Mulliner Nights (12 page)

Well, to be
brief, that was the view which Mervyn took of the matter in the first flush of
his astonishment.

Then he remembered
that his uncle always opened the castle for the Christmas festivities, and
these strawberries were, no doubt, intended for Exhibit A at some forthcoming
rout or merry-making.

Well, after
that, of course, everything was simple. A child would have known what to do.
Hastening back to the house, Mervyn returned with a cardboard box and, keeping
a keen eye out for the head-gardener, hurried in, selected about two dozen of
the finest specimens, placed them in the box, ran back to the house again,
reached for the railway guide, found that there was a train leaving for London
in an hour, changed into town clothes, seized his top hat, borrowed the
stable-boy’s bicycle, pedalled to the station, and about four hours later was
mounting the front-door steps of Clarice Mallaby’s house in Eaton Square with
the box tucked under his arm.

No, that is
wrong. The box was not actually tucked under his arm, because he had left it in
the train. Except for that, he had carried the thing through without a hitch.

Sturdy common
sense is always a quality of the Mulliners, even of the less mentally gifted of
the family. It was obvious to Mervyn that no useful end was to be gained by
ringing the bell and rushing into the girl’s presence, shouting ‘See what I’ve
brought you!’

On the other
hand, what to do? He was feeling somewhat unequal to the swirl of events.

Once, he tells
me, some years ago, he got involved in some amateur theatricals, to play the
role of a butler: and his part consisted of the following lines and business:

(Enter
JORKINS
,
carrying telegram on salver.)

JORKINS
: A telegram, m’lady.

(Exit
JORKINS
)

and on the night in he came, full
of confidence, and, having said:

A telegram, m’lady,’
extended an empty salver towards the heroine, who, having been expecting on the
strength of the telegram to clutch at her heart and say: ‘My God!’ and tear
open the envelope and crush it in nervous fingers and fall over in a swoon, was
considerably taken aback, not to say perturbed.

He felt now as
he had felt then.

Still,, he had
enough sense left to see the way out. After a couple of turns up and down the
south side of Eaton Square, he came — rather shrewdly, I must confess — to the
conclusion that the only person who could help him in this emergency was Oofy
Prosser.

The way Mervyn
sketched out the scenario in the rough, it all looked pretty plain sailing. He
would go to Oofy, whom, as I told you, he had been saving up for years, and
with one single impressive gesture get into his ribs for about twenty quid.

He would be
losing money on the deal, of course, because he had always had Oofy scheduled
for at least fifty. But that could not be helped.

Then off to
Bellamy’s and buy strawberries. He did not exactly relish the prospect of
meeting the black satin girl again, but when love is calling these things have
to be done.

He found Oofy
at home, and plunged into the agenda without delay.

‘Hullo, Oofy,
old man!’ he said. ‘How are you, Oofy, old man? I say, Oofy, old man, I do like
that tie you’re wearing. What I call something like a tie. Quite the snappiest
thing I’ve seen for years and years and years and years. I wish I could get
ties like that. But then, of course, I haven’t your exquisite taste. What I’ve
always said about you, Oofy, old man, and what I always will say, is that you
have the most extraordinary
flair
— it amounts to genius — in the
selection of ties. But, then, one must bear in mind that anything would look
well on you, because you have such a clean-cut, virile profile. I met a man the
other day who said to me: “I didn’t know Ronald Colman was in England.” And I
said:

“He isn’t.”
And he said: “But I saw you talking to him outside the Blotto Kitten.” And I
said: “That wasn’t Ronald Colman. That was my old pal — the best pal any man
ever had — Oofy Prosser.” And he said: “Well, I never saw such a remarkable
resemblance.” And I said: “Yes, there is a great resemblance, only, of course,
Oofy is much the better-looking.” And this fellow said: “Oofy Prosser? Is that
the
Oofy Prosser, the man whose name you hear everywhere?” And I said: “Yes,
and I’m proud to call him my friend. I don’t suppose,” I said, “there’s another
fellow in London in such demand. Duchesses clamour for him, and, if you ask a
princess to dinner, you have to add: ‘To meet Oofy Prosser,’ or she won’t come.
This,” I explained, “is because, in addition to being the handsomest and
best-dressed man in Mayfair, he is famous for his sparkling wit and keen — but
always kindly — repartee. And yet, in spite of all, he remains simple,
unspoilt, unaffected.” Will you lend me twenty quid, Oofy, old man?’

‘No,’ said
Oofy Prosser.

Mervyn paled.

‘What did you
say?’

‘I said No.’

‘No?’

‘N — ruddy —
o!’ said Oofy firmly.

Mervyn
clutched at the mantelpiece.

‘But, Oofy,
old man, I need the money — need it sorely.’

‘I don’t care.’

It seemed to
Mervyn that the only thing to do was to tell all. Clearing his throat, he
started in at the beginning. He sketched the course of his great love in
burning words, and brought the story up to the point where the girl had placed
her order for strawberries.

‘She must be
cuckoo,’ said Oofy Prosser.

Mervyn was
respectful, but firm.

‘She isn’t
cuckoo,’ he said. ‘I have felt all along that the incident showed what a
spiritual nature she has. I mean to say, reaching out yearningly for the
unattainable and all that sort of thing, if you know what I mean. Anyway, the
broad, basic point us that she wants strawberries, and I’ve got to collect
enough money to get her them.’

‘Who is this
half-wit?’ asked Oofy.

Mervyn told
him, and Oofy seemed rather impressed.

‘I know her.’
He mused awhile. ‘Dashed pretty girl.’

‘Lovely,’ said
Mervyn. ‘What eyes!’ Yes.’

‘What hair!’
Yes.’

‘What a
figure!’

‘Yes,’ said
Oofy. ‘I always think she’s one of the prettiest girls in London.’

‘Absolutely,’
said Mervyn. ‘Then, on second thoughts, old pal, you will lend me twenty quid
to buy her strawberries?’

‘No,’ said
Oofy.

And Mervyn
could not shift him. In the end he gave it up.

‘Very well,’
he said. ‘Oh, very well. If you won’t, you won’t. But, Alexander Prosser,’
proceeded Mervyn, with a good deal of dignity, ‘just let me tell you this. I
wouldn’t be seen dead in a tie like that beastly thing you’re wearing. I don’t
Ike your profile. Your hair is getting thin on the top. And I heard a certain
prominent society hostess say the other day that the great drawback to living
in London was that a woman couldn’t give so much as the simplest luncheon-party
without suddenly finding that that appalling man Prosser — I quote her words
—had wriggled out of the woodwork and was in her midst. Prosser, I wish you a
very good afternoon!’

Brave words,
of course, but, when you came right down to it, they could not be said to have
got him anywhere. After the first thrill of telling Oofy what he thought of him
had died away, Mervyn realized that his quandary was now greater than ever.
Where was he to look for aid and comfort? He had friends, of course, but the
best of them wasn’t good for more than an occasional drink or possibly a couple
of quid, and what use was that to a man who needed at least a dozen
strawberries at a pound apiece?

Extremely
bleak the world looked to my cousin’s unfortunate son, and he was in sombre
mood as he wandered along Piccadilly. As he surveyed the passing populace, he
suddenly realized, he tells me, what these Bolshevist blokes were driving at.
They had spotted — as he had spotted now — that what was wrong with the world
was that all the cash seemed to be centred in the wrong hands and needed a lot
of broad-minded redistribution.

Where money
was concerned, he perceived, merit counted for nothing. Money was too apt to be
collared by some rotten bounder or bounders, while the good and deserving man
was left standing on the outside, looking in. The sight of all those expensive
cars rolling along, crammed to the bulwarks with overfed males and females with
fur coats and double chins, made him feel, he tells me, that he wanted to buy a
red tie and a couple of bombs and start the Social Revolution. If Stalin had
come along at that moment, Mervyn would have shaken him by the hand.

Well, there
is, of course, only one thing for a young man to do when he feels like that.
Mervyn hurried along to the club and in rapid succession drank three Martini
cocktails.

The treatment
was effective, as it always is. Gradually the stern, censorious mood passed,
and he began to feel an optimistic glow. As the revivers slid over the larynx,
he saw that all was not lost. He perceived that he had been leaving out of his
reckoning that sweet, angelic pity which is such a characteristic of woman.

Take the case
of a knight of old, he meant to say. Was anyone going to tell him that if a
knight of old had been sent off by a damsel on some fearfully tricky quest and
had gone through all sorts of perils and privations for her sake, facing
dragons in black satin and risking going to chokey and what not, the girl would
have given him the bird when he got back, simply because —looking at the matter
from a severely technical standpoint — he had failed to bring home the gravy?

Absolutely
not, Mervyn considered. She would have been most awfully braced with him for
putting up such a good show and would have comforted and cosseted him.

This girl
Clarice, he felt, was bound to do the same, so obviously the move now was to
toddle along to Eaton Square again and explain matters to her. So he gave his
hat a brush, flicked a spot of dust from his coat-sleeve, and shot off in a
taxi.

All during the
drive he was rehearsing what he would say to her, and it sounded pretty good to
him. In his mind’s eye he could see the tears coming into her gentle eyes as he
told her about the Arm of the Law gripping his trouser-seat. But, when he
arrived, a hitch occurred. There was a stage wait. The butler at Eaton Square
told him the girl was dressing.

‘Say that Mr
Mulliner has called,’ said Mervyn.

So the butler
went upstairs, and presently from aloft there came the clear penetrating voice
of his loved one telling the butler to bung Mr Mulliner into the drawing-room
and lock up all the silver.

And Mervyn
went into the drawing-room and settled down to wait.

It was one of
those drawing-rooms where there is not a great deal to entertain and amuse the
visitor. Mervyn tells me that he got a good laugh out of a photograph of the
girl’s late father on the mantelpiece — a heavily-whiskered old gentleman who
reminded him of a burst horsehair sofa — but the rest of the appointments were
on the dull side. They consisted of an album of views of Italy and a copy of
Indian Love Lyrics bound in limp cloth: and it was not long before he began to
feel a touch of ennui.

He polished
his shoes with one of the sofa-cushions, and took his hat from the table where
he had placed it and gave it another brush: but after that there seemed to be
nothing in the way of intellectual occupation offering itself, so he just
leaned back in a chair and unhinged his lower jaw and let it droop, and sank
into a sort of coma. And it was while he was still in this trance that he was
delighted to hear a dog-fight in progress in the street. He went to the window
and looked out, but the thing was apparently taking place somewhere near the
front door, and the top of the porch hid it from him.

Now, Mervyn
hated to miss a dog-fight. Many of his happiest hours had been spent at
dog-fights. And this one appeared from the sound of it to be on a more or less
major scale. He ran down the stairs and opened the front door.

As his trained
senses had told him, the encounter was being staged at the foot of the steps.
He stood in the open doorway and drank it in. He had always maintained that you
got the best dog-fights down in the Eaton Square neighbourhood, because there
tough animals from the King’s Road, Chelsea, district, were apt to wander in —
dogs who had trained on gin and flat-irons at the local public-houses and could
be relied on to give of their best.

The present
encounter bore out this view. It was between a sort of
consommé
of
mastiff and Irish terrier, on the one hand, and, on the other, a long-haired
macédoine
of about seven breeds of dog who had an indescribable raffish look, as if
he had been mixing with the artist colony down by the river. For about five
minutes it was as inspiring a contest as you could have wished to see; but at
the end of that time it stopped suddenly, both principals simultaneously
observing a cat at an area gate down the road and shaking hands hastily and
woofing after her.

Mervyn was not
a little disappointed at this abrupt conclusion to the entertainment, but it
was no use repining. He started to go back into the house and was just closing
the front door, when a messenger-boy appeared, carrying a parcel.

‘Sign, please,’
said the messenger-boy.

The lad’s
mistake was a natural one. Finding Mervyn standing in the doorway without a
hat, he had assumed him to be the butler. He pushed the parcel into his hand,
made him sign a yellow paper, and went off, leaving Mervyn with the parcel.

And Mervyn,
glancing at it, saw that it was addressed to the girl - Clarice.

But it was not
this that made him reel where he stood. What made him reel where he stood was
the fact that on the paper outside the thing was a label with ‘Bellamy &
Co., Bespoke Fruitists’ on it. And he was convinced, prodding it, that there
was some squashy substance inside which certainly was not apples, oranges,
nuts, bananas, or anything of that nature.