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Mar. 4th, 2006 03:04 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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indeedsir_backupOi. Fic. All for you. Yes, you. I'm talking to you.
Title: Jeeves Takes a Rest - Part 1 (Part 2)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
weaselwoman13
Pairing:Breginald Jooster.
Rating: G
Summary: Jeeves has the flu.
Notes: Inspired by the butler Peasemarch in Cocktail Time who falls in love with the lady of the house after being taken care of by her while he was ill. A small cartoon lightbulb appeared over my head, and I said to myself, "Aha, there has been a fic with sick!Bertie, but what about sick!Jeeves?" So here, have some sick!Jeeves.
Warnings: IT HAS BOYS HOLDING HANDS. It has a cockney maid. It's really long, which is why it had to be split into twin posts. And if there is a limit to Aunt Dahlia's coolness, I believe I have exceeded it. But I don't care. She's Aunt Dahlia and Bertie is her favorite nephew and she's going to have some mildly historically-inaccurate opinions once in a while, dash it!
- 1 -
I couldn’t help but notice one morning as he fussed over some lint on my jacket front that Jeeves, my man in more ways than one, wasn’t looking quite up to snuff. Usually a hale, hearty, handsome Johnny full of vim and whatnot, strong as an ox owing to his sturdy middle-class stock, this morning he appeared a bit anaemic. A certain rose-tinged glow usually found in his cheeks was lacking. I didn’t broach the subject, however, as I assumed that perhaps he’d just had a rather late night over some Spinoza. It was none of my business how he spent his solitary evenings while I snored peacefully in my chambers, after all. And I wouldn’t have given it another thought if this trend hadn’t kept up over the next few days. He’d shimmer in each morning, looking pale and drawn, and dark circles took up permanent residence beneath his lower eyelids. When he was a whole half a minute late with the tea one Friday morning, I decided something must be severely wrong. I had to speak.
‘Jeeves,’ I said post-prandially (for these sorts of interventions never go well when one party is distracted with ham and e.), ‘a word.’
‘Sir?’
‘I don’t mean to pry into your personal affairs, but lately you resemble one of those persons Count Dracula makes regular nightly visits to. Have you, by any chance, noticed any suspicious-looking birds with unusual dentition skulking outside Berkley Mansions lately?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And you haven’t got a pair of peculiar circular indentations on your neck, have you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Thank heavens for that! So what is the matter? Because you are looking a bit peaky.’
‘I had not noticed, sir.’
He sounded coolly ruffled as he spoke these words and I hastened to make amends, jumping out of my seat and laying a tender hand on his chest. ‘I don’t mean to be critical. It’s not that it detracts from your finely-chiselled features in any way. Bertram still swoons at the sight of you, you understand.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘But it is useless for me to attempt to stifle my concern. You are feeling all right, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Getting your nightly eight hours?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Because if you ever need a bit of a hiatus, you need only ask. I’ve taken care of myself before, you know. I could easily take up your post for a while.’ To tell the truth, I still found the idea perfectly rotten, but neither could I stand being waited on hand and foot by someone who looked like Jeeves did. He could have played Marley’s ghost in a touring company of ‘A Christmas Carol’ without needing a drop of greasepaint.
‘I am grateful for your concern, sir,’ said he, ‘but I am in fine health and quite capable of fulfilling my duties.’
‘If you say so,’ I said, examining him closely. Perhaps I was imagining things. ‘In that case, I am headed off to the Drones. I shall return in time. Get a bit of rest, why don’t you?’ I gave him a peck on the cheek and then left him to his devices, though I still couldn’t keep a slight worry out of my mind. You know how it is when you’re daffy about someone – you let yourself get all worked up about things happening to them and before you know it you’re reluctant to even let them out the door because they might get hit by a bus or set upon by pariah dogs. I had been slightly skittish about him lately anyway. He let slip to me that certain uncouth savages of my acquaintance had been making overtures to him – you know, trying to coax him out of my employ and waving fat cheques beneath his nose. He’d never leave my side; he has said so himself, but dash it, even when one keeps one’s canary securely in a gilded cage, one doesn’t appreciate hungry felines hanging around it all the time. Not that I think of Jeeves as a canary, of course, but you understand my meaning. Now it looked as though I had to worry about him keeling over on the spot as well as getting snatched up by my many rivals for his attentions, and it was causing me to feel not a little cheesy.
I caught up with the usual suspects at the Drones, flung a bread roll here and there, kidded back and forth with Tuppy Glossop, Pongo Twistleton, and Oofy Prosser over the billiards table – but it did not ease my mind one iota. As I was surrounded by sympathetic ears, I gave voice to my apprehensions.
‘I say,’ I I-sayed. ‘Do valets ever get sick?’
‘Of course they get sick, you ass,’ Oofy Prosser said, quite unnecessarily harshly, I thought. ‘Mine was off just last month with a nasty case of St. Vitus’ dance.’
‘Why?’ asked Tuppy. ‘Something the matter with Jeeves?’
‘I say yea; he says nay,’ I explained. ‘Yon Jeeves has a lean and hungry look. I’m concerned about his well-being.’
‘Oh, he’s probably just not getting enough green vegetables,’ Tuppy said.
‘Or too many,’ contributed Freddy Widgeon, who was prodding with his billiard cue at a shuttlecock which had become trapped in a ceiling light fixture.
‘Yes. You haven’t got anything to worry about, Bertie.’
‘Are you a doctor?’ I demanded of Tuppy.
‘Of course I’m not. But my uncle is.’
He referred to Sir Roderick Glossop, the noted nerve specialist. ‘Looking at a chap who’s perched on his wardrobe warbling like a finch and declaring him a loony is one thing,’ I retorted. ‘Diagnosing sick valets is another entirely.’
‘Well, stop harping on it, Bertie; it’s been your turn for ages.’
I gave Oofy a dark look, and took my turn. I could honestly say, however, that my heart was not in it.
- 2 -
When I returned and let myself into the flat, I heard a noise. This in itself was unusual: were Jeeves an automobile, his motor would no doubt be advertised as ‘whisper-quiet,’ and one would hardly know he was in the flat if one couldn’t see what spotlessly good order it was in. But this afternoon, I heard a noise.
It was a series of rather alarming coughs. These were not the usual gentle guttural reverberations of an old sheep on a faraway mountaintop – the ones which usually told me that I was making an unwise decision, or that I had put something on backwards. These were coughs which rattled the windowpanes, the sort you heard emanating from behind the doors of closed wards in infirmaries. Are you familiar with a strange feature of the human body which causes one’s knees to go wobbly upon perceiving some unpleasant scene of medical carnage? A sort of sympathetic twinge, as it were. Well, this dreadful noise made the Wooster underpinnings turn to jelly, and I rushed to Jeeves’ lair to find him.
Though it is usually my custom to knock first, my haste made me forget my manners, and I burst in. ‘Jeeves!’ I yelped. ‘You sound dreadful!’
He was seated on his bed (the scene of so many pleasant evenings in recent memory) when I entered, but upon seeing me he hastened to recover from his fit. ‘Pardon me, Mr. Wooster,’ he said, sounding much hoarser than he was supposed to. ‘I shall be better directly.' Another fit of hacking seized him.
‘Don’t try that with me!’ I warned, brandishing an admonitory digit. ‘You’re ill!’
‘It is nothing, sir. A slight cold.’
‘Slight nothing, Jeeves! What absolute rot!’
Having finally managed to stop the coughs, he rose to his feet before I could stop him, Jeeves being a stickler for the old feudal spirit and seemingly unable to realise I wish he’d quit all his sirring and let himself be treated as an equal – at least while we were alone and didn’t have to worry about keeping up appearances. However, when he had reached his full height, which was an extremely full height indeed, I saw his eyelids flutter a little. The blood drained from his face, and he swayed where he stood, threatening to topple like a felled oak. ‘For heaven’s sake, man, sit!’ I squawked in alarm. He obeyed, and I zipped to his side and sat down next to him, bally terrified I was about to be one Jeeves short if something wasn’t done.
I placed my arms around him as he began to cough again. He felt quite warm, and so I pressed a hand to his brow to check for fever, as scores of aunts and nurses had done for me in days of yore. I was immediately reminded of an incident in my childhood which taught me in what you might call 'the hard way' why I had been warned to stay away from the hot stove. ‘Jeeves, you’re positively incinerating!’ I cried. He opened his mouth but I interrupted him. ‘No, dash it, Jeeves, no! No more of this backchat! As your master I demand that you remain in bed until further notice. I’m going to fetch a doctor.’
‘Very good, sir,’ he said. There was a slight quaver in his voice and a dazed look in his eye. The poor man was a mess. I rushed to fetch him a stiff one, then rang the doctor and told him he had better make his way over to Berkley Mansions P.D.Q. He took his damned time, I must say, but eventually he came and I shoved him into Jeeves’ lair, where the accused had fallen asleep. I rarely saw Jeeves asleep – previously, I never would have known he was even capable of it, and even now, when it sometimes happened that we ended up occupying the same berth for the evening, I was usually unconscious long before he was. Something about the sight shook me to my very foundation. He woke up when we entered, though, and I’m dashed if I didn’t have to remind him to remain at ease. The fellow’s like a bally jack-in-the-box.
The doc examined and poked and prodded Jeeves while I flitted about in the background like a caffeinated hummingbird. ‘How long have you been feeling ill, Mr. Jeeves?’ he asked, peering into Jeeves’ ears. (I wished he’d get a move on and look at Jeeves’ throat – I mean, people didn’t cough out of their ears, did they? It’d certainly make things like speaking and eating and breathing easier, but what a rummy sensation it would be.)
‘Approximately four days, sir,’ he said.
‘What?!’ I twittered. ‘You said you were in fine health! Dash it, you ought to have been resting instead of ministering to my every whim, you perfect ass! I feel awful!’
‘Please, Mr. Wooster,’ shushed the doctor. I fell into a moody silence. He continued to grill Jeeves about this and that. At the conclusion of the interview, he stood and said, ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Simply a touch of influenza.’
‘A touch?’ I said, aghast at this blighter’s insensitivity. I mean, people died from flu, didn’t they? “A touch? I’d bally well say so—’
‘Mr. Wooster, please,’ he chided me again. ‘Your man should get plenty of rest until he recovers. It appears that he’s been trying to continue with his duties despite his illness. I must insist that you allow him time off.’
Well, I was fairly well pipped, I can tell you! Here he was, making me out as some sort of slavedriver, when I was the one who elbowed Jeeves forcibly in the direction of a warm bed and made sure the medic got here in the first place! ‘Now, look here—‘ I began.
‘Mr. Jeeves,’ the pushy blighter cut me off, ‘make sure you get plenty of sleep and a large quantity of fluids. Should you take a nasty turn for the worse..’
‘I’ll call straight away,’ I piped in again. Jeeves started to say something, and then began to hack again. It rather unnerved me. One grows used to thinking of Jeeves as a sort of superhuman. One forgets that beneath that steely surface, the man is flesh and blood.
Eventually, the doc bid us good evening and scurried off the premises, and I was left at rather a loss. ‘Er,’ I said. That didn’t get things very far, and so I said, ‘d’you want anything, Jeeves?’
He sat up on his pillows. ‘It is not necessary for you to exert yourself on my behalf, sir. If I may have the use of the automobile, I can go to an aunt of mine, who lives—‘
‘No!’ I said, scarcely able to b. my e.s. ‘It is my intention to look after you.’
He gave the familiar cough of disapproval, which escalated into another fit. I winced. When he was finished, he said, ‘I cannot allow you to undertake such a burden, Mr. Wooster. It is hardly an employer’s responsibility—‘
‘Fie on an employer’s responsibility,’ I said airily. ‘Have you forgotten that I am more than a mere employer, Jeeves? Anyway, you spend every bally moment looking after me. It’s only right that I should chip in and do the stalwart thing when you’re laid-up.’
He was looking me over with a vague sort of apprehension in his pallid face. ‘Your concern is quite touching, sir,’ he said. ‘However, I could not allow it.’
I read his thoughts, Something clicked. ‘You don’t think I can do it,’ I said without concealing the disappointment in my voice. ‘You don’t think you’re in good hands…’ I should have known. I’m a complete dunce at nearly everything; why should he think I ought to be able to aid him on the road to recovery? He was probably afraid my domestic efforts would result in the building catching on fire at the very least.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘On the contrary, I am sure you are quite capable. However, I cannot impose upon your good nature in such a way.’
I put my foot down. ‘Jeeves, you are feverish and sick and in no condition to be biffing off to aunts in the two-seater. No – I shall look after you. It is my duty as an employer, and, dash it, as a friend.’ I paused to let the effects of my dramatic speech sink in, and then said, ‘So, now it’s your turn to order me around. I shall fulfil your heart’s desire, Jeeves.’
‘It is very kind of you, sir, but at the moment, I wish only to sleep.’
Poor fellow. Positively knocked-out. I right-hoed and left him alone, and then I hovered intermittently outside the door, listening to his alternate light, delicate snores and terrible coughs. As I was fluttering inter-vigil about the flat, there was a knock at the door and I tiptoed over to answer it. It was a few chaps from the Drones.
‘Hello, Bertie!’ whooped Tuppy, who was one of those assembled. ‘Put on your hat and come with us right now. I’ve just got tickets for that new musical comedy of Freddie Flowerdew’s that’s playing downtown.’
‘Can’t, I’m afraid,’ I said.
‘Why on earth not?’
‘I,’ I said, ‘am a man with responsibilities. I am looking after Jeeves.’
‘What is he, five?’
‘No, he’s in bed with the bally flu,’ I said crossly, unimpressed with his crass remark.
‘So call a gentlemen’s personal gentlemen’s personal gentleman,’ suggested Bingo Little wearily.
‘They don’t exist,’ I informed him.
‘Bertie,’ Bingo implored. ‘We know how devoted you are to Jeeves, but you’re signing his paycheques. You don’t have to press damp cloths to his forehead and feed him white grapes.’
‘I am doing nothing of the sort,’ I said. ‘I am merely watching out for a fellow human being, and if you don’t mind, I believe said f.h.b. would prefer to rest undisturbed by cheeky blighters and their musical comedy tickets!’
Having ticked them off properly, I closed the door and returned to my post outside Jeeves’ lair. I liked Bingo’s nerve! ‘Devoted to Jeeves’ indeed. It was my suspicion that Bingo was harbouring a trace of the green-eyed monster within his breast. The two of us were like Damon and Pythias in school, if you take my meaning, but once he was released into the world at large he began falling in love with any female lobbed in his general direction. However, I have not ruled out the possibility that he may have had an inkling about Jeeves and me – and slightly resented the whole thing, don’t you know. But that was neither here nor there. The issue I was grappling with at the moment was whether or not to enter Jeeves’ lair and disturb him. He kept coughing, which I know chaps with flu are supposed to do, and it wasn’t as though I knew some incantation to stop it, but perhaps he needed his glass refilled or something fetched from the kitchen. I opted for disturbing him.
I found the blighter on his feet. ‘Jeeves,’ I said warningly. ‘You heard the man. You’re to stay in bed. You haven’t been stricken suddenly with the urge to dust, have you?’
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I was merely intending to locate you in order to ask what your intentions were for the evening meal. Since it would be unwise for me to cook and risk contagion—‘
‘Good lord, Jeeves; I can’t believe you’re thinking about cooking at a time like this. I’d forgotten about dinner. I’m not hungry. I don’t want anything. Great Scott! What about you?! You must be starved, Jeeves!’
‘I have very little appetite, sir.’
‘Rot. You’ll never get better if you lie here wasting away.’
‘I will prepare myself something later this evening.’
I could see I wasn’t going to get anywhere via persuasion. ‘Look, Jeeves, I’m just going to pop out to the kitchen and see about finding something for you. You stay here. Relax. Change out of uniform, for heaven’s sake. I’ll be back in a moment.’
The kitchen is normally Jeeves’ domain, and I wasn’t quite sure where to find anything. But after a lot of hunting I located a cookbook. I had been under the impression that anyone could whip up something edible with the proper guidance – perhaps not such a mouth-watering masterpiece as is paraded nightly from Anatole’s kitchen at Brinkley Court, residence of my esteemed Aunt Dahlia, but edible nonetheless. I knew that chicken soup was the usual thing for the fellow under the weather, so I flipped through the tome until I found a promising lead. However, I felt my ambitions plummet as I read:
4 LB. POULTRY BACKS, NECKS, WINGS, AND FEET
8 WHITE PEPPERCORNS
1 BAY LEAF
1 TEASPOON THYME
6 WHOLE CLOVES
6 SPRIGS PARSLEY
1 DICED MEDIUM-SIZED ONION
3 RIBS CELERY, DICED
1 MEDIUM-SIZED DICED CARROT
I gnawed the upper l. in consternation. I was pretty clear on what onions and carrots were, but I wasn’t sure if I could identify thyme or bay leaves if I saw them in a line-up. Obviously the bay leaf would appear leaf-like, but lots of things did. And what was a ‘clove,’ anyway? I’d never been quite clear on that. And I highly doubted that Jeeves stored chicken feet around the place.
I looked from the pages to the shelves as I conducted a brief inventory of our kitchen cabinets. There were black peppercorns (I didn’t know they even came in white), and onions, and something which may or may not have been a bay leaf. I couldn’t be quite sure. Finally I set the book down and returned to Jeeves. ‘D’you know what, Jeeves?’
‘Sir?’
‘I’m just going to go and fetch you something hot from the Drones. And if it’s agreeable to you, perhaps tomorrow we’ll pop into the two-seater and head for Brinkley Court. I think perhaps a regular dosage of Anatole’s cooking is what you require.’
‘Very good, sir.’
- 3 -
Aunt Dahlia was quite sympathetic – ‘Jeeves ill?’ she had boomed over the telephone as I held it some distance from my head to avoid rupture of the eardrum. ‘Well, you can’t manage the household with him in bed, you ass! Bring him here!’
We made the journey to Brinkley and Jeeves settled into one of the nicer servants’ rooms at my behest. I lurked nearby while a maid brought him a hot water bottle.
‘Now, Jeeves, I hope this is agreeable,’ I said.
‘Quite, sir.’
‘Pillows fluffy?’
‘Adequately, sir.’
‘Blankets warm?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Water bottle hot?’
‘Comfortably, sir.’
‘Bertie,’ bellowed Aunt Dahlia from the doorway, causing me to leap nine feet into the air.
‘Aunt Dahlia!’ I rebuked her. ‘Show a little kindness for the infirm!’
‘I was about to ask you to do the same thing,’ Aunt Dahlia said. ‘Give the man some peace and quiet, Bertie – you’ve got the manners of a very talkative limpet and about the same amount of intelligence.’
‘I say!’
‘I am grateful for the company, Madame,’ Jeeves said, sticking up for the young master.
‘You need rest,’ she said authoritatively. ‘Anyway, I need to speak to my fatheaded nephew. Come along, Bertie.’
I reluctantly abandoned Jeeves and followed after her. ‘What is it, Aged A.?’ I asked once we were out of the hospital wing.
‘Well, as you’re here, Bertie, I wondered if you might do something for me.’
I recoiled. Experience had led me to eye any given aunt, even this prince among aunts, with suspicion upon hearing these words. The burned child fears the spilled milk. ‘Now, Auntie, you know I’m here because Jeeves is ill. I’ve got to stick around and look after him.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ she said. ‘I assure you, Bertie; there are scores of maids in this building who will be more than happy to look after Jeeves.’
I shot Aunt Dahlia a look. I didn’t like the idea of a gaggle of young women fussing over Jeeves. I doubted he could stomach such treatment. ‘But I want to look after Jeeves,’ I protested. ‘Offer a bit of manly support. Help him soldier through the bug. He never leaves my side, after all. I’d feel an awful bully leaving him at the mercy of a troupe of ghastly giggling girls at the first sign of trouble.’
‘Well, you can tell him that I’m the one who’s keeping you apart. I need you to assist with the church festivities in Market Snodsbury tomorrow.’
‘Why on earth should I do that?’ I asked in wonderment. I may have won the scripture knowledge prize at school, but that didn’t change the fact that shepherding a bunch of sticky children as they begged another ride on the merry-go-round was not my idea of a large afternoon.
‘Because the vicar needs the help, and it’s best that I endear myself to him. I’m trying to get him to write an article for Milady’s Boudoir.’
My agogness increased a notch. ‘A vicar? Why?’
‘He’s quite a skilled writer, actually. He wrote a few rather amusing articles for the church bulletin, and it occurred to me that a contribution from the vicar would make the Boudoir a little more appealing to the latest mug I’m trying to pawn it off to.’
‘Oh, Auntie – you’re not trying to sell the mag?’
‘It’s either sell the mag or get a bit of extra cash out of your Uncle Tom, and I’ve given up on that.’
‘Who’s buying it?’
‘A Miss Vermazen. Quite well-off. President of the local chapter of the Young Women’s Christian Fellowship or some such rot. She’s rather interested in using it to circulate information pertaining to her group, but naturally she’ll want a rag with a decent reputation for communicating the sacred. Solution? Some good-natured bit of fluff from the pen of the vicar.’
‘Oh, Auntie,’ I said, looking at her with sorrow in my eyes.
‘I assure you I don’t like it any more than you do, Bertie,’ she said, making a my-hands-are-tied sort of gesture.
‘So you want me to go and chip in at the church carnival,’ I said.
‘Yes. They need someone to supervise the ring toss and I’ve already told them you’re their man. It’ll be easy. You’ll enjoy it.’
Well, it was no use digging my heels in. ‘Yes, Auntie,’ I said.
- 4 -
‘So, Jeeves, it looks as though I’m resigned to go into the village tomorrow and cosy up to this vicar,’ I said, perched on a chair by his bedside. He was propped in bed and someone had finally managed to sweet-talk him into a pair of pyjamas. I had come in to bring Jeeves a bowl of Anatole’s masterful soup from that evening’s dinner, only to find that someone had gotten there before me and he had quite the spread on the tray before him. ‘I shall be disappearing for most of the day tomorrow in order to play master of ceremonies to a load of tots. No matter – they do appear to be taking decent care of you here.’
‘Yes, sir. I have had no shortage of attention from the various young ladies in Mrs. Travers’ employment.’
I felt a jealous pang – like the ones I feel whenever Jeeves returns from his holidays rattling on about being asked to judge seaside Bathing Belles competitions. ‘Yes, well, you’ll be dashed sick of girls by now, I’d expect.’
‘Well, sir, though they are extremely capable young ladies and pleasant in many respects, one feels unpleasantly smothered beneath their ministrations.’
Suddenly the cheeks felt distinctly hot. I wondered if he was dropping me a subtle hint. ‘I say, Jeeves, if my presence grows tiresome…’
‘No, sir,’ he assured me. ‘As I informed Mrs. Travers earlier, I am grateful for your company.’
‘In that case, why don’t you eat your soup?’ I wheedled. ‘It’s spectacular. One of Anatole’s ripest.’
‘I have eaten a small quantity of the soup, sir. However, my appetite is still not particularly strong.’
‘But, dash it—‘ I began, then clamped the mouth shut as I realised there was a lady present. One of Aunt Dahlia’s maids was in the doorway, holding a bottle of cough medicine and poised to strike.
‘Oh! ‘Ello,’ she said. She was a curvaceous and extremely blonde creature of tender years. I might have called her a pippin, except I didn’t like her parading in here to fuss with Jeeves. I felt that he was solely mine to fuss with. ‘It’s you, Mr. Wooster. I thought Mr. Jeeves must’ve ‘ad a cousin or a brother come to visit ‘im; you’ve been ‘angin’ ‘round ‘ere for hours. It’s touching. Anyway, I brought some cough syrup. ‘E’s nearly been ‘ackin’ up a lung, ‘e ‘as, poor fellow. You all right, dear?’ The pitch of her voice leapt an octave as she addressed Jeeves. ‘Still feelin’ a bit puny? Poor lamb. This’ll ‘elp clear off that nasty old cough of yours, all right?’
‘Thank you, miss,’ Jeeves said with astounding dignity.
‘And why didn’t you finish up your nice soup?’ she demanded. ‘Anatole will be furious, ‘e will.’
‘Please give him my sincere apologies.’
‘Well, we don’t always want a twelve-course meal when we’re under the weather, now, do we?’ she said knowledgeably, and then set about straightening the room. ‘Everything’s very orderly in ‘ere. You’re the tidiest patient in the country, aren’t you?’
‘I could not say, miss.’
‘Well, you get well soon and try to have a nice evening, dear,’ she said, giving him a final soupy look before gathering up the picked-at remains of Jeeves’ dinner and exiting. ‘And you too, Mr. Wooster!’
‘Eugh, Jeeves,’ I said when she was out of earshot.
‘She is a big-hearted woman, sir.’
‘Are they all like that?’
‘For the most part, sir.’
‘Well, I regret that I shall be unable to stay here and fend them off for you tomorrow. Duty calls, don’t you know.’
‘It will cause no difficulty, sir, though I do much prefer your society.’
‘I should hope so,’ I said. ‘I’m not the one shoving bottles of poisonous fluid at you and calling you a darling lamb.’ He began to wheeze. I offered my hand and he accepted it. I desperately wished that I could have stayed there with him all night, stroking his fevered brow – and I would have if we’d been in the flat – but around here, too many questions would have been asked, and what if the maid had burst in again to ladle more cough medicine down his throat? Men simply were not allowed to stroke their valets’ fevered brows, especially not in mixed company. So after a while, I simply poured him a glass of brandy (the maids here were focusing far too much on water, lemonade, and other such garbage) and bid him goodnight.
- 5 -
The following day was not one of those ones in which everything goes exactly as it should and all parties involved look upon the setting of the sun with tranquillity and contentment. It was, rather, one of those days where the Gods, lounging about some celestial smoking room, turn to one another and say, ‘I’m awfully bored. Let’s have a bit of fun with that church carnival that’s happening in Market Snodsbury!’ I am not referring to the numerous dropped ice creams, the incident where the stray Alsatian found its way into the refreshment tent, or the little altercation between the vicar and the village atheist, who just happened by for a crack at the ring toss (nice chap, though a little outspoken about the story of Lazarus). I refer to the trouble which surrounded me, as trouble often does, when I happened to run into Bingo Little.
He was visiting the village due to having fallen for the church organist, a rather large-boned girl who was supervising the slinging of the hash – or, rather, the tea and cakes – in the refreshment tent. I enticed him to throw away quite a few of his hard-earned pennies on the ring toss, and he proved an exceptional throw after a few practice shots. He bagged several goldfish in his efforts, then stood around and kept me company.
‘Her name is Imogen. I worship the ground she walks on, Bertie.’ There was a familiar throb in his voice.
‘Lovely,’ I said, handing a few hoops to a golden-haired child of indeterminable gender, and accepting its rather gooey penny. Why don’t children learn to wipe their hands properly after digging into the toffee and caramel? I shall never fathom the infant’s mind (nor the minds of those who decide to go and give birth to the little ticks).
‘I don’t even know if she believes I exist,’ he said, bringing in the tragic angle. I made some sort of noise of camaraderie and watched the child fail miserably at ringing a china tea set. ‘It would be awfully nice if you could speak to her for me, Bertie.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because people trust you.’
‘No, they don’t!’
‘Well, not after they’ve met you. But Imogen’s never met you.’
At that moment the child endeavoured to attract my attention by way of a slight kick to my shin. ‘I want another try,’ it said.
‘Have you got another penny?’
‘No.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, then.’
‘I want a free try.’
‘Er – no,’ I said, a trifle mystified. ‘Why should you get a free try?’
It scowled rather trollishly up at me. ‘Because I think your game’s rigged and I’ll tell.’
‘Won’t do you much good. It’s not rigged.’
‘I think it is, and I’m not giving you another stupid penny!’
‘Suits me,’ I said.
The most golden-haired troll in the history of trolling shot me one of those potentially lethal looks and stomped off back to whatever bridge it lived under. ‘You see?’ I said. ‘People do not even trust me to run a clean ring-toss game at a church-sponsored event.’
‘Come on, Bertie – one isolated incident shouldn’t sap your confidence so much. Golden-haired children are notoriously poor judges of character. No, I believe you have a very trustworthy appearance. Something about those big blue eyes…’
‘Oh, honestly, Bingo. No. Anyway, I can’t do it because I’ve got to run this game.’
‘I’ll take over for you.’
‘Bingo…’
‘Bertie,’ he said sincerely, looking me in the eyes and laying a hand on my arm. He began to massage the limb in an imploring manner. ‘We were at school together…’
I heaved a sigh of exasperation. ‘Fine, Bingo, fine, fine, fine.’
‘Thanks, Bertie! We’re true friends, aren’t we?’
‘Damon and bloody Pythias,’ I muttered as I handed the baton over to Bingo and headed in the direction of the tea tent.
The place had recovered quite nicely from the surprise visit from the Alsatian earlier. The place was filled with various people, mostly those of the gentler sex, putting on the nosebag, but business appeared to have died down a touch. After a bit of investigation I encountered most of Imogen behind a heap of cakes. ‘I say,’ I said, ‘are you very busy?’
‘Only slightly,’ she said.
‘Can I buy you anything?’
‘Oh,’ she said with an airy laugh, ‘I couldn’t eat a thing; been getting sick on this stuff all day – but won’t you buy something anyway for the church’s sake?’
‘Right-ho,’ I said, and selected some alarming-looking mound of chocolate and confectioners’ sugar to take with me. I didn’t suppose it would interest the patient in the least (the sight of it might be detrimental to his health, in fact), but if my young cousin Bonzo decided to show his face at Brinkley I could always bribe him with it to leave me alone. ‘I wonder if I might have a word?’
‘I don’t see why not, Mr…’
‘Sorry. Bertie Wooster.’
‘I’m Imogen Engleton-Lewis. I play the organ in the church.’
‘I know. I mean, I’ve heard.’ We began to step towards a more secluded corner of the tent. ‘I come to you on a peculiar mission, Miss Engleton-Lewis. I wonder if you’ve ever thought about love?’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ she asked, which I suppose I should have foreseen.
‘Well, I’ve just been speaking to a friend—‘ I began. I did not, however, finish this thought. I was not given the opportunity. I don’t know what possessed its owner to do such a thing, but a lady’s handbag had been abandoned in the grass in the corner of the tent. Imogen walked right by it, but my feet became entangled in the strap, and after a foolish-looking two-step in an attempt to remain perpendicular, gravity emerged the victor. As I plummeted earthward my instinct was to grab the first thick, sturdy object I saw, and this, unfortunately, turned out to be Imogen’s waist. When I had stabilised, I found that there was quite an inadequate amount of space between myself and Imogen, who had been shoved against one of the groaning tables in the confusion (crushing several valuable cakes). ‘I say, I’m most dreadfully sorry,’ I yipped, unhanding her and increasing the distance between our bodies about tenfold.
‘Disgraceful!’ I heard some female shout, and then there was an uproar from an assembled crowd of ladies who appeared to be her cronies. They stood and began to file out, obviously scandalised.
‘No, look!’ I cried. ‘No, no! You don’t understand! Oh, blast it!’
My use of this expression provoked a sharp intake of breath from the church organist, who was straightening her dishevelled clothing. ‘Good heavens, Mr. Wooster. I think perhaps you ought to leave.’
‘No, no, listen, listen! I tripped; that’s all!’ I tried to explain myself, but she turned a cold shoulder to me. Finally I gave up, paid for the goods damaged in our scuffle, and stalked off with my tail between my legs.
‘Well? How did it go?’ Bingo prompted upon my return.
I cleared my throat and resumed my post. ‘Erm, well, Bingo, I should say the results were negligible.’
‘Oh.’ Bingo assumed the look of a crestfallen fawn – possibly one whose mother was recently shot. ‘What did she say?’
‘She didn’t get a chance to say much of anything, actually…’
Another child was now toddling up to me, but then I observed one of the ladies who had just fled the scene of my downfall grab his arm and lead him away, with a withering look in my direction.
‘Oh, Bertie,’ Bingo said scornfully, reading the interaction quite accurately. ‘What have you done?’
‘Best not to ask, Bingo,’ I said. ‘It also may be wise not to let on to her that you know me.’
Bingo shook the coconut. ‘You’ve let me down, Bertie,’ he said dramatically, and made his way from my midst.
Title: Jeeves Takes a Rest - Part 1 (Part 2)
Author:
weaselwoman13Pairing:
Rating: G
Summary: Jeeves has the flu.
Notes: Inspired by the butler Peasemarch in Cocktail Time who falls in love with the lady of the house after being taken care of by her while he was ill. A small cartoon lightbulb appeared over my head, and I said to myself, "Aha, there has been a fic with sick!Bertie, but what about sick!Jeeves?" So here, have some sick!Jeeves.
Warnings: IT HAS BOYS HOLDING HANDS. It has a cockney maid. It's really long, which is why it had to be split into twin posts. And if there is a limit to Aunt Dahlia's coolness, I believe I have exceeded it. But I don't care. She's Aunt Dahlia and Bertie is her favorite nephew and she's going to have some mildly historically-inaccurate opinions once in a while, dash it!
I couldn’t help but notice one morning as he fussed over some lint on my jacket front that Jeeves, my man in more ways than one, wasn’t looking quite up to snuff. Usually a hale, hearty, handsome Johnny full of vim and whatnot, strong as an ox owing to his sturdy middle-class stock, this morning he appeared a bit anaemic. A certain rose-tinged glow usually found in his cheeks was lacking. I didn’t broach the subject, however, as I assumed that perhaps he’d just had a rather late night over some Spinoza. It was none of my business how he spent his solitary evenings while I snored peacefully in my chambers, after all. And I wouldn’t have given it another thought if this trend hadn’t kept up over the next few days. He’d shimmer in each morning, looking pale and drawn, and dark circles took up permanent residence beneath his lower eyelids. When he was a whole half a minute late with the tea one Friday morning, I decided something must be severely wrong. I had to speak.
‘Jeeves,’ I said post-prandially (for these sorts of interventions never go well when one party is distracted with ham and e.), ‘a word.’
‘Sir?’
‘I don’t mean to pry into your personal affairs, but lately you resemble one of those persons Count Dracula makes regular nightly visits to. Have you, by any chance, noticed any suspicious-looking birds with unusual dentition skulking outside Berkley Mansions lately?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And you haven’t got a pair of peculiar circular indentations on your neck, have you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Thank heavens for that! So what is the matter? Because you are looking a bit peaky.’
‘I had not noticed, sir.’
He sounded coolly ruffled as he spoke these words and I hastened to make amends, jumping out of my seat and laying a tender hand on his chest. ‘I don’t mean to be critical. It’s not that it detracts from your finely-chiselled features in any way. Bertram still swoons at the sight of you, you understand.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘But it is useless for me to attempt to stifle my concern. You are feeling all right, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Getting your nightly eight hours?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Because if you ever need a bit of a hiatus, you need only ask. I’ve taken care of myself before, you know. I could easily take up your post for a while.’ To tell the truth, I still found the idea perfectly rotten, but neither could I stand being waited on hand and foot by someone who looked like Jeeves did. He could have played Marley’s ghost in a touring company of ‘A Christmas Carol’ without needing a drop of greasepaint.
‘I am grateful for your concern, sir,’ said he, ‘but I am in fine health and quite capable of fulfilling my duties.’
‘If you say so,’ I said, examining him closely. Perhaps I was imagining things. ‘In that case, I am headed off to the Drones. I shall return in time. Get a bit of rest, why don’t you?’ I gave him a peck on the cheek and then left him to his devices, though I still couldn’t keep a slight worry out of my mind. You know how it is when you’re daffy about someone – you let yourself get all worked up about things happening to them and before you know it you’re reluctant to even let them out the door because they might get hit by a bus or set upon by pariah dogs. I had been slightly skittish about him lately anyway. He let slip to me that certain uncouth savages of my acquaintance had been making overtures to him – you know, trying to coax him out of my employ and waving fat cheques beneath his nose. He’d never leave my side; he has said so himself, but dash it, even when one keeps one’s canary securely in a gilded cage, one doesn’t appreciate hungry felines hanging around it all the time. Not that I think of Jeeves as a canary, of course, but you understand my meaning. Now it looked as though I had to worry about him keeling over on the spot as well as getting snatched up by my many rivals for his attentions, and it was causing me to feel not a little cheesy.
I caught up with the usual suspects at the Drones, flung a bread roll here and there, kidded back and forth with Tuppy Glossop, Pongo Twistleton, and Oofy Prosser over the billiards table – but it did not ease my mind one iota. As I was surrounded by sympathetic ears, I gave voice to my apprehensions.
‘I say,’ I I-sayed. ‘Do valets ever get sick?’
‘Of course they get sick, you ass,’ Oofy Prosser said, quite unnecessarily harshly, I thought. ‘Mine was off just last month with a nasty case of St. Vitus’ dance.’
‘Why?’ asked Tuppy. ‘Something the matter with Jeeves?’
‘I say yea; he says nay,’ I explained. ‘Yon Jeeves has a lean and hungry look. I’m concerned about his well-being.’
‘Oh, he’s probably just not getting enough green vegetables,’ Tuppy said.
‘Or too many,’ contributed Freddy Widgeon, who was prodding with his billiard cue at a shuttlecock which had become trapped in a ceiling light fixture.
‘Yes. You haven’t got anything to worry about, Bertie.’
‘Are you a doctor?’ I demanded of Tuppy.
‘Of course I’m not. But my uncle is.’
He referred to Sir Roderick Glossop, the noted nerve specialist. ‘Looking at a chap who’s perched on his wardrobe warbling like a finch and declaring him a loony is one thing,’ I retorted. ‘Diagnosing sick valets is another entirely.’
‘Well, stop harping on it, Bertie; it’s been your turn for ages.’
I gave Oofy a dark look, and took my turn. I could honestly say, however, that my heart was not in it.
When I returned and let myself into the flat, I heard a noise. This in itself was unusual: were Jeeves an automobile, his motor would no doubt be advertised as ‘whisper-quiet,’ and one would hardly know he was in the flat if one couldn’t see what spotlessly good order it was in. But this afternoon, I heard a noise.
It was a series of rather alarming coughs. These were not the usual gentle guttural reverberations of an old sheep on a faraway mountaintop – the ones which usually told me that I was making an unwise decision, or that I had put something on backwards. These were coughs which rattled the windowpanes, the sort you heard emanating from behind the doors of closed wards in infirmaries. Are you familiar with a strange feature of the human body which causes one’s knees to go wobbly upon perceiving some unpleasant scene of medical carnage? A sort of sympathetic twinge, as it were. Well, this dreadful noise made the Wooster underpinnings turn to jelly, and I rushed to Jeeves’ lair to find him.
Though it is usually my custom to knock first, my haste made me forget my manners, and I burst in. ‘Jeeves!’ I yelped. ‘You sound dreadful!’
He was seated on his bed (the scene of so many pleasant evenings in recent memory) when I entered, but upon seeing me he hastened to recover from his fit. ‘Pardon me, Mr. Wooster,’ he said, sounding much hoarser than he was supposed to. ‘I shall be better directly.' Another fit of hacking seized him.
‘Don’t try that with me!’ I warned, brandishing an admonitory digit. ‘You’re ill!’
‘It is nothing, sir. A slight cold.’
‘Slight nothing, Jeeves! What absolute rot!’
Having finally managed to stop the coughs, he rose to his feet before I could stop him, Jeeves being a stickler for the old feudal spirit and seemingly unable to realise I wish he’d quit all his sirring and let himself be treated as an equal – at least while we were alone and didn’t have to worry about keeping up appearances. However, when he had reached his full height, which was an extremely full height indeed, I saw his eyelids flutter a little. The blood drained from his face, and he swayed where he stood, threatening to topple like a felled oak. ‘For heaven’s sake, man, sit!’ I squawked in alarm. He obeyed, and I zipped to his side and sat down next to him, bally terrified I was about to be one Jeeves short if something wasn’t done.
I placed my arms around him as he began to cough again. He felt quite warm, and so I pressed a hand to his brow to check for fever, as scores of aunts and nurses had done for me in days of yore. I was immediately reminded of an incident in my childhood which taught me in what you might call 'the hard way' why I had been warned to stay away from the hot stove. ‘Jeeves, you’re positively incinerating!’ I cried. He opened his mouth but I interrupted him. ‘No, dash it, Jeeves, no! No more of this backchat! As your master I demand that you remain in bed until further notice. I’m going to fetch a doctor.’
‘Very good, sir,’ he said. There was a slight quaver in his voice and a dazed look in his eye. The poor man was a mess. I rushed to fetch him a stiff one, then rang the doctor and told him he had better make his way over to Berkley Mansions P.D.Q. He took his damned time, I must say, but eventually he came and I shoved him into Jeeves’ lair, where the accused had fallen asleep. I rarely saw Jeeves asleep – previously, I never would have known he was even capable of it, and even now, when it sometimes happened that we ended up occupying the same berth for the evening, I was usually unconscious long before he was. Something about the sight shook me to my very foundation. He woke up when we entered, though, and I’m dashed if I didn’t have to remind him to remain at ease. The fellow’s like a bally jack-in-the-box.
The doc examined and poked and prodded Jeeves while I flitted about in the background like a caffeinated hummingbird. ‘How long have you been feeling ill, Mr. Jeeves?’ he asked, peering into Jeeves’ ears. (I wished he’d get a move on and look at Jeeves’ throat – I mean, people didn’t cough out of their ears, did they? It’d certainly make things like speaking and eating and breathing easier, but what a rummy sensation it would be.)
‘Approximately four days, sir,’ he said.
‘What?!’ I twittered. ‘You said you were in fine health! Dash it, you ought to have been resting instead of ministering to my every whim, you perfect ass! I feel awful!’
‘Please, Mr. Wooster,’ shushed the doctor. I fell into a moody silence. He continued to grill Jeeves about this and that. At the conclusion of the interview, he stood and said, ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Simply a touch of influenza.’
‘A touch?’ I said, aghast at this blighter’s insensitivity. I mean, people died from flu, didn’t they? “A touch? I’d bally well say so—’
‘Mr. Wooster, please,’ he chided me again. ‘Your man should get plenty of rest until he recovers. It appears that he’s been trying to continue with his duties despite his illness. I must insist that you allow him time off.’
Well, I was fairly well pipped, I can tell you! Here he was, making me out as some sort of slavedriver, when I was the one who elbowed Jeeves forcibly in the direction of a warm bed and made sure the medic got here in the first place! ‘Now, look here—‘ I began.
‘Mr. Jeeves,’ the pushy blighter cut me off, ‘make sure you get plenty of sleep and a large quantity of fluids. Should you take a nasty turn for the worse..’
‘I’ll call straight away,’ I piped in again. Jeeves started to say something, and then began to hack again. It rather unnerved me. One grows used to thinking of Jeeves as a sort of superhuman. One forgets that beneath that steely surface, the man is flesh and blood.
Eventually, the doc bid us good evening and scurried off the premises, and I was left at rather a loss. ‘Er,’ I said. That didn’t get things very far, and so I said, ‘d’you want anything, Jeeves?’
He sat up on his pillows. ‘It is not necessary for you to exert yourself on my behalf, sir. If I may have the use of the automobile, I can go to an aunt of mine, who lives—‘
‘No!’ I said, scarcely able to b. my e.s. ‘It is my intention to look after you.’
He gave the familiar cough of disapproval, which escalated into another fit. I winced. When he was finished, he said, ‘I cannot allow you to undertake such a burden, Mr. Wooster. It is hardly an employer’s responsibility—‘
‘Fie on an employer’s responsibility,’ I said airily. ‘Have you forgotten that I am more than a mere employer, Jeeves? Anyway, you spend every bally moment looking after me. It’s only right that I should chip in and do the stalwart thing when you’re laid-up.’
He was looking me over with a vague sort of apprehension in his pallid face. ‘Your concern is quite touching, sir,’ he said. ‘However, I could not allow it.’
I read his thoughts, Something clicked. ‘You don’t think I can do it,’ I said without concealing the disappointment in my voice. ‘You don’t think you’re in good hands…’ I should have known. I’m a complete dunce at nearly everything; why should he think I ought to be able to aid him on the road to recovery? He was probably afraid my domestic efforts would result in the building catching on fire at the very least.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘On the contrary, I am sure you are quite capable. However, I cannot impose upon your good nature in such a way.’
I put my foot down. ‘Jeeves, you are feverish and sick and in no condition to be biffing off to aunts in the two-seater. No – I shall look after you. It is my duty as an employer, and, dash it, as a friend.’ I paused to let the effects of my dramatic speech sink in, and then said, ‘So, now it’s your turn to order me around. I shall fulfil your heart’s desire, Jeeves.’
‘It is very kind of you, sir, but at the moment, I wish only to sleep.’
Poor fellow. Positively knocked-out. I right-hoed and left him alone, and then I hovered intermittently outside the door, listening to his alternate light, delicate snores and terrible coughs. As I was fluttering inter-vigil about the flat, there was a knock at the door and I tiptoed over to answer it. It was a few chaps from the Drones.
‘Hello, Bertie!’ whooped Tuppy, who was one of those assembled. ‘Put on your hat and come with us right now. I’ve just got tickets for that new musical comedy of Freddie Flowerdew’s that’s playing downtown.’
‘Can’t, I’m afraid,’ I said.
‘Why on earth not?’
‘I,’ I said, ‘am a man with responsibilities. I am looking after Jeeves.’
‘What is he, five?’
‘No, he’s in bed with the bally flu,’ I said crossly, unimpressed with his crass remark.
‘So call a gentlemen’s personal gentlemen’s personal gentleman,’ suggested Bingo Little wearily.
‘They don’t exist,’ I informed him.
‘Bertie,’ Bingo implored. ‘We know how devoted you are to Jeeves, but you’re signing his paycheques. You don’t have to press damp cloths to his forehead and feed him white grapes.’
‘I am doing nothing of the sort,’ I said. ‘I am merely watching out for a fellow human being, and if you don’t mind, I believe said f.h.b. would prefer to rest undisturbed by cheeky blighters and their musical comedy tickets!’
Having ticked them off properly, I closed the door and returned to my post outside Jeeves’ lair. I liked Bingo’s nerve! ‘Devoted to Jeeves’ indeed. It was my suspicion that Bingo was harbouring a trace of the green-eyed monster within his breast. The two of us were like Damon and Pythias in school, if you take my meaning, but once he was released into the world at large he began falling in love with any female lobbed in his general direction. However, I have not ruled out the possibility that he may have had an inkling about Jeeves and me – and slightly resented the whole thing, don’t you know. But that was neither here nor there. The issue I was grappling with at the moment was whether or not to enter Jeeves’ lair and disturb him. He kept coughing, which I know chaps with flu are supposed to do, and it wasn’t as though I knew some incantation to stop it, but perhaps he needed his glass refilled or something fetched from the kitchen. I opted for disturbing him.
I found the blighter on his feet. ‘Jeeves,’ I said warningly. ‘You heard the man. You’re to stay in bed. You haven’t been stricken suddenly with the urge to dust, have you?’
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I was merely intending to locate you in order to ask what your intentions were for the evening meal. Since it would be unwise for me to cook and risk contagion—‘
‘Good lord, Jeeves; I can’t believe you’re thinking about cooking at a time like this. I’d forgotten about dinner. I’m not hungry. I don’t want anything. Great Scott! What about you?! You must be starved, Jeeves!’
‘I have very little appetite, sir.’
‘Rot. You’ll never get better if you lie here wasting away.’
‘I will prepare myself something later this evening.’
I could see I wasn’t going to get anywhere via persuasion. ‘Look, Jeeves, I’m just going to pop out to the kitchen and see about finding something for you. You stay here. Relax. Change out of uniform, for heaven’s sake. I’ll be back in a moment.’
The kitchen is normally Jeeves’ domain, and I wasn’t quite sure where to find anything. But after a lot of hunting I located a cookbook. I had been under the impression that anyone could whip up something edible with the proper guidance – perhaps not such a mouth-watering masterpiece as is paraded nightly from Anatole’s kitchen at Brinkley Court, residence of my esteemed Aunt Dahlia, but edible nonetheless. I knew that chicken soup was the usual thing for the fellow under the weather, so I flipped through the tome until I found a promising lead. However, I felt my ambitions plummet as I read:
8 WHITE PEPPERCORNS
1 BAY LEAF
1 TEASPOON THYME
6 WHOLE CLOVES
6 SPRIGS PARSLEY
1 DICED MEDIUM-SIZED ONION
3 RIBS CELERY, DICED
1 MEDIUM-SIZED DICED CARROT
I gnawed the upper l. in consternation. I was pretty clear on what onions and carrots were, but I wasn’t sure if I could identify thyme or bay leaves if I saw them in a line-up. Obviously the bay leaf would appear leaf-like, but lots of things did. And what was a ‘clove,’ anyway? I’d never been quite clear on that. And I highly doubted that Jeeves stored chicken feet around the place.
I looked from the pages to the shelves as I conducted a brief inventory of our kitchen cabinets. There were black peppercorns (I didn’t know they even came in white), and onions, and something which may or may not have been a bay leaf. I couldn’t be quite sure. Finally I set the book down and returned to Jeeves. ‘D’you know what, Jeeves?’
‘Sir?’
‘I’m just going to go and fetch you something hot from the Drones. And if it’s agreeable to you, perhaps tomorrow we’ll pop into the two-seater and head for Brinkley Court. I think perhaps a regular dosage of Anatole’s cooking is what you require.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Aunt Dahlia was quite sympathetic – ‘Jeeves ill?’ she had boomed over the telephone as I held it some distance from my head to avoid rupture of the eardrum. ‘Well, you can’t manage the household with him in bed, you ass! Bring him here!’
We made the journey to Brinkley and Jeeves settled into one of the nicer servants’ rooms at my behest. I lurked nearby while a maid brought him a hot water bottle.
‘Now, Jeeves, I hope this is agreeable,’ I said.
‘Quite, sir.’
‘Pillows fluffy?’
‘Adequately, sir.’
‘Blankets warm?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Water bottle hot?’
‘Comfortably, sir.’
‘Bertie,’ bellowed Aunt Dahlia from the doorway, causing me to leap nine feet into the air.
‘Aunt Dahlia!’ I rebuked her. ‘Show a little kindness for the infirm!’
‘I was about to ask you to do the same thing,’ Aunt Dahlia said. ‘Give the man some peace and quiet, Bertie – you’ve got the manners of a very talkative limpet and about the same amount of intelligence.’
‘I say!’
‘I am grateful for the company, Madame,’ Jeeves said, sticking up for the young master.
‘You need rest,’ she said authoritatively. ‘Anyway, I need to speak to my fatheaded nephew. Come along, Bertie.’
I reluctantly abandoned Jeeves and followed after her. ‘What is it, Aged A.?’ I asked once we were out of the hospital wing.
‘Well, as you’re here, Bertie, I wondered if you might do something for me.’
I recoiled. Experience had led me to eye any given aunt, even this prince among aunts, with suspicion upon hearing these words. The burned child fears the spilled milk. ‘Now, Auntie, you know I’m here because Jeeves is ill. I’ve got to stick around and look after him.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ she said. ‘I assure you, Bertie; there are scores of maids in this building who will be more than happy to look after Jeeves.’
I shot Aunt Dahlia a look. I didn’t like the idea of a gaggle of young women fussing over Jeeves. I doubted he could stomach such treatment. ‘But I want to look after Jeeves,’ I protested. ‘Offer a bit of manly support. Help him soldier through the bug. He never leaves my side, after all. I’d feel an awful bully leaving him at the mercy of a troupe of ghastly giggling girls at the first sign of trouble.’
‘Well, you can tell him that I’m the one who’s keeping you apart. I need you to assist with the church festivities in Market Snodsbury tomorrow.’
‘Why on earth should I do that?’ I asked in wonderment. I may have won the scripture knowledge prize at school, but that didn’t change the fact that shepherding a bunch of sticky children as they begged another ride on the merry-go-round was not my idea of a large afternoon.
‘Because the vicar needs the help, and it’s best that I endear myself to him. I’m trying to get him to write an article for Milady’s Boudoir.’
My agogness increased a notch. ‘A vicar? Why?’
‘He’s quite a skilled writer, actually. He wrote a few rather amusing articles for the church bulletin, and it occurred to me that a contribution from the vicar would make the Boudoir a little more appealing to the latest mug I’m trying to pawn it off to.’
‘Oh, Auntie – you’re not trying to sell the mag?’
‘It’s either sell the mag or get a bit of extra cash out of your Uncle Tom, and I’ve given up on that.’
‘Who’s buying it?’
‘A Miss Vermazen. Quite well-off. President of the local chapter of the Young Women’s Christian Fellowship or some such rot. She’s rather interested in using it to circulate information pertaining to her group, but naturally she’ll want a rag with a decent reputation for communicating the sacred. Solution? Some good-natured bit of fluff from the pen of the vicar.’
‘Oh, Auntie,’ I said, looking at her with sorrow in my eyes.
‘I assure you I don’t like it any more than you do, Bertie,’ she said, making a my-hands-are-tied sort of gesture.
‘So you want me to go and chip in at the church carnival,’ I said.
‘Yes. They need someone to supervise the ring toss and I’ve already told them you’re their man. It’ll be easy. You’ll enjoy it.’
Well, it was no use digging my heels in. ‘Yes, Auntie,’ I said.
‘So, Jeeves, it looks as though I’m resigned to go into the village tomorrow and cosy up to this vicar,’ I said, perched on a chair by his bedside. He was propped in bed and someone had finally managed to sweet-talk him into a pair of pyjamas. I had come in to bring Jeeves a bowl of Anatole’s masterful soup from that evening’s dinner, only to find that someone had gotten there before me and he had quite the spread on the tray before him. ‘I shall be disappearing for most of the day tomorrow in order to play master of ceremonies to a load of tots. No matter – they do appear to be taking decent care of you here.’
‘Yes, sir. I have had no shortage of attention from the various young ladies in Mrs. Travers’ employment.’
I felt a jealous pang – like the ones I feel whenever Jeeves returns from his holidays rattling on about being asked to judge seaside Bathing Belles competitions. ‘Yes, well, you’ll be dashed sick of girls by now, I’d expect.’
‘Well, sir, though they are extremely capable young ladies and pleasant in many respects, one feels unpleasantly smothered beneath their ministrations.’
Suddenly the cheeks felt distinctly hot. I wondered if he was dropping me a subtle hint. ‘I say, Jeeves, if my presence grows tiresome…’
‘No, sir,’ he assured me. ‘As I informed Mrs. Travers earlier, I am grateful for your company.’
‘In that case, why don’t you eat your soup?’ I wheedled. ‘It’s spectacular. One of Anatole’s ripest.’
‘I have eaten a small quantity of the soup, sir. However, my appetite is still not particularly strong.’
‘But, dash it—‘ I began, then clamped the mouth shut as I realised there was a lady present. One of Aunt Dahlia’s maids was in the doorway, holding a bottle of cough medicine and poised to strike.
‘Oh! ‘Ello,’ she said. She was a curvaceous and extremely blonde creature of tender years. I might have called her a pippin, except I didn’t like her parading in here to fuss with Jeeves. I felt that he was solely mine to fuss with. ‘It’s you, Mr. Wooster. I thought Mr. Jeeves must’ve ‘ad a cousin or a brother come to visit ‘im; you’ve been ‘angin’ ‘round ‘ere for hours. It’s touching. Anyway, I brought some cough syrup. ‘E’s nearly been ‘ackin’ up a lung, ‘e ‘as, poor fellow. You all right, dear?’ The pitch of her voice leapt an octave as she addressed Jeeves. ‘Still feelin’ a bit puny? Poor lamb. This’ll ‘elp clear off that nasty old cough of yours, all right?’
‘Thank you, miss,’ Jeeves said with astounding dignity.
‘And why didn’t you finish up your nice soup?’ she demanded. ‘Anatole will be furious, ‘e will.’
‘Please give him my sincere apologies.’
‘Well, we don’t always want a twelve-course meal when we’re under the weather, now, do we?’ she said knowledgeably, and then set about straightening the room. ‘Everything’s very orderly in ‘ere. You’re the tidiest patient in the country, aren’t you?’
‘I could not say, miss.’
‘Well, you get well soon and try to have a nice evening, dear,’ she said, giving him a final soupy look before gathering up the picked-at remains of Jeeves’ dinner and exiting. ‘And you too, Mr. Wooster!’
‘Eugh, Jeeves,’ I said when she was out of earshot.
‘She is a big-hearted woman, sir.’
‘Are they all like that?’
‘For the most part, sir.’
‘Well, I regret that I shall be unable to stay here and fend them off for you tomorrow. Duty calls, don’t you know.’
‘It will cause no difficulty, sir, though I do much prefer your society.’
‘I should hope so,’ I said. ‘I’m not the one shoving bottles of poisonous fluid at you and calling you a darling lamb.’ He began to wheeze. I offered my hand and he accepted it. I desperately wished that I could have stayed there with him all night, stroking his fevered brow – and I would have if we’d been in the flat – but around here, too many questions would have been asked, and what if the maid had burst in again to ladle more cough medicine down his throat? Men simply were not allowed to stroke their valets’ fevered brows, especially not in mixed company. So after a while, I simply poured him a glass of brandy (the maids here were focusing far too much on water, lemonade, and other such garbage) and bid him goodnight.
The following day was not one of those ones in which everything goes exactly as it should and all parties involved look upon the setting of the sun with tranquillity and contentment. It was, rather, one of those days where the Gods, lounging about some celestial smoking room, turn to one another and say, ‘I’m awfully bored. Let’s have a bit of fun with that church carnival that’s happening in Market Snodsbury!’ I am not referring to the numerous dropped ice creams, the incident where the stray Alsatian found its way into the refreshment tent, or the little altercation between the vicar and the village atheist, who just happened by for a crack at the ring toss (nice chap, though a little outspoken about the story of Lazarus). I refer to the trouble which surrounded me, as trouble often does, when I happened to run into Bingo Little.
He was visiting the village due to having fallen for the church organist, a rather large-boned girl who was supervising the slinging of the hash – or, rather, the tea and cakes – in the refreshment tent. I enticed him to throw away quite a few of his hard-earned pennies on the ring toss, and he proved an exceptional throw after a few practice shots. He bagged several goldfish in his efforts, then stood around and kept me company.
‘Her name is Imogen. I worship the ground she walks on, Bertie.’ There was a familiar throb in his voice.
‘Lovely,’ I said, handing a few hoops to a golden-haired child of indeterminable gender, and accepting its rather gooey penny. Why don’t children learn to wipe their hands properly after digging into the toffee and caramel? I shall never fathom the infant’s mind (nor the minds of those who decide to go and give birth to the little ticks).
‘I don’t even know if she believes I exist,’ he said, bringing in the tragic angle. I made some sort of noise of camaraderie and watched the child fail miserably at ringing a china tea set. ‘It would be awfully nice if you could speak to her for me, Bertie.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because people trust you.’
‘No, they don’t!’
‘Well, not after they’ve met you. But Imogen’s never met you.’
At that moment the child endeavoured to attract my attention by way of a slight kick to my shin. ‘I want another try,’ it said.
‘Have you got another penny?’
‘No.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, then.’
‘I want a free try.’
‘Er – no,’ I said, a trifle mystified. ‘Why should you get a free try?’
It scowled rather trollishly up at me. ‘Because I think your game’s rigged and I’ll tell.’
‘Won’t do you much good. It’s not rigged.’
‘I think it is, and I’m not giving you another stupid penny!’
‘Suits me,’ I said.
The most golden-haired troll in the history of trolling shot me one of those potentially lethal looks and stomped off back to whatever bridge it lived under. ‘You see?’ I said. ‘People do not even trust me to run a clean ring-toss game at a church-sponsored event.’
‘Come on, Bertie – one isolated incident shouldn’t sap your confidence so much. Golden-haired children are notoriously poor judges of character. No, I believe you have a very trustworthy appearance. Something about those big blue eyes…’
‘Oh, honestly, Bingo. No. Anyway, I can’t do it because I’ve got to run this game.’
‘I’ll take over for you.’
‘Bingo…’
‘Bertie,’ he said sincerely, looking me in the eyes and laying a hand on my arm. He began to massage the limb in an imploring manner. ‘We were at school together…’
I heaved a sigh of exasperation. ‘Fine, Bingo, fine, fine, fine.’
‘Thanks, Bertie! We’re true friends, aren’t we?’
‘Damon and bloody Pythias,’ I muttered as I handed the baton over to Bingo and headed in the direction of the tea tent.
The place had recovered quite nicely from the surprise visit from the Alsatian earlier. The place was filled with various people, mostly those of the gentler sex, putting on the nosebag, but business appeared to have died down a touch. After a bit of investigation I encountered most of Imogen behind a heap of cakes. ‘I say,’ I said, ‘are you very busy?’
‘Only slightly,’ she said.
‘Can I buy you anything?’
‘Oh,’ she said with an airy laugh, ‘I couldn’t eat a thing; been getting sick on this stuff all day – but won’t you buy something anyway for the church’s sake?’
‘Right-ho,’ I said, and selected some alarming-looking mound of chocolate and confectioners’ sugar to take with me. I didn’t suppose it would interest the patient in the least (the sight of it might be detrimental to his health, in fact), but if my young cousin Bonzo decided to show his face at Brinkley I could always bribe him with it to leave me alone. ‘I wonder if I might have a word?’
‘I don’t see why not, Mr…’
‘Sorry. Bertie Wooster.’
‘I’m Imogen Engleton-Lewis. I play the organ in the church.’
‘I know. I mean, I’ve heard.’ We began to step towards a more secluded corner of the tent. ‘I come to you on a peculiar mission, Miss Engleton-Lewis. I wonder if you’ve ever thought about love?’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ she asked, which I suppose I should have foreseen.
‘Well, I’ve just been speaking to a friend—‘ I began. I did not, however, finish this thought. I was not given the opportunity. I don’t know what possessed its owner to do such a thing, but a lady’s handbag had been abandoned in the grass in the corner of the tent. Imogen walked right by it, but my feet became entangled in the strap, and after a foolish-looking two-step in an attempt to remain perpendicular, gravity emerged the victor. As I plummeted earthward my instinct was to grab the first thick, sturdy object I saw, and this, unfortunately, turned out to be Imogen’s waist. When I had stabilised, I found that there was quite an inadequate amount of space between myself and Imogen, who had been shoved against one of the groaning tables in the confusion (crushing several valuable cakes). ‘I say, I’m most dreadfully sorry,’ I yipped, unhanding her and increasing the distance between our bodies about tenfold.
‘Disgraceful!’ I heard some female shout, and then there was an uproar from an assembled crowd of ladies who appeared to be her cronies. They stood and began to file out, obviously scandalised.
‘No, look!’ I cried. ‘No, no! You don’t understand! Oh, blast it!’
My use of this expression provoked a sharp intake of breath from the church organist, who was straightening her dishevelled clothing. ‘Good heavens, Mr. Wooster. I think perhaps you ought to leave.’
‘No, no, listen, listen! I tripped; that’s all!’ I tried to explain myself, but she turned a cold shoulder to me. Finally I gave up, paid for the goods damaged in our scuffle, and stalked off with my tail between my legs.
‘Well? How did it go?’ Bingo prompted upon my return.
I cleared my throat and resumed my post. ‘Erm, well, Bingo, I should say the results were negligible.’
‘Oh.’ Bingo assumed the look of a crestfallen fawn – possibly one whose mother was recently shot. ‘What did she say?’
‘She didn’t get a chance to say much of anything, actually…’
Another child was now toddling up to me, but then I observed one of the ladies who had just fled the scene of my downfall grab his arm and lead him away, with a withering look in my direction.
‘Oh, Bertie,’ Bingo said scornfully, reading the interaction quite accurately. ‘What have you done?’
‘Best not to ask, Bingo,’ I said. ‘It also may be wise not to let on to her that you know me.’
Bingo shook the coconut. ‘You’ve let me down, Bertie,’ he said dramatically, and made his way from my midst.
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no subject
Date: 2006-03-04 01:36 pm (UTC)*snigger-giggle*
Onwards!
no subject
Date: 2006-03-04 03:06 pm (UTC)Than?
These were not the usual gentle guttural reverberations of an old sheep on a faraway mountaintop
Awww.
Bingo assumed the look of a crestfallen fawn – possibly one whose mother was recently shot.
*snerk!*
no subject
Date: 2006-03-04 04:20 pm (UTC)Doh! I must have read over this five times without seeing that. Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2006-03-04 04:54 pm (UTC)*still likes the fic*
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Date: 2006-03-04 03:17 pm (UTC)Very true. Poor Jeeves!
I wouldn't mind being a housemaid tasked to look after a sick Jeeves...
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Date: 2006-03-07 05:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 11:03 pm (UTC)I couldn’t help but notice one morning as he fussed over some lint on my jacket front that Jeeves, my man in more ways than one, wasn’t looking quite up to snuff.
Oooh, great opening, love the way you establish the relationship right up front, but slip it in there so subtly.
It was none of my business how he spent his solitary evenings while I snored peacefully in my chambers, after all.
Wait – but- solitary evenings? Well, I’m just going to assume that they have hot lovin’, then Jeeves tucks in Bertie and goes to read for a while before rejoining him in bed. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. *nod*
‘I don’t mean to pry into your personal affairs, but lately you resemble one of those persons Count Dracula makes regular nightly visits to. Have you, by any chance, noticed any suspicious-looking birds with unusual dentition skulking outside Berkley Mansions lately?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And you haven’t got a pair of peculiar circular indentations on your neck, have you?’
‘No, sir.’
Bwahaaha! This was hilarious. And such a Bertie thing to say.
He sounded coolly ruffled as he spoke these words and I hastened to make amends, jumping out of my seat and laying a tender hand on his chest. ‘I don’t mean to be critical. It’s not that it detracts from your finely-chiselled features in any way. Bertram still swoons at the sight of you, you understand.’
Awww! Slightly-put-out Jeeves and reassuring Bertie. So cute. And I always love it when Bertie refers to Jeeves’ “finely-chiselled features”. So slashy!
He’d never leave my side; he has said so himself, but dash it, even when one keeps one’s canary securely in a gilded cage, one doesn’t appreciate hungry felines hanging around it all the time. Not that I think of Jeeves as a canary, of course, but you understand my meaning. Now it looked as though I had to worry about him keeling over on the spot as well as getting snatched up by my many rivals for his attentions, and it was causing me to feel not a little cheesy.
I love Jeeves’ dedication to Bertie – he truly never would leave him, no matter what tempting offers were dangled in front of him. And I love the canary/feline metaphor here. Poor insecure Bertie.
Yon Jeeves has a lean and hungry look
Hee! I love it when Bertie tries to quote Shakespeare (or anything else) and gets the context just totally wrong.
It was a series of rather alarming coughs. These were not the usual gentle guttural reverberations of an old sheep on a faraway mountaintop – the ones which usually told me that I was making an unwise decision, or that I had put something on backwards. These were coughs which rattled the windowpanes, the sort you heard emanating from behind the doors of closed wards in infirmaries. Are you familiar with a strange feature of the human body which causes one’s knees to go wobbly upon perceiving some unpleasant scene of medical carnage? A sort of sympathetic twinge, as it were. Well, this dreadful noise made the Wooster underpinnings turn to jelly, and I rushed to Jeeves’ lair to find him.
Ha! Great paragraph. I love the description of the difference in the cough – and “put something on backwards”! Hee. And “underpinnings” always makes me laugh.
no subject
Date: 2006-08-01 06:05 am (UTC)Wait – but- solitary evenings? Well, I’m just going to assume that they have hot lovin’, then Jeeves tucks in Bertie and goes to read for a while before rejoining him in bed. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. *nod*
Haha, I just think of them continuing their living situation almost exactly like it was before (since it was perfect for both of them, after all), just with more schmoopie touching. I wouldn't want either of them to feel like they're losing personal space, after all...
ridiculously detailed comment, part 2
Date: 2006-07-31 11:04 pm (UTC)Awww! Bertie checking Jeeves for fever while holding him is so cute! And learning about hot stoves ‘the hard way’ – ha! So typical. Poor Bertie.
He took his damned time, I must say,
I say! Bertie must be pretty dashed upset to be using that kind of language! Well, we’ll excuse him because he’s so obviously distraught about Jeeves.
when it sometimes happened that we ended up occupying the same berth for the evening,
Only sometimes? Really? *lip wobbles* But, but, but, it’s twoo wuv! Actually, though, I’m really curious about this. In your conception of these two, even when they’re in an established relationship, they only sleep together some of the time? I’m a total sappy romantic, but as you’ll have noticed from my fic, once they’re together I can’t see either of them willingly going to bed without cuddling up to the other. So what’s up with that? Does Bertie snore dreadfully or something? *g*
I wished he’d get a move on and look at Jeeves’ throat – I mean, people didn’t cough out of their ears, did they? It’d certainly make things like speaking and eating and breathing easier, but what a rummy sensation it would be.
Hahaha! I love Bertie’s totally random thought tangents.
Jeeves started to say something, and then began to hack again. It rather unnerved me. One grows used to thinking of Jeeves as a sort of superhuman. One forgets that beneath that steely surface, the man is flesh and blood.
Awww, yet again. So true. And ill Jeeves would be very unnerving for poor Bertie!
‘Fie on an employer’s responsibility,’ I said airily. ‘Have you forgotten that I am more than a mere employer, Jeeves? Anyway, you spend every bally moment looking after me. It’s only right that I should chip in and do the stalwart thing when you’re laid-up.’
He was looking me over with a vague sort of apprehension in his pallid face. ‘Your concern is quite touching, sir,’ he said. ‘However, I could not allow it.’
I read his thoughts, Something clicked. ‘You don’t think I can do it,’ I said without concealing the disappointment in my voice. ‘You don’t think you’re in good hands…’ I should have known. I’m a complete dunce at nearly everything; why should he think I ought to be able to aid him on the road to recovery? He was probably afraid my domestic efforts would result in the building catching on fire at the very least.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘On the contrary, I am sure you are quite capable. However, I cannot impose upon your good nature in such a way.’
And even more awwww! Bertie wanting to take care of Jeeves is so cute, although Jeeves is quite right to be concerned that Bertie is totally incapable of actually doing it. But then Jeeves soothing Bertie’s ruffled feathers, even when Jeeves is totally right, and sick to boot, is so darling. Jeeves really does care about Bertie, and shows it in ways that Bertie can’t even fully comprehend.
‘So call a gentlemen’s personal gentlemen’s personal gentleman,’ suggested Bingo Little wearily.
Hee!
It was my suspicion that Bingo was harbouring a trace of the green-eyed monster within his breast. The two of us were like Damon and Pythias in school, if you take my meaning,
Very interesting, indeed. I’ve often wondered if Bertie had any actual romantic or sexual relationships before Jeeves (beyond his multitude of loveless short-term engagements, I mean). I can definitely see it being plausible both ways. And, if he did, Bingo seems quite a likely suspect.
Re: ridiculously detailed comment, part 2
Date: 2006-08-01 06:02 am (UTC)I guess it's a combination of (A) what if someone burst in on them in the morning, omg and (B) they got two beds; they're guys; they like their space and (C) Jeeves might be all "NO YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO SEE WHAT I LOOK LIKE IN THE MORNING" and (D) in the series, I've noticed that old married couples like Tom and Dahlia sleep in separate rooms even, so I figured maybe couples sleeping seperately wasn't that big a deal/was more the norm. Y'know? But I like the snoring idea too. :D
Not that I think it's implausible that they'd sleep locked in each other's arms every single night! It's just not how I see 'em when I'm writing 'em.
Re: ridiculously detailed comment, part 2
Date: 2006-08-01 01:35 pm (UTC)Re: ridiculously detailed comment, part 2
Date: 2006-08-01 04:45 pm (UTC)ridiculously detailed comment, part 3
Date: 2006-07-31 11:07 pm (UTC)Oh, this is so adorable. Bertie trying to make Jeeves chicken soup! And then realizing he’s totally incapable of it. Hee.
Bertie,’ bellowed Aunt Dahlia from the doorway, causing me to leap nine feet into the air.
‘Aunt Dahlia!’ I rebuked her. ‘Show a little kindness for the infirm!’
‘I was about to ask you to do the same thing,’ Aunt Dahlia said
Haha! I love Aunt Dahlia. She handles Bertie perfectly. She and Jeeves are the only two, really, that I think have genuine affection and love for Bertie.
Well, sir, though they are extremely capable young ladies and pleasant in many respects, one feels unpleasantly smothered beneath their ministrations.’
Suddenly the cheeks felt distinctly hot. I wondered if he was dropping me a subtle hint. ‘I say, Jeeves, if my presence grows tiresome…’
Hee! Poor insecure Bertie. And, once again, Jeeves taking the time and energy to reassure him even though he’s all sick and stuff. *le sigh*
She was a curvaceous and extremely blonde creature of tender years. I might have called her a pippin, except I didn’t like her parading in here to fuss with Jeeves. I felt that he was solely mine to fuss with.
Oh, I love jealous, possessive Bertie. In fact, I love any fic where one of them is dreadfully jealous about the other (allow me to reiterate my love for your rentboy fic where Jeeves gets all jealous *g*).
I offered my hand and he accepted it. I desperately wished that I could have stayed there with him all night, stroking his fevered brow – and I would have if we’d been in the flat – but around here, too many questions would have been asked, and what if the maid had burst in again to ladle more cough medicine down his throat? Men simply were not allowed to stroke their valets’ fevered brows, especially not in mixed company.
*melts into a little puddle*
It was, rather, one of those days where the Gods, lounging about some celestial smoking room, turn to one another and say, ‘I’m awfully bored. Let’s have a bit of fun with that church carnival that’s happening in Market Snodsbury!’ I am not referring to the numerous dropped ice creams, the incident where the stray Alsatian found its way into the refreshment tent, or the little altercation between the vicar and the village atheist, who just happened by for a crack at the ring toss (nice chap, though a little outspoken about the story of Lazarus). I refer to the trouble which surrounded me, as trouble often does, when I happened to run into Bingo Little.
What a corking description! I love the Gods lounging about, and all of the things that went wrong at the festival. So perfectly Wodehousian.
ridiculously detailed comment, part 4
Date: 2006-07-31 11:09 pm (UTC)I love Bertie’s utter disgust with children. He’s not sentimental about them at all, which is fantastic. I especially love here how he can’t figure out the gender of the kid, and doesn’t much care, just referring to it as ‘it’ throughout. Then the whole conversation with the kid where it tries to cadge a free game out of Bertie, but he’s not having any of it. And the troll bit! Hee! Perfect.
Bertie,’ he said sincerely, looking me in the eyes and laying a hand on my arm. He began to massage the limb in an imploring manner. ‘We were at school together…’
I heaved a sigh of exasperation. ‘Fine, Bingo, fine, fine, fine.’
‘Thanks, Bertie! We’re true friends, aren’t we?’
‘Damon and bloody Pythias,’ I muttered as I handed the baton over to Bingo and headed in the direction of the tea tent.
Oh, I love how any of his pals can play on Bertie’s heartstrings, especially when they pull out the ‘we were at school together’ chestnut. And the massage of the limb and the look in the eyes…Bingo, you manipulative slut! Get your hands off Bertie! He’s Jeeves’ now! And then ‘Damon and bloody Pythias’ – rum indeed! That’s quite a dig from Bertie, and such language as well! We’ll put it down to his fragile mental state what with Jeeves ill, and having to put up with golden-haired trolls and all. ;)
Imogen walked right by it, but my feet became entangled in the strap, and after a foolish-looking two-step in an attempt to remain perpendicular, gravity emerged the victor. As I plummeted earthward my instinct was to grab the first thick, sturdy object I saw, and this, unfortunately, turned out to be Imogen’s waist.
Heee! This is so perfectly Bertie. The whole situation here with him being thought some kind of sex maniac by an entire tentful of church ladies (thus dashing Aunt Dahlia’s hopes and Bingo’s at the same time) is so perfectly Wodehousian. I love it!
Okay, now I’m going to scamper over to the next part and do this all over again! (And, once again, please don't feel obligated to respond to all of this!)
Re: ridiculously detailed comment, part 4
Date: 2006-08-03 05:59 pm (UTC)Do you remember that scene in The Mating Season I think it was, or maybe Joy in the Morning, where Edwin has gone into a burning house, and while Bertie knows he really should go after him he actually contemplates just standing there and letting the kid burn to a crisp? XD Even an innocent world like Wodehouse's has the occasional sharp edge!
Re: ridiculously detailed comment, part 4
Date: 2006-08-03 08:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-15 09:55 am (UTC)This is so cute, and I must say that I'm glad that Bertie realised that he was incapable of making chicken soup BEFORE he tried to do so.