Service with a Smile (6 page)

‘I
anticipate no such contingency. You seem to have a very odd idea of the sort of
thing that goes on at Blandings Castle, my boy. You appear to look on that
refined home as a kind of Bowery saloon with bodies being hurled through the
swing doors all the time, and bounced along the sidewalk. Nothing of that
nature will occur. We shall be like a great big family. Peace and good will
everywhere. Too bad you won’t be with us.

‘I’m
all right here, thanks,’ said Pongo with a slight shudder as he recalled some
of the high spots of his previous visit to the castle. ‘But I still maintain
that when Lady Constance hears the name Bailey —’

‘But
she won’t. You don’t suppose a shrewd man like myself would have overlooked a
point like that. He’s calling himself Cuthbert Meriwether. I told him to write
it down and memorize it.’

‘She’ll
find out.’

‘Not a
chance. Who’s going to tell her?’

Pongo
gave up the struggle. He knew the futility of arguing, and he had just
perceived the bright side to the situation — to wit, that after tomorrow more
than a hundred miles would separate him from his amiable but hair-bleaching
relative. The thought was a very heartening one. Going by the form book, he
took it for granted that ere many suns had set the old buster would be up to
some kind of hell which would ultimately stagger civilization and turn the moon
to blood, but what mattered was that he would be up to it at Lord Emsworth’s
rural seat and not in London. How right, he felt, the author of the well-known
hymn had been in saying that peace, perfect peace is to be attained only when
loved ones are far away.

‘Let’s
go in and have some dinner,’ he said.

Chapter
Three

1

One of the things that
made Lord Emsworth such a fascinating travelling companion was the fact that
shortly after the start of any journey he always fell into a restful sleep. The
train bearing him and guests to Market Blandings had glided from the platform
of Paddington station, as promised by the railway authorities, whose word is
their bond, at 11.45, and at 12.10 he was lying back in his seat with his eyes
closed, making little whistling noises punctuated at intervals by an occasional
snort. Lord Ickenham, accordingly, was able to talk to the junior member of the
party without risk, always to be avoided when there is plotting afoot, of being
overheard.

‘Nervous,
Bill?’ he said, regarding the Rev Cuthbert sympathetically. He had seemed to
notice during the early stages of the journey a tendency on the other’s part to
twitch like a galvanized frog and allow a sort of glaze to creep over his eyes.

Bill
Bailey breathed deeply.

‘I’m
feeling as I did when I tottered up the pulpit steps to deliver my first
sermon.’

‘I
quite understand. While there is no more admirably educational experience for
a young fellow starting out in life than going to stay at a country house under
a false name, it does tend to chill the feet to no little extent. Pongo, though
he comes from a stout-hearted family, felt just as you do when I took him to Blandings
Castle as Sir Roderick Glossop’s nephew Basil. I remember telling him at the
time that he reminded me of Hamlet. The same moodiness and irresolution,
coupled with a strongly marked disposition to get out of the train and walk
back to London. Having become accustomed to this kind of thing myself, so much
so that now I don’t think it quite sporting to go to stay with people under my
own name, I have lost the cat-on-hot-bricks feeling which I must have had at
one time, but I can readily imagine that for a novice an experience of this
sort cannot fail to be quite testing. Your sermon was a success, I trust?’

‘Well,
they didn’t rush the pulpit.’

‘You
are too modest, Bill Bailey. I’ll bet you had them rolling in the aisles and
carried out on stretchers. And this visit to Blandings Castle will, I know,
prove equally triumphant. You are probably asking yourself what I am hoping to
accomplish by it. Nothing actually constructive, but I think it essential for
you to keep an eye on this Archibald Gilpin of whom I have heard so much. Pongo
tells me he is an artist, and you know how dangerous they are. Watch him
closely. Every time he suggests to Myra an after-dinner stroll to the lake to
look at the moonlight glimmering on the water — and on the Church Lads’ Brigade
too, of course, for, I understand that they are camping out down there — you
must join the hikers.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s
the spirit. And the same thing applies to any attempt on his part to get the
… popsy is the term you use, is it not?’

‘It is
not the term I use. It’s the term Pongo uses, and I’ve had to speak to him
about it.’

‘I’m
sorry. Any attempt on his part, I should have said, to get the girl you love
into the rose garden must be countered with the same firmness and resolution.
But I can leave that to you. Tell me, how did you two happen to meet?’

A
rugged face like Bill Bailey’s could never really be a mirror of the softer
emotions, but something resembling a tender look did come into it. If their
host had not at this moment uttered a sudden snort rather like that of Empress
of Blandings on beholding linseed meal, Lord Ickenham would have heard him sigh
sentimentally.

‘You
remember that song, the Limehouse Blues?’

‘It is
one I frequently sing in my bath. But aren’t we changing the subject?’

‘No,
what I was going to say was that she had heard the song over in America, and she’d
read that book Limehouse Nights, and she was curious to see the place. So she
sneaked off one afternoon and went there. Well, Limehouse is next door to Bottleton
East, where my job was, and I happened to be doing some visiting there for a
pal of mine who had sprained an ankle while trying to teach the choir boys to
dance the carioca, and I came along just as someone was snatching her bag. So,
of course, I biffed the blighter.’

‘Where
did they bury the unfortunate man?’

‘Oh, I
didn’t biff him much, just enough to make him see how wrong it is to snatch
bags.’

‘And
then?’

‘Well,
one thing led to another, sort of.’

‘I see.
And what is she like these days?’

‘You
know her?’

‘In her
childhood we were quite intimate. She used to call me Uncle Fred. Extraordinarily
pretty she was then. Still is, I hope?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s
good. So many attractive children lose their grip and go all to pieces in later
life.’

‘Yes.’

‘But
she didn’t?’

‘No.’

‘Still
comely, is she?’

‘Yes.’

‘And
you would die for one little rose from her hair?’

‘Yes.’

‘There
is no peril, such for instance as having Lady Constance Keeble look
squiggle-eyed at you, that you would not face for her sake?’

‘No.’

‘Your
conversational method, my dear Bill,’ said Lord Ickenham, regarding him
approvingly, ‘impresses me a good deal and has shown me that I must change the
set-up as I had envisaged it. I had planned on arrival at the Castle to draw
you out on the subject of Brazil, so that you could hold everybody spellbound
with your fund of good stories about your adventures there and make yourself
the life of the party, but I feel now that that is not the right approach.’

‘Brazil?’

‘Ah,
yes, I didn’t mention that to you, did I? I told Emsworth that there was where
you came from.’

‘Why
Brazil?’

‘Oh,
one gets these ideas. But I was saying that I had changed my mind about
featuring you as a sparkling raconteur. Having had the pleasure of conversing
with you, I see you now as the strong, silent man, the fellow with the far-away
look in his eyes who rarely speaks except in monosyllables. So if anybody tries
to pump you about Brazil, just grunt. Like our host,’ said Lord Ickenham,
indicating Lord Emsworth, who was doing so. ‘A pity in a way of course, for I
had a couple of good stories about the Brazilian ants which would have gone
down well. As I dare say you know, they go about eating everything in sight,
like Empress of Blandings.’

The
sound of that honoured name must have penetrated Lord Emsworth’s slumbers, for
his eyes opened and he sat up, blinking.

‘Did I
hear you say something about the Empress?’

‘I was
telling Meriwether here what a superb animal she was, the only pig that has
ever won the silver medal in the Fat Pigs class three years in succession at
the Shropshire Agricultural Show. Wasn’t I, Meriwether?’

‘Yes.’

‘He
says Yes. You must show her to him first thing.’

‘Eh?
Oh, of course. Yes, certainly, certainly, certainly,’ said Lord Emsworth, well
pleased. ‘You’ll join us, Ickenham?’

‘Not
immediately, if you don’t mind. I yield to no one in my appreciation of the
Empress, but I feel that on arrival at the old shanty what I shall need first
is a refreshing cup of tea.’

‘Tea?’ said
Lord Emsworth, as if puzzled by the word. ‘Tea? Oh, tea? Yes, of course, tea.
Don’t take it myself, but Connie has it on the terrace every afternoon. She’ll
look after you.’

2

Lady Constance was alone
at the tea-table when Lord Ickenham reached it. As he approached, she lowered
the cucumber sandwich with which she had been about to refresh herself and contrived
what might have passed for a welcoming smile. To say that she was glad to see
Lord Ickenham would be overstating the case, and she had already spoken her
mind to her brother Clarence with reference to his imbecility in inviting him —
with a friend — to Blandings Castle. But, as she had so often had to remind herself
when coping with the Duke of Dunstable, she was a hostess, and a hostess must
conceal her emotions.

‘So
nice to see you again, Lord Ickenham. So glad you were able to come,’ she said,
not actually speaking from between clenched teeth, but far from warmly. ‘Will
you have some tea, or would you rather … Are you looking for something?’

‘Nothing
important,’ said Lord Ickenham, whose eyes had been flitting to and fro as if
he felt something to be missing. ‘I had been expecting to see my little friend,
Myra Schoonmaker. Doesn’t she take her dish of tea of an afternoon?’

‘Myra
went for a walk. You know her?’

‘In her
childhood we were quite intimate. Her father was a great friend of mine.’

The
rather marked frostiness of Lady Constance’s manner melted somewhat. Nothing
would ever make her forget what this man in a single brief visit had done to
the cloistral peace of Blandings Castle while spreading sweetness and light
there, but to a friend of James Schoonmaker much had to be forgiven. In a
voice that was almost cordial she said:

‘Have
you seen him lately?’

‘Alas,
not for many years. He has this unfortunate habit so many Americans have of
living in America.’

Lady
Constance sighed. She, too, had deplored this whim of James Schoonmaker’s.

‘And as
my dear wife feels rightly or wrongly that it is safer for me not to be exposed
to the temptations of New York but to live a quiet rural life at Ickenham Hall,
Hants, our paths have parted, much to my regret. I knew him when he was a junior
member of one of those Wall Street firms. I suppose he’s a monarch of finance
now, rolling in the stuff?’

‘He has
been very successful, yes.’

‘I
always predicted that he would be. I never actually saw him talking into three
telephones at the same time, for he had not yet reached those heights, but it
was obvious that the day would come when he would be able to do it without
difficulty.’

‘He was
over here not long ago. He left Myra with me. He wanted her to have a London
season.’

‘Just
the kindly sort of thing he would do. Did she enjoy it?’

Lady
Constance frowned.

‘I was
unfortunately obliged to take her away from London after we had been there a
few weeks. I found that she had become involved with a quite impossible young
man.’

There
was a shocked horror in Lord Ickenham’s ‘Tut-tut!’

‘She
insisted that they were engaged. Absurd, of course.’

‘Why
absurd?’

‘He is
a curate.’

‘I have
known some quite respectable curates.’

‘Have
you ever known one who had any money?’

‘Well,
no. They don’t often have much, do they? I suppose a curate who was quick with
his fingers would make a certain amount out of the Sunday offertory bag, but
nothing more than a small, steady income. Did Myra blow her top?’

‘I beg
your pardon?’

‘Is she
emotionally disturbed at being parted from the man of her choice?’

‘She
seems depressed.’