Uncle Fred in the Springtime (23 page)

Lord
Ickenham weighed the question.

‘Not
that I know of. Why?’

‘I didn’t
mean Greece,’ said Mr Pott, correcting himself with some annoyance. ‘I meant
Turkey, where women are kept in subjection and daren’t call their souls their
own. If Polly hadn’t got a sweet nature, she’d have hit him with a bottle. But
she’s her mother’s daughter.’

‘Whose
daughter did you expect her to be?’

‘You
don’t apprehend my meaning, Lord I.,’ said Mr Port patiently. ‘I meant that she
takes after her dear mother in having a sweet nature. Her dear mother had the
loving kindness of an angel or something, and so has Polly. That’s what I
meant. Her dear mother wouldn’t hurt a fly, nor would Polly hurt a fly. I’ve
seen her dear mother take a fly tenderly in her hand—’

Lord
Ickenham interrupted. He would have liked to hear all about the late Mrs Pott
and the insect kingdom, but time was getting on.

‘Suppose
we shelve the subject of flies for the moment, shall We, Mustard? Let us get
back to Horace Davenport. As I was saying, he is the man Polly has got her eye
on. And he loves her just as she loves him. He came down here the day after
that dance, and we came the day after, following him.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s
quite simple. You know who Horace is, Mustard. The nephew and heir of the Duke
of Dunstable.’

‘Ah!’
said Mr Pott, and seemed about to bare his head.

‘And we
have come here in the humble capacity of impostors because it is essential, if
there is to be a happy ending, that Polly shall fascinate the Duke and set him
thinking that she is the ideal girl to marry his nephew and heir. This Duke is
tough, Mustard. He nails his collar to the back of his neck to save buying
studs. Horace has been scared to death of him since infancy, and would never
have the nerve to marry unless he first put up the All Right sign. Before Polly
can walk up the aisle with Horace Davenport, the Duke has got to be worked on
lovingly and patiently. And I cannot impress it upon you too emphatically that
you must keep yourself in the background, Mustard. Polly is supposed to be my
daughter.’

In a
few well-chosen words Lord Ickenham sketched out the position of affairs. Mr
Pott, when he had finished, seemed inclined to be critical.

‘Seems
a roundabout way of doing things,’ he complained. ‘Why couldn’t she have come
here as my daughter?’

‘Well,
it just happened to work out the other way,’ said Lord Ickenham tactfully. ‘Too
late to do anything about it now. But you understand?’

‘Oh, I
understand.’

‘I knew
you would. Nobody has ever disparaged your intelligence, though I have known
people to be a bit captious about the habit of yours of always cutting the ace.
And that brings me back to what I was saying just now. This money you’ve taken
off Bosham. Kiss it goodbye, Mustard.’

‘I don’t
follow you, Lord I.’

‘I want
you to give me that money, my dear old friend —’

‘What!’

‘— and
I will hand it over to Polly as her wedding portion. I know, I know,’ said Lord
Ickenham sympathetically. ‘You’ve no need to tell me that it will be agony. I
can see the thought searing your soul. But there comes a time in every man’s
life, Mustard, when he has to decide whether to do the fine, generous thing or
be as the beasts that perish. Put yourself in Polly’s place. The child must
have her little bit of snuff, to make her feel that she is not going
empty-handed to the man she loves. Her pride demands it.’

‘Yes,
but hoy —!’

‘And
think how you have always watched over her with a father’s tender care. Did she
have measles as a child?’

‘Yes,
she had measles, but that’s not the point —’

‘It is
the point, Mustard. Throw your mind back to the picture of her lying there,
flushed and feverish. You would have given all you possessed to help her then.
I see your eyes are wet with tears.’

‘No,
they aren’t.’

‘Well,
they ought to be.’

‘I don’t
approve of a young girl having a lot of money. I wouldn’t mind giving her a
tenner.

‘Pah!’

‘Yes,
but two hundred and fifty—’

‘A
trifle compared with your peace of mind. If you fail her now, you will never
have another happy moment. It would be criminal to allow a sensitive girl like
Polly to get married without a penny in her pocket. You’re a man of the world,
Mustard. You know what buying a trousseau means. She will need two of
everything. And can you subject her to the degradation of going and touching
her future husband for those intimate articles of underclothing which a nice
girl shrinks from naming when there are gentlemen present? Compel her to do so,
and you leave a scar on her pure soul which the years may hide but which will
always be there.’

Mr Pott
shuffled his feet.

‘She
needn’t tell him what she wants the money for.’

‘For
heaven’s sake, Mustard, don’t try to evade the issue. Of course, she would have
to tell him what she wanted the money for. A girl can’t be whispering in the
twilight with the man she loves and suddenly introduce a demand for two hundred
and fifty pounds as a sort of side issue. She will have to get right down to it
and speak of camisoles and slips. Are you going to force her to do that? It
will not make very pleasant reading in your biography, my dear chap. As I see
it,’ said Lord Ickenham gravely, ‘you are standing at the crossroads, Mustard.
This way lies happiness for Polly, peace of mind for you … that way,
self-scorn for you, misery for her. Which road will you take? I seem to picture
your late wife asking herself the same question. I can see her up there now …
watching … waiting … all agog … wondering if you are going to do the
square thing. Don’t disappoint her, Mustard.’

Mr Pott
continued to shuffle his feet. It was plain that in one sense he was touched,
but not so certain that he intended to be in another.

‘How
about a nice twenty?’

‘All or
nothing, Mustard, all or nothing. Dash it, it’s not as if the money would be
lost. You can always take it off Horace at Persian Monarchs after the
honeymoon.’

Mr Pott’s
face lit up with a sudden glow that made it for a moment almost beautiful.

‘Coo!
That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘It
seems to me to solve the whole difficulty.’

‘Of
course I can. Here you are, Lord I.’

‘Thank
you, Mustard. I knew you would not fail. And now, if you will excuse me, I will
be going and taking a bath. In the course of my rambles I seem to have got
quite a lot of Shropshire on my person. The moment I have removed it, I will
find Polly and tell her the good news. You will never regret this, my dear
fellow.’

In this
prediction, Lord Ickenham was wrong. Mr Pott was regretting it rather keenly.
He was not the man to see two hundred and fifty pounds pass from his possession
without a pang, and already a doubt had begun to creep over him as to whether
the transaction could, as his companion had so jauntily suggested, be looked on
as merely a temporary loan. Long before he reached Market Blandings he had
begun to wonder if he could really rely on Horace Davenport. It takes two to
play Persian Monarchs, and it might be that Horace would prove to be one of
those odd, unpleasant people who have no fondness for the game. He had
sometimes met them on race trains.

However,
there is always something stimulating in the doing of a good deed, and Claude
Pott, as he entered the private bar of the Emsworth Arms, could have been
written down as on the whole a reasonably happy man. He was at any rate
sufficiently uplifted to be in a mood for conversation, and it was with the
idea of initiating a feast of reason and a flow of soul that he addressed the
only other occupant of the bar, a thick-set young man seated at its shadowy
end.

‘Nice
day,’ he said.

His
fellow-customer turned, revealing himself as Ricky Gilpin.

15

Ricky had come to the
private bar in search of relief for his bruised soul, and he could have made no
wiser move. Nothing can ever render the shattering of his hopes and the
bringing of his dream castles to ruin about his ears really agreeable to a
young man, but the beer purveyed by G. Ovens, proprietor of the Emsworth Arms,
unquestionably does its best. The Ovens home-brewed is a liquid Pollyanna, for
ever pointing out the bright side and indicating silver linings. It slips its
little hand in yours, and whispers ‘Cheer up!’ If King Lear had had a tankard
of it handy, we should have had far less of that ‘Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!’
stuff.

On
Ricky it acted like magic. Hours of brooding over that interview with his Uncle
Alaric had brought him into the bar a broken man. At the moment of Mr Pott’s
entry, he was once more facing the future with something hike fortitude.

Money,
the beer pointed out, was not everything. ‘Look at it this way,’ it argued. ‘It’s
absurd to say there aren’t a hundred ways by which a smart and enterprising
young fellow can get enough money to marry on. The essential thing about this
marrying business is not money, but the girl. If the girl’s all right,
everything’s all right. It’s true that at the moment you’re down among the
wines and spirits a bit financially, but what of it? Polly’s still there,
loving you just as much as ever. And something is sure to turn up.’

And now
Mr Pott had turned up. And at the sight of him it was as if the scales had
suddenly fallen from Ricky Gilpin’s eyes.

Until
this moment, the idea of trying to secure the purchase price of the onion soup
bar from Claude Pott had never occurred to him. But when you examined it, what
an obvious solution it seemed. Mr Pott was Polly’s father. He had once rescued
Mr Pott from an infuriated mob. That Mr Pott should supply the money to ensure
Polly’s happiness and repay that old debt was one of the things that one
recognizes as dramatically right.

‘Why,
hullo, Mr Pott!’ he said.

The
affection in his voice was quite untinged with surprise. A ready explanation of
the other’s presence here had presented itself. He assumed he had come for the
Bridgeford races, of which he had been hearing so much since his arrival in
Market Blandings. But if he was not surprised to see Mr Pott, Mr Pott was
extremely surprised to see him.

‘Young
Gilpin! What are you doing here?’

‘My
uncle sent for me. He’s staying at Blandings Castle, a couple of miles down the
road. He wanted to see me on a business matter.’

Mr Pott
was aghast.

‘You
mean you’re going to the castle?’

‘No. My
uncle came down here this morning to discuss the thing, but it fell through. I’m
leaving for London this evening.’

Mr Pott
breathed again. The thought of this young man coming blundering into the delicate
web of intrigue at Blandings Castle had appalled him.

‘You’re
here for the races, of course?’

‘That’s
right,’ said Mr Pott, grateful for the suggestion.

‘Where
are you staying?’

‘In the
vicinity.’

‘Have
some of this beer. It’s good.’

‘Thanks,’
said Mr Pott. ‘Thanks.’

Until
his guest had been supplied with the refreshment, Ricky did not speak again.
All his life he had been sturdy and independent, and it embarrassed him to have
to ask a comparative stranger for money. This diffidence, with an effort, he
overcame. Stranger or no stranger, he reminded himself, Claude Pott would most
certainly have spent several weeks in hospital but for the prowess of Alaric
Gilpin.

‘Mr
Pott.’

‘Sir?’

‘There’s
something I would like a word with you about, Mr Pott.’

‘Oh?’

‘Are
you fond of onion soup?’

‘No.’

‘Well,
lots of people are. And in this connection I want to put a business proposition
up to you.’

‘Ah?’

Ricky
took a sip of G. Ovens’s home-brewed. It had not escaped him that his companion’s
manner was reserved. Mr Pott’s eyes seemed always to be covered by a protective
layer of film. Now, it was as if another layer had been superimposed.

‘I don’t
know if Polly has happened to mention to you, Mr Pott, that I have the
opportunity of buying one of these onion soup bars? You’ve probably noticed
them round Piccadilly Circus way.’

‘I seem
to remember her talking about it.’

‘Enthusiastically,
I expect. They coin money. Gold mines, every one of them. The one I’m speaking
of belongs to an American friend of mine. He has offered to let me have it for
two hundred and fifty pounds.’

The
mention of that exact sum caused Mr Pott to wince a little, as if an exposed
nerve had been touched. He was still unable to make up his mind about Horace
Davenport as a sportsman with a taste for Persian Monarchs. Sometimes he could
see him reaching out to cut from the pack. Sometime he could not. The future
was wrapped in mist.