Leave it to Psmith (5 page)

Already Lord Emsworth’s attention was wandering back to the waiting McAllister.

‘Oh, very well, very well.’

‘Thanks awfully, guv’nor.’

‘But on one thing I insist, Frederick. I cannot have you loafing about London the whole day. You must catch the twelve-fifty train back.’

‘Right ho. That’ll be all right, guv’nor.’

‘Now, listen to reason, McAllister,’ said his lordship. ‘That is all I ask you to do – listen to reason . . .’

§ 1

A
T
about the hour when Lord Emsworth’s train, whirling him and his son Freddie to London, had reached the half-way point in its journey, a very tall, very thin, very solemn young man, gleaming in a speckless top hat and a morning-coat of irreproachable fit, mounted the steps of Number Eighteen, Wallingford Street, West Kensington, and rang the front-door bell. This done, he removed the hat; and having touched his forehead lightly with a silk handkerchief, for the afternoon sun was warm, gazed about him with a grave distaste.

‘A scaly neighbourhood!’ he murmured.

The young man’s judgment was one at which few people with an eye for beauty would have cavilled. When the great revolution against London’s ugliness really starts and yelling hordes of artists and architects, maddened beyond endurance, finally take the law into their own hands and rage through the city burning and destroying, Wallingford Street, West Kensington, will surely not escape the torch. Long since it must have been marked down for destruction. For, though it possesses certain merits of a low practical kind, being inexpensive in the matter of rents and handy for the buses and the Underground, it is a peculiarly beastly little street. Situated in the middle of one of those districts where London breaks out into a sort of eczema of red brick, it consists of two parallel rows of semi-detached villas, all exactly alike, each guarded by a ragged evergreen hedge, each with coloured glass of an extremely regrettable nature let into the panels of the front door; and sensitive young impressionists from the artists’ colony up Holland Parkway may sometimes be seen stumbling through it with hands over their eyes, muttering between clenched teeth ‘How long? How long?’

A small maid-of-all-work appeared in answer to the bell, and stood transfixed as the visitor, producing a monocle, placed it in his right eye and inspected her through it.

‘A warm afternoon,’ he said cordially.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But pleasant,’ urged the young man. ‘Tell me, is Mrs Jackson at home?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Not at home?’

‘No, sir.’

The young man sighed.

Ah well,’ he said, ‘we must always remember that these disappointments are sent to us for some good purpose. No doubt they make us more spiritual. Will you inform her that I called? The name is Psmith. P-smith.’

‘Peasmith, sir?’

‘No, no. P-s-m-i-t-h. I should explain to you that I started life without the initial letter, and my father always clung ruggedly to the plain Smith. But it seemed to me that there were so many Smiths in the world that a little variety might well be introduced. Smythe I look on as a cowardly evasion, nor do I approve of the too prevalent custom of tacking another name on in front by means of a hyphen. So I decided to adopt the Psmith. The p, I should add for your guidance, is silent, as in phthisis, psychic, and ptarmigan. You follow me?’

‘Y-yes, sir.’

‘You don’t think,’ he said anxiously, ‘that I did wrong in pursuing this course?’

‘N-no, sir.’

‘Splendid!’ said the young man, flicking a speck of dust from his coat-sleeve. ‘Splendid! Splendid!’

And with a courteous bow he descended the steps and made his way down the street. The little maid, having followed him with bulging eyes till he was out of sight, closed the door and returned to her kitchen.

Psmith strolled meditatively on. The genial warmth of the afternoon soothed him. He hummed lightly – only stopping when, as he reached the end of the street, a young man of his own age, rounding the corner rapidly, almost ran into him.

‘Sorry,’ said the young man. ‘Hallo, Smith.’

Psmith gazed upon him with benevolent affection.

‘Comrade Jackson,’ he said, ‘this is well met. The one man of all others whom I would have wished to encounter. We will pop off somewhere, Comrade Jackson, should your engagements permit, and restore our tissues with a cup of tea. I had hoped to touch the Jackson family for some slight refreshment, but I was informed that your wife was out.’

Mike Jackson laughed.

‘Phyllis isn’t out. She . . .’

‘Not out? Then,’ said Psmith, pained, ‘there has been dirty work done this day. For I was turned from the door. It would not be exaggerating to say that I was given the bird. Is this the boasted Jackson hospitality?’

‘Phyllis is giving a tea to some of her old school pals,’ explained Mike. ‘She told the maid to say she wasn’t at home to anybody else. I’m not allowed in myself.’

‘Enough, Comrade Jackson!’ said Psmith agreeably. ‘Say no more. If you yourself have been booted out in spite of all the loving, honouring, and obeying your wife promised at the altar, who am I to complain? And possibly, one can console oneself by reflecting, we are well out of it. These gatherings of old girls’-school chums are not the sort of function your man of affairs wants to get lugged into. Capital company as we are, Comrade Jackson, we should doubtless have been extremely in the way. I suppose the conversation would have dealt exclusively with reminiscences of the dear old school, of tales of surreptitious cocoa-drinking in the dormitories and what the deportment mistress said when Angela was found chewing tobacco in the shrubbery. Yes, I fancy we have not missed a lot. . . . By the way, I don’t think much of the new home. True, I only saw it from the outside, but . . . no, I don’t think much of it.’

‘Best we can afford.’

And who,’ said Psmith, ‘am I to taunt my boyhood friend with his honest poverty? Especially as I myself am standing on the very brink of destitution.’

‘You?’

‘I in person. That low moaning sound you hear is the wolf bivouacked outside my door.’

‘But I thought your uncle gave you rather a good salary.’

‘So he did. But my uncle and I are about to part company. From now on he, so to speak, will take the high road and I’ll take the low road. I dine with him to-night, and over the nuts and wine I shall hand him the bad news that I propose to resign my position in the firm. I have no doubt that he supposed he was doing me a good turn by starting me in his fish business, but even what little experience I have had of it has convinced me that it is not my proper sphere. The whisper flies round the clubs “Psmith has not found his niche!”

‘I am not,’ said Psmith, ‘an unreasonable man. I realise that humanity must be supplied with fish. I am not averse from a bit offish myself. But to be professionally connected with a firm that handles the material in the raw is not my idea of a large life-work. Remind me to tell you some time what it feels like to sling yourself out of bed at four a.m. and go down to toil in Billingsgate Market. No, there is money in fish – my uncle has made a pot of it – but what I feel is that there must be other walks in life for a bright young man. I chuck it to-night.’

‘What are you going to do, then?’

‘That, Comrade Jackson, is more or less on the knees of the gods. To-morrow morning I think I will stroll round to an employment agency and see how the market for bright young men stands. Do you know a good one?’

‘Phyllis always goes to Miss Clarkson’s in Shaftesbury Avenue. But . . .’

‘Miss Clarkson’s in Shaftesbury Avenue. I will make a note of it. . . . Meanwhile, I wonder if you saw the
Morning Globe
to-day?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I had an advertisement in it, in which I expressed myself as willing – indeed, eager – to tackle any undertaking that had nothing to do with fish. I am confidently expecting shoals of replies. I look forward to winnowing the heap and selecting the most desirable.’

‘Pretty hard to get a job these days,’ said Mike doubtfully.

‘Not if you have something superlatively good to offer.’

‘What have you got to offer?’

‘My services,’ said Psmith with faint reproach.

‘What as?’

‘As anything. I made no restrictions. Would you care to take a look at my manifesto? I have a copy in my pocket.’

Psmith produced from inside his immaculate waistcoat a folded clipping.

‘I should welcome your opinion of it, Comrade Jackson. I have frequently said that for sturdy common sense you stand alone. Your judgment should be invaluable.’

The advertisement, which some hours earlier had so electrified the Hon. Freddie Threepwood in the smoking-room at Blandings Castle, seemed to affect Mike, whose mind was of the stolid and serious type, somewhat differently. He finished his perusal and stared speechlessly.

‘Neat, don’t you think?’ said Psmith. ‘Covers the ground adequately? I think so, I think so.’

‘Do you mean to say you’re going to put drivel like that in the paper?’ asked Mike.

‘I
have
put it in the paper. As I told you, it appeared this morning. By this time to-morrow I shall no doubt have finished sorting out the first batch of replies.’

Mike’s emotion took him back to the phraseology of school days.

‘You
are
an ass!’

Psmith restored the clipping to his waistcoat pocket.

‘You wound me, Comrade Jackson,’ he said. ‘I had expected a broader outlook from you. In fact, I rather supposed that you would have rushed round instantly to the offices of the journal and shoved in a similar advertisement yourself. But nothing that you can say can damp my buoyant spirit. The cry goes round Kensington (and district) “Psmith is off!” In what direction the cry omits to state: but that information the future will supply. And now, Comrade Jackson, let us trickle into yonder tea-shop and drink success to the venture in a cup of the steaming. I had a particularly hard morning to-day among the whitebait, and I need refreshment.’

§ 2

After Psmith had withdrawn his spectacular person from it, there was an interval of perhaps twenty minutes before anything else occurred to brighten the drabness of Wallingford Street. The lethargy of afternoon held the thoroughfare in its grip. Occasionally a tradesman’s cart would rattle round the corner, and from time to time cats appeared, stalking purposefully among the evergreens. But at ten minutes to five a girl ran up the steps of Number Eighteen and rang the bell.

She was a girl of medium height, very straight and slim; and her fair hair, her cheerful smile, and the boyish suppleness of her body all contributed to a general effect of valiant gaiety, a sort of golden sunniness – accentuated by the fact that, like all girls who looked to Paris for inspiration in their dress that season, she was wearing black.

The small maid appeared again.

‘Is Mrs Jackson at home?’ said the girl. ‘I think she’s expecting me. Miss Halliday.’

‘Yes, miss.’

A door at the end of the narrow hall had opened.

‘Is that you, Eve?’

‘Hallo, Phyl, darling.’

Phyllis Jackson fluttered down the passage like a rose-leaf on the wind, and hurled herself into Eve’s arms. She was small and fragile, with great brown eyes under a cloud of dark hair. She had a wistful look, and most people who knew her wanted to pet her. Eve had always petted her, from their first days at school together.

‘Am I late or early?’ asked Eve.

‘You’re the first, but we won’t wait. Jane, will you bring tea into the drawing-room.’

‘Yes’m.’

‘And, remember, I don’t want to see anyone for the rest of the afternoon. If anybody calls, tell them I’m not at home. Except Miss Clarkson and Mrs McTodd, of course.’

‘Yes’m.’

‘Who is Mrs McTodd?’ inquired Eve. ‘Is that Cynthia?’

‘Yes. Didn’t you know she had married Ralston McTodd, the Canadian poet? You knew she went out to Canada?’

‘I knew that, yes. But I hadn’t heard that she was married. Funny how out of touch one gets with girls who were one’s best friends at school. Do you realise it’s nearly two years since I saw you?’

‘I know. Isn’t it awful! I got your address from Elsa Went-worth two or three days ago, and then Clarkie told me that Cynthia was over here on a visit with her husband, so I thought how jolly it would be to have a regular reunion. We three were such friends in the old days. . . . You remember Clarkie, of course? Miss Clarkson, who used to be English mistress at Wayland House.’

‘Yes, of course. Where did you run into her?’

‘Oh, I see a lot of her. She runs a Domestic Employment Agency in Shaftesbury Avenue now, and I have to go there about once a fortnight to get a new maid. She supplied Jane.’

‘Is Cynthia’s husband coming with her this afternoon?’

‘No. I wanted it to be simply us four. Do you know him? But of course you don’t. This is his first visit to England.’

‘I know his poetry. He’s quite a celebrity. Cynthia’s lucky.’

They had made their way into the drawing-room, a gruesome little apartment full of all those antimacassars, wax flowers, and china dogs inseparable from the cheaper type of London furnished house. Eve, though the exterior of Number Eighteen should have prepared her for all this, was unable to check a slight shudder as she caught the eye of the least prepossessing of the dogs, goggling at her from the mantelpiece.

‘Don’t look at them,’ recommended Phyllis, following her gaze. ‘I try not to. We’ve only just moved in here, so I haven’t had time to make the place nice. Here’s tea. All right, Jane, put it down there. Tea, Eve?’

Eve sat down. She was puzzled and curious. She threw her mind back to the days at school and remembered the Phyllis of that epoch as almost indecently opulent. A millionaire stepfather there had been then, she recollected. What had become of him now, that he should allow Phyllis to stay in surroundings like this? Eve scented a mystery, and in her customary straightforward way went to the heart of it.