The Jeeves Omnibus (250 page)

I had never listened in on a real, genuine female row before, and I’m bound to say it was pretty impressive. During my absence, matters appeared to have developed on rather a spacious scale. They had reached the stage now where the combatants had begun to dig into the past and rake up old scores. Mrs Bingo was saying that the Pyke would never have got into the hockey team at St Adela’s if she hadn’t flattered and fawned upon the captain in a way that it made Mrs Bingo, even after all these years, sick to think of. The Pyke replied that she had refrained from mentioning it until now, having always felt it better to let bygones be bygones, but that if Mrs Bingo supposed her to be unaware that Mrs Bingo had won the Scripture prize by taking a list of the Kings of Judah into the examination room, tucked into her middy-blouse, Mrs Bingo was vastly mistaken.

Furthermore, the Pyke proceeded, Mrs Bingo was also labouring under an error if she imagined that the Pyke proposed to remain a night longer under her roof. It had been in a moment of weakness, a moment of mistaken kindliness, supposing her to be lonely and in need of intellectual society, that the Pyke had decided to pay her a visit at all. Her intention now was, if ever Providence sent them aid and enabled her to get out of this beastly car and back to her trunks, to pack those trunks and leave by the next train, even if that train was a milk-train, stopping at every station. Indeed, rather than endure another night at Mrs Bingo’s, the Pyke was quite willing to walk to London.

To this, Mrs Bingo’s reply was long and eloquent and touched on the fact that in her last term at St Adela’s a girl named Simpson had told her (Mrs Bingo) that a girl named Waddesley had told her (the Simpson) that the Pyke, while pretending to be a friend of hers (the
Bingo’s
), had told her (the Waddesley) that she (the Bingo) couldn’t eat strawberries and cream without coming out in spots, and, in addition, had spoken in the most catty manner about the shape of her nose. It could all have been condensed, however, into the words ‘Right ho’.

It was when the Pyke had begun to say that she had never had such a hearty laugh in her life as when she read the scene in Mrs Bingo’s last novel where the heroine’s little boy dies of croup that we felt it best to call the meeting to order before bloodshed set in. Jeeves had come up in the car, and Bingo, removing a tin of petrol from the dickey, placed it in the shadows at the side of the road. Then we hopped on and made the spectacular entry.

‘Hullo, hullo, hullo,’ said Bingo brightly. ‘Bertie tells me you’ve had a breakdown.’

‘Oh, Bingo!’ cried Mrs Bingo, wifely love thrilling in every syllable. ‘Thank goodness you’ve come.’

‘Now, perhaps,’ said the Pyke, ‘I can get home and do my packing. If Mr Wooster will allow me to use his car, his man can drive me back to the house in time to catch the six-fifteen.’

‘You aren’t leaving us?’ said Bingo.

‘I am,’ said the Pyke.

‘Too bad,’ said Bingo.

She climbed in beside Jeeves and they popped off. There was a short silence after they had gone. It was too dark to see her, but I could feel Mrs Bingo struggling between love of her mate and the natural urge to say something crisp about his forgetting to fill the petrol tank that morning. Eventually nature took its course.

‘I must say, sweetie-pie,’ she said, ‘it was a little careless of you to leave the tank almost empty when we started today. You promised me you would fill it, darling.’

‘But I did fill it, darling.’

‘But, darling, it’s empty.’

‘It can’t be, darling.’

‘Laura said it was.’

‘The woman’s an ass,’ said Bingo. ‘There’s plenty of petrol. What’s wrong is probably that the sprockets aren’t running true with the differential gear. It happens that way sometimes. I’ll fix it in a second. But I don’t want you to sit freezing out here while I’m doing it. Why not go to that house over there and ask them if you can’t come in and sit down for ten minutes? They might give you a cup of tea, too.’

A soft moan escaped Mrs Bingo.

‘Tea!’ I heard her whisper.

I had to bust Bingo’s daydream.

‘I’m sorry, old man,’ I said, ‘but I fear the old English hospitality which you outline is off. That house is inhabited by a sort of bandit. As unfriendly a bird as I ever met. His wife’s out and he’s just got the baby to sleep, and this has darkened his outlook. Tap even lightly on his front door and you take your life into your hands.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Bingo. ‘Come along.’

He banged the knocker, and produced an immediate reaction.

‘Hell!’ said the Bandit, appearing as if out of a trap.

‘I say,’ said young Bingo, ‘I’m just fixing our car outside. Would you object to my wife coming in out of the cold for a few minutes?’

‘Yes,’ said the Bandit, ‘I would.’

‘And you might give her a cup of tea.’

‘I might,’ said the Bandit, ‘but I won’t.’

‘You won’t?’

‘No. And for heaven’s sake don’t talk so loud. I know that baby. A whisper sometimes does it.’

‘Let us get this straight,’ said Bingo. ‘You refuse to give my wife tea?’

‘Yes.’

‘You would see a woman starve?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you jolly well aren’t going to,’ said young Bingo. ‘Unless you go straight to your kitchen, put the kettle on, and start slicing bread for the buttered toast, I’ll yell and wake the baby.’

The Bandit turned ashen.

‘You wouldn’t do that?’

‘I would.’

‘Have you no heart?’

‘No.’

‘No human feeling?’

‘No.’

The Bandit turned to Mrs Bingo. You could see his spirit was broken.

‘Do your shoes squeak?’ he asked humbly.

‘No.’

‘Then come on in.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Bingo.

She turned for an instant to Bingo, and there was a look in her eyes that one of those damsels in distress might have given the knight as he shot his cuffs and turned away from the dead dragon. It was a
look
of adoration, of almost reverent respect. Just the sort of look, in fact, that a husband likes to see.

‘Darling!’ she said.

‘Darling!’ said Bingo.

‘Angel!’ said Mrs Bingo.

‘Precious!’ said Bingo. ‘Come along, Bertie, let’s get at that car.’

He was silent till he had fetched the tin of petrol and filled the tank and screwed the cap on again. Then he drew a deep breath.

‘Bertie,’ he said, ‘I am ashamed to admit it, but occasionally in the course of a lengthy acquaintance there have been moments when I have temporarily lost faith in Jeeves.’

‘My dear chap!’ I said, shocked.

‘Yes, Bertie, there have. Sometimes my belief in him has wobbled. I have said to myself, “Has he the old speed, the ancient vim?” I shall never say it again. From now on, childlike trust. It was his idea, Bertie, that if a couple of women headed for tea suddenly found the cup snatched from their lips, so to speak, they would turn and rend one another. Observe the result.’

‘But, dash it, Jeeves couldn’t have known that the car would break down.’

‘On the contrary. He let all the petrol out of the tank when you sent him to fetch the machine – all except just enough to carry it well into the wilds beyond the reach of human aid. He foresaw what would happen. I tell you, Bertie, Jeeves stands alone.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘He’s a marvel.’

‘A wonder.’

‘A wizard.’

‘A stout fellow,’ I agreed. ‘Full of fat-soluble vitamins.’

‘The exact expression,’ said young Bingo. ‘And now let’s go and tell Rosie the car is fixed, and then home to the tankard of ale.’

‘Not the tankard of ale, old man,’ I said firmly. ‘The hot Scotch-and-water with a spot of lemon in it.’

‘You’re absolutely right,’ said Bingo. ‘What a flair you have in these matters, Bertie. Hot Scotch-and-water it is.’

ASK ANYONE AT
the Drones, and they will tell you that Bertram Wooster is a fellow whom it is dashed difficult to deceive. Old Lynx-Eye is about what it amounts to. I observe and deduce. I weigh the evidence and draw my conclusions. And that is why Uncle George had not been in my midst more than about two minutes before I, so to speak, saw all. To my trained eye the thing stuck out a mile.

And yet it seemed so dashed absurd. Consider the facts, if you know what I mean.

I mean to say, for years, right back to the time when I first went to school, this bulging relative had been one of the recognized eyesores of London. He was fat then, and day by day in every way has been getting fatter ever since, till now tailors measure him just for the sake of the exercise. He is what they call a prominent London clubman – one of those birds in tight morning-coats and grey toppers whom you see toddling along St James’s Street on fine afternoons, puffing a bit as they make the grade. Slip a ferret into any good club between Piccadilly and Pall Mall, and you would start half a dozen Uncle Georges.

He spends his time lunching and dining at the Buffers and, between meals, sucking down spots in the smoking room and talking to anyone who will listen about the lining of his stomach. About twice a year his liver lodges a formal protest and he goes off to Harrogate or Carlsbad to get planed down. Then back again and on with the programme. The last bloke in the world, in short, who you would think would ever fall a victim to the divine pash. And yet, if you will believe me, that was absolutely the strength of it.

This old pestilence blew in on me one morning at about the hour of the after-breakfast cigarette.

‘Oh, Bertie,’ he said.

‘Hullo?’

‘You know those ties you’ve been wearing. Where did you get them?’

‘Blucher’s, in the Burlington Arcade.’

‘Thanks.’

He walked across to the mirror and stood in front of it, gazing at himself in an earnest manner.

‘Smut on your nose?’ I asked courteously.

Then I suddenly perceived that he was wearing a sort of horrible simper, and I confess it chilled the blood to no little extent. Uncle George, with face in repose, is hard enough on the eye. Simpering, he goes right above the odds.

‘Ha!’ he said.

He heaved a long sigh, and turned away. Not too soon, for the mirror was on the point of cracking.

‘I’m not so old,’ he said, in a musing sort of voice.

‘So old as what?’

‘Properly considered, I’m in my prime. Besides, what a young and inexperienced girl needs is a man of weight and years to lean on. The sturdy oak, not the sapling.’

It was at this point that, as I said above, I saw all.

‘Great Scott, Uncle George!’ I said. ‘You aren’t thinking of getting married?’

‘Who isn’t?’ he said.

‘You aren’t,’ I said.

‘Yes, I am. Why not?’

‘Oh, well –’

‘Marriage is an honourable state.’

‘Oh, absolutely.’

‘It might make you a better man, Bertie.’

‘Who says so?’

‘I say so. Marriage might turn you from frivolous young scallywag into – er – a non-scallywag. Yes, confound you, I
am
thinking of getting married, and if Agatha comes sticking her oar in I’ll – I’ll – well, I shall know what to do about it.’

He exited on the big line, and I rang the bell for Jeeves. The situation seemed to me one that called for a cosy talk.

‘Jeeves,’ I said.

‘Sir?’

‘You know my Uncle George?’

‘Yes, sir. His lordship has been familiar to me for some years.’

‘I don’t mean do you know my Uncle George. I mean do you know what my Uncle George is thinking of doing?’

‘Contracting a matrimonial alliance, sir.’

‘Good Lord! Did he tell you?’

‘No, sir. Oddly enough, I chance to be acquainted with the other party in the matter.’

‘The girl?’

‘The young person, yes, sir. It was from her aunt, with whom she resides, that I received the information that his lordship was contemplating matrimony.’

‘Who is she?’

‘A Miss Platt, sir. Miss Rhoda Platt. Of Wistaria Lodge, Kitchener Road, East Dulwich.’

‘Young?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The old fathead!’

‘Yes, sir. The expression is one which I would, of course, not have ventured to employ myself, but I confess to thinking his lordship somewhat ill-advised. One must remember, however, that it is not unusual to find gentlemen of a certain age yielding to what might be described as a sentimental urge. They appear to experience what I may term a sort of Indian summer, a kind of temporarily renewed youth. The phenomenon is particularly noticeable, I am given to understand, in the United States of America among the wealthier inhabitants of the city of Pittsburgh. It is notorious, I am told, that sooner or later, unless restrained, they always endeavour to marry chorus-girls. Why this should be so, I am at a loss to say, but –’

I saw that this was going to take some time. I tuned out.

‘From something in Uncle George’s manner, Jeeves, as he referred to my Aunt Agatha’s probable reception of the news, I gather that this Miss Platt is not of the
noblesse
.’

‘No, sir. She is a waitress at his lordship’s club.’

‘My God! The proletariat!’

‘The lower middle classes, sir.’

‘Well, yes, by stretching it a bit, perhaps. Still, you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Rummy thing, Jeeves,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘this modern tendency to marry waitresses. If you remember, before he settled down, young Bingo Little was repeatedly trying to do it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Odd!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Still, there it is, of course. The point to be considered now is,
what
will Aunt Agatha do about this? You know her, Jeeves. She is not like me. I’m broad-minded. If Uncle George wants to marry waitresses, let him, say I. I hold that the rank is but the penny stamp –’

‘Guinea stamp, sir.’

‘All right, guinea stamp. Though I don’t believe there is such a thing. I shouldn’t have thought they came higher than five bob. Well, as I was saying, I maintain that the rank is but the guinea stamp and a girl’s a girl for all that.’

‘“For
a
’ that,” sir. The poet Burns wrote in the North British dialect.’