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purplefluffycatHere is the fifth chapter, in which the opera continues apace, Bertie makes some observations, and ends up in even more trouble...
Title: Jeeves and the Artistic Verisimilitude
Chapter: Five - Review and Rumpus
Author: PurpleFluffyCat
Rating: This chapter PG-13. The story will rate NC-17 at its fruitiest moments ;-)
Characters: Bertie/Jeeves, with several of Bertie's crowd making an appearance along the way, and a couple of new faces.
Words: This chapter: ~7750 , about 52,000 overall.
Genre: Chiefly Romance, with some Drama, Angst, Humour and Fluff.
Summary:
"Surely, one would think, nothing could be more relaxing for a young Wooster than a week spent by the seaside? - Golf and sand-castle building without an aunt in sight!
One may think so, indeed, but the combination of several 'friends' with their own agendas, a theatrical production and the mysterious designs of my very own valet conspired to make that week spent in Spindleythorpe-on-sea one of the most memorable and life-changing of the lot..."
There will be fortune tellers! And Gilbert and Sullivan! And (the chaps are rather glad to hear), plenty of romantic fluffy goodness!
Chapter One - 'Escape and Entrapment'
Chapter Two - 'Drama and Divination'
Chapter Three - 'Predictions and Predilections'
Chapter Four - 'Sentimentality and Subtext'
Chapter Five - Review and Rumpus
As Friday came around, things were really hotting up in the mixed-vegetable department. The fear of public mortification had obviously worked its magic on even the most unlikely of candidates, and Spindleythorpe-on-Sea’s finest hotel was fully awash with girls dying their hair, impromptu musical rehearsals which mightily upset the hotel cat, (the creature was accustomed to sleeping in a sunbeam atop the old piano in the conservatory and did not take kindly to being subjected to mid-nap vibrations that scored highly on the Richter Scale) and the very burliest of chaps practising dainty dance steps out on the veranda. Had Honoria’s father been present, he would have drawn pretty rummy conclusions about the mental states of all involved. Luckily he wasn’t though, and we did at least have a line of defence against any impromptu visits in the form of the aforementioned disgruntled feline.
Thanks to Jeeves' sterling assistance and dashed clever memorisation techniques, I was feeling passable about the whole thing by then. To say 'confident' would definitely be overstating it, and ‘oojah-cum-spiff’ would have been an exaggeration of the direst sort, but the dark cloud of certain doom had lifted a little from the Wooster horizon, and the proverbial met. office was only reporting a fair to poor outlook, with some chance of drizzle as the afternoon went on.
Said drizzle threatened to become a downpour however, when I learned that the afternoon's dress-rehearsal was not to be a private affair. Indeed, Josephine had invited a scribbler from the local newspaper to come and review our efforts, such that she could write-up the whole sorry exhibition in the evening paper and drum up trade for the following day's debacle. To have my failings recorded in print in addition to being impressed upon the minds of those present just seemed like adding insult to injury to me, and I told Jeeves so, as he was sorting out my script after breakfast.
“I understand your consternation, sir,” he said, “But if I may express an opinion on the matter, I do still maintain the view that you will perform admirably.”
“Well, you have more confidence than I, Jeeves,” I replied glumly, although I was most touched that this marvel among men and the very apple of my eye might expect me to be good at something. On the other hand, Jeeves’ encouragement also added to the dread I was feeling – the very last thing I wanted to be to him was an enormous disappointment. Lest any of this turmoil threaten to show up on the Wooster dial however, I decided it was prudent to change the subject at that point, “What have I got to do next, anyway, Jeeves?”
My valet cast his eye over the chart of little, coloured, doom-laden boxes, which he magically seemed to keep within arm-length at all times. “You are due a costume fitting in a few minutes, sir. Would you like for me to accompany you?”
A silence stretched out as I considered my response to that. Every since the being-in-love thingy kicked in, I had discovered that no question had a straight answer any longer. It was dashed difficult, in truth – rather like discovering that the corridor of one’s flat had turned into a labyrinth of Knossosy proportions. Or should it be Knossosian? Or maybe Knossosesque? Anyway, it was like finding out that there now existed a jolly great maze in the place that one had become used to traversing effortlessly between A and B, complete with a colossal monster lurking around the corner ready to visit everlasting woe upon the traveller who takes a wrong turn. The e. w. in this case was of course the risk of Jeeves leaving me were he ever to discover too much about the state of the Wooster affections. I fancied I heard Mr. Minotaur applying the old carborundum stone to his incisors every time I unrolled the proverbial twine by opening my mouth.
Knowing that I could never be too careful, I weighed up the pros and cons of this particular bend in the path. The cons were obvious enough – goodness, if it were not sufficient test of the Wooster resolve to have Jeeves assist in vesting and divesting me in the morning, before dinner and before bedtime, why not just add in some theatrical semi-nudity for extra larks? That should be nice and safe. Ha ha...
The pros? Well, I suppose they spoke for themselves – every single moment spent in Jeeves’ company was to be adored and treasured; stored up for the dark nights when a double bed suddenly seemed far too large – as had, in fact happened of late, with no apparent change in the actual size of the furniture (I had asked Jeeves to check the dimensions of the offending divan that morning).
It was clearly sensible to allow the ‘cons’ side of things to win out, but ‘sensible’ has never been a comfortable bedfellow of Bertram, and well, - I was greedy. My steely resolve from the previous day to avoid seeing Jeeves at all costs had by then rather given way to a wish to follow him around like a lost puppy who strongly suspected the object of it’s affections also had half a pound of raw steak secreted in his pocket. A far more dangerous modus operandi, I’m sure, but the whole ‘steely resolve’ gambit probably just isn’t my forte - just ask anyone who saw me try to give up tiddlywinks for Lent this year. Rather like the aforementioned puppy, I was apt to wag my metaphorical tail whenever Jeeves was near, and pine like billy-oh whenever he wasn’t.
I tried to ensure that the Wooster map was clear of the kind of soppy expression that tail-wagging puppies are famous for, and brazened it out with some gambit about practicalities. “Yes, Jeeves, I would like you to come along,” I answered, “After all, someone’s got to know how to tie on all those funny Japanese sashes and suchlike, and I imagine that you’re the man.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves, with a quirk to his lips that looked far more amused than a compliment about knot-tying in the Oriental modus could possibly justify.
We made our way downstairs, but were assaulted mid-staircase by the most extraordinary cacophony emanating from the rooms below. It sounded like a very serious accident in an oil-drum factory, or perhaps as if a violinist had decided to re-string his instrument using cat-gut, but without asking the cat first. Jeeves looked delicately scandalized at all of this, whereas I remained feeling utterly perplexed.
All was revealed however, when we entered the ballroom to see a very motley crew of so-called musicians huddled around Deirdre in a semi-circle, and hiding behind banners affixed to their music stands. These banners read, ‘Spindleythorpe-on-Sea Local Band,’ embroidered in gold-thread with the kind of zeal that is usually reserved for kneelers in a nearby Parish church.
The band numbered about fourteen in total. They were very well stocked with the kind of rotund brass players one sees oom-pah-pahing through the rain at a park bandstand, and rather less well stocked with the type of swelling, majestic string section that one comes to expect of an orchestra at the Proms. Indeed, the strings were represented by a handful of rather wizened grannies who were squinting through very thick eyeglasses at the music in front of them, the accuracy of the notes paling in comparison to the level of vibrato - which I’m sure was more a result of the aged females’ tremmoring hands than any kind of artistic judgement. To go with this conglomeration were a few tiny, scared-looking woodwind players, and a boy who could have easily disappeared inside the kettle-drums he was proposing to play without much hope of climbing out again in the absence of a rope.
I was afforded little time to contemplate this exciting ensemble however, as Josephine bowled over just then, like a hurricane taking advantage of a spot of low-pressure over the Caribbean. “So that's where you are, Bertram!” she exclaimed, “The costume fitting started half-an-hour ago.”
I was about to take issue with this statement, when I noticed that Jeeves had innocuously unfolded the tabular rectangles of retribution and was peering at them as if thoroughly absorbed, all while angling said paper toward Josephine and myself. It was as clear as the light of day, even to those unaccustomed to being controlled by such a geometric device, that Friday's section began with a costume fitting at 10 ack emma – the time which was showing precisely upon the Wooster pocket watch at that very moment.
“Well, Honoria decided to bring things forward, actually,” said Josephine, rather defensively and most probably miffed at being caught on the hoof, “Not my choice. But anyway, you should be in the tea-room right now. I trust your man is going to make himself useful in a nice, silent fashion?”
“As you say, madam,” responded Jeeves smoothly, while I humphed on his behalf. I couldn't help but think that if Jeeves were to sing this entire mangelwurzel single-handedly, the result would be rather better; trust Josephine to find his brilliance an affront to her casting abilities.
I saw the tell tale signs of a 'chop-chop,' forming on Josephine's lips, but they were quelled by an infinitesimal raise of Jeeves' left eyebrow, in that enormously respectful manner that seems simultaneously to say, 'you dare.'
We went to the tea room as we had been instructed, and found the affable drabness of the chintz- and doiley-clad chamber transformed into something resembling Aladdin's cave. Or possibly Madam Osiris’ pavilion itself, I thought, bringing back a fateful memory from earlier that week. A team of matronly women were busying backwards and forwards between a rail sagging under the weight of unlikely garments in exotic colours, large piles of equally vivid fabric draped haphazardly across the floor and tables, and a row of chaps clad only in their underthings and half-garments, who looked somewhat alarmed at the proximity of tailors' pins to their exposed pinkish skin.
I was greeted by a round and jovial woman with a broad coastal accent, “Aaaww, you must be the young’un playin’ Nanki-Poo, ain’t cha? Jus’ ‘op over there ‘n’ get ‘em off like a good lad. No need t’ be shy – I w’s a nurse all me life, I w’s. Ol' Norma's seen it all before!” She grinned at me then conspiratorially. Jeeves looked slightly faint at the unprecedented familiarity of the woman, but I didn’t really mind. I was about to sacrifice all of my dignity to make a nit-wit of myself in public, after all, so what need had I for deferential treatment in the course of it?
I toddled over to row of semi-clad chaps and Jeeves assisted me in joining their ranks while Norma pursued with a tape measure. She nodded approvingly a few times after notating the essentials of the Wooster frame, and then scurried over to the sagging costume rail to make some selections. Jeeves followed the good woman, most likely bent on supervising. It is, of course, characteristic of my valet to have strong opinions on what I am and am not allowed to wear, and presumably he felt that Nanki-Poo also fell within his ever-industrious remit.
I was thus left 'not dressed up with no place to go,' as the Americans would have it, so the natural thing was to try to chat to the birds around me. “What-ho!” I called cheerily to the assembled company, wondering what sort of game we could play to pass the time. I was greeted however by only a few distracted nods. The problem was, you see, each of my fellow stage-victims was being attended to by at least one, and in some cases a whole shoal of fishwives. Their ordeals had obviously begun some time previously, because they were long past the rummage-and-wait stage and heavily into the puncture-avoiding part of proceedings. None seemed to be in the mood to chat, using all of their energies to keep a beady eye on exactly where the sharp, pointy metal things were going. Not that I blame them, of course; some of those women looked myopic to say the least.
Across the room, Jeeves and Norma seemed to be engaged in a lively debate and were gesticulating at one another with matching tassled hats. I concluded from this that she was a braver woman than I if she chose to disagree with Jeeves up to the gesticulating stage, and also that nothing robely was likely to be forthcoming in the near future.
I was therefore left to just my own thoughts for a while, and it is perhaps understandable, given my recent rather dramatic revelation on the err, attraction side of things, that the Wooster eyes might have wandered to the other partially clothed chaps present.
Now, before I tell you about this bit, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. It's not as if I had suddenly become an indiscriminately lustful raving beastie, or anything like that - I really only had eyes for the one man, and he was standing over the other side of the room fully dressed.
No; it was merely that I was curious. I just wanted to get my bearings a little with this whole new world of chaply devotion before I might blunder in without a map and get deadly lost. Much in the same way that the other Drones thought that those unspeakable postcards were the bees-knees even though they had never met the girls in question, I thought it might be useful to eyeball a few chaps and get a handle on the general geography and natural variation of the landscape without having an attachment to any particular one of them. A tiny, ridiculously hopeful part of my brain said that such knowledge might come in dashed helpful were my beautiful valet ever to come to appreciate the Wooster regard, but I tried to hold that voice in check, telling myself that this was to be a purely educational endeavour in the abstract sense. Possibly my first one of those for over a decade, in fact.
All of my cohorts were respectfully clad in undershirts and boxers, of course, and it was nothing that I hadn't seen before either – merely that I had never really taken any notice on past occasions. Needless to say, any of this sage note-taking would have been ditched in a heartbeat in return for the merest glimpse of Jeeves' left ankle, but that, sadly was not on display. No, as I said: I was going to try to be scholarly about things without all that love and devotion business getting in the way.
So, trying to be systematic about it, I noticed several things. First and foremost, chaps as a species were pretty pleasant on the eye; safe, appealing, and rather statuesque with no alarming surprises, and a vague aura of fascination about the lot of them. None of the specimens present would have especially recommended themselves for immortalization in marble, truth be told, but they were nevertheless a wholesome bunch and perfectly easy on the eye.
Then, of course, there were the specifics – Gussie had elegant shoulders but especially knobbly knees, Boko was well put-together across the chest but seemed to have been graced with more limb than the average orangutan, and Tuppy was really rather pudgy around the middle when exposed thus, although did have a prize-worthy softness of skin.
Each one was however – well, chaply - in a good sort of way, and although the thought of any of the other Drones en dishabille didn’t do anything for the Wooster pulse or loins, the idea was still calmly agreeable.
Putting all of these observations together, I heaved an enormous sigh of relief and deemed the oracular exploration a success. You see, it all added oomf to the conclusion I had stumbled toward on the sea-front on Tuesday night, which was certainly a good thing; I wouldn't have wanted to think that I was frightened by the sight of both varieties of potential mate. It also made me feel a bit closer to Jeeves in a funny sort of way – I suppose it seemed as if I now had leave to pine with some proper conviction and weight behind it. Everyone likes to feel justified in their actions, after all, and I was settling in for the long haul in the heartsick-unrequited-pining department.
Just when I had reached this comforting conclusion, the object of said h. u. p. returned bearing a pile of cloth and followed by Norma. The woman was wearing the distinct expression of a person whose artistry had been severely censored – rather like a lady python who had just been told that snakeskin was not in vogue this season. My dashing valet looked inscrutable as always, but I wonder whether it was a coincidence that he then caught my eye, passed his gaze over all the other unclothed chaps, and then returned his gaze to mine with the merest hint of a smile. Coincidence or no, it caused a definite blush to creep out of my lack of collar. Was the man a bally psychic or fortune teller? I ask you.
As quick as a flash, Jeeves had me togged up in all manner of extraordinary garments, with more ties and trusses than would have befitted the average Christmas turkey. I was only vaguely aware of what was being applied to the Wooster corpus, so it came as a surprise when Jeeves wheeled me over to the dressing mirror and I beheld a simply topping ensemble of Japanese red and gold.
“I say, Jeeves! This is jolly natty, what?” I bounced, turning my reflection this way and that.
“This will be your costume for the second act, sir, when Nanki-Poo's princely status has been revealed. Mrs. Brown will use the fittings of these robes to also adjust your dress for the first act.” He nodded kindly to Norma just then. “We are glad that it meets with your approval, sir.”
“I'll say it does! In fact I think I might incorporate the odd Japanese touch into the everyday Wooster kit!”
Then came one of those pointed silences. “I could not think that advisable, sir,” said Jeeves in a tone that brooked no argument.
I certainly didn't want to have a tiff with him – that certainly wouldn't help the swooning and pining business – so I backed down easily, nevertheless feeling somewhat chagrined at the loss of a jaunty tassled hat about the metrop. “Ah well, perhaps not then. But maybe I'll use it for a fancy dress costume...?” Had I been a female I would have fluttered my eyelashes then, but I think Jeeves got the gist all the same.
“A admirable idea, sir,” he consented, “ I shall arrange for us to purchase the outfit after the performance.”
There then followed an exquisitely excruciating period when Jeeves' smooth, expert hands flashed in and out of the robes, coming dangerously close to all different parts of the Wooster anatomy, causing them to shiver in anticipation of his almost-touch. Naturally, Jeeves took the whole episode in his stride with expert aplomb, but I was positively a-quiver with repressed whatsit. In fact, I hadn't even noticed that I was thoroughly glistening with devilishly sharp metal pins until Jeeves stepped back from his handiwork and nodded in satisfaction at hem lines that couldn't have been made straighter with a spirit-level.
“Ooh! Takes it like a man, that one, don't 'e?” said Norma, in some peculiar admiration of yours truly.
“I feel confident that Mr. Wooster could be described thus,” replied Jeeves rather haughtily, “And it is also clear that he does not flinch during the attachment of pins.” Jeeves plastered on his stuffed-frog expression just then, which made a great contrast with Norma's loud and bawdy chortle. I looked at Jeeves in bafflement, and was answered with no explanation but one of those tiny not-quite smiles, which made my insides turn all gooey and also made me forget whatever it was she was laughing about.
Costumes dealt with, we then had a few hours spare to drill some more lines through the Wooster onion and warm-up the old vocal chords a bit. Bingo was sweating and panting as he tried to move what looked like a whole cherry tree in a pot into the hotel ballroom, and Josephine was dividing her time between strutting around barking indiscriminate orders at members of the cast, and trying to butter-up the woman who I gathered was the representative of the local press.
Said r. of l.p. was a strapping creature sitting on that fine line between beazel and battleaxe – not quite auntly material, but definitely working on it. She was clad in bright colours, and although the style of her shirt and blouse was traditional enough, it had a slight whiff of the exotic about it, set off by hair that had too much of a life of its own to be called properly matronly. She sported a clip-board and pen, and gazed down at her notes through half-moon spectacles that were perched jauntily at the end of her nose like a precarious young fisherman on the pier, and inlayed with mother of pearl around their frames.
Through the lenses, her eyes twinkled at us almost like a dare. Here, I judged, was a woman who would never be shy about denouncing something dreadful, but at the same time basically wanted to be entertained and was willing to give things a fair go. I figured, given this show of even-handedness, that we now had approximately thirty seconds on stage before crash-and-burn, as opposed to the assumed zero.
When I presented Jeeves with this theory, he merely raised an eyebrow in disagreement and said once again, “I believe that you will perform admirably, sir,” then drilled me on some more lines. The marvellous man is very seldom wrong, but I really didn't know whether to believe him.
*****
In actual fact, I don't think I shall go into details regarding the dressed rehearsal. In all honesty, it was too painful to recall.
Everything that might have possibly gone wrong accepted the kind invitation to do so – the orchestra was rarely in the same place as the singers (and often in a different number entirely), the sets were all knocked over by the gents’ chorus lumbering hither and yon in their so-called 'dances,' and barely a line was said without a prompt from off-stage.
The true moment of horror came however, with Gussie's first musical number. The orchestra scratched their way through the intro., Deirdre waved at Gussie from her stand, and then-
Nothing. He merely stood there with a glazed expression not unlike a particularly dim newt. Perhaps he had been taking lessons.
Deirdre waved around in consternation for a while and then she resolved to get the band to play the introduction again. Still nothing from Gussie - although he did seem to be growing increasingly redder and began to shake slightly. In the mean-time, Josephine was fuming in the wings with such vigour, I'm sure Jeeves could have cooked up a whole pan of eggs and b. from the steam coming out of her ears.
However, just before she could scream, “Augustus!” Gussie launched into the most extraordinary rant, standing in splendid isolation in the middle of the stage.
“I won't do it! I won't, I won't, I won't!” he screeched, “You can't make me. I simply shan't! I can't. I've never been able to sing. Not a note. However much you push, I still won't be able to do it... and, and... I'm... I'm going!” With that he tore the fringed cap from his head and threw it at the stage, running out of the ballroom and through the hotel's main doors without a backward glance at the stunned roomful of fellow actors and journalist.
An eerie silence stretched out over Gussie's departure and all of us on stage stood gawping in shock. But then, a funny thing – or perhaps I should say, an even funnier thing - happened. The newspaper lady put down her clipboard and peered around the room at us. Without warning, her face then split into the broadest of grins and she began to applaud wildly, shouting, “Bravo!” and “More!” to the stage and in the general direction of Gussie's tumultuous exit.
We actors blinked in absolute surprise, and were pretty unsure of what to do next. Tuppy however was pretty quick off the mark. He fast-forwarded the action to his next line after all the Lord High Executioner stuff, and we just carried on from there - with Josephine reading in Gussie's lines from off-stage - and managed to awkwardly stumble through until the end of the first act.
We sighed with relief as the chorus ended Act One, but almost no time was afforded for a mock-interval. The reporter-lady was apparently on the way to another appointment, so we hurled ourselves at the second act shortly afterwards, Honoria hurling herself in my direction at every possible opportunity. Quite remarkably, the metaphorical curtain managed to close at the end of the final number - as opposed to at any of the excruciating moments beforehand that is, when any right-thinking theatre-goer would have packed up his opera-glasses and left.
We tumbled out of the ballroom feeling properly shell-shocked and dejected, but of course all the talk was about what on earth had happened to Gussie.
“Well I say, that's just not cricket!” exclaimed Tuppy loudly, “The rest of us have to go through all of this larking about on stage, so why does he think he can get out of it by throwing a hissy-fit and storming off?”
“Deplorable behaviour,” decreed Honoria.
“I couldn't agree more,” said Bingo, while keeping a nervous eye upon Josephine. Perhaps he suspected that preventing the comedy-baritone from doing a runner mid-performance might have been one of the assistant producer’s responsibilities, and didn’t want to take any chances with being found in dereliction of duty.
Looking rather puzzled, Barmy asked, “You mean, that speech that Gussie said just now, wasn't actually in the script, then?” The rest of us pretended not to hear that one.
Jeeves met me as I headed back to the Tea Room, which was still functioning as the gents' changing room. He helped to remove and fold up the costume, and yours truly was soon clad in more accustomed garb once more. Throughout, I was bombarding the poor chap with tales of just how awfully everything had come apart, even though he had clearly seen it for himself, just minutes beforehand.
Jeeves however, seemed singularly unperturbed, and as he straightened from tying my shoelaces addressed me in a clear, deliberate tone. “Try not to trouble yourself regarding tomorrow's performance, sir. It is well known in theatrical circles that a somewhat distressing dressed rehearsal often precipitates the very best kind of final production.”
With that, he adjusted my tie with a final expert move, and I was left feeling torn between my impulse to carry on being a proper Moaning Minnie, and the urge to simply believe the pronouncement of this paragon among men and stop worrying so. Jeeves does, after all, have that kind of mesmerising effect upon me, and I was feeling particularly prone to being comforted just then, however irrational it might have seemed in the face of theatrical adversity. In the end I merely gaped at him for a while, probably looking slightly less intelligent than usual.
Jeeves took my silence to mean the end of the conversation, so he asked permission to work his magic elsewhere. “Sir, if I may have leave to speak with Miss Whittleworth for a moment?”
“Miss Whittleworth? Who on earth is that, Jeeves?” I asked. Everything seemed most topsy-turvey just then, and introducing new people into the scenario wasn't much of a help.
“The Musical Director, sir,” replied Jeeves, putting a delicate emphasis on the word 'musical' such that one might actually interpret the word to mean quite the opposite.
“Oh Deirdre? Yes, certainly, Jeeves,” I said, rather distractedly.
“Thank you, sir,” my valet replied, and melted off into the conservatory.
I then wandered out of the Tea Room on my own, thinking that a nice large cocktail at the hotel bar might work wonders for the State of the Wooster. However, my G & T remained as distant as a shimmering mirage of an oasis in the desert, because Madeline then accosted me - bearing the distinct look of a female on a mission.
“Bertie! My dearest Bertie, my very own Nanki-Poo!” she cried.
“Err… what-ho, Madeline,” I said, thinking that her salutation was a bit OTT, given that we had seen each other about fifteen minutes previously.
“Oh Bertie, let us go and walk together under the stars, such that the heavenly spheres themselves may shine upon us this evening, and the fluffy bunnies might be able to bless our union...” She then locked her arm firmly through mine and steered us both in the direction of the front door.
Things were looking pretty desperate in the G & T department just then, so I struck up a good, sturdy objection, “Um… yes. But, err… it’s still daylight! The stars aren’t out yet, are they? Oh dear, what a pity.” I attempted to tack back to the bar, but the blasted filly was having none of it.
“Well, I’m sure they will smile upon us anyway, won’t they? Bertie, this is important!” I felt there was a serious danger of stamping-of-tiny-feet ensuing just then, so I acquiesced and promised myself a double tipple for my trouble when I was released.
The rummy thing is, of course, that I had been so tied-up in lamenting the loss of my trip to the watering-hole, that the implications of Madeline’s opening gambit had failed to set-off the proper alarm-bells in the Wooster brain. As Madeline and I strolled along the sea-front, I was therefore totally unprepared for what happened next.
“So Bertie, how do you feel, knowing that after all your sweet and silent longing these past few months, I can finally be yours?” She fixed me with a boggle-eyed gaze, and I knew then that this was serious.
“You can finally be mine?” I repeated inanely.
“Why yes, Bertie! Now that my engagement to Augustus has been fatally broken, I am free to be your wife in the way you have always dreamed.”
I was right then; this was serious. I tried desperately to think of some way out that would not violate the Code of the Woosters, but dredged up nothing but the mental equivalent of an old boot. Valiantly however, I struggled on, donning the aforementioned o. b. with as much grace as I could muster. “Erm. Don’t you think you’re being a little hasty there, Madeline, old thing? I mean, we’re all feeling a bit miffed with Gussie at the moment, granted, but err… singing-aside, he really is a splendid chap – very kind to his newts and suchlike - and I wouldn’t want to break up the two of you over a little thing like this when you’re so clearly in love…”
“How you prove with every word that you are indeed my perfect match, Bertram! So kind and selfless; concerned even for the fate of your rival above yourself.” Her eyes took on a somewhat maniacal glow of confidence.
“Erm, no…I...” I protested.
“Hush, my dear. I understand your natural shyness, but let me assure you that Augustus’ recent misdemeanour is not in itself the reason that my engagement to him must cease to be. No, the reason for is far deeper – written in the stars themselves, and the spirits.” She looked upwards then, no doubt to evoke the power of said stars. As I had mentioned earlier however, the effect was rather spoilt by the fact that it was still broad daylight.
“Oh? And what do the stars have to say, exactly?” I asked with trepidation.
“Surely you remember, Bertie? We had our fortunes read together just three days ago. Madam Osiris told me that my one true love, my intended partner, would be someone who I appeared with on stage. It was foolish of me to think that Augustus would have been the one. Even if he hadn’t let us down so dreadfully today, it is clear from the operetta that you and I - Nanki-Poo and Yum-Yum – are the happy couple that the spirits meant.”
Oh, Hel-lo, I thought. This was all getting rather difficult now, bringing divine pronouncements into the affair. It was made doubly difficult by the fact that her mention of those predictions brought my painful, brooding love for Jeeves right to the front of my mind, and in the face of said p. b. l. , anything that Madeline might trouble me with seemed pretty insignificant. Jeeves was the one I was predicted to be in love with, and that was that. With such a thought in mind, I blurted out, “It’s no good, Madeline! Madam Osiris has already predicted that I love another, and my heart is bound.”
I gasped as soon as I had said it. Surely even a chap with as little between the ears as I should be able to refrain from confessing to apparently-criminal predilections in public, after all. Strangely however, Madeline seemed pretty unperturbed. “You are such a noble fellow, Bertie, but Honoria cannot stand in the way of the spirits’ true predictions.”
That was odd. “Honoria? How does she come into…?” My mind was all a-twirl; I had been thinking about my tall, dark, dashing valet, and…
Ah. I had quite forgotten about that. I rescued myself just in time, “Ah, yes, well, so that’s dashed inconvenient then, isn’t it? Me being engaged to Honoria and all that. I suppose the spirits will have to go back to the drawing board vis. you and I then, won’t they? Shucks, eh?” I laughed nervously.
“No Bertie, my dear, for your sake I will not hear of it!” she exclaimed, “It is you and I who shall be wed, according to your most heartfelt and long-lasting wish, and I have every confidence that all will fall into place. In fact, I shall telephone straight away and set the arrangements in train.” Madeline then beamed at me as if she was imparting the most wonderful news.
“Oh, ah. Right then,” I said lamely, and could think of nothing else to add before Madeline squeezed my hand and skipped off back to the hotel, no doubt making a bee-line for the nearest telephone.
I was left on the prom feeling pretty vacant, and watching as Madeline's fluffy blonde head disappeared out of sight. I was still grumpy about having forfeited my G & T, but strangely, that sinking feeling of dread that usually accosts the Wooster gullet upon the occasion of becoming unwilling engaged was absent. It was more as if I was viewing the problem from an exterior perspective while my sense of consideration was detained elsewhere – perhaps in a box-office queue, or by playing an over-long game of snooker.
I knew the whole engagement fix was big trouble - intellectually speaking - but I couldn't seem to muster the mustard to really care about it. Instead, there was just a sort of vague emptiness - a bit like the echo a lone traveler would get in an underground tunnel.
An impartial witness might have said I took it remarkably well, all things considered. Perhaps that was because the new posish with Madeline didn’t really seem to make the big picture much worse. If I was going to be doomed to being engaged to one unsuitable female when I was really hopelessly in love with my valet, why not make it two? Or a dozen for that matter? Put into perspective like that, any number of beazels couldn't do much to further reduce the Wooster spirits, as chance of nuptial happiness for me was already firmly on ice.
Strangely enough that realization fortified me – by power of a metally feeling to which I was not really accustomed. Was it copperony? No, that's not right. Maybe nickelony then? Aha - I have it. I was fortified by a strange sense of irony.
I returned to the hotel with far more thoughts and introspections swirling around in my brain than I would have wagered could fit in one go. In fact, I was so absorbed by contemplating my apparently hopeless state that I failed to notice Jeeves waiting at the front door of the hotel until I was practically upon him (not, of course, in the Biblical sense, I shall add, just in case the more creative reader might become unduly carried away).
I gazed up to my dashing and dashingly unobtainable valet as he stood above me on the doorstep, no doubt patiently contemplating whatever silly thing was written across the Wooster dial. I had pretty much given up trying to hide my feelings from Jeeves just then. Injudicious perhaps; but that effort on top of everything else was just bally well too much for the old bean to cope with.
He nodded politely as a few people with instrument cases pushed past and thanked him for something or other, and then addressed me with a concerned demeanor. "Good evening, sir. Are you quite well?"
"Yes, Jeeves, yes..." I said automatically, but then amended that to, "Well no, dash it, I'm not." I didn't really think of where the conversation might go from there, but being honest with Jeeves was a reflex too strong to suppress.
"I am distressed to hear so, sir," he replied. That brought the metally sensation back with full force - how distressed indeed Jeeves might have been, had he known that aching passion for him was the real source of my upset. He then coughed subtly in that way he does when he is about to raise a delicate matter, and carried on. "I couldn't help but overhear Miss Bassett talking with some members of the ladies' chorus as I was standing in the hallway just now, sir. She seemed to be excited by an understanding she has reached with you, on the basis of Madam Osiris' predictions."
"Oh no... That too," I muttered, vaguely thinking that I ought to be paying more attention to those rummy circs. Love of the unrequited variety did seem to be pretty all-consuming though, leaving precious little room for anything else. Especially when there wasn't much space in the old coconut to begin with. I tried hard to meet Jeeves' conversation however, and remarked, "Yes, apparently I'm going to have to marry Madeline now. And Honoria for that matter. Why don't they just tear me down the middle and put me out of my misery in the process?"
"Not a course of action that I would advise, sir. Although you do quite accurately express the difficulty of the situation on your part."
I perked up a little at that. A faint whiff of praise from Jeeves was a balm to the Wooster soul, and I picked up the stride of the thing. "Thank you, Jeeves. I just don't believe the gall of these girls sometimes - thinking they know exactly what Madam Osiris meant, if the description so happens to vaguely fit one of them or the other. Why, I have a good mind to think that the spirits didn't actually mean either of them!"
"Indeed, sir," pronounced Jeeves, with perhaps a little more feeling than usual.
"And anyway," I continued, "What happened to all of the proported sisterliness, I ask you? It was only a few days ago that Madeline was castigating me in no uncertain terms about applying a certain rodentine moniker to 'dear Honoria,' and now she's proposing to waltz in a steal another filly's intended without a backward glance at the matter."
"To paraphrase a famous novelist, sir, 'those girls do have claws beneath their white gloves.'"
"Well, I'm better off without them, say I," I ranted.
"Indeed, sir."
I ran out of steam at that point however, and was forced to look upon the matter more rationally. Well, when I say 'rationally,' I suppose I really mean that I just gave the thing a bit of an eyeball. As opposed to completely ignoring it in favour of pining over Jeeves, as had been my wont, that is. I heaved a heavy sigh, and did what I always did in these rummy circs. I asked Jeeves for advice.
He nodded in a satisfied manner, as if he had been waiting for some time for yours truly to finally catch-up to the problem-solving stage of the predic., then launched into one of those clever ideas. "Not wanting to cast aspersions upon your attractiveness to the fairer sex, sir…" he started.
"Oh no, cast away, Jeeves!" I said, feeling a blush creeping over my cheeks at the thought. I'd far rather Jeeves started talking about any potential attraction I might offer to his sex, I fancied... but then scalded myself for wandering. No, Bertram I told myself firmly. I had to stay on-topic.
"Very good, sir," Jeeves continued, "Miss Glossop is a hearty young woman, sir, but I fancy that she also holds a rigid view of the boundaries of respectability. Therefore, if an aspect of your character were seen to overstep one of those boundaries, she might be of the opinion that her union to you is not advisable."
"You mean, make her go off me somehow or other, Jeeves?"
"Yes, sir. I believe we could accomplish that."
"Oh yes, wonderful, Jeeves! Anything at all if it would get me off the hook." It all sounded dreadfully simple when he put it like that. All I had to do was something that Honoria would find less than respectable. Now, I wagered that I often managed to do things that would fall into that category without trying at all – staying in bed until eleven, for instance, or playing at piggy-back races in the club – so surely doing something like that on purpose would not be beyond the wit of Wooster. Jeeves really was a marvel, I thought. And for once, his clever plan was so simple that even I could be trusted to pull off my part of it without mishap. The day already seemed marginally brighter.
However, Honoria was only half of the problem, and the thought of lifelong sparkly stars and fluffy bunnies brought me swiftly back to the matter in hand. "But what about the blasted Bassett girl, Jeeves? How do I get out of that one?" I asked.
"A different tack may be required in that case, sir, but arguably the path is more direct. It occurs to me, sir, that Miss Bassett might quite simply cease her persual of you if Mr. Fink-Nottle were indeed to agree to perform with her in stage, and thus fulfill the prophecy to which she has become so firmly devoted."
"Because Madeline and Gussie really are each other's Dream Rabbits deep down, you mean, Jeeves?"
"Not exactly the zoological reference I had in mind, sir, but I believe the meaning holds nevertheless."
I followed his plan that far, but then I saw a gaping flaw in the idea. What a dashed pity.
I supposed though, that even Jeeves is human like the rest of us. It was properly fitting of my devotion not to be hard on him when one of his plans failed to meet the usual top-notch standard, so I tried to communicate that as gently as possible. "A very nice scheme, old thing, but I really don't think it will work," I said, maybe a little dejectedly.
"Sir?" asked Jeeves.
"Well, you heard Gussie," I continued, "He simply won't go on stage. Not come fire or flood. Categorically, and finally. I really wouldn't want to pin my hopes of reprieve upon him changing his mind on that one."
Jeeves nodded, but I couldn’t help thinking he hadn’t quite taken what I had just said on board. “You have recounted the occasion accurately, sir. However, I do indeed believe that Mr. Fink-Nottle might be persuaded to perform under certain conditions.”
I was really touched by the amount of thought he was putting into the wheeze, but I was also sure it wasn’t any use. “No really, Jeeves. I know Gussie, and that’s the most worked-up I have ever seen him. I swear it’s hopeless.” A little harsh perhaps - especially as Jeeves was doing his best to think my way out of the soup - but I didn't want to go about building castles in the water at that point. Or the air, for that matter. Indeed, whatever the natural habitat of the unwanted fortifications, my delicate state of mind just then really couldn't stand their construction; I would just have to get used to being doomed.
"Very good, sir," acknowledged Jeeves, closing the matter and showing off his feudal spirit in its best light. He inclined his head toward the door and we both went into the hotel, me to the bar, and he to his temporary lair.
As I sat sipping my long-overdue G & T however, I mulled over Jeeves' words along with my own and got the most uncanny feeling about the whole affair, even though I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The specifics were far from clear, but I couldn't help but think there was something he was not quite telling me.
Chapter Six - 'Passion and Performance'
Title: Jeeves and the Artistic Verisimilitude
Chapter: Five - Review and Rumpus
Author: PurpleFluffyCat
Rating: This chapter PG-13. The story will rate NC-17 at its fruitiest moments ;-)
Characters: Bertie/Jeeves, with several of Bertie's crowd making an appearance along the way, and a couple of new faces.
Words: This chapter: ~7750 , about 52,000 overall.
Genre: Chiefly Romance, with some Drama, Angst, Humour and Fluff.
Summary:
"Surely, one would think, nothing could be more relaxing for a young Wooster than a week spent by the seaside? - Golf and sand-castle building without an aunt in sight!
One may think so, indeed, but the combination of several 'friends' with their own agendas, a theatrical production and the mysterious designs of my very own valet conspired to make that week spent in Spindleythorpe-on-sea one of the most memorable and life-changing of the lot..."
There will be fortune tellers! And Gilbert and Sullivan! And (the chaps are rather glad to hear), plenty of romantic fluffy goodness!
Chapter One - 'Escape and Entrapment'
Chapter Two - 'Drama and Divination'
Chapter Three - 'Predictions and Predilections'
Chapter Four - 'Sentimentality and Subtext'
Chapter Five - Review and Rumpus
As Friday came around, things were really hotting up in the mixed-vegetable department. The fear of public mortification had obviously worked its magic on even the most unlikely of candidates, and Spindleythorpe-on-Sea’s finest hotel was fully awash with girls dying their hair, impromptu musical rehearsals which mightily upset the hotel cat, (the creature was accustomed to sleeping in a sunbeam atop the old piano in the conservatory and did not take kindly to being subjected to mid-nap vibrations that scored highly on the Richter Scale) and the very burliest of chaps practising dainty dance steps out on the veranda. Had Honoria’s father been present, he would have drawn pretty rummy conclusions about the mental states of all involved. Luckily he wasn’t though, and we did at least have a line of defence against any impromptu visits in the form of the aforementioned disgruntled feline.
Thanks to Jeeves' sterling assistance and dashed clever memorisation techniques, I was feeling passable about the whole thing by then. To say 'confident' would definitely be overstating it, and ‘oojah-cum-spiff’ would have been an exaggeration of the direst sort, but the dark cloud of certain doom had lifted a little from the Wooster horizon, and the proverbial met. office was only reporting a fair to poor outlook, with some chance of drizzle as the afternoon went on.
Said drizzle threatened to become a downpour however, when I learned that the afternoon's dress-rehearsal was not to be a private affair. Indeed, Josephine had invited a scribbler from the local newspaper to come and review our efforts, such that she could write-up the whole sorry exhibition in the evening paper and drum up trade for the following day's debacle. To have my failings recorded in print in addition to being impressed upon the minds of those present just seemed like adding insult to injury to me, and I told Jeeves so, as he was sorting out my script after breakfast.
“I understand your consternation, sir,” he said, “But if I may express an opinion on the matter, I do still maintain the view that you will perform admirably.”
“Well, you have more confidence than I, Jeeves,” I replied glumly, although I was most touched that this marvel among men and the very apple of my eye might expect me to be good at something. On the other hand, Jeeves’ encouragement also added to the dread I was feeling – the very last thing I wanted to be to him was an enormous disappointment. Lest any of this turmoil threaten to show up on the Wooster dial however, I decided it was prudent to change the subject at that point, “What have I got to do next, anyway, Jeeves?”
My valet cast his eye over the chart of little, coloured, doom-laden boxes, which he magically seemed to keep within arm-length at all times. “You are due a costume fitting in a few minutes, sir. Would you like for me to accompany you?”
A silence stretched out as I considered my response to that. Every since the being-in-love thingy kicked in, I had discovered that no question had a straight answer any longer. It was dashed difficult, in truth – rather like discovering that the corridor of one’s flat had turned into a labyrinth of Knossosy proportions. Or should it be Knossosian? Or maybe Knossosesque? Anyway, it was like finding out that there now existed a jolly great maze in the place that one had become used to traversing effortlessly between A and B, complete with a colossal monster lurking around the corner ready to visit everlasting woe upon the traveller who takes a wrong turn. The e. w. in this case was of course the risk of Jeeves leaving me were he ever to discover too much about the state of the Wooster affections. I fancied I heard Mr. Minotaur applying the old carborundum stone to his incisors every time I unrolled the proverbial twine by opening my mouth.
Knowing that I could never be too careful, I weighed up the pros and cons of this particular bend in the path. The cons were obvious enough – goodness, if it were not sufficient test of the Wooster resolve to have Jeeves assist in vesting and divesting me in the morning, before dinner and before bedtime, why not just add in some theatrical semi-nudity for extra larks? That should be nice and safe. Ha ha...
The pros? Well, I suppose they spoke for themselves – every single moment spent in Jeeves’ company was to be adored and treasured; stored up for the dark nights when a double bed suddenly seemed far too large – as had, in fact happened of late, with no apparent change in the actual size of the furniture (I had asked Jeeves to check the dimensions of the offending divan that morning).
It was clearly sensible to allow the ‘cons’ side of things to win out, but ‘sensible’ has never been a comfortable bedfellow of Bertram, and well, - I was greedy. My steely resolve from the previous day to avoid seeing Jeeves at all costs had by then rather given way to a wish to follow him around like a lost puppy who strongly suspected the object of it’s affections also had half a pound of raw steak secreted in his pocket. A far more dangerous modus operandi, I’m sure, but the whole ‘steely resolve’ gambit probably just isn’t my forte - just ask anyone who saw me try to give up tiddlywinks for Lent this year. Rather like the aforementioned puppy, I was apt to wag my metaphorical tail whenever Jeeves was near, and pine like billy-oh whenever he wasn’t.
I tried to ensure that the Wooster map was clear of the kind of soppy expression that tail-wagging puppies are famous for, and brazened it out with some gambit about practicalities. “Yes, Jeeves, I would like you to come along,” I answered, “After all, someone’s got to know how to tie on all those funny Japanese sashes and suchlike, and I imagine that you’re the man.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves, with a quirk to his lips that looked far more amused than a compliment about knot-tying in the Oriental modus could possibly justify.
We made our way downstairs, but were assaulted mid-staircase by the most extraordinary cacophony emanating from the rooms below. It sounded like a very serious accident in an oil-drum factory, or perhaps as if a violinist had decided to re-string his instrument using cat-gut, but without asking the cat first. Jeeves looked delicately scandalized at all of this, whereas I remained feeling utterly perplexed.
All was revealed however, when we entered the ballroom to see a very motley crew of so-called musicians huddled around Deirdre in a semi-circle, and hiding behind banners affixed to their music stands. These banners read, ‘Spindleythorpe-on-Sea Local Band,’ embroidered in gold-thread with the kind of zeal that is usually reserved for kneelers in a nearby Parish church.
The band numbered about fourteen in total. They were very well stocked with the kind of rotund brass players one sees oom-pah-pahing through the rain at a park bandstand, and rather less well stocked with the type of swelling, majestic string section that one comes to expect of an orchestra at the Proms. Indeed, the strings were represented by a handful of rather wizened grannies who were squinting through very thick eyeglasses at the music in front of them, the accuracy of the notes paling in comparison to the level of vibrato - which I’m sure was more a result of the aged females’ tremmoring hands than any kind of artistic judgement. To go with this conglomeration were a few tiny, scared-looking woodwind players, and a boy who could have easily disappeared inside the kettle-drums he was proposing to play without much hope of climbing out again in the absence of a rope.
I was afforded little time to contemplate this exciting ensemble however, as Josephine bowled over just then, like a hurricane taking advantage of a spot of low-pressure over the Caribbean. “So that's where you are, Bertram!” she exclaimed, “The costume fitting started half-an-hour ago.”
I was about to take issue with this statement, when I noticed that Jeeves had innocuously unfolded the tabular rectangles of retribution and was peering at them as if thoroughly absorbed, all while angling said paper toward Josephine and myself. It was as clear as the light of day, even to those unaccustomed to being controlled by such a geometric device, that Friday's section began with a costume fitting at 10 ack emma – the time which was showing precisely upon the Wooster pocket watch at that very moment.
“Well, Honoria decided to bring things forward, actually,” said Josephine, rather defensively and most probably miffed at being caught on the hoof, “Not my choice. But anyway, you should be in the tea-room right now. I trust your man is going to make himself useful in a nice, silent fashion?”
“As you say, madam,” responded Jeeves smoothly, while I humphed on his behalf. I couldn't help but think that if Jeeves were to sing this entire mangelwurzel single-handedly, the result would be rather better; trust Josephine to find his brilliance an affront to her casting abilities.
I saw the tell tale signs of a 'chop-chop,' forming on Josephine's lips, but they were quelled by an infinitesimal raise of Jeeves' left eyebrow, in that enormously respectful manner that seems simultaneously to say, 'you dare.'
We went to the tea room as we had been instructed, and found the affable drabness of the chintz- and doiley-clad chamber transformed into something resembling Aladdin's cave. Or possibly Madam Osiris’ pavilion itself, I thought, bringing back a fateful memory from earlier that week. A team of matronly women were busying backwards and forwards between a rail sagging under the weight of unlikely garments in exotic colours, large piles of equally vivid fabric draped haphazardly across the floor and tables, and a row of chaps clad only in their underthings and half-garments, who looked somewhat alarmed at the proximity of tailors' pins to their exposed pinkish skin.
I was greeted by a round and jovial woman with a broad coastal accent, “Aaaww, you must be the young’un playin’ Nanki-Poo, ain’t cha? Jus’ ‘op over there ‘n’ get ‘em off like a good lad. No need t’ be shy – I w’s a nurse all me life, I w’s. Ol' Norma's seen it all before!” She grinned at me then conspiratorially. Jeeves looked slightly faint at the unprecedented familiarity of the woman, but I didn’t really mind. I was about to sacrifice all of my dignity to make a nit-wit of myself in public, after all, so what need had I for deferential treatment in the course of it?
I toddled over to row of semi-clad chaps and Jeeves assisted me in joining their ranks while Norma pursued with a tape measure. She nodded approvingly a few times after notating the essentials of the Wooster frame, and then scurried over to the sagging costume rail to make some selections. Jeeves followed the good woman, most likely bent on supervising. It is, of course, characteristic of my valet to have strong opinions on what I am and am not allowed to wear, and presumably he felt that Nanki-Poo also fell within his ever-industrious remit.
I was thus left 'not dressed up with no place to go,' as the Americans would have it, so the natural thing was to try to chat to the birds around me. “What-ho!” I called cheerily to the assembled company, wondering what sort of game we could play to pass the time. I was greeted however by only a few distracted nods. The problem was, you see, each of my fellow stage-victims was being attended to by at least one, and in some cases a whole shoal of fishwives. Their ordeals had obviously begun some time previously, because they were long past the rummage-and-wait stage and heavily into the puncture-avoiding part of proceedings. None seemed to be in the mood to chat, using all of their energies to keep a beady eye on exactly where the sharp, pointy metal things were going. Not that I blame them, of course; some of those women looked myopic to say the least.
Across the room, Jeeves and Norma seemed to be engaged in a lively debate and were gesticulating at one another with matching tassled hats. I concluded from this that she was a braver woman than I if she chose to disagree with Jeeves up to the gesticulating stage, and also that nothing robely was likely to be forthcoming in the near future.
I was therefore left to just my own thoughts for a while, and it is perhaps understandable, given my recent rather dramatic revelation on the err, attraction side of things, that the Wooster eyes might have wandered to the other partially clothed chaps present.
Now, before I tell you about this bit, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. It's not as if I had suddenly become an indiscriminately lustful raving beastie, or anything like that - I really only had eyes for the one man, and he was standing over the other side of the room fully dressed.
No; it was merely that I was curious. I just wanted to get my bearings a little with this whole new world of chaply devotion before I might blunder in without a map and get deadly lost. Much in the same way that the other Drones thought that those unspeakable postcards were the bees-knees even though they had never met the girls in question, I thought it might be useful to eyeball a few chaps and get a handle on the general geography and natural variation of the landscape without having an attachment to any particular one of them. A tiny, ridiculously hopeful part of my brain said that such knowledge might come in dashed helpful were my beautiful valet ever to come to appreciate the Wooster regard, but I tried to hold that voice in check, telling myself that this was to be a purely educational endeavour in the abstract sense. Possibly my first one of those for over a decade, in fact.
All of my cohorts were respectfully clad in undershirts and boxers, of course, and it was nothing that I hadn't seen before either – merely that I had never really taken any notice on past occasions. Needless to say, any of this sage note-taking would have been ditched in a heartbeat in return for the merest glimpse of Jeeves' left ankle, but that, sadly was not on display. No, as I said: I was going to try to be scholarly about things without all that love and devotion business getting in the way.
So, trying to be systematic about it, I noticed several things. First and foremost, chaps as a species were pretty pleasant on the eye; safe, appealing, and rather statuesque with no alarming surprises, and a vague aura of fascination about the lot of them. None of the specimens present would have especially recommended themselves for immortalization in marble, truth be told, but they were nevertheless a wholesome bunch and perfectly easy on the eye.
Then, of course, there were the specifics – Gussie had elegant shoulders but especially knobbly knees, Boko was well put-together across the chest but seemed to have been graced with more limb than the average orangutan, and Tuppy was really rather pudgy around the middle when exposed thus, although did have a prize-worthy softness of skin.
Each one was however – well, chaply - in a good sort of way, and although the thought of any of the other Drones en dishabille didn’t do anything for the Wooster pulse or loins, the idea was still calmly agreeable.
Putting all of these observations together, I heaved an enormous sigh of relief and deemed the oracular exploration a success. You see, it all added oomf to the conclusion I had stumbled toward on the sea-front on Tuesday night, which was certainly a good thing; I wouldn't have wanted to think that I was frightened by the sight of both varieties of potential mate. It also made me feel a bit closer to Jeeves in a funny sort of way – I suppose it seemed as if I now had leave to pine with some proper conviction and weight behind it. Everyone likes to feel justified in their actions, after all, and I was settling in for the long haul in the heartsick-unrequited-pining department.
Just when I had reached this comforting conclusion, the object of said h. u. p. returned bearing a pile of cloth and followed by Norma. The woman was wearing the distinct expression of a person whose artistry had been severely censored – rather like a lady python who had just been told that snakeskin was not in vogue this season. My dashing valet looked inscrutable as always, but I wonder whether it was a coincidence that he then caught my eye, passed his gaze over all the other unclothed chaps, and then returned his gaze to mine with the merest hint of a smile. Coincidence or no, it caused a definite blush to creep out of my lack of collar. Was the man a bally psychic or fortune teller? I ask you.
As quick as a flash, Jeeves had me togged up in all manner of extraordinary garments, with more ties and trusses than would have befitted the average Christmas turkey. I was only vaguely aware of what was being applied to the Wooster corpus, so it came as a surprise when Jeeves wheeled me over to the dressing mirror and I beheld a simply topping ensemble of Japanese red and gold.
“I say, Jeeves! This is jolly natty, what?” I bounced, turning my reflection this way and that.
“This will be your costume for the second act, sir, when Nanki-Poo's princely status has been revealed. Mrs. Brown will use the fittings of these robes to also adjust your dress for the first act.” He nodded kindly to Norma just then. “We are glad that it meets with your approval, sir.”
“I'll say it does! In fact I think I might incorporate the odd Japanese touch into the everyday Wooster kit!”
Then came one of those pointed silences. “I could not think that advisable, sir,” said Jeeves in a tone that brooked no argument.
I certainly didn't want to have a tiff with him – that certainly wouldn't help the swooning and pining business – so I backed down easily, nevertheless feeling somewhat chagrined at the loss of a jaunty tassled hat about the metrop. “Ah well, perhaps not then. But maybe I'll use it for a fancy dress costume...?” Had I been a female I would have fluttered my eyelashes then, but I think Jeeves got the gist all the same.
“A admirable idea, sir,” he consented, “ I shall arrange for us to purchase the outfit after the performance.”
There then followed an exquisitely excruciating period when Jeeves' smooth, expert hands flashed in and out of the robes, coming dangerously close to all different parts of the Wooster anatomy, causing them to shiver in anticipation of his almost-touch. Naturally, Jeeves took the whole episode in his stride with expert aplomb, but I was positively a-quiver with repressed whatsit. In fact, I hadn't even noticed that I was thoroughly glistening with devilishly sharp metal pins until Jeeves stepped back from his handiwork and nodded in satisfaction at hem lines that couldn't have been made straighter with a spirit-level.
“Ooh! Takes it like a man, that one, don't 'e?” said Norma, in some peculiar admiration of yours truly.
“I feel confident that Mr. Wooster could be described thus,” replied Jeeves rather haughtily, “And it is also clear that he does not flinch during the attachment of pins.” Jeeves plastered on his stuffed-frog expression just then, which made a great contrast with Norma's loud and bawdy chortle. I looked at Jeeves in bafflement, and was answered with no explanation but one of those tiny not-quite smiles, which made my insides turn all gooey and also made me forget whatever it was she was laughing about.
Costumes dealt with, we then had a few hours spare to drill some more lines through the Wooster onion and warm-up the old vocal chords a bit. Bingo was sweating and panting as he tried to move what looked like a whole cherry tree in a pot into the hotel ballroom, and Josephine was dividing her time between strutting around barking indiscriminate orders at members of the cast, and trying to butter-up the woman who I gathered was the representative of the local press.
Said r. of l.p. was a strapping creature sitting on that fine line between beazel and battleaxe – not quite auntly material, but definitely working on it. She was clad in bright colours, and although the style of her shirt and blouse was traditional enough, it had a slight whiff of the exotic about it, set off by hair that had too much of a life of its own to be called properly matronly. She sported a clip-board and pen, and gazed down at her notes through half-moon spectacles that were perched jauntily at the end of her nose like a precarious young fisherman on the pier, and inlayed with mother of pearl around their frames.
Through the lenses, her eyes twinkled at us almost like a dare. Here, I judged, was a woman who would never be shy about denouncing something dreadful, but at the same time basically wanted to be entertained and was willing to give things a fair go. I figured, given this show of even-handedness, that we now had approximately thirty seconds on stage before crash-and-burn, as opposed to the assumed zero.
When I presented Jeeves with this theory, he merely raised an eyebrow in disagreement and said once again, “I believe that you will perform admirably, sir,” then drilled me on some more lines. The marvellous man is very seldom wrong, but I really didn't know whether to believe him.
In actual fact, I don't think I shall go into details regarding the dressed rehearsal. In all honesty, it was too painful to recall.
Everything that might have possibly gone wrong accepted the kind invitation to do so – the orchestra was rarely in the same place as the singers (and often in a different number entirely), the sets were all knocked over by the gents’ chorus lumbering hither and yon in their so-called 'dances,' and barely a line was said without a prompt from off-stage.
The true moment of horror came however, with Gussie's first musical number. The orchestra scratched their way through the intro., Deirdre waved at Gussie from her stand, and then-
Nothing. He merely stood there with a glazed expression not unlike a particularly dim newt. Perhaps he had been taking lessons.
Deirdre waved around in consternation for a while and then she resolved to get the band to play the introduction again. Still nothing from Gussie - although he did seem to be growing increasingly redder and began to shake slightly. In the mean-time, Josephine was fuming in the wings with such vigour, I'm sure Jeeves could have cooked up a whole pan of eggs and b. from the steam coming out of her ears.
However, just before she could scream, “Augustus!” Gussie launched into the most extraordinary rant, standing in splendid isolation in the middle of the stage.
“I won't do it! I won't, I won't, I won't!” he screeched, “You can't make me. I simply shan't! I can't. I've never been able to sing. Not a note. However much you push, I still won't be able to do it... and, and... I'm... I'm going!” With that he tore the fringed cap from his head and threw it at the stage, running out of the ballroom and through the hotel's main doors without a backward glance at the stunned roomful of fellow actors and journalist.
An eerie silence stretched out over Gussie's departure and all of us on stage stood gawping in shock. But then, a funny thing – or perhaps I should say, an even funnier thing - happened. The newspaper lady put down her clipboard and peered around the room at us. Without warning, her face then split into the broadest of grins and she began to applaud wildly, shouting, “Bravo!” and “More!” to the stage and in the general direction of Gussie's tumultuous exit.
We actors blinked in absolute surprise, and were pretty unsure of what to do next. Tuppy however was pretty quick off the mark. He fast-forwarded the action to his next line after all the Lord High Executioner stuff, and we just carried on from there - with Josephine reading in Gussie's lines from off-stage - and managed to awkwardly stumble through until the end of the first act.
We sighed with relief as the chorus ended Act One, but almost no time was afforded for a mock-interval. The reporter-lady was apparently on the way to another appointment, so we hurled ourselves at the second act shortly afterwards, Honoria hurling herself in my direction at every possible opportunity. Quite remarkably, the metaphorical curtain managed to close at the end of the final number - as opposed to at any of the excruciating moments beforehand that is, when any right-thinking theatre-goer would have packed up his opera-glasses and left.
We tumbled out of the ballroom feeling properly shell-shocked and dejected, but of course all the talk was about what on earth had happened to Gussie.
“Well I say, that's just not cricket!” exclaimed Tuppy loudly, “The rest of us have to go through all of this larking about on stage, so why does he think he can get out of it by throwing a hissy-fit and storming off?”
“Deplorable behaviour,” decreed Honoria.
“I couldn't agree more,” said Bingo, while keeping a nervous eye upon Josephine. Perhaps he suspected that preventing the comedy-baritone from doing a runner mid-performance might have been one of the assistant producer’s responsibilities, and didn’t want to take any chances with being found in dereliction of duty.
Looking rather puzzled, Barmy asked, “You mean, that speech that Gussie said just now, wasn't actually in the script, then?” The rest of us pretended not to hear that one.
Jeeves met me as I headed back to the Tea Room, which was still functioning as the gents' changing room. He helped to remove and fold up the costume, and yours truly was soon clad in more accustomed garb once more. Throughout, I was bombarding the poor chap with tales of just how awfully everything had come apart, even though he had clearly seen it for himself, just minutes beforehand.
Jeeves however, seemed singularly unperturbed, and as he straightened from tying my shoelaces addressed me in a clear, deliberate tone. “Try not to trouble yourself regarding tomorrow's performance, sir. It is well known in theatrical circles that a somewhat distressing dressed rehearsal often precipitates the very best kind of final production.”
With that, he adjusted my tie with a final expert move, and I was left feeling torn between my impulse to carry on being a proper Moaning Minnie, and the urge to simply believe the pronouncement of this paragon among men and stop worrying so. Jeeves does, after all, have that kind of mesmerising effect upon me, and I was feeling particularly prone to being comforted just then, however irrational it might have seemed in the face of theatrical adversity. In the end I merely gaped at him for a while, probably looking slightly less intelligent than usual.
Jeeves took my silence to mean the end of the conversation, so he asked permission to work his magic elsewhere. “Sir, if I may have leave to speak with Miss Whittleworth for a moment?”
“Miss Whittleworth? Who on earth is that, Jeeves?” I asked. Everything seemed most topsy-turvey just then, and introducing new people into the scenario wasn't much of a help.
“The Musical Director, sir,” replied Jeeves, putting a delicate emphasis on the word 'musical' such that one might actually interpret the word to mean quite the opposite.
“Oh Deirdre? Yes, certainly, Jeeves,” I said, rather distractedly.
“Thank you, sir,” my valet replied, and melted off into the conservatory.
I then wandered out of the Tea Room on my own, thinking that a nice large cocktail at the hotel bar might work wonders for the State of the Wooster. However, my G & T remained as distant as a shimmering mirage of an oasis in the desert, because Madeline then accosted me - bearing the distinct look of a female on a mission.
“Bertie! My dearest Bertie, my very own Nanki-Poo!” she cried.
“Err… what-ho, Madeline,” I said, thinking that her salutation was a bit OTT, given that we had seen each other about fifteen minutes previously.
“Oh Bertie, let us go and walk together under the stars, such that the heavenly spheres themselves may shine upon us this evening, and the fluffy bunnies might be able to bless our union...” She then locked her arm firmly through mine and steered us both in the direction of the front door.
Things were looking pretty desperate in the G & T department just then, so I struck up a good, sturdy objection, “Um… yes. But, err… it’s still daylight! The stars aren’t out yet, are they? Oh dear, what a pity.” I attempted to tack back to the bar, but the blasted filly was having none of it.
“Well, I’m sure they will smile upon us anyway, won’t they? Bertie, this is important!” I felt there was a serious danger of stamping-of-tiny-feet ensuing just then, so I acquiesced and promised myself a double tipple for my trouble when I was released.
The rummy thing is, of course, that I had been so tied-up in lamenting the loss of my trip to the watering-hole, that the implications of Madeline’s opening gambit had failed to set-off the proper alarm-bells in the Wooster brain. As Madeline and I strolled along the sea-front, I was therefore totally unprepared for what happened next.
“So Bertie, how do you feel, knowing that after all your sweet and silent longing these past few months, I can finally be yours?” She fixed me with a boggle-eyed gaze, and I knew then that this was serious.
“You can finally be mine?” I repeated inanely.
“Why yes, Bertie! Now that my engagement to Augustus has been fatally broken, I am free to be your wife in the way you have always dreamed.”
I was right then; this was serious. I tried desperately to think of some way out that would not violate the Code of the Woosters, but dredged up nothing but the mental equivalent of an old boot. Valiantly however, I struggled on, donning the aforementioned o. b. with as much grace as I could muster. “Erm. Don’t you think you’re being a little hasty there, Madeline, old thing? I mean, we’re all feeling a bit miffed with Gussie at the moment, granted, but err… singing-aside, he really is a splendid chap – very kind to his newts and suchlike - and I wouldn’t want to break up the two of you over a little thing like this when you’re so clearly in love…”
“How you prove with every word that you are indeed my perfect match, Bertram! So kind and selfless; concerned even for the fate of your rival above yourself.” Her eyes took on a somewhat maniacal glow of confidence.
“Erm, no…I...” I protested.
“Hush, my dear. I understand your natural shyness, but let me assure you that Augustus’ recent misdemeanour is not in itself the reason that my engagement to him must cease to be. No, the reason for is far deeper – written in the stars themselves, and the spirits.” She looked upwards then, no doubt to evoke the power of said stars. As I had mentioned earlier however, the effect was rather spoilt by the fact that it was still broad daylight.
“Oh? And what do the stars have to say, exactly?” I asked with trepidation.
“Surely you remember, Bertie? We had our fortunes read together just three days ago. Madam Osiris told me that my one true love, my intended partner, would be someone who I appeared with on stage. It was foolish of me to think that Augustus would have been the one. Even if he hadn’t let us down so dreadfully today, it is clear from the operetta that you and I - Nanki-Poo and Yum-Yum – are the happy couple that the spirits meant.”
Oh, Hel-lo, I thought. This was all getting rather difficult now, bringing divine pronouncements into the affair. It was made doubly difficult by the fact that her mention of those predictions brought my painful, brooding love for Jeeves right to the front of my mind, and in the face of said p. b. l. , anything that Madeline might trouble me with seemed pretty insignificant. Jeeves was the one I was predicted to be in love with, and that was that. With such a thought in mind, I blurted out, “It’s no good, Madeline! Madam Osiris has already predicted that I love another, and my heart is bound.”
I gasped as soon as I had said it. Surely even a chap with as little between the ears as I should be able to refrain from confessing to apparently-criminal predilections in public, after all. Strangely however, Madeline seemed pretty unperturbed. “You are such a noble fellow, Bertie, but Honoria cannot stand in the way of the spirits’ true predictions.”
That was odd. “Honoria? How does she come into…?” My mind was all a-twirl; I had been thinking about my tall, dark, dashing valet, and…
Ah. I had quite forgotten about that. I rescued myself just in time, “Ah, yes, well, so that’s dashed inconvenient then, isn’t it? Me being engaged to Honoria and all that. I suppose the spirits will have to go back to the drawing board vis. you and I then, won’t they? Shucks, eh?” I laughed nervously.
“No Bertie, my dear, for your sake I will not hear of it!” she exclaimed, “It is you and I who shall be wed, according to your most heartfelt and long-lasting wish, and I have every confidence that all will fall into place. In fact, I shall telephone straight away and set the arrangements in train.” Madeline then beamed at me as if she was imparting the most wonderful news.
“Oh, ah. Right then,” I said lamely, and could think of nothing else to add before Madeline squeezed my hand and skipped off back to the hotel, no doubt making a bee-line for the nearest telephone.
I was left on the prom feeling pretty vacant, and watching as Madeline's fluffy blonde head disappeared out of sight. I was still grumpy about having forfeited my G & T, but strangely, that sinking feeling of dread that usually accosts the Wooster gullet upon the occasion of becoming unwilling engaged was absent. It was more as if I was viewing the problem from an exterior perspective while my sense of consideration was detained elsewhere – perhaps in a box-office queue, or by playing an over-long game of snooker.
I knew the whole engagement fix was big trouble - intellectually speaking - but I couldn't seem to muster the mustard to really care about it. Instead, there was just a sort of vague emptiness - a bit like the echo a lone traveler would get in an underground tunnel.
An impartial witness might have said I took it remarkably well, all things considered. Perhaps that was because the new posish with Madeline didn’t really seem to make the big picture much worse. If I was going to be doomed to being engaged to one unsuitable female when I was really hopelessly in love with my valet, why not make it two? Or a dozen for that matter? Put into perspective like that, any number of beazels couldn't do much to further reduce the Wooster spirits, as chance of nuptial happiness for me was already firmly on ice.
Strangely enough that realization fortified me – by power of a metally feeling to which I was not really accustomed. Was it copperony? No, that's not right. Maybe nickelony then? Aha - I have it. I was fortified by a strange sense of irony.
I returned to the hotel with far more thoughts and introspections swirling around in my brain than I would have wagered could fit in one go. In fact, I was so absorbed by contemplating my apparently hopeless state that I failed to notice Jeeves waiting at the front door of the hotel until I was practically upon him (not, of course, in the Biblical sense, I shall add, just in case the more creative reader might become unduly carried away).
I gazed up to my dashing and dashingly unobtainable valet as he stood above me on the doorstep, no doubt patiently contemplating whatever silly thing was written across the Wooster dial. I had pretty much given up trying to hide my feelings from Jeeves just then. Injudicious perhaps; but that effort on top of everything else was just bally well too much for the old bean to cope with.
He nodded politely as a few people with instrument cases pushed past and thanked him for something or other, and then addressed me with a concerned demeanor. "Good evening, sir. Are you quite well?"
"Yes, Jeeves, yes..." I said automatically, but then amended that to, "Well no, dash it, I'm not." I didn't really think of where the conversation might go from there, but being honest with Jeeves was a reflex too strong to suppress.
"I am distressed to hear so, sir," he replied. That brought the metally sensation back with full force - how distressed indeed Jeeves might have been, had he known that aching passion for him was the real source of my upset. He then coughed subtly in that way he does when he is about to raise a delicate matter, and carried on. "I couldn't help but overhear Miss Bassett talking with some members of the ladies' chorus as I was standing in the hallway just now, sir. She seemed to be excited by an understanding she has reached with you, on the basis of Madam Osiris' predictions."
"Oh no... That too," I muttered, vaguely thinking that I ought to be paying more attention to those rummy circs. Love of the unrequited variety did seem to be pretty all-consuming though, leaving precious little room for anything else. Especially when there wasn't much space in the old coconut to begin with. I tried hard to meet Jeeves' conversation however, and remarked, "Yes, apparently I'm going to have to marry Madeline now. And Honoria for that matter. Why don't they just tear me down the middle and put me out of my misery in the process?"
"Not a course of action that I would advise, sir. Although you do quite accurately express the difficulty of the situation on your part."
I perked up a little at that. A faint whiff of praise from Jeeves was a balm to the Wooster soul, and I picked up the stride of the thing. "Thank you, Jeeves. I just don't believe the gall of these girls sometimes - thinking they know exactly what Madam Osiris meant, if the description so happens to vaguely fit one of them or the other. Why, I have a good mind to think that the spirits didn't actually mean either of them!"
"Indeed, sir," pronounced Jeeves, with perhaps a little more feeling than usual.
"And anyway," I continued, "What happened to all of the proported sisterliness, I ask you? It was only a few days ago that Madeline was castigating me in no uncertain terms about applying a certain rodentine moniker to 'dear Honoria,' and now she's proposing to waltz in a steal another filly's intended without a backward glance at the matter."
"To paraphrase a famous novelist, sir, 'those girls do have claws beneath their white gloves.'"
"Well, I'm better off without them, say I," I ranted.
"Indeed, sir."
I ran out of steam at that point however, and was forced to look upon the matter more rationally. Well, when I say 'rationally,' I suppose I really mean that I just gave the thing a bit of an eyeball. As opposed to completely ignoring it in favour of pining over Jeeves, as had been my wont, that is. I heaved a heavy sigh, and did what I always did in these rummy circs. I asked Jeeves for advice.
He nodded in a satisfied manner, as if he had been waiting for some time for yours truly to finally catch-up to the problem-solving stage of the predic., then launched into one of those clever ideas. "Not wanting to cast aspersions upon your attractiveness to the fairer sex, sir…" he started.
"Oh no, cast away, Jeeves!" I said, feeling a blush creeping over my cheeks at the thought. I'd far rather Jeeves started talking about any potential attraction I might offer to his sex, I fancied... but then scalded myself for wandering. No, Bertram I told myself firmly. I had to stay on-topic.
"Very good, sir," Jeeves continued, "Miss Glossop is a hearty young woman, sir, but I fancy that she also holds a rigid view of the boundaries of respectability. Therefore, if an aspect of your character were seen to overstep one of those boundaries, she might be of the opinion that her union to you is not advisable."
"You mean, make her go off me somehow or other, Jeeves?"
"Yes, sir. I believe we could accomplish that."
"Oh yes, wonderful, Jeeves! Anything at all if it would get me off the hook." It all sounded dreadfully simple when he put it like that. All I had to do was something that Honoria would find less than respectable. Now, I wagered that I often managed to do things that would fall into that category without trying at all – staying in bed until eleven, for instance, or playing at piggy-back races in the club – so surely doing something like that on purpose would not be beyond the wit of Wooster. Jeeves really was a marvel, I thought. And for once, his clever plan was so simple that even I could be trusted to pull off my part of it without mishap. The day already seemed marginally brighter.
However, Honoria was only half of the problem, and the thought of lifelong sparkly stars and fluffy bunnies brought me swiftly back to the matter in hand. "But what about the blasted Bassett girl, Jeeves? How do I get out of that one?" I asked.
"A different tack may be required in that case, sir, but arguably the path is more direct. It occurs to me, sir, that Miss Bassett might quite simply cease her persual of you if Mr. Fink-Nottle were indeed to agree to perform with her in stage, and thus fulfill the prophecy to which she has become so firmly devoted."
"Because Madeline and Gussie really are each other's Dream Rabbits deep down, you mean, Jeeves?"
"Not exactly the zoological reference I had in mind, sir, but I believe the meaning holds nevertheless."
I followed his plan that far, but then I saw a gaping flaw in the idea. What a dashed pity.
I supposed though, that even Jeeves is human like the rest of us. It was properly fitting of my devotion not to be hard on him when one of his plans failed to meet the usual top-notch standard, so I tried to communicate that as gently as possible. "A very nice scheme, old thing, but I really don't think it will work," I said, maybe a little dejectedly.
"Sir?" asked Jeeves.
"Well, you heard Gussie," I continued, "He simply won't go on stage. Not come fire or flood. Categorically, and finally. I really wouldn't want to pin my hopes of reprieve upon him changing his mind on that one."
Jeeves nodded, but I couldn’t help thinking he hadn’t quite taken what I had just said on board. “You have recounted the occasion accurately, sir. However, I do indeed believe that Mr. Fink-Nottle might be persuaded to perform under certain conditions.”
I was really touched by the amount of thought he was putting into the wheeze, but I was also sure it wasn’t any use. “No really, Jeeves. I know Gussie, and that’s the most worked-up I have ever seen him. I swear it’s hopeless.” A little harsh perhaps - especially as Jeeves was doing his best to think my way out of the soup - but I didn't want to go about building castles in the water at that point. Or the air, for that matter. Indeed, whatever the natural habitat of the unwanted fortifications, my delicate state of mind just then really couldn't stand their construction; I would just have to get used to being doomed.
"Very good, sir," acknowledged Jeeves, closing the matter and showing off his feudal spirit in its best light. He inclined his head toward the door and we both went into the hotel, me to the bar, and he to his temporary lair.
As I sat sipping my long-overdue G & T however, I mulled over Jeeves' words along with my own and got the most uncanny feeling about the whole affair, even though I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The specifics were far from clear, but I couldn't help but think there was something he was not quite telling me.
Chapter Six - 'Passion and Performance'