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indeedsir_backupTitle: Jeeves and the Feline Phenomenon
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I don't own nothin, honest, m'lud.
Notes: in case I get posting phobia again, I'm putting the next two parts up together. Also, I took a liberty with the canon of Jeeves' Uncle George, for which I apologise.
Onwards to the craziness.
The sound of a door snicking shut caused Bertie’s eyes to snap open. His eyes tracked Jeeves, walking into kitchen, a bag of foodstuffs hanging in a dignified manner from the valet’s hand.
“I can’t just bally well go up to him,” Bertie thought, indecision making him cross. But it seemed that he wouldn't’t be explaining anything anytime soon, anyway – for the snicks of cutlery banging together and and waster gushing from the faucet spoke that Jeeves would be occupied with the rituals of the gentlemen's personal gentleman for some time.
“Well, this won’t do,” Bertie thought sternly to himself. “You’re the last of the Woosters. Jeeves may be the one with the majority of the grey matter, but you’ve eaten a fish or two yourself in your time.”
So in the next space of silence, Bertie meowed, as loud as he could. Suddenly, all sounds in the kitchen stopped. Jeeves materialized in the doorway. A frown creased his face.
Bertie, gathering up his courage, meowed again.
But Jeeves merely wrinkled an eyebrow at him.
“Shush,” Jeeves said sternly.
Bertie shushed.
Jeeves nodded in approval, then disappeared. After a moment, the sound of water splashing into the sink resumed.
Whoever said that Wooster’s had brains was an ass, Bertie decided gloomily. But at least Jeeves knew he was there – well, knew that a cat was in the flat, anyway, and had not immediately chucked him off to some deserving cause, following the destined journey of many a piece of natty headgear. Perhaps Jeeves thought that a cat would be useful in scaring off potential matrimonial monsters. At least now he had time to think of some other plan. He gave a huff, (a quiet one of course, still in shock over being told off so sternly by Jeeves) and settled down to wring his mental sponge once again.
A buzz from the doorbell interrupted his fruitless ruminations, which had gotten as far as speculation as to how difficult it would be for someone without fingers or human vocal chords to send a telegram.
Jeeves glided from the kitchen and opened the door.
From the angle of the chair, Bertie could not see who the visitor was. But her voice placed a chilly fingerprint on his memory. It was the crone from the alley. The kitten-seller, with the frightening stare and fingers gnarled enough to rival the knottiest tree-root. Her voice was cracked and low, and filled with satisfaction that made all his hair stand up, quivering.
“You’re master is in, I presume?” the crone said. “I have a message for him.”
Bertie’s ears pricked up.
“Mister Wooster is not in,” Jeeves hesitated for a fraction, “… madam, but I can pass on a message when he returns, if that is agreeable to you.” He was using his soupy voice, the one that suggested that the valet was Displeased and Immovable. Bertie wondered what the crone had done to anger Jeeves, then recalled the woman’s atrocious clothing. It was a wonder the poor man was still upright.
The woman let out a cackle that would have wilted flowers. “If Mister Wooster was a gentlemen, he would not dally with a lady's heart so easily. Tell him from Miss Basset and I that when he stops brandishing with a woman’’s heart, and pays some respect to the creatures of this earth, it might wear off. In a week. If he’s quick.” She snorted. “Though from what I saw, a brick would be quicker at learning a trick than your master.”
Jeeves’s voice was cold enough to freeze oceans. “I am afraid, madam, that there has been a misunderstanding, I know not of what you speak and I strongly suspect that the cause is mere rumour and exaggeration. Could I also trouble you,” and Bertie was again jolted at the subtle venom in his valet’s, voice, “to explain your identity, before I call the establishment to have you removed?” Bertie felt very grateful that he was currently hidden out of sight of the doorway, not caught in the crossfire of a spiteful witch and an irate valet.
The crone snorted. “Don’t bother with the police. Last time they tried to bother me, they had to buy a pond to house all the new toads in the force. Good-day.”
The fact that Jeeves snapped the door shut behind her without a parting pleasantry showed just how unsettled the valet had become.
Half hidden by the curve of the armchair, Bertie watched as Jeeves, his face steely with determination, strode over to the telephone and began dialing a number. Even with his new improved hearing, Bertie still couldn't’t make out individual words at the other end of the line. Jeeves gave his name several times. Then, “May I speak to Miss Madeline Basset.” From the questions Jeeves asked, it was immediately apparent that he was trying to ascertain the truth behind the crone's accusations.
When Jeeves finally clicked the handpiece back into the receiver, his face was pensive. It was not with the grace of a valet but the somber stride of a worried man that he walked over to the chair next to Bertie’s and sat down in it. Then Jeeves looked down, straight into Bertie’s eyes.
“Sir?” he asked, quietly.
After a moment, Bertie realized with a start that Jeeves was actually talking to him, since he had given up the idea of communication an hour ago. Bertie settled for a nod of his head. That, at least, could not be misinterpreted.
At Bertie’s nod, it was if he had broken the barrier of a dam, letting a stream of words rush out.
“Miss Basset, although in a temperament that was most distraught, managed to convey that she had not seen you since this morning, whereupon she parted company with you on account of being in extreme emotional distress. She did not communicate the nature or cause of her grievance, however her housekeeper, a Mrs. Goldsmith, was most verbal in describing her mistress' disquiet over an incidence to do with kittens, a hedgewitch, and that 'good for nothing idiot Wooster,' sir, if you'll pardon me repeating her phrase.”
Bertie nodded again, and Jeeves continued, “Although I am aware of the superstitions regarding - “ here Jeeves hesitated, speaking the word like he was describing a particularly inappropriate garment,' “-witches, sir, I have never put any credence to them. My Uncle George -”
Bertie made a small noise of exasperation. How did Jeeves' uncle George manage to insinuate himself into the young master's every predicament?
The corners of Jeeves' mouth twitched upward. “You'll forgive me, sir, but the includation is not entirely irrelevant. My Uncle George was a firm believer in the hidden powers of the mind, or as some call it, the third eye. In his declining years he, with increasing frequency, bade me to ward doorways with garlic, and other such practices. Most of my family regarded him as a crazed lunatic.”
Here Jeeves paused, and his face took on a faraway cast, his eyes reliving some past unpleasantness. “I did not. I considered that although his beliefs were most likely the product of fear and mental instability, his mind was otherwise sound. I now wonder if I was wrong.”
Jeeves looked at him, face expressionless. “I fear the only current option is to wait, sir. In time, Miss Basset will calm down. With proper persuasion she may easily be convinced to plead your cause to the ... Instigator of your situation. I am confidant that regaling the young lady with tales of your regret at your behaviour will sway her to your cause, especially if a romantic tone is conduced.”
After that, their admittedly one-sided conversation fell apart, unnoticed by both participants. Jeeves was lost in his great maze of a brain, and Bertie was gloomily contemplating the kind of bribe it would take to get Madeline Basset to uncross him from her black list for the umpteenth time. Silence hung over the flat.
A loud growl gurgled from Bertie's stomach.
Jeeves at once snapped to attention, his eyes focused fully on the present. “Would a light meal of battered fish be appropriate sir, or some milk?” Jeeves said briskly, regaining his normal voice for the first time that morning. Bertie nodded, and Jeeves shimmered out into the kitchen. It was like a broken watch had been fixed. There was trouble besieging from all sides, but Jeeves was back, and everything would work out.
Later that evening, when the yowls of an offended Basset had long since cleared their stain from the Wooster memory, Bertie was pawing around his bedroom. A newer, more immediate problem had challenged the Wooster mettle. His tail twitched behind him. There was the latest of the toppest mystery adventures in London, which he had purchased only yesterday, lying neatly on the bed table, and due to this dratted feline thingummy he couldn't get to it. Although scripture knowledge may have been his forte, Bertie could still times two and two together and get sixteen, dash it! He wasn't about to put claw marks through the detective's explanation of the crime. A chap could go off his head wondering if Miss Deirdre, the heiress,or the old housekeeper had killed Lord Waxley, after all.
A minute later, Bertie decided that claw marks could be damned. The Wooster spirit was made of sterner stuff to be put off by the little problem of turning a page! He trotted over to the side table, crouched down then sprang for the bed, landing neatly on the perfect corner fold of the bedcover. Now he just had to –
There was the table. Where Bertie had left the book. However, the article in question was stubbornly absent.
Well, Of all the nerve, Bertie seethed. Did one have to lock ones books up in society these day’s, Bertie wondered, to save them from Bassets? Jeeves knew better then to move it. But Bertie found himself trotting back to find him anyway.
Bertie located Jeeves, or rather, he located Jeeves’s legs on an armchair in the living room. Then Bertie was faced with a problem. I mean, it was probably all very well to spit cat-like at a Madeline Basset, but what was the correct feline form of addressing the paragon of valets?
He settled for a polite mew.
The, admittedly paragon-ish, but unfortunately mute leg of Jeeves proved unresponsive. So did the rest of him.
Bertie chanced another mew.
There was a crisp crackling of paper, as if someone were turning a page.
Surely Jeeves, reader of Spinoza and stern fish dietarian, would not be reading Bertie’s novel of suspense? Bertie decided that he had to see this for himself. He crouched down , judging the distance carefully. It would do no good to land awkwardly and rip a button on Jeeves’s clothing. Bertie had a strong feeling that Jeeves was particular about that kind of thing.
Bertie leapt.
Whumph!
The paragon of valet’s face peered down at him. If Aunt Agatha had been around, (and Bertie was very glad that she was not), a remonstration about mouths hanging open would have been forthcoming.. For Jeeves was gaping at him, although he quickly recovered his – what d'you call it? Aplimb? Aplomb.
“Do you require anything, sir?” said Jeeves. Though his voice sounded different then normal. Bertie wondered, like he was standing in a church. All echo-ish. When Jeeves blinked at him, he belatedly remembered the purpose of his mission. He patted a paw sternly against the book on Jeeves’s lap, which, as he could see from squinting at the top of the page, was indeed The Mystery of the Petrified Parrot.
“I’m sorry sir, but in the event of your temporary transposition along the tree of life, I calculated that the event of your reading this book was an unlikely one.”
Bertie let out a small sigh. Jeeves was right. He had better resign himself to chasing mice for entertainment for the remainder of his predicament. Though, he realized mournfully, Jeeves kept the apartment so spiffy that a mouse wouldn't dare put a toe inside the kitchen, even at the dead of night. He was trying to think of a way to convey this to Jeeves, when the corners of his valet’s mouth twitched. “I say, Jeeves, isn't laughing at my predicament, is he?” Bertie was just about to jump off in a huff, to seek more sympathetic quarters, when the rumble of Jeeves’s voice startled him to stillness.
“If it would be agreeable to you, sir, I would not be opposed to reading this text aloud, so that we might both obtain the benefit of light entertainment from this volume.”
Bertie perked up. Suddenly it was like the birds had started trilling again when the sun broke out from the clouds after rain, and all that poetry tosh. All was right in the world! Impulsively, he rubbed his head against Jeeves’s immaculately folded sleeve.
“Very good, sir.”
And so Jeeves' began to read, beginning from chapter one and the circumstances surrounding the parrot ‘s (whose name, curiously, was Cyril) unfortunate demise. As h e described the physical characteristics of possible future suspects, Bertie underwent a curious sensation. His eyelids sinking shut, his tail wrapped snug around him, it felt like a warm hand was rubbing nice and heavy against his cheek, and a strange rumbling purr rose up from his throat.
It wasn’t so dashed bad after all, being a kitten, Bertie thought, drowsily, before drifting off to sleep.
Sometimes, Bertie ruminated, life could be awfully rummy. One morning you’re walking down the street with a song in your hear,t , children are laughing, the birds are tweeting away without a care, then the next a bolt of lightening roars, ‘here’s Wooster looking chirpy, stop it at once!’ and a combination of Madeline Basset, and a mysterious crone leaves Bertram floundering, literally as helpless as a kitten in his own G.H.Q.
Not that he was entirely helpless, of course. Not when Jeeves had been surpassing himself in the un-helplessning of the young master category. The second Bertie’s stomach started to wonder what was for tea, a plate of crisply-cooked meat would materialize by his side. The second Bertie’s eyes began to droop, pillows would be fluffed and blankets arranged invitingly on the sofa. It was the life of a king, Bertie supposed, if kings had four legs and a fondness for chasing things that wriggled.
But despite the attentiveness of his valet, the spirits of Bertie inexorably began to droop. The quiet was getting to him. Every time he opened his mouth, instead of the light, attractive baritone of B. Wooster, an irritatingly high pitched yelp escaped. It was enough to put one off trying to communicate entirely.
Jeeves had done his level best to entertain the young master but when your audience was only able to nod, shake its head or meow, conversation was limited to the yes or no variety that only the most isolated hermit would find stimulating. It was suffice to say that gloom was beating its wings in an overly familiar manner over the Wooster homestead.
“Would you like some supper, sir?”
Bertie shook his head. ‘Quite full, old thing,’ he thought at Jeeves, ‘help yourself to the portion, or go out and dine in the city, for Betram shall not be entertaining tonight.’ But of course none of that reached Jeeves, though the words were capering like an enraged Indian tribe through his head.
“Could I tempt you to a drink of water, then, sir?’
Bertie stared balefully it Jeeves. It was all very well for him. Though he supposed if Jeeves was the one in feline form, the vocabulary restriction would suit him no end, if all he was concerned with was food and drink.
“Sir?’ Jeeves tried again.
Bertie glared at him.
Jeeves' eyebrow raised on quarter of an inch.
“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves stiffly.
Bertie’s anger and frustration roiled within him. How dare Jeeves act in that soupy, stiff manner, when none of this was Bertie’s fault. One might easily go so far as to say it was Jeeves' fault. If he hadn't let in those twenty three cats, Bertie wouldn't have got cursed in the first place. In fact he wouldn't be surprised if Jeeves had cooked up the whole rotten scheme from the beginning. Well, he was sick of it.
Jeeves was turning around, the self-important, impeccable black shoes wheeling on their axes. In a surge of irrational anger Bertie leapt from the chair and clawed Jeeves' ankles, ripping into the trousers, feeling the fabric fight against him as he dragged his claws through.
Two things happened at once. Jeeves made a noise, a cry of pain. Horror rolled into Bertie like the red sea converging on Moses' enemies, a subject he was familiar with from research for his Scripture Knowledge prize. He untangled himself and retreated, limbs shaking, looking for anywhere to escape. What had he done? What had he been doing? He, Bertram Wooster, known for his sunny, helpful disposish, had attacked Jeeves. Jeeves, his one true staunch ally against the aunts of the world.
Bertie wanted to hide. He wanted to sink through the floor and fall through to the other side of the earth. Australia, maybe. Or Mexico. Somewhere Bassets and Glossops and witches and Crayes and aunts and most importantly, Jeeves, would never find him.
Warm hands dragged him from his position. Curled in a ball, Bertie miserably realized that hiding under the table was not really as effective an escape method as escaping from the continent. If only the world would swallow him up, if only he weren’t here. If only none of this had never happened and Jeeves had never been sent to him from the agency, because then he never would have attacked his friend. Who had never asked anything more of him except to wear appropriate neck-wear.
Maybe Jeeves would chuck him onto the street at last. That’s all an ungrateful young man was good for. Perhaps he could catch rats in railway stations for a living.
But instead, Bertie's body was pressed against the fabric of Jeeves’ shoulder. “So he’s going to squeeze or strangle me to death,” Bertie amended. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable, letting his body hang limp. “Might as well make it easy for him, and do something right in my worthless blot of a life.”
But Jeeves didn’t grasp his neck, to strangle or to snap. Bertie found himself held close, his fur pressed against Jeeves' collar and the soft skin of his neck. “I could scratch his eyes, or his neck,” Bertie wondered, “but he doesn’t care.”
Bertie opened his eyes.
Jeeves was looking at him with a gentle expression.
“It’s all right,” he said. And Bertie buried his head into Jeeve’s collar, for he couldn’t bear to see the kindly acceptance in his valet’s eyes.
Some time later, Jeeves left out a plate of food and a bowl of water before retreating to his own quarters for the night. Bertie made sure that he didn’t lave a drop behind.
It was the telephone that finally woke Bertie the next morning, where he had bunked up on the sofa . As usual, Jeeves was impeccably attired for such an ungodly hour, and his face was smooth as a freshly ironed handkerchief. A great cracking yawn burst through his jaw as he watched Jeeves shimmer over to the telephone and speak “Wooster residence.”
“Yes, madam.” said Jeeves.
Aha, so he is talking to a female, Bertie deduced rather cleverly.
There was a lengthy pause. Whoever was on the other line had to be yakking their head and half their foot off besides.
Then, “I understand, madam, a quite understandable and effective method.”
A shorter pause. Perhaps the mysterious caller had agreed with Jeeves, a thoroughly wise choice, in Bertie’s opinion.
“I approve of your sentiment, Madam, and am pleased to inform you that Mister Wooster is indeed afflicted. He has not eaten nor drunk this morning, refusing all the nourishment I tried to tempt him to eat.”
You had to admire a man, Bertie thought, who lied with such dexterity that he actually told the truth. The skill had served him well at preparatory school, where he and Kipper had managed to convince the headmaster that they had not misplaced any of his private supply of biscuits. (They had in fact been consumed by the suspected party with much vigour and determination.)
“Most assuredly, madam. You are correct in assuming that it is love which had rent his soul in two, and if he had but a voice, the name of Madeline Basset would spring forth from his lips in an anguished tone…. Yes, that would be most agreeable, madam. Goodbye.” With a click, Jeeves replaced the receiver, and glided in the direction of Bertram.
“That was Miss Basset, sir.” Jeeves paused for the precise length of time it would take one to say “Go on, Jeeves,” before continuing, “I am afraid that the news I am about to impart is of a dual nature, sir. On the positive side, Miss Basset has agreed to persuade the witch to reverse your predicament. On the negative side, “ and Jeeves hesitated just a fraction of a second, “Miss Basset is under the impression that you intend to marry her.” He paused, allowing time for that bombshell to sink into the Wooster brain-matter.
Bertie wasn’t sure how to react. It had to be his, what, bally fifth engagement to the blasted bird? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps the pain had become numbed after becoming injected with that particular venom several times too many.
On the high road, of course, he’d back to his usual effervescent self, while the low road was fraught with the snakes, tigers and unpleasant crawling insects that no doubt plagued those who cast their lifelong lot with Bassets.
But Jeeves had not finished. “I am not aware if Miss Basset possesses a vengeful nature, but I fear that if you give the impression of being unhappy towards your, future nuptials, she will attempt to cancel the reversal of your predicament. She is on her way here now, sir.”
“That's all very well, but stuck as a feline and engaged to Madeline, I think I might take the former…” But there was no way of communicating this to Jeeves, and Bertie had a feeling that valeting for a small animal was not quite the position Jeeves would fancy.
So he rested his head on one paw, and waited.
And waited.
“Is this what prisoners feel like while they wait on death row?” Bertie wondered as the clock on the wall ticked loudly and impassively on the wall, a mechanical heartbeat.
The doorbell rang at precisely one past eleven.
Madeline sailed in with the look of a put upon but forgiving nurse, bestowing good deeds on all she passed. She had already passed him once, in fact. This was because Bertie had retreated into the corner of the sofa, half hidden by a cushion, His claws had shot out and digging deep into the sofa seat.
“Bertie, oh Bertie, I have come at last,” Madeline cried.
“Oh, good.” Bertie thought crabbily. Suddenly the flat tilted alarmingly as the face of Madeline floated in front of him. She hooked her hands underneath the soft skin of his stomach, and pulled.
“Bertie!” Madeline said reproachfully, and pulled again. But Bertie couldn’t get over the overwhelming fear of being carted off to live with Sir Watkin and Madeline forever, and dash being a cat forever, he was not leaving this couch till the blasted woman was gone. However, the woman in question did not give up. She pulled, and Bertie could feel his claws slipping, losing their hold, and he was lifted into the air, paws flailing frantically.
“Bertie, I did so hope you would understand,” Madeline said sorrowfully. “This, morning, when I was talking to the flowers –“
“Sod the flowers,” Bertie said.
For a second, everything froze.
Bertie felt a strange roaring in his ears, like the sound of a giant wave rushing towards the shore. Someone screamed, and all four limbs hit the floor with a whumph.
As he collected his bearings, Bertie was –what was the word? Peripherally?- aware that the door to the flat had slammed shut, with Madeline most assuredly on the other side.
The other point was, the door was a lot shorter and closer than it had been a minute ago.
A huge smile spread across his face. “Jeeves!” Bertie cried, gladness swelling in his heart. “I'm back!”
“My congratulations, sir. Might I direct you to the clothing laid out in your bedroom?”
Bertie blinked. “Er.” There were all four of the Wooster limbs, in prime fighting form no doubt, but also rather more revealed than one liked in polite society. “Ah.”
A short time later, Bertie was occupied in devouring a plate of the best victuals Jeeves could procure, and multitasking it with deep thoughts. “Jeeves,” he said, waving a piece of toast in the air to emphasize his point, “There are two main points to consider. One... are you ready Jeeves?”
“I am all ears, sir.”
“Right ho. Well, and this is point number one, how am I going to get out of marrying Madeline? She has all her guns out and is ready to fire!” Bertie took another bite and chewed it gloomily.
“Well, sir -”
“A-ah, Jeeves.” He hurriedly swallowed the toast. “There are two points, remember.”
“As you say, sir.”
“Point two is this. How am I going to get off the black list of this witch? I mean to say, what's to stop her waving her hands and before you can say, 'What's for lunch,' poof, Bertram is a member of the fauna again?”
“I take your meaning, sir, but you need not trouble yourself. To address your first query, I have it by speaking to the Butler at Totleigh Towers that Miss Basset will shortly be withdrawing her proposal, having boken her wrist while briefly supporting your weight during your transformation.”
Bertie's eyes widened, and his half-eaten triangle of toast dropped from limp fingers. “I say.”
“Yes, sir. An unfortunate predicament for Miss Basset, but on the whole a satisfactory outcome.”
“Good grief. Broke her wrist, eh? I'd better send her some flowers or something, to apologise, what?”
“A most chivalorous sentiment, sir. To address your other point, I fancy that the hedgewitch, having been already persuaded to cast a spell against her will by Miss Basset, will be disenclined to aquise to any further requests.”
Bertie frowned. “And you're sure of that, Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bertie slumped into his chair, feeling like the anvil that had been sitting on his stomach for the last few days had floated away.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Actually,” said Bertie, sitting up slowly. “There is one other thing that's been festering in the Wooster brain-matter. Er, bit hard to know how to put this, but I'll give it a shot, what? That is to say, I mean...” Bertie grimaced, then started again. “How did you know that the cat was me?”
It only took Jeeves a flicker of thought before he replied, framed in the doorway, “I was able to deduct the state of affairs from Miss Basset's description of the day's events, sir, on which she looked upon with a particularly critical eye.”
“I see.” Bertie didn't know what he'd been expecting. “Silly ass,” he told himself, stomach sinking even as he nodded absently to dismiss Jeeves from the room. “He isn't one of those magical chaps. You were stupid to think otherwise.”
And so Bertie was left with nothing but the tablecloth to talk to, for Jeeves had gone to spirit away the debris from his meal – no, he reprimanded himself, to wash up, not to spirit anything.
He stared gloomily at the tablecloth, who looked back at him with an irritating lack of sympathy. “Pull yourself together, Wooster,” he said to himself sternly. “So what if Jeeves doesn't have any magical abilities. He's still the best valet in London, and you'd be married to ten girls at least by now if he hadn't been around, if you hadn't been minced into sausages for Aunt Agatha's breakfast first. Put a brave face on it, for goodness sake.”
But it still felt to Bertie that something had been left unsaid, some pieces of the jigsaw puzzle still trapped under the sofa.
What would Jeeves say?
A good sleep would solve many problems. Bertie was sure he'd heard Jeeves recommend it as an effective remedy before, and anyway, Bertie was feeling a bit lead-like from the day's exertions. Lead-like from the whole week, really, ever since he got dragged by Madeline to see that blasted old crone.
So he biffed off to his room. However, a book on the bed-table caught his eye – why, it was his novel of suspence, that he never got to finish reading... an idea struck Bertie with an almost physical jolt. Perhaps Jeeves hadn't gotten to finishing it either!
Bertie tucked the book under his arm, and knocked softly on the door to Jeeves' lair, foot tapping against the floorboards in a sharp staccato. The door swung open and Jeeves stood before him, face arranged into a polite expression of inquiry.
“Jeeves...” Bertie bit his lip, feeling hot around the neck. “Are you busy at the mo?”
“Not as such, sir. Do you require my assistance?”
“Not exactly. But I was going to finish reading the Mystery of the Petrified Parrot, but it wasn't the same without, I mean to say, if you haven't already... Oh, dash it. Jeeves, would you mind awfully reading the rest to me? You do it so well, and when I tried to get into it just now, it wasn't the same...” Bertie gulped, mind flashing through the hundreds of disapproving looks in Jeeves' facial vocabulary that would express his distaste at sharing in such a frivolous past-time.
But the corners of Jeeves' lips surged outwards a whole half inch, a rare, quick smile.
“It would be my pleasure, sir.”
FIN
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I don't own nothin, honest, m'lud.
Notes: in case I get posting phobia again, I'm putting the next two parts up together. Also, I took a liberty with the canon of Jeeves' Uncle George, for which I apologise.
Onwards to the craziness.
The sound of a door snicking shut caused Bertie’s eyes to snap open. His eyes tracked Jeeves, walking into kitchen, a bag of foodstuffs hanging in a dignified manner from the valet’s hand.
“I can’t just bally well go up to him,” Bertie thought, indecision making him cross. But it seemed that he wouldn't’t be explaining anything anytime soon, anyway – for the snicks of cutlery banging together and and waster gushing from the faucet spoke that Jeeves would be occupied with the rituals of the gentlemen's personal gentleman for some time.
“Well, this won’t do,” Bertie thought sternly to himself. “You’re the last of the Woosters. Jeeves may be the one with the majority of the grey matter, but you’ve eaten a fish or two yourself in your time.”
So in the next space of silence, Bertie meowed, as loud as he could. Suddenly, all sounds in the kitchen stopped. Jeeves materialized in the doorway. A frown creased his face.
Bertie, gathering up his courage, meowed again.
But Jeeves merely wrinkled an eyebrow at him.
“Shush,” Jeeves said sternly.
Bertie shushed.
Jeeves nodded in approval, then disappeared. After a moment, the sound of water splashing into the sink resumed.
Whoever said that Wooster’s had brains was an ass, Bertie decided gloomily. But at least Jeeves knew he was there – well, knew that a cat was in the flat, anyway, and had not immediately chucked him off to some deserving cause, following the destined journey of many a piece of natty headgear. Perhaps Jeeves thought that a cat would be useful in scaring off potential matrimonial monsters. At least now he had time to think of some other plan. He gave a huff, (a quiet one of course, still in shock over being told off so sternly by Jeeves) and settled down to wring his mental sponge once again.
A buzz from the doorbell interrupted his fruitless ruminations, which had gotten as far as speculation as to how difficult it would be for someone without fingers or human vocal chords to send a telegram.
Jeeves glided from the kitchen and opened the door.
From the angle of the chair, Bertie could not see who the visitor was. But her voice placed a chilly fingerprint on his memory. It was the crone from the alley. The kitten-seller, with the frightening stare and fingers gnarled enough to rival the knottiest tree-root. Her voice was cracked and low, and filled with satisfaction that made all his hair stand up, quivering.
“You’re master is in, I presume?” the crone said. “I have a message for him.”
Bertie’s ears pricked up.
“Mister Wooster is not in,” Jeeves hesitated for a fraction, “… madam, but I can pass on a message when he returns, if that is agreeable to you.” He was using his soupy voice, the one that suggested that the valet was Displeased and Immovable. Bertie wondered what the crone had done to anger Jeeves, then recalled the woman’s atrocious clothing. It was a wonder the poor man was still upright.
The woman let out a cackle that would have wilted flowers. “If Mister Wooster was a gentlemen, he would not dally with a lady's heart so easily. Tell him from Miss Basset and I that when he stops brandishing with a woman’’s heart, and pays some respect to the creatures of this earth, it might wear off. In a week. If he’s quick.” She snorted. “Though from what I saw, a brick would be quicker at learning a trick than your master.”
Jeeves’s voice was cold enough to freeze oceans. “I am afraid, madam, that there has been a misunderstanding, I know not of what you speak and I strongly suspect that the cause is mere rumour and exaggeration. Could I also trouble you,” and Bertie was again jolted at the subtle venom in his valet’s, voice, “to explain your identity, before I call the establishment to have you removed?” Bertie felt very grateful that he was currently hidden out of sight of the doorway, not caught in the crossfire of a spiteful witch and an irate valet.
The crone snorted. “Don’t bother with the police. Last time they tried to bother me, they had to buy a pond to house all the new toads in the force. Good-day.”
The fact that Jeeves snapped the door shut behind her without a parting pleasantry showed just how unsettled the valet had become.
Half hidden by the curve of the armchair, Bertie watched as Jeeves, his face steely with determination, strode over to the telephone and began dialing a number. Even with his new improved hearing, Bertie still couldn't’t make out individual words at the other end of the line. Jeeves gave his name several times. Then, “May I speak to Miss Madeline Basset.” From the questions Jeeves asked, it was immediately apparent that he was trying to ascertain the truth behind the crone's accusations.
When Jeeves finally clicked the handpiece back into the receiver, his face was pensive. It was not with the grace of a valet but the somber stride of a worried man that he walked over to the chair next to Bertie’s and sat down in it. Then Jeeves looked down, straight into Bertie’s eyes.
“Sir?” he asked, quietly.
After a moment, Bertie realized with a start that Jeeves was actually talking to him, since he had given up the idea of communication an hour ago. Bertie settled for a nod of his head. That, at least, could not be misinterpreted.
At Bertie’s nod, it was if he had broken the barrier of a dam, letting a stream of words rush out.
“Miss Basset, although in a temperament that was most distraught, managed to convey that she had not seen you since this morning, whereupon she parted company with you on account of being in extreme emotional distress. She did not communicate the nature or cause of her grievance, however her housekeeper, a Mrs. Goldsmith, was most verbal in describing her mistress' disquiet over an incidence to do with kittens, a hedgewitch, and that 'good for nothing idiot Wooster,' sir, if you'll pardon me repeating her phrase.”
Bertie nodded again, and Jeeves continued, “Although I am aware of the superstitions regarding - “ here Jeeves hesitated, speaking the word like he was describing a particularly inappropriate garment,' “-witches, sir, I have never put any credence to them. My Uncle George -”
Bertie made a small noise of exasperation. How did Jeeves' uncle George manage to insinuate himself into the young master's every predicament?
The corners of Jeeves' mouth twitched upward. “You'll forgive me, sir, but the includation is not entirely irrelevant. My Uncle George was a firm believer in the hidden powers of the mind, or as some call it, the third eye. In his declining years he, with increasing frequency, bade me to ward doorways with garlic, and other such practices. Most of my family regarded him as a crazed lunatic.”
Here Jeeves paused, and his face took on a faraway cast, his eyes reliving some past unpleasantness. “I did not. I considered that although his beliefs were most likely the product of fear and mental instability, his mind was otherwise sound. I now wonder if I was wrong.”
Jeeves looked at him, face expressionless. “I fear the only current option is to wait, sir. In time, Miss Basset will calm down. With proper persuasion she may easily be convinced to plead your cause to the ... Instigator of your situation. I am confidant that regaling the young lady with tales of your regret at your behaviour will sway her to your cause, especially if a romantic tone is conduced.”
After that, their admittedly one-sided conversation fell apart, unnoticed by both participants. Jeeves was lost in his great maze of a brain, and Bertie was gloomily contemplating the kind of bribe it would take to get Madeline Basset to uncross him from her black list for the umpteenth time. Silence hung over the flat.
A loud growl gurgled from Bertie's stomach.
Jeeves at once snapped to attention, his eyes focused fully on the present. “Would a light meal of battered fish be appropriate sir, or some milk?” Jeeves said briskly, regaining his normal voice for the first time that morning. Bertie nodded, and Jeeves shimmered out into the kitchen. It was like a broken watch had been fixed. There was trouble besieging from all sides, but Jeeves was back, and everything would work out.
Later that evening, when the yowls of an offended Basset had long since cleared their stain from the Wooster memory, Bertie was pawing around his bedroom. A newer, more immediate problem had challenged the Wooster mettle. His tail twitched behind him. There was the latest of the toppest mystery adventures in London, which he had purchased only yesterday, lying neatly on the bed table, and due to this dratted feline thingummy he couldn't get to it. Although scripture knowledge may have been his forte, Bertie could still times two and two together and get sixteen, dash it! He wasn't about to put claw marks through the detective's explanation of the crime. A chap could go off his head wondering if Miss Deirdre, the heiress,or the old housekeeper had killed Lord Waxley, after all.
A minute later, Bertie decided that claw marks could be damned. The Wooster spirit was made of sterner stuff to be put off by the little problem of turning a page! He trotted over to the side table, crouched down then sprang for the bed, landing neatly on the perfect corner fold of the bedcover. Now he just had to –
There was the table. Where Bertie had left the book. However, the article in question was stubbornly absent.
Well, Of all the nerve, Bertie seethed. Did one have to lock ones books up in society these day’s, Bertie wondered, to save them from Bassets? Jeeves knew better then to move it. But Bertie found himself trotting back to find him anyway.
Bertie located Jeeves, or rather, he located Jeeves’s legs on an armchair in the living room. Then Bertie was faced with a problem. I mean, it was probably all very well to spit cat-like at a Madeline Basset, but what was the correct feline form of addressing the paragon of valets?
He settled for a polite mew.
The, admittedly paragon-ish, but unfortunately mute leg of Jeeves proved unresponsive. So did the rest of him.
Bertie chanced another mew.
There was a crisp crackling of paper, as if someone were turning a page.
Surely Jeeves, reader of Spinoza and stern fish dietarian, would not be reading Bertie’s novel of suspense? Bertie decided that he had to see this for himself. He crouched down , judging the distance carefully. It would do no good to land awkwardly and rip a button on Jeeves’s clothing. Bertie had a strong feeling that Jeeves was particular about that kind of thing.
Bertie leapt.
Whumph!
The paragon of valet’s face peered down at him. If Aunt Agatha had been around, (and Bertie was very glad that she was not), a remonstration about mouths hanging open would have been forthcoming.. For Jeeves was gaping at him, although he quickly recovered his – what d'you call it? Aplimb? Aplomb.
“Do you require anything, sir?” said Jeeves. Though his voice sounded different then normal. Bertie wondered, like he was standing in a church. All echo-ish. When Jeeves blinked at him, he belatedly remembered the purpose of his mission. He patted a paw sternly against the book on Jeeves’s lap, which, as he could see from squinting at the top of the page, was indeed The Mystery of the Petrified Parrot.
“I’m sorry sir, but in the event of your temporary transposition along the tree of life, I calculated that the event of your reading this book was an unlikely one.”
Bertie let out a small sigh. Jeeves was right. He had better resign himself to chasing mice for entertainment for the remainder of his predicament. Though, he realized mournfully, Jeeves kept the apartment so spiffy that a mouse wouldn't dare put a toe inside the kitchen, even at the dead of night. He was trying to think of a way to convey this to Jeeves, when the corners of his valet’s mouth twitched. “I say, Jeeves, isn't laughing at my predicament, is he?” Bertie was just about to jump off in a huff, to seek more sympathetic quarters, when the rumble of Jeeves’s voice startled him to stillness.
“If it would be agreeable to you, sir, I would not be opposed to reading this text aloud, so that we might both obtain the benefit of light entertainment from this volume.”
Bertie perked up. Suddenly it was like the birds had started trilling again when the sun broke out from the clouds after rain, and all that poetry tosh. All was right in the world! Impulsively, he rubbed his head against Jeeves’s immaculately folded sleeve.
“Very good, sir.”
And so Jeeves' began to read, beginning from chapter one and the circumstances surrounding the parrot ‘s (whose name, curiously, was Cyril) unfortunate demise. As h e described the physical characteristics of possible future suspects, Bertie underwent a curious sensation. His eyelids sinking shut, his tail wrapped snug around him, it felt like a warm hand was rubbing nice and heavy against his cheek, and a strange rumbling purr rose up from his throat.
It wasn’t so dashed bad after all, being a kitten, Bertie thought, drowsily, before drifting off to sleep.
Sometimes, Bertie ruminated, life could be awfully rummy. One morning you’re walking down the street with a song in your hear,t , children are laughing, the birds are tweeting away without a care, then the next a bolt of lightening roars, ‘here’s Wooster looking chirpy, stop it at once!’ and a combination of Madeline Basset, and a mysterious crone leaves Bertram floundering, literally as helpless as a kitten in his own G.H.Q.
Not that he was entirely helpless, of course. Not when Jeeves had been surpassing himself in the un-helplessning of the young master category. The second Bertie’s stomach started to wonder what was for tea, a plate of crisply-cooked meat would materialize by his side. The second Bertie’s eyes began to droop, pillows would be fluffed and blankets arranged invitingly on the sofa. It was the life of a king, Bertie supposed, if kings had four legs and a fondness for chasing things that wriggled.
But despite the attentiveness of his valet, the spirits of Bertie inexorably began to droop. The quiet was getting to him. Every time he opened his mouth, instead of the light, attractive baritone of B. Wooster, an irritatingly high pitched yelp escaped. It was enough to put one off trying to communicate entirely.
Jeeves had done his level best to entertain the young master but when your audience was only able to nod, shake its head or meow, conversation was limited to the yes or no variety that only the most isolated hermit would find stimulating. It was suffice to say that gloom was beating its wings in an overly familiar manner over the Wooster homestead.
“Would you like some supper, sir?”
Bertie shook his head. ‘Quite full, old thing,’ he thought at Jeeves, ‘help yourself to the portion, or go out and dine in the city, for Betram shall not be entertaining tonight.’ But of course none of that reached Jeeves, though the words were capering like an enraged Indian tribe through his head.
“Could I tempt you to a drink of water, then, sir?’
Bertie stared balefully it Jeeves. It was all very well for him. Though he supposed if Jeeves was the one in feline form, the vocabulary restriction would suit him no end, if all he was concerned with was food and drink.
“Sir?’ Jeeves tried again.
Bertie glared at him.
Jeeves' eyebrow raised on quarter of an inch.
“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves stiffly.
Bertie’s anger and frustration roiled within him. How dare Jeeves act in that soupy, stiff manner, when none of this was Bertie’s fault. One might easily go so far as to say it was Jeeves' fault. If he hadn't let in those twenty three cats, Bertie wouldn't have got cursed in the first place. In fact he wouldn't be surprised if Jeeves had cooked up the whole rotten scheme from the beginning. Well, he was sick of it.
Jeeves was turning around, the self-important, impeccable black shoes wheeling on their axes. In a surge of irrational anger Bertie leapt from the chair and clawed Jeeves' ankles, ripping into the trousers, feeling the fabric fight against him as he dragged his claws through.
Two things happened at once. Jeeves made a noise, a cry of pain. Horror rolled into Bertie like the red sea converging on Moses' enemies, a subject he was familiar with from research for his Scripture Knowledge prize. He untangled himself and retreated, limbs shaking, looking for anywhere to escape. What had he done? What had he been doing? He, Bertram Wooster, known for his sunny, helpful disposish, had attacked Jeeves. Jeeves, his one true staunch ally against the aunts of the world.
Bertie wanted to hide. He wanted to sink through the floor and fall through to the other side of the earth. Australia, maybe. Or Mexico. Somewhere Bassets and Glossops and witches and Crayes and aunts and most importantly, Jeeves, would never find him.
Warm hands dragged him from his position. Curled in a ball, Bertie miserably realized that hiding under the table was not really as effective an escape method as escaping from the continent. If only the world would swallow him up, if only he weren’t here. If only none of this had never happened and Jeeves had never been sent to him from the agency, because then he never would have attacked his friend. Who had never asked anything more of him except to wear appropriate neck-wear.
Maybe Jeeves would chuck him onto the street at last. That’s all an ungrateful young man was good for. Perhaps he could catch rats in railway stations for a living.
But instead, Bertie's body was pressed against the fabric of Jeeves’ shoulder. “So he’s going to squeeze or strangle me to death,” Bertie amended. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable, letting his body hang limp. “Might as well make it easy for him, and do something right in my worthless blot of a life.”
But Jeeves didn’t grasp his neck, to strangle or to snap. Bertie found himself held close, his fur pressed against Jeeves' collar and the soft skin of his neck. “I could scratch his eyes, or his neck,” Bertie wondered, “but he doesn’t care.”
Bertie opened his eyes.
Jeeves was looking at him with a gentle expression.
“It’s all right,” he said. And Bertie buried his head into Jeeve’s collar, for he couldn’t bear to see the kindly acceptance in his valet’s eyes.
Some time later, Jeeves left out a plate of food and a bowl of water before retreating to his own quarters for the night. Bertie made sure that he didn’t lave a drop behind.
It was the telephone that finally woke Bertie the next morning, where he had bunked up on the sofa . As usual, Jeeves was impeccably attired for such an ungodly hour, and his face was smooth as a freshly ironed handkerchief. A great cracking yawn burst through his jaw as he watched Jeeves shimmer over to the telephone and speak “Wooster residence.”
“Yes, madam.” said Jeeves.
Aha, so he is talking to a female, Bertie deduced rather cleverly.
There was a lengthy pause. Whoever was on the other line had to be yakking their head and half their foot off besides.
Then, “I understand, madam, a quite understandable and effective method.”
A shorter pause. Perhaps the mysterious caller had agreed with Jeeves, a thoroughly wise choice, in Bertie’s opinion.
“I approve of your sentiment, Madam, and am pleased to inform you that Mister Wooster is indeed afflicted. He has not eaten nor drunk this morning, refusing all the nourishment I tried to tempt him to eat.”
You had to admire a man, Bertie thought, who lied with such dexterity that he actually told the truth. The skill had served him well at preparatory school, where he and Kipper had managed to convince the headmaster that they had not misplaced any of his private supply of biscuits. (They had in fact been consumed by the suspected party with much vigour and determination.)
“Most assuredly, madam. You are correct in assuming that it is love which had rent his soul in two, and if he had but a voice, the name of Madeline Basset would spring forth from his lips in an anguished tone…. Yes, that would be most agreeable, madam. Goodbye.” With a click, Jeeves replaced the receiver, and glided in the direction of Bertram.
“That was Miss Basset, sir.” Jeeves paused for the precise length of time it would take one to say “Go on, Jeeves,” before continuing, “I am afraid that the news I am about to impart is of a dual nature, sir. On the positive side, Miss Basset has agreed to persuade the witch to reverse your predicament. On the negative side, “ and Jeeves hesitated just a fraction of a second, “Miss Basset is under the impression that you intend to marry her.” He paused, allowing time for that bombshell to sink into the Wooster brain-matter.
Bertie wasn’t sure how to react. It had to be his, what, bally fifth engagement to the blasted bird? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps the pain had become numbed after becoming injected with that particular venom several times too many.
On the high road, of course, he’d back to his usual effervescent self, while the low road was fraught with the snakes, tigers and unpleasant crawling insects that no doubt plagued those who cast their lifelong lot with Bassets.
But Jeeves had not finished. “I am not aware if Miss Basset possesses a vengeful nature, but I fear that if you give the impression of being unhappy towards your, future nuptials, she will attempt to cancel the reversal of your predicament. She is on her way here now, sir.”
“That's all very well, but stuck as a feline and engaged to Madeline, I think I might take the former…” But there was no way of communicating this to Jeeves, and Bertie had a feeling that valeting for a small animal was not quite the position Jeeves would fancy.
So he rested his head on one paw, and waited.
And waited.
“Is this what prisoners feel like while they wait on death row?” Bertie wondered as the clock on the wall ticked loudly and impassively on the wall, a mechanical heartbeat.
The doorbell rang at precisely one past eleven.
Madeline sailed in with the look of a put upon but forgiving nurse, bestowing good deeds on all she passed. She had already passed him once, in fact. This was because Bertie had retreated into the corner of the sofa, half hidden by a cushion, His claws had shot out and digging deep into the sofa seat.
“Bertie, oh Bertie, I have come at last,” Madeline cried.
“Oh, good.” Bertie thought crabbily. Suddenly the flat tilted alarmingly as the face of Madeline floated in front of him. She hooked her hands underneath the soft skin of his stomach, and pulled.
“Bertie!” Madeline said reproachfully, and pulled again. But Bertie couldn’t get over the overwhelming fear of being carted off to live with Sir Watkin and Madeline forever, and dash being a cat forever, he was not leaving this couch till the blasted woman was gone. However, the woman in question did not give up. She pulled, and Bertie could feel his claws slipping, losing their hold, and he was lifted into the air, paws flailing frantically.
“Bertie, I did so hope you would understand,” Madeline said sorrowfully. “This, morning, when I was talking to the flowers –“
“Sod the flowers,” Bertie said.
For a second, everything froze.
Bertie felt a strange roaring in his ears, like the sound of a giant wave rushing towards the shore. Someone screamed, and all four limbs hit the floor with a whumph.
As he collected his bearings, Bertie was –what was the word? Peripherally?- aware that the door to the flat had slammed shut, with Madeline most assuredly on the other side.
The other point was, the door was a lot shorter and closer than it had been a minute ago.
A huge smile spread across his face. “Jeeves!” Bertie cried, gladness swelling in his heart. “I'm back!”
“My congratulations, sir. Might I direct you to the clothing laid out in your bedroom?”
Bertie blinked. “Er.” There were all four of the Wooster limbs, in prime fighting form no doubt, but also rather more revealed than one liked in polite society. “Ah.”
A short time later, Bertie was occupied in devouring a plate of the best victuals Jeeves could procure, and multitasking it with deep thoughts. “Jeeves,” he said, waving a piece of toast in the air to emphasize his point, “There are two main points to consider. One... are you ready Jeeves?”
“I am all ears, sir.”
“Right ho. Well, and this is point number one, how am I going to get out of marrying Madeline? She has all her guns out and is ready to fire!” Bertie took another bite and chewed it gloomily.
“Well, sir -”
“A-ah, Jeeves.” He hurriedly swallowed the toast. “There are two points, remember.”
“As you say, sir.”
“Point two is this. How am I going to get off the black list of this witch? I mean to say, what's to stop her waving her hands and before you can say, 'What's for lunch,' poof, Bertram is a member of the fauna again?”
“I take your meaning, sir, but you need not trouble yourself. To address your first query, I have it by speaking to the Butler at Totleigh Towers that Miss Basset will shortly be withdrawing her proposal, having boken her wrist while briefly supporting your weight during your transformation.”
Bertie's eyes widened, and his half-eaten triangle of toast dropped from limp fingers. “I say.”
“Yes, sir. An unfortunate predicament for Miss Basset, but on the whole a satisfactory outcome.”
“Good grief. Broke her wrist, eh? I'd better send her some flowers or something, to apologise, what?”
“A most chivalorous sentiment, sir. To address your other point, I fancy that the hedgewitch, having been already persuaded to cast a spell against her will by Miss Basset, will be disenclined to aquise to any further requests.”
Bertie frowned. “And you're sure of that, Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bertie slumped into his chair, feeling like the anvil that had been sitting on his stomach for the last few days had floated away.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Actually,” said Bertie, sitting up slowly. “There is one other thing that's been festering in the Wooster brain-matter. Er, bit hard to know how to put this, but I'll give it a shot, what? That is to say, I mean...” Bertie grimaced, then started again. “How did you know that the cat was me?”
It only took Jeeves a flicker of thought before he replied, framed in the doorway, “I was able to deduct the state of affairs from Miss Basset's description of the day's events, sir, on which she looked upon with a particularly critical eye.”
“I see.” Bertie didn't know what he'd been expecting. “Silly ass,” he told himself, stomach sinking even as he nodded absently to dismiss Jeeves from the room. “He isn't one of those magical chaps. You were stupid to think otherwise.”
And so Bertie was left with nothing but the tablecloth to talk to, for Jeeves had gone to spirit away the debris from his meal – no, he reprimanded himself, to wash up, not to spirit anything.
He stared gloomily at the tablecloth, who looked back at him with an irritating lack of sympathy. “Pull yourself together, Wooster,” he said to himself sternly. “So what if Jeeves doesn't have any magical abilities. He's still the best valet in London, and you'd be married to ten girls at least by now if he hadn't been around, if you hadn't been minced into sausages for Aunt Agatha's breakfast first. Put a brave face on it, for goodness sake.”
But it still felt to Bertie that something had been left unsaid, some pieces of the jigsaw puzzle still trapped under the sofa.
What would Jeeves say?
A good sleep would solve many problems. Bertie was sure he'd heard Jeeves recommend it as an effective remedy before, and anyway, Bertie was feeling a bit lead-like from the day's exertions. Lead-like from the whole week, really, ever since he got dragged by Madeline to see that blasted old crone.
So he biffed off to his room. However, a book on the bed-table caught his eye – why, it was his novel of suspence, that he never got to finish reading... an idea struck Bertie with an almost physical jolt. Perhaps Jeeves hadn't gotten to finishing it either!
Bertie tucked the book under his arm, and knocked softly on the door to Jeeves' lair, foot tapping against the floorboards in a sharp staccato. The door swung open and Jeeves stood before him, face arranged into a polite expression of inquiry.
“Jeeves...” Bertie bit his lip, feeling hot around the neck. “Are you busy at the mo?”
“Not as such, sir. Do you require my assistance?”
“Not exactly. But I was going to finish reading the Mystery of the Petrified Parrot, but it wasn't the same without, I mean to say, if you haven't already... Oh, dash it. Jeeves, would you mind awfully reading the rest to me? You do it so well, and when I tried to get into it just now, it wasn't the same...” Bertie gulped, mind flashing through the hundreds of disapproving looks in Jeeves' facial vocabulary that would express his distaste at sharing in such a frivolous past-time.
But the corners of Jeeves' lips surged outwards a whole half inch, a rare, quick smile.
“It would be my pleasure, sir.”
FIN
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Date: 2009-04-14 01:24 pm (UTC)I think the story could have been a little longer; a little more detailed explanation of how Jeeves figured things out etc would not have gone amiss. But I like it fine just as it is, too ^^
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Date: 2009-04-14 03:53 pm (UTC)The Lady 529
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Date: 2009-04-14 04:13 pm (UTC)And, really, the notion of having Jeeves read to one? Lovely indeed!
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Date: 2009-04-14 06:14 pm (UTC)It's great to see a fresh theme.
I didn't particularly understand the plot, but I loved feline Bertie and Jeeves' characterisation, and the moment of Bertie attacking Jeeves and then feeling all horrible about it is definitely a favourite. There should be more of that in Jooster.
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Date: 2009-04-14 06:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-14 07:31 pm (UTC)reading aloud! Bertie hiding because he hurt Jeeves!
I say again, awwwww.
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Date: 2009-04-15 12:22 am (UTC)Lovely fic!
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Date: 2009-04-15 02:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-15 03:49 am (UTC)Madeline never struck me as the blackmailing type, only the type who liked to make up childish stories about a man having a Fatal Attraction for her, but without the intelligence to realise that real life is not a child's game. It seems fairly clear that PG wanted to portray Madeline as being slightly mentally retarded without actually saying so, to heighten the comedic misunderstandings.
I liked to think that Bertie's feline instinct would overcome his human instinct and he would show Madeline what he really thought of her when she picked him up. I was looking forward to it, but sadly, the claws didn't come out.
And what is it about Jeeves? Does he really know something he isn't telling?
Jeeves reading the book to Bertie is sweet. Perhaps this is the beginning of an even more beautiful friendship. :)
I would like to see a postscript to clear up all the little things that have not been explained, such as why Madeline suddenly backed off, how the evil witch who abused her gift was persuaded to back off, and to expand on the hint that Jeeves may know more than he is telling. That would be fun.
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Date: 2009-04-15 03:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-15 07:15 am (UTC)But Jeeves didn’t grasp his neck, to strangle or to snap. Bertie found himself held close, his fur pressed against Jeeves' collar and the soft skin of his neck. “I could scratch his eyes, or his neck,” Bertie wondered, “but he doesn’t care.”
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Date: 2009-04-15 11:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-16 11:55 pm (UTC)I swear I was squeeing in delight the entire time I read this. And the huggle with Jeeves after he clawed him? AWWWWWWWWWWWW is the only word. And I do mean the only word, you wonderful wonderful soul. I could totally see tiny kitty Bertie, a mere wisp of light-brown kitten with his fur sticking up all over and his little teensey paws batting a dust bunny inquisitively with his fluffy little body in pounce position.
I want to write a kitty!bertie fic now. D: