A contemporary Jeeves and Wooster short story
by Pjazz
2006
Summertime and Bertram Wooster's fancy turns lightly to thoughts of Minge. Little Minge, that is. A village in Hampshire, England. I felt it prudent to vacate the Metropolis because July brings the Proms and the Proms brings Aunt Agatha to town and quite frankly I prefer as many miles as poss between Bertram and the Dragon in Human Form.
Jeeves and I motored down in the Bentley Continental one morning and by afternoon were comfortably ensconced in a thatched cottage situated in the grounds of Minge Hall on the outskirts of the village. While Jeeves unpacked I practiced my golf game on the living room carpet. I had recently purchased a long-handle putter, the sort you stick in your tum and swing like a pendulem, and it had improved my short game no end. Jeeves alas does not approve. He is a stickler for tradition and deplores all modern innovation. If Jeeves had his way I would still be using hickory shafts and mashie niblicks.
I had just holed a snakey 10 footer into a glass tumbler when Jeeves hove to.
"Excuse me, sir. You have a visitor. A Mr. Bofort."
"Old Boffo! Excellent. Show him in, Jeeves. And bring us a couple of your patent pick-me-ups."
"Very good, sir."
William 'Boffo' Bofort was one of my oldest friends. He was a large round cove with a small head that perched on his shoulders like a pea atop a pomegranite. We had been at Eton together and frequently chucked bread rolls at each other at the Drones Club.He was due to married soon to Angela Pettyfer, who lived nearby at Minge Hall.
Jeeves ushered the old pal in.
"What ho, Boffo!" I greeted him jovially. "How's tricks?"
"Oh, hullo, Bertie."
It would have taken a man of meaner intelligence than Bertram not to notice that something was amiss. Boffo's voice was dull and toneless; his demeanor pallid and distrait. He looked like a Scotsman who has discovered a hole in his best dress suit through which he has mislaid his wallet, car keys and all major credit cards.
"I say, Bertie. How high is this cottage? Two stories?"
"At least. But--"
"Then perhaps you'd be kind enough to go upstairs and open a bedroom window so I can fling myself out."
"But, Boffo, you'd be killed."
"That's the gist. Life, Bertie. Over rated, don't you think?"
"Not really."
"No? All this breathing business. In out. In out. Day after day. Dashed superfluous."
I was about to ask what he was blathering on about when Jeeves entered with the drinks.
"Ah, Jeeves. Haven't got a gun on you by any chance?" Boffo asked listlessy.
"I fear not, sir."
"Pity. I wanted to blow my brains out. Any knives or other sharp implements? I could probably slit an artery or two."
"Now Boffo, this is no way to talk, " I chided. "You're due to be married in a few weeks."
"Oh haven't you heard? That's off."
"Off?"
"Yes. Angela handed me my notice two days ago."
The scales fell from my eyes. Of course BoFfo was depressed and suicidal. No one likes to be jilted, especially by someone as beautiful as Angela Pettyfer, who in the beauty stakes could give Cleopatra, Salome and Helen of Troy a run for the medal positions.
"My commiserations, old horse. Drink some of Jeeves' pick-me-up. It'll make you feel better."
Boffo took a long swallow and immediately some colour returned to his cheeks.
"Gosh! You could fly to Mars on this stuff, Jeeves. Whatever's in it?"
"It's my own personal recipe, sir. Brandy, a mix of fine malts, an olive from the slopes of Mount Etna, a tincture of absinthe, a whiff of vermouth, aniseed, meltwater from Patagonia and a single drop of medicinal cocaine."
"It's the aniseed that gives it its kick," I explained.
"It certainly hits the spot. Well, I'd better be going. If you're driving the Bentley in the village and see me, Bertie, don't hesitate to run me down, there's a good chap."
"Wait,Boffo. Explain, why has Angela given you the old heave-ho?"
She says I'm fat. D'you think I'm fat, Bertie?"
"As a house, old thing."
"Not merely big boned?"
"Not unless your bones are full of fat."
"I've always been stout."
"You're as wide as you are tall."
"Dash it, Wooster, steady on! Angela's got it into her head that I'm unfit. The other day she left her umbrella upstairs and I volunteered to fetch it. Up three flights of stairs, I might add. When I returned Angela accused me of puffing like an asthmatic donkey. And that I was coated in sweat. There may have been a drop or two of persp. on the manly brow but nothing more."
"Did you exchange heated words?"
"Extremely heated. Then she said the wedding's off until I got myself in shape. But I'm happy with my shape."
"Round and squashy, you mean?"
"Full figured."
"Quite. But there's no need to despair, Boffo. All you have to do is prove your fitness to Angela and she'll have in back in a jiffy."
"You really think so, Bertie? Life's not worth living without her. She's the Ying to my Yang."
I wasn't too sure what a Ying was exactly. Or a Yang. Sounded suspiciously foreign. But I hastened to reassure Boffo.
"Absolutely. All we need is a plan."
"Do you have a plan, Bertie?"
"No. But I know a man who does. Jeeves?"
"yes, sir?"
"Brain firing on all cylinders?"
"I believe so, sir."
"Eating plenty of fish?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. do you have a plan to assist Mr. Bofort?"
"I may have a suggestion to make, sir."
"Then suggest away."
"Well, sir, every year the village of Little Minge stages an egg and spoon race. It is open to all comers. I suggest Mr Bofort enter and attempt to win it."
"An egg and spoon race? A bit parochial, surely?"
"Perhaps so, sir. But it is a proud tradition dating back to the time of the Late Queen Victoria. Considerable kudos is at stake."
"Kudos? What's that? Some type of bath salts?"
"Kudos, sir, meaning accrued fame or glory. From the original Greek---"
"Never mind the original Greek, Jeeves."
"Very well, sir."
"For I have spotted a flaw in your logic - viz. Boffo here is a walking lard mountain."
"Hey!"
"It will do his cause no good at all if he trails home last, an also-ran from start to finish."
""Then might I suggest the use of subterfuge, sir."
"Subterfuge?"
"Yes, sir. The race is not always to the swift. An egg and spoon race entails the delicate balancing of an egg on a spoon. If Mr Bofort were to apply a copious amount of glue to the spoon---"
"I'd be an absolute cert to win!" exclaimed Boffo. "Jeeves, you're a genius. I'll go and enter the contest immediately. Then I'll buy up every tube of glue in the bally village. It'll take a thermo-nuclear explosion to shift my egg!"
The day before the race I decided to check out the lie of the land, so to speak. The contest was due to take place on a figure of eight course laid out in kitchen garden of Minge Hall.
What I saw there shook me to the core. The summer had been long and hot. The ground was rock solid. Even with the glue ruse, I had a feeling Boffo would need the running to be soft to heavy to stand any chance.
Fortunately the Wooster's are men of inspiration. On entering the kitchen garden I had spied an untended garden sprinkler nearby.It was the work of a moment to move it, hook it up to a hose and turn on the tap. It was 2 o'clock. I estimated the gardener would unplug the thing when he knocked off work around six. By which time the water should have softened the ground somewhat.
I left with a song in my heart and a brisk tra-la on my lips. Jeeves was not the only one who understood subterfuge.
Next morning as I was getting on the outside of some bacon and eggs Jeeves was serving, a thought occured to me.
"Jeeves, is anyone running a book on today's big race?"
"Yes, sir. The local bookmaker. There are 4 runners. The pre-race favourite is EJ Stibbens, a teenager who holds the county 200 metres record. Second favourite is RW Murdo, the butcher. He is 5-1. Mr TR Finegan, the garage owner, is next at 8-1. Mr Bofort is quoted at 25-1."
"Long odds, Jeeves."
"Yes, sir. Opinion is that Mr Bofort is carrying too much excess poundage to be a serious contender. However, you can back Mr Bofort at 4-1 not to finish the race. And 10-1 to drop dead of a heart attack."
"Dashed cynical, these village bookmakers."
"Quite , Sir."
"Put £500 on Boffo to win, would you, Jeeves."
"You sound confident, sir."
"With good reason, Jeeves."
Briefly and succinctly I explained the business with the water sprinkler.
"So that was you, sir? I see. The village was perplexed as to why the sprinkler was left on all night."
"" All night? But why didn't the gardener turn it off before he went home?"
"He was home, sir. Yesterday was his half day."
" So the going is somewhat stickier than anticipated?"
"It's a quagmire, sir."
Quagmire was the mot juste. The course looked like the Somme battlefield after the attention of a couple of passing monsoons. It's amazing what a few thousand gallons of water can do.
Despite the soggy conditions, most of the village appeared to have rolled up. People lined the course three deep in places. The local gentry watched from the steps of Minge Hall. Amongst their number was Boffo's ex-fiancee Angela Pettyfer. She looked radiant in an off the shoulder dress than would cause weaker men than Bertram to howl at the moon.
On the start line the 4 competitors chafed to be off. Boffo, I noticed, was wearing footer shorts, a singlet and a cap, presumably bought in the village, that had the logo 'Little Minge' on the peak. It was an unfortunate ensemble for one of his girth. He resembled a beach ball in fancy dress. Some local worthy, possibly the vicar, stepped up and mumbled a few words. Then he waved a flag and the race was on.
As expected, EJ Stibbens set the early pace. Tall and thin, he had that lean and hungry look Shakespeare is always rattling on about. But he had made the strategic error of wearing running spikes when the conditions underfoot clearly demanded galoshes, if not waders. Rich fertile Hampshire silt began to build up around his spikes until young Stibbens appeared to be wearing mud boots. He came a purler and fell face first into the ooze. As he struggled to get up, Boffo ploughed into the back of him and Stibbens disappeared from view. It was like a steamroller running over a whippet. The favourite was hors de combat.
NOw RJ Murdo, the butcher, took up the pace. He was a short man and his low centre of gravity served him well. He forced his way through the swamp with grim determination and he rounded the turn several lengths clear. Then diaster struck. Murdo stepped into a puddle and plunged up to his waist in the mud. He managed to extricate himself but at the expense of his footer shorts, which remained behind in the mire, thus displaying more of his nether regions than was considered seemly in polite society. The crowd screamed with laughter. Murdo blushed a deep red, dropped his egg and retired from the race.
And then there were two. Boffo and Finegan, the garage owner, were evenly matched. Boffo had the advantage of a secure egg, but his opponent was slimmer and more agile. Both were now so caked in mud that they resembled two negro minstrels on the way to a Jazz club. Finegan edged ahead and it seemed Boffo was beaten. Then Finegan tripped on a divot and lost his egg. Boffo crested the line, the new champion.
The crowd cheered. At his moment of victory, Boffo, the silly ass, did the supidest thing imaginable. He raised his hands aloft in triumpth, thus revealing that, unless gravity had taken a holiday, his egg was glued to his spoon.
Boos rang out. Finegan, the runner up, was particularly irate. I couldn't make out all he was shouting, but the more audible words were 'cheat' and 'gutbucket'. Boffo seemed to take umbrage at the latter and invited Finegan to say it to his face. Finegan obliged and his voice rang out clearly o'er hill and dale.
"YOU CHEATING GUTBUCKET!"
At which point Boffo hauled off and punched Finegan square on the snifter.
Well everyone enjoys a good punch up. And the villagers motto appeared to be 'the more the merrier'. Suddenly violence was the order of the day, and a general melee ensued.
The Wooster's are not a warlike tribe, and I deemed it prudent to beat a hasty retreat. I took the long way around the village to be sure and avoid any errant fisticuffs, and didn't arrive back at the cottage for several hours. I found Jeeves in the pantry.
"Well, Jeeves, your grand scheme blew a gasket," I informed him with some asperity.
"Sir?"
"Boffo got himself disqualified for cheating and managed to start a riot as an encore. Who was it who said 'Cry, Havoc, and let slip the something something?"
"Marc Antony, sir. In Shakespeare's play 'Julius Caesar'. The correct quotation is - 'Cry, Havoc! And let slip the Dogs of War'."
"Well, the Dogs of War were certainly let slip. I could practically feel them snapping at my tender parts."
"Sounds most unpleasant, sir."
"One thing's for certain, the wedding is most definitely off."
"On the contrary, sir, the wedding is most definitely on. I spoke to Mr Bofort less than an hour ago. He informed me Miss Pettyfer had made him the happiest man in this world or the next."
"What?" I goggled at the man. "But Miss Pettyfer was among those present, Jeeves. She witnessed what an ass Boffo made of himself. What on earth changed her mind?"
"I fancy it was the punch Mr Bofort landed on Mr Finegan, sir, that most gratified Miss Pettyfer."
"Eh? Does Miss Pettyfer bear a grudge against Finegan, Jeeves?"
"Indeed so, sir. If I might explain: several days ago Miss Pettyfer's sports car developed a puncture. Naturally she took it to Mr Finegan's garage to be repaired. In due course a bill was sent up to the hall. A bill for £1,000."
"To mend a puncture? That's daylight robbery!"
"Yes, sir. However, the actual bill was a mere £100. The bill was tampered with enroute."
"But who...? Jeeves! Was it you?"
"I'm afraid so, sir."
Suddenly I saw all. Naturally a girl of Angela Pettyfer's elegant sensibilities would be upset at being bilked in this manner by a common tradesman. Animosity would fill her every waking hour. Anyone who took this Finegan down a peg or two - e.g. by socking him a juicy one - would instantly become her Knight in Shining Armour.
"Jeeves, how Could I have doubted you? You stand alone. Compared to you Machiavelli was a callow innocent; the Borgia's mere babes in arms."
"Thank you, sir."
"I'll nip up to the Hall and give Boffo my heartiest congrats."
"That would be inadvisable, sir."
" How so, Jeeves?"
"I'm afraid the news has leaked that it was you who sabotaged the course with the water sprinkler, sir."
"Good lord!"
"Yes, sir. The villagers are somewhat disgruntled. They seem to feel you did so as a practical joke and deserve to be punished. I believe a ducking in the village pond was mooted."
"Great Scott!"
"I took the liberty, sir, of packing your cases. I thought a hasty departure might be in order."
"You thought right, Jeeves. That village pond looked very deep. Also cold. And probably wet."
"The Bentley is parked outside, sir."
"Fueled and ready?"
"To the brim, sir."
"Then ho! for the open road, Jeeves!"
"I regret I neglected to pack your longhandle putter, sir."
"This is no time for putters, Jeeves. Speed is of the essence. Bertram has no wish to Sleep with the Fishes or any other aquatic flora and fauna."
"Very well, sir. Le Touquet is clement this time of year."
"Le Touquet it is, Jeeves. Plus la change, what?"
"Tres bien, sir."
I won't say I felt the villagers hot breath on the back of my neck but it was a dashed close run thing. Now I know how the French aristos felt when, sitting down to a light breakfast, they heard the tumbrils outside the Palace gates and realised they would be spending the rest of the day sans head. I didn't truly relax until the Bentley rolled onto the cross-channel ferry and a fairish portion of the English Channel was between Betram and the village of Little Minge.
It had been a rum business. On the down side, I had lost £500, mislaid my favourite longhandle putter, almost become imbroiled in the ghastliest set-to this side of the English Civil War, and come within a hairsbreadth of a fearful dunking. On the up, thanks to Jeeves, Boffo was in clover vis-a-vis matrimony. A thought occured. I turned to Jeeves as we stood on the top deck watching the White Cliffs of Dover recede from view.
"I say, Jeeves, when are the Bofort-Pettyfer nuptials due to kick off?"
"I believe the date is Saturday week, sir."
I pondered. "Awfully soon, what? D'you think the locals thirst for Wooster blood will have abated by then?"
"Anything's possible, sir."
"Perhaps I could attend in disguise. D'you suppose I could grow a beard in a week?"
"A trifle ambitious, sir."
"Then I shall have to give the whole thing a miss. The Wooster's are brave but not reckless."
"Mr Bofort will be disappointed, sir."
"True, but there it is. The French have a saying. Something to do with celery..?"
"Celery, sir?"
"C'est la vie, that's the one."
"Indeed, sir. C'est la vie."
THE END
AUTHORS NOTE
This is the second of my contemporary Jeeves & Wooster stories. (The first was 'Jeeves and The Gangsta Rap.') In bringing Bertie into the 21st Century, I've given him a new car. I shouldn't think the Hispano-Suiza would pass an MOT test, let alone a carbon emission one. I considered an Aston Martin Vantage and a Jaguar XKR, but somehow a Bentley Continental coupe just looked right on the paper (screen?).
Incidentally, there really is a village called Little Minge. Apparently the residents pronounce it 'Ming' - the spoilsports!
pj