Fic: Redemption, part 29 (R)

[hazeltea.livejournal.com]

This 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 transcribed here by 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
Part 3: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/853433.html#cutid1
Part 4: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/854770.html#cutid1
Part 5: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/856387.html#cutid1
Part 6: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/861280.html#cutid1
Part 7: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/864721.html#cutid1
Part 8: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/867046.html#cutid1
Part 9: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/870100.html#cutid1
Part 10: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/871794.html#cutid1
Part 11: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/875432.html#cutid1
Part 12: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/876502.html#cutid1
Part 13: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/880681.html#cutid1
Part 14: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/881405.html#cutid1
Part 15: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/881540.html#cutid1
Part 16: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/890509.html#cutid1
Part 17: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/896757.html#cutid1
Part 18: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/899617.html#cutid1
Part 19: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/904805.html#cutid1
Part 20: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/913398.html#cutid1
Part 21: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/935186.html#cutid1
Part 22: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/939558.html#cutid1
Part 23: http://indeedsir.livejournal.com/946312.html#cutid1
Part 24: http://indeedsir.livejournal.com/960845.html#cutid1
Part 25: http://indeedsir.livejournal.com/968533.html#cutid1
Part 26: http://indeedsir.livejournal.com/970780.html#cutid1
Part 27: http://indeedsir.livejournal.com/986213.html#cutid1
Part 28 http://indeedsir.livejournal.com/987955.html#cutid1


Have you ever met someone who, despite having something to be envied, be it looks, talent, or a bit of the ready, simply cannot seem to form a chummy bond with anyone for longer than an hour? And, by chance, have you ever happened to be the exception to the rule, much to the delight of the persistent, awkward blister? My old pal Bingo Little called chaps like this barnacles, because once they have attached themselves to you, one simply cannot shake the blighter off. They invite themselves wherever you go, and one simply hasn’t the heart, or perhaps the endurance, to beat them off with a stick. So went the formation of our mutual friendship with Gussie Fink-Nottle at school. At some point, be it days, weeks, or months, I suppose we had gotten used to him; and found that he had hidden depths of sorts that offset his obsession with pond life, and so our relations have been more or less cordial ever since.

It had been years since I’d encountered a barnacle, and I was a bit out of practice. As unlikely as it seemed, Dick Mason was a barnacle of the first order. He had a way of talking loudly and directly, catching one’s eye and yet not noticing when said conversation partner’s eyes glazed over. If you looked away, or tried to speak, it was no matter to him, he kept up the chatter, be it about the club, the cricket, the traffic, or the weather. He seemed pleased to simply have a warm body to sound his booming voice off of. Both Catsmeat and I were bombarded with invitations to dinner and to the theatre, and to spare my suffering friend, I accepted most of them. I must admit that I had my own motives, as well, which made the ordeal a bit easier to endure.

That evening, I was dining with him at the Savoy, accompanied by a curious species, the barnacle’s barnacle. From where I cannot say appeared two fillies, a redhead with flashing brown eyes , seeming not as young as she pretended to be, and a small brunette, who seemed far too young to be out past curfew; in fact, I suspect that the staff found a bit of chewing gum under our table that evening. The redhead was named Dolores, and the brunette, who spoke with an American accent, called herself Debbie. Dolores sniffed at me and plastered herself to Mason’s arm, and Debbie was left to coyly regard me, in a way that made me nervous as a hunted rabbit. She had a way of brushing her shoe against my trouser leg and winding her curls about her fingers that was altogether too forward in my opinion.

Mason was talking again, and it was quite a relief for once, since I could pretend to care about the stock market or the type of pie he fancied when he was abroad or what have you; thus freeing me from the blasted girl’s flaunting of her feminine wiles. Dolores stifled a yawn, yet her eyes still held the predatory glint certain types exhibit when in close proximity of a millionaire. I felt a bit sorry for her, for I knew that she did not care in the least about how Mason’s business acquaintance had made a mint by purchasing a farm for the production of cocktail potato crisps.

My own boredom was averted when Mason brought the topic around to his silver collection, and, by extension, the pieces of Uncle Tom’s silver that Tuppy had agreed to lend him for the charity ‘do. How this happened, I cannot say, for Mason’s mind seemed to work like a fruit machine which randomly generated topics, most of which were slightly mismatched lemons. Before he could grow bored with the discussion, I joined in, telling them of the time when I was coerced by my Aunt Dahlia into stealing a rather hideous silver cow creamer, which, for some reason, was regarded by my Uncle Tom as the very apple of his eye. I felt a surge of pride as Dolores’ eyes softened, and her expression became one of rapt interest, and as my praise of Jeeves’ skill in getting me out of the soup even seemed to soften Mason’s opinion of him a bit. Then again, it may have been the fourth martini he had imbibed- yet, I did not care. I had an audience, and was enjoying myself. I suppose that Mason must feel very much the same whenever he so much as opens his mouth, which shows that we must remember to be charitable to the barnacles of this world.

Mason was laughing when I concluded my tale, stating that I was bally well glad that the horrible thing had likely seen the last of this world, as Uncle Tom had, with a heavy but patriotic heart, donated a good deal of his silver collection to the war effort. "Bertie, you poor fool!" he bellowed. "I’ve got the damned thing on display right now! It’s center stage!"

An odd feeling hit me then, as though I were captive in a cruel musical comedy. I groaned, and accepted his offer of another drink. As I accepted the glass, I noticed someone at the bar peering at me in a peculiar way. He was familiar, but I could not place a name to his puzzled face. A sudden chill in the pit of my stomach formed as I realized that I had met him, several times, but hadn’t been properly introduced. It was more than likely that we had only spoken to settle his bill.

The girls were pleading for Mason to take them back to his house, so that they could gaze upon the ‘famous’ cow creamer. It suddenly seemed to me to be a spiffing idea, one that would take me away from this ghost from my past. Mason agreed, and the girls giggled and hugged us in response. Debbie was half on my lap, and, in a panic, I pulled her the full way and kissed her, leaving her breathless and laughing. I felt absolutely dreadful, kissing a girl young enough to be my own daughter, kissing someone who wasn’t Jeeves.

The man looked uncertain then, his mind likely reasoning that a destitute gentleman whore wouldn’t be dining at the Savoy in a bespoke suit, and kissing a pretty girl with apparent relish. No, he tells himself, it was a trick of the light, your guilty conscience; your secret is safe for another day. My secret was safe, as well, and I apologized to Debbie in the car, saying that I had been caught up in the moment. She called me a prude, and I relaxed just a bit, hoping to build on this prudish persona.

The ride to Mason’s spacious townhouse was shorter than I’d expected, and I was still mulling over my near escape in my mind as he led us into the parlor. We were greeted by the sight of a butler, a proper tall, broad, dignified butler of quality; and yet, there was something amiss- for this stately man was wringing his hands, and pacing to and fro. When he saw us, a small yelp- it is undignified, but the only word that will suffice- arose from his throat.

"Mr. Mason, sir." He began, trembling with his effort to not fidget. "We have had to call for the police, sir. Your silver- it is gone." He spread his large hands outward, despairing.