A Pelican at Blandings (13 page)

'Johnny's handicap is six.'

'I know.'

'What's yours?'

'Eighteen.'

'Well, then. Think how he would improve your game. With
him constantly at your side you might get down into single
figures. What every girl needs is a husband whose loving task
it will be to make her keep her head down and her eye on the
ball. And apart from that the mere fact that after only a few
meetings you both became convinced that you were twin souls
makes it obvious that a merger between you and John Stiffy
Halliday is a good thing and should be pushed along.'

In spite of her resolve to keep the scene on a dignified plane
and to do nothing that would detract from her cold hauteur,
Linda gave a squeak of surprise.

'John
what
Halliday?'

'His father at the christening insisted on the Stiffy. It was
his nickname at the Pelican Club, and he wanted it to live after
him. His wife objected and the parson wasn't any too pleased,
but he won the battle of the font. He was a very determined
chap. Johnny's the same.'

'He can be as determined as he likes. I don't want anything
more to do with him.'

'That's what you think now.'

'And I shall go on thinking it.'

Gally sighed. He removed his eyeglass and began to polish it.
Uphill work, this. A little difficult to know how to proceed. He
could understand how those Old Testament snake charmers
must have felt who tried to ingratiate themselves with the deaf
adder and did not get to first base. He spoke reproachfully.

'You know where you've made your bloomer?'

'Where have I made my bloomer?'

'You've let the sun go down on your wrath, which is the
worst possible thing to do. All the nibs are agreed on that.'

Linda was silent for awhile. She seemed to be thinking.

'I suppose I have. Though it isn't wrath exactly.'

'It looks like wrath to me.'

'It was at first, but now it's more like clear vision, if you
know what I mean.'

'I don't.'

'It's hard to explain.'

'Have a try.'

'Well, after I'd been thinking about it for a long time it
suddenly struck me . . . Have you ever had all your clothes
taken off and been tarred and feathered?'

'Not that I remember.'

'Well, that's how I felt when I was in the witness box with
him saying "I suggest" and "Is it not a fact", and I suddenly
realized that if we were married, every time I looked at him I
would be thinking of it and a happy marriage would be
impossible.'

'What rot.'

'It isn't rot. It's plain sense. The fact is, no girl ought to
marry a barrister.'

'Then barristers would become extinct.'

'Which would be fine. The more extinct they become, the
better.'

'I disagree with you. Barristers are all right.'

'They're not. They're sadists, never happier than when
they're torturing some unfortunate witness.'

'Just doing their duty.'

'Nonsense. It gives them a kick. They love it.'

'Do you think Johnny loved it?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Well, he didn't. He suffered agonies. His soul was twisted
into knots. But it was his duty to go all out and win the case
for his client. He was taking Clutterbuck's money, and he had
to give him a square deal. He couldn't pull his punches just
because the other side's star witness happened to be the girl he
loved. I admire Johnny intensely. He is an example to all of us.
I class him with Lucius Junius Brutus.'

'Who?'

'Haven't you ever heard of Lucius Junius Brutus?'

'No.'

'They don't seem to have taught you much at your school.
You ought to have gone to Eton. I suppose you were trying so
hard to get into the hockey team that you neglected your
studies.'

'I didn't play hockey.'

'Well, lacrosse or ping-pong or whatever it was. Lucius
Junius Brutus was a judge of the criminal court in ancient
Rome, and one day who should come up before him, charged
with some particularly fruity crime, but his only son, the apple
of his eye, and as the trial proceeded it became evident that it
was an open and shut case and the prosecution had the thing
in a bag. Not even Perry Mason could have got the accused off.
But did Lucius Junius Brutus dismiss him with a few fatherly
words of caution not to do it again? Did he impose a nominal
fine or give him a suspended sentence? No, he saw where his
duty lay. He threw the book at the young stinker, and
everybody went about saying what a splendid fellow he was. I
feel the same about Johnny.'

'I don't.'

'You will. Give yourself time. Don't rush it. The day will
come when you'll be proud to marry him.'

'I wouldn't marry him if he were the last man on earth.'

'Well, he isn't, so the question does not arise.'

'I don't think I'll ever marry anyone.'

'Of course you will. You'll marry Johnny.'

'I won't.'

'Want to bet?'

At this moment, when the conversation seemed to have
reached a deadlock and stalemate to have set in at the
negotiating table, John and the Duke came downstairs, or
rather the Duke and John, for they descended in that order.
They came not at the leisurely pace customary in good society,
but almost as rapidly as if they had slid down the banisters.
One moment they were not there, the next they were.

It will be remembered that when last seen these two
amateur acrobats were at the head of the stairs and that
Howard Chesney was advancing on them like a leopard in
quest of its prey, having decided to follow what he could see
was the excellent advice of his guardian angel. He reached
journey's end just as John was taking his first downward step,
he having courteously allowed his elder to precede him. He
then, in accordance with his guardian angel's instructions,
placed a hand between John's shoulder blades and pushed.

He pushed with the utmost force at his command, and
results from his point of view could not have been more
satisfactory. The stairs were just as slippery as they had been
when he had floated down them, and John, losing his footing,
flew through the air like the daring young man on the flying
trapeze of whom the poet has sung. He had not proceeded far
when he overtook the Duke, and they both flew through the
air with, to quote the bard again, the greatest of ease. Arriving
in the hall, they separated. The Duke reached the suit of
armour in the shadow of which the recent board meeting had
been held, while John got only as far as the table where the
papers and magazines were kept. Less fortunate than Howard
Chesney, he struck it with his head. There was a nasty banging
sound and then, as the expression is, he knew no more.

One of the things he did not know was that as he and the
table came together Linda had sprung to her feet, uttered a
choking cry like Gally's friend who swallowed the aspirin
tablet and clutched at her throat in the manner of the heroine
of a mystery play when there is a shriek in the night. She then
sped across the hall to where the injured man lay, plainly
stirred to her depths.

Her display of emotion would have caused Lady
Constance's governesses to shake their heads, but Gally,
following her at the slower pace fitted to his advanced years,
regarded it with an approving eyeglass. It seemed to him that
things could not have worked out more satisfactorily. He had
recommended his godson to have an accident, and he had had
an accident. And getting stunned like this was in his opinion
even better than being hit on the head with a stone tobacco jar,
and that had been amply sufficient to bring two sundered
hearts together. In next to no time, he estimated, the popsy
would be flinging herself on that prostrate form and showering
kisses on it.

He was right. She did. And John, recovering consciousness
and with it the illusion that some practical joker had substituted
for his head a large and throbbing pumpkin, looked up
dazedly. He had an odd feeling that someone had been kissing
him. It hardly seemed possible that it was Linda who had done
this, but she was certainly bending over him, and it was worth
enquiring into.

'Were you kissing me?' he muttered.

'She was indeed,' said Gally heartily. 'No argument about
that, my boy. She was kissing you like a ton of bricks. And I
think I speak for her when I say that any little differences you
may have had are now all washed up and that the laughing love
god has wound his silken fetters about her once more, just as
in the good old days when Clutterbuck and Frisby were
nothing but a couple of names in the telephone directory.
Correct, wench?'

'Quite correct.'

'This poor bit of human wreckage is officially established as
the cream in your coffee and the salt in your stew?'

'He is.'

'Then would it be fair to suggest that you take him to the
downstairs washroom and bathe his head in cold water. That
certainly is a lump you've got, Johnny. I've not seen one as big
as that since I used to attend the Saturday night gatherings at
the old Pelican. Your father was a great man for getting lumps
on his head, generally owing to being hit with bottles. He was
always having political disputes with the more quick-tempered
members. What the devil's all that noise?' said Gally changing
the subject.

The noise to which he alluded was proceeding from the Duke.
He was lying underneath the suit of armour and giving every
indication that, whatever ill effects he might have suffered
from his fall, his lungs had remained unimpaired. Gally
walked over to where he lay and surveyed him with a sympathetic
eye. He was not fond of the Duke, but he had a kind
heart and could see that he was in pain.

'Are you all right, Dunstable?' he asked, feeling as he spoke
that it was a foolish question, and the injured man told him not
to be an ass.

'Of course I'm not all right. I've sprained my ankle.'

'Let me have a look. Does that hurt?'

'Ouch!'

'Yes, it's a sprain all right. I can feel the swelling. I'll help
you to your room. Oh, Beach,' said Gally, as that interested
observer appeared beside them, 'His Grace has sprained his
ankle.'

'Indeed, Mr. Galahad?'

'Will you lend a hand. And then you might phone the
doctor to come and look him over.'

After a difficult journey the Duke was deposited on the sofa
in the garden suite, and Beach withdrew to telephone. Gally,
about to follow him, was halted by a sharp 'Hey' from the
invalid. He turned, expecting to listen to further observations
on the subject of sprained ankles, on which already the other
had been far from reticent, but it was on a different topic that
the Duke now touched.

'Threepwood!'

'Hullo?'

'Ouch!'

'Agony?'

'Of course it's agony. But it's not that. It's about that niece
of mine. What the devil's come over her?'

'How do you mean?'

'You know. You were standing right beside her when she
did it. You saw the whole thing. Dammit, man, even if you
wear an eyeglass, you aren't blind. She was kissing the headshrinker.'

Gally uttered an exclamation. It was as if his memory had
been jogged.

'You're perfectly right. So she was. Yes, it all comes back to
me. He was lying on the floor, and she bent over him—'

'What do you mean, bent over him? She flung herself at him
like a performing seal going after a bit of fish and kissed him.'

'Yes, I noticed.'

'About fifty times.'

'Yes, that would probably be somewhere near the figure.
And you are naturally wondering why. I can explain it in a few
words. She's in love with him.'

'Don't be an ass. She's never met him. Not till tonight, I
mean. He only arrived this evening. They're perfect strangers.'

Gally saw that the time had come to unseal his lips. He
would have preferred to postpone the revelation till he had had
his dinner, but this did not appear to be within the sphere of
practical politics. It was plain that the invalid would not rest
easily on his sofa until presented with a solution of the mystery
which was vexing him. He embarked on his narrative with the
smooth suavity which had been wont to win all hearts at the
Pelican Club.

'I see the time has come to let you in on a little secret,
Dunstable, though I wasn't intending to mention it till a more
favourable opportunity. In supposing that Johnny Halliday
and your niece are perfect strangers you are very wide of the
mark. He has known her for quite a time, during which time
he never for an instant omitted to press his suit. You know the
sort of thing. Flowers, lunches, ardent glances, whispered
words and I should imagine, though this is merely a
conjecture, bottles of scent. Sometimes he would tell himself
that he was making progress, sometimes he would feel that he
was getting nowhere and despondency would ensue. He was
often to be seen in Hyde Park or Kensington Gardens
plucking daisies and murmuring "She loves me, she loves me
not". And so it went on till some nights ago, stiffening the
sinews and summoning up the blood, as the fellow said, he
proposed to her in a taxi cab and they became betrothed. That
was the night you were so disturbed because she hummed and
giggled, giving you the impression that something had gone
wrong with the two hemispheres of her brain and the broad
band of transversely running fibres known as the corpus
callosum and that she was, in your crisp phrase, potty. It was
not pottiness, Dunstable, it was the natural exuberance of a
young girl who has found love and happiness and is looking
forward to the wedding with full choral effects, with the man
she adores standing at her side in a morning coat and sponge
bag trousers and the bishop and assistant clergy doing their
stuff as busily as one-armed paperhangers with the hives. And
then the reception and the going-away dress and the sunlit
honeymoon and all that applesauce.'