A Pelican at Blandings (20 page)

He knew all about breach of promise cases. He had had one
himself in his youth. They read your letters out in court, and
everybody there laughed his or her fat head off. And it all came
out in the papers next morning. To yield was bitter, but rather
that than to have to sit and listen while a blasted barrister
intoned that bit about the church steeple and the cloud. He
swallowed several times, and eventually was able to speak.
When he did so, it was in a peevish vein.

'What the devil does he want to marry her for?'

'Love, Dunstable, love.'

'She hasn't got a penny.'

'That doesn't weigh with these vintage Lochinvars.'

'Has he any money?'

'Quite enough.'

'I mean, they won't expect me to support them?'

'Good Lord, no. He's doing well at the bar, and he has an
interest in that gallery where you bought the picture. It's a very
prosperous concern. Mugs coming in all the time with their
cheque books and fountain pens. You need have no anxiety
about Johnny's finances. So is it a deal?'

'I suppose so.'

If a criticism could be made of the Duke's vocal delivery as
he said these three words, it would be that it lacked geniality
and enthusiasm. It fell somewhat short of the snarl of a timber
wolf which has hurt its shinbone on a passing rock, but it was
not enthusiastic and genial. Gally, however, found no fault in
it.

'Good,' he said. 'Excellent. Capital. Then all that remains is
to complete the formalities by putting it in writing. Can you
hop to that desk?'

'I suppose so.'

'Then hop,' said Gally.

Another summer day was drawing to a close, and dusk had
fallen once more on Blandings Castle. The Empress had
turned in. Chauffeur Voules was playing his harmonica. The
stable cat was having a quick wash and brush up before
starting on its night out. And in the kitchen Mrs.
Willoughby, the cook, was putting the final touches on the
well-jammed roly-poly pudding which Beach would soon be
taking to the library, where Gally and Lord Emsworth were
enjoying their dinner of good plain English fare. Now that
they were alone, Lord Emsworth had said, it was cosier there
than in the vast
salon
where the meal had been served during
the reign of Lady Constance, who was now on the ocean with
only a few hours to go before her reunion with James
Schoonmaker.

Through the open window the scent of stocks and tobacco
plant floated in, competing with the aroma of the leg of lamb,
the boiled potatoes and the spinach with which dinner had
begun. Beach brought in the roly-poly pudding and withdrew,
and Lord Emsworth heaved a contented sigh. In Lady
Constance's time it would have made his stiff shirt front go
pop, but now it merely stirred the bosom of his shooting coat
with the holes in the elbows. His toes wriggled sensuously
inside his bedroom slippers.

'This is very pleasant, Galahad,' he said, and Gally endorsed
the sentiment.

'I was thinking the same thing, Clarence. No Connie, no
Dunstable. Peace, perfect peace with loved ones far away, as
one might say. I'm sorry I'm leaving.'

'You must, I suppose?'

'I doubt if the marriage would be legal without me.'

'Someone you know is being married?'

'My godson.'

'I've never met him, have I?'

'Certainly you have. The chap who falls downstairs.'

'Ah yes. Who is he marrying?'

'Linda Gilpin.'

'Who is Linda Gilpin?'

'The girl who kisses him after he's fallen downstairs. I am to
be Johnny's best man.'

'Who—'

'Yes, I see I'm confusing you, Clarence. Johnny and my
godson are one and the same. All straight now?'

'Perfectly, perfectly. Your godson Johnny is marrying Linda
Gilpin.'

'You put it in a nutshell. And I have to be there when the
firing squad assembles. Furthermore, Trout and Vanessa Polk
insist on me dining with them before they go off on their
honeymoon.'

'Who is Trout?'

'The chap who has married Vanessa Polk.'

'Who is Vanessa Polk?'

'The girl who has married Trout. They've both married
each other, and they're going for the honeymoon to
Nassau.'

'That's where the Falls are, isn't it? People go over them in
barrels, which is a thing I don't suppose many young couples
would care to do. But no doubt Mr. and Mrs. Trout will find
some other way of passing the time. Vanessa Polk, did you say?
Wasn't she staying here?'

'That's right, and so was Trout.'

'I thought the names were familiar. Nice girl. Very sound on
pigs. I hope she will be very happy.'

'I'm sure she will.'

'And I hope your godson will be very happy.'

'Have no uneasiness about that. He loves his popsy.'

'I thought you said her name was Linda.'

'Popsy is the generic term. By the way, did Connie confide
in you much while she was here?'

'Not very much.'

'Then you probably don't know that serious obstacles had to
be surmounted before the Johnny-Linda Gilpin merger could
be put through. It was touch and go for quite a time. Snags
arose. Tricky corners had to be rounded. It was only at long
last that they were given the green light. But all that's over
now. It makes me feel as if I were sitting in at the end of a play,
one of those charming delicate things the French do so well.
You know the sort of thing I mean—lightly sentimental, the
smile following the tear. I am having my dinner. The storm is
over, there is sunlight in my heart. I have a glass of wine and
sit thinking of what has passed. And now we want something
to bring down the curtain. A toast is indicated. Let us drink to
the Pelican Club, under whose gentle tuition I learned to keep
cool, stiffen the upper lip and always think a shade quicker
than the next man. To the Pelican Club,' said Gally, raising his
glass.

'To the Pelican Club,' said Lord Emsworth, raising his.
'What is the Pelican Club, Galahad?'

'God bless you, Clarence,' said Gally. 'Have some more
roly-poly pudding.'

P.G. Wodehouse

IN ARROW BOOKS

If you have enjoyed Blandings, you'll love Jeeves and Wooster

FROM

My attention was drawn to the spots on my chest when I
was in my bath, singing, if I remember rightly, the
Toreador song from the opera
Carmen.
They were pink in
colour, rather like the first faint flush of dawn, and I viewed
them with concern. I am not a fussy man, but I do object to
being freckled like a pard, as I once heard Jeeves describe it, a
pard, I take it, being something in the order of one of those
dogs beginning with d.

'Jeeves,' I said at the breakfast table, 'I've got spots on my
chest.'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Pink.'

'Indeed, sir?'

'I don't like them.'

'A very understandable prejudice, sir. Might I enquire if
they itch?'

'Sort of.'

'I would not advocate scratching them.'

'I disagree with you. You have to take a firm line with spots.
Remember what the poet said.'

'Sir?'

'The poet Ogden Nash. The poem he wrote defending the
practice of scratching. Who was Barbara Frietchie, Jeeves?'

'A lady of some prominence in the American war between
the States, sir.'

'A woman of strong character? One you could rely on?'

'So I have always understood, sir.'

'Well, here's what the poet Nash wrote. "I'm greatly
attached to Barbara Frietchie. I'll bet she scratched when she
was itchy." But I shall not be content with scratching. I shall
place myself in the hands of a competent doctor.'

'A very prudent decision, sir.'

The trouble was that, except for measles when I was just
starting out, I've always been so fit that I didn't know any
doctors. Then I remembered that my American pal, Tipton
Plimsoll, with whom I had been dining last night to celebrate
his betrothal to Veronica, only daughter of Colonel and Lady
Hermione Wedge of Blandings Castle, Shropshire, had
mentioned one who had once done him a bit of good. I went
to the telephone to get his name and address.

Tipton did not answer my ring immediately, and when he
did it was to reproach me for waking him at daybreak. But
after he had got this off his chest and I had turned the
conversation to mine he was most helpful. It was with the
information I wanted that I returned to Jeeves.

'I've just been talking to Mr Plimsoll, Jeeves, and everything
is straight now. He bids me lose no time in establishing
contact with a medico of the name of E. Jimpson Murgatroyd.
He says if I want a sunny practitioner who will prod me in the
ribs with his stethoscope and tell me an anecdote about two
Irishmen named Pat and Mike and then another about two
Scotsmen named Mac and Sandy, E. Jimpson is not my man,
but if what I'm after is someone to cure my spots, he
unquestionably is, as he knows his spots from A to Z and has
been treating them since he was so high. It seems that Tipton
had the same trouble not long ago and Murgatroyd fixed him
up in no time. So while I am getting out of these clothes into
something more spectacular will you give him a buzz and make
an appointment.'

When I had doffed the sweater and flannels in which I had
breakfasted, Jeeves informed me that E. Jimpson could see me
at eleven, and I thanked him and asked him to tell the garage
to send the car round at ten-forty-five.

'Somewhat earlier than that, sir,' he said, 'if I might make the
suggestion. The traffic. Would it not be better to take a cab?'

'No, and I'll tell you why. After I've seen the doc, I thought
I might drive down to Brighton and get a spot of sea air. I don't
suppose the traffic will be any worse than usual, will it?'

'I fear so, sir. A protest march is taking place this morning.'

'What, again? They seem to have them every hour on the
hour these days, don't they?'

'They are certainly not infrequent, sir.'

'Any idea what they're protesting about?'

'I could not say, sir. It might be one thing or it might be
another. Men are suspicious, prone to discontent. Subjects still
loathe the present Government.'

'The poet Nash?'

'No, sir. The poet Herrick.'

'Pretty bitter.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I wonder what they had done to him to stir him up like
that. Probably fined him five quid for failing to abate a smoky
chimney.'

'As to that I have no information, sir.'

Seated in the old sports model some minutes later and
driving to keep my tryst with E. Jimpson Murgatroyd, I was
feeling singularly light-hearted for a man with spots on his
chest. It was a beautiful morning, and it wouldn't have taken
much to make me sing Tra-la as I bowled along. Then I came
abaft of the protest march and found myself becalmed. I
leaned back and sat observing the proceedings with a kindly
eye.

Whatever these bimbos were protesting about, it was
obviously something they were taking to heart rather.
By the time I had got into their midst not a few of them had
decided that animal cries were insufficient to meet the case and
were saying it with bottles and brickbats, and the police who
were present in considerable numbers seemed not to be liking
it much. It must be rotten being a policeman on these
occasions. Anyone who has got a bottle can throw it at you, but
if you throw it back, the yell of police brutality goes up and
there are editorials in the papers next day.

But the mildest cop can stand only so much, and it seemed
to me, for I am pretty shrewd in these matters, that in about
another shake of a duck's tail hell's foundations would be
starting to quiver. I hoped nobody would scratch my paint.

Leading the procession, I saw with surprise, was a girl I
knew. In fact, I had once asked her to marry me. Her name was
Vanessa Cook, and I had met her at a cocktail party, and such
was her radiant beauty that it was only a couple of minutes
after I had brought her a martini and one of those little
sausages on sticks that I was saying to myself, 'Bertram, this is
a good thing. Push it along.' And in due season I suggested a
merger. But apparently I was not the type, and no business
resulted.

This naturally jarred the Wooster soul a good deal at the
moment, but reviewing the dead past now I could see that my
guardian angel had been on the job all right and had known
what was good for me. I mean, radiant beauty is all very well,
but it isn't everything. What sort of a married life would I have
had with the little woman perpetually going on protest
marches and expecting me to be at her side throwing bottles at
the constabulary? It made me shudder to think what I might
have let myself in for if I had been a shade more fascinating.
Taught me a lesson, that did – viz. never to lose faith in your
guardian angel, because these guardian angels are no fools.

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