![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
purplefluffycatChapter Six - 'Passion and Performance' (Part 1)
It was inevitable I suppose, that the sands of time should slip through the fingers of whatsit, and I would find myself entering the large and slightly shabby edifice that is the Crenellation Theatre: Spindleythorpe-on-Sea's finest bastion of the arts. Jeeves explained who I was to the doorman when we arrived, who then greeted us warmly in the broad, coastal accent of these parts, and informed us that tickets had been selling like the proverbial incinerated Marie-Antoinette fodder ever since that review was put about the day before.
This news made me feel quite excited, to tell the truth, but also caused butterflies to flit around in the Wooster insides somewhat. I gazed up at the fading gold tassels and scuffed stucco of the foyer. Not the grandest theatre I had been to, by a long chalk, but quite grand enough considering that I was going to be on the dangerous side of the safety curtain in there. I supposed the only thing for it at that point was to full-steam-ahead and try to come out of the other end relatively unscathed – I really didn't know how pro. actors managed to do this sort of thing all the time. I was woken from my musings however, by the doorman asking us to follow him downstairs, so follow him we did – down a steep and rather dusty flight into the bowels of the theatre.
Although at that particular point in time, my mind was certainly not awash with the joys of having a starring role in an alarmingly well-attended vegetable festival, there was one obvious perk to being the leading chap. Namely - one gets a dashed good dressing room! I might even confess to feeling a little thrill of pride when I was escorted along the corridor to a door that had ‘Mr. Bertram Wooster, Nanki Poo’ emblazoned on the outside in neat, calligraphic letters, and felt quite the star on seeing the size of the chamber and how well it had been appointed.
Indeed, there was the customary theatrical dressing table and wardrobe, and I noticed that it had already been well stocked with the requisite Japanese attire from before and various potions that Jeeves assured me he would know where to daub on my visage, when the time came. We also had several plush chairs and a very comfy-looking day-bed, which I suppose might have been the ‘casting couch’ that the Drones had mentioned the other night, whatever that was, exactly. In fact, all would have been spiffing were it not for the fact that upon seeing the actuality of it all, the aforementioned butterflies had by now grown to Amazonian proportions and were attempting to communicate with Mr. Livingstone himself using an advanced form of lepidopteran semaphore.
“How long do I have left, Jeeves?” I asked nervously. “Is B. Wooster yet due to draw his last few breaths as an unashamed man?”
“There is ample time in hand, sir; we arrived somewhat early at the theatre. Please try to relax yourself for the time being, and we can begin costume and make-up presently.”
“Jolly good, jolly good,” I said, trying not to catch his eye. In truth, that assertion by Jeeves just heaped yet another worry onto the Wooster brow. As I mentioned before, in the days since my dizzying revelation re: my ardent love for my valet, all mentions and instances of adding or removing clothing had gained a noticeable frisson. It was obviously a core duty of the gentleman’s personal gentleman to assist with shirts and trousers, and such-like, and Jeeves had been nothing other than his usual meticulous self in these matters. I however – especially after the costume fitting the previous day - was reaching my wits’ end, with those wonderful, smooth, capable hands of his flitting so close to the Wooster frame and then whispering off again, leaving me all but crying out for a proper application of said s. c. h. to many and various parts of Bertram’s anatomy. It was all I could do not to shudder merely thinking about it.
Such thoughts of longing and sweet torture were probably painted all over my face at that moment, leading my ever-attentive valet to ask, “Is something else the matter, sir?”
“No… no, not at all,” I lied, most unconvincingly. Jeeves’ expression displayed that he had not been fooled for one second, so I had to rootle around for a publicly acceptable explanation. “It’s just that… I’m feeling dashed dejected about all this business with Honoria, Jeeves. And Madeline, for that matter.” That at least, was perfectly true, even though it had not been on my mind in the preceding moments.
“Ah. Understandably so, sir.”
“Yes.” Actually, the more I dwelt on it, the more I did feel like a condemned man on the matrimony front, and the gravity of the situation once again crashed down on me, like a concrete block on a spring. Maybe the last time that Bertram would be able to wriggle had passed, I thought to myself. In an unaccustomed moment of grimness, I even considered that perhaps I might as well marry some awful girl, given that there was absolutely no chance of getting together with the person who was really the apple of my eye. Ever since Cupid’s arrow had done its work, my chances of being truly content in my gay bachelor existence had gone out of the window. Certainly, I wanted to cling on to Jeeves like billy-oh as my valet if I could have nothing else, but everything was tinged distinctly maudlin again, like the poems of one of those Victorian-Gothic chappies. At least if I marry, the aunts will be happy, I thought despairingly, and considered that someone or other might as well end up pleased after all this mess. But then there was Jeeves… and I was so very head over tail in love with Jeeves! And… and…
...All of these different feelings were bubbling around in my breast, repeating themselves and arguing with each other and my head was throbbing from the fact that it had never ever been required to hold so many different contrary thoughts at once. I was just not built for complexity of this kind, and after such a trying week, the Wooster steamer was so under pressure it would surely blow a gasket. It was all simply too much.
In fact, said gasket blew in short order after that, and was of the verbal kind. “Oh well, dash it, Jeeves,” I exclaimed in defeat, “Perhaps I should just marry one of them and be done with it. It’s not as if I have the slightest hope of the engagement that I would really like, so I should just sign myself up to a Glossop or a Bassett and forget about me for good.”
“Sir?” said Jeeves politely. He then fixed me with an enquiring expression.
“Well yes, Jeeves. I might have reached the end of the line here - point of no return; Despair Canyon. What else is a chap to do when all the odds are against him?” I felt so exasperated and desperate the words just tumbled forth without much instruction from me.
“I am most distressed to hear this sir. But I was enquiring as to the other, more favourable, yet less feasible engagement prospect, to which you just alluded.”
“Did I?” Pure, unbridled panic at that point, naturally. I was brought back to the immediate present with a resounding crash. How on earth could I have let that one slip?
“Yes sir, you did,” Jeeves replied calmly. He then politely raised his eyebrows in expectation of an answer.
“Oh, um… right,” I said, “Yes, I suppose I did. And well, Jeeves. Well, indeed. I suppose you are wondering as to the nature of the other, somewhat impossible err… interaction, eh?” I flannelled desperately for a way of digging myself out of this one, but without Jeeves’ help it was dashed difficult.
“Yes, sir. That question is certainly foremost in my mind, if you would permit me the curiosity?” He leaned forward slightly, a beam of light from the window picking up accents in his gorgeous, shiny hair.
The curiosity? Oh goodness, I would then have permitted Jeeves so many things in addition to curiosity just then, the list would be far too long to notate. I was, however, clearly in a dilemma. Naturally, I couldn’t tell Jeeves the truth, nor could I retract the revelation that had occurred thus far. Also, the last thing I wanted to do was to make up that I was pining over some filly or other, lest Jeeves’ marvellous fish-fed brain concoct a scheme to have me spliced with her, whoever she might be. What a rummy situation for a chap to find himself in.
In the end, honesty seemed like if not the best, then the only available policy. “I’m not entirely sure I can tell you, Jeeves,” I managed, and then looked at the parquet flooring as if it held some great universal secret.
“I see, sir. I understand it is a sensitive matter.” My valet paused thoughtfully. “If however, you happen to see fit to enlighten me, sir, I will do all I can to assist you in achieving your goal.”
Oh Jeeves! My heart did a little somersault at that point, and then landed in an even deeper quagmire. ‘Assist me,’ indeed. I was, as ever, enormously touched by his generosity with the old grey matter, but now felt in an even stickier situation.
“Thank you, Jeeves, but I think there’s little that can be done. I have no idea how the other party might feel about yours truly, and there’s absolutely no way I, or anyone else for that matter, would be able to ask without risking something really very terrible.” I thought that was pretty diplomatic, under the circs.
“I see, sir,” replied Jeeves, “However, you seem most distressed. I do confess to feeling rather… concerned.” Was it my imagination, or was Jeeves much closer to me then than he had been a few minutes previously? And why did the expression on his face at that moment make me want to throw my resolve to the wind and kiss him on the lips, then and there?
The room suddenly seemed unbearably hot, and I could feel a flush climbing up my cheeks. Any ability I might have had for producing a self-preserving subterfuge had long departed; I could only speak from the heart. "Well you see, the thing is, it's dashed difficult to pluck up the courage to do something about it, not knowing what the other party is going to think, and all… so I just end up tying myself in knots about the whole thing..."
"Most distressing, sir." I noticed then that Jeeves was speaking in a low and syrupy tone that sent shivers along every single vertebra I owned. Was he really so close now that I could feel his delicate breath upon my face? The air in the room was depleting very rapidly, and my throat felt as if I had just swallowed a hippopotamus, and a large one, at that.
"Well yes, it is, dash it!" I was feeling pretty frantic by now, like the butt of some enormous cosmic joke. How on earth could I have come to be engaged about a conversation on the traumas of unrequited love with the very subject of said u.l.? Whoever out there it was who had a voodoo-thingy of B. Wooster, he was clearly having a field-day with my little effigy just then. It would have been sporting had he seen fit to dunk the mini-Bertram into a bucket of cold water at that point, but alas no such solace was offered to my predicament, supernatural or otherwise.
More out of desperation than judgement, and the fact that my natural tendency when in a jamb was to my valet for advice - however inappropriate that may have been, under the circumstances - I then blurted out, "What do you think I ought to do about it, Jeeves?"
He fixed me with that wonderful fathomless gaze and I was certain that I would expire from the sheer intensity of it. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn that I saw the corner of his mouth twitch upwards, as if he was enjoying my state of fluster. "In the circumstances you describe, sir, it would be most agreeable if the parties involved might be persuadable to declare their tender feelings simultaneously.”
“You mean, as if there might be a chance that the whole love-struck symptoms are, well… reciprocal?” It was a thought that I barely dared to entertain, but Jeeves’ advice was always so sound, I found myself being swept along with his train of thought.
“Yes, sir. That way, neither party would have to make himself particularly vulnerable, without the other party also being in an empathic state.”
I took all that in, and it seemed like a capital idea. "Oh, on the count of three, you mean?" I asked, somewhat more perkily.
Jeeves regarded me quizzically for a moment and then quirked his gorgeous lips once more. "An unconventional employment of that system, sir, but I imagine it could be made to work adequately."
I nodded at his approval, and then settled into the very serious business of counting. "Right then," I said, "Um. Well, 'one,' I suppose."
"Very good, Sir." Jeeves leaned still nearer to me; that gaze boring into my eyes as if he could read every last item written in the Wooster brain through my very pupils. The hippopotamus started doing somersaults.
"And err...'two,'" I squeaked.
"Quite so, Sir." Jeeves held my gaze just as deeply, but seemed to be moving his arms as he did so. I was then aware, in some blissful corner of my mind that wasn't all-consumed by the acrobatic hippopotamus, that Jeeves had placed his hands - those wonderful, large, capable hands - around my waist. I was being held.
I was just about to utter the syllable 'three,' with the remaining atom of oxygen I had at my disposal when I felt myself becoming so close to Jeeves it was almost scandalous. He was melting into my field of vision, so near I could no longer see him properly, and then all of a sudden we seemed to be touching.
Touching at the lips!
My brain, addled as it admittedly was, then lost entirely all ability for rational thought and instead turned into some kind of sponge for absorbing sensations. I could feel Jeeves' soft mouth beneath mine and it was moving slowly and sensually, coaxing me to do the same. I felt the hands that had been resting at my waist move around to my back, touching and holding and stroking, and the solid weight of Jeeves pressed closely to me. I could feel the heat radiating through his immaculate clothes.
My bones turned to jelly and I clung to Jeeves for dear life, lest he would have to mop me up later as a puddle on the floor. Just when it seemed that nothing could be more wonderful, I felt a gentle invasion into my mouth, and immediately met Jeeves' tongue with my own. There was then an extraordinary groan that might have come from me, and Jeeves seemed to shudder and hold me even more tightly, until we were both utterly beyond reason and intent only upon one another and all the assorted grabbing, stroking and moaning that was taking place. Steamy stuff, I can tell you!
After what might have been hours we broke apart, flushed and breathless. Although he quickly recovered his usual poise, I saw in Jeeves a look of such hunger and dishevelment in that second that I would not have thought him capable. I was probably gaping in shock and bewilderment that all of my Christmases and birthdays had seemed to come at once, as Jeeves prompted me to say something with his svelte raised eyebrow.
"Well Jeeves, that was...um...extraordinary!" I spluttered.
"Indeed it was, sir." He suddenly seemed altogether so calm and unruffled I had to close my eyes for a second just to check that I hadn't imagined what had just happened.
I then realised that I was both amazingly happy, and absolutely, completely rudderless.
The Grandest Plan of my Wildest Dreams, you see, had involved vast amounts of wondering and internal torture, all culminating in a brave and wild declaration that may or may not have led the way of happiness. What lay the other side of that declaration was totally uncharted territory, into which I seemed to have already and unexpectedly blundered.
So many questions were thronging around inside my head at that point, or at least they were attempting to. In actual fact, not very much rational thronging was occurring at all, if I am to be honest, because all was obscured by a very thick cloud of lust that focussed on the tell-tale glow still present in Jeeves' cheeks and the glistening moisture on his plump bottom lip.
Finally, I managed to ask, " Well, Jeeves, what happens now?" and continued to gape rather vacantly, I imagine.
"In situations such as this, sir, it might be deemed appropriate for us to remove some clothing and continue our explorations in a more horizontal manner." He gave me that knowing smile once again, and gestured toward the conveniently-placed dressing-room couch.
To me, this seemed like a perfectly topping idea, so I quickly moved in the direction Jeeves had indicated, and noticed him follow me across the room.
Then, out of nowhere, I was suddenly assaulted by the most terrible thought, which must have been generated by the inherited Code of the Woosters that I harbour. What if I was about to put Jeeves in a compromising position against his wishes? One hears of chambermaids and so-forth being terribly used by the Lord of the Manor, or suchlike, who do nothing about it - simply out of fear and to uphold the old feudal spirit. Much as a part of me might have wanted to add such services to the job description of my valet, my respect and tenderness for Jeeves in his own right would never have entertained the idea. I had to know for certain that he was a fully playing member in this game of ours, else I did not want it to continue.
"I say, Jeeves," I managed, between shaking breaths.
"Yes, sir?" he asked smoothly, coming around to face me.
"Much as this is perfectly marvellous, I would never want you do engage in anything err... personal with me against your wishes. I understand that you pride yourself in being the very best gentleman's personal gentleman this side of the Atlantic, and quite possibly over there, too, but umm... I'd rather you resign than feel forced into anything." My eyes were open wide, and although I don't usually guard my feelings particularly carefully, I was fully aware that I was fully wearing my heart on my lapel, or cuff, or wherever it is that people generally wear their hearts. I managed a quick chuckle. "You see, Jeeves, I'm just not sure about manhandling my manservant. I don't want to be one of those blighters."
Throughout my heartfelt speech however, Jeeves had been displaying that expression on his dial that says, 'Wooster, you're being an utter idiot'. Of course, he would never admit to the veracity of that translation, but I know it, all the same.
He then drew a long-suffering breath and said, "Sir, I am most touched by your hesitancy, but let me assure you, both on grounds of my professional conscientiousness and personal inclinations, that it is not required." Then in a voice that was made of molten chocolate he leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I would dearly like you to touch every inch of my naked body, and I am most keen to return the favour."
At that delicious sound, and the meaning it carried, something inside me utterly snapped. Without forethought, I thoroughly launched myself at Jeeves and we both landed upon the soft cushions of the couch. He then moved towards me and we began kissing again - more vigorously this time, if it were possible - and his clever hands began reaching for my clothing, making short work of buttons, clasps and ties until there was very little left on either of our upper-halves.
I could hardly believe the bally wonderfulness of it all, and was vaguely considering whether such amazing circs. might just be the fevered imaginings of a delirious Wooster brain. Was I due to awaken from such a beautiful dream at any moment, by force of the dreaded alarm clock? As if some malevolent force had heard my musings, Jeeves and I were suddenly rent apart by an almighty-
RRRRIIIIINNNG!
A deafening bell sent the air ricocheting around the dressing room, and Josephine’s voice could be heard bellowing in the corridor, “Act one beginners to the stage, please. Act One beginners to the stage.”
Naturally, Jeeves was the first to recover his wits at this point. “My sincere apologies, sir. I had no idea that the time was passing so… rapidly. We have the overture and opening chorus to get you ready for the stage, which should be manageable.” With an almost magical slight of hand, Jeeves had managed to both dress himself and finish undressing me during that sentence, and he was already half way across the room, making a bee-line for the costume-rail.
I was so disorientated, it was the most I could do to stand upright and proffer limbs in the correct sequence as Jeeves dashed around me like a dervish with sashes, wigs, kimono-thingummies, and more make-up than is seen on the ground floor of Selfridge's.
After a few moments, he stepped backwards to admire his handiwork, and nodded in a satisfied manner. “Most oriental. This way please, sir.” Jeeves then propelled me through the door, up a very dark staircase, and into what were apparently the wings of the theatre. I recognised that the gentleman’s opening chorus was over half-way through, and I was due to make my entrance as Nanki-Poo in under thirty seconds’ – we had got there in the nick of time.
The rummy thing was however, that my brain was so clouded with happenings and barely requited longings, I had severe trouble remembering the first line. Everything about Bertram spelled panic at that moment; of that, I’m sure.
Almost as if he could read my thoughts, Jeeves whispered, “ ‘Gentlemen, I pray you tell me…’” in my ear, just before he pulled back the black curtain of the wings and gave me a hearty push into the blinding light of the stage.
The orchestra played the opening chord of my recit, and then…
…Miraculously, I sang something. I actually managed to open up my mouth and sing what might have even been the right words on an approximation of what might have been the notes that Mr. Sulli-thingy notated all those years ago. I am still astounded to this day that it happened, but happen it did.
I got through the recit, and then the orchestra launched smoothly into the intro to my aria. Deirdre was spinning her arms around like a rather crazed windmill, and all the rugby players on stage were looking at me with exaggeratedly quizzical expressions, just as they had been instructed so to do. It then occurred to me that this performing business might actually be a little bit fun.
Indeed, the Wooster gusto had been engaged and I launched full-voice into the Minstrel song - and jolly good it was too, even if I say so myself! The audience certainly seemed to think so, and I was utterly amazed by the amount of applause that yours truly generated at the end of that rendition. Far better than the usual type of after-dinner crowd, that’s for sure.
All carried on in a suitable fashion – Tuppy coming and doing his thing as Pooh-Bah to not a small number of chortles, and before I knew it, we’d come to the end of the next chorus too.
This was supposed to be Gussie’s big moment. I could feel everyone on stage tense up in anticipation – and quite right, too - considering that I, for one, didn't even know if he was in the town, let alone waiting backstage. Josephine had assured us that, 'all would be taken care of and that we weren't to fret,' but such a thing is easier said than done when one is standing beneath the hot lemon-light, I can tell you.
The pause before Gussie’s number extended ominously, and I think we all feared the worst. However, just before it started to look properly embarrassing, a figure was rather boisterously assisted onto the stage, and Gussie was standing there in all his splendour as the Lord High Executioner.
Deirdre took his appearance as her cue, and the music started. Gussie blinked, stirred, then swallowed hard, looking rather like a Persian cat about to produce a furball. We all appeared pretty queasy on his behalf as well, I imagine.
Imagine the surprise and delight then, when he actually came in, in the right place! Those of us on stage breathed an enormous sigh of relief as the show carried on, and tried to remember what we had to do next. However, among all that, I couldn’t help but notice that something funny was going on.
Gussie was certainly there, and his lips were moving in the correct fashion. However, the voice that rang around the auditorium was so surpassingly crisp, clear and beautiful it was difficult to reconcile that sound with the valiantly quaking personage at the front of the stage.
Upon consideration, it seemed as if said s. c. c. and b. voice was actually coming from behind the black curtains, not from Gussie himself. I wondered for a moment whether he had suddenly become some type of heavenly ventriloquist, but then I realised that Gussie was, in fact, only miming. A quick glance into the wings told me that such gorgeous sounds were really spilling forth from the lips of my very own Jeeves! - From the self-same lips that only minutes earlier I had been kissing, I reminded myself in an utter thrill of smugness. It really was an extraordinary wheeze!
The audience seemed to be fooled well enough though, and were once again generous with their applause. Such spirits held firmly throughout Madeline's entrance with the ladies' chorus, and they did a splendid job with all of the assorted giggling, fan-wafting and teasing of poor old Tuppy.
Amazingly, the orchestra kept up with the singers throughout every number, and were even playing with the odd touch of panache. Quite a transformation seemed to have undergone that band of assorted bruisers, grannies and squirts - who were actually watching Deirdre's manic - yet unmistakably clear - beat, and producing a sound that if not fully professional, was certainly no embarrassment. It was almost as if the lot of the them been coached intensively over the past few days by someone who really knew what he was doing, and I silently thanked the mystery tutor for his efforts.
Dippy as she was, Madeline held the spectators in the palm of her hand, and she and I got through that soppy love scene without disaster - even though I was almost fatally distracted by my memories of reading it through with Jeeves a couple of days before, and had to grope around for the next line a few times. Then Gussie came back and strutted around a bit (again augmented by Jeeves from off-stage), various and sundry people including myself either did or didn’t suffer some kind of stuffy, unpleasant death, and we all skipped around in either panic or joy during the odd patter song and madrigal.
And then, to my utter astonishment, we had already got through the Act One finale – Honoria blazing on for her star turn at the end – and the audience erupted into a frenzy of applause! Now, I don't mean that churlish kind of slow-clapping that goes on when some cove is being terribly boring or acting an utter blockhead, you know. This was the real banana – proper tumultuous peals of the stuff, perhaps even mixed with the odd cat-call. The velvet drapery closed around us and we unfroze from the final pose, looking a bit shell-shocked and more than a bit pleased.
Of course, I was as cheerful as anyone about the progress of the broccoli and I heartily exchanged congratulations with everyone on the thing thus far, but the Wooster brain was also fully charged with electrifying memories of that whatever-it-was with Jeeves that had happened minutes before I had been rushed onto stage. Certain other parts of the Wooster anatomy were rather keen to pick up where we had left off, as well. I spied Jeeves in his position in the wings, and waved at him with all the joys of spring, gesturing that we two should sneak off somewhere post-haste. I was answered however, only by a slightly raised eyebrow of the most professional variety atop the patented stuffed-frog expression. This visual cold-shoulder was somewhat of a shock to my giddy state, as I'm sure you can imagine.
Had he forgotten what had happened? Had I just dreamt it all up? Or worse, did Jeeves consider it to be some dreadful aberration that he wanted to ignore and forget altogether?
Just as the pit of doom was opening beneath my feet however, a bit of a light bulb turned on upstairs. Was it possible that Jeeves was just pretending to be all non-bothered about the thing, as a kind of smoke-screen? Yes, that sounded sensible actually. It was undeniable that society might view what had happened between us as a bit, um... thingummy, and it was just like Jeeves to think ahead about that side of things when I was leaping all over the place like a performing sea lion in sight of a particularly tasty pinstripe mackerel. I decided therefore to can the comedics and go in search of Jeeves (who had by then disappeared into the dark recesses of the theatre) to suggest a rendezvous in a perfectly discreet fashion.
My course set, I walked backstage to try to ascertain where he had got to. However, I was thwarted in this attempt by Madeline. Well, by Madeline and Gussie to be precise – locked in the kind of fierce embrace that took every advantage of the shadows cast by the hanging blacks. I tried to creep past without disturbing them, but alas, stealth has never been one of my strong points – just ask anyone who knows about cow-creamers.
Madeline broke away from her newt-loving lover, an expression of shock and trauma painted across her dippy features. “Oh goodness. My dear Bertram!” she exclaimed.
“Err... what-ho Madeline,” I said distractedly, trying to see past her for a glimpse of Jeeves.
“How awful for you. I mean, how awful of me. I am so sorry, Bertie. I should have talked to you first.” She came towards me then and clasped both of her my hands in hers, a look of great pity and regret swimming across her girlish map.
In truth, it took me a moment to cotton on to what she meant, but a few glances between Madeline and a triumphant-looking Gussie did the trick. I'm off the hook! I thought; this day was getting better and better! My natural inclination then was to grin like that disappearing cat from some county up north, but I was careful not to seem rude – Code of the Woosters, you understand. I therefore tried to compensate by schooling my features into a bit of a frown, just to look fittingly sombre under the circs.
Unfortunately, it seemed as if I had gingered up the frowning thing a bit too much, as Madeline became even more distressed. “Oh Bertie, please don't cry. I understand your pain, really I do. I would never have wanted you to be this devastated, but you must see that nothing can be done. Augustus and I are pre-ordained – it's written in the stars that we will be together forever, and have whole flocks of little bunny rabbits at our side.”
“And newts,” added Gussie, not to be outdone.
“Oh. Ah... I see,” I said, not knowing quite what the proper response should be, and realising that my natural inclination of, 'hurrah!' wasn't quite the thing.
“Try not to be too downhearted though, Bertie,” continued Madeline, “You mustn't worry about all of the planning and preparation going to waste – I can just wire through to say that the wedding is still going ahead, and all they have to do is change the name of the groom on the invitation cards. Besides, Mummy and Daddy won't even realise there has been a change. They're away in New York and wouldn't have got my first message while the servants were dealing with things. So you see, hardly anyone will be discommoded!” She grinned at me as if a lack of administrative tribulation was supposed to have made up for supposedly breaking a chap's heart, and then giggled when Gussie whispered something in her ear.
“Well, spiffing then,” I said, “No problem at all. I'll just be going along now...” I tried to make a break for it, by now pretty desperate to locate my wondrous valet. Madeline and Gussie certainly weren't perturbed by my attempt at departure, but unfortunately I didn't get very far, as Josephine stomped towards us bearing piles of red and gold satin.
“There you all are!” she snapped, as if backstage in a theatre was a particularly odd place to find three amateur actors, “Bertram, Augustus, do hurry up and get changed for the second act.” She thrust the bundles towards us then, which upon closer inspection turned out to be those dashed snazzy costumes for act two. “Chop, chop!”
I seized my opportunity then. “Jolly good, Josephine. I'll just go and find Jeeves to help me change.”
“No, you can't, Jeeves is busy,” she told me firmly, “The oboist broke her last reed at the end of the first act and no-one else knows how to make more of them.” My disappointment at that must have showed, for I was quickly scalded again, “I'm sure you can manage without him, Bertram. But just in case, I shall send Honoria over to help with the ties and scarves. And don't go sneaking off anywhere downstairs! I want you to stay here backstage where I can find you. You nearly gave me a heart-attack being so late to arrive for your entry in Act One.” With that, Josephine stalked off, no doubt to find someone else to domineer.
Somewhat crushed over the lack of valet, I found a quiet and relatively well lit corner between some hanging drapes and did my best with the de-togging and re-togging business - although I was pretty unaccustomed to having to undertake such things solo. I doubt whether I would have actually been successful with the intricacies of Japanese dress, but I never got the chance to find out. As good as her accomplice's word, Honoria sailed over to assist.
“Are you decent, Bertie?” she called from around the side of the curtain, “I suppose it won't matter soon, will it? When we're married, I mean. – Ha ha!”
I vocalised a shudder at that, which she might have interpreted as a laugh, I suppose. “Yes, um... all safe, that is.” Those big dressing-gown kimono-thingies protect one's modesty completely, so I emerged from my hiding place to face her.
“So far, so good,” said Honoria, eyeing me critically. “Now we attach the obi like this-” Honoria wrapped something around my middle and then tugged so hard tears sprang to my eyes and every scrap of air was forcibly evacuated from the Wooster lungs.
“Not so tight...” I squeaked. There was no way I could have breathed just then, much less sang.
“Oh, you are a fragile young thing, aren't you, Bertie?” Honoria roared. “Don't worry, I'll toughen you up when we're married!” She then gave me back the use of my diaphragm, and attached various other cords to the Wooster personage, thankfully with a little more delicacy. The whole thing just gave me one more reason to be so bally grateful for Jeeves and all his works, and multiplied the wish to once again be in the arms of my man.
Sadly, it was not to be. The bell rung indicating the end of the interval as Honoria tied the final knot, and I was propelled into my starting position for Act Two – which was unfortunately on the other side of the stage from Jeeves' singing station.
Madeline seemed as buoyed as a helium-filled seagull by her reaffirmation of relations with old Gussie. She opened the second act singing about a forthcoming wedding with the kind of enthusiasm that could only be expressed by a genuine bride of the blushing variety. It was also with a light heart that I skipped on and celebrated the happy forthcoming union of Nanki-Poo and Yum-Yum, knowing full well that the circs were now fully, one-hundred percent fictitious in that regard.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for my mood when Nanki-Poo looked to be trapped in marriage to Katisha. Honoria really did do a topping performance as the terrifying old wench of proceedings – no wonder she was Josephine's favourite. I imagine the audience gave me more credit than was due for my acting abilities when Nanki-Poo was clamped to Katisha's breast; that look of horror was almost entirely genuine, I can assure you.
Gussie made a fair fist of remembering all of his lines and positionings on the boards, and Jeeves continued to supply the most mellifluous sounds from his hiding-place at the side of the stage. The rummy thing was though, there was not a single moment in the whole stick of celery that allowed me to dash over to his side of the darkened curtains. Any thoughts I may have had of myself and Jeeves availing ourselves of the shadows in the manner of Gussie and Madeline went totally by the by. On reflection, that was probably a good thing from the perspective of the show – if I had indeed been afforded the opportunity to place my paws upon Jeeves' immaculate person it would have taken more than a stampede of cross wildebeest to prize me away. Having said that, a stampede of cross Josephines might just have done it.
Mr. Gilbert's plot twisted and turned as was its wont, and I dare say the audience might have felt they were riding on one of those marvellous rolling-coaster thingies. We all knew that it was going to be all right in the end though. Nanki-Poo evaded the clutches of the dreadful Katisha and got his beloved Yum-Yum. Katisha reconciled herself with Ko-Ko instead, and we all evaded the boiling oil and melted lead. Most agreeable, even if I do say so myself, and judging by the cries from the stalls, so did our charming spectators. As the applause tumbled around for what felt like a glorious approximation of forever, I found myself thinking that the denizens of Spindleythorpe-on-Sea were not at all bad ova, after all.
Finally, the curtains closed for the final time and I confess to feeling a funny kind of elation about the whole thing. We were all pretty liberal with the hugs and congratulations, and I daresay that several of those dashing costumes ended up smeared in face-paint in the process. I was dazed, but basically happy. It had honestly gone well; I hadn't apparently made a laughing stock of myself in public, and – early mornings and little coloured boxes aside – it had actually been rather fun. I even began to see why old Bicky Bickersteth has such an addiction to the theatrical lifestyle. That buzz one gets at the end of a show amid all the relief and smiles and cheering is second only to the feelings engendered in a right-thinking chap when he is kissed passionately by his valet.
On the subject of said valet, I was determined to succeed where I had failed in the interval and locate Jeeves, chiefly with the intention of picking up in the dressing room at the point where we had been so rudely interrupted. I spied him off stage to the right and dashed over post-haste. Unfortunately, the backstage lights were now fully glaring and lots of people were milling around, so I could not address him quite in the manner I would have wished.
Nevertheless, I bounded over. “What-ho, Jeeves!” I called.
“Good evening, sir,” he replied, “And may I offer you my congratulations for a stirring performance?”
“Oh gosh, thanks very much, old thing,” I said, and then began gesturing with my eyes toward the door in a most urgent and animated fashion. “How about we duck off downstairs now, Jeeves?” I asked, and then added for bonus verisimilitude, “I could do with a hand taking off all this garb, you know.”
Unfortunately, Jeeves was not given the chance to answer, because just like the proverbial bad shilling, Josephine came over and interrupted. “No Bertie, you will have to manage on your own. Just leave your costume in the dressing room when you have changed and Jeeves can go and sort it out later. Right now we need him on stage to begin the get-out and de-rig. These things don't happen by themselves, you know.”
“Very good, Madam,” said Jeeves smoothly. He then addressed me while Josephine stood impatiently waiting for movement, “With your permission sir, I shall assist the technical crew here, and then make your acquaintance once again at this evening's party back at the hotel.”
I felt like saying that it was not bally-well not all right, and that I wanted to be kissed again with an urgency surpassing that of rigging or any other sundry nautical pursuit. However, under the beady eye of her Royal Directorness the most I could manage was, “Very well, Jeeves,” before sulkily descending the stairs to my dressing room.
*****
That evening, the usually sleepy Palace Hotel at Spindleythorpe-on-Sea had taken on a rather festal atmosphere. The bar had agreed to stay open late into the evening, and the staff had prepared a lavish buffet supper for us in the ballroom which was waiting when we trooped in - tired, happy and still smeared with the remnants of several gallons of grease-paint. They had also set up a gramophone on a side-table with a sizeable stack of discs, and by the time I arrived, there was already a crowd of the gents' chorus around it, eagerly debating the merits of one recording over another. The party atmosphere was indeed in full swing, with strains of 'Minnie the Moocher' echoing around the high, dusty ceiling and disturbing the odd recumbent spider in the process.
I joined them with aplomb, and even dashed off a Charleston or two with some of the fillies as they trickled in. The champers flowed freely, loosening-up even the stiffest violinists of the lot. I think I even saw Deirdre being twirled around girlishly by a very burly second trombonist.
As for me, I was genuine in my celebration of the ratatouille and all, and I was enjoying the party, but I must confess my eyes kept darting to the door in hopes of seeing Jeeves again – what on earth could have been taking so long?
Practically everyone had made an appearance an hour into proceedings, and I was beginning to feel a little glum, truth be told. However, just as I was contemplating taking myself off into a corner, the door opened once more to reveal the final members of our crowd. Josephine and Honoria had their arms fiercely linked in pride and mutual congratulation, as Bingo skittered around at Josephine's side trying to be noticed. Most importantly for me, Jeeves followed behind them at a respectful distance, tall, strong and immaculate as always.
I knew that in these circs., Jeeves would come straight over to me, to see if there was anything the young master wanted. The rummy thing was though, so did the other three of them. Was I never to be allowed a moment alone with my man?
Honoria greeted me with the self-same rib-crushing embrace that I had suffered on numerous occasions that week. I vaguely wondered whether I actually had any bones left to break in that thawing part of my body, but it seemed I did. No, it's not 'thawing' exactly, is it? That chest-like region of me, I mean. Aha, 'thoracic' – that's the blighter.
“Oh, Bertie, don't you think we made a superb couple on stage?” called Honoria directly in my ear, “I'm sure that when we're man and wife, life will imitate art just as wonderfully.”
That was certainly a train of thought I didn't want to catch – not even as far as the next town when I was standing at a countryside holt in the pouring rain. I therefore decided to deflect her with some small-talk. “Well, congratulations on the singing and all, Honoria, old thing,” I said.
“Why thank you, Bertie!” she returned, and Josephine even nodded in approval at my compliment. “I do think it all went rather well. I say, you don't happen to have a copy of our review that was printed in the Spindleythorpe Sentinel yesterday, do you? Mine was lost somewhere at the theatre and I'd love to have another read of it.”
Bingo cringed a little just then, perhaps supposing that keeping tabs on such things was one of the duties of the assistant-producer cum dogsbody.
“Erm, yes... Well, maybe,” I answered thoughtfully, “Jeeves read some of it to me yesterday as it happens. Do we still have the paper, Jeeves?”
Jeeves smoothly stirred into action as he was addressed. It really is amazing how he can come out of dormancy just like that, and be right there, on the button. If it were me, I'd be daydreaming while everyone else jawed endlessly and it would take a fair while to return back to earth and answer the call. I suppose that's why he's the expert valet and I'm not. “Indeed we do, sir,” Jeeves informed me.
“Might I have a quick look, then?” asked Honoria.
“Of course,” I agreed, “Where is it at the mo, Jeeves?”
“The newspaper is stowed safely in your hotel bedroom, sir, among your other important documents. If you would permit me sir, I suggest that I escort Miss Glossop upstairs to your suite now, such that she might peruse the article there in comfort.”
“Oh, yes. Jolly good, Jeeves,” I agreed, and the two of them disappeared up the stairs, leaving me to feel chipper at the departure of one, down in the dumps at the vanishment of the other, and a bit peeved about the irony of the whole thing.
‘Honoria, going upstairs with Jeeves, indeed,’ I thought indignantly. Just my rummy luck! I didn't quite know what I was up to, but I had thoughts for what might occur in that room that night, and they certainly didn't involve much in the way of sleeping. I would have paid a good few pounds to be able to sneak off alone with Jeeves under the cover of some perfectly respectable newspaper article. In fact, the Wooster person was rather keen to move straight onto that particular aspect of proceedings, and I wondered how quickly I might be able to get myself and Jeeves away from the party.
I didn’t have to wait long for them to reappear, however. Indeed, upon reflection, the time Miss Glossop and my valet were absent was almost suspiciously short. I could also tell from the expression on Honoria’s map as she blazed back into the ballroom that something was distinctly amiss. It might have been her eyes setting fire to everything they touched that tipped me off - like a magnifying glass left in a beam of bright sunlight – or possibly the way her mouth was set into a line so hard and thin one could have used it as a letter opener.
At any rate, I know that look. I have seen it countless times upon my Aunt Agatha and I know full well that it is to be avoided at all costs. I therefore made a good attempt to ankle out into the conservatory – whatever the matter was, I wanted none of it.
“BERTRAM WOOSTER!” Honoria roared at my retreating back. Everyone stopped their dancing and conversation, and the gramophone was hastily silenced, badly scratching a copy of ‘Forty-Seven Ginger-headed Sailors’ in the process. All of the assembled company stared alternately between Honoria, who was veritably foaming at the mouth, and me, looking sheepish and utterly confused. The air betwixt us fizzed ominously as if affected by one of those dashed clever metal-ball thingies named after a German chap with a name like a bar-chart. Van der something-or-other.
I was completely at a loss regarding the current shriek-worthy posish, so couldn’t really say anything other than acknowledge my name. “Um, yes, Honoria?”
“Oh, don’t you, 'yes-Honoria,' me, Bertram! After what I have just seen in your bedroom so can quite happily wipe every trace of deceitful innocence from that face of yours. I have never seen evidence of such unacceptable behaviour in all my life.”
“Now hang on a minute!” I said. Nothing in my bedroom was that bad. Admittedly, my choice of cravats might not exactly be conservative, and Jeeves may not be alone in his dislike of monogrammed handkerchiefs, but I certainly didn’t own a single garment that deserved such a flaming reaction were an unsuspecting female to chance upon it in my closet. Not even the American hat. “Calm down, Honoria, old thing.” I tried to placate, “Those colourful odds and ends are just a bit of fun. Not everyone favours the white, virginal model, you know.”
Much to my dismay, my careful, calm reasoning on the subject of bow-ties sent Honoria to an even higher fit of pique. “My goodness, such dreadful impropriety. I hereby declare our engagement is at an end, Bertram. I can only count my lucky stars to have learned of your true nature before it was too late. By this, I am thoroughly disgusted!” She then produced a book that was bound in brown paper with some filigree writing on the front and brandished it above her head for all to see.
Squinting at the thing, it seemed disconcertingly familiar. Indeed, that particular object brought back a whole flood of disturbing memories... oven-proof rum... a whole crowd of chaps... panic, escape and elation... Oh my God. Indeed, if you haven't guessed by now, the volume to which Honoria alluded was none other than the singularly alarming collection of French postcards, property of Mr. Bingo Senior; the volume that had prompted such a strong negative reaction, followed by such a positive realization in yours truly a few days before. My feelings toward that book were the purest repulsion and most sincere gratitude in roughly equal measure, but I certainly didn't want to be confronted with the thing in public and accused of being responsible for it.
When the penny had clearly dropped on my part, Honoria decided she was at liberty to continue. She sniffed haughtily then said, “I would be well within my rights to report such obscene material to the police, Bertram Wooster.”
“Oh, come on, Honoria, old thing,” I protested, “They're not even mine!”
That clearly wasn't the right thing to have said, because she bristled even more and even seemed to snarl a little. “Don't you even try that with me, Bertram. These postcards were clearly positioned in your bedside cabinet with all of your other papers. And on top, I might add!”
At that point an aghast intake of breath came from some of the other females present, making me feel even more uncomfortable, if that were possible. Honoria might have noticed my no-doubt stricken expression, for she softened then, just a little. “I shan't hesitate to tell your Aunt Agatha about this, Bertram. I'm sure Mrs. Gregson would be most interested to know what type of printed material her nephew peruses. However, I may take pity on you and refrain from calling the police. That is however, only on the condition that you leave here immediately – on the milk train – such that I might recover more easily from the shock.”
I thought that was a bit rich, really. The idea of Honoria being in shock over something like that was rather akin to suggesting a water buffalo should not venture out in a light breeze lest he get blown clean away. Nevertheless, I jumped at my chance to avoid another run-in with the bluebottles. We Woosters know when it is prudent to take the emergency exit in a jamb, you know. Valour, we have, but stupidity, we have not. Not usually, anyway.
“Right-ho, I'll just be off then,” I said, trying to keep a stiff-upper lip and all that. “Toodle-pip everyone.” Most of the chaps gave me a most hearty farewell then, no doubt thinking that I was graciously taking one for the team, as it were. All except Bingo, that is, who had stopped stock still, was glowing beetroot red, and every few seconds was glancing nervously at Josephine as if she might discover the true owner of those dratted postcards by witchcraft or sheer force of personality.
I did recognize however, that there might be an up-side to the whole bally unfair fix. “Jeeves, I think we'll be leaving now,” I directed toward my toothsome valet, who had maintained a characteristically unruffled visage throughout the whole mess. Was nothing able to perturb that man?
Such hopes were quickly dashed however, no doubt just as an extra punishment. “Jeeves will not accompany you at this time,” decreed Honoria, “He will be needed here to finalize the get-out from the theatre. In fact, I think it would be sensible to commence work there straight away. Mr. Wooster will not require help, Jeeves, as he will be leaving immediately. You can take his luggage home tomorrow.”
Jeeves answered Honoria stiffly. “Very good, Madam.”
Another uncomfortable silence reigned just then - until Josephine punctured it. “Well, you heard Honoria,” she snapped at me, “Go away before she sees fit to call the police.”
Several of the girls nodded prudishly, and I then had no option but to run the gauntlet of tutting females out of the ballroom, speed through the hotel lobby and trudge up the hill toward Spindleythorpe’s small station to wait for the first train to London.
Chapter Seven - 'Consolidation and Consummation'
It was inevitable I suppose, that the sands of time should slip through the fingers of whatsit, and I would find myself entering the large and slightly shabby edifice that is the Crenellation Theatre: Spindleythorpe-on-Sea's finest bastion of the arts. Jeeves explained who I was to the doorman when we arrived, who then greeted us warmly in the broad, coastal accent of these parts, and informed us that tickets had been selling like the proverbial incinerated Marie-Antoinette fodder ever since that review was put about the day before.
This news made me feel quite excited, to tell the truth, but also caused butterflies to flit around in the Wooster insides somewhat. I gazed up at the fading gold tassels and scuffed stucco of the foyer. Not the grandest theatre I had been to, by a long chalk, but quite grand enough considering that I was going to be on the dangerous side of the safety curtain in there. I supposed the only thing for it at that point was to full-steam-ahead and try to come out of the other end relatively unscathed – I really didn't know how pro. actors managed to do this sort of thing all the time. I was woken from my musings however, by the doorman asking us to follow him downstairs, so follow him we did – down a steep and rather dusty flight into the bowels of the theatre.
Although at that particular point in time, my mind was certainly not awash with the joys of having a starring role in an alarmingly well-attended vegetable festival, there was one obvious perk to being the leading chap. Namely - one gets a dashed good dressing room! I might even confess to feeling a little thrill of pride when I was escorted along the corridor to a door that had ‘Mr. Bertram Wooster, Nanki Poo’ emblazoned on the outside in neat, calligraphic letters, and felt quite the star on seeing the size of the chamber and how well it had been appointed.
Indeed, there was the customary theatrical dressing table and wardrobe, and I noticed that it had already been well stocked with the requisite Japanese attire from before and various potions that Jeeves assured me he would know where to daub on my visage, when the time came. We also had several plush chairs and a very comfy-looking day-bed, which I suppose might have been the ‘casting couch’ that the Drones had mentioned the other night, whatever that was, exactly. In fact, all would have been spiffing were it not for the fact that upon seeing the actuality of it all, the aforementioned butterflies had by now grown to Amazonian proportions and were attempting to communicate with Mr. Livingstone himself using an advanced form of lepidopteran semaphore.
“How long do I have left, Jeeves?” I asked nervously. “Is B. Wooster yet due to draw his last few breaths as an unashamed man?”
“There is ample time in hand, sir; we arrived somewhat early at the theatre. Please try to relax yourself for the time being, and we can begin costume and make-up presently.”
“Jolly good, jolly good,” I said, trying not to catch his eye. In truth, that assertion by Jeeves just heaped yet another worry onto the Wooster brow. As I mentioned before, in the days since my dizzying revelation re: my ardent love for my valet, all mentions and instances of adding or removing clothing had gained a noticeable frisson. It was obviously a core duty of the gentleman’s personal gentleman to assist with shirts and trousers, and such-like, and Jeeves had been nothing other than his usual meticulous self in these matters. I however – especially after the costume fitting the previous day - was reaching my wits’ end, with those wonderful, smooth, capable hands of his flitting so close to the Wooster frame and then whispering off again, leaving me all but crying out for a proper application of said s. c. h. to many and various parts of Bertram’s anatomy. It was all I could do not to shudder merely thinking about it.
Such thoughts of longing and sweet torture were probably painted all over my face at that moment, leading my ever-attentive valet to ask, “Is something else the matter, sir?”
“No… no, not at all,” I lied, most unconvincingly. Jeeves’ expression displayed that he had not been fooled for one second, so I had to rootle around for a publicly acceptable explanation. “It’s just that… I’m feeling dashed dejected about all this business with Honoria, Jeeves. And Madeline, for that matter.” That at least, was perfectly true, even though it had not been on my mind in the preceding moments.
“Ah. Understandably so, sir.”
“Yes.” Actually, the more I dwelt on it, the more I did feel like a condemned man on the matrimony front, and the gravity of the situation once again crashed down on me, like a concrete block on a spring. Maybe the last time that Bertram would be able to wriggle had passed, I thought to myself. In an unaccustomed moment of grimness, I even considered that perhaps I might as well marry some awful girl, given that there was absolutely no chance of getting together with the person who was really the apple of my eye. Ever since Cupid’s arrow had done its work, my chances of being truly content in my gay bachelor existence had gone out of the window. Certainly, I wanted to cling on to Jeeves like billy-oh as my valet if I could have nothing else, but everything was tinged distinctly maudlin again, like the poems of one of those Victorian-Gothic chappies. At least if I marry, the aunts will be happy, I thought despairingly, and considered that someone or other might as well end up pleased after all this mess. But then there was Jeeves… and I was so very head over tail in love with Jeeves! And… and…
...All of these different feelings were bubbling around in my breast, repeating themselves and arguing with each other and my head was throbbing from the fact that it had never ever been required to hold so many different contrary thoughts at once. I was just not built for complexity of this kind, and after such a trying week, the Wooster steamer was so under pressure it would surely blow a gasket. It was all simply too much.
In fact, said gasket blew in short order after that, and was of the verbal kind. “Oh well, dash it, Jeeves,” I exclaimed in defeat, “Perhaps I should just marry one of them and be done with it. It’s not as if I have the slightest hope of the engagement that I would really like, so I should just sign myself up to a Glossop or a Bassett and forget about me for good.”
“Sir?” said Jeeves politely. He then fixed me with an enquiring expression.
“Well yes, Jeeves. I might have reached the end of the line here - point of no return; Despair Canyon. What else is a chap to do when all the odds are against him?” I felt so exasperated and desperate the words just tumbled forth without much instruction from me.
“I am most distressed to hear this sir. But I was enquiring as to the other, more favourable, yet less feasible engagement prospect, to which you just alluded.”
“Did I?” Pure, unbridled panic at that point, naturally. I was brought back to the immediate present with a resounding crash. How on earth could I have let that one slip?
“Yes sir, you did,” Jeeves replied calmly. He then politely raised his eyebrows in expectation of an answer.
“Oh, um… right,” I said, “Yes, I suppose I did. And well, Jeeves. Well, indeed. I suppose you are wondering as to the nature of the other, somewhat impossible err… interaction, eh?” I flannelled desperately for a way of digging myself out of this one, but without Jeeves’ help it was dashed difficult.
“Yes, sir. That question is certainly foremost in my mind, if you would permit me the curiosity?” He leaned forward slightly, a beam of light from the window picking up accents in his gorgeous, shiny hair.
The curiosity? Oh goodness, I would then have permitted Jeeves so many things in addition to curiosity just then, the list would be far too long to notate. I was, however, clearly in a dilemma. Naturally, I couldn’t tell Jeeves the truth, nor could I retract the revelation that had occurred thus far. Also, the last thing I wanted to do was to make up that I was pining over some filly or other, lest Jeeves’ marvellous fish-fed brain concoct a scheme to have me spliced with her, whoever she might be. What a rummy situation for a chap to find himself in.
In the end, honesty seemed like if not the best, then the only available policy. “I’m not entirely sure I can tell you, Jeeves,” I managed, and then looked at the parquet flooring as if it held some great universal secret.
“I see, sir. I understand it is a sensitive matter.” My valet paused thoughtfully. “If however, you happen to see fit to enlighten me, sir, I will do all I can to assist you in achieving your goal.”
Oh Jeeves! My heart did a little somersault at that point, and then landed in an even deeper quagmire. ‘Assist me,’ indeed. I was, as ever, enormously touched by his generosity with the old grey matter, but now felt in an even stickier situation.
“Thank you, Jeeves, but I think there’s little that can be done. I have no idea how the other party might feel about yours truly, and there’s absolutely no way I, or anyone else for that matter, would be able to ask without risking something really very terrible.” I thought that was pretty diplomatic, under the circs.
“I see, sir,” replied Jeeves, “However, you seem most distressed. I do confess to feeling rather… concerned.” Was it my imagination, or was Jeeves much closer to me then than he had been a few minutes previously? And why did the expression on his face at that moment make me want to throw my resolve to the wind and kiss him on the lips, then and there?
The room suddenly seemed unbearably hot, and I could feel a flush climbing up my cheeks. Any ability I might have had for producing a self-preserving subterfuge had long departed; I could only speak from the heart. "Well you see, the thing is, it's dashed difficult to pluck up the courage to do something about it, not knowing what the other party is going to think, and all… so I just end up tying myself in knots about the whole thing..."
"Most distressing, sir." I noticed then that Jeeves was speaking in a low and syrupy tone that sent shivers along every single vertebra I owned. Was he really so close now that I could feel his delicate breath upon my face? The air in the room was depleting very rapidly, and my throat felt as if I had just swallowed a hippopotamus, and a large one, at that.
"Well yes, it is, dash it!" I was feeling pretty frantic by now, like the butt of some enormous cosmic joke. How on earth could I have come to be engaged about a conversation on the traumas of unrequited love with the very subject of said u.l.? Whoever out there it was who had a voodoo-thingy of B. Wooster, he was clearly having a field-day with my little effigy just then. It would have been sporting had he seen fit to dunk the mini-Bertram into a bucket of cold water at that point, but alas no such solace was offered to my predicament, supernatural or otherwise.
More out of desperation than judgement, and the fact that my natural tendency when in a jamb was to my valet for advice - however inappropriate that may have been, under the circumstances - I then blurted out, "What do you think I ought to do about it, Jeeves?"
He fixed me with that wonderful fathomless gaze and I was certain that I would expire from the sheer intensity of it. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn that I saw the corner of his mouth twitch upwards, as if he was enjoying my state of fluster. "In the circumstances you describe, sir, it would be most agreeable if the parties involved might be persuadable to declare their tender feelings simultaneously.”
“You mean, as if there might be a chance that the whole love-struck symptoms are, well… reciprocal?” It was a thought that I barely dared to entertain, but Jeeves’ advice was always so sound, I found myself being swept along with his train of thought.
“Yes, sir. That way, neither party would have to make himself particularly vulnerable, without the other party also being in an empathic state.”
I took all that in, and it seemed like a capital idea. "Oh, on the count of three, you mean?" I asked, somewhat more perkily.
Jeeves regarded me quizzically for a moment and then quirked his gorgeous lips once more. "An unconventional employment of that system, sir, but I imagine it could be made to work adequately."
I nodded at his approval, and then settled into the very serious business of counting. "Right then," I said, "Um. Well, 'one,' I suppose."
"Very good, Sir." Jeeves leaned still nearer to me; that gaze boring into my eyes as if he could read every last item written in the Wooster brain through my very pupils. The hippopotamus started doing somersaults.
"And err...'two,'" I squeaked.
"Quite so, Sir." Jeeves held my gaze just as deeply, but seemed to be moving his arms as he did so. I was then aware, in some blissful corner of my mind that wasn't all-consumed by the acrobatic hippopotamus, that Jeeves had placed his hands - those wonderful, large, capable hands - around my waist. I was being held.
I was just about to utter the syllable 'three,' with the remaining atom of oxygen I had at my disposal when I felt myself becoming so close to Jeeves it was almost scandalous. He was melting into my field of vision, so near I could no longer see him properly, and then all of a sudden we seemed to be touching.
Touching at the lips!
My brain, addled as it admittedly was, then lost entirely all ability for rational thought and instead turned into some kind of sponge for absorbing sensations. I could feel Jeeves' soft mouth beneath mine and it was moving slowly and sensually, coaxing me to do the same. I felt the hands that had been resting at my waist move around to my back, touching and holding and stroking, and the solid weight of Jeeves pressed closely to me. I could feel the heat radiating through his immaculate clothes.
My bones turned to jelly and I clung to Jeeves for dear life, lest he would have to mop me up later as a puddle on the floor. Just when it seemed that nothing could be more wonderful, I felt a gentle invasion into my mouth, and immediately met Jeeves' tongue with my own. There was then an extraordinary groan that might have come from me, and Jeeves seemed to shudder and hold me even more tightly, until we were both utterly beyond reason and intent only upon one another and all the assorted grabbing, stroking and moaning that was taking place. Steamy stuff, I can tell you!
After what might have been hours we broke apart, flushed and breathless. Although he quickly recovered his usual poise, I saw in Jeeves a look of such hunger and dishevelment in that second that I would not have thought him capable. I was probably gaping in shock and bewilderment that all of my Christmases and birthdays had seemed to come at once, as Jeeves prompted me to say something with his svelte raised eyebrow.
"Well Jeeves, that was...um...extraordinary!" I spluttered.
"Indeed it was, sir." He suddenly seemed altogether so calm and unruffled I had to close my eyes for a second just to check that I hadn't imagined what had just happened.
I then realised that I was both amazingly happy, and absolutely, completely rudderless.
The Grandest Plan of my Wildest Dreams, you see, had involved vast amounts of wondering and internal torture, all culminating in a brave and wild declaration that may or may not have led the way of happiness. What lay the other side of that declaration was totally uncharted territory, into which I seemed to have already and unexpectedly blundered.
So many questions were thronging around inside my head at that point, or at least they were attempting to. In actual fact, not very much rational thronging was occurring at all, if I am to be honest, because all was obscured by a very thick cloud of lust that focussed on the tell-tale glow still present in Jeeves' cheeks and the glistening moisture on his plump bottom lip.
Finally, I managed to ask, " Well, Jeeves, what happens now?" and continued to gape rather vacantly, I imagine.
"In situations such as this, sir, it might be deemed appropriate for us to remove some clothing and continue our explorations in a more horizontal manner." He gave me that knowing smile once again, and gestured toward the conveniently-placed dressing-room couch.
To me, this seemed like a perfectly topping idea, so I quickly moved in the direction Jeeves had indicated, and noticed him follow me across the room.
Then, out of nowhere, I was suddenly assaulted by the most terrible thought, which must have been generated by the inherited Code of the Woosters that I harbour. What if I was about to put Jeeves in a compromising position against his wishes? One hears of chambermaids and so-forth being terribly used by the Lord of the Manor, or suchlike, who do nothing about it - simply out of fear and to uphold the old feudal spirit. Much as a part of me might have wanted to add such services to the job description of my valet, my respect and tenderness for Jeeves in his own right would never have entertained the idea. I had to know for certain that he was a fully playing member in this game of ours, else I did not want it to continue.
"I say, Jeeves," I managed, between shaking breaths.
"Yes, sir?" he asked smoothly, coming around to face me.
"Much as this is perfectly marvellous, I would never want you do engage in anything err... personal with me against your wishes. I understand that you pride yourself in being the very best gentleman's personal gentleman this side of the Atlantic, and quite possibly over there, too, but umm... I'd rather you resign than feel forced into anything." My eyes were open wide, and although I don't usually guard my feelings particularly carefully, I was fully aware that I was fully wearing my heart on my lapel, or cuff, or wherever it is that people generally wear their hearts. I managed a quick chuckle. "You see, Jeeves, I'm just not sure about manhandling my manservant. I don't want to be one of those blighters."
Throughout my heartfelt speech however, Jeeves had been displaying that expression on his dial that says, 'Wooster, you're being an utter idiot'. Of course, he would never admit to the veracity of that translation, but I know it, all the same.
He then drew a long-suffering breath and said, "Sir, I am most touched by your hesitancy, but let me assure you, both on grounds of my professional conscientiousness and personal inclinations, that it is not required." Then in a voice that was made of molten chocolate he leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I would dearly like you to touch every inch of my naked body, and I am most keen to return the favour."
At that delicious sound, and the meaning it carried, something inside me utterly snapped. Without forethought, I thoroughly launched myself at Jeeves and we both landed upon the soft cushions of the couch. He then moved towards me and we began kissing again - more vigorously this time, if it were possible - and his clever hands began reaching for my clothing, making short work of buttons, clasps and ties until there was very little left on either of our upper-halves.
I could hardly believe the bally wonderfulness of it all, and was vaguely considering whether such amazing circs. might just be the fevered imaginings of a delirious Wooster brain. Was I due to awaken from such a beautiful dream at any moment, by force of the dreaded alarm clock? As if some malevolent force had heard my musings, Jeeves and I were suddenly rent apart by an almighty-
RRRRIIIIINNNG!
A deafening bell sent the air ricocheting around the dressing room, and Josephine’s voice could be heard bellowing in the corridor, “Act one beginners to the stage, please. Act One beginners to the stage.”
Naturally, Jeeves was the first to recover his wits at this point. “My sincere apologies, sir. I had no idea that the time was passing so… rapidly. We have the overture and opening chorus to get you ready for the stage, which should be manageable.” With an almost magical slight of hand, Jeeves had managed to both dress himself and finish undressing me during that sentence, and he was already half way across the room, making a bee-line for the costume-rail.
I was so disorientated, it was the most I could do to stand upright and proffer limbs in the correct sequence as Jeeves dashed around me like a dervish with sashes, wigs, kimono-thingummies, and more make-up than is seen on the ground floor of Selfridge's.
After a few moments, he stepped backwards to admire his handiwork, and nodded in a satisfied manner. “Most oriental. This way please, sir.” Jeeves then propelled me through the door, up a very dark staircase, and into what were apparently the wings of the theatre. I recognised that the gentleman’s opening chorus was over half-way through, and I was due to make my entrance as Nanki-Poo in under thirty seconds’ – we had got there in the nick of time.
The rummy thing was however, that my brain was so clouded with happenings and barely requited longings, I had severe trouble remembering the first line. Everything about Bertram spelled panic at that moment; of that, I’m sure.
Almost as if he could read my thoughts, Jeeves whispered, “ ‘Gentlemen, I pray you tell me…’” in my ear, just before he pulled back the black curtain of the wings and gave me a hearty push into the blinding light of the stage.
The orchestra played the opening chord of my recit, and then…
…Miraculously, I sang something. I actually managed to open up my mouth and sing what might have even been the right words on an approximation of what might have been the notes that Mr. Sulli-thingy notated all those years ago. I am still astounded to this day that it happened, but happen it did.
I got through the recit, and then the orchestra launched smoothly into the intro to my aria. Deirdre was spinning her arms around like a rather crazed windmill, and all the rugby players on stage were looking at me with exaggeratedly quizzical expressions, just as they had been instructed so to do. It then occurred to me that this performing business might actually be a little bit fun.
Indeed, the Wooster gusto had been engaged and I launched full-voice into the Minstrel song - and jolly good it was too, even if I say so myself! The audience certainly seemed to think so, and I was utterly amazed by the amount of applause that yours truly generated at the end of that rendition. Far better than the usual type of after-dinner crowd, that’s for sure.
All carried on in a suitable fashion – Tuppy coming and doing his thing as Pooh-Bah to not a small number of chortles, and before I knew it, we’d come to the end of the next chorus too.
This was supposed to be Gussie’s big moment. I could feel everyone on stage tense up in anticipation – and quite right, too - considering that I, for one, didn't even know if he was in the town, let alone waiting backstage. Josephine had assured us that, 'all would be taken care of and that we weren't to fret,' but such a thing is easier said than done when one is standing beneath the hot lemon-light, I can tell you.
The pause before Gussie’s number extended ominously, and I think we all feared the worst. However, just before it started to look properly embarrassing, a figure was rather boisterously assisted onto the stage, and Gussie was standing there in all his splendour as the Lord High Executioner.
Deirdre took his appearance as her cue, and the music started. Gussie blinked, stirred, then swallowed hard, looking rather like a Persian cat about to produce a furball. We all appeared pretty queasy on his behalf as well, I imagine.
Imagine the surprise and delight then, when he actually came in, in the right place! Those of us on stage breathed an enormous sigh of relief as the show carried on, and tried to remember what we had to do next. However, among all that, I couldn’t help but notice that something funny was going on.
Gussie was certainly there, and his lips were moving in the correct fashion. However, the voice that rang around the auditorium was so surpassingly crisp, clear and beautiful it was difficult to reconcile that sound with the valiantly quaking personage at the front of the stage.
Upon consideration, it seemed as if said s. c. c. and b. voice was actually coming from behind the black curtains, not from Gussie himself. I wondered for a moment whether he had suddenly become some type of heavenly ventriloquist, but then I realised that Gussie was, in fact, only miming. A quick glance into the wings told me that such gorgeous sounds were really spilling forth from the lips of my very own Jeeves! - From the self-same lips that only minutes earlier I had been kissing, I reminded myself in an utter thrill of smugness. It really was an extraordinary wheeze!
The audience seemed to be fooled well enough though, and were once again generous with their applause. Such spirits held firmly throughout Madeline's entrance with the ladies' chorus, and they did a splendid job with all of the assorted giggling, fan-wafting and teasing of poor old Tuppy.
Amazingly, the orchestra kept up with the singers throughout every number, and were even playing with the odd touch of panache. Quite a transformation seemed to have undergone that band of assorted bruisers, grannies and squirts - who were actually watching Deirdre's manic - yet unmistakably clear - beat, and producing a sound that if not fully professional, was certainly no embarrassment. It was almost as if the lot of the them been coached intensively over the past few days by someone who really knew what he was doing, and I silently thanked the mystery tutor for his efforts.
Dippy as she was, Madeline held the spectators in the palm of her hand, and she and I got through that soppy love scene without disaster - even though I was almost fatally distracted by my memories of reading it through with Jeeves a couple of days before, and had to grope around for the next line a few times. Then Gussie came back and strutted around a bit (again augmented by Jeeves from off-stage), various and sundry people including myself either did or didn’t suffer some kind of stuffy, unpleasant death, and we all skipped around in either panic or joy during the odd patter song and madrigal.
And then, to my utter astonishment, we had already got through the Act One finale – Honoria blazing on for her star turn at the end – and the audience erupted into a frenzy of applause! Now, I don't mean that churlish kind of slow-clapping that goes on when some cove is being terribly boring or acting an utter blockhead, you know. This was the real banana – proper tumultuous peals of the stuff, perhaps even mixed with the odd cat-call. The velvet drapery closed around us and we unfroze from the final pose, looking a bit shell-shocked and more than a bit pleased.
Of course, I was as cheerful as anyone about the progress of the broccoli and I heartily exchanged congratulations with everyone on the thing thus far, but the Wooster brain was also fully charged with electrifying memories of that whatever-it-was with Jeeves that had happened minutes before I had been rushed onto stage. Certain other parts of the Wooster anatomy were rather keen to pick up where we had left off, as well. I spied Jeeves in his position in the wings, and waved at him with all the joys of spring, gesturing that we two should sneak off somewhere post-haste. I was answered however, only by a slightly raised eyebrow of the most professional variety atop the patented stuffed-frog expression. This visual cold-shoulder was somewhat of a shock to my giddy state, as I'm sure you can imagine.
Had he forgotten what had happened? Had I just dreamt it all up? Or worse, did Jeeves consider it to be some dreadful aberration that he wanted to ignore and forget altogether?
Just as the pit of doom was opening beneath my feet however, a bit of a light bulb turned on upstairs. Was it possible that Jeeves was just pretending to be all non-bothered about the thing, as a kind of smoke-screen? Yes, that sounded sensible actually. It was undeniable that society might view what had happened between us as a bit, um... thingummy, and it was just like Jeeves to think ahead about that side of things when I was leaping all over the place like a performing sea lion in sight of a particularly tasty pinstripe mackerel. I decided therefore to can the comedics and go in search of Jeeves (who had by then disappeared into the dark recesses of the theatre) to suggest a rendezvous in a perfectly discreet fashion.
My course set, I walked backstage to try to ascertain where he had got to. However, I was thwarted in this attempt by Madeline. Well, by Madeline and Gussie to be precise – locked in the kind of fierce embrace that took every advantage of the shadows cast by the hanging blacks. I tried to creep past without disturbing them, but alas, stealth has never been one of my strong points – just ask anyone who knows about cow-creamers.
Madeline broke away from her newt-loving lover, an expression of shock and trauma painted across her dippy features. “Oh goodness. My dear Bertram!” she exclaimed.
“Err... what-ho Madeline,” I said distractedly, trying to see past her for a glimpse of Jeeves.
“How awful for you. I mean, how awful of me. I am so sorry, Bertie. I should have talked to you first.” She came towards me then and clasped both of her my hands in hers, a look of great pity and regret swimming across her girlish map.
In truth, it took me a moment to cotton on to what she meant, but a few glances between Madeline and a triumphant-looking Gussie did the trick. I'm off the hook! I thought; this day was getting better and better! My natural inclination then was to grin like that disappearing cat from some county up north, but I was careful not to seem rude – Code of the Woosters, you understand. I therefore tried to compensate by schooling my features into a bit of a frown, just to look fittingly sombre under the circs.
Unfortunately, it seemed as if I had gingered up the frowning thing a bit too much, as Madeline became even more distressed. “Oh Bertie, please don't cry. I understand your pain, really I do. I would never have wanted you to be this devastated, but you must see that nothing can be done. Augustus and I are pre-ordained – it's written in the stars that we will be together forever, and have whole flocks of little bunny rabbits at our side.”
“And newts,” added Gussie, not to be outdone.
“Oh. Ah... I see,” I said, not knowing quite what the proper response should be, and realising that my natural inclination of, 'hurrah!' wasn't quite the thing.
“Try not to be too downhearted though, Bertie,” continued Madeline, “You mustn't worry about all of the planning and preparation going to waste – I can just wire through to say that the wedding is still going ahead, and all they have to do is change the name of the groom on the invitation cards. Besides, Mummy and Daddy won't even realise there has been a change. They're away in New York and wouldn't have got my first message while the servants were dealing with things. So you see, hardly anyone will be discommoded!” She grinned at me as if a lack of administrative tribulation was supposed to have made up for supposedly breaking a chap's heart, and then giggled when Gussie whispered something in her ear.
“Well, spiffing then,” I said, “No problem at all. I'll just be going along now...” I tried to make a break for it, by now pretty desperate to locate my wondrous valet. Madeline and Gussie certainly weren't perturbed by my attempt at departure, but unfortunately I didn't get very far, as Josephine stomped towards us bearing piles of red and gold satin.
“There you all are!” she snapped, as if backstage in a theatre was a particularly odd place to find three amateur actors, “Bertram, Augustus, do hurry up and get changed for the second act.” She thrust the bundles towards us then, which upon closer inspection turned out to be those dashed snazzy costumes for act two. “Chop, chop!”
I seized my opportunity then. “Jolly good, Josephine. I'll just go and find Jeeves to help me change.”
“No, you can't, Jeeves is busy,” she told me firmly, “The oboist broke her last reed at the end of the first act and no-one else knows how to make more of them.” My disappointment at that must have showed, for I was quickly scalded again, “I'm sure you can manage without him, Bertram. But just in case, I shall send Honoria over to help with the ties and scarves. And don't go sneaking off anywhere downstairs! I want you to stay here backstage where I can find you. You nearly gave me a heart-attack being so late to arrive for your entry in Act One.” With that, Josephine stalked off, no doubt to find someone else to domineer.
Somewhat crushed over the lack of valet, I found a quiet and relatively well lit corner between some hanging drapes and did my best with the de-togging and re-togging business - although I was pretty unaccustomed to having to undertake such things solo. I doubt whether I would have actually been successful with the intricacies of Japanese dress, but I never got the chance to find out. As good as her accomplice's word, Honoria sailed over to assist.
“Are you decent, Bertie?” she called from around the side of the curtain, “I suppose it won't matter soon, will it? When we're married, I mean. – Ha ha!”
I vocalised a shudder at that, which she might have interpreted as a laugh, I suppose. “Yes, um... all safe, that is.” Those big dressing-gown kimono-thingies protect one's modesty completely, so I emerged from my hiding place to face her.
“So far, so good,” said Honoria, eyeing me critically. “Now we attach the obi like this-” Honoria wrapped something around my middle and then tugged so hard tears sprang to my eyes and every scrap of air was forcibly evacuated from the Wooster lungs.
“Not so tight...” I squeaked. There was no way I could have breathed just then, much less sang.
“Oh, you are a fragile young thing, aren't you, Bertie?” Honoria roared. “Don't worry, I'll toughen you up when we're married!” She then gave me back the use of my diaphragm, and attached various other cords to the Wooster personage, thankfully with a little more delicacy. The whole thing just gave me one more reason to be so bally grateful for Jeeves and all his works, and multiplied the wish to once again be in the arms of my man.
Sadly, it was not to be. The bell rung indicating the end of the interval as Honoria tied the final knot, and I was propelled into my starting position for Act Two – which was unfortunately on the other side of the stage from Jeeves' singing station.
Madeline seemed as buoyed as a helium-filled seagull by her reaffirmation of relations with old Gussie. She opened the second act singing about a forthcoming wedding with the kind of enthusiasm that could only be expressed by a genuine bride of the blushing variety. It was also with a light heart that I skipped on and celebrated the happy forthcoming union of Nanki-Poo and Yum-Yum, knowing full well that the circs were now fully, one-hundred percent fictitious in that regard.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for my mood when Nanki-Poo looked to be trapped in marriage to Katisha. Honoria really did do a topping performance as the terrifying old wench of proceedings – no wonder she was Josephine's favourite. I imagine the audience gave me more credit than was due for my acting abilities when Nanki-Poo was clamped to Katisha's breast; that look of horror was almost entirely genuine, I can assure you.
Gussie made a fair fist of remembering all of his lines and positionings on the boards, and Jeeves continued to supply the most mellifluous sounds from his hiding-place at the side of the stage. The rummy thing was though, there was not a single moment in the whole stick of celery that allowed me to dash over to his side of the darkened curtains. Any thoughts I may have had of myself and Jeeves availing ourselves of the shadows in the manner of Gussie and Madeline went totally by the by. On reflection, that was probably a good thing from the perspective of the show – if I had indeed been afforded the opportunity to place my paws upon Jeeves' immaculate person it would have taken more than a stampede of cross wildebeest to prize me away. Having said that, a stampede of cross Josephines might just have done it.
Mr. Gilbert's plot twisted and turned as was its wont, and I dare say the audience might have felt they were riding on one of those marvellous rolling-coaster thingies. We all knew that it was going to be all right in the end though. Nanki-Poo evaded the clutches of the dreadful Katisha and got his beloved Yum-Yum. Katisha reconciled herself with Ko-Ko instead, and we all evaded the boiling oil and melted lead. Most agreeable, even if I do say so myself, and judging by the cries from the stalls, so did our charming spectators. As the applause tumbled around for what felt like a glorious approximation of forever, I found myself thinking that the denizens of Spindleythorpe-on-Sea were not at all bad ova, after all.
Finally, the curtains closed for the final time and I confess to feeling a funny kind of elation about the whole thing. We were all pretty liberal with the hugs and congratulations, and I daresay that several of those dashing costumes ended up smeared in face-paint in the process. I was dazed, but basically happy. It had honestly gone well; I hadn't apparently made a laughing stock of myself in public, and – early mornings and little coloured boxes aside – it had actually been rather fun. I even began to see why old Bicky Bickersteth has such an addiction to the theatrical lifestyle. That buzz one gets at the end of a show amid all the relief and smiles and cheering is second only to the feelings engendered in a right-thinking chap when he is kissed passionately by his valet.
On the subject of said valet, I was determined to succeed where I had failed in the interval and locate Jeeves, chiefly with the intention of picking up in the dressing room at the point where we had been so rudely interrupted. I spied him off stage to the right and dashed over post-haste. Unfortunately, the backstage lights were now fully glaring and lots of people were milling around, so I could not address him quite in the manner I would have wished.
Nevertheless, I bounded over. “What-ho, Jeeves!” I called.
“Good evening, sir,” he replied, “And may I offer you my congratulations for a stirring performance?”
“Oh gosh, thanks very much, old thing,” I said, and then began gesturing with my eyes toward the door in a most urgent and animated fashion. “How about we duck off downstairs now, Jeeves?” I asked, and then added for bonus verisimilitude, “I could do with a hand taking off all this garb, you know.”
Unfortunately, Jeeves was not given the chance to answer, because just like the proverbial bad shilling, Josephine came over and interrupted. “No Bertie, you will have to manage on your own. Just leave your costume in the dressing room when you have changed and Jeeves can go and sort it out later. Right now we need him on stage to begin the get-out and de-rig. These things don't happen by themselves, you know.”
“Very good, Madam,” said Jeeves smoothly. He then addressed me while Josephine stood impatiently waiting for movement, “With your permission sir, I shall assist the technical crew here, and then make your acquaintance once again at this evening's party back at the hotel.”
I felt like saying that it was not bally-well not all right, and that I wanted to be kissed again with an urgency surpassing that of rigging or any other sundry nautical pursuit. However, under the beady eye of her Royal Directorness the most I could manage was, “Very well, Jeeves,” before sulkily descending the stairs to my dressing room.
That evening, the usually sleepy Palace Hotel at Spindleythorpe-on-Sea had taken on a rather festal atmosphere. The bar had agreed to stay open late into the evening, and the staff had prepared a lavish buffet supper for us in the ballroom which was waiting when we trooped in - tired, happy and still smeared with the remnants of several gallons of grease-paint. They had also set up a gramophone on a side-table with a sizeable stack of discs, and by the time I arrived, there was already a crowd of the gents' chorus around it, eagerly debating the merits of one recording over another. The party atmosphere was indeed in full swing, with strains of 'Minnie the Moocher' echoing around the high, dusty ceiling and disturbing the odd recumbent spider in the process.
I joined them with aplomb, and even dashed off a Charleston or two with some of the fillies as they trickled in. The champers flowed freely, loosening-up even the stiffest violinists of the lot. I think I even saw Deirdre being twirled around girlishly by a very burly second trombonist.
As for me, I was genuine in my celebration of the ratatouille and all, and I was enjoying the party, but I must confess my eyes kept darting to the door in hopes of seeing Jeeves again – what on earth could have been taking so long?
Practically everyone had made an appearance an hour into proceedings, and I was beginning to feel a little glum, truth be told. However, just as I was contemplating taking myself off into a corner, the door opened once more to reveal the final members of our crowd. Josephine and Honoria had their arms fiercely linked in pride and mutual congratulation, as Bingo skittered around at Josephine's side trying to be noticed. Most importantly for me, Jeeves followed behind them at a respectful distance, tall, strong and immaculate as always.
I knew that in these circs., Jeeves would come straight over to me, to see if there was anything the young master wanted. The rummy thing was though, so did the other three of them. Was I never to be allowed a moment alone with my man?
Honoria greeted me with the self-same rib-crushing embrace that I had suffered on numerous occasions that week. I vaguely wondered whether I actually had any bones left to break in that thawing part of my body, but it seemed I did. No, it's not 'thawing' exactly, is it? That chest-like region of me, I mean. Aha, 'thoracic' – that's the blighter.
“Oh, Bertie, don't you think we made a superb couple on stage?” called Honoria directly in my ear, “I'm sure that when we're man and wife, life will imitate art just as wonderfully.”
That was certainly a train of thought I didn't want to catch – not even as far as the next town when I was standing at a countryside holt in the pouring rain. I therefore decided to deflect her with some small-talk. “Well, congratulations on the singing and all, Honoria, old thing,” I said.
“Why thank you, Bertie!” she returned, and Josephine even nodded in approval at my compliment. “I do think it all went rather well. I say, you don't happen to have a copy of our review that was printed in the Spindleythorpe Sentinel yesterday, do you? Mine was lost somewhere at the theatre and I'd love to have another read of it.”
Bingo cringed a little just then, perhaps supposing that keeping tabs on such things was one of the duties of the assistant-producer cum dogsbody.
“Erm, yes... Well, maybe,” I answered thoughtfully, “Jeeves read some of it to me yesterday as it happens. Do we still have the paper, Jeeves?”
Jeeves smoothly stirred into action as he was addressed. It really is amazing how he can come out of dormancy just like that, and be right there, on the button. If it were me, I'd be daydreaming while everyone else jawed endlessly and it would take a fair while to return back to earth and answer the call. I suppose that's why he's the expert valet and I'm not. “Indeed we do, sir,” Jeeves informed me.
“Might I have a quick look, then?” asked Honoria.
“Of course,” I agreed, “Where is it at the mo, Jeeves?”
“The newspaper is stowed safely in your hotel bedroom, sir, among your other important documents. If you would permit me sir, I suggest that I escort Miss Glossop upstairs to your suite now, such that she might peruse the article there in comfort.”
“Oh, yes. Jolly good, Jeeves,” I agreed, and the two of them disappeared up the stairs, leaving me to feel chipper at the departure of one, down in the dumps at the vanishment of the other, and a bit peeved about the irony of the whole thing.
‘Honoria, going upstairs with Jeeves, indeed,’ I thought indignantly. Just my rummy luck! I didn't quite know what I was up to, but I had thoughts for what might occur in that room that night, and they certainly didn't involve much in the way of sleeping. I would have paid a good few pounds to be able to sneak off alone with Jeeves under the cover of some perfectly respectable newspaper article. In fact, the Wooster person was rather keen to move straight onto that particular aspect of proceedings, and I wondered how quickly I might be able to get myself and Jeeves away from the party.
I didn’t have to wait long for them to reappear, however. Indeed, upon reflection, the time Miss Glossop and my valet were absent was almost suspiciously short. I could also tell from the expression on Honoria’s map as she blazed back into the ballroom that something was distinctly amiss. It might have been her eyes setting fire to everything they touched that tipped me off - like a magnifying glass left in a beam of bright sunlight – or possibly the way her mouth was set into a line so hard and thin one could have used it as a letter opener.
At any rate, I know that look. I have seen it countless times upon my Aunt Agatha and I know full well that it is to be avoided at all costs. I therefore made a good attempt to ankle out into the conservatory – whatever the matter was, I wanted none of it.
“BERTRAM WOOSTER!” Honoria roared at my retreating back. Everyone stopped their dancing and conversation, and the gramophone was hastily silenced, badly scratching a copy of ‘Forty-Seven Ginger-headed Sailors’ in the process. All of the assembled company stared alternately between Honoria, who was veritably foaming at the mouth, and me, looking sheepish and utterly confused. The air betwixt us fizzed ominously as if affected by one of those dashed clever metal-ball thingies named after a German chap with a name like a bar-chart. Van der something-or-other.
I was completely at a loss regarding the current shriek-worthy posish, so couldn’t really say anything other than acknowledge my name. “Um, yes, Honoria?”
“Oh, don’t you, 'yes-Honoria,' me, Bertram! After what I have just seen in your bedroom so can quite happily wipe every trace of deceitful innocence from that face of yours. I have never seen evidence of such unacceptable behaviour in all my life.”
“Now hang on a minute!” I said. Nothing in my bedroom was that bad. Admittedly, my choice of cravats might not exactly be conservative, and Jeeves may not be alone in his dislike of monogrammed handkerchiefs, but I certainly didn’t own a single garment that deserved such a flaming reaction were an unsuspecting female to chance upon it in my closet. Not even the American hat. “Calm down, Honoria, old thing.” I tried to placate, “Those colourful odds and ends are just a bit of fun. Not everyone favours the white, virginal model, you know.”
Much to my dismay, my careful, calm reasoning on the subject of bow-ties sent Honoria to an even higher fit of pique. “My goodness, such dreadful impropriety. I hereby declare our engagement is at an end, Bertram. I can only count my lucky stars to have learned of your true nature before it was too late. By this, I am thoroughly disgusted!” She then produced a book that was bound in brown paper with some filigree writing on the front and brandished it above her head for all to see.
Squinting at the thing, it seemed disconcertingly familiar. Indeed, that particular object brought back a whole flood of disturbing memories... oven-proof rum... a whole crowd of chaps... panic, escape and elation... Oh my God. Indeed, if you haven't guessed by now, the volume to which Honoria alluded was none other than the singularly alarming collection of French postcards, property of Mr. Bingo Senior; the volume that had prompted such a strong negative reaction, followed by such a positive realization in yours truly a few days before. My feelings toward that book were the purest repulsion and most sincere gratitude in roughly equal measure, but I certainly didn't want to be confronted with the thing in public and accused of being responsible for it.
When the penny had clearly dropped on my part, Honoria decided she was at liberty to continue. She sniffed haughtily then said, “I would be well within my rights to report such obscene material to the police, Bertram Wooster.”
“Oh, come on, Honoria, old thing,” I protested, “They're not even mine!”
That clearly wasn't the right thing to have said, because she bristled even more and even seemed to snarl a little. “Don't you even try that with me, Bertram. These postcards were clearly positioned in your bedside cabinet with all of your other papers. And on top, I might add!”
At that point an aghast intake of breath came from some of the other females present, making me feel even more uncomfortable, if that were possible. Honoria might have noticed my no-doubt stricken expression, for she softened then, just a little. “I shan't hesitate to tell your Aunt Agatha about this, Bertram. I'm sure Mrs. Gregson would be most interested to know what type of printed material her nephew peruses. However, I may take pity on you and refrain from calling the police. That is however, only on the condition that you leave here immediately – on the milk train – such that I might recover more easily from the shock.”
I thought that was a bit rich, really. The idea of Honoria being in shock over something like that was rather akin to suggesting a water buffalo should not venture out in a light breeze lest he get blown clean away. Nevertheless, I jumped at my chance to avoid another run-in with the bluebottles. We Woosters know when it is prudent to take the emergency exit in a jamb, you know. Valour, we have, but stupidity, we have not. Not usually, anyway.
“Right-ho, I'll just be off then,” I said, trying to keep a stiff-upper lip and all that. “Toodle-pip everyone.” Most of the chaps gave me a most hearty farewell then, no doubt thinking that I was graciously taking one for the team, as it were. All except Bingo, that is, who had stopped stock still, was glowing beetroot red, and every few seconds was glancing nervously at Josephine as if she might discover the true owner of those dratted postcards by witchcraft or sheer force of personality.
I did recognize however, that there might be an up-side to the whole bally unfair fix. “Jeeves, I think we'll be leaving now,” I directed toward my toothsome valet, who had maintained a characteristically unruffled visage throughout the whole mess. Was nothing able to perturb that man?
Such hopes were quickly dashed however, no doubt just as an extra punishment. “Jeeves will not accompany you at this time,” decreed Honoria, “He will be needed here to finalize the get-out from the theatre. In fact, I think it would be sensible to commence work there straight away. Mr. Wooster will not require help, Jeeves, as he will be leaving immediately. You can take his luggage home tomorrow.”
Jeeves answered Honoria stiffly. “Very good, Madam.”
Another uncomfortable silence reigned just then - until Josephine punctured it. “Well, you heard Honoria,” she snapped at me, “Go away before she sees fit to call the police.”
Several of the girls nodded prudishly, and I then had no option but to run the gauntlet of tutting females out of the ballroom, speed through the hotel lobby and trudge up the hill toward Spindleythorpe’s small station to wait for the first train to London.
Chapter Seven - 'Consolidation and Consummation'