On Saturday, I saw the sun for the last time ever. At least, that's how it felt.
"Jeeves, what in the blazes do you think you're doing to my windows?" I asked my gentleman's gentleman.
Jeeves went to my beloved Victor V gramophone and lifted the needle. I mean really, how dare he touch my pride and joy? "I apologize sir. I understand you prefer to fill your ears with that..." Here a pregnant pause. "...music, as you like to call it." Did I detect a trace of insubordination? Well, I'll be. But the brute was still blabbering. "What you've missed, sir, was an announcement on the wireless a few moments ago. As you know, I've promised Lady Worplesdon I would keep apprised of the situation with respect to the Huns. It seems, sir, that His Majesty's Government is sure Hitler's airmen will use our fair city as FOR target practice tonight or the next. For your safety, and in league with your fellow residents of this building, I am placing these government-issued blackout curtains over all your windows. Sir."
"My God, it's not even evening yet! The sun is just setting. Surely Jerry won't be flying over London till it is the blackest of night?"
"Certainly, sir, I'm sure. But the installation of the rods is not simple, and I felt it prudent to begin the home improvement operation early enough that the curtains would be installed before it is too late. Sir."
I looked the black curtains over critically; I'd spent years studying the various draperies, portieres, jalousie, blinds and shrouds hung on the walls of my more discerning friends and family. I felt my judgement sound and irreproachable. I had, in fact, a relevant history in the fabric arts. I practically chose all the curtains for Gussie Fink-Nottle's apartment, his taste running a limited gamut from newts to salamanders. He's now recognized as having the best situated living room in all of lower Herston, thanks to yours truly. My word on the topic of curtains and drapes, thus, had to be final.
"They are simply hideous, Jeeves. I mean, really. They clash with my Hepplewhite sofa. What will Bingo Little say when he comes by for supper? Certainly you could have procured curtains with a bit more panache. Perhaps with roses or tulips embroidered, you know, to bring a little colour in? Maybe a gold trim? What do you think? Why don't you take those preposterous things down and see what you can do for replacements, eh, Jeeves?"
"Very well, sir" was his stiff response, while he continued with his drilling or hammering or what have you. Dear reader, I must confess, I'm not quite sure he will actually seek out an improvement in my window treatments. I may have to consider a stern talking to in Jeeves's future.
I repaired to the sitting room and my gramophone, its gorgeous silver horn recently shining in the late afternoon sun before the unwelcome eclipse from these satanic shrouds. I'd won the machine from Ruppie Steggles at Twing Hall last year. I mean really, whatever came over Ruppie thinking he knew anything about Snip-Snap-Snorum? He was a fool putting such a beauty up for a wager. The man really has a gambling problem. Or a paucity of money problem, depending upon your outlook.
Anyway, I was eager to continue my study of the American accordion virtuoso, Joe Mooney. I wound the beast, expending all the energy available to my, pardon my pride, wonderfully well-toned bowling arm. Three or four full turns, in fact.
I placed the needle onto the disk and the dulcet tons of "Huggable, Kissable You" filled my home. But barely had Mr. Mooney started crooning before that beast of a valet went beyond the pale. A screech and a scratch announced his insubordination.
"I say there, good man, how dare you?"
"Beg pardon, sir," was his initial excuse, "but perhaps you've missed the latest bulletin of the neighborhood association, posted in the lobby just this morning. As the war is on, all residents of Berkeley Mansions are to limit noise to but a peep from dusk to dawn. Apparently, sir, the Germans have ever-so sensitive machines upon their aeroplanes which can listen in for parties, fracases or other forms of ruckus, to which they aim their bombs."
"Inconceivable," I informed the man. "There is no way Fritz can hear my gramophone, with the sounds of their aeroplanes' engines in their ears."
"I'm not cognizant of the specifics of German acoustical science, sir. All I know is that His Majesty's Government has recommended the lower decibel limit, and that is good enough for me. And you, I'm sure, sir."
"You weary me Jeeves, but I tire of the argument. I yield to you for the moment and will set forth to the club."
Before I could even reach the door, there was Jeeves blocking my path. Really, I was stumped. Whatever was Aunt Agatha thinking when she thrust this lumbering giant on my person?
"Sir, here is your torch," he stated. What he handed me had the appearance of a torch, but with a crinkly red form of paper or wrapping or some such covering the bright end, secured with several twists of a rubber band. "What you will discover upon departing The Drones tonight, sir, is that all street lights have been debulbed."
I didn't even want to begin, so I nodded, pocketed the light in my macintosh, and departed my abode for the warmth and fellowship of The Drones Club.
The Drones wasn't as crowded as it usually was of a Saturday evening antebellum. The billiards room was filled with members in uniform, undoubtedly on leave, as well as those like yours truly, the superannuated or unuseable due to some malady or lameness. Many of those denied service to our country maintained embarrassed countenances, forever excusing their civilian clothes as "not my fault, really I tried everywhere for a commission." I thought that was energy ill spent, wasted words. I was not in any way upset that I was not accepted into any unit. Was it my fault that the accident of my birth put me fully in the middle of two great wars? Where was the war I needed when I was in my 20's? I was, after all, a patriot and offered myself up in the role of fodder in His Majesty's machine of war. Alas, my age made me superfluous in the current fight, not even worthy of taking the place of a young Briton, perhaps one with familial responsibilities. No bother. I supported the war effort with the purchase of bonds, alms to the war wounded, purchaser of local grannies' victory garden excess fruit and veg. Didn't I, as supporter of the troops and hater of the Hun, agree to those horrid curtains only 20 minutes ago?
The cigar room was filled with The Drones Club's geriatric members; I nodded to several as I passed the trophy case, stealing a glance at my photo next to the squash handicap cup I won last year. Where was Bingo Little? He was in his 40's as well, and ill-fitted for martial endeavors due mostly to his being rotund and practically a midget. His being unencumbered by war service was jolly well good for me, as I had no better companion at The Drones, and, frankly, his attempts at catching a wife were too exciting and entertaining to miss out due to fighting the Germans.
"I say my good man, how are you today?"
I gave Bingo the full story of the argument with my valet, starting with his unacceptable actions with regards to my gramophone.
"That Jeeves," he interrupted, "is simply a marvel."
This was a common refrain from so-called friends of mine, the constant applause for the ape. Of course they only saw Jeeves during social functions, when he was on his best behaviour. Did they have to deal with him as an alarm clock of a morning? No, they did not. Did they have to suffer his facial tick-like unspoken comments upon one's daily sartorial choices? No, they did not. Truly, the man was tiring. But Bingo didn't understand that. Not one bit.
I sighed at this pro-Jeevesian friend of mine, and continued my tirade upon Jeeves's impertinent steps at supposedly improving upon my apartment's windows.
"You mean curtains like these here, old man?"
My beloved Drones had fallen prey to this same over-reaction. The staff were at this very minute standing upon the sills to close thick, ugly, totally black heavy curtains over the club's lovely cast iron elongated diamond panel windows, with 200-year old stained glass inserts reflecting the history of the club. Incredible audacity, even here at The Drones. It simply boggles the mind!
The club had been through thick and thin. The keystone above the front entrance archway was carved with 1698 anno domini. What most passersby did not know, however, was that was the date of establishment of the second Drones Club. The original was destroyed by the Great Fire in 1666, after it had stood for decades as meeting place for the Muscovy Company and social headquarters for the British East India Company. The Gordon Riots had no effect on the club. When the Kaiser's airships tried to frighten we brave British in the Great War, we scoffed and continued downing our sidecars.
Suffice it to say, in all the years of The Drones Club, not once was the hallowed place behung with thick, ugly black curtains. A terrible affront to the club and its members!
Despite the indignity, Bingo and I had a fun evening filled with frivolity and daiquiris. Unfortunately, I had to depart earlier than I would have liked as I had a seat on the 6 a.m. train to Brinkley Court, Uncle Tom and Aunt Dahlia's country home outside Market Snodsbury. When the club's front doors closed behind me I found myself in the blackout blackness of night. If I hadn't remembered to take my torch with me I would have really been lost!
I returned to my lovely London apartment a week later by the Friday evening train. Jeeves and I had barely had time to doff our macs when the door was flung open by Bingo Little.
"I say old man, you're one of my oldest and dearest friends, but really, have you never heard of knocking before storming into a man's castle?"
"I'm sorry Bertie but I wanted you to hear the news from me before anyone else. Or had you seen the rubble on the way from the station?" Bingo's breathing really concerned me. Had the man run all the way here?
"What rubble? What in the blazes are you talking about, Bingo? Spit it out."
"Sir," Jeeves inserted, "I really think you should sit down for this news."
"By golly, Jeeves, do you mean to tell me you know what I'm going to tell Bertie?"
"Yes, Mr. Little, I'm afraid I do."
"My goodness, Jeeves, you really are a marvel!"
"Thank you, sir."
I stood there mouth agape, following the conversation like a tennis match. I sat down.
"Bertie, The Drones is no more. Jerry bombed it."
My living room began to spin. My visionary field lessened. I felt sick. Jeeves caught me before I fell out of the chair.
"By all that's holy...those damn Jerries," was all I could muster.
"No worries, old man. There's already a subscription started and we're well on the way to raising enough to have her rebuilt." He smiled his imitation pearly whites at me. It didn't help.
"Bingo, how many dead?"
"How many what, Bertie?"
"People, you zounderkite! How many of our fellow members perished?"
"Oh, not one member perished. But I must warn you, old man. Harold was in the building. He died."
"No," I replied. "Not Harold."
"Yes, Bertie. The master of the Pimms Cup is no more."
The loss was incalculable. Not one of the staff had the skills of the immortal mixologist like Harold. A sad day indeed.
But Bingo was still talking. "Seems Chuffie left the gramophone blaring after closing, and the needle was skipping, so Harold went back into the building to silence the machine, and that's when one of Jerry's aeroplanes targeted The Drones and kapow, she was no more."
Jeeves was right, damn him. The oaf would be unbearable now and my days of enjoying Joe Mooney and his squeezebox were done till this damn war was over.