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mercyrobotSorting Out the Dance Card
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2. Stiff Upper Lip, Bertie
Waking up when something momentous has happened, I've found, presents a few moments of amnesia. For that first bit of blinking against the light and hearing the birds twitter, if you are not in London and there are in fact birds that twitter and not simply a load of pigeons, it's just any other day's waking up, 'shouldn't have drunk so much' or 'oh, kink in my neck.' Then the world intrudes full force and it's 'oh, lord, my parents are dead' or 'oh, lord, I'm still engaged to Madeline Bassett.' Or, in this case, 'oh good lord, I'm in love with Jeeves and I can never tell him.'
I was, wasn't I? The whole thing hadn't just been some sort mad notion brought on by an overheating of the brain muscle, had it?
Roughly four seconds in Jeeves's presence proved that it had not. He went about the same routine as the Jeeves of any other day, popping in with the tea and the messages and the news of the world. But he seemed different. Eyes bluer, hair shinier, hands stronger and more skilled. I think I spent a full minute just watching his fingers. He seemed to take this glassy-eyed wonderment as par for the just-woken Wooster course, for I've never been equal to much until well into a biggish spot of tea.
"Has your difficulty sleeping last night left you too fatigued for travel, sir?" he asked, ever looking after me.
Right, Paris. I smiled, knowingly I should think. Paris, where I knew almost no one and would depend on Jeeves for company. Paris, in a house where Uncle Henry had never kept any servants other than a couple of girls who lived out because there was nowhere to put them, and Jeeves would be just across the hallway. I liked the idea as much as I dreaded it. "Are we going today?"
"Mr Brittingham cabled this morning, sir, advising that the house would be in readiness as soon as this afternoon."
"Well, then, we'll hie us there directly. I'm not so awfully tired. I can catch a few more winks on the train if needs must."
"Regrettably, sir, all the compartments are booked for the next several days."
"Oh, that's all right. Second class won't kill me."
"I had taken the liberty of instead arranging for the car to be serviced and garaged at Folkestone for the duration of our stay, sir, but I can, of course, alter the plans."
It was a fine enough idea— a nice country drive and no worries about the timing of ferries and trains.
I had not stopped to consider the close quarters of the two-seater, which are made even closer when the passengers are two full-grown chaps not at all on the short side. We'd taken a thousand drives in it together, but never had I been so aware of how frightfully close he was. I was rather unsettled by it until about the time we swung out of the metrop, at which point a little devil on my shoulder piped up and said, 'Sit back and enjoy it, Wooster, you won't get many excuses to be smashed up against him.'
So I did my level best to take it all in. The way his hair cream blended with his aftershave to form the quintessential Jeeves bouquet, with undernotes of laundry starch, tea, and dish soap. It was still blasted hot out so he was faintly sweating round the temples. I was a bit toasty in just my shirtsleeves, so I couldn't imagine how he must feel encased in yards of dark suit, but it served to enhance the eau de, if you will, even further. I found myself wishing he'd get rid of the jacket and roll up his sleeves. I remembered his arms being very nice specimens the handful of times I'd seen them, mostly as a result of barging in on him at odd hours in emergencies. Once he'd even been fresh from the bath and not even into his dressing gown, and I wished I'd taken the time to appreciate what was now but a hazy memory.
I lit myself a cigarette just to have something to do other than think about the thousands of knees and elbows all brushing against each other, as at country-road speeds there can't be much in the way of conversation unless one wants to shout. Shout I did to offer a smoke to Jeeves, which he accepted. I saw no easy way for him to light it himself as well as not crash the car, and so took rather a liberty, as Jeeves might have called it, popping an already-lit specimen between his lips. His—oh dear—very very soft lips, I found as one of my fingers caught slightly on the bottom l. as I retrieved my hand.
As if that weren't innard-jellying enough, he looked over and half-smiled (for Jeeves, anyway, which is about a sixteenth-smile for anyone else) in thanks, the Turkish clamped in the corner of his mouth. The effect was rather dashing, what with the windblown hair and cheeks pinkened by hearty country air. It wasn't merely that he cut a striking figure, but that just for a fleeting instant, I felt I was afforded a little-seen glimpse of le vrai homme, if you will, behind the Jeevesian mask. I knew bits and pieces of said v. h., of course, as a good many were part of what he presented to the world at large. But the rest— I wanted to know all of it. Alongside the jellied thrill shot a pang of longing, because I knew how unlikely it was that I ever really would.
What sort of person did it take, I wondered, looking pensively out over the open road, to figure highly in the affections of one R. Jeeves? The two examples I had were useless. Whatever 'understanding' he'd had with the rotund and motherly woman now known as Lady Bittlesham had surely been part of some scheme, or perhaps one of those accidental things that so often befalls yours truly. Then there was Bingo's (first) waitress, who, while a pretty girl and seemingly goodish egg, had never been heard of again once Jeeves had presumably won her. Perhaps he'd been put off by her taste in neckwear. I couldn't imagnine her being a good match for him; the thought of her hanging on his words while he rattled on about Spinoza was utterly laughable.
"Whatever happened to Mabel?" I asked some time later, once we we'd been poured into the more conversation-convenient interior of the ferry.
"My niece, sir?" Jeeves asked.
"No, the waitress. Weren't you engaged?"
"I believe the young lady is lately married to a baronet, sir."
"Oh. Bad luck." Not mine, of course, but 'well, thank heavens!' was most certainly not the thing to say.
"It is of little consequence, sir. We were not suited."
"Oh? What was the matter with her?"
"While an undoubtedly attractive and amiable young lady, sir, once the customary conversation of new acquaintance was exhausted, it was discovered that we had but little ground of mutual interest."
So it had been a not-dizzying-enough intellect. I didn't do much better, I realised glumly. I certainly appreciated Jeeves's vast knowledge of more or less everything ever to have been printed and bound, but when it came to the meat of what any of it was actually about, I was hopeless.
First and foremost, any paramour of Jeeves would most certainly be able to hold up the other end of an erudite discussion. I would have to do better, not that I really had the first idea how to go about it. It was too bad nobody had put out 'The Utter Nitwit's Guide to Matters of Philosophy' or something similar. They'd make a bally fortune.
We were in the observation deck, self ensconced into one of the bolted-down wing chairs, Jeeves hovering at my elbow. I realised, unpleasantly, that he was waiting to either be dismissed or given an at-ease. It was the man's job, his very proud career, to do what I told him. If I simply said, 'Kiss me, Jeeves,' would he, whether or not he wanted to? He'd certainly gone against my wishes in more trifling matters, the placing of bets and the disposal of jackets, but wouldn't a demand like that have a sort of 'or else' on the end of it? I hoped he knew me better than that, but the fact remained that if I ever made so much as a peep of what I really wanted, and he agreed to it, I would never know the reason behind it.
I must've come over a bit green at that, because Jeeves said, "You are not seasick, sir?"
"No, no," I sighed. "But do sit down, Jeeves, it's giving me a pain in the neck looking up at you."
He perched in the chair across from me, sitting because I'd said sit.
I had a glance round the ferry co.'s attempt at a sitting room, in which we were more or less alone, as most of the other passengers were below deck availing themselves of the luncheon service. Food, channel-hopping, and Woosters most certainly do not mix; I wasn't seasick, but it wouldn't have taken much provocation to get me there. I do well enough on the longer voyages, but on short distances over choppy waters my safest bet is to remain very still where I can see the scenery moving by but remain ignorant of the water. There would be much more toothsome fare at Calais in any case. But what of Jeeves? He would have breakfasted at some unholy hour and could well be famished, but here he was sitting because I told him to sit.
"You know I can't swallow so much as a biscuit on these things, Jeeves, but you should by all means make free of the lunching facilities if you so desire," I offered, hoping it sounded enough like the choice was truly his and not 'go away and eat something.'
"Thank you, sir, but there is a particularly fine brasserie at our port of destination I would be eager to visit, if you are amenable."
"Topping notion," I said, envisioning a leisurely luncheon on some sun-dappled terrace, enjoying the company and the slight relaxation of the feudal rules that came with being strangers in a strange land, united in a common odyssey. But then I frowned again. Given a choice of companions with whom to mangle a spot of soupe à l'oignon or similar, I doubted I would be first on the list if I didn't pay for the privilege. How could I ever know if anything he did was done because he wanted it, and not because I commanded it? Even mangling said soupe in his chosen location depended on the young master's amenability.
"Jeeves," I said, because I found myself unable not to, "if I asked you to do something that went against all your principles, you wouldn't just up and do it, would you?"
He raised a fractional eyebrow. "It would depend upon the request, sir, and the circumstances."
"Oh, nothing life or death. Something that wouldn't make one whit of difference to anyone but me. And I suppose you. But that coming from a more cunning chap than this Wooster, might seem to carry a bit of an 'or else' on the end of it."
I watched him swallow the admittedly ill-turned phrasing. "If I may speak frankly, sir?"
If he felt he couldn't even say what he really thought without my leave, dash it, what hope would there ever be? "I think that question stopped being a necessary one some long while ago," I said.
He registered an instant of surprise, I think, possibly at the statement itself, or possibly at my tone, which might've come over a bit more affectionate than I'd really intended. But I couldn't judge it, because it flickered away as quickly as it had come on. "Then quite frankly, sir, if retaining my situation depended upon my agreement to something so counter to my principles, it would lose a great deal of that which engenders my desire to retain it. What is it you would ask of me, sir?"
Oh. He'd thought I was building up to asking him to do some awful thing. I couldn't even imagine what he could be thinking. "Oh, nothing at all, Jeeves. It was simply a—" I borrowed his word— "a theoretical. Just sort of...well, one wouldn't want to abuse one's position."
"I have never known you to, sir."
"Not even when I wear purple socks?" I asked, feeling the thing needed a bit of lightening-up.
"Trivialities, sir," Jeeves said, betraying no amusement. "While my views on matters of dress are somewhat conservative, purple socks are your right if you wish to wear them, and at the end of the day do not alter my opinion of your character. It is only the opinions of others that cause me to give such advice at all."
I chewed that over a bit, and I thought I grasped his meaning. "You mean supposing purple socks, or whatever thing I'm wearing that you object to, really are not so natty as I think and actually make me look a great fool— supposing, mind you. I'm not saying they do. But supposing I did look a great fool, you mean you don't like to think of passers-by looking at me and thinking 'good heavens, is his man colour-blind?'"
"Precisely so, sir."
"But Jeeves, anyone who matters knows what a paragon you are. My pals place bets on how long I'll get to keep a hat you don't like, and I'm sure your compatriots well know that you despair of ever breaking me of my sartorial whims. Still, now I know the purity of your motives, I shall endeavour to take these things more to heart."
It was a good air-clearing sort of talk, if not the precise air I wanted cleared. At least it gave me a little window into the Jeevesian mind. Only in very dark moments did I ever truly believe he applied the iron fist to my wardrobe out of finding me lacking, but it was still nice to hear that my views on What the Well-Dressed Gentleman Is Wearing did not affect whatever little esteem he managed to hold me in. Having me dressed what he thought was properly was a point of pride for him. He no more wanted the general public to think I looked a right ass than an artist wants the latest masterpiece to get the bird from the critics.
Less happily, however, I had also become convinced beyond the shadow of a d. that a 'kiss me, Jeeves' request could not be made. I was glad, of course, that he wouldn't do it just to stay employed, but it also meant that packing of bags and presenting of portfolios would accompany his refusal. If ever there were to be such a request made between us, it could only be 'kiss me, Bertram.'
I could just about count on my fingers the times I'd heard him say my given name, invariably sandwiched between a 'Mr' and a 'Wooster,' and usually in the course of making some arrangement or reading a message. But the thought of him properly calling me that was another matter entirely, and caused a shivering little thrill I was unable to stop.
"Are you cold, sir?" Jeeves asked, probably poised to go about rounding up overcoats and blankets if need be.
"A draught or something," I lied. "It's nothing." For nothing was precisely what would ever come of this newfound daffiness for my personal gentleman's gentleman. I was no more suited a suitor than East-End waitresses, in terms of intellectual oomph. There was also the obvious problem of proclivities, i.e. the recently-discovered ones of mine that I sincerely doubted Jeeves shared.
With a sigh, I took up the book I'd brought along, frowning at it. Sherlock Holmes, not precisely the highest-brow stuff, but at least Jeeves couldn't look too far down his nose at it. I'd loved the tales all my life, and Jeeves in no small way reminded me of the great detective. I was no Watson, of course. He would certainly never claim to be lost without me or call me 'my dear Wooster.'
Holmes and Watson were currently inspecting a hat, from which Holmes had somehow worked out every detail of the owner's life, even down to a cooling of the softer feelings on the part of the chap's missus. 'This hat has not been brushed for weeks,' Holmes's speech ran. 'When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection.'
Would that the studious brushing of hats could be any true scale on which to judge affection! The state of my own headwear would evidence hitherto unseen depths of adoration. I snapped the book shut in annoyance, and Jeeves began to fold the newspaper he'd opened. His whims placed aside in case mine needed attending, I thought again, a trifle guiltily. But wasn't it the order of things? If I told him not to wait on me any more, he'd consider himself sacked. "As you were, Jeeves," I said, waving him off. "I'd simply forgotten that reading is no more advisable for me than biscuits." For as it happened, I was feeling a bit sloshy about the tum.
"A remedy could be easily procured, sir, if you wish it," Jeeves said.
"No, it's not so bad. I think I'd just better not try to read." I laid the book aside, and Jeeves picked it up and inspected it. "Have at it if you like, old thing. It's got the newer ones in as well. Complete edition. Though I know it's not the sort of thing you usually go in for," I added, lest he be insulted by the implication.
"On the contrary, sir. I have long found Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work to be both entertaining and stimulating."
"You probably work it all out before Holmes does," I said. "You could give him a run for his money."
"It is kind of you to say so, sir," he said, ever the soul of humility. "If it would please you, some excerpt could be read aloud."
Only twice had Jeeves ever read anything aloud to me for entertainment purposes, and on both occasions I had been miserably under the weather. I suppose sea-sickness counted in his estimation, and I certainly wasn't going to turn it down. When one has been read to by Jeeves, it's a bit of a wrench to go back to doing it for oneself. He doesn't go so far as to 'do the voices,' as I used to urge Nannie Pete to do, but he does give all the dramatis personae some little uniqueness so you know who's speaking, and adds in all the ups and downs and pauses-for-effect to put the listener right into the thick of the action.
He favoured me with a reading of 'The Three Garridebs,' I think because he had not read it himself. I think I'd read it in The Strand when it had first come round a few years back, but not since, and I remembered little enough to remain in suspense. I'd entirely forgot the bit with the shooting, in fact, and gasped when it happened. Then he came to a bit that tugged keenly at the heart-strings. After Watson is shot, Holmes biffs the other chappie over the head with a revolver and flies to Watson's side.
"'You're not hurt, Watson?'" Jeeves read, putting the warranted amound of concern into it, the like of which I'd never heard out of either him or Holmes. "'For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!'"
And then he narrated as Watson, "'It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.'"
And, well, I say. It wasn't just the heart-strings tugged, but the whole assemblage of the inner Wooster workings, because if that wasn't exactly the sort of glimpse I'd like to catch of Jeeves's heart, I didn't know what was.
I didn't quite catch the rest of the tale, well-performed though I'm sure it was, because my imagination was busily inventing a thousand little stories of its own. I would be gravely ill, perhaps, not just one of these trifling little colds, and through my fevered delirium I would feel him clasp my hand, hear him call me by my name and beg me not to go popping off just yet. Or I could be wounded in a burglary of some sort, as an innocent bystander, of course, not as the burglar. A riding accident, a fire, a car crash, the possibilities were endless.
But knowing my luck, I'd probably just end up dying, or else Jeeves would look on the sorry scene, raise an eyebrow and say, 'Oh, good heavens, sir, you seem to have had your head blown off,' and no glimpses of hearts to be had. Even when the master himself arranged bouts of mortal peril to help estranged lovers along, they seldom went entirely as planned. He had the brains to adapt the scheme when it all went pear-shaped, but I most certainly did not.
"What was that, Jeeves?" I asked, noticing he was looking at me in an expectant way, and possibly had been for some time.
"I was enquiring, sir, as to whether you wished to hear another."
I was in no humour to chance hearing any more of great hearts. "No, Jeeves, thank you." But I also had a unique opportunity fallen upon my lap, because for once Jeeves and I had read the same book, or part of it, anyway.
It wasn't the stuff of great philosophical quandary, of course, but it would do. If he was ever to think of me as not—what had he called me, mentally negligible?—as not that, or whatever he'd said, I would have to put forth no small effort. For truly, I know I haven't got half the brains given to some woodland creatures, but I've learnt to make do with what I've got, and I really had the perfect bit of philosophy to query about. "I wonder, Jeeves, as one who makes such close study of the psychology of individuals, if you think that all cold masks conceal great hearts."
"Most assuredly not, sir," he said without hesitation. "In some cases a cold mask is no mask at all, or a warm and amiable countenance may in fact be laid over malice and ill intent."
The idea of these things, I think, is to parry back with something, but came up empty, because the only thought I could come up with was that if one couldn't apply it to everyone, at least Jeeves must have a great heart under there somewhere. There are things one simply cannot say to one's valet, however faithful and close a confidant he has become. So as not to simply sit dumbly, I fell back on the tried-and-true habit of a joke. "And here I was hoping Aunt Agatha had some shred of humanity beneath all that taffeta."
"Mrs Gregson, I fear, presents herself much as she truly is, sir."
A horn sounded, signalling that we were about to reach our port, and so ended Bertram's sorry attempt at a brainy discussion.
We returned to our unused compartment to retrieve our worldly goods. I was feeling distinctly grimy by this point, and attempted to freshen up in the tiny lavatory, which appeared to have been built with an elf as the model for an average-sized passenger.
"The delights of Paris will have to delight themselves for a bit," I declared, locked in a bootless struggle against the minuscule and several-feet-too-low mirror to reapply the tie I'd removed in the course of the freshenings. "For as soon as we step into that house, I am having a very long and thorough soak." Then, addressing the tie, I said, "Blast it!" I turned to Jeeves, hands thrown up in frustration. "Do you mind, Jeeves? I can't see a bally thing."
It was both the best and worst idea I had had in days. In normal circs I'm quite capable of windsoring my own neckwear, so I'd rather forgotten how very very close a chap has to stand to do it for you, and the way fingers, of necessity, tend to brush against the neck. Luckily, Jeeves is dashed quick on the draw when it comes to ties, so the thing was done before I had a chance to get too uncomfortable.
Unbidden, a memory bubbled up, that of Stinker always saying he was hopeless at bow-ties and having me do it for him whenever evening costume was required. As I am not and never have been a valet, I couldn't do it standing in front of him and had usually ended up in some oddish contortion reaching around him from behind. I suspected I understood his reasons quite a bit better now. At least Jeeves had his back turned and was pottering about with the cases when the remembrance doubtless clouded the Wooster brow, so I was able to be my cheerful self again by the time he could see me. I wondered if this was some sort of...what was it? "What's the thing those Hinduists are always on about, Jeeves? Sort of their do-unto-others bit, only it's what you've done gets done to you?"
"You are referring, I believe, to the belief in the concept of Karma, sir."
"That's the one!" I said, though it was a hollow triumph, for it only allowed me to call it by its right name. The fact remained that I rather felt I was being repaid, even punished, in Karma for unwittingly sticking Stinker into the unrequited l. posish.
"Was there any particular reason you required the term, sir?"
"No," I lied. I was doing a good bit of that lately. If this Karma gag was the real thing, I supposed I could be expecting Jeeves to start lying right back to me soon. "You know how my mind wanders, Jeeves," I said, now forced to extemporise. "I was just wondering if it's as real as all that, why the Honorias and Madelines of the world don't have a chap every fortnight saying 'of course I'll marry you!' without so much as a handshake." And really, why didn't they?
"The concept has been diluted from its Eastern roots and is espoused more as an encouragement for good behaviour, sir, as much as a threat of direct retribution."
"You don't sound as though you think it holds much water," I said.
"It puts one in danger, sir, of performing apparently altruistic acts with avaricious motives at heart."
"Masks and malice again, then?"
"Indeed, sir," he said, and I thought I detected a note of pride.
Better than my first go, then, not that I could even nearly count myself a Socrates. It wasn't that I was trying to mould myself; I knew better than that. I saw it more as learning to play a new instrument, but one that Jeeves would like much better than the banjolele. He might never love me, but the less chance I gave him to eventually find me too tiresome and fluffheaded to hang around, the better.
Calais welcomed us into its fold, as did Jeeves's brasserie, which was every bit worth the wait. Obviously, it wasn't Jeeves's brasserie—strictly speaking it appeared to belong to someone named Arnaud—but it was the one he had mentioned. It was a charming seaside affair, as so many things in Calais are, with the envisioned charming sun-dappled terrace and charmingly tiny tables. It was more or less impossible to stop our knees brushing together if we did anything but sit ramrod-straight, and I admit I took advantage of it. Once I got over the slight panic and thrill of Jeeves not moving away every time it happened—for where would he have moved to?—it was jolly nice. Relaxed and comfortable, you know.
I have been known to kick when presented with the prospect of travel, but I wondered now if I wouldn't be wanting to do a good sight more of it. When travelling, you see, one is thrown into these transient lunchings where it would be bally stupid not to strap on the nosebag right alongside Jeeves like a pair of old chums. Well, it seemed bally stupid to me, anyway.
It hadn't, in the beginning, seemed bally stupid or even at all odd to Jeeves on our first voyage from home, which had been a mishap-fraught journey to the wilds of Scotland for some binge Oofy Prosser had been hosting in a castle. I've never actually been clear on whether he owned it, hired it, borrowed it, or simply broken in, but that was and still is neither here nor there.
To make a long story short, we'd found ourselves in Edinburgh for several hours due to some railway accident involving pigs, and as one does around midday, I'd wanted a spot of sustenance, so I'd put out the idea of lunching at the Balmoral.
What I'd said, in fact, was, 'What do you say to lunching at the Balmoral, Jeeves?' in which I thought the fact that I meant for him to come along was pretty well apparent. But he'd simply very-good-sir'd me and intimated he'd be at the Duck and Tricycle or someplace similarly pubbish-sounding.
I'd rather missed the point that he'd missed my point and simply thought he was disagreeing with my choice of establishment. 'Well, I'd like something rather more substantial than can be had in a pub,' I'd protested. 'Lord only knows how long we're going to be stranded here.'
What followed was an exchange that would not have been out of place in a stage act, Jeeves thinking we were going separate places and self thinking we were going to the same place until I'd finally got my point across, to which he'd responded stiffly, 'It would hardly be proper, sir.'
To which I'd said, 'Oh, hang proper, I'm practically dead from hunger and stuck in bally Edinburgh because of pigs,' and fairly dragged him into the first vaguely restaurant-like estab. in seeing distance. He'd been stiff and proper through the whole thing, but from then on there'd got to be sort of an understanding that when en route anywhere, we stuck together as brothers-in-arms on matters of dining.
Jeeves had gradually relaxed his ideas of what was and was not proper, of course, even going so far as to mangle a bit of lunch or dinner with me at home now and then, because it's really dashed sad to have a solitary meal when you could be having one in good company.
I think he viewed these times as a temporary break in his employment, or else I doubt he'd ever have brought himself round to the idea. None of his predecessors have been granted this supposed privilege, but none of them were Jeeves, and he'd since joined me in all manner of things.
Except, of course, this newest thing I wished he'd join me in, which was why I found myself wistfully gazing at a couple who were clearly potty for each other and staring soppily into each other's eyes, sitting closer together even than the table required. I wondered aloud if they might belong to the car still bearing the 'just married' regalia that was parked out front, and I think I gave Jeeves the wrong impression with all the wistfulness. He got the same look in his eye I'd seen when I'd declared I was going to marry Bobbie Wickham.
"It is certainly possible, sir," Jeeves frosted in answer to my q.
"Oh, don't look so worried," I said. "I was only thinking it's a jolly good thing there's some people matrimony seems to agree with." And, I added silently, wishing that I could stare at you like that. "Takes the burden off the rest of us, what?"
"The burden, sir?"
"You know, the future of England and all. Better them than me. All other things being equal, I'd make a perfectly rotten father."
"You do yourself an injustice, sir." Jeeves was employing a tone he normally reserved for fairly dire circs in which the wounded Wooster pride needed soothing for some reason. "Many a child would be glad of a father of so generous a spirit and forgiving a nature as yours."
"Why, Jeeves," I said, not without a bit of tightness about the throat, because he's not the sort to go flinging praise about willy-nilly when there's no game afoot. In fact, most of the good things he's said about me I've either overheard or been told by someone else. "I think that's one of the nicest things anybody's ever said about me." It certainly beat 'mentally negligible' by a good few laps.
"I was merely stating what I believe to be fact, sir," he said, looking at something sort of to the left of me.
"Well, thank you, then, but the poor blighters will just have to make do with other fathers. What was it you said I am, a natural bachelor?"
"I believe it was something to that effect, sir."
"And right you were, too, by Jove. I can count on one hand the people I can stand for more than a few weeks at the outside, to say nothing of a lifetime, and they're either related to me or I couldn't marry them if I wanted to." He had to know he was among that lot, that he'd always been, all romantic stirrings aside. I only hoped I'd managed to say it without saying too much. He didn't immediately seem to take it amiss, so I counted it a success.
Paris beckoned, and it was a well-fed and increasingly sleepy Bertram who was poured onto the train that would be the last leg of our journey. I kept the eyes open long enough to listen to Jeeves make a few culturally minded suggestions for Parisian activities and a thinly veiled request for a day or two in Brittany. I had little interest in a load of big rocks when I could see quite the same thing back in Blighty, but remote locales alongside Jeeves had taken on a whole new allure for me and I agreed to the side-trip with some vigour.
I dozed most of the way there, only cracking an eye open occasionally in a vague and bleary way to ensure I hadn't been saying something horrifying in my sleep before shutting it firmly again. In one of these instances, I noticed Jeeves had cracked open my Sherlock Holmes again, which made me smile a bit. On another, I noticed him inspecting the postcard I'd been using to mark my place in it. It was one he'd sent me on his last holiday, actually, and had been easily at hand when I'd needed a bookmark. It was a bit funny that Jeeves was reading it, but as he'd written the thing it wasn't as though he was snooping through my letters. I was nowhere near the state of wakefulness needed to puzzle much over it. On a third, he wasn't there at all. The final time, he purposely woke me, as the arrival was at last upon us.
The townhouse was a nice little affair, nestled in a quiet rue near the Jardin des Plantes. I would have called it an end-terrace, but I don't know how the French would have it other than maison. Jeeves remembered my request for an immediate bath and had me in one in a trice. He left me to soak to my heart's content, making noises about inspecting the kitchen, and somehow reappeared at the precise instant I was ready to get out. I often wondered how he did it, how he sensed these things, but I knew asking him about it would get me no more of an answer than I'd given myself: that it was all part of his particular magic.
Ordinarily on arrival in a new city, I'm champing at the bit to go straight out and sample its delights. But this night I was not, partly because I simply lacked the energy for any delight-sampling, and partly because I wasn't keen to be where Jeeves was not. He eyebrowed at me when I told him not to bother with the evening clothes, but did as I asked.
"You will be dining in this evening, then, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, Jeeves, I find myself still un peu fatigué from the journey and not equal to much revelry."
"Very good, sir," he said, and dashed if there wasn't a bit of the long-suffering to it.
"Do you object, Jeeves, to my proposed activities, or rather lack thereof?"
"Not at all, sir. It is merely that whomever Mr Brittingham engaged to ready the household for habitation made a number of oversights which I had planned to spend the evening correcting."
Not dusted and polished to his exacting standards, he meant. I knew for a fact he would wash every bit of crockery and cutlery in the place before allowing any of it to meet with so much as a pat of butter. Oh. That'd be a lot of work for him, wouldn't it, just to get my dinner. It was a rum thing, suddenly realising how much trouble I put him to probably several times a day. I'd never given it a thought before, and I suppose I wasn't meant to, but now that the idea of his getting fed up with me was a doubly unhappy one, I must say it caused concern.
"Well, if I'll be in the way...." Of course he'd never tell me I'd be in the way, but it was rather telling that he wasn't now saying I wouldn't. And it was perfectly possible he'd just had quite enough of Woosters for one day. "All right, then, shove me into the soup-and-fish and I'll be off. The Pomme d'Or a few streets over's got a guest arrangement with the Drones; I'll mangle a spot of something there and leave you to it."
"Very good, sir," he said a trifle shortly, and took himself off to the wardrobe so swiftly I wondered if that hadn't been the right answer either, but I couldn't very well change my mind a third time, so it was into the costume and out the door.
For an unwanted evening out, it was pleasant enough. Nothing on the Drones, where you can't go two steps without tripping over some pal or other, but I did chance across old Goopy Lancaster, unseen seen since we were both in Eton collars. He'd been admitted to some Parisian art academy and never heard from again, until now, of course. As it turned out, he hadn't stuck even a whole term at the art school before striking out on his own and was making quite the name for himself as some sort of avant-garde photographer. He introduced me round and I found my French vocabulary much expanded by the time we all stumbled out into the night, as half of these chaps couldn't be troubled to speak the King's E. for my benefit.
Barring the language differences, the evening's entertainments wouldn't have been out of place in the annals of my youth. There was even a tearing run from some gendarmes when a chap called Loïc got it in his head to shimmy up a flagpole and pinch the ornament atop. Perhaps it was simply the weariness of travel, or the fact that I hadn't wanted to be out and about at all, but the merriment left me distinctly lukewarm and actually made me feel dashed old.
"Ils font beaucoup comme ça?" I asked either an Alec or an Alex, who was the only one not cheerfully egging on the ornament purloinment. He was a quiet sort who'd spent most of the past couple of hours scribbling away in a little book. Not a notebook, you understand, a book. The cover was pasted over with magazine clippings, but I'd seen that there were words already printed on the pages. A rum thing, but Goopy had gone on with some vigour about selling a photograph of a sausage entitled 'Vive la Révolution' for some exorbitant sum, so it wasn't terribly surprising.
"Something of the sort nearly every night," he said without the faintest trace of Frenchness.
"You're not French!"
"No, I was born in Liverpool. My mum's French, though. It's a bit of a game to see who can work it out."
"Hardly sporting. I can barely hold a conversation in French, let alone pick out accents. Plus you didn't say much."
"It gets tiresome."
"Talking?"
"Small talk. How's the weather, do you know Lord Whatsit. I'd rather wait for a real conversation."
"Oh," I said, feeling mentally quite negligible. "Sorry."
"Don't worry. I do realise it's sometimes necessary if you'd like to know someone." He flashed me a very winning and toothy smile and pushed his thick glasses up atop his head. The effect was that of suddenly seeing an entirely different person, a bookish mouse transformed into a laddish rake. "You're Tom's friend from school, aren't you?"
"Tom?" It took me a moment to work out he meant Goopy. "Oh, yes."
"What awful sort of thing do you have to do to end up being called Goopy?"
"I don't know. He was just sort of...Goopy."
"And what was yours?"
"Well, Bertie, actually," I said, seeing no need to reveal that in the early days I'd just as often been called The Bungler, as I'd happily made enough of a blood of myself to shake it. "You come off easy when you've got one sort of built in."
"So why not Tom?"
"There already was a Tom. There weren't any Berties."
"Hm. I was at this frightful place down in Aix where we all had to call one another by our surnames, so I never really got one. I started introducing myself as Alec simply because it's horrifying to listen to a Frenchman try to say my given name at all, besides which it's frightful even said properly."
"Oh?"
"Aloysius," he said, with rather a lemon-biting sound to it.
"Oh dear. I suppose I'd come up with something else as well. And you may be lucky you weren't at Eton. I'm almost positive you'd have been Wishy, or possibly Washy, if you were a bit wishy-washy."
"I am a bit wishy-washy, but in the best way possible," he said with another of these charming grins. I wasn't so much charmed by them as aware that I was clearly meant to be charmed, if that makes any sense. I didn't get to ask what was the best way to be wishy-washy, because it was about this time that the police whistle sounded and we all had to leg it. This Alec character did the oddest thing, once we were safely round the corner: he shoved what I assumed was his card into my front pocket, patted it, and said, "I'll be seeing you," before letting loose a sort of giggle and taking himself off down an alley.
Well, I thought with a shrug before ankling towards the home away from home, now I knew someone in Paris, even if he did seem an oddish sort of bird.
The hour was late indeed, and all was quiet when I returned. Jeeves, by an agreement made some time ago, does not await my return past a certain hour, as once it gets to be about three or so, I either fall directly into bed or make such a row returning that he'll be woken and come to my aid. I'd only overindulged slightly, so it was the former sort of late evening. I could barely muster the drive to pull on the nightwear before I was dead to the world.
"Did you mean to keep this, sir?" Jeeves asked on the morrow, once I'd had my brain-tingling restorative and was well into the eggs and b. He held last night's jacket in one hand and a red bit of paper in the other, which he brandished in question.
I couldn't remember coming into any red bits of paper. "Very possibly. What is it?"
"It appears to be an address, sir."
"Oh. That must be Alec's."
"Alec, sir?"
"Cartwright, I think it was. I rather thought it would've been a card. He shoved it in my pocket once the gendarmes had given up."
"An eventful evening, then, sir?" I thought I detected a hint of disapproval.
I explained about Goopy, Loïc, and the flagpole, and did not hold back on the subj. of feeling rather elderly about the whole affair and possibly having lost my taste for such things.
"If you are elderly, sir, than I am surely at death's door," Jeeves said, just one of those dry things he says sometimes that don't really mean anything except as his version of a joke, but it struck fear into the Wooster heart.
What on earth would I do when that time came? What about when I really was old and infirm, with no children to look after me? My sister's children might, perhaps, if they thought they'd get my money at the end, since Rebecca was more than a decade older and not likely to outlive me. I barely knew the girls, had only ever met one of them in person when they'd shipped over to see me receive the Oxford sheepskin, and mostly left it up to Jeeves to keep track of when it was time to send a birthday card or similar. What a way to go, with uncaring relations just counting down the days! Good god.
"Sir? Are you well? You have gone quite pale."
"Provided some scheming pal doesn't get me killed climbing out windows, Jeeves, I'm going to be very old one day," I said with a tremor.
"That is a long while off yet, sir. I would not trouble yourself with it."
"No, Jeeves, you don't understand. One day you really will be at death's door, or at least retire, provided you can actually stand me for another forty-odd years and don't meet the girl of your dreams before that. The girl of my dreams is a nonexistent thing, as you know, ergo no loving children to look after me, ergo living out my last days amongst nieces wishing I'd just go and pop off already so they can claim their inheritance." It was a heavy notion so early in the morning, but one cannot always choose the moments at which these things rear their heads. "I've got half a mind to catch the next boat to India so I can get on my way to becoming their favourite uncle and have a fighting chance they'll actually want to look after me."
"Sir," Jeeves said, positively dripping with concern (for him, anyway), "I will remain with you as long as I am able. When the time comes that I—" he seemed to swallow— "that I cannot, I will undoubtedly have spent considerable time and effort ensuring that my absence will be felt as little as possible." There was no way to tell him that his absence could never go unfelt. "It would not be my place to object if you wish to know your nieces better, but you would do both them and yourself a disservice, sir, if you did it for any other reason than the spirit of family."
He was right, of course. Endearing myself to them so they'd look after me was no better than them looking after me for the payoff at the end. The bigger relief of the thing, though, was to hear that he still considered himself signed up for life. I did a bit of sighing and a bit of eye-opening and shutting, and finally all I could do was look at him and say, "You truly are singular, Jeeves." I doubt the roil of emotions within made me anything but an open book with all that longing laid bare for the reading. I looked away as quickly as I could.
"Sir," Jeeves said, crouching down at the bedside, and then more softly, "Ber—"
The doorbell rang. The blasted bally bloody stupid be-damned doorbell rang. Just when my heart had all but stopped because Jeeves had almost certainly been about to call me— well, it was uncertain whether it would've been Bertie or Bertram, but he'd never done either, never, not even in the course of some disguised ruse. And the doorbell had to go and ring. It was all over, and he was up like a shot, instantly the perfect statuesque paragon once again.
"Who could it be at this hour?" I asked weakly.
"The piano tuner, I expect, sir," Jeeves said, and biffed off to answer it as though the last few minutes had never existed.
I gaped after him, breakfast forgotten, trying to convince myself that such a moment had not been snatched out from under me. His having been about to say something, anything, other than my name was far preferable to having this perpetual almost just hanging there. Bermuda? Beryllium? I'd misheard, and it had been the beginning of a perhaps? Yes, perhaps. He used that word a lot. Just a perhaps with some bit of wisdom tacked onto the end, nothing more.
{Next: Part 3: A Little Flutter}
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2. Stiff Upper Lip, Bertie
Waking up when something momentous has happened, I've found, presents a few moments of amnesia. For that first bit of blinking against the light and hearing the birds twitter, if you are not in London and there are in fact birds that twitter and not simply a load of pigeons, it's just any other day's waking up, 'shouldn't have drunk so much' or 'oh, kink in my neck.' Then the world intrudes full force and it's 'oh, lord, my parents are dead' or 'oh, lord, I'm still engaged to Madeline Bassett.' Or, in this case, 'oh good lord, I'm in love with Jeeves and I can never tell him.'
I was, wasn't I? The whole thing hadn't just been some sort mad notion brought on by an overheating of the brain muscle, had it?
Roughly four seconds in Jeeves's presence proved that it had not. He went about the same routine as the Jeeves of any other day, popping in with the tea and the messages and the news of the world. But he seemed different. Eyes bluer, hair shinier, hands stronger and more skilled. I think I spent a full minute just watching his fingers. He seemed to take this glassy-eyed wonderment as par for the just-woken Wooster course, for I've never been equal to much until well into a biggish spot of tea.
"Has your difficulty sleeping last night left you too fatigued for travel, sir?" he asked, ever looking after me.
Right, Paris. I smiled, knowingly I should think. Paris, where I knew almost no one and would depend on Jeeves for company. Paris, in a house where Uncle Henry had never kept any servants other than a couple of girls who lived out because there was nowhere to put them, and Jeeves would be just across the hallway. I liked the idea as much as I dreaded it. "Are we going today?"
"Mr Brittingham cabled this morning, sir, advising that the house would be in readiness as soon as this afternoon."
"Well, then, we'll hie us there directly. I'm not so awfully tired. I can catch a few more winks on the train if needs must."
"Regrettably, sir, all the compartments are booked for the next several days."
"Oh, that's all right. Second class won't kill me."
"I had taken the liberty of instead arranging for the car to be serviced and garaged at Folkestone for the duration of our stay, sir, but I can, of course, alter the plans."
It was a fine enough idea— a nice country drive and no worries about the timing of ferries and trains.
I had not stopped to consider the close quarters of the two-seater, which are made even closer when the passengers are two full-grown chaps not at all on the short side. We'd taken a thousand drives in it together, but never had I been so aware of how frightfully close he was. I was rather unsettled by it until about the time we swung out of the metrop, at which point a little devil on my shoulder piped up and said, 'Sit back and enjoy it, Wooster, you won't get many excuses to be smashed up against him.'
So I did my level best to take it all in. The way his hair cream blended with his aftershave to form the quintessential Jeeves bouquet, with undernotes of laundry starch, tea, and dish soap. It was still blasted hot out so he was faintly sweating round the temples. I was a bit toasty in just my shirtsleeves, so I couldn't imagine how he must feel encased in yards of dark suit, but it served to enhance the eau de, if you will, even further. I found myself wishing he'd get rid of the jacket and roll up his sleeves. I remembered his arms being very nice specimens the handful of times I'd seen them, mostly as a result of barging in on him at odd hours in emergencies. Once he'd even been fresh from the bath and not even into his dressing gown, and I wished I'd taken the time to appreciate what was now but a hazy memory.
I lit myself a cigarette just to have something to do other than think about the thousands of knees and elbows all brushing against each other, as at country-road speeds there can't be much in the way of conversation unless one wants to shout. Shout I did to offer a smoke to Jeeves, which he accepted. I saw no easy way for him to light it himself as well as not crash the car, and so took rather a liberty, as Jeeves might have called it, popping an already-lit specimen between his lips. His—oh dear—very very soft lips, I found as one of my fingers caught slightly on the bottom l. as I retrieved my hand.
As if that weren't innard-jellying enough, he looked over and half-smiled (for Jeeves, anyway, which is about a sixteenth-smile for anyone else) in thanks, the Turkish clamped in the corner of his mouth. The effect was rather dashing, what with the windblown hair and cheeks pinkened by hearty country air. It wasn't merely that he cut a striking figure, but that just for a fleeting instant, I felt I was afforded a little-seen glimpse of le vrai homme, if you will, behind the Jeevesian mask. I knew bits and pieces of said v. h., of course, as a good many were part of what he presented to the world at large. But the rest— I wanted to know all of it. Alongside the jellied thrill shot a pang of longing, because I knew how unlikely it was that I ever really would.
What sort of person did it take, I wondered, looking pensively out over the open road, to figure highly in the affections of one R. Jeeves? The two examples I had were useless. Whatever 'understanding' he'd had with the rotund and motherly woman now known as Lady Bittlesham had surely been part of some scheme, or perhaps one of those accidental things that so often befalls yours truly. Then there was Bingo's (first) waitress, who, while a pretty girl and seemingly goodish egg, had never been heard of again once Jeeves had presumably won her. Perhaps he'd been put off by her taste in neckwear. I couldn't imagnine her being a good match for him; the thought of her hanging on his words while he rattled on about Spinoza was utterly laughable.
"Whatever happened to Mabel?" I asked some time later, once we we'd been poured into the more conversation-convenient interior of the ferry.
"My niece, sir?" Jeeves asked.
"No, the waitress. Weren't you engaged?"
"I believe the young lady is lately married to a baronet, sir."
"Oh. Bad luck." Not mine, of course, but 'well, thank heavens!' was most certainly not the thing to say.
"It is of little consequence, sir. We were not suited."
"Oh? What was the matter with her?"
"While an undoubtedly attractive and amiable young lady, sir, once the customary conversation of new acquaintance was exhausted, it was discovered that we had but little ground of mutual interest."
So it had been a not-dizzying-enough intellect. I didn't do much better, I realised glumly. I certainly appreciated Jeeves's vast knowledge of more or less everything ever to have been printed and bound, but when it came to the meat of what any of it was actually about, I was hopeless.
First and foremost, any paramour of Jeeves would most certainly be able to hold up the other end of an erudite discussion. I would have to do better, not that I really had the first idea how to go about it. It was too bad nobody had put out 'The Utter Nitwit's Guide to Matters of Philosophy' or something similar. They'd make a bally fortune.
We were in the observation deck, self ensconced into one of the bolted-down wing chairs, Jeeves hovering at my elbow. I realised, unpleasantly, that he was waiting to either be dismissed or given an at-ease. It was the man's job, his very proud career, to do what I told him. If I simply said, 'Kiss me, Jeeves,' would he, whether or not he wanted to? He'd certainly gone against my wishes in more trifling matters, the placing of bets and the disposal of jackets, but wouldn't a demand like that have a sort of 'or else' on the end of it? I hoped he knew me better than that, but the fact remained that if I ever made so much as a peep of what I really wanted, and he agreed to it, I would never know the reason behind it.
I must've come over a bit green at that, because Jeeves said, "You are not seasick, sir?"
"No, no," I sighed. "But do sit down, Jeeves, it's giving me a pain in the neck looking up at you."
He perched in the chair across from me, sitting because I'd said sit.
I had a glance round the ferry co.'s attempt at a sitting room, in which we were more or less alone, as most of the other passengers were below deck availing themselves of the luncheon service. Food, channel-hopping, and Woosters most certainly do not mix; I wasn't seasick, but it wouldn't have taken much provocation to get me there. I do well enough on the longer voyages, but on short distances over choppy waters my safest bet is to remain very still where I can see the scenery moving by but remain ignorant of the water. There would be much more toothsome fare at Calais in any case. But what of Jeeves? He would have breakfasted at some unholy hour and could well be famished, but here he was sitting because I told him to sit.
"You know I can't swallow so much as a biscuit on these things, Jeeves, but you should by all means make free of the lunching facilities if you so desire," I offered, hoping it sounded enough like the choice was truly his and not 'go away and eat something.'
"Thank you, sir, but there is a particularly fine brasserie at our port of destination I would be eager to visit, if you are amenable."
"Topping notion," I said, envisioning a leisurely luncheon on some sun-dappled terrace, enjoying the company and the slight relaxation of the feudal rules that came with being strangers in a strange land, united in a common odyssey. But then I frowned again. Given a choice of companions with whom to mangle a spot of soupe à l'oignon or similar, I doubted I would be first on the list if I didn't pay for the privilege. How could I ever know if anything he did was done because he wanted it, and not because I commanded it? Even mangling said soupe in his chosen location depended on the young master's amenability.
"Jeeves," I said, because I found myself unable not to, "if I asked you to do something that went against all your principles, you wouldn't just up and do it, would you?"
He raised a fractional eyebrow. "It would depend upon the request, sir, and the circumstances."
"Oh, nothing life or death. Something that wouldn't make one whit of difference to anyone but me. And I suppose you. But that coming from a more cunning chap than this Wooster, might seem to carry a bit of an 'or else' on the end of it."
I watched him swallow the admittedly ill-turned phrasing. "If I may speak frankly, sir?"
If he felt he couldn't even say what he really thought without my leave, dash it, what hope would there ever be? "I think that question stopped being a necessary one some long while ago," I said.
He registered an instant of surprise, I think, possibly at the statement itself, or possibly at my tone, which might've come over a bit more affectionate than I'd really intended. But I couldn't judge it, because it flickered away as quickly as it had come on. "Then quite frankly, sir, if retaining my situation depended upon my agreement to something so counter to my principles, it would lose a great deal of that which engenders my desire to retain it. What is it you would ask of me, sir?"
Oh. He'd thought I was building up to asking him to do some awful thing. I couldn't even imagine what he could be thinking. "Oh, nothing at all, Jeeves. It was simply a—" I borrowed his word— "a theoretical. Just sort of...well, one wouldn't want to abuse one's position."
"I have never known you to, sir."
"Not even when I wear purple socks?" I asked, feeling the thing needed a bit of lightening-up.
"Trivialities, sir," Jeeves said, betraying no amusement. "While my views on matters of dress are somewhat conservative, purple socks are your right if you wish to wear them, and at the end of the day do not alter my opinion of your character. It is only the opinions of others that cause me to give such advice at all."
I chewed that over a bit, and I thought I grasped his meaning. "You mean supposing purple socks, or whatever thing I'm wearing that you object to, really are not so natty as I think and actually make me look a great fool— supposing, mind you. I'm not saying they do. But supposing I did look a great fool, you mean you don't like to think of passers-by looking at me and thinking 'good heavens, is his man colour-blind?'"
"Precisely so, sir."
"But Jeeves, anyone who matters knows what a paragon you are. My pals place bets on how long I'll get to keep a hat you don't like, and I'm sure your compatriots well know that you despair of ever breaking me of my sartorial whims. Still, now I know the purity of your motives, I shall endeavour to take these things more to heart."
It was a good air-clearing sort of talk, if not the precise air I wanted cleared. At least it gave me a little window into the Jeevesian mind. Only in very dark moments did I ever truly believe he applied the iron fist to my wardrobe out of finding me lacking, but it was still nice to hear that my views on What the Well-Dressed Gentleman Is Wearing did not affect whatever little esteem he managed to hold me in. Having me dressed what he thought was properly was a point of pride for him. He no more wanted the general public to think I looked a right ass than an artist wants the latest masterpiece to get the bird from the critics.
Less happily, however, I had also become convinced beyond the shadow of a d. that a 'kiss me, Jeeves' request could not be made. I was glad, of course, that he wouldn't do it just to stay employed, but it also meant that packing of bags and presenting of portfolios would accompany his refusal. If ever there were to be such a request made between us, it could only be 'kiss me, Bertram.'
I could just about count on my fingers the times I'd heard him say my given name, invariably sandwiched between a 'Mr' and a 'Wooster,' and usually in the course of making some arrangement or reading a message. But the thought of him properly calling me that was another matter entirely, and caused a shivering little thrill I was unable to stop.
"Are you cold, sir?" Jeeves asked, probably poised to go about rounding up overcoats and blankets if need be.
"A draught or something," I lied. "It's nothing." For nothing was precisely what would ever come of this newfound daffiness for my personal gentleman's gentleman. I was no more suited a suitor than East-End waitresses, in terms of intellectual oomph. There was also the obvious problem of proclivities, i.e. the recently-discovered ones of mine that I sincerely doubted Jeeves shared.
With a sigh, I took up the book I'd brought along, frowning at it. Sherlock Holmes, not precisely the highest-brow stuff, but at least Jeeves couldn't look too far down his nose at it. I'd loved the tales all my life, and Jeeves in no small way reminded me of the great detective. I was no Watson, of course. He would certainly never claim to be lost without me or call me 'my dear Wooster.'
Holmes and Watson were currently inspecting a hat, from which Holmes had somehow worked out every detail of the owner's life, even down to a cooling of the softer feelings on the part of the chap's missus. 'This hat has not been brushed for weeks,' Holmes's speech ran. 'When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection.'
Would that the studious brushing of hats could be any true scale on which to judge affection! The state of my own headwear would evidence hitherto unseen depths of adoration. I snapped the book shut in annoyance, and Jeeves began to fold the newspaper he'd opened. His whims placed aside in case mine needed attending, I thought again, a trifle guiltily. But wasn't it the order of things? If I told him not to wait on me any more, he'd consider himself sacked. "As you were, Jeeves," I said, waving him off. "I'd simply forgotten that reading is no more advisable for me than biscuits." For as it happened, I was feeling a bit sloshy about the tum.
"A remedy could be easily procured, sir, if you wish it," Jeeves said.
"No, it's not so bad. I think I'd just better not try to read." I laid the book aside, and Jeeves picked it up and inspected it. "Have at it if you like, old thing. It's got the newer ones in as well. Complete edition. Though I know it's not the sort of thing you usually go in for," I added, lest he be insulted by the implication.
"On the contrary, sir. I have long found Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work to be both entertaining and stimulating."
"You probably work it all out before Holmes does," I said. "You could give him a run for his money."
"It is kind of you to say so, sir," he said, ever the soul of humility. "If it would please you, some excerpt could be read aloud."
Only twice had Jeeves ever read anything aloud to me for entertainment purposes, and on both occasions I had been miserably under the weather. I suppose sea-sickness counted in his estimation, and I certainly wasn't going to turn it down. When one has been read to by Jeeves, it's a bit of a wrench to go back to doing it for oneself. He doesn't go so far as to 'do the voices,' as I used to urge Nannie Pete to do, but he does give all the dramatis personae some little uniqueness so you know who's speaking, and adds in all the ups and downs and pauses-for-effect to put the listener right into the thick of the action.
He favoured me with a reading of 'The Three Garridebs,' I think because he had not read it himself. I think I'd read it in The Strand when it had first come round a few years back, but not since, and I remembered little enough to remain in suspense. I'd entirely forgot the bit with the shooting, in fact, and gasped when it happened. Then he came to a bit that tugged keenly at the heart-strings. After Watson is shot, Holmes biffs the other chappie over the head with a revolver and flies to Watson's side.
"'You're not hurt, Watson?'" Jeeves read, putting the warranted amound of concern into it, the like of which I'd never heard out of either him or Holmes. "'For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!'"
And then he narrated as Watson, "'It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.'"
And, well, I say. It wasn't just the heart-strings tugged, but the whole assemblage of the inner Wooster workings, because if that wasn't exactly the sort of glimpse I'd like to catch of Jeeves's heart, I didn't know what was.
I didn't quite catch the rest of the tale, well-performed though I'm sure it was, because my imagination was busily inventing a thousand little stories of its own. I would be gravely ill, perhaps, not just one of these trifling little colds, and through my fevered delirium I would feel him clasp my hand, hear him call me by my name and beg me not to go popping off just yet. Or I could be wounded in a burglary of some sort, as an innocent bystander, of course, not as the burglar. A riding accident, a fire, a car crash, the possibilities were endless.
But knowing my luck, I'd probably just end up dying, or else Jeeves would look on the sorry scene, raise an eyebrow and say, 'Oh, good heavens, sir, you seem to have had your head blown off,' and no glimpses of hearts to be had. Even when the master himself arranged bouts of mortal peril to help estranged lovers along, they seldom went entirely as planned. He had the brains to adapt the scheme when it all went pear-shaped, but I most certainly did not.
"What was that, Jeeves?" I asked, noticing he was looking at me in an expectant way, and possibly had been for some time.
"I was enquiring, sir, as to whether you wished to hear another."
I was in no humour to chance hearing any more of great hearts. "No, Jeeves, thank you." But I also had a unique opportunity fallen upon my lap, because for once Jeeves and I had read the same book, or part of it, anyway.
It wasn't the stuff of great philosophical quandary, of course, but it would do. If he was ever to think of me as not—what had he called me, mentally negligible?—as not that, or whatever he'd said, I would have to put forth no small effort. For truly, I know I haven't got half the brains given to some woodland creatures, but I've learnt to make do with what I've got, and I really had the perfect bit of philosophy to query about. "I wonder, Jeeves, as one who makes such close study of the psychology of individuals, if you think that all cold masks conceal great hearts."
"Most assuredly not, sir," he said without hesitation. "In some cases a cold mask is no mask at all, or a warm and amiable countenance may in fact be laid over malice and ill intent."
The idea of these things, I think, is to parry back with something, but came up empty, because the only thought I could come up with was that if one couldn't apply it to everyone, at least Jeeves must have a great heart under there somewhere. There are things one simply cannot say to one's valet, however faithful and close a confidant he has become. So as not to simply sit dumbly, I fell back on the tried-and-true habit of a joke. "And here I was hoping Aunt Agatha had some shred of humanity beneath all that taffeta."
"Mrs Gregson, I fear, presents herself much as she truly is, sir."
A horn sounded, signalling that we were about to reach our port, and so ended Bertram's sorry attempt at a brainy discussion.
We returned to our unused compartment to retrieve our worldly goods. I was feeling distinctly grimy by this point, and attempted to freshen up in the tiny lavatory, which appeared to have been built with an elf as the model for an average-sized passenger.
"The delights of Paris will have to delight themselves for a bit," I declared, locked in a bootless struggle against the minuscule and several-feet-too-low mirror to reapply the tie I'd removed in the course of the freshenings. "For as soon as we step into that house, I am having a very long and thorough soak." Then, addressing the tie, I said, "Blast it!" I turned to Jeeves, hands thrown up in frustration. "Do you mind, Jeeves? I can't see a bally thing."
It was both the best and worst idea I had had in days. In normal circs I'm quite capable of windsoring my own neckwear, so I'd rather forgotten how very very close a chap has to stand to do it for you, and the way fingers, of necessity, tend to brush against the neck. Luckily, Jeeves is dashed quick on the draw when it comes to ties, so the thing was done before I had a chance to get too uncomfortable.
Unbidden, a memory bubbled up, that of Stinker always saying he was hopeless at bow-ties and having me do it for him whenever evening costume was required. As I am not and never have been a valet, I couldn't do it standing in front of him and had usually ended up in some oddish contortion reaching around him from behind. I suspected I understood his reasons quite a bit better now. At least Jeeves had his back turned and was pottering about with the cases when the remembrance doubtless clouded the Wooster brow, so I was able to be my cheerful self again by the time he could see me. I wondered if this was some sort of...what was it? "What's the thing those Hinduists are always on about, Jeeves? Sort of their do-unto-others bit, only it's what you've done gets done to you?"
"You are referring, I believe, to the belief in the concept of Karma, sir."
"That's the one!" I said, though it was a hollow triumph, for it only allowed me to call it by its right name. The fact remained that I rather felt I was being repaid, even punished, in Karma for unwittingly sticking Stinker into the unrequited l. posish.
"Was there any particular reason you required the term, sir?"
"No," I lied. I was doing a good bit of that lately. If this Karma gag was the real thing, I supposed I could be expecting Jeeves to start lying right back to me soon. "You know how my mind wanders, Jeeves," I said, now forced to extemporise. "I was just wondering if it's as real as all that, why the Honorias and Madelines of the world don't have a chap every fortnight saying 'of course I'll marry you!' without so much as a handshake." And really, why didn't they?
"The concept has been diluted from its Eastern roots and is espoused more as an encouragement for good behaviour, sir, as much as a threat of direct retribution."
"You don't sound as though you think it holds much water," I said.
"It puts one in danger, sir, of performing apparently altruistic acts with avaricious motives at heart."
"Masks and malice again, then?"
"Indeed, sir," he said, and I thought I detected a note of pride.
Better than my first go, then, not that I could even nearly count myself a Socrates. It wasn't that I was trying to mould myself; I knew better than that. I saw it more as learning to play a new instrument, but one that Jeeves would like much better than the banjolele. He might never love me, but the less chance I gave him to eventually find me too tiresome and fluffheaded to hang around, the better.
Calais welcomed us into its fold, as did Jeeves's brasserie, which was every bit worth the wait. Obviously, it wasn't Jeeves's brasserie—strictly speaking it appeared to belong to someone named Arnaud—but it was the one he had mentioned. It was a charming seaside affair, as so many things in Calais are, with the envisioned charming sun-dappled terrace and charmingly tiny tables. It was more or less impossible to stop our knees brushing together if we did anything but sit ramrod-straight, and I admit I took advantage of it. Once I got over the slight panic and thrill of Jeeves not moving away every time it happened—for where would he have moved to?—it was jolly nice. Relaxed and comfortable, you know.
I have been known to kick when presented with the prospect of travel, but I wondered now if I wouldn't be wanting to do a good sight more of it. When travelling, you see, one is thrown into these transient lunchings where it would be bally stupid not to strap on the nosebag right alongside Jeeves like a pair of old chums. Well, it seemed bally stupid to me, anyway.
It hadn't, in the beginning, seemed bally stupid or even at all odd to Jeeves on our first voyage from home, which had been a mishap-fraught journey to the wilds of Scotland for some binge Oofy Prosser had been hosting in a castle. I've never actually been clear on whether he owned it, hired it, borrowed it, or simply broken in, but that was and still is neither here nor there.
To make a long story short, we'd found ourselves in Edinburgh for several hours due to some railway accident involving pigs, and as one does around midday, I'd wanted a spot of sustenance, so I'd put out the idea of lunching at the Balmoral.
What I'd said, in fact, was, 'What do you say to lunching at the Balmoral, Jeeves?' in which I thought the fact that I meant for him to come along was pretty well apparent. But he'd simply very-good-sir'd me and intimated he'd be at the Duck and Tricycle or someplace similarly pubbish-sounding.
I'd rather missed the point that he'd missed my point and simply thought he was disagreeing with my choice of establishment. 'Well, I'd like something rather more substantial than can be had in a pub,' I'd protested. 'Lord only knows how long we're going to be stranded here.'
What followed was an exchange that would not have been out of place in a stage act, Jeeves thinking we were going separate places and self thinking we were going to the same place until I'd finally got my point across, to which he'd responded stiffly, 'It would hardly be proper, sir.'
To which I'd said, 'Oh, hang proper, I'm practically dead from hunger and stuck in bally Edinburgh because of pigs,' and fairly dragged him into the first vaguely restaurant-like estab. in seeing distance. He'd been stiff and proper through the whole thing, but from then on there'd got to be sort of an understanding that when en route anywhere, we stuck together as brothers-in-arms on matters of dining.
Jeeves had gradually relaxed his ideas of what was and was not proper, of course, even going so far as to mangle a bit of lunch or dinner with me at home now and then, because it's really dashed sad to have a solitary meal when you could be having one in good company.
I think he viewed these times as a temporary break in his employment, or else I doubt he'd ever have brought himself round to the idea. None of his predecessors have been granted this supposed privilege, but none of them were Jeeves, and he'd since joined me in all manner of things.
Except, of course, this newest thing I wished he'd join me in, which was why I found myself wistfully gazing at a couple who were clearly potty for each other and staring soppily into each other's eyes, sitting closer together even than the table required. I wondered aloud if they might belong to the car still bearing the 'just married' regalia that was parked out front, and I think I gave Jeeves the wrong impression with all the wistfulness. He got the same look in his eye I'd seen when I'd declared I was going to marry Bobbie Wickham.
"It is certainly possible, sir," Jeeves frosted in answer to my q.
"Oh, don't look so worried," I said. "I was only thinking it's a jolly good thing there's some people matrimony seems to agree with." And, I added silently, wishing that I could stare at you like that. "Takes the burden off the rest of us, what?"
"The burden, sir?"
"You know, the future of England and all. Better them than me. All other things being equal, I'd make a perfectly rotten father."
"You do yourself an injustice, sir." Jeeves was employing a tone he normally reserved for fairly dire circs in which the wounded Wooster pride needed soothing for some reason. "Many a child would be glad of a father of so generous a spirit and forgiving a nature as yours."
"Why, Jeeves," I said, not without a bit of tightness about the throat, because he's not the sort to go flinging praise about willy-nilly when there's no game afoot. In fact, most of the good things he's said about me I've either overheard or been told by someone else. "I think that's one of the nicest things anybody's ever said about me." It certainly beat 'mentally negligible' by a good few laps.
"I was merely stating what I believe to be fact, sir," he said, looking at something sort of to the left of me.
"Well, thank you, then, but the poor blighters will just have to make do with other fathers. What was it you said I am, a natural bachelor?"
"I believe it was something to that effect, sir."
"And right you were, too, by Jove. I can count on one hand the people I can stand for more than a few weeks at the outside, to say nothing of a lifetime, and they're either related to me or I couldn't marry them if I wanted to." He had to know he was among that lot, that he'd always been, all romantic stirrings aside. I only hoped I'd managed to say it without saying too much. He didn't immediately seem to take it amiss, so I counted it a success.
Paris beckoned, and it was a well-fed and increasingly sleepy Bertram who was poured onto the train that would be the last leg of our journey. I kept the eyes open long enough to listen to Jeeves make a few culturally minded suggestions for Parisian activities and a thinly veiled request for a day or two in Brittany. I had little interest in a load of big rocks when I could see quite the same thing back in Blighty, but remote locales alongside Jeeves had taken on a whole new allure for me and I agreed to the side-trip with some vigour.
I dozed most of the way there, only cracking an eye open occasionally in a vague and bleary way to ensure I hadn't been saying something horrifying in my sleep before shutting it firmly again. In one of these instances, I noticed Jeeves had cracked open my Sherlock Holmes again, which made me smile a bit. On another, I noticed him inspecting the postcard I'd been using to mark my place in it. It was one he'd sent me on his last holiday, actually, and had been easily at hand when I'd needed a bookmark. It was a bit funny that Jeeves was reading it, but as he'd written the thing it wasn't as though he was snooping through my letters. I was nowhere near the state of wakefulness needed to puzzle much over it. On a third, he wasn't there at all. The final time, he purposely woke me, as the arrival was at last upon us.
The townhouse was a nice little affair, nestled in a quiet rue near the Jardin des Plantes. I would have called it an end-terrace, but I don't know how the French would have it other than maison. Jeeves remembered my request for an immediate bath and had me in one in a trice. He left me to soak to my heart's content, making noises about inspecting the kitchen, and somehow reappeared at the precise instant I was ready to get out. I often wondered how he did it, how he sensed these things, but I knew asking him about it would get me no more of an answer than I'd given myself: that it was all part of his particular magic.
Ordinarily on arrival in a new city, I'm champing at the bit to go straight out and sample its delights. But this night I was not, partly because I simply lacked the energy for any delight-sampling, and partly because I wasn't keen to be where Jeeves was not. He eyebrowed at me when I told him not to bother with the evening clothes, but did as I asked.
"You will be dining in this evening, then, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, Jeeves, I find myself still un peu fatigué from the journey and not equal to much revelry."
"Very good, sir," he said, and dashed if there wasn't a bit of the long-suffering to it.
"Do you object, Jeeves, to my proposed activities, or rather lack thereof?"
"Not at all, sir. It is merely that whomever Mr Brittingham engaged to ready the household for habitation made a number of oversights which I had planned to spend the evening correcting."
Not dusted and polished to his exacting standards, he meant. I knew for a fact he would wash every bit of crockery and cutlery in the place before allowing any of it to meet with so much as a pat of butter. Oh. That'd be a lot of work for him, wouldn't it, just to get my dinner. It was a rum thing, suddenly realising how much trouble I put him to probably several times a day. I'd never given it a thought before, and I suppose I wasn't meant to, but now that the idea of his getting fed up with me was a doubly unhappy one, I must say it caused concern.
"Well, if I'll be in the way...." Of course he'd never tell me I'd be in the way, but it was rather telling that he wasn't now saying I wouldn't. And it was perfectly possible he'd just had quite enough of Woosters for one day. "All right, then, shove me into the soup-and-fish and I'll be off. The Pomme d'Or a few streets over's got a guest arrangement with the Drones; I'll mangle a spot of something there and leave you to it."
"Very good, sir," he said a trifle shortly, and took himself off to the wardrobe so swiftly I wondered if that hadn't been the right answer either, but I couldn't very well change my mind a third time, so it was into the costume and out the door.
For an unwanted evening out, it was pleasant enough. Nothing on the Drones, where you can't go two steps without tripping over some pal or other, but I did chance across old Goopy Lancaster, unseen seen since we were both in Eton collars. He'd been admitted to some Parisian art academy and never heard from again, until now, of course. As it turned out, he hadn't stuck even a whole term at the art school before striking out on his own and was making quite the name for himself as some sort of avant-garde photographer. He introduced me round and I found my French vocabulary much expanded by the time we all stumbled out into the night, as half of these chaps couldn't be troubled to speak the King's E. for my benefit.
Barring the language differences, the evening's entertainments wouldn't have been out of place in the annals of my youth. There was even a tearing run from some gendarmes when a chap called Loïc got it in his head to shimmy up a flagpole and pinch the ornament atop. Perhaps it was simply the weariness of travel, or the fact that I hadn't wanted to be out and about at all, but the merriment left me distinctly lukewarm and actually made me feel dashed old.
"Ils font beaucoup comme ça?" I asked either an Alec or an Alex, who was the only one not cheerfully egging on the ornament purloinment. He was a quiet sort who'd spent most of the past couple of hours scribbling away in a little book. Not a notebook, you understand, a book. The cover was pasted over with magazine clippings, but I'd seen that there were words already printed on the pages. A rum thing, but Goopy had gone on with some vigour about selling a photograph of a sausage entitled 'Vive la Révolution' for some exorbitant sum, so it wasn't terribly surprising.
"Something of the sort nearly every night," he said without the faintest trace of Frenchness.
"You're not French!"
"No, I was born in Liverpool. My mum's French, though. It's a bit of a game to see who can work it out."
"Hardly sporting. I can barely hold a conversation in French, let alone pick out accents. Plus you didn't say much."
"It gets tiresome."
"Talking?"
"Small talk. How's the weather, do you know Lord Whatsit. I'd rather wait for a real conversation."
"Oh," I said, feeling mentally quite negligible. "Sorry."
"Don't worry. I do realise it's sometimes necessary if you'd like to know someone." He flashed me a very winning and toothy smile and pushed his thick glasses up atop his head. The effect was that of suddenly seeing an entirely different person, a bookish mouse transformed into a laddish rake. "You're Tom's friend from school, aren't you?"
"Tom?" It took me a moment to work out he meant Goopy. "Oh, yes."
"What awful sort of thing do you have to do to end up being called Goopy?"
"I don't know. He was just sort of...Goopy."
"And what was yours?"
"Well, Bertie, actually," I said, seeing no need to reveal that in the early days I'd just as often been called The Bungler, as I'd happily made enough of a blood of myself to shake it. "You come off easy when you've got one sort of built in."
"So why not Tom?"
"There already was a Tom. There weren't any Berties."
"Hm. I was at this frightful place down in Aix where we all had to call one another by our surnames, so I never really got one. I started introducing myself as Alec simply because it's horrifying to listen to a Frenchman try to say my given name at all, besides which it's frightful even said properly."
"Oh?"
"Aloysius," he said, with rather a lemon-biting sound to it.
"Oh dear. I suppose I'd come up with something else as well. And you may be lucky you weren't at Eton. I'm almost positive you'd have been Wishy, or possibly Washy, if you were a bit wishy-washy."
"I am a bit wishy-washy, but in the best way possible," he said with another of these charming grins. I wasn't so much charmed by them as aware that I was clearly meant to be charmed, if that makes any sense. I didn't get to ask what was the best way to be wishy-washy, because it was about this time that the police whistle sounded and we all had to leg it. This Alec character did the oddest thing, once we were safely round the corner: he shoved what I assumed was his card into my front pocket, patted it, and said, "I'll be seeing you," before letting loose a sort of giggle and taking himself off down an alley.
Well, I thought with a shrug before ankling towards the home away from home, now I knew someone in Paris, even if he did seem an oddish sort of bird.
The hour was late indeed, and all was quiet when I returned. Jeeves, by an agreement made some time ago, does not await my return past a certain hour, as once it gets to be about three or so, I either fall directly into bed or make such a row returning that he'll be woken and come to my aid. I'd only overindulged slightly, so it was the former sort of late evening. I could barely muster the drive to pull on the nightwear before I was dead to the world.
"Did you mean to keep this, sir?" Jeeves asked on the morrow, once I'd had my brain-tingling restorative and was well into the eggs and b. He held last night's jacket in one hand and a red bit of paper in the other, which he brandished in question.
I couldn't remember coming into any red bits of paper. "Very possibly. What is it?"
"It appears to be an address, sir."
"Oh. That must be Alec's."
"Alec, sir?"
"Cartwright, I think it was. I rather thought it would've been a card. He shoved it in my pocket once the gendarmes had given up."
"An eventful evening, then, sir?" I thought I detected a hint of disapproval.
I explained about Goopy, Loïc, and the flagpole, and did not hold back on the subj. of feeling rather elderly about the whole affair and possibly having lost my taste for such things.
"If you are elderly, sir, than I am surely at death's door," Jeeves said, just one of those dry things he says sometimes that don't really mean anything except as his version of a joke, but it struck fear into the Wooster heart.
What on earth would I do when that time came? What about when I really was old and infirm, with no children to look after me? My sister's children might, perhaps, if they thought they'd get my money at the end, since Rebecca was more than a decade older and not likely to outlive me. I barely knew the girls, had only ever met one of them in person when they'd shipped over to see me receive the Oxford sheepskin, and mostly left it up to Jeeves to keep track of when it was time to send a birthday card or similar. What a way to go, with uncaring relations just counting down the days! Good god.
"Sir? Are you well? You have gone quite pale."
"Provided some scheming pal doesn't get me killed climbing out windows, Jeeves, I'm going to be very old one day," I said with a tremor.
"That is a long while off yet, sir. I would not trouble yourself with it."
"No, Jeeves, you don't understand. One day you really will be at death's door, or at least retire, provided you can actually stand me for another forty-odd years and don't meet the girl of your dreams before that. The girl of my dreams is a nonexistent thing, as you know, ergo no loving children to look after me, ergo living out my last days amongst nieces wishing I'd just go and pop off already so they can claim their inheritance." It was a heavy notion so early in the morning, but one cannot always choose the moments at which these things rear their heads. "I've got half a mind to catch the next boat to India so I can get on my way to becoming their favourite uncle and have a fighting chance they'll actually want to look after me."
"Sir," Jeeves said, positively dripping with concern (for him, anyway), "I will remain with you as long as I am able. When the time comes that I—" he seemed to swallow— "that I cannot, I will undoubtedly have spent considerable time and effort ensuring that my absence will be felt as little as possible." There was no way to tell him that his absence could never go unfelt. "It would not be my place to object if you wish to know your nieces better, but you would do both them and yourself a disservice, sir, if you did it for any other reason than the spirit of family."
He was right, of course. Endearing myself to them so they'd look after me was no better than them looking after me for the payoff at the end. The bigger relief of the thing, though, was to hear that he still considered himself signed up for life. I did a bit of sighing and a bit of eye-opening and shutting, and finally all I could do was look at him and say, "You truly are singular, Jeeves." I doubt the roil of emotions within made me anything but an open book with all that longing laid bare for the reading. I looked away as quickly as I could.
"Sir," Jeeves said, crouching down at the bedside, and then more softly, "Ber—"
The doorbell rang. The blasted bally bloody stupid be-damned doorbell rang. Just when my heart had all but stopped because Jeeves had almost certainly been about to call me— well, it was uncertain whether it would've been Bertie or Bertram, but he'd never done either, never, not even in the course of some disguised ruse. And the doorbell had to go and ring. It was all over, and he was up like a shot, instantly the perfect statuesque paragon once again.
"Who could it be at this hour?" I asked weakly.
"The piano tuner, I expect, sir," Jeeves said, and biffed off to answer it as though the last few minutes had never existed.
I gaped after him, breakfast forgotten, trying to convince myself that such a moment had not been snatched out from under me. His having been about to say something, anything, other than my name was far preferable to having this perpetual almost just hanging there. Bermuda? Beryllium? I'd misheard, and it had been the beginning of a perhaps? Yes, perhaps. He used that word a lot. Just a perhaps with some bit of wisdom tacked onto the end, nothing more.
{Next: Part 3: A Little Flutter}
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Date: 2009-07-25 07:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-25 04:23 pm (UTC)