Jeeves and Friends

  Jeeves and Friends

  by P.G.Wodehouse

  retold by Clare West

  Jeeves Takes Charge

  Now, this business of old Jeeves − my valet, you know − well, a lot of people, like my Aunt Agatha, think I'm much too dependent on him. And what I say is, why not? The man's super−intelligent.

  I stopped trying to organize my own life a week after he came to work for me. That was about six years ago, just after the rather rummy business of Florence Craye, my Uncle Willoughby's book, and Edwin, the boy scout.

  The thing really began when I got back to Easeby, my uncle's country home in Shropshire. I was spending a week or so there, as I usually did in summer, but I had had to break my visit to come back to London, in order to get a new valet. At Easeby I had found Meadowes, my valet at the time, stealing my silk socks. Well, no strong−minded employer should ever put up with that kind of thing. And as I discovered he had stolen a lot of other things here and there, I was forced to sack him and go to London to an employment agency. They sent me Jeeves.

  I shall always remember the morning he came. I had been present at a rather cheerful little supper the night before, and consequently was feeling a bit unwell. On top of this, I was trying to read a book Florence Craye had given me. She had been staying at Easeby, and two or three days earlier we had got engaged. I knew she would expect me to finish the book by the time I returned. You see, she was concentrating on developing my intelligence, so that I could understand the kind of thing she was interested in. She was a girl with a wonderful profile, but also a deep sense of serious purpose. You'll see what I mean when I tell you that the book she'd given me to read was called Behavioural Types of Transactional Thinking. When I picked it up, it fell open at a page beginning: The common understanding involved in most types of human expression is certainly extraordinarily efficient in assisting language, which is its tool, and in producing communication in multi−level society, which is the purpose of both.

  All perfectly true, no doubt, but not the kind of thing to throw at a fellow with a morning headache.

  I was doing my best to read this bright little book when the bell rang. Painfully, I felt my way to the door and opened it. A polite kind of chappie stood outside.

  Ì understand that you wish to employ a valet,' he said.

  What I really wished to do was die, but I told him to stagger in, and he floated noiselessly through the doorway. I found this rather encouraging, as Meadowes had had flat feet, and used to walk very heavily. This fellow didn't appear to have any feet at all. And he had a serious, sympathetic face. He seemed to understand exactly how I felt.

  Èxcuse me, sir,' he said gently. Then he disappeared into the kitchen, and came back a moment later with a glass full of cloudy liquid. `Would you drink this, sir,' he said, very much like a royal doctor taking charge of a sick prince. Ìt's my own mixture. Gentlemen have told me they find it most helpful after a late evening.'

  I did not care what it was. I was so desperate that I would have drunk anything that offered me a chance of feeling normal again. I swallowed the liquid. At first a bomb seemed to go off inside my head, Jeeves and Friends

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  with flames licking at my throat, and then suddenly everything was all right again. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and generally speaking, there was life and hope once more.

  `You've got the job!' I said, as soon as I could speak. It was clear that this fellow was one of the world's workers, the kind of man every home should have.

  `Thank you, sir. My name is Jeeves.'

  `Can you start at once?'

  Ìmmediately, sir.'

  `Because I have to go down to Easeby, in Shropshire, the day after tomorrow.'

  `Very good, sir.' He looked past me at a photo on the piano. `That is an excellent photograph of Lady Florence Craye, sir. I was at one time employed by her father, Lord Worplesdon. I am afraid I left his employment because I was unable to put up with his unusual habit of wearing evening trousers, a sports shirt and a shooting jacket at dinner.'

  Jeeves couldn't tell me anything I didn't know about the old boy's strange ways. I had known the family since I was a kid, and from boyhood I had lived in fear of this man. I shall never forget the time he found me smoking one of his special cigars in his study. I was only fifteen at the time, and smoking was a new experience for me. Just as I was beginning to realize that what I wanted most in the world was a quiet place to lie down, old Worplesdon took his stick and chased me for more than a kilometre across difficult country. I was, of course, absolutely delighted to be engaged to Florence, but if there was a tiny disadvantage, it was that she rather took after her father. She had a wonderful profile, though.

  `Lady Florence and I are engaged, Jeeves,' I said.

  Ìndeed, sir?'

  You know, there was a kind of rummy something about his manner. It somehow made me think he didn't like Florence much. Well, of course, it wasn't my business. I supposed that, while he was old Worplesdon's valet, she had probably wounded his feelings by ordering him around. Florence was a dear girl, and seen sideways, awfully good−looking, but if she had a fault, it was that she did not consider politeness necessary when speaking to the servants.

  Just then, the door bell rang, and Jeeves floated off to answer it. He came back with a telegram. I opened it and read:

  RETURN AT ONCE. EXTREMELY URGENT. CATCH FIRST TRAIN. FLORENCE.

  `How odd!' I said.

  `Sir?' said Jeeves.

  Òh, nothing,' I replied. It shows how little I knew Jeeves in those days that I didn't go a bit deeper into the matter with him. Now, I would never dream of reading a rummy telegram without asking him what he thought of it. And this one was certainly odd. Florence knew I was going back to Easeby the day after tomorrow, anyway, so why the hurry?

  `Jeeves,' I said, `we shall travel down to Easeby this afternoon. Can you manage the packing and so on by then?'

  `Without any difficulty, sir. Which suit will you wear for the journey?'

  `This one.' I was wearing a rather cheerful young check suit, which I was extremely fond of. It was perhaps rather sudden until you got used to it, but several of the chaps at my club had shown a lot of interest in it.

  `Very good, sir.' Again there was that kind of rummy something in his manner. It was the way he said it. He didn't like the suit. Something seemed to tell me that unless I showed him very soon who was boss, he would take charge and start giving me the orders. Well, I wasn't going to put up with that, by Jove! I'd seen so many cases of fellows simply governed by their valets. I remember poor Aubrey Fothergill telling me one night − with absolute tears in his eyes, poor chap! − that he had had to give away a pair of brown shoes just because his man didn't like them. I couldn't let that happen to me.

  `What's wrong with this suit, Jeeves?' I asked coldly.

  Jeeves and Friends

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  `May I suggest, sir, a simple brown or blue−'

  `What absolute nonsense! Perfectly silly, my dear man!'

  Às you say, sir.'

  I was ready to argue, but there didn't seem to be anything to argue about. Àll right, then,' I said.

  `Yes, sir.' And he went away to pack the bags, while I started Behavioural Types of Transactional Thinking again.

  That afternoon, as we travelled down in the train, I was wondering what had happened at Easeby. I didn't think it could be anything very exciting. The house−guests there were all quiet, reasonable people like me. And my uncle wouldn't let anything unusual happen in his house. He was a rather stiff, careful old boy, who liked a peaceful life. For the last year he had been writing a history of the family, which he had nearly finished. People said that when he was young he'd been rather wild, but you'd never guess that if you looked at him now.

  When we arrived at the house, Florence came to meet me in the smoking−room. I soon saw that she was annoyed.

  `My dearest girl!' I said, and attempted a kiss, but she stepped quickly sideways and said sharply,

  `Don't!'

  `What's the matter?' I asked.

  Èverything's the matter! Bertie, you remember asking me, before you left, to be pleasant to your uncle?' I certainly did remember. As I was more or less dependent on Uncle Willoughby, I couldn't really marry without his agreement. `You told me it would please him particularly if I asked him to read me some of his history of the family.'

  `Wasn't he pleased?'

  `He was delighted. He finished writing the thing yesterday, and read me nearly all of it last night.

  I've never had such a shock in my life! The book is horrible!'

  `But surely the family weren't as had as all that!'

  Ìt's not a history of the family at all. He has written his reminiscences! He calls them Memories of a Long Life!'

  I began to understand. As I said, Uncle Willoughby had led a rather exciting life as a young man, and his memories of it would probably be extremely interesting, even shocking.

  `Right at the beginning,' continued Florence, `there is a story about him and my father which I simply cannot believe. One night in 1887 they were thrown out of a music−hall.'

  `Why? I thought you could do almost anything in a music− hall in 1887.'

  Ì refuse to tell you why − the details are too awful. It appears they had been drinking. The book is full of stories like that. There is an awful one about Lord Emsworth.'

  `Lord

Emsworth? Not the one we know? At Blandings?'

  `That's the one. It seems that he − but I can't tell you!'

  Òh, go on. Try!'

  `No! Bertie, the book is unspeakable. And father appears in nearly every story! I am horrified at the things he did when he was a young man. Now listen, your uncle is sending the book off to his publisher in London tomorrow. It must be destroyed before it reaches London!'

  I sat up. This sounded rather good fun. `How are you going to do it?' I asked, interested.

  `How can I do it? I am going to a house−party tonight and shall not be back till Monday. You must do it. That is why I sent you the telegram.'

  `What!'

  She gave me a look. `Do you mean to say you refuse to help me, Bertie?'

  `No, but − I say! You know − I mean−'

  Ìt's quite simple. You say you want to marry me, Bertie?'

  `Yes, of course, but still−'

  For a moment she looked exactly like her old father. Ì will never marry you if those reminiscences are published.'

  `But, Florence, old thing!'

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  Ì mean it, Bertie. This is a kind of test. If you succeed, it will prove you are not the foolish, useless person most people think you are. If you fail, I shall know that your Aunt Agatha was right when she advised me strongly not to marry you.'

  `But suppose Uncle Willoughby catches me stealing his book? He won't leave me any of his money when he dies!'

  Ìf you care more for your uncle's money than for me−'

  `No, no! Absolutely not!'

  `Very well, then. The parcel containing the book will be placed on the hall table tomorrow, for the servants to post. All you have to do is take it and destroy it!'

  `But − but − but ' I could think of hundreds of reasons why this would not be a good plan.

  `Bertie, will you or will you not do this small thing for me? If not, say so now and stop pretending you care for me!'

  `Dear old thing, of course I love you!'

  `Then will you or will you not−'

  Òh, all right,' I said. Àll right! All right! All right!' And I staggered out to think about it.

  I've often wondered since then how these murderer fellows manage to keep in condition while planning their next crime. I had a much simpler job than murder to do, and I give you my word, I couldn't sleep at all that night.

  All the next day I waited in or near the hall, feeling like a thief at a railway station. I did not dare imagine what Uncle Willoughby would say if he caught me stealing the parcel. As I say, he was normally a quiet man, but, by Jove, this kind of thing was likely to make him very angry indeed.

  It wasn't until about four in the afternoon that he put the parcel on the hall table and went back into his study. I rushed over, took it, and ran upstairs to my bedroom. Throwing open the door, I was horrified to see young Edwin, the boy scout, re−arranging my ties in a drawer. This awful kid was Florence's young brother, who was spending his school holiday at Easeby. He had recently joined the boy scouts, and took his duties very seriously. You may know that a scout has to do an act of kindness to someone every day. Nasty little Edwin rarely managed this, so sometimes he had to do several acts of kindness in one day, to catch up. His idea of kindness was not the same as anyone else's, and this made life perfectly horrible for everyone at Easeby, I can tell you.

  `What are you doing here?' I asked.

  Ì'm making your room tidy. It's my last Saturday's act of kindness.'

  It became more and more obvious to me that this unpleasant kid must be removed as soon as possible. I had the parcel behind my back, and I hoped he hadn't seen it, but I was desperate to hide it somewhere.

  `Don't bother about tidying the room,' I said.

  Ì like tidying it. It's no trouble.'

  This was becoming perfectly awful. I didn't want to murder the kid, and there seemed no other way of getting rid of him. Suddenly I had an idea.

  `There's something much kinder you could do. Take that box of cigars down to the smoking−room, and cut the ends off for me. That would be really helpful. Stagger along, my boy.'

  He looked a bit doubtful, but he staggered. I threw the parcel into a drawer, locked it, and put the key in my pocket, feeling better immediately. I went downstairs, and as I passed the smoking−room, Edwin ran out. It seemed to me that if he wanted to do a real act of kindness, he would kill himself.

  Ì'm cutting them,' he said.

  `Carry on! Carry on!'

  `Do you like them cut a lot or a little?'

  `Medium.'

  Àll right. I'll carry on, then.'

  `That's it!' And we separated.

  Fellows who know all about crime will tell you that the most difficult thing in the world is to get rid of the body. Florence had told me to destroy the parcel, but how could I? I couldn't burn it, because Jeeves and Friends

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  people would suspect something if I asked for a fire in my room in the middle of summer. And I couldn't eat it, like a chap with a secret message on the battlefield, because it would take me about a year. So I just left it in the drawer, and worried about it. It made me feel so guilty that I jumped every time anyone spoke to me.

  Early on Friday evening, Uncle Willoughby asked for a private word with me. He was looking considerably annoyed.

  `Bertie, an extremely worrying thing has happened. As you know, I sent my book to the publishers yesterday. It should have arrived this morning. But when I telephoned them just now, they informed me they had not yet received it.'

  `Very rummy!'

  Ì remember placing it on the hall table yesterday. But here is the strange thing. It seems that it was not there when the servants collected the letters for posting.'

  `Sounds odd!'

  `Bertie, you may not believe this, but I suspect that someone has stolen the parcel.'

  Òh, I say! Surely not!'

  `Listen. It is a fact that during the last few weeks a number of things have disappeared from the house, and−'

  `But, uncle, one moment. It was my man Meadowes who stole all those things. He was stealing my socks, too. Caught him actually doing it, by Jove!'

  `Really, Bertie? Send for him at once and question him!'

  `But he isn't here. You see, I sacked him. That's why I went to London − to get a new valet.'

  `So if your man Meadowes is no longer in the house, he cannot be the thief. There seems to be no explanation.'

  We sat together silently for a while, but soon my guilty secret hung so heavily on me that I went out for a cigarette and a breath of fresh air. It was one of those peaceful summer evenings when you can hear a sheep chewing a mile away, and I was just beginning to feel calmer, when suddenly I heard my name spoken.

  Ìt's about Bertie.' It was the hateful voice of young Edwin, inside the house! I looked around and saw that the open window of my uncle's study was just behind me. I threw my cigarette away and hid behind a bush under the open window, to listen to the conversation. I knew something terrible was about to happen.

  Àbout Bertie?' I heard Uncle Willoughby say.

  Àbout Bertie and your parcel. I believe he's got it. I saw him go into his room yesterday with a parcel behind his back. And when he came downstairs again, he wasn't carrying it.'

  They deliberately teach these nasty little scouts to notice things, you know. Just look at the trouble it causes.

  `But why would Bertie do that?' asked Uncle Willoughby.

  `Perhaps it was Bertie who stole all those things from the beginning. But I'm sure he's got the parcel. I know! You could say that a guest who stayed in Bertie's room recently has asked you to look for something he left there. Then you could search Bertie's room.'

  I didn't wait to hear any more. Things were getting too hot. I ran into the house, and straight upstairs to my room. And then I realized I couldn't find the key to the drawer anywhere.

  Just then I heard a footstep outside, and in came Uncle Willoughby. Òh, Bertie,' he said calmly, Ì

  have − ah − just received a telegram from a previous guest, Mr Berkeley, who thinks he may have left a

  − ah − cigarette case in this room.'

  It was horrifying to see this white−haired old man lying to me like an actor. Ì haven't seen it anywhere,' I said.

  Ì think I will search for it anyway. Perhaps it is in one of these drawers.' He pulled out drawer after drawer. I just stood there, feeling weaker every moment. Then he came to the drawer where the parcel was. `This one appears to be locked,' he said. `Have you the key?'

 

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