A Few Quick Ones (8 page)

And idea struck him.

"Darling!"

"Yes, Angel?"

"I wonder, my queen, if you know which is that butler's room?"

"Of course, my king. Why?"

"I thought if you were to put this toad in his bed some night, shortly before he retired to rest….Just a suggestion, of course."

"An admirable suggestion. Come, my dream man," said Hermione, "and let us hunt around and see if we can't find a few frogs, too."

4

Jeeves Makes an Omelette

IN these disturbed days in which we live, it has probably occurred to all thinking men that something drastic ought to be done about aunts, Speaking for myself, I have long felt that stones should be turned and avenues explored with a view to putting a stopper on the relatives in question. If someone were to come to me and say, "Wooster, would you be interested in joining a society I am starting whose aim will be the suppression of aunts or at least will see to it that they are kept on a short chain and not permitted to roam hither and thither at will, scattering desolation on all sides?", I would reply, "Wilbraham," if his name was Wilbraham, "I am with you heart and soul. Put me down as a foundation member." And my mind would flit to the sinister episode of my Aunt Dahlia and the Fothergill Venus, from which I am making only a slow recovery. Whisper the words "Marsham Manor" in my ear, and I still quiver like a humming-bird.

At the time of its inception, if inception is the word I want, I was, I recall, feeling at the top of my form and without a care in the world. Pleasantly relaxed after thirty-six holes of golf and dinner at the Drones, I was lying on the chez Wooster sofa doing the
Telegraph
crossword puzzle, when the telephone rang. I could hear Jeeves out in the hail dealing with it, and presently he trickled in.

"Mrs. Travers. sir."

"Aunt Dahlia? What does she want?'

"She did not confide in me, sir. But she appears anxious to establish communication with you."

"To talk to me, do you mean?"

"Precisely, sir."

A bit oddish it seems to me, looking back on it, that as I went to the instrument I should have had no premonition of an impending doom. Not psychic, that's my trouble. Having no inkling of the soup into which I was so shortly to be plunged, I welcomed the opportunity of exchanging ideas with this sister of my late father who, as is widely known, is my good and deserving aunt, not to be confused with Aunt Agatha, the werewolf. What with one thing and another, it was some little time since we had chewed the fat together.

"What ho, old blood relation," I said.

"Hullo, Bertie, you revolting young blot," she responded in her hearty way. "Are you sober?"

"As a judge."

"Then listen attentively. I'm speaking from an undersized hamlet in Hampshire called Marsham-in-the-Vale. I'm staying at Marsham Manor with Cornelia Fothergill, the novelist. Ever heard of her?"

"Vaguely, as it were. She is not on my library list."

"She would be, if you were a woman. She specializes in rich goo for the female trade."

"Ah, yes, like Mrs. Bingo Little. Rosie M. Banks to you."

"That sort of thing, yes, but even goo-ier. Where Rosie M. Banks merely touches the heart strings, Cornelia Fothergill grabs them in both hands and ties them into knots. I'm trying to talk her into letting me have her new novel as a serial for the Boudoir."

I got the gist. She has since sold it, but at the time of which I speak this aunt was the proprietor or proprietress of a weekly paper for the half-witted woman called Milady's Boudoir, to which I once contributed an article - a "piece" we old hands call it - on What The Well-Dressed Man Is Wearing. Like all weekly papers it was in the process of turning the corner, as the expression is, and I could well understand that a serial by a specialist in rich goo would give it a much-needed shot in the arm.

"How's it coming?" I asked. "Any luck?"

"Not so far. She demurs."

"De what's?"

"Murs, you silly ass."

"You mean she meets your pleas with what Jeeves would call a nolle prosequi?"

"Not quite that. She has not closed the door to a peaceful settlement, but, as I say, she de…”

"Murs?"

"Murs is right. She doesn't say No, but she won't say Yes. The trouble is that Tom is doing his Gaspard-the-Miser stuff again."

Her allusion was to my uncle, Thomas Portarlington Travers, who foots the bills for what he always calls Madame's Nightshirt.
He is as rich as creosote, as I believe the phrase is, but like so many of our wealthier citizens he hates to give up. Until you have heard Uncle Tom on the subject of income tax and supertax, you haven't heard anything.

"He won't let me go above five hundred pounds, and she wants eight."

"Looks like an impasse."

"It did till this morning."

"What happened this morning?"

"Oh, just a sort of break in the clouds. She said something which gave me the impression that she was weakening and that one more shove would do the trick. Are you still sober?"

"I am."

"Then keep so over this next weekend, because you're coming down here."

"Who, me?"

"You, in person."

"But, why?"

"To help me sway her. You will exercise all your charm…"

"I haven't much."

"Well, exercise what you've got. Give her the old oil. Play on her as on a stringed instrument."

I chewed the lip somewhat. I'm not keen on these blind dates. And if life has taught me one thing, it is that the prudent man keeps away from female novelists. But it might be, of course, that a gay house-party was contemplated. I probed her on this point.

"Will anyone else be there? Is there any bright young society, I mean?"

"I wouldn't call the society young, but it's very bright. There's Cornelia's husband, Everard Fothergill the artist, and his father Edward Fothergill. He's an artist, too, of a sort. You won't have a dull moment. So tell Jeeves to pack your effects, and we shall expect you on Friday. You will continue to haunt the house till Monday."

"Cooped up with a couple of artists and a writer of rich goo? I don't like it,"

"You don't have to like it," the aged relative assured me. "You just do it. Oh, and by the way, when you get here, I've a little something I want you to do for me."

"What sort of a little something?"

"I'll tell you about it when I see you. Just a simple little thing to help Auntie. You'll enjoy it," she said, and with a cordial "Toodle-oo" rang off.

It surprises many people, I believe, that Bertram Wooster, as a general rule a man of iron, is as wax in the hands of his Aunt Dahlia, jumping to obey her lightest behest like a performing seal going after a slice of fish. They do not know that this woman possesses a secret weapon by means of which she can always bend me to her will - viz. the threat that if I give her any of my lip, she will bar me from her dinner table and deprive me of the roasts and boileds of her French chef Anatole, God's gift to the gastric juices. When she says Go, accordingly, I do not demur, I goeth, as the Bible puts it, and so it came about that toward the quiet evenfall of Friday the 22nd inst. I was at the wheel of the old sports model, tooling through Hants with Jeeves at my side and weighed down with a nameless foreboding.

"Jeeves," I said, "I am weighed down with a nameless foreboding."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Yes. What, I ask myself, is cooking?"

"I do not think I quite follow you, sir."

"Then you jolly well ought to. I reported my conversation with Aunt Dahlia to you verbatim, and you should have every word of it tucked away beneath your bowler hat. To refresh your memory, after a certain amount of kidding back and forth she said I've a little something I want you to do for me', and when I enquired what, she fobbed me off…is it fobbed?"

"Yes, sir."

"She fobbed me off with a careless ‘Oh, just a simple little thing to help Auntie'. What construction do you place on those words ?"

"One gathers that there is something Mrs. Travers wishes you to do for her, sir."

"One does, but the point is - what? You recall what has happened in the past when the gentler sex have asked me to do things for them. Especially Aunt Dahlia. You have not forgotten the affair of Sir Watkyn Basset and the silver cow-creamer?"

"No, sir."

"On that occasion, but for you, Bertram Wooster would have done a stretch in the local hoosegow. Who knows that this little something to which she referred will not land me in a similar peril? I wish I could slide out of this binge, Jeeves."

"I can readily imagine it, sir."

"But I can't, I'm like those Light Brigade fellows. You remember how matters stood with them?"

"Very vividly, sir. Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and. die."

"Exactly. Cannons to right of them, cannons to left of them volleyed and thundered, but they had to keep snapping into it regardless. I know just how they felt," I said, moodily stepping on the accelerator. The brow was furrowed and the spirits low.

Arrival at Marsham Manor did little to smooth the former and raise the latter. Shown into the hall, I found myself in as cosy an interior as one could wish - large log fire, comfortable chairs and a tea-table that gave out an invigorating aroma of buttered toast and muffins, all very pleasant to encounter after a long drive on a chilly winter afternoon - but a single glance at the personnel was enough to tell me that I had struck one of those joints where every prospect pleases and only man is vile.

Three human souls were present when I made my entry, each plainly as outstanding a piece of cheese as Hampshire could provide. One was a small, thin citizen with a beard of the type that causes so much distress - my host, I presumed - and seated near him was another bloke of much the same construction but an earlier model, whom I took to be the father. He, too, was bearded to the gills. The third was a large spreading woman wearing the horn-rimmed spectacles which are always an occupational risk for penpushers of the other sex. They gave her a rather remarkable resemblance to my Aunt Agatha, and I would be deceiving my public were I to say that the heart did not sink to some extent. To play on such a woman as on a stringed instrument wasn't going to be the simple task Aunt Dahlia appeared to think it.

After a brief pause for station identification, she introduced me to the gang, and I was on the point of doing the civil thing by asking Everard Fothergill if he had been painting anything lately, when he stiffened.

"Hark!" he said. "Can you hear a mewing cat?"

"Eh?" I said.

"A mewing cat. I feel sure I hear a mewing cat. Listen!"

While we were listening the door opened and Aunt Dahlia came in. Everard put the 64,000-dollar question squarely up to her.

"Mrs. Travers, did you meet a mewing cat outside?"

"No," said the aged relative. "No mewing cat. Why, did you order one?"

"I can't bear mewing cats," said Everard. "A mewing cat gets on my nerves."

That was all about mewing cats for the moment. Tea was dished out, and I had a couple of bits of buttered toast, and so the long day wore on till it was time to dress for dinner. The Fothergill contingent pushed off, and I was heading in the same direction, when Aunt Dahlia arrested my progress.

"Just a second, Bertie, before you put on your clean dickey," she said. "I would like to show you something."

"And I," I riposted, "would like to know what this job is you say you want me to do for you."

"I'll be coming, to that later. This thing I'm going to show you is tied in with it. But first a word from our sponsor. Did you notice anything about Everard Fothergill just now?"

I reviewed the recent past.

"Would you describe him as perhaps a bit jumpy? He seemed to me to be stressing the mewing cat motif rather more strongly than might have been expected."

"Exactly. He's a nervous wreck. Cornelia tells me he used to be very fond of cats."

"He still appears interested in them."

"It's this blasted picture that has sapped his morale."

"Which blasted picture would that be?"

"I'll show you. Step this way."

She led me into the dining-room and switched on the light. "Look," she said.

What she was drawing to my attention was a large oil painting. A classical picture, I suppose you would have called it. Stout female in the minimum of clothing in conference with a dove.

"Venus?" I said. It's usually a safe bet.

"Yes. Old Fothergill painted it. He's just the sort of man who would paint a picture of Ladies Night In A Turkish Bath and call it Venus. He gave it to Everard as a wedding present."

"Thus saving money on the customary fish-slice. Shrewd, very shrewd. And I gather from what you were saying that the latter does not like it."

"Of course he doesn't. It's a mess. The old boy's just an incompetent amateur. But being devoted to .his father and not wanting to hurt his feelings Everard can't have it taken down and put in the cellar. He's stuck with it, and has to sit looking at it every time he puts on the nose-bag. With what result?"

"The food turns to ashes in his mouth?"

"Exactly. It's driving him potty. Everard's a real artist. His stuff's good. Some of it's in the Tate. Look at this," she said, indicating another canvas. "That's one of his things."

I gave it a quick once-over. It, too, was a classical picture, and seemed to my untutored mind very like the other one, but presuming that some sort of art criticism was expected of me I said:

"I like the patina."

That, too, is generally a safe bet, but it appeared that I had said the wrong thing, for the relative snorted audibly.

"No, you don't, you miserable blighter. You don't even know what a patina is."

She had me there, of course. I didn't.

"You and your ruddy patinas! Well, anyway, you see why Everard has got the jitters. If a man can paint as well as he can, it naturally cuts him to the quick to have to glue his eyes on a daub like the Venus every time he sits down to break bread. Suppose you were a great musician. Would you like to have to listen to a cheap, vulgar tune - the same tune - day after day? Or suppose that every time you went to lunch at the Drones you had to sit opposite someone who looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame? Would you enjoy that? Of course you wouldn't. You'd be as sick as mud."