Jeeves and the Wedding Bells (24 page)

A thought struck me. ‘I say, Jeeves, you don’t think Sir Henry has … that he’s planning …’

‘I think that
in extremis
, as he now finds himself, Sir Henry would consider all options. It is conceivable that he sees in Lord Etringham a
deus ex machina
.’

‘Come again?’

‘Perhaps the phrase “a white knight” would be more readily illuminating, sir.’

‘It might. But how would it work out?’

‘I should not care to hazard a conjecture, sir. However, I felt it imperative that we leave them alone, the better to get to know one another.’

‘Well, miracles do happen, don’t they, even at the eleventh hour? What I want to know first is how on earth I’m to face Lady H and Dame Judith in the morning.’

‘Might I suggest breakfast in bed, sir? After that you will be required for rehearsal in the drawing room, where neither lady will be present.’

‘And lunch? Perhaps a sandwich and a half-bottle in the sunken garden?’

‘Indeed, sir. Following which the ladies will be occupied by the fete. There will then be only the evening’s festivities to negotiate before we can return to London.’

I heaved a deepish one. As I did so, I noticed Jeeves’s eye on my burgundy dressing gown with the paisley pattern, which was hanging on the door.

He saw me seeing him, if you catch my drift.

‘Go on, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘Keep the thing. It can be a souvenir of a pretty sticky few days.’

‘That is most generous of you, sir. It is a splendid garment.’

The bed turned out to be everything I had foreseen, and the sun was already well up in the heavens when Jeeves came in with the laden breakfast tray. Having missed dinner in all the previous night’s excitement, I set to with a will.

‘What’s the latest from Bedlam?’ I said, forking up the last of the kedgeree. ‘I hardly dare ask.’

‘There has been an alteration to this evening’s programme, sir.’

‘Oh yes?’ I said. And I dare say there was a note of wariness – or even of dread – in my tone.

‘Yes, sir. It appears that Sir Henry and Lord Etringham sat up deep into the night. His lordship’s agoraphobia—’

‘Yes, I meant to ask, what is this aggra-thing?’

‘The word derives from the ancient Greek, sir. It means a morbid fear of the marketplace – or by implication of any open space. It is the opposite of claustrophobia, which is—’

‘I know, Jeeves. I’m not a complete ass, you know. Carry on.’

‘As I was saying, sir, his lordship’s agoraphobia has responded well to treatment so far, but Sir Roderick Glossop has advised him that a full return of confidence may come only after he has faced down his worst fear – that of appearing and speaking in public.’

‘In the marketplace?’

‘Yes, sir. Or in this case the village hall. Sir Henry has offered him the part of Bottom in the scene from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.’

‘But that’s my part, Jeeves!’

‘I assured Sir Henry that you would not begrudge it to Lord Etringham and that such a gesture on your part would make amends for the small deceit you were compelled to practise on our host.’

I took a thoughtful draught of coffee. ‘That’s as may be, but you seem to be missing the point, Jeeves. The character of Bottom is a robust one. Old Etringham is about as robust as a feather duster. He wouldn’t say boo to a goose even if that
goose was served up roast with red cabbage and apple sauce. The standees won’t take kindly to a whispering Bottom. Trust me, Jeeves. I have experience of the parish hall. I know whereof I speak. Remember King’s Deverill. Esmond Haddock brought the house down by enthusiasm and sheer volume. These things matter.’

‘I remember it only too well, sir. But the two gentlemen seem set on the plan. I believe Lord Etringham is confident that a dose of the specific prescribed by Sir Roderick, taken an hour beforehand, will calm his nerves sufficiently.’

I still didn’t think much of the development. We amateur thespians have our defining roles, and this Athenian weaver was mine. A thin-voiced dotard was never going to cut the mustard.

‘You seem to know a devil of a lot about what’s going on, Jeeves.’

‘After our successes on the Turf, Sir Henry is reluctant to dispense with my advice sir.’

‘Sensible chap.’

‘Thank you, sir. I took the liberty of pointing out that it might be possible for him to allow a part of Melbury Hall to be used for educational purposes while retaining ownership of the house and grounds.’

‘So he wouldn’t have to get rid of the whole boiling.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘But which part?’

‘The home farm, sir, and the stable block, being contiguous, form a natural entity. They enjoy their own access to the
high street and could be converted to boarding accommodation if necessary.’

‘Where would the thoroughbreds go?’

‘The horses would have to be sold, sir. This would raise some much-needed cash and would serve the further purpose of reconciling Lady Hackwood to the scheme.’

I nodded. I’d begun to catch his drift. ‘And then the lads from the London youth clubs, from Walworth and Bethnal Green, come down in a charabanc to get a whiff of country air and learn about fossils at the same time.’

‘Indeed, sir, with little or no inconvenience to the household. However, the success of the plan is dependent on Lord Etringham’s performance this evening. He must be made to feel a welcome part of the village and the surrounding districts. I fear nothing less than a standing ovation will do.’

‘Presumably you’ll spend the day buying beer for the lads in the Red Lion.’

‘Sir Henry has already despatched Hoad to start work on the more obdurate element.’

‘Hoad? That’s rather playing with fire, isn’t it?’

‘Alas, Sir Henry was unaware of Hoad’s particular weakness. He pressed five pounds into his hand and told him to do his best.’

‘Golly,’ I said, not for the first time. ‘And is that all?’

‘No, sir, there is one other thing.’

‘Go on.’

‘Mr Venables was in need of a straight man or feed for his crosstalk act.’

I passed a hand across the fevered brow. ‘Tell me it’s not so, Jeeves.’

‘There was only one player who was unexpectedly available, sir.’

‘But what about Woody?’

‘No, sir. Mr Beeching is to play Snout the tinker.’

‘Well, what about Bicknell?’

‘Mr Bicknell would consider it
infra dignitatem
, sir.’

‘I see what you mean. But what about Hoad? It would serve him right. And after all he specialises in funny turns.’

‘Most amusing, sir. But Hoad is already cast, as Flute the bellows-mender.’

‘Was bellows-mending really a full-time occupation in Athens?’

‘I am not in a position to say, sir. I fancy there may be a degree of poetic licence.’

There was a pause. I could see no way out of being the Collector’s stooge, unless … ‘Jeeves, couldn’t we persuade old Vishnu to take umbrage at all those things Sir Henry said to his son?’

‘So Mrs Venables urged, I believe, sir. But Mr Venables is somewhat thick-skinned.’

‘I’ve met elephants with thinner hides. Indian and African.’

‘Indeed, sir. Mr Venables was most reluctant to miss a chance of impressing an audience. Mrs Venables left in high dudgeon after a substantial breakfast, taking the nine-thirty train, but her husband will not follow her until tomorrow. He was not to be deterred from having his moment in the spotlight.’

Rehearsals were well under way in the drawing room by the time I joined the company. Georgiana was directing operations, with old Venables sticking his oar in at every other line.

The scene she’d chosen was the one in which the rude mechanicals rehearse their play in the presence of the sleeping Titania, queen of the fairies. She awakes to see Bottom in an ass’s head and, because Puck has done his stuff with the potion, at once falls in love with him; the scene ends as she leads him off hand in hand to the merriment of all. The good thing was that there was a line or two for everyone with only Bottom and Titania having much to learn.

It was clear that old Etringham had sat up all night swotting his lines and had done a pretty good job of it. His work, however, lacked snap. His Bottom sounded less like a workman on a beano than an archdeacon giving a Lenten address. You couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever actually met a weaver.

Mrs Tilman made an admirable Puck, but Amelia lacked the ethereal quality that the part of Titania demands; her performance had a bit too much of the tennis girl about it: her court coverage was good, but there was little sense of gossamer wings.

Bed linen was to form the basic Athenian costume, with the addition of the odd jerkin or waistcoat, chisel and hammer; there was an outsize ass’s head for Bottom and wings for Puck and Titania that had been fetched from a costumier in Dorchester the day before. This was all quite satisfactory; it was the acting that was a cause for concern.

‘Sir Henry,’ said Mrs Tilman. ‘Could I make a suggestion?’

‘Certainly, Mrs T,’ said Sir Henry, who had landed the part of Quince the carpenter.

‘Suppose Miss Georgiana and Miss Amelia was to swap parts? So Miss Amelia was Starveling the tailor and Miss Georgiana was the fairy queen?’

After a fair bit of ‘No, I can’t’ and ‘Yes, you must’ between the girls, Sir Henry settled the matter by giving his blessing to the switch.

‘All right, I’ll learn the lines at lunchtime,’ said Georgiana. ‘Are you quite sure you don’t mind, Ambo?’

‘No, I’ve always wanted to play Starveling,’ said Amelia – pretty sportingly, you’d have to say. Woody visibly swelled with pride.

‘Bertie,’ said Georgiana, ‘I think it would be a good idea if you and Mr Venables rehearsed your crosstalk act now. Perhaps you could go into the library.’

‘Right ho,’ I said.

‘I’ve got a script for you, young man,’ said old Vishnu, holding out a piece of paper. ‘But I warn you, I like to extemporise as we go along.’

As we walked down the hall I glanced down at the paper in my hand. I saw the following words. ‘Feed: “I say, I say, what do you make of the Melbury Ladies’ Sewing Circle?” SV: “I found them most amusing. They had me in stitches.”’

It was going to be a long day.

The Melbury-cum-Kingston parish hall was ten minutes away in the two-seater. A red-brick, rectangular building designed
by a chap who liked to keep things simple, it was set back from the road behind a blackthorn hedge. The date carved above the lintel was 1856 and one couldn’t help wondering which village worthy had stumped up for it. Or perhaps there had been a subscription to mark the end of the Crimean War; I briefly wondered how many sons of Melbury-cum-Kingston had died at Sevastopol.

There were twenty minutes before kick-off, but the peasantry was already filing in by twos and threes. These sons of toil looked like men who knew what they liked, and I doubted whether bellows-menders or fairies came high on that list.

During a solitary luncheon in the sunken garden, I had more or less mastered the lines old Venables had thrust on me and I glanced down now at the papers in my sweating palm. I breathed in deeply.

‘Very well, Jeeves. Let’s get it over with. Into the valley of death …’

I pushed open the door and levered myself out of the car. Since I was not billed to go on until the second half, I decided to place myself at the rear of the hall, among the rougher element, to get a sense of what lay in store. From this vantage point I at once saw why so many of them had arrived early. It is normal practice for a village hall to have some sort of makeshift bar with cider and beer by the barrel, but this was an elaborate affair that took up half a side wall; its selection of beverages would not have disgraced a West End hotel, though the prices were such that any ploughman could keep plodding his weary way back for more. And plod they did.

The general whiff in the village hall, of damp plaster and dead chrysanthemums, was rapidly being replaced by the smell of warm yeomanry, pipe smoke and alcohol. In other circumstances I don’t deny that I might have found it congenial. The two-bob seats filled rapidly with the local gentry, and I noted listlessly that Vishnu and I should be playing to a full house. A stiffish brandy and soda followed its twin down the hatch – and at that price, who could wonder that a third came close behind.

Sir Henry Hackwood appeared from the wings, in front of the curtain, to a decent reception. The standees seemed pleased not to be subjected to a lecture from the vicar, as is often the case with such a bash, and were further cheered when Sir Henry told them he had paid for a barrel of beer from the Hare and Hounds for them to get stuck into during the interval. Sir Henry disappeared and the curtain rose on the Melbury Glee Club – six stout women in satin frocks and six sheepish-looking consorts wearing bowler hats. ‘Glee’ was not the word that first came to mind; ‘dejection’ might have been nearer the mark. The vicar’s wife at the upright piano seemed under the impression that she was playing a dirge; the sopranos were obliged to hang on and warble for all they were worth until she caught up. ‘The Ballad of Cranborne Chase’, by contrast, turned into a straight six-furlong sprint between choir and vicar’s wife, the latter apparently determined to make up for lost time. Either that, or she had remembered that she’d left dinner on the vicarage stove. The piano got home by a short head, with half a length separating tenors and sopranos for the places.

Next on was one Susan Chandler, a ten-year-old schoolgirl with plaits and thick glasses who stood with her hands behind her back and her feet planted like a guardsman told to stand at ease. She eyed the audience in a threatening manner. ‘“By Last Duchess” by Robert Browdig,’ she announced. It was not only the child’s adenoids that made the next seven or eight minutes hard to endure; I hadn’t the faintest clue what old Browning was on about, and I’m pretty sure that no one else did either. At the end I was relieved to see there was no sign of young Susan getting the bird; the applause was tepid, but the right side of polite. A small flame of hope flickered in the Wooster bosom.

The conjuring by Major Holloway’s wife’s brother would have gone down well in the Pink Owl in Brewer Street. The quick-fire patter seemed to have come from the paddock at some seaside racecourse, and the relish with which the conjuror withdrew the missing Queen of Hearts from the clothing of the saloon barmaid at the Hare and Hounds caused dismay in the two-bobbers. None of the above means the major’s wife’s brother was without his admirers; indeed, you could say that, so far as the standees were concerned, he was by some way the best thing yet. Just as well, because the Puddletown Barbershop Quartet, with which the first half closed, were a man short; and a barbershop quartet with only three barbers is bound to lack a certain something.