From the Diaries of Sir Shash, September19__
The gathering at lunch was a sedate one. Sanity had, for the moment, returned. People had been given restoratives and everyone had changed clothes. Bingo Little and his wife Rosie Banks, the celebrated novelist had arrived. Angela was delighted to see them both.
As everyone gathered around the lunch table and a massive birthday cake had made an appearance, Seppings stepped in to announce, ‘Baron Chuffnell and Baroness Pauline.’
Marmaduke ‘Chuffy’ Chuffnell and Pauline Stoker always look like they have stepped out of a Hollywood motion picture. They walked in and the mood in the hall seemed to lift instantly. Emerald Stoker, Pauline’s younger sister, instantly ran up to hug the both of them. As did Bertie, Bobbie and Angela. Lord Travers and Aunt Dahlia were all smiles. Incredibly, Aunt Agatha and Sir Roderick Glossop also looked very pleased to see them. Aunt Agatha always had a soft corner for the extremely rich and famous. These two fit the definition perfectly.
Chuffy was a man’s man. Solid, dependable, built like a Greek statue. Pauline was a rare combination of the kind of beauty that could stop traffic and kindness that would make you admire her instantly. I knew that she was once engaged to Bertie. It had not worked due to parental pressure and she eventually married Chuffy. Despite those developments, she and Chuffy remained among Bertie and Bobbie’s closest friends. I had known them for a few years now and a strong friendship had blossomed between us. They split their time between America and England and often vacationed together with Bertie and Bobbie.
It was time for the birthday cake to be cut. Things went off quite smoothly. The prospect of cake made Oswal and Bonzo behave quite well. Lord Travers gifted Angela a beautiful ruby necklace, a piece much admired by everyone present.
The lunch was as expected, a work of art. Anatole outdid his usual high standards with Salade Lyonnaise, Coquilles Saint-Jacques, Coq au vin, Ratatouille, Brie and Comte cheese, Ile flottante among other delicacies. For me, he had worked out some Tawa Chicken and Roti. Bertie as usual took away most of the Tawa Chicken intended for me. Afterwards, the women settled down to card games. Lord Travers retired to his study for some work. Spode fell asleep on the sofa. Bertie, Tuppy, Gussie, Bingo, Chuffy and Harold played darts. I made an excuse and went off to explore the magnificent library room. It was my favourite room in Brinkley. I shut the door. It sounded distant but I could hear some melancholic piano music somewhere. Perhaps it was playing on a gramophone record in one of the staff rooms.
I sat in a plush chair and started thumbing through an old book of quotes. Sometime later, there was a sound of faint footsteps and I turned around to see Bobbie standing there. The dog Bartholomew came in and brushed against my legs repeatedly. I patted him affectionately. He plopped on a rug. Bobbie spoke.
‘What, all of us are in that room and you come here Sir? Bored already?’
‘Not at all Bobbie, you know I love visiting Brinkley. Such warmth is rare. I came here because I love exploring this room.’
‘That you do and you like to wander off on your own too, don’t you?’
I smiled and stood up.
She came up to me. We both walked to the window.
‘Missing your family?’
‘Yes’
‘Planning to visit soon?’
‘Yes, San Francisco calls later this year.’
She nodded and looked at the stunning landscape outside. The mildly cloudy afternoon had fashioned a soft glow.
‘Look at that view. I wonder how anyone gets any reading done here. You just want to sit and stare at the view.’
‘Brinkley is one of the most beautiful residences in the world.’
Bobbie looked at me straight in the eye.
‘Would you live in a place like this or in a London apartment, where you can feel the energy of the world around you?’
I looked at her straight in the eye.
‘You know me, Bobbie, I don’t live anywhere in particular. The one-bedroom apartment in London, the sofa that Bertie has, in the back of your Bentley on those drives, with my family in San Francisco, on a ship to India. In India. In my mind.’
She was silent for a few seconds.
‘There is a part of you I could fix…I think. But I can’t.’
‘You have,’ I said. ‘You and the old boy.’
‘Will you come and visit once you settle in San Francisco?’
‘Who said anything about settling anywhere?’
‘Is that not what your family wants?’
‘Maybe. I have no idea what the future holds. Right now, I am here. I mean to be here.’
‘Okay, the sofa has your name on it.’
She stood there and held my hand. Neither of us felt any need to say another word.
The melancholic piano music went on playing.
Bartholomew was looking at us.
From the Diaries of Sir Shash, September19__
The afternoon’s soft glow melted into rich evening hues. The lamps came on all around Brinkley. You could be forgiven for mistaking the place as something magical out a fantasy novel. Everyone had changed clothes again to somehow look more fabulous than they already did. Except Spode. He still looked like a military dictator. A professional piano player was playing an extraordinary piece. Guests were starting to pour in. Aunt Dahlia had gone all out to make sure that Angela would treasure the memory of this day. Uncle Travers was managing to look hospitable and uncomfortable at the same time. Jeeves and Seppings were masterfully administering the mechanics of the hospitality, supervising the serving staff, rechecking the welcome drinks, the hors d’oeuvres, the formal welcomes, the gentle directions. They looked at me watching them. I tipped my non-existent cap. They nodded in return.
I walked up to Angela and Tuppy and said, ‘Lady Angela, no one fairer than you on this night. You look positively celestial.’ I looked at Tuppy and said, ‘Thank your stars young Tuppy.’ He grinned good naturedly and shook hands warmly.
Angela smiled sweetly and replied, ‘Thank you Sir Shash for the wonderfully charming compliment. You look pretty dapper yourself.’
‘Ah, thank you,’ I said. ‘I…’
Madeline Bassett had joined the conversation, ‘Sir Shash, doesn’t Angela look like a young pixie princess tonight?’
‘She does indeed,’ I said smiling.
‘Well, isn’t this wonderful? I do love these gatherings. These words, the come to me.
A night lit so bright
The faeries envy tonight
Wistfully they gaze
I realized that Madeline’s thoughts could rearrange themselves in Haiku or perhaps cinquain naturally. That to me was frankly, incredible. Soppy yes, unique also yes.
‘I say,’ said Rosie Banks and came up to where we were, ‘Madeline, have you tried writing a book of verse?’
This gratified Madeline immensely. She squealed in delight and took Rosie aside immediately.
I left them alone to where Emerald and Gussie were deep in conversation with Pauline and Chuffy. Pauline was making Gussie promise that he and Emerald would visit them in America as soon as possible. I saw Chuffy scratch his head lightly when Gussie lamented the loss of Mr. Bingo, his pet lizard on the grounds that morning before Chuffy and Pauline had arrived.
Bingo Little barged into that with ‘Gussie, you nincompoop, you lost a lizard named after me?’
Gussie said sheepishly, ‘Well, it wasn’t my fault. I chased it twice today. It was riding on Spode’s jacket and then noticed that infernal dog Bartholomew planning something nefarious and made its run for freedom. It unfortunately jumped on Lady Agatha during the escape.’
‘Sounds like a perfectly normal situation when you are around Gussie,’ said Bingo.
‘You weren’t there, Bingo, you did not see the trouble I went to search for it. Emerald helped too. It was awfully sweet of her,’ Gussie objected. Emerald shook her head.
I noticed Lady Agatha saying angrily, ‘Why you little blighters? Wait till I catch you’. Bonzo and Oswald were running away from her mimicking the way she had fallen earlier that morning laughing loudly. She turned around and bumped into Sir Roderick Glossop. The famed neurologist had not recovered from the bump he had taken from Spode in the morning. He looked aghast. Lady Agatha looked dazed herself and made straight for Jeeves. He took her by the hand to a comfortable sofa.
I heard some laughter in a corner and noticed my two favourite people. Bertie and Bobbie. Bertie was looking extremely handsome in his tuxedo, not a hair out of place and Bobbie was in red. Stiffy Byng and Harold Pinker came up to me. Momentarily a light flashed. I became aware of a photographer. Aunt Dahlia really had gone all out into making this one for the pages. The photographer saw me and for some reason thought that he would have a word with me. He saw me with Harold and Stiffy. He addressed all of us.
‘Madame and Sirs,’ he began in a hushed tone, ‘I am Jones, from The Daily Socialite. I must ask you and I hope you don’t mind. Just between you and me since it is a matter of great importance. The gossip columns are whispering about it. I have it on good authority. That rag, The Daily Trail is planning to run a hot piece tomorrow. Is it true that Lady Roberta Wickham and Mr. Bertie Wooster are no longer an item? In fact, it is being said that she is sweet on an Indian gentleman, Lord, what a scandal that would be.’ He paused for a moment, went vacant for another and then looked at me and said hoarsely, ‘My God, is that you? It is you.’
I confess, I was stupefied. Harold buried his face in his palms. He was silently convulsing with laughter. Jones looked at him, baffled. Stiffy was the one who answered, ‘Mr Jones, what an interesting question. I am afraid, I can answer this but not here. You know the ramifications. We cannot have anything but the absolute truth, wouldn’t you agree?’
Jones nodded vigorously. The poor sap.
Stiffy went on. ‘Tell you what, please wait for me by the big fountain out on the lawn. You have seen the one. I will be with you shortly.’
Jones was visibly happy. He made for the fountain briskly forgetting all about me and Harold.
‘Good Lord,’ said Harold, ‘want to watch, Shash?’
‘Sure, why not?’ I answered.
We went outside and stood on the lawn. About thirty metres away Jones was near the fountain and chomping away on a plate of fried fish. I could hear the piano. It was a livelier piece now.
Stiffy was gone only for a minute. She now reappeared with Bartholomew in her arms. If you ask me, that dog is too big to be carried around.
‘No, no, no,’ I began. It was to no avail.
Stiffy set Bartholomew down a few feet away from Jones. He looked at her face and his instincts told him what was about to transpire. He did not wait. He stuffed the remaining fish in his mouth, turned around and started running. Bartholomew chased. Suffice it to say, I did not see him the rest of the evening.
A few minutes later, Aunt Dahlia asked Seppings, ‘Where is that reporter? He was taking photographs. I cannot find him. Find him Seppings, and tell him that I shall set the hounds on him if he does not take Angela’s photograph with Dame A______ and Rajah U_________. Find him and tell him to earn an honest living.’ Seppings looked panicked and ran to Jeeves.
Rajah U_______ and Dame _________were now in conversation with Lord Travers and Angela. Lord Travers was rapidly glancing around to locate the photographer. Aunt Dahlia was turning red. I looked at Stiffy. She mouthed a silent ‘sorry’ and scampered off.
As my dear friend Bertie always says, ‘Leave it to Jeeves.’
I have seen it before. I saw it again. Jeeves doing what Jeeves does. He materialized with a second photographer who quickly snapped the required photographs, much to everyone’s relief.
Seconds later, Harold and I had cornered Jeeves.
‘How do you do it Jeeves? How?’ I asked.
‘Tell all, my good magician, spill it!’ insisted Harold.
‘Well Sirs, it was under most interesting circumstances in Italy where Mr. Wooster and Lady Wickham were holidaying, that I met Mr. Fernsby, the gentleman you just noticed taking the photographs. I had also met his rival Mr. Jones at the same place. I quickly realized that where one is, the other shadows.’
‘Go on,’ said Harold.
‘Miss Byng, unaware of Lady Travers’s assignment to Mr. Jones hastened his departure through a most unusual motivation. Even as she was walking out with the dog towards the lawn, I could understand the implications of the events to unfold. I moved quickly to locate Mr. Jones’s rival. It was not difficult.’
‘How, man? How?’ said Harold again.
‘Sir, Mr. Frensby is partial to bad disguises. When I noticed Mr. Jones earlier today walking around with his camera, I had also noticed a gentleman introduce himself as the renowned nature photographer Mr. Hedgerow. It was not hard to observe the amateurish makeup. I simply told him that Mr. Jones was now indisposed and that he could help with a few photographs.’
Harold and I looked at each other and then at Jeeves. We exclaimed with some depth of feeling.
‘You stand alone, Jeeves!’
‘An extraordinary man!’
‘Thank you, Sirs,’ said he and seemed to float away.
The rest of the evening, I am happy to note, went off splendidly.
The food was praised with superlatives. Anatole had excelled in supervising the preparations.
Musicians on the piano and the violin had delighted all those present.
Spode and Madeline had danced. Raja U_______ had asked Honoria to dance with him. I thought I had seen everything.
Gussie and Emerald had given stiff competition to Bingo and Rosie in charades later in the evening.
Papers tomorrow would contain enough pictures of Angela and Tuppy as well as Angela and very important guests. They would contain the pictures of Bertie and Bobbie, Chuffy and Pauline and Stiffy and Harold and all the other beautiful people.
I suspect there could be a bitter and speculative piece on Lady Wickham, Bertie Wooster and an Indian gentleman from The Daily Socialite.
As far as days can sometimes go at Brinkley, some may say that today’s events had been on par with the usual lunacy. However, I know that Brinkley Court has always had a way of saying ‘goodnight’ in the sanest manner possible. A happy ‘goodnight’.
As I keep this pen down, I have noticed that Bartholomew has entered the room. He has apparently decided to sleep on the rug next to my bed tonight. I like that.
THE END
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