a pale shadow of PG Wodehouse’s creation
‘Pater, may I speak frankly?’
‘Of course, Edward, my boy.’
‘What I have to say may wound you.’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’
‘Right–ho. Well, the dashed truth is that all this arable-land-husbandry shenanigans has become something of a yawn, don’t you know, and I’m of a mind to hang it all and slip away.’
‘Really?’
‘Quite so. Trouble is, I haven’t a single brass farthing to my name.’
‘Yes.’
We both remained silent. I was silent because I was trying to think of a way to phrase what I wanted to ask him, and Pater remained silent, I suppose, because there was nothing much I what I had said so far that required an answer.
Fortunately, at that moment, Neeves, the hired man, oiled into the room like a decanter on castors, bearing a silver tray on which stood a pink gin with a black olive.
‘Ripping, Neeves,’ I said.
‘Sir.’
I sipped, and thus fortified, had another run-up at the Pater.
‘So you see, old thing, the question is one of funds.’
‘I do understand.’
‘And I lack.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t.’
‘No.’
‘I’d love to explore together the possibility of some balance-redressing in this matter. What do you say?’
‘I think I would, almost certainly, have some comment to make, if I could be certain for a moment that of which you speak.’
‘So you’re not offended?’
‘Why, have you insulted me?’
‘Never, Pater, old thing!’
I took another sip and wondered how I could make it any clearer. Happily, Neeves came to the rescue, not for the first time.
‘I believe, sir,’ he explained with great patience, ‘what young Master Waster is attempting to communicate is that he wishes to procure from your not insubstantial means some of the wherewithal to which he would be entitled should the very worst case scenario pertain, respiratory-system-impairment-wise.’
He really is quite heavy going at times, is Neeves. But somehow Pater latched on.
‘His inheritance?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It is a most remarkable request, but I shall see what can be done. I shall call the bank first thing and require of them to make the necessary arrangements.’
‘Top hole!’ I interjected.
Next morning, I heard the tell-tale tink of the telephone as Pater got down to business, and was soon enjoying the hugely pleasing sensation of a well-stuffed wallet pressing firmly against my leg as it altered dramatically the line of the seams in my upper trouser. I bounded with grace over the courtyard and got myself down to town sharpish.
Maisy Jink-Pottle and Maureen Gussett (both rather easy on the eye, what?) were more than ready to aid and abet the dispersal of some of the small change, while K D’Orcy Jahlsberg Cheesehampton, Wexford Moreton-Symes and Pongo Frattleworth steeled themselves and embarked upon the more arduous job of turning bank notes of high calibre into so much pocket-fluff. We gambled, drank, consumed and spent long into the night for several weeks, and it took not long for me to find I was on my uppers. Not surprisingly, Pongo, Maisy, Jahlsberg, Wexford and Maureen all made themselves scarce.
‘What a rotten bit of luck,’ I thought, as the country was about to go into something of a decline, and it was almost necessary for me to become engaged by a pig-farmer. Fortunately, he had a vacancy in the book-keeping department, so at least I could stay indoors.
I sat at my tall accounting desk, staring blankly at the columns of figures and wondered what they all meant. I didn’t know what a Price Index (Global Strategy) was, and I was completely in the dark about what to do with the Purchase Order Delivery Sheets. I have to confess I thought about the ability to make purchases, and envied those able to consider prices.
Then something struck me with all the force of a tennis raquet swung exuberantly but injudiciously into a fellow’s fizzog.
‘What about Neeves?’ I mused, humming to myself. ‘He butles his way noiselessly around the old pile and gets his dinner thrown in. I could trundle back to the House of Pater and see if he’ll set me among the greenhouses or cleaning the stables, or what-not.’ It was a wizard wheeze, so off I trotted.
It was a fair old step, and, to tell the truth, I was ready for a cooling snifter and a slice of Madeira cake by the time I got within hailing distance. I’d had the chance to concoct a plausible greeting, which was along the lines of Pater, old thing, sadly the funds have dwindled somehow and so I’ll need to shove a lawnmower about from time to time in exchange for someone rustling up a bit of lunch, and you’ll want to sharpen your pencil and replenish the back pocket, what? It was bound to work.
However, as I got within sight (still a long way off) I saw Pater come – well, running. You could have floored me with an individual component of a starling’s plumage. I waited for him and prepared myself to render my speech.
But chance had I none.
‘Edward! You are far from… and you’re not… but we all thought… yet it’s not true…!’ He couldn’t have been more obtuse if he been attempting to fib. But he was abjectly failing to disguise his pleasure at seeing me, even though my clothes were in a state, not to mention the dreadfully unpolished and scuffed condition of the old loafers, don’t you know?
Neeves arrived soon afterwards, but Pater sent him straight back to the pile with a list of duties. ‘Fetch a coat, and bring my family jewellery box. There’s a ring in there I want to give him. Oh, and you could bring a tin of Cherry Blossom and give his footwear a bit of a buffing.’
‘Yes, sir. May I say, it is most satisfactory to see young Mister Waster again, sir?’
‘Yes, yes, never mind all that gushing, Neeves. What’s important now is that Mrs Bridges below stairs hears about it, and sets to with the roast beef. Tell her we have one-hundred and fifty for dinner tonight!’
‘One hundred and fifty, sir?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘It may be necessary for her to send for some additional gravy browning, sir, as I know she opened the last tin only on Wednesday.’ Neeves misses the point once again.
‘So be it.’
And thus it was that later on, crowds of locals bustled their way around the groaning high table in the ballroom, quaffing & digesting at a rate of knots. Pater asked Neeves to call for quiet, so that he could address them with a few words he considered well-chosen.
‘My Lords, ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for the Earl of Blandings.’ The chatter and rattle subsided respectfully.
‘We all thought my son Edward had curled his toes. But it was not so. Yes, he’d drifted off, but now he’s here, don’t you know, healthy, clothed and in his right mind. Raise your glasses!’ They were not in the least bit well-chosen, after all.
Neeves smiled quietly to himself.
