Sunset at Blandings (12 page)

‘Certainly
not,’ said Lord Emsworth indignantly. He had not tried to be funny since the
remote days of school, when it had taken the form of pulling a chair away from
a friend who was about to sit down. ‘I tell you I saw them. I came out of my
room and there they were, as close together as the paper on the wall. I was
delighted, of course.’

‘Delighted?’

‘Naturally.
I knew how greatly you objected to the chap you thought Victoria was in love
with, and what could be better than that she should have had second thoughts
while there was still time and taken up with my friend Smith, a charming fellow
thoroughly sound on pigs?’

‘And a
penniless artist who has to take any tuppenny job that’s offered to him.’

‘If you
consider painting the portrait of Empress of Blandings a tuppenny job, I
disagree with you,’ said Lord Emsworth with dignity. ‘And he isn’t a penniless
artist. Galahad tells me he is very well off, and only paints pigs because he
loves them.’

At the
sound of that name Florence started so violently that more mud fell from her
face. Experience had taught her that no good could ever come of anything with
which Galahad was connected. She began to feel like the man in the poem who on
a lonely road did walk in fear and dread and having once looked back walked on
and turned no more his head, because he knew a frightful fiend did close behind
him tread. Galahad and frightful fiends, not much to choose between them. She was
normally a pale woman, as any woman with a brother like that had a right to be,
but now she turned scarlet.

‘Galahad!’
she cried.

‘Smith’s
a friend of his. It was he who arranged for him to come to the castle. I had
been trying with no success to get Royal Academicians and people like that to
paint the Empress, but Galahad said No, what I wanted was an eager young
enthusiastic chap like Smith. So he sounded him about coming here, and
fortunately he was at liberty. So he came. But I mustn’t keep you up. You’re
anxious to turn in. Is that mud you’ve got on your face? How very peculiar. I
always say you never know what women will be up to next. Well, good night,
Florence, good night,’ said Lord Emsworth, and he trotted off to renew his
interrupted study of Whiffle.

If he
had supposed that on his departure Florence would curl up and go to sleep, he
erred. Late though the hour was, nothing was further from her thoughts than
slumber. She sat in a chair, her powerful brain working like a dynamo.

It was
of Galahad that she was thinking. It seemed incredible that even he could have
had the audacity to introduce into Blandings Castle the infamous Bennison at the
thought of whom she had been shuddering for weeks, but he might well have done
so. Long association with him had told her that the slogan that ruled his life
was Anything Goes.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

BRENDA PIPER, one of those
hardy women who do not mind getting up early, caught the 8.30 express to Market
Blandings
[45]
on the following morning, and Jno Robinson took her to the castle in his taxi.

The
last time Jno and his taxi appeared in this chronicle was when he had Gally as
a passenger and then, it will be remembered, there was a complete fusion of
soul between employer and employed and the most delightful harmony prevailed.
It was very different on this occasion. Briefness of acquaintance never
deterred Brenda from becoming personal and speaking her mind. If in her opinion
someone she had only just met required criticism, criticism was what he got.

Jno
Robinson had not yet shaved. She mentioned this. His costume was informal, of
the Lord Emsworth school rather than that of Beau Brummell. This too, was
touched on. She also thought poorly of his skill as a driver, and said so. The
result was that when they drew up at the front door of Blandings Castle it
needed only the discovery that she did not approve of tipping to round out the
ruin of Jno Robinson’s day.

Before
going in search of her brother James, Brenda presented herself to her hostess
and was concerned to see how pale she was. Florence, as has been indicated, had
slept badly.

‘Good
gracious,’ she exclaimed. ‘What ever is the matter, Florence? Are you ill? If
it’s a cold coming on, take two aspirins and go to bed.’

Florence
shook her head. It was not medical advice she needed.

‘I had
a bad night, but I’m perfectly well. It’s Victoria. You know the trouble I am
having with her. That man of hers.’

‘Surely
not now that she is at the castle?’

‘But he
is here, too.’

‘Here?’

‘Galahad
sneaked him in. Clarence wanted someone to paint his pig, and Galahad produced
this man.’

‘You’re
sure he’s the one?’

‘Quite
sure.’

‘Then—’

‘Why
don’t I turn him out? Because I have no proof. You know how often you hear that
the police are certain that somebody has done some crime, but they cannot make
an arrest until they have proof. It’s the same here.’

‘I’d
kick him out and chance it.’

‘It
would mean trouble with Clarence. Of course if I had proof there would be no
difficulty. Even Clarence could not object then.’

Privately
Brenda did not attach much importance to any possible objections on Lord
Emsworth’s part, but she abstained from her customary candour because she was
thinking. The trend of her thoughts became evident a moment later.

‘I know
what you can do,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you tell me that Victoria told you that
this man Bennison had been employed as a drawing instructor at Daphne
Wink-worth’s school? Well, ring up Daphne and get a description of him.’

‘I’ll
do it at once,’ said Florence. She felt that one could always rely on Brenda.

She
hastened to the telephone.

‘Daphne.’

‘Who is
this?’

‘Florence.’

‘Oh,
how are you, Florence dear?’

‘Very
worried. I rang up to ask you to do something for me.’

‘Anything,
of course.’

‘It’s
just to describe a man named Bennison.’

‘Do you
mean who used to be here as drawing master?’

‘Used
to be! Aha!’

‘Why do
you say Aha?’

‘Because
I suspect Galahad of having sneaked him into Blandings under a false name.’

‘Galahad
is capable of anything.’

‘Anything.’

‘I won’t
enquire as to his motives. Being Galahad — one can assume that they were bad …’

‘They
were.’

‘Well,
Mr. Bennison is about five foot eleven, well built, clean shaven, fair hair,
and he has a small scar just under his right eye. A football accident, I
believe. I wouldn’t say for certain that his nose hadn’t been broken at some
time. Does this meet your requirements?

‘It
does,’ said Florence. ‘It does indeed. Thank you, Daphne. I am very grateful to
you.’

Armed
with this information, she went out into the grounds in search of Gally. She
found him in the hammock under the cedar and for once took no offence at his
occupancy of it. A sister about to bathe a brother in confusion and, though she
could not count on this, bring the blush of shame to his cheek, has no time to
bother about hammocks.

She was
all amiability as she opened her attack.

‘Having
a little sleep, Galahad?’

‘Not at
the moment. Thinking deep thoughts.’

‘About
what?’

‘Oh,
this and that.’

‘Cabbages
and kings?’

‘That
sort of thing.’

‘Did
you meditate at all on Mr. Smith?’

‘Not
that I remember.’

‘I
thought you might have been wondering why he called himself that.’

‘Why
shouldn’t he? It’s his name.’

‘Really?
I always thought his name was Bennison.’ Gally’s training at the old Pelican
Club stood him in good stead. Membership at that raffish institution always
equipped a man with the ability to remain outwardly calm under the impact of
nasty surprises. Somebody like Fruity Biffen, taken aback when his Assyrian
beard fell off, might register momentary dismay, but most members beneath the
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune were able to preserve the easy
nonchalance of a Red Indian at the stake. Gaily did so now. Nobody could have
told that he was feeling as though a charge of trinitrotoluol had been touched
off under him. His frank open face showed merely the bewilderment of a brother
who was at a loss to know what his sister was talking about.

‘Why on
earth should you think his name was Bennison?’

‘Because
last night Clarence saw him hugging and kissing Victoria. It seemed to me odd
behaviour if they had only known each other about twenty-four hours.’

Gally
was astounded.

‘He was
kissing her?’

‘Yes.’

‘You
accept Clarence’s unsupported word?’

‘Yes.’

‘You
don’t think he was having one of those hallucinations people have?’

‘I do
not.’

‘I knew
a chap at the Pelican who thought he was being followed about by a little man
with a black beard. Well, I will certainly speak to Smith about this. But I
still think Clarence must have been mistaken.’

‘Have
you known him long?’

‘Ages.
We grew up together.’

‘You
did what?’

‘Oh,
you mean Smith. I thought you meant Clarence. Yes, I’ve known Smith quite a
while. Not so long as I’ve known Clarence, of course, but long enough to be
sure he’s just the man Vicky ought to marry.’

‘And I’m
sure that his name is Bennison and that you brought him to the castle.’

Gaily
shook his head reproachfully. He was not angry, but you could see he was
terribly hurt.

‘You
ought not to say such things, Florence. You have wounded me deeply.’

‘Good.’

‘You
have caused me great pain.

‘You’ll
distribute it.’

‘What
beats me is where you got this preposterous notion.’

‘I
ought to have told you that. From my friend Daphne Winkworth, at whose school
Mr. Bennison was employed for quite a time. She gave me a most accurate
description of him, down to the scar you will have noticed under his right eye.
Well, I think that is all, Galahad, and you may go back to your deep thinking.
I have of course told Victoria that Mr. Bennison is leaving the castle
immediately.’

WORK IN PROGRESS

YOU HAVE just read the
last chronicle of Blandings: sixteen skeleton chapters of a Wodehouse novel
that was to have gone to twenty-two.

These
sixteen chapters, typed out on Wodehouse’s favourite old 1927 Royal and their
pages numbered 1—90, were in the hospital with him when he died on February
14th 1975. In addition, one hundred and eighty-three pages of notes and drafts
for this novel were found after his death, thirty-three of them in the
hospital, one hundred and fifty of them from among the papers in his study at home.
Practically all of these pages were in his own handwriting, but only eighteen
of them were date-lined on top. Usually Wodehouse date-lined every page, not
only of his self-communing notes in preparation of a novel’s scenario, but also
of his drafts of dialogue and narrative.

Among
the pages of notes he had with him in hospital were two, obviously consecutive,
in typescript, of which the first is dated January 19th 1975. Although these
two pages indicate that Chapter 16, which you have just read, was typed out
after that date, the January 1 9th pages carry the last date that Wodehouse put
on any page of the collection. And, if you want to know how the last six
chapters might have brought the novel to a happy ending, this January 1 9th
scenario (pages 150—155) is the key document.

You will
see that, at this stage, Wodehouse

1.
     
is proposing to give his hero, Jeff, a less reprobate father. The
father will now be Beach the butler’s brother, and an actor rather than an
absconding company director.

2.
     
But it is not clear from the scenario why Beach is ‘agitated’ about
this. Is it because he thinks that Lady Florence will oppose the Jeff/Vicky
romance even more strongly if she discovers that Jeff, in addition to being
penniless and an impostor, is also nephew to the castle’s butler?

3.
     
has not decided what to do about Florence’s husband. After some
doubts (page 161) he is clearly going to
be
her husband, and somehow
their separation has to be changed to reconciliation and bright hopes of
happiness together in the future;