Fic: Redemption, part 3 (PG)
Aug. 13th, 2010 10:39 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
hazeltea.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
indeedsir_backupThis has been rattling around in my brain since I read Yours, Plum: The Letters of P.G. Wodehouse a few years ago.I wanted to try continuing the 1953 fanfic by J. Maclaren-Ross , which was lovingly trascribed here by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chaoticchaos13
Pairing:Jeeves/Bertie
Disclaimer: I make no profit from the lovely world of Wodehouse.
Part 1: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/849688.html#cutid1
Part 2: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/851698.html#cutid1
I’ve done my best to cultivate the old feudal spirit. When I manage it, it is a quite agreeable sensation, a sort of pride and affection forming a toasty core in the old Wooster heart. I suppose it is a side effect of the so called honest toil, as it were, because the only other time I’ve felt a similar sensation was upon seeing something I’d written in print, holding the solid papers in hand. It rather helps that I am fond of my master, well, of Jeeves, you see. Still, Jeeves, my man who would 'yes, sir', this and 'indeed, sir' that seems a shade different to the man that I now serve. He addresses me kindly, yet distantly. I will admit, too, that I sorely miss being doted on, that bringing drinks and coats and whatnot to someone, even someone as deserving as Jeeves, makes it difficult to forget the days when the excellent man was rendering the same service to self.
Yet, this was still Jeeves, who worked as diligently as ever,and was now in service to a greater mistress: our Queen. Five, sometimes six days a week, saw him up and to work ministering. He would thank me for my services, as light as they were for a valet, even when I bungled them, which seemed to be more often than not. I knew I was fortunate, more than I deserved, and I was thankful to see him alive- why wasn’t that enough?
I’ve always kept a photograph of him, from better times when I was happy. His intelligence glitters though his eyes, his lips betray just the smallest twinge of amusement. It was Angela’s birthday, and he was serving in the garden at Brinkley Court. I had thought to surprise him with by ambushing him with my new acquisition of a Brownie camera, but when the film was developed I could see that he had somewhat anticipated it. You could never really surprise Jeeves, after all. I’ve always suspected he was a bit omni-whatsit, you see.
Since he’d left, I’d talked to the photograph to work things out in my mind. It was no substitute for the real thing, of course, but I felt better staring into the image of his eyes than talking to thin air, and I’m the sort of chap who thinks best when speaking, you know. I’d thought that I wouldn’t need to do this anymore, now that we’re together again, but this new Jeeves was colder, somehow, and I can’t bring myself to think that it was any fault of his own. Was it the ministering that distracted him so? Was it the war? Or, most likely, it was just my own disappointment in not being the center of his attention. Oh, how I loved his attention, and how sorely I missed it during that awful war! So, now I told my problems to my snapshot, not wanting to burden the man himself.
Jeeves was involved in this business of turning the Drones Club into a looney bin, supervised by none other than Sir Roderick Glossop. Since the war, as I understand, there has been quite an increase in the jim-jams, and quite honestly, I’m not surprised. I’ve been told that the only reason I hadn’t gone completely daffy myself is because I was a bit daft to begin with, and perhaps there is some truth in that. I think the more likely reason is that the war was just too much, and that quite a few fellows who would otherwise think the situation was just a bit thick were driven to distraction by the sound of the doodlebugs whizzing by in the air. The rum thing is, if you heard the noise, it meant that you were rather safe as it whizzed past. If one is to be hit by a bomb, they hear no noise, so it did no good to listen for them. Still, people listened all the time anyway. The ones that you heard reminded you that next time you might not hear it, see, and this was enough to scramble the brains of most of London.
Yesterday, I had been out to the shops, and a morbid curiosity led me to walk through Mayfair. I felt almost dirty, thinking that I might see someone I had once known, and they would chase me off like a tramp for trespassing in a neighborhood that was no longer my own. My gut twisted as I passed what was once our flat, and a bombed out building across the park. I walked the outskirts until I became brave enough to inch towards Dover street, to peer at the remains of the Drones. I suppose I hoped to catch a glimpse of Jeeves, but if he was there, he must have been inside. Already, a sign had been engraved and was tacked to the door, and the injustice of it all hit me like a brick to the face. I kicked the side of the building and hurried across town, back to the flat. I knew that I shouldn’t have gone back, and I lamented this to my image of Jeeves, which made me feel just a shade better.
I had almost put this out of my mind until this afternoon, when I took the feather duster about the flat after my tea. It never seemed to do much of anything, but Jeeves had done it every other day, so I did it every day because my skill was far less than Jeeves’. I reasoned this way, it might even out a bit. Once I reached his office, I lingered, for here is where the flat seems to feel the most Jeeves-ish. Today, the worn copy of Spinoza I’d given him many years ago lay upon the desk, and the sight of it made me smile a bit to think that he still loved it so. When I approached the mantle, I noticed the objects out of order. A wooden box inlaid with gold stripes had been moved from a dresser beside the desk to the mantle, replacing a flower arrangement that was no longer to be seen.
I stood back, puzzled, and was quite shocked to see why the flowers had gotten the boot. Hanging above the mantle, in the center pride of place, was an old photograph of myself which I had almost forgotten. It had been taken the year in which I finally broke the tie in the Drones darts competition, and had hung in my honor in the Drones smoking room, declaring my victory. I shied away from the aged reflection of myself in the glass frame, which was not in keeping with the young , dashing man I had once been (and had never known that I was). Certainly I’d never been aware that I’d ever had that much hair! I began to appreciate what Aunt Dahlia had always been fond of saying, that youth is wasted on the young.
I was bally well stumped as to why Jeeves had rescued the photo, and even more confused to why he would display it so prominently. A horrifying thought occurred to me. If Jeeves regularly entertained contemporaries of old Glossop in this office, I was likely to know them, and would have to serve them tea under the image of what I once was. I could almost hear their insincere words as they lamented my downfall in society with a rueful chuckle. I paced the room, my cheeks burning. There wasn’t much I could do about it, I realized. Jeeves wanted the picture there, so there it would stay. Maybe I could get some new flowers to partially hide it.
I picked up the small jewelry box and carried it back to the dresser, because leaving jewelry out on the mantle didn’t make much sense. I could overlook the oddity of storing it in an office, but Jeeves is far too practical a man to leave his cuff links out of order altogether. Perhaps he was getting a milder form of the jim-jams, the sort that make one forgetful when one is busy or anxious. I opened the box to determine where its contents would go, and found not cuff links or watch chains, but medals. I ran my fingers over the colorful pieces in awe, for there were so many! Most of them I didn't recognize, having been recently issued and not the stuff of heroic legend that I had learned about as a boy, but a few I did, and these were honors from the Great War. Jeeves never talked about that war, and had once told me that he had merely dabbled in it, before distracting me with a cup of tea. Dabble, my foot! I mean to say!
I closed the box and returned it to the mantle, troubled by a growing despair in the knowledge that I hardly knew him at all, even after all these years.
chaoticchaos13 Pairing:Jeeves/Bertie
Disclaimer: I make no profit from the lovely world of Wodehouse.
Part 1: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/849688.html#cutid1
Part 2: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/851698.html#cutid1
I’ve done my best to cultivate the old feudal spirit. When I manage it, it is a quite agreeable sensation, a sort of pride and affection forming a toasty core in the old Wooster heart. I suppose it is a side effect of the so called honest toil, as it were, because the only other time I’ve felt a similar sensation was upon seeing something I’d written in print, holding the solid papers in hand. It rather helps that I am fond of my master, well, of Jeeves, you see. Still, Jeeves, my man who would 'yes, sir', this and 'indeed, sir' that seems a shade different to the man that I now serve. He addresses me kindly, yet distantly. I will admit, too, that I sorely miss being doted on, that bringing drinks and coats and whatnot to someone, even someone as deserving as Jeeves, makes it difficult to forget the days when the excellent man was rendering the same service to self.
Yet, this was still Jeeves, who worked as diligently as ever,and was now in service to a greater mistress: our Queen. Five, sometimes six days a week, saw him up and to work ministering. He would thank me for my services, as light as they were for a valet, even when I bungled them, which seemed to be more often than not. I knew I was fortunate, more than I deserved, and I was thankful to see him alive- why wasn’t that enough?
I’ve always kept a photograph of him, from better times when I was happy. His intelligence glitters though his eyes, his lips betray just the smallest twinge of amusement. It was Angela’s birthday, and he was serving in the garden at Brinkley Court. I had thought to surprise him with by ambushing him with my new acquisition of a Brownie camera, but when the film was developed I could see that he had somewhat anticipated it. You could never really surprise Jeeves, after all. I’ve always suspected he was a bit omni-whatsit, you see.
Since he’d left, I’d talked to the photograph to work things out in my mind. It was no substitute for the real thing, of course, but I felt better staring into the image of his eyes than talking to thin air, and I’m the sort of chap who thinks best when speaking, you know. I’d thought that I wouldn’t need to do this anymore, now that we’re together again, but this new Jeeves was colder, somehow, and I can’t bring myself to think that it was any fault of his own. Was it the ministering that distracted him so? Was it the war? Or, most likely, it was just my own disappointment in not being the center of his attention. Oh, how I loved his attention, and how sorely I missed it during that awful war! So, now I told my problems to my snapshot, not wanting to burden the man himself.
Jeeves was involved in this business of turning the Drones Club into a looney bin, supervised by none other than Sir Roderick Glossop. Since the war, as I understand, there has been quite an increase in the jim-jams, and quite honestly, I’m not surprised. I’ve been told that the only reason I hadn’t gone completely daffy myself is because I was a bit daft to begin with, and perhaps there is some truth in that. I think the more likely reason is that the war was just too much, and that quite a few fellows who would otherwise think the situation was just a bit thick were driven to distraction by the sound of the doodlebugs whizzing by in the air. The rum thing is, if you heard the noise, it meant that you were rather safe as it whizzed past. If one is to be hit by a bomb, they hear no noise, so it did no good to listen for them. Still, people listened all the time anyway. The ones that you heard reminded you that next time you might not hear it, see, and this was enough to scramble the brains of most of London.
Yesterday, I had been out to the shops, and a morbid curiosity led me to walk through Mayfair. I felt almost dirty, thinking that I might see someone I had once known, and they would chase me off like a tramp for trespassing in a neighborhood that was no longer my own. My gut twisted as I passed what was once our flat, and a bombed out building across the park. I walked the outskirts until I became brave enough to inch towards Dover street, to peer at the remains of the Drones. I suppose I hoped to catch a glimpse of Jeeves, but if he was there, he must have been inside. Already, a sign had been engraved and was tacked to the door, and the injustice of it all hit me like a brick to the face. I kicked the side of the building and hurried across town, back to the flat. I knew that I shouldn’t have gone back, and I lamented this to my image of Jeeves, which made me feel just a shade better.
I had almost put this out of my mind until this afternoon, when I took the feather duster about the flat after my tea. It never seemed to do much of anything, but Jeeves had done it every other day, so I did it every day because my skill was far less than Jeeves’. I reasoned this way, it might even out a bit. Once I reached his office, I lingered, for here is where the flat seems to feel the most Jeeves-ish. Today, the worn copy of Spinoza I’d given him many years ago lay upon the desk, and the sight of it made me smile a bit to think that he still loved it so. When I approached the mantle, I noticed the objects out of order. A wooden box inlaid with gold stripes had been moved from a dresser beside the desk to the mantle, replacing a flower arrangement that was no longer to be seen.
I stood back, puzzled, and was quite shocked to see why the flowers had gotten the boot. Hanging above the mantle, in the center pride of place, was an old photograph of myself which I had almost forgotten. It had been taken the year in which I finally broke the tie in the Drones darts competition, and had hung in my honor in the Drones smoking room, declaring my victory. I shied away from the aged reflection of myself in the glass frame, which was not in keeping with the young , dashing man I had once been (and had never known that I was). Certainly I’d never been aware that I’d ever had that much hair! I began to appreciate what Aunt Dahlia had always been fond of saying, that youth is wasted on the young.
I was bally well stumped as to why Jeeves had rescued the photo, and even more confused to why he would display it so prominently. A horrifying thought occurred to me. If Jeeves regularly entertained contemporaries of old Glossop in this office, I was likely to know them, and would have to serve them tea under the image of what I once was. I could almost hear their insincere words as they lamented my downfall in society with a rueful chuckle. I paced the room, my cheeks burning. There wasn’t much I could do about it, I realized. Jeeves wanted the picture there, so there it would stay. Maybe I could get some new flowers to partially hide it.
I picked up the small jewelry box and carried it back to the dresser, because leaving jewelry out on the mantle didn’t make much sense. I could overlook the oddity of storing it in an office, but Jeeves is far too practical a man to leave his cuff links out of order altogether. Perhaps he was getting a milder form of the jim-jams, the sort that make one forgetful when one is busy or anxious. I opened the box to determine where its contents would go, and found not cuff links or watch chains, but medals. I ran my fingers over the colorful pieces in awe, for there were so many! Most of them I didn't recognize, having been recently issued and not the stuff of heroic legend that I had learned about as a boy, but a few I did, and these were honors from the Great War. Jeeves never talked about that war, and had once told me that he had merely dabbled in it, before distracting me with a cup of tea. Dabble, my foot! I mean to say!
I closed the box and returned it to the mantle, troubled by a growing despair in the knowledge that I hardly knew him at all, even after all these years.
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no subject
Date: 2010-08-14 03:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-14 04:04 am (UTC)Plus the idea of him talking to an image of jeeves is so haunting. It's a literal manifestation of the separation between them that he talks about here. He's never known the real jeeves, so he confides in a facsimile because it's the closest he can get.
Oy, again, all i want to do to your bertie is gather him up and tell him it will all be all right :(
no subject
Date: 2010-08-14 07:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-14 11:25 pm (UTC)*pout*
Srsly? You am awesome ficcer, keep doin' it.
<3
no subject
Date: 2010-08-15 12:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-15 03:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-15 03:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-15 03:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-15 03:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-15 03:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-15 03:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-15 08:16 am (UTC)But amazingly well written as well :-)
no subject
Date: 2010-08-16 12:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-17 04:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-17 04:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-18 12:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-18 03:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-19 07:02 am (UTC)I feel so sorry for Bertie. He really was not meant for the real world.
no subject
Date: 2010-08-19 11:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-16 08:34 am (UTC)BTW: This part: '....The rum thing is, if you heard the noise, it meant that you were rather safe as it whizzed past. If one is to be hit by a bomb, they hear no noise, so it did no good to listen for them. Still, people listened all the time anyway.....'
Actually the reason they listened was that although the doodlebug destined to hit you was indeed silent, that was because doodlebugs only came down when their engines stopped - up until that moment they could be heard and usually that moment of engine cut-out was still close enough to their final destination that anyone at that destination could hear it coming - until it cut out. So one listened to the noise while dreading a sudden silence.
It was as a toddler huddling at the back of the under-the-table iron cage that was (laughably) provided by the government as a bomb shelter, that I uttered my first ever sentence: 'The bugger's stopped'.
(Managing to simultaneously delight my mother that I'd strung a sentence together, short though it was, and horrify her that I'd ever heard 'that' word.)
no subject
Date: 2010-10-16 10:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-16 11:34 pm (UTC)