record for the time from Twickenham to Kew. An expectant mother went into labour on the upper deck at Richmond. A schoolboy tumbled down the stairs but only grazed his knee.’

‘Was that it?’

‘Yes. She was replaced at Turnham Green.’

The next morning, when Jeeves shimmied in with the tea tray, there was a letter with a London postmark and the handwriting that had alerted me to the presence of a picnic basket with my name on it in the sunken garden.

‘What’s it like outside?’ I asked. ‘The weather continues to be exceptionally clement, sir.’

‘Jolly good,’ I said, slipping the paperknife through the envelope. ‘I’m going to Curzon Street for a trim at the barber’s.’

I thought I saw a small lift of Jeeves’s eyebrow. I raised a hand to the side-whiskers. ‘Just a trim,’ I said. ‘Nothing more.’

‘Very well, sir. Shall I telephone for an appointment?’

I didn’t answer at once, since I was scanning the letter – an elegant scrawl in black ink. ‘Dear Bertie,’ it said, ‘I know Uncle Henry has invited Lord E back this weekend and it would be lovely if you would come too. Your employer will surely need your help! There is also the question of the entertainment at Melbury village hall. Uncle Henry’s plan is that it should include the enactment of a scene from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. We are short of rude mechanicals. Your experience – and expertise – could save the day. It might also be fun. With love from Georgiana.’

‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘have you had any further thoughts about the weekend?’

‘No, sir. I don’t feel it is my place to accept or refuse Sir Henry’s invitation. I am awaiting your instruction.’

I finished the refreshing cupful. As usual, it seemed to fill me with a sense of pleasant possibilities.

‘Telephone the barber, please, and make an appointment
for noon. Then send a telegram to old Hackwood. Did he specify a time?’

‘No, sir. There is a summer fete in the grounds of the house on Saturday afternoon before the evening festivities at the church hall. I had the impression that as far as Sir Henry was concerned, the revels would begin on Friday evening.’

‘Then so be it, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘On with the motley.’

Thus was the die cast, this exchange taking place, I am pretty certain, on the Thursday morning.

An odd thing I’ve noticed over the years, chronicling these adventures of mine, is that even in the middle of an absolute corker – the Steeple Bumpleigh Horror, for example – there are days when not much happens. This is ticklish for the author. I dare say that at such a point in one of those novels beloved of Jeeves and Georgiana, old Tolstoy took advantage of a lull in the action to bung in a bit of family history – how the Rostropovs had known the Ilyanovs, for instance, since the first bear was sighted on the Russian Steppe. The author of
The Mystery of the Gabled House
, if in doubt, generally throws in another corpse. Not having any stiffs at my disposal, I can only say that little of note took place in Berkeley Mansions for the next twenty-four hours. Nothing really got going until Friday afternoon, after which things got pretty fruity. End of lull. Now read on.

Though dressed as a valet, I took the wheel of the two-seater as we left the Great Wen once more and headed for the sunlit hills. There is something about this particular road with its signs to Micheldever and Over Wallop that always seems to lift the spirits. The first bright green of May had given way to something
lusher, so everything in the countryside looked just the way the Almighty must have roughed it out on his sketchpad; the cow parsley could not have been more rampant, the oaks more oakish or the roadside inns more tempting if they’d tried.

‘I say, Jeeves,’ I said, waving an arm in the general direction of Stourhead, ‘it’s odd to think we might have lost all this. During the …’ I trailed off, not wanting to put a damper on things.

‘The hostilities, do you mean, sir?’

‘Yes. Do you think it will all ever just … disappear?’

‘No, sir. A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.’

‘Hang on, Jeeves. I recognise that.’

‘I am pleased to hear it, sir. It was the poet—’

‘Don’t tell me. It was … the poet Keats, wasn’t it?’

‘It was indeed, sir. The lines supply the opening of an early work, “Endymion”.’

We drove on in silence for a mile or so. ‘I say, Jeeves, do you know, I think that’s the first time I’ve ever recognised one of your quotations.’

‘I know, sir. I found it most gratifying.’

‘You mean that after all these years something must be rubbing off?’

‘I was always given to believe that one’s education did not finish with the closing of the school gate, sir.’

‘So this moment represents a … What’s that thing on a mountain top where one drop of rain goes to the Pacific and one to the Mediterranean?’

‘A watershed, sir.’

‘That’s the chap. Here’s to watersheds, Jeeves. Next left, isn’t it?’

Having lunched in London, there was no need to revisit the Death’s Head at Darston, though we were making such good time that we did stop at a rather fine converted manor house near Blandford Forum for a cup of tea and an egg-and-cress sandwich.

‘I’m rather looking forward to this, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘I have a feeling things are all going to work out just fine and dandy.’

‘The news about Mr Beeching and Miss Hackwood is certainly encouraging, sir.’

‘Yes, and I’m sure Venables will see sense. They’ll be very happy together. We’ll say no more about that idiotic idea of yours that Georgiana had – what did you call them?’

‘Feelings, sir.’

‘Yes. Imagine! She would have tried to improve me. It would have been worse than Florence Craye. I’d have been forced to go to concerts by Stravinsky.’

‘Not necessarily, sir. When Dame Judith brought up his name once at dinner, Miss Meadowes affected to believe he was a member of the Politburo.’

‘Still, better off as we are.’

‘As you wish, sir.’

It was shortly after six when the two-seater, with Lord Etringham now at the wheel, turned off the high street of Kingston St Giles and into the lime-tree avenue that led to Melbury Hall. Mrs Tilman was at the tradesmen’s entrance,
as though she had been listening for the sound of a car; to my embarrassment she welcomed me with a peck on the cheek.

Being back so soon felt pretty odd – like returning unexpectedly to school only five days after you’d signed off for the summer hols. You somehow imagine that such establishments cease to exist when you wave a cheery goodbye in July, rematerialising only in time for the new boys’ tea in late September. I went meekly to my quarters, an old lag who knows the ropes, and was surprised to find a small pot of wild flowers on the table. Something about the bed looked different, too. I gave it a tentative prod. All clear. I gingerly lowered the posterior. To my surprise, I was not impaled, but sank an inch – and then some. Whipping back the bedclothes, I saw that someone had laid a sort of over-mattress on top of the old fakir’s palliasse.

I was wondering whether I should take the early dinner with my fellow servants or if I could face another solitary evening at the Hare and Hounds when there came a knock at the door. It was Bicknell.

‘Mr Wilberforce, I’m afraid I shall have to call on you for an extra pair of hands again.’

‘Hoad?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘He’s not much use to you, is he?’

‘It was a temporary appointment. I don’t think it’s going to be made permanent. He’s not reliable.’

I had a sudden thought. What could make a chap have funny
turns, be both sluggish and impetuous, then liverish? I made a gesture with my right hand to suggest the raising of a substantial glass.

Bicknell nodded, gravely. ‘He was discovered flat out in the cucumber frames at teatime. Mrs Tilman tried to revive him with a glass of water. She got him on his feet but then he started singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”.’

‘So he’s trampled out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored,’ I said, aiming for the light touch.

It didn’t wash. Bicknell’s face was impassive. ‘He’s locked in the stable. He won’t be let out till morning.’

‘Won’t he frighten the horses?’

‘He’s on his own. He’s in Jude the Obscure’s box.’

‘And where’s Jude the Obscure?’

‘He’s standing at Newton Abbot.’

‘Well, jolly good luck to him. And to the mares. I hope they don’t have gloomy foals.’

Bicknell turned to leave, then stopped in the doorway. ‘Hoad said he found a half-burnt builder’s dust sheet near the cold frames.’

‘In the bonfire area?’ I asked airily. ‘I mean, that’s where it got burnt, I expect?’

‘Yes. Odd, don’t you think?’

‘Not really. Messy chaps, builders.’

Bicknell gave me a long, hard stare. A lesser man, I dare say, might have flinched or looked away. Not Bertram, though.

Eventually, the mighty butler spoke. ‘Seven-thirty in the kitchen would be best.’

‘You can rely on me, Mr Bicknell.’

‘I thought I could, Mr Wilberforce.’

Those gathered for dinner comprised the entire cast as before, with additions. Of the old-timers, Woody had the hawkish twinkle back in his eye and Amelia looked like the fourth seed at Wimbledon who’s just discovered the defending champion’s gone lame. ‘Perky’ would about cover it.

The Venables trio had arrived in the family hearse, while Dame Judith Puxley had once more been lured from the Reading Room at the British Museum, though on what pretext I found it hard to imagine – a village fete and an evening in the church hall hardly adding up to her idea of culture.

The additions were the vicar and his wife and a local worthy called Major Holloway, who had taken it on himself to organise the Saturday evening show. He was accompanied by an apple-cheeked female, presumably his wife.

Sir Henry Hackwood wore a green smoking jacket and an air of desperation. I’ve seen chaps with the same hunted look during the final hand of cards at two in the morning at the Drones; the three kings are securely in the hole, but they’re wondering how to keep the other players interested for a few more minutes.

The last in to the dining room was Georgiana, and her appearance brought me up short. I’d seen those lovely features in countless moods, the ‘let’s just share a few langoustines’ one, the unsuccessfully resisted waterworks, the wounded but forgiving,
the quizzical ‘Do you think that’s what Pushkin really meant?’ and the smiling ‘I’m fine, but you have another glass’ variants.

This one, as I’ve said, was a new one on me. She looked like a messenger charged with calling on King Harold’s bedchamber to tell him that the Normans had splashed ashore in force near a spot called Hastings. Foreboding was writ big in those chocolate-coloured eyes.

Lady Hackwood and the girls, it seemed, had the afternoon fete pretty much under control with the help of the vicar’s wife, so Sir Henry took the opportunity to run through the evening programme with Major Holloway.

‘Our contribution is a scene from Shakespeare,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Very apt, I’m told. My niece Georgiana will be rehearsing the players in the morning.’

‘I remember mounting a performance of
The Merchant of Venice
in Bangalore,’ said Sidney Venables. ‘The local paper said my Shylock was the finest since Henry Irving at the Lyceum.’