Chapter Text
Really, it was a frightful piece of luck that they made it through the night unscathed: but then, Bertie Wooster seemed to excel at getting lucky.
His college mates had truly outdone themselves tonight, having somehow managed to convince the doorman of a rather swanky club that they were minor English royals - the ensuing antics and their subsequent consequences mattered little to the boys in pleasant state of genteel drunkeness they were then enjoying. Bertie never seemed to achieve the euphoria that his pals did with alcohol; he just got steadily sleepier. He had dropt his watch a couple of times already that evening, but if he were to trust it, then it was still only on the cusp of midnight. The night is still young, he told himself - I dashed well wish that I felt the same myself. He shared these musings with Barmy, but philosophic zeugmas were far from that particular lad’s mind at that moment. Barmy had the emotional resonance of a bedsted at the best of times, and this was not them. At least Gussie Fink-Nottle had been persuaded to give the subject of the Amsterdam canals and their aquatic denizens a rest. The more some people travel, the more they remain the same, thought Bertie, not altogether unfondly. Gus and Bertie had an understanding - they would always be at hand to make good the escape of the other from undesirable situations (much like this one!).
“I say, Gussie! This is our street, is it not?” said Bertie.
“You’re right,” said Augustus in his mellow, subdued way. He addressed himself to the gaggle of his mates: “We’ve got to go, yousee. This is our street.”
Vague noises of assent were heard from the other young men. Barmy seemed to have managed to smuggle a bottle of rosé from the club, and was blissfully sharing it around. The quintessential English gentlemen Bertie and Gus were probably not, but they generally drew the line at public intoxication. Besides, warm beds and boxes of continental chocolates awaited in their hotel rooms. With the holiday - embarked upon in the spirit of celebrating their semi-honourable departure from university - drawing to a close, they were both feeling that peculiar liminal sensation of burgeoning adulthood, and its attendant sensibility.
“Vaarwel” called Bertie over his shoulder. No reply came but for Barmy’s: “I’ll see you in the morning, or the afternoon!” The Three Musketeers (Bertie, Gussie, and Barmy) had gotten rooms on the same floor of the Dylan. Among the three young graduates, theories varied as to whether the place was named after Bob, some obscure Celtic god, or the Sidney Michaels play, respectively. The topic had proved fertile conversation for many days, but little thought was given to it that night. After saying goodnight and sweet dreams to each other, Gussie and Bertie parted ways, both glad to have evaded further diaster for another day. Bertie lit a cigarette and smoked it leaning over the balcony. The room looked out over a sedate canal. It was just that time of year when the trees were scattering amber and scarlet leaves everywhere - even the surface of the water was glowing with their dim fire. Funny - he hadn’t noticed how pretty they were til he was on the point of returning home.
Bertie tapped off his half-finished cigarette and went inside. Shrugging off his black jacket, he let himself keel gently onto the double bed and lay there, quite content with life. It was pleasant to have such a interlude between the supposedly halcyon days of his vie estudiantine and the world of enterprise which he was now expected to embark upon. A degree in music theory and education was almost certainly worth the paper it was written on, he reflected - a pity that genuine enthusiasm of his career still evaded him. Of course, teaching was a rewarding vocation, and half the childern in Britain were strapped to a piano and told to start practicing it at some point in their lives - freelance tutorship would certainly help along a teacher’s salary. The concerns that generally are though to occupy the minds of young people as they embark upon their professional lives seemed surmountable to our hero; a lack of ‘industry’ often has its own solution - a lack of ambition.
Bertie remained unconvinced on the home front, however. The fact of the matter was - he was lonely.
***
In the back of a little French pâtisserie-café on Groenburgwal, a tall, smartly-attired young man was carefully and competently layering butter and pastry for the next morning’s croissants. The radio, tuned to NPO Radio 4, was playing the interlude from Mascagni’s Cavellera Rusticana. The shop was quiet by this time of the evening - Reginald Jeeves checked his watch and noted that the evenings were drawing in; it was only half seven, but it was already growing dim. Although he enjoyed his work, Jeeves was starting to feel like he might call it a night pretty soon. The sign in the door had yet to be flipped to “gesloten” but the chances of anyone coming in this time of the evening were slim enough. Jeeves placed the last triangle of pastry on the tray and slid it into the fridge for the morning. Closing the shop every night was a pleasant ritual; strange to think that somewhere open to the public could feel so much like yours alone.
Jeeves had a charming appartment; of a basic, unfurnished old place of austere size (‘bijou’, according to the previous owner), he had really made something cozy. It was always nice to come home; here was an Englishman who was truly European in his habits and tastes. He made a pot of tea and drank it with half a bar of hazelnut Choceur. It was by that time nearing nine o’clock and too late to venture out to meet up with his Dutch acquaintances. A call to his sister was probably in order, however, as it was only eight in Yorkshire. It was the last night she was spending in England for quite a while – the next afternoon she was going on tour with a Moldovian ballet group. He couldn’t be more proud of her.
The familiar dial tone clicked into life, and Amelia Jeeves, in her sweet, low voice, said: “Hi, how’re you doing?”
Reginald knew she never checked the caller ID: “Very well, but not half so well as you, sis! Are you all packed for tomorrow?”
“Oh! It’s you, Reggie! Good to hear from ya!” her tones shifting subtly to her native Yorkshire. They could talk for hours about nothing much, but it would have to wait until Christmas, as the prices for transnational calls, even within Europe, were capable of crucifying them, skint youths as they were.
“Well, I’m packed, but lost without ya to help. I haven’t my good tulle tutu put in yet. It’s wreaking my head trying ta think what I’m going ta do ta stop it getting at crinkled,”
“I’d roll it up rather than folding it, anyhow. Bring it in your hand luggage.”
“That’s some good thinking, lad, I’ll do that so. By the way ... I’ve just had a very awkward conversation with dearest Mother,” Jeeves heard Amy put down her book.
“Oh? About what?”
“You! She wants to know when you’re thinking of getting a girlfriend and settling down,”
“God Almighty. You didn’t break the News, did you?” Jeeves looked steadily at the last of his tea.
“Gosh, no, no such thing. Just thought you should know. Perhaps if I bring home a girl and you a guy we can swop for the day, and she’ll be none the wiser,”
“I’m glad you’re not as serious about that as you want me to believe you are,” said Jeeves evenly, but with a twinge of a smile.
“Never could catch ya out, bruv”
“No - but tell me, when did you move to London?”
Amelia groaned. “Too clever by half! It’s all that grime I’m listening to in the gym,”
“Blame that then so,” he laughed.
“I think I will!”
“And I’ll blame you if I ever get a scandalised phone call from my mother,”
“Do! ... alright, I’ll leave you go.”
“I’ll hope to see you when ye come to Germany. You’re doing the am Goetheplatz, correct?”
“Um, yeah. If you make it that’d be unreal. That should be some time in mid-November, I think,” she paused, “I’m trying ta think of the map and put the cities in proportion to the premiere and the final night, if that works in your head,”
“Well, it does, but thank God you can dance - you’d get no job selling tickets!”
After much flurrying about, they managed to say goodnight properly and end the call. Jeeves had a rather good book planned for the rest of the night; not, however, before another cup of hot black tea and some of his own biscuits. He wandered into the bathroom, and performed his ritual ablutions before heading to bed. The novel he had waiting for him was “Brideshead Revisited” and he was almost finished. The temptation to reach the conclusion that night was strong; it was nearing one o’clock in the morning before he was well and truly alseep. He woke up early the next morning with the slim volume still clutched in his hand.