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My abiding memory of the moment Jeeves biffed into my life is one of supreme shock. Picture the scenario: Bertram, centre bed, protective pillow shielding tired eyes from harsh sun; stranger, at bedside, leaning down to prod the Wooster shoulder with one regal finger.
“Now wait just a minute,” you might say. “Who is this Wooster? And whilst we're on the subject, who is this stranger? And what conceivable reason would he have for poking the aforementioned Wooster in the upper chest?” Well, 'this Wooster' would be yours truly, namely one Bertram Wilberforce, bachelor and resident of Berkeley Mansions, W1, and the man attempting to attract my attention by means of a finger was, for all I knew, a phantom at my bedside.
I gasped, I bucked, I may even have gone so far as to hit the pinstriped apparition with my protective p. Eventually however, it dawned on me that the presence at my bedside was neither of the spirit world nor trying to remove the Wooster head from its shoulders, and was in fact now attempting a rather stiff bit of signing.
Relaxing somewhat, I sighed and propped myself up on my elbows sufficiently to waggle one finger at him in a very exaggerated “What?”, whereupon he dropped his arms back to his sides and started again.
His “Excuse me” was the pinnacle of precision, and his initially uncomfortable style seemed to improve as I watched, like a petal unfolding itself under the sun. A little conversational to-and-fro, and some rapid note-taking later, and we had it pretty much straightened out; I was in need of a valet, he was a valet in need. I endeavoured to explain that when one's head is in imminent danger of being severed in two by a sunbeam one is not capable of making important decisions about whom one shares one's hearth and home with, and he nodded in a supremely regal manner and trickled out of the room, tugging the curtains closed as he passed. I sighed in relief and fell back against the coverlet. Much unlike my previous valet, who abused my trust and stole my socks, this one appeared at first glance to be a man's man of the highest water. That he would have bothered to sign warmed my heart with a gentle hope that perhaps here was a man who could be trusted to keep the Wooster household running; and when he returned with a glass of liquid restorative the like of which I had never even dared to imagine, I vowed that I would begrudge him no socks. Indeed, anything up to and including my tweed travelling suits was fair game for the purveyor, if purveyor is the word I want, of such marvellous medicines.
After some initial confusion I learned that my new man's name (for he was my new man, I had engaged him almost as soon as his restorative hit my stomach) was Jeeves. He biffed off whilst I ran a tentative tongue over the Wooster teeth, marvelling at the pleasant minty freshness that lingered there, only to appear mere moments later with a steaming plateful, and I quickly discovered that his talents in the kitchen were not reserved solely for the liquid arts; he was certainly a dab hand with a skillet, or whatever implement he preferred to use in the making of breakfast. From the depths of chaos and despair he had brought relief to my head and food to my bedside. I was stuffed full of both the joys of spring and the eggs and b. my new man had produced from seemingly nowhere, and even the five pound fine thrust on me over perfectly innocent hijinks had ceased to niggle. The snail was on his whatsit and all was right with the world.
It was a fresh-faced and sprightly Bertram who set foot outside his bedroom that morning, a hitherto unheard-of phenomenon the day after so great a binge as boat race night, and I meant to say something of the kind to the man who had so recently shimmered into my life. I was, however, struck dumb by the sight which assailed me on exiting the sleeping chamber. No clothes or magazines littered the floor, the tables were free of glasses and freshly laden with clean ashtrays, the path to my easel no longer housed the remains of a thousand empty tubes and wash-pots. Jeeves was in the far corner dusting down the dresser which had, until recently, been home to a motley collection of empty cigarette packets, lighters I couldn't make work, and electrifying mystery novels. I couldn't begin to imagine where he could have put all the stuff so quickly, short of bunging it under the Chesterfield, but on peering underneath I found that even the stuff I'd shoved under there was gone, and I straightened up only to find myself the recipient of the most talkative raised eyebrow I'd ever seen in my life. I gave a sunny “Well isn't this corking?” grin back in response to its “Do you really think I would be so remiss in my duties?” bit of haughtiness and dropped myself down into the cushions, content just to stare out at the room.
Peace, however, is often a fleeting pleasure at Wooster GHQ, and so it proved that morning. One moment we were attempting to hash out the delicate details (evenings off, preferred types of tea and whatnot), and the next he'd twitched an ear and apologised before biffing off to the front door and returning with a telegram.
This Wooster maintains that an unexpected telegram is always to be treated with suspicion. When you are planning a quiet afternoon's lounge putting, perhaps interspersed with a few chapters of your latest thriller, such a delivery should be regarded as you would a poorly-made bomb thrust lazily into the room. If you're lucky it will prove to be a dud, good only as the basis for an amusing anecdote in later years, but if fate's happenstance should choose not to smile on you then the resulting explosion could decimate several small counties and leave you in a frightful mess.
Such were the disturbing thoughts furrowing my brow as Jeeves returned to my side bearing a silver tray that had materialised from somewhere within his morning coat or behind his back, and I was briefly distracted from my dark ruminations by watching him attempt to present it to me. The feudal spirit, which I was rapidly coming to realise was pretty deeply ingrained in him, ached at the prospect of presenting me with something unannounced, yet he could not announce it while his hand was occupied. The brow furrowed, the jaw tightened, and there was a distinct lack of gruntlement about him until I took pity and slid the paper from the tray with a brief “Thank you, Jeeves”. Any fleeting amusement evaporated however, when I opened it to reveal a summons from Aunt Agatha, the Scourge of the Woosters.
I shan’t bore you with the details of Bingo Little, the Seekers Club and my narrow escape from Honoria Glossop, seeing as they've been well-recorded elsewhere, but you can imagine the joy that flourished in the Wooster heart the moment I realised that in Jeeves I had engaged not only a master in the culinary and domestic arts, but also a certified genius. As he shimmered out of my now cat-free bedroom that night I noticed for the first time how his curiously-crooked nose was complimented by a bulge in the back of his head to contain that marvellous brain, and it was a greatly relieved Bertram who put head to pillow, secure in a future free of Glossops.
*******
Over the following months, Jeeves proved himself even more invaluable than first imagined. There was the occasional skirmish over a gaily patterned waistcoat or tie, and an eighteen-mile bike ride that was really rather rum, but in general life ticked on in the Wooster household like a well-wound watch. I grew used to seeing his peaceful face gazing down at me as I woke; I learned the subtle changes in his signs which expressed emotions (most often disapproval, patience or concern, with the rare little twitch that I was beginning to realise signalled amusement) as he spoke. Jeeves even went so far as to have a red light added to the doorbell, something which gave me considerably greater freedom whenever he was out doing his valety business, even though it made the Aunt Agatha kick like a frustrated pony, she not approving of my desire to live an independent life.
About a year into our association I discovered that Jeeves was engaged to some cook or other. Well, you could've knocked me down with an f. The realisation that Jeeves was as human as the rest of us, or at least nearly so, what with being a paragon and a genius and whatnot, was stunning and not a little unwelcome. The thought that I was about to lose my marvellous man to the shackles of married life stung me keenly. I did not wish to believe it, I did not accept that anyone, angel at the stove or no, could be good enough for him. I was, I realised with a start, jealous. The chartreuse-visioned beast had me in his clutches and I could see no means of escape. I realised that I wanted my man. Wanted him, perhaps even loved him, and could never have him. In mere moments a simple kitchen worker had wrought more havoc in the Wooster GHQ than the mass descent of Madeline Bassett, Florence Craye and the entire Drones Club Dining Committee could e'er dream of.
Dressing became torture. I would flinch from his hand the moment I woke. Even my own body was my enemy, for I was terrified he could hear my love and lust for him in my breath or the way I moved, and I would never know. The air in the apartment was thick with whatsit, and the soupy expressions on his face became more bisque-like the longer it continued. Previously his stuffed frog impressions had been mainly reserved for matters sartorial, if that means what I think it means, and some of my niftier plans. I had, it's true, often noticed a furrowing of the brow when he looked upon my more creative efforts - I think the colours dismayed him, although he never kicked when required to replace empty tubes, so I may be mistaken. Now, however, the starched spine was an eternal presence, and a bitter frostiness was chilling the air of the Wooster abode.
It was a distinctly miserable Bertram who wound his way to the Drones for lunch one Monday around that time. Jeeves and his cook had scratched the fixture some weeks previously, and he had been at his paragonal best as he poured the Wooster corpus into the day clothes that morning, fingertips touching nothing but the essential portions and expression a careful blank, and all my attempts to draw him into conversation had been as naught. His signs were quick and crisp, and utterly lacking in affection, amusement or any of the million other a-words I had doubtless come to rely on. I'd realised that I'd somehow avoided losing him to the marriage home, only to lose sight of him behind a wall of pro-something, propriety perhaps, or maybe probity, and my usually sunny disposish was suffering as a result. The Wooster shoulders slumped dejectedly as I tottered over the Dover St. threshold and headed for the bar for a much-needed belt. I was staring down into the honey coloured liquid, thinking how murky and dim it was in comparison to the brightness of Jeeves' eyes, when there was a tap on my shoulder from the finger of Chuffy Chuffnell.
“Chuffy!” I greeted him, with a surprised smile on my face.
He called me “Sauce ” in response and settled in next to me, signalling the barman for a drink. Chuffy was one of my oldest buddies - together we had braved the willow and birch of the Rev. Aubrey Upjohn, and he had seen his composition praised the day I won my Scripture Knowledge prize - and the sight of him in fresh face and good form brought with it a lightening of the Wooster spirit. We chattered of this and that for a bit, with a goodly portion of time spent commiserating over his dire financial circs, until he got round to the meat of the morning. He had, he informed me, recently met some bird by the name of Ben Bloom, who'd shown him this fantastic new sculpting thingumee, which he (Chuffy that is, not this Bloom bird) thought would be right up my avenue; and after mangling a spot of lunch we biffed our way round to the fellow's studios.
Bloom's door was one of those dashed irritating ones that only has a buzzer and no knocker, and Chuffy and I waited with the patience of Job, who was one of those coves I'd learnt about when I won my scripture knowledge prize, without even knowing if the alarm had been raised, until eventually the door swung inward and revealed Bloom's man. He was a little, sallow-faced individual, who shuffled around as if his knees refused to pick his feet up, and who clunked me in the shoulder when he removed the coat from my back. My mind, as was its wont, if wont is the word I want, flickered back to Jeeves and how fortunate I was to have him in my life. He never shuffled, he rarely clunked, and his timing was impeccable. I had merely to think of my desire for tea, toast or a glass of the wet stuff and there he'd be, shimmering into view with a tray of near-Anatolish standards. The man really was a marvel, and I resolved once again to be enough of one back to keep him.
Chuffy, being one of those coves who can hear a little and talk much better than Bertram, jumped into a conversation with the valet in situ and reported back to me that the Bloom we had called to see had popped off for a stroll and was expected back shortly. I tottered around the room peering at this and that while Chuffy deposited himself on the sofa with a gasper. It is at about this juncture that I feel it right to give the reader an idea of the surroundings I found myself in. So far I've resisted the temptation to describe in detail the clouds, carpets and clothing featured, agreeing as I do with those of my friends who tell me that I'm at risk of putting the consumer to sleep with too much information, but here I feel it is necessary. I'll try not to take too long.
If I were to tell you that Ben Bloom was clearly of the oofy set and had a Chelsea apartment to match, you'd probably imagine something not unlike my own GHQ, and in size and shape you wouldn't be far wrong. Nor would I offer any argument if you were to suggest that his walls were beige, his carpet pale and his table well-stocked with the wet stuff. There however the similarities end. The sofa onto which Chuffy had flung himself was shoved up against the near wall, with the drinks table beside it. The chairs opposite had covers thrown over them in a manner that would have made Jeeves twitch with supressed pain, and the rest of the room was carpeted in protective sheeting. Pride of place was given to a sort of triangular table thingy with a tray on top and a disc at the bottom, and all around the walls were shelves with little ornaments on them, mainly bowls and the like. I was about to approach and examine the things when the door opened and in biffed a bird I assumed was Ben Bloom. He stood in the doorway for a few moments before shrugging and shunting the hat, gloves and whangee in the direction of the cupboard, and set to work on his coat. It was at this point that the valet reappeared and shuffled over to his master's side just a touch too late to lend assistance, further reminding me of the brilliance of my own man, not that it took much these days to make me think of him.
Chuffy meanwhile pushed himself up from the sofa with what appeared to me to be excessive difficulty and hovered in the wings waiting to start the introductions. With them out of the way we returned to the furniture to await the arrival of the tea tray, and once our bellies were full and our throats wetted, conversation turned to the reason for our visit. Ben Bloom was, it appeared, the proud owner of a terrific new device for making pottery and sculptures and it was this that Chuffy had brought me to see. Before I knew where I was I was jostled into the back of the room and shoved down to sit on a part of the aforementioned tablelike thingy that I now realised was supposed to be a stool of sorts, although it looked more like a solid wood tennis racquet to me. Ben Bloom dropped a lump of slimy brownish stuff into the tray, and showed me how to turn it with my legs. Chuffy stood in front of me and said something and pretty soon Ben Bloom's hands came to cover my own in what was an uncomfortably matey manner. He pushed me to touch the spinning lump and showed me how to guide it into different shapes. It was a peculiar sensation, wet, cold and unpleasantly slimy, but dashed exciting as the blob turned into a slightly wonky dish right in front of me. When we'd finished he carried it gently over to one of the shelves and his man soon shuffled into the room with a bowl of water to wash our hands. The table thing was, I learnt once we were clean, something called a leach wheel, and it was the next big thing. They were devilishly hard to get hold of, but he'd be happy to set me up with one for a small fee. I gladly parted with the oof and trickled off, my hands itching with the desire to get back behind the wheel.
*******
A few days later I was on the sofa, a corking new mystery in one hand and a stiff b. and s. under the other, when the door alarm started flashing. Jeeves had biffed off a little earlier to do the marketing and whatever else he fills his Thursdays with, and I had been quietly mooning over him, so the distraction was a welcome one. I popped over and opened the door to a pair of delivery men. They touched their hats politely, then the one in front set off talking like a horse from the paddock, and I was forced to wave my hands in front of him and tug on the old earlobe before they realised the sitch. I offered the pad and pencil we keep by the door for just such a situation and was quickly informed that they were the bearers of my new potter's wheel. Considerably bucked by this exciting development I ushered them in, and in two shakes of a dog's whatsit my easel had been shoved against the wall and a shiny new wheel installed in its place, with a box of assorted bits Ben Bloom had also sent. A slip of the ready had them trickling out respectfully, and I tottered back to my new purchase.
The pottery lark was far more difficult than I remembered. My first attempt had been an unpleasantly tiring fight against the clay, until I'd realised that it wasn't as slimy as I'd remembered and had been reminded of Ben Bloom sprinkling water everywhere. The next ten minutes had been spent searching the kitchen for a suitable bowl, and then for a way to get it back into the sitting room without spilling over my shoes. My next attempt had been far too wet, and covered everything in muck, and I had been about ready to give it up and try to hide the evidence when I noticed a handwritten list of instructions in the box, which I perused eagerly. Full of expertise and feeling considerably chirpier, I went back for my third attempt, and it was while I was working that the draft from the open door swept across my furrowed brow and I looked up to see Jeeves shimmering in with the weekly shop. I raised my hand in greeting and he nodded in response before placing his burdens on the nearest table to reply properly.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he offered, in his crisp, clear manner.
I replied using the special sign I used instead of spelling his name, it was a bit like a J with 'serve' tied to the end, and a bit like the way he glides about the place, and he seemed quite happy with it.
“Am I to understand that you have taken up P-O-T” he began to ask, before I jumped in to fill the rare gap in his vocabulary and tell him all about Ben Bloom's corking studio. There was a certain thingness to Jeeves' eyes that suggested he wasn't entirely oojah-cum-spiff about the new developments in the Wooster household, but he excused himself and trickled into the kitchen to stow the comestibles. I in turn decided to hop back over to the Chesterfield and my Rex West novel, as my legs ached somewhat from the unusual exercise, only to be brought up short by an unpleasant squelching underfoot, and I looked down to see a large blob of stray clay making intimate acquaintance with the new Axminster.
Over the following days my confidence with the wheel grew, and I greatly enjoyed placing my works on the open shelving I had purchased for that very purpose. There was something strangely soothing about moulding the clay under my hands, and I frequently found myself drifting off on a peaceful cloud as it spun gently in my grip. These moments of distraction would often end with what Jeeves would term mishap, but they were dashed comforting nonetheless, and not all of my efforts resulted in such failure. Having completed a dish with very few holes and only a touch of wonk about it, I waved Jeeves over from his position cleaning the carpet and displayed it proudly.
“Looking good, don't you agree, Jeeves? After I've practiced a bit more we'll be able to eat off them. Bit of a conversation piece, what?”
“Indeed, sir,” he replied, stuffiness evident in every movement, “If I may, sir?” He intimated a desire to return to his work, and I let him go with the upper-lip stiff. It should not have come as a surprise to know that he disapproved of hand-made tableware, and I fought hard to convince the Wooster heart that it was not a slight, if slight is the word I want, against mine in particular that furrowed the Jeevesian brow. Soon, however, I realised that he was standing to one side attempting to attract my attention, and I re-stiffened the lip and de-furrowed the brow to listen.
“May I ask, sir, how you intend to F-I-R-E the pots?” He began, thoroughly confusing me and making me doubt his signs.
“F-I-R-E, Jeeves?”
“Indeed sir, it is necessary to bake clay at high temperatures in order to complete a ceramics project.” Well, this was news to me, and I wondered why Ben Bloom hadn't bothered to mention it at any point. What, dash it, was I to do with a load of half-finished pots?
“Oh, well, I'll just shove them in the oven I suppose, when you're not using it of course. Would that do?” I asked, aware that I didn't want to inconvenience him before the dinner hour or anything.
“Unfortunately not, sir. The temperatures required are beyond the capabilities of typical domestic appliances,” he replied with a certain thingness about his eyes that suggested to me that it was only his feudal sensibilities that kept him from replying “You're not going anywhere near my oven with that.”
“Oh,” I concluded, there being nothing else left to say. A few moments later Jeeves trickled off towards his lair, and I dared to drop the melon into the Wooster hands as I thought over my position, which was as follows:
1) I was in love with my manservant,
2) This love was of the deepest, warmest, loviest kind, but also the kind liable to get me banged-up and Jeevesless were I ever to reveal it, and thus filled the Wooster heart not with food and gladness but rather more hunger and sadness,
3) My preferred method of banishing said sadness had hit something of a bump.
Now usually when I am up against it I will turn to Jeeves and say “Dash it, Jeeves, this is all getting a bit thick!” or words to that effect, and he will reply
“Indeed, sir,” and twitch an eyebrow, and a plan will leap fully-formed from his fingertips, possibly with some comment on the psychology of the individual. Here, of course, there could be no Jeevesian dodge, nor were points one and two solveable in any case, and I was just contemplating the merits of returning the wheel to store when a bolt of inspiration struck me and I reached for the telegraph pad instead.
*******
It was a considerably more bucked Bertram Wilberforce who looked up from the return telegram some hours later. Ben Bloom had come up trumps with his suggestion that I park myself in his country cottage for the summer and make good use of the inspiring landscape and out-house kiln. He was unable to join me in residence thanks to a pressing wish to hop across the pond for a bit, but he assured me I would be comfortable enough. However, we Woosters are a social breed, and the prospect of a parade of summer evenings with nothing but Jeeves and the four walls to contemplate may have dented my enthusiasm somewhat were it not for the fact that I had been informed that the cottage did, in fact, belong to Chuffy. Owning as he did half of Devon, and land not being what it once was, the fifth Baron Chuffnell frequently found himself tied to the country by his pocket book, poor fellow. This sad state of affairs would, however, have the benefit of providing me with a daily lunching companion for just as long as he could stick me, and I could stick the country.
Jeeves had remained hovering nearby whilst I read Ben Bloom's missive and pondered these ponderings, no doubt ready to take a reply at a moment's notice. I duly turned to him and asked him to dispatch a line of gracious acceptance at once. When he had returned from his errand and was heading for the kitchen I asked him to stop and talk to me for a moment.
"You may have noted, Jeeves," I began, "Something of a lessening of the Wooster shimmer in recent weeks. I have not been my usual sunny self; in short I have been rather less than the normal Bertram Wilberforce. However, you will be pleased to learn that all this is at an end."
Here I paused for breath only to have Jeeves interrupt with a well-meant if unnecessary "Indeed, sir? I am glad to hear that."
"Indeed, yes, Jeeves. And let me tell you why. It is my intention to retreat to the countryside, where I shall install myself in Mr. Ben Bloom's cottage and avail myself, if avail is the word I want” here I paused for confirmation, which came in the form of a small nod of the Jeevesian head, after which I resumed “I shall avail myself of the use of his kiln oven. With all that corking scenery to hand the Wooster brain shall be practically giddy with inspiration. In fact I shall most likely turn over the entire sitting-room to my potter's studio, would make for the proper atmosphere, what?"
A distinct air of stuffiness began to creep over Jeeves' features as I approached the end of my declaration, and I perceived that he was not entirely bucked about developments in the Wooster household.
"Am I to understand, sir, that it is your intention to live in, as you put it, a potter's studio in the country?"
This being the precise meaning I had intended him to take from my words, I replied as such, only to watch him stiffen further and offer up something that, were it performed by anyone else, I should have deemed a fidget. Jeeves, of course, does not fidget, and I blinked to clear my eyes in preparation for his next comment.
"In that case, sir, I am sorry but I must give my notice."
At this the Wooster blood ran cold. If you had poured me onto an iceberg in only my pyjamas and rowed away for an hour I could scarcely have been chillier. Jeeves leave? I felt I must have misread, but when I questioned him I was informed that he did indeed intend to leave me. I stared at him in astonishment as the Wooster heart, so sorely tried of late, dashed well shattered into pieces. How the devil was I ever to get along without him?
I wondered briefly, if I should in fact capitulate, if capitulate means what I think it means, and give up my wheel to keep him? But dash it! Why should I have to give it up anyway? If Jeeves had a hobby I wouldn't be the fellow to give it the bum's rush. You wouldn't see me dangling the threat of a cessation of services or a corking new tartan uniform over his head simply to force the Spinoza from his hand; such behaviour just wasn't the way of friendships.
It hit me then, like a cricket bat to the head, that here I was regarding Jeeves, yes as a valet, but also as a confidante, guide and adored friend, while he clearly saw me as nothing more than a gentleman he happened to work for, and a mentally negligible one at that. The heart, which I had believed shattered before, now crumbled into dust under his feet, and hot tears threatened to make their appearance on the Wooster cheeks at any minute. In a moment of panic I accepted his portfolio and escaped from the flat, desperate that he should not notice anything amiss.
For several hours I paced the streets with a heavy tread, thoughts of my life with Jeeves flashing across my mind, and I realised that I needed to let him leave and try to move on. Without him I would be married within a month, I was sure, but even that failed to pain me so much as the thought of our parting of the ways, necessary though it was. What I desired was a good strong belt, indeed, at times of heartbreak it is expected of one to get thoroughly under the surface, but I resisted. I would need all my wits about me if I were to successfully keep my feelings from spilling out and ruining everything that wasn't already destroyed. No, I decided, it was better to live out these last few days basking in the Jeevesian presence, than to part with ill will and disgust, or worse, a long stretch.
Eventually my wanderings took me past Dover St. and on looking up at the familiar brass plaque I became aware of a gnawing hollowness of tum. There are those who, when faced with durance vile, find their appetites desert them along with their cheer; indeed, I usually count myself as one of their number. However, on this occasion the long walk had shaken loose the hunger pangs, and I tottered into the Drones in search of a bite.
On entering my club of choice, one is well advised to take a good look around in order to avoid being beaned by a flying dinner roll or similar. I was, therefore, prepared for many unusual sights to meet my eyes, yet the vision of Chuffy Chuffnell calmly sipping a snifter at the bar took me by surprise. Knowing, as I did, the desperate financial straits he was in, I had rather assumed he would have returned to the country and settled in for the duration. That he was still ankling around the metrop. after more than a week came as something of a surprise. Never one to pass up an opportunity, I trickled up to his side and convinced him to join me.
It was while I was wrapping myself around a choice bit of beef that the conversation came around to my forthcoming departure, and I informed him that I would be installing the Wooster corpus in one of his cottages.
“They won't be mine for much longer, or at least I hope not,” he replied, which I took to mean that he'd decided to sell Chuffnell Hall at last, and I would have pursued the point were it not for his next question.
“What's Jeeves got to say about all this, anyway?” he asked, “I shouldn't have thought he'd want to leave London,”
The Wooster spine stiffened, and a lump of crusty bread flew overhead. “Jeeves and I have parted brass rags.” I replied, fighting to keep my hands from shaking suspiciously. Chuffy visibly boggled at the news, but I offered no further explanation for fear of freeing the bagged-cat, as it were, and it was a considerable relief when he biffed off mere moments later.
The last days with Jeeves were nothing short of torture for this Wooster. Forced to be outwardly gay and cheery, when all the while my heart was aching with unvoiced pain, put a considerable drain on my resources, and I dropped into bed each night exhausted by my efforts. Even with the Wooster corpus wrung-out like a dishtowel, sleep was difficult to find and even harder to keep most nights. Many was the time I would wake from a comfortless dream, visions of Jeeves' dead body or angry, disgusted face still swimming through my mind, and I would leap from my bed ready to throw myself on his mercy. Passing through the sitting-room, my eye would light on the wheel, and I would suddenly remember why I needed to let him leave. I would then return to bed where, lying in the dark, it was impossible to keep the tears in check.
A particularly trying time was had the afternoon I popped out to the agency to see about a new valet. Up until the cooling of relations between us, it had been normal practice for Jeeves to accompany me to many of my little business meetings, and quietly translate for us if it became necessary. On this occasion, however, I went alone into the dragon's den. The meeting will not go down as one of the highlights of Bertram Wooster's career. The London valet appeared to have become something of an endangered species, and my insistence that my man must be artistic further emptied the field. By this point I didn't dare suggest a man who could sign, deciding that the best I could hope for was one who could read. Negotiations were eventually complete, however, and I trickled back onto the street with the assurance that Brinkley, my new man, would be delivered to my door first thing.
Jeeves described it as a fine day when he appeared with my breakfast tea for the final time, but it felt anything but fine to this Wooster. The previous evening had been utterly dismal. I had wanted to invite Jeeves to sit and dine with me: a sort of olive branch, or amende honorable as Jeeves might say, but he was busy with his packing and would not have thought it proper at any rate. In the end I sat sullenly moping at my wheel, making increasingly petty demands of the poor man, with the vague thought that if I got him annoyed with me I might not mind his leaving. It didn't work, of course, and all I succeeded in was making us both grumpy.
The odds on a our last morning being a pleasant, convivial affair being rather too long for comfort, I decided to ankle about the metrop. for a bit. After a long morning spent gazing listlessly into shop windows and feeling self unnaturally drawn towards dull black bowler hats, I arrived back at Wooster GHQ in time to go pins-over-noggin over the Jeevesian luggage, which was standing in the middle of the doorway ready to assault home-owners and visitors alike. I was just shunting the whangee into its holder, having brushed self down, when the man in question trickled into the room in his overcoat, and I dropped my hat and gloves onto the table so we could talk.
“I was just about to depart, Mr Wooster,” he informed me. His words cut deep, and I could manage nothing more than a short acknowledgement before he continued. “Your new man is here, sir. I have been explaining his duties to him.” This being a somewhat safer avenue of conversation, I jumped in feet-first and asked Jeeves' opinion of the man Brinkley. The answer was not wholly reassuring but, as Jeeves summoned my new man, I focused on stiffening the upper lip against his impending departure. We stood in silence for a while, self unable to think of anything to say, and Jeeves waiting to be spoken to, until Brinkley sauntered through the door in a thoroughly un-valetlike manner. Introductions made, and Bertram the recipient of one of the most eloquent, if eloquent is the word I want, shrugs of his life, Jeeves offered a hand. We shook politely before, reluctantly letting go, I watched him move away, drinking in the final sight of that massive head with the brain that stuck out at the back, and the strong, broad shoulders that had pulled me out of the soup more times than I could count. The door swung shut behind him, and it was only the twin distractions of Brinkley and the hunt for a notepad that kept this Wooster from breaking down completely.
*******
Ben Bloom's cottage was everything I had in mind, complete with sea view, plants around the door (I couldn't tell you what plants they were - Jeeves would have known but he wasn't there to ask - but they were very green and twined terrifically), and on-site kiln. With my wheel in the garden, and Brinkley on hand to arrange the firing, the Wooster pottery was in full flow, and I spun my wheel until my legs were sore and my fingers pruny. I pottered, as it were, every day, until one afternoon, leaving my new creations drying on a shelf in the sitting-room, I wandered down to the car for a trundle around the country, with a view to looking in at the local hostelry later. Getting in, I was rather cheesed to discover grubby hand prints on the steering wheel and horn, but I cleaned them off with the plain white handkerchief that had been Jeeves' favourite, and set off on my way.
Chuffnell Regis, while not being the hotbed of culture and excitement that I usually prefer to make my home, at least had the advantage of being a village free of aunts, unlike most of the places I'd had the misfortune to land in recently. Feeling reasonably safe from the threat of marriage with menaces, although I maintain that one must always keep oneself on watch for approaching beazels, I allowed myself to think of Jeeves as I left the town. As I drove through the country lanes and along the coastal roads, I imagined how much he would have loved Devon and its fishing. My mind wandered to thoughts of what he must have looked like on those shrimping trips of his, his Viking blood coming out as he hefted the nets, if hefted is the word I want: lifted, tugged, you know. I pictured his strong forearms bared to the sun and the look of concentration on his expressive brow, and I eventually had to pull off the road for a bit to avoid accidentally ploughing into a tree. Soon however, my distraction having taken a turn for the maudlin, I decided to return to the cottage and its drinks-mixing facilities.
The next day, while I was nursing an aching head that no thoughts of Jeeves' restorative would remove, Brinkley clomped into the room to point his bean at the front door. Immediately on meeting the man I'd been struck by his inferior qualities when measured against Jeeves, the paragon, but I was quickly coming to realise that as a valet he was not simply below-perfect, but in fact ranked near the bottom of the barrel. He may not have been the dregs, I was not yet sure, but he was certainly floating on them. However, thus informed I trickled over and opened the door to admit none other than Chuffy Chuffnell, who ankled in looking supremely pleased with himself.
“What ho, Bertie, old thing!” he began. “We missed you at lunch yesterday.”
This lunch being news to Bertram, I told him as much, and was treated to the sight of Chuffy's confused face. I don't know whether you've ever seen Chuffy's confused face, but I couldn't recommend it wholeheartedly, there being something unpleasantly froglike in the way his eyes bulge out. At any rate, it was in Bertram's best interests to get him talking again, so I encouraged him on.
“I sent Seabury round to invite you for lunch yesterday, but he said you were out.”
There were several points needing attention in that sentence, and I decided to tackle them in order.
“Firstly, Chuffy, you speak of this 'Seabury' as if I should know him, but I can tell you now I haven't the foggiest notion of who he is. And secondly, why should he say I was out when I wasn't? I didn't leave the cottage until late afternoon,” I replied, resulting in an unwelcome return of the eye-bulge.
“Seabury Pongleton is my nephew, my sister's boy,” Chuffy explained. “I sent him round with strict instructions to come up and speak to you. I'm surprised that he didn't.” Chuffy may have been surprised, but I wasn't. In a flash inspiration had come to me, and I could see how the whole thing had played out.
“I wonder, Chuffy, if young Seabury's failure to make contact may have had something to do with the sticky fingermarks I discovered on my car horn yesterday afternoon, and which I was forced to remove with one of my best handkerchiefs,” I suggested, allowing only a hint of my unhappiness at the way my handkerchief had been treated to enter my signs, and Chuffy acknowledged that this might be possible. “It's only natural for a young boy to be attracted to a fine piece of engineering, after all,” I continued, only to be the recipient of something that I believe was meant to be a derisive laugh.
“More likely he just couldn't be bothered to walk up the hill,” Chuffy replied. “At any rate, that's not important. What matters is that it all went off without a hitch. Stoker's agreed to buy the hall!” At this a definite chill mounted the Wooster spine, the name 'Stoker' not being one to bring happy thoughts to mind thanks to his desire to turn yours truly inside-out, and I gestured for Chuffy to continue. “Well, you see, I needed him to agree to buy it so that I'd have the beans to marry his daughter, Pauline.” Any lingering hopes I may have had of there being two Stokers with enough of the ready to buy Devon over lunch evaporated at this, but Chuffy carried on without a care. “What a girl, Bertie, what a girl. What hair! What eyes! What gentle spirit!”
“Yes, yes, yes, enough of that old thing,” I interrupted, not in the market for a ten point run-down of Pauline Stoker's best qualities. “So, Stoker gets the hall and you get the money and the girl? Well, congratulations, old thing,” I replied, meaning it. Pauline Stoker was one of the lightest girls I'd ever been engaged to and, whilst I'd been only too glad to be handed the mitten and ankle out of the arrangement quietly, I was sure she would make a corking wife for Chuffy. Unfortunately I had no time to be pleased, because what he said next quite flummoxed me.
“Yes, Jeeves was all for coming up with some wheeze to help me, but 'have patience,' I said, 'let us see how things unfold,' I said, and -”
“Jeeves? What do you mean 'Jeeves'?” I demanded, while an unpleasant tightness made itself known around the cardiac regions.
“Oh, didn't I tell you? Jeeves is working for me now.”
*******
Shortly after that stunning announcement, Chuffy, having realised that Bertram was not up to his conversational best, had trickled off with promises of an early dinner invitation. I in turn had greeted the news of Jeeves' new employment with a stiff belt, and then another, and pretty soon had been forced to pour the Wooster corpus into bed where I had lain, hiccoughing into my pillow, because dash it all, how was I supposed to escape and move on if Jeeves insisted on following me around the countryside? It really wasn't fair.
I woke the next day with a new resolution to go with my morning head. Brinkley's failure to fulfil his duties had allowed me to come to consciousness naturally, a fully-formed plan circling in the front of my mind. I would, I resolved, seek Jeeves out. I would converse with him politely. I would explain to him, in words of one thingumee if necessary, that, whilst we could be nodding acquaintances, sharing a friendly “What ho,” whenever I passed through the Chuffnell household, the camaraderie we had once known could be no more. I would then return to my cottage and nurse my broken heart in peace; I might keep Brinkley on, I might not, but I would never allow another man to become so close to me again. This, I knew, would be the best way.
Thus resolved, I made my way to the beach, in the hope that the bracing sea air would clear my head and comfort my heart. Call me a coward if you wish, though I remind you that we Woosters were at Agincourt, but I was not about to go calling uninvited at a house where I might at any moment encounter J. Washburn Stoker in all his glory. It was as I was turning a chary eye on the Punch and Judy show that I noticed Chuffy and co. arrive at the dock in foul mood. Jeeves followed in close attendance, and I tottered over to catch his gaze.
Jeeves descended from the toe-path and, having dispensed with the preliminaries wherein he tried to explain, and I told him I knew, why he was there, I jumped right into the meat of the thing, desirous of knowing what the devil was wrong in Chuffnell Regis. The Wooster heart was fluttering at being so close to him; the sight of his face and his clean lime scent sent twitched through me, but I resolved not to let it show, and Jeeves explained the circumstances of Chuffy's departure from the yacht without seeming any the wiser. I hadn't high hopes for the outcome from the point at which Mrs. Pongleton thrashed young Dwight Stoker, and once Jeeves reached the part where Chuffy, on orders from his sister, rounded on J. Washburn Stoker, the inevitability of the thing, as Jeeves would say, had taken on the sense of Greek tragedy, until eventually I heard the news that the engagement was off. It was with sad heart that I watched Jeeves return to the hall, sad for Chuffy, and for me, and for my poor neglected prawns.
I dined out that night, Brinkley’s fare being less than appetising, and on my return to the cottage I found it mysteriously lacking in both valets and my best single malt. Having once more been forced to pour the Wooster corpus into bed alone, I dropped into a patch of the dreamless, and will now have to rely on Jeeves’ description of events for a while, what with me being unconscious for most of the proceedings. I've questioned him rather thoroughly, so we should have no problems. It being his night off, Jeeves had spent the evening at the local hostelry. I have a sneaking suspicion he may have been playing darts, but he refuses to either confirm or deny this. He was returning home via the scenic coastal path when his attention was drawn to a commotion outside my cottage, and he hurried over to offer assistance. On arrival he discovered what he described as a conflagration in progress, with my neighbour Sergeant Voules standing outside, supporting Brinkley, who had clearly been at the sauce. Jeeves questioned Voules as to my whereabouts and was informed that there had been shouts of alarm and stones thrown at my window and given that a) I had not appeared in response and b) I was known to have dined out that evening, he had concluded that I was absent from the premises. Jeeves' lightning-quick mind immediately saw the flaw in this tale and, pausing only briefly to enlighten Voules as to his error with somewhat intemperate language, he dashed into the house and mounted the stairs, heading for the master bedroom.
It is at this point that I am able to resume narration, waking as I did to a rough shake to the shoulder from the Jeevesian hand. Were it not for the candle he'd acquired en route I have little doubt that the scene would have played out much as our first meeting did, so startled was I on first coming to consciousness, but being immediately able to identify my assailant left me with only one thought: what the dickens was Jeeves doing roughly manhandling the ex-master in the middle of the night? The answer was swiftly given by the combination of the smell of smoke, which I now realised wasn't coming from the candle, and Jeeves' uncharacteristically-frantic signing. Never let it be said that this Wooster cannot move fast when the need is on him. I leapt from the bed and into my slippers in less than the time it would take you to say Basingstoke, presuming you wanted to say it, and headed for the stairs, Jeeves hot on my tail. I'd managed the first step and was intent on tackling the second when Jeeves' hand shot out and jerked me back by the pyjama shirt, and I turned to him in confusion, considerably debucked by this new tendency of his to be aggressively physical towards the Wooster corpus.
“The stairs appear too dangerous, sir. I think we shall have to try the window,” he informed me, his signs just visible through the smoke, and we dashed back into the bedroom we had just vacated. I hurried across to throw up the window and peer out. Having done more than my fair share of drainpipe shimmying in my time I knew what to look for in a climbing wall, and this wasn't it. I had a feeling one of us was going to come something of a cropper on the descent, and it was unlikely to be Jeeves with his gazellelike properties. The heart sank, and I looked longingly back towards the hall and stairs, and Jeeves who was hefting the mattress off the bed. Jeeves often moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, but in a crisis there's none finer. Realising, therefore, that the mattress was in some way integral to his plan for our safe and swift exit from the cottage, I hopped over and dutifully grasped an end. I don't know if you've ever moved a mattress, but they're surprisingly heavy, and Jeeves looked a little relieved at my assistance, no doubt because a few seconds later we were attempting to thrust the bally thing out of the window. This took a bit of time, mattresses not being designed for their window-posting properties, but eventually we had it satisfactorily sailing into the night.
“I suggest sitting on the sill and jumping away from the house, sir. Aim for the mattress and, if possible, attempt to roll when you land,” Jeeves instructed me. I nodded at this and swung one leg over the sill as I planned my trajectory. Then I turned back for one last look at the man before I put my life in his hands.
“Good luck, sir,” he offered.
“God speed, Jeeves,” was my reply.
I don't know if you've ever jumped out of a second storey window, aiming for a small patch of cream bedding that's dimly visible in the glow of a raging inferno below, but if you haven't, and I'd put a packet on that being the case, you may be surprised to hear just how small the mattress appeared to me. I felt as if I was bunging the Wooster corpus onto a postage stamp, rather than the bed-sized object sitting in the grass, and I was very much aware that if I failed to hit I would know. Nevertheless, jump I did, finding the target pretty much bang on, much to my surprise. I forgot the rolling part, but added it in later to get out of the way for Jeeves, who was waiting patiently on the windowsill. He was soon down, landing gracefully in the centre of the mattress, and he brushed us both off before helping me to my unsteady feet. I tottered away from the house and sank down under a tree as the fire brigade arrived with a very large ladder, and Chuffy and Pauline Stoker in hot pursuit.
“Bertie, old thing!” Chuffy exclaimed, jumping out of the car. “What the dickens happened?”
“I'm not entirely sure, Chuffy, I'm – Jeeves!” I broke off, turning to the man,
“Sir?”
“It escaped my attention before, strange as that may seem, but why was the building on fire?”
Jeeves performed the little gesture that told me he was clearing his throat and replied “Well, sir, if I understand correctly, it appears that Mr. Brinkley knocked over a lamp on his return from the public house.”
This sounded perfectly in-character to me. “Ah. Sloshed, was he?”
“I have the distinct impression that he has imbibed more than would usually be recommended, sir, yes,” and I nodded and turned my attention back to Chuffy.
“Well, there you have it, Chuffy. You're down one cottage, I'm afraid. Brinkley burnt it down. But why are you here anyway? Not that you're unwelcome, far from it, but it is rather late.”
“I was taking Pauline back to the boat when she saw the fire engines. We came up to see what was happening.”
“Taking Pauline back – dash it, you don't mean to tell me that's all on again?”
“Indeed, I do.”
“But how? The last thing I knew you'd belittled old man Stoker's appearance and your sister had biffed his son. Not what you'd call congenial circs.”
“Oh that's all forgotten! Pauline told him that you were in the area and if she couldn't marry me she'd be perfectly happy with you, and he welcomed me back with open arms.”
“Huh!” I responded, considerably bucked by this news, but more than a little aware that had it not worked out I'd have been frightfully in the soup again. After all, if a girl says she's going to marry you there's not much you can do except say “Right, ho,” and start looking for a housekeeper.
At this point Pauline interjected something into the conversation that I didn't quite catch, not having been looking at her at the time, but which had Chuffy starting and then giving a little laugh.
“Apparently Jeeves suggested it to her. Something about the psychology of the-”
“-of the individual, yes. It's a subject very close to his heart.” I turned back to the man in question. “Is this true, Jeeves? Did you work it all out again?” What with his life-saving skills and the evidence of his fish-fuelled brain at work again, it was beginning to feel a lot like old times. It was dashed comforting, I can tell you.
“I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir,” he replied, and I smiled.
*******
The comforted feeling lasted just long enough to get this Wooster bedded down on some sacking in the shed, the kiln outhouse having gone the way of the cottage it adjoined. At that point Jeeves excused himself, and it suddenly hit me that he wasn't trickling off to settle in the second-best shed, ready to rise again at the Wooster bedside with the morning tea, but was instead returning to Chuffnell Hall to gently steer the lives of Chuffy and Pauline Stoker, and all the inevitable little Chuffs. There was a definite twitch of the heartstrings at that. My plan to rid myself of the impossible love had failed utterly, and I now found myself not only Jeevesless and doomed to loneliness for the rest of my life, but also lacking in wheel, cottage and wardrobe. I realised then that it would have been better to have him near me, unrequited love be damned, than to have him be forever just beyond my reach, and it was a dashed depressed Wooster who pulled the coat overhead and settled in for a sleepless night.
As it happened, the strains of a night spent jumping out of windows and moving furniture eventually caught up with me, and I dropped off into the dreamless at around dark o'clock. After far less than the requisite eight hours, broken up by some dashed unpleasant coughing fits, I was woken by a familiar gentle prodding, and I looked up to see Jeeves, impeccably dressed as always, standing at sackside with a tin mug on a tray. It all felt so dashed natural that for a moment I forgot that he wasn't meant to be there, and it was only when he asked who would drive that I finally twigged.
“Wait a minute. Are you back with me, Jeeves?” I asked, surprise and hope warring in the Wooster bosom.
“If that's agreeable to you, sir, yes. Lord Chuffnell did not feel himself quite able to measure up to the required standard.”
At this I wanted to leap up and hug the man. I wanted to fall to my knees in gratitude before him and promise never to make him want to leave again. If there had been poetry to hand I may even have read some, I was so bucked with emotion. I settled instead for a broad grin and a concealing sip of tea, and watched his retreating back with adoration in my eyes. It was then that I noticed a distinct suggestion of singe around the shoes, and an unwelcome thought occurred to me. I called him back.
“Jeeves,” I began when he was standing in front of me once more, not entirely certain of how to start this particular conversation. I eventually settled on “Dash it, why did you do it?”
“Sir?” he responded, raising the eyebrow the way he always did when he thought I was blithering, and even that looked beautiful to me after so long.
“Why did you risk your neck in the fire last night? It was dashed dangerous, after all.” I didn't understand why, but for some reason it was very important that I know this, especially when I realised that Jeeves was becoming stuffier by the minute.
“You were in danger, sir, and I was confident that I could save you without any real risk to myself.” This, I thought, would not do.
“What rot, Jeeves. That is to say, flapdoodle. A man who leaps out of a second storey window onto a mattress is not a man who has thought through all the angles and pronounced a plan safe. I'm very grateful, of course, but I really must insist you don't do it again.” At this point I fear I began to get a bit maudlin. “I won't have you risking that brilliant brain for anything, and especially not for this Wooster. It's just not on, you've always gone above and beyond, but this is too far, Jeeves. Do you understand me? I won't have it, just – dash it, why did you do it?” I begged, not understanding at all. I'd have done it for him in a heartbeat, of course I would, although he probably had a smoke-detecting nose that would have had him out of the cottage before the soft furnishings had even started to smoulder, but I just couldn't see what was in it for him. I watched, waiting for a reply, and saw the stuffiest of stuffy Jeeves appear before my eyes. This worried me. I didn't want to risk him leaving me again when I'd only just got him back, and I nearly told him that he didn't have to answer. I'd just raised my hands to speak, when something seemed to unclench in him and he took a deep breath and moved.
“For me, the risks of not entering far outweighed the risks of doing so, sir,” he replied, with a strange suggestion of nervousness about him, and I ran the sentence round the Wooster noggin a few times until all became clear. I may have gasped a little at the revelation.
“Oh, Jeeves,” I replied, thoroughly moved, “You do know I would run in to any number of burning buildings for you, don't you?” A lava-spewing volcano couldn't stop me, I thought privately, as his expression softened until he was so bally beautiful I could barely breathe.
“Thank you, sir, I do,” he nodded, and his face split into the broadest smile I'd ever seen on the Jeevesian map, it was still pretty narrow by most peoples' standards but showed a distinct impression of teeth, if you can credit it. I openly beamed back, giving him the full force of the Wooster spirits as he biffed off to start the car.
Just corking, what?