You know, the absolute best of the modern inventions is the dear old bath tub. Fill it up with steaming hot water, add bath salts, and what have you got? I’ll tell you what you've got. Heaven, that’s what. Dashed if I know who invented it but I hope the blighter got a bally great gong or a knighthood or whatever it is those parliamentary johnnies do to mark the achievements of those who have gone the second mile for the benefit of mankind.
Talking of awards, did I ever tell you about my man, Jeeves? Now I come to think of it, I ought to write to the PM and put Jeeves up for an award for services to Valetdom, or at least for services to Bertram Wilberforce Wragg. The fellow is nothing short of a marvel. He has a brain the size of Jupiter, there is nothing he doesn’t know; and every task he undertakes is performed to the height of perfection.
Take this bath, for instance. There is nothing about it that is open to the slightest criticism. The temperature, the depth, the amount of bath salts, the amount of foam – if Her Majesty’s Inspector of Bathing Standards were to walk through that door this very minute, the fellow would be nonplussed. He could cast his eagle eye across the tub, but I can assure you that there would nothing to cause him a sharp intake of breath, or to say ‘tut,tut’ or ‘tch,tch’ or whatever these fellows might say when they discover a bath that’s a bit below par. He’d throw his clipboard down in frustration with his thirst for fault-finding unsated.
Unless, that is, he has ‘singing’ on his checklist. For I’d have to admit, that while I do love a good sing while about my daily ablutions, I’d be the first to admit that I’m not holding my breath while waiting to be invited for the lead role in Rigolat…Rigopet… oh, drat it!
“Jeeves!”
“Sir?” came the reply, from just outside the bathroom door.
“What’s the name of that dashed opera that they have on at the Royal Opera House?”
“Rigoletto, sir.”
“Rigoletto! Of course! OH DONNA IMMOBILAYYYYY!”
I heard no more from Jeeves from a bit, possibly he’d withdrawn to the study, maybe to swat up on the ‘Crimes Against Opera Act 1910’ or something to see whether he could get a constable around to end his pain.
I was still happily torturing the Italian language to death, and no doubt causing Guiseppi Verdi to turn in his grave, when I heard the distant sound of a telephone bell.
There was a discreet knock on the door.
“ADY, PEN SHARE!! What’s up, Jeeves?”
Jeeves gave a distinct sigh of relief at having succeeded in interrupting my ‘performance’. “Lady McTavish is on the telephone, sir.”
“Aunt Eulalia, what does she want?”
“She didn’t say, sir.”
“Right-ho, Jeeves. Tell her I’ll call her back in a jiffy.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Unless she’d like to hear some of my Rigoletto?”
“I will put the suggestion to her ladyship, but if you’ll forgive me saying so, I doubt that would bring her any amount of pleasure.”
He toddled off, but was back a moment or two later.
“Her response to the Rigoletto suggestion, as I predicted, was negative, sir. Her very words were ‘Tell my nephew to stop being an ass, and get him out here to speak to me.’”
I sighed, and extracted myself from the delightful waters, applied a bath towel, and added a bathrobe to my previously non-existent attire.
I picked up the receiver. “What ho, Aunt?”
“Don’t ‘what ho’ me, Bertram, you nincompoop! I’ve been hanging onto this phone for half a lifetime! Do you think the telephone company provides this service for nothing? What on earth were you doing?”
“I was practising my opera singing in the bath! Oh Donna immobilay, from Rigoletto.”
“La donna è mobile, you clown!” I’d forgotten that she spoke surprisingly fluent Italian, for a Scotswoman. “But never mind that. The sleeper train leaves Euston at 10pm tonight. Be on it.”
“Why on earth should I want to ride on the sleeper?” I looked at the clock. 8:15pm.
“Because I need you up here. Now. But tomorrow will have to do.”
I may have mentioned my Aunts to you previously. Aunt Agatha, a woman who has, to my certain knowledge, never once laughed or even smiled, who has a look that can freeze blood at seven hundred yards, and who is of the unshakable opinion that I am an utter wastrel. Aunt Dahlia, who shares that opinion, has a voice that can raise the dead, but has one redeeming feathure in that she employs the finest chef in the Empire; and here we have Aunt Eulalia, who, while also believing in my idiocy, does at least have a small sense of humour. However, she expects obedience on the double, and (worst of all) lives in an intolerably draughty and probably haunted castle in the Northern Forest near to the River Dee, existing on a diet of haggis and salmon, the latter caught by her personally as they make their unsuspecting way up the river to do what ever it is that salmon do up rivers. Aunt Eulalia lives a fairly ascetic life, devoid of such simple pleasures as foaming hot baths. I have to say that the prospect of a stay at Cumfillin Castle gave me the oddest feeling. It was rather as if a platoon of centipedes were route marching up and down my spine, waving to their comrades as they did so.
I did my best. “Er, it’s not terribly convenient, Aunt...”
“Rot, Bertie, you are the idlest man I know. Of course you can spare your dearest Aunt a few days of your ‘precious’ time, instead of idling it away at the Drones Club, or gawping at other idiots trying to knock sticks over with a bit of leather.”
“I say, Aunt, that’s a bit thick, what?” Insulting cricket is a low blow, in my opinion.
“It’s a ‘bit thick’ that you stand there arguing when you should be packing, my lad. Hurry, or you’ll miss that train!”
“But...”
“But what?”
“But what’s the panic, Aunt?”
“Barbaria.”
That one word spoke volumes. The Honorable Barbaria Fortescue-Phipps, heiress to one of the largest estates in Scotland, drew trouble to herself like bees to a honey pot. Terribly fond of her though I am, I could not help but gasp.
“And Thessela.”
Her arguments were crushing me. Thessela Threepwood and Barb together? Disaster. Without further questions, I knew that Aunt Eulalia would really be in the soup.
“What have they done?”
“They’ve gone off with an Australian!”
“An Australian?” This was getting worse. No country counted more bounders amongst its sons than Australia. Just spend an afternoon at Lords during an Australia v England Test Match if you don’t believe me.
“He says he wants to ’Find some more Great Pics’”
That rang a bell. “I say, Aunt, I don’t suppose his name was ‘Phlebas’, was it?”
“That’s right! I thought it an odd name, even for an Australian!”
That did it. I’d met this Phlebas fellow at Messaline’s place last year. He’d jolly nearly done for Jollyrei’s engagement to Thessela. Another dose of Phlebas could spell curtains for Jollyrei’s happiness. And Jollyrei would blame me. Jollyrei blamed me for everything.
I realise that during my eulogy about the pleasures of bathtime I may have given you the impression that I am something of a softy. Put all such thoughts far from your mind. When action is required, we Wraggs are men of steel. We rise to the challenge, like Spartan Warriors, or something like that. I'll check with Jeeves later.
“Aunt Eulalia?”
“Yes, Bertram?”
“I’m on my way, just as quick as the LM jolly S railway can get me there. Toodle pip!”
I hung up the phone. “Jeeves!”
“Sir?”
“We’re going to Scotland. We have to catch the ten o’clock sleeper from Euston!”
“Very good, sir. I shall commence packing immediately.”
I told you he was a marvel. Nothing rattles Jeeves.
Talking of awards, did I ever tell you about my man, Jeeves? Now I come to think of it, I ought to write to the PM and put Jeeves up for an award for services to Valetdom, or at least for services to Bertram Wilberforce Wragg. The fellow is nothing short of a marvel. He has a brain the size of Jupiter, there is nothing he doesn’t know; and every task he undertakes is performed to the height of perfection.
Take this bath, for instance. There is nothing about it that is open to the slightest criticism. The temperature, the depth, the amount of bath salts, the amount of foam – if Her Majesty’s Inspector of Bathing Standards were to walk through that door this very minute, the fellow would be nonplussed. He could cast his eagle eye across the tub, but I can assure you that there would nothing to cause him a sharp intake of breath, or to say ‘tut,tut’ or ‘tch,tch’ or whatever these fellows might say when they discover a bath that’s a bit below par. He’d throw his clipboard down in frustration with his thirst for fault-finding unsated.
Unless, that is, he has ‘singing’ on his checklist. For I’d have to admit, that while I do love a good sing while about my daily ablutions, I’d be the first to admit that I’m not holding my breath while waiting to be invited for the lead role in Rigolat…Rigopet… oh, drat it!
“Jeeves!”
“Sir?” came the reply, from just outside the bathroom door.
“What’s the name of that dashed opera that they have on at the Royal Opera House?”
“Rigoletto, sir.”
“Rigoletto! Of course! OH DONNA IMMOBILAYYYYY!”
I heard no more from Jeeves from a bit, possibly he’d withdrawn to the study, maybe to swat up on the ‘Crimes Against Opera Act 1910’ or something to see whether he could get a constable around to end his pain.
I was still happily torturing the Italian language to death, and no doubt causing Guiseppi Verdi to turn in his grave, when I heard the distant sound of a telephone bell.
There was a discreet knock on the door.
“ADY, PEN SHARE!! What’s up, Jeeves?”
Jeeves gave a distinct sigh of relief at having succeeded in interrupting my ‘performance’. “Lady McTavish is on the telephone, sir.”
“Aunt Eulalia, what does she want?”
“She didn’t say, sir.”
“Right-ho, Jeeves. Tell her I’ll call her back in a jiffy.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Unless she’d like to hear some of my Rigoletto?”
“I will put the suggestion to her ladyship, but if you’ll forgive me saying so, I doubt that would bring her any amount of pleasure.”
He toddled off, but was back a moment or two later.
“Her response to the Rigoletto suggestion, as I predicted, was negative, sir. Her very words were ‘Tell my nephew to stop being an ass, and get him out here to speak to me.’”
I sighed, and extracted myself from the delightful waters, applied a bath towel, and added a bathrobe to my previously non-existent attire.
I picked up the receiver. “What ho, Aunt?”
“Don’t ‘what ho’ me, Bertram, you nincompoop! I’ve been hanging onto this phone for half a lifetime! Do you think the telephone company provides this service for nothing? What on earth were you doing?”
“I was practising my opera singing in the bath! Oh Donna immobilay, from Rigoletto.”
“La donna è mobile, you clown!” I’d forgotten that she spoke surprisingly fluent Italian, for a Scotswoman. “But never mind that. The sleeper train leaves Euston at 10pm tonight. Be on it.”
“Why on earth should I want to ride on the sleeper?” I looked at the clock. 8:15pm.
“Because I need you up here. Now. But tomorrow will have to do.”
I may have mentioned my Aunts to you previously. Aunt Agatha, a woman who has, to my certain knowledge, never once laughed or even smiled, who has a look that can freeze blood at seven hundred yards, and who is of the unshakable opinion that I am an utter wastrel. Aunt Dahlia, who shares that opinion, has a voice that can raise the dead, but has one redeeming feathure in that she employs the finest chef in the Empire; and here we have Aunt Eulalia, who, while also believing in my idiocy, does at least have a small sense of humour. However, she expects obedience on the double, and (worst of all) lives in an intolerably draughty and probably haunted castle in the Northern Forest near to the River Dee, existing on a diet of haggis and salmon, the latter caught by her personally as they make their unsuspecting way up the river to do what ever it is that salmon do up rivers. Aunt Eulalia lives a fairly ascetic life, devoid of such simple pleasures as foaming hot baths. I have to say that the prospect of a stay at Cumfillin Castle gave me the oddest feeling. It was rather as if a platoon of centipedes were route marching up and down my spine, waving to their comrades as they did so.
I did my best. “Er, it’s not terribly convenient, Aunt...”
“Rot, Bertie, you are the idlest man I know. Of course you can spare your dearest Aunt a few days of your ‘precious’ time, instead of idling it away at the Drones Club, or gawping at other idiots trying to knock sticks over with a bit of leather.”
“I say, Aunt, that’s a bit thick, what?” Insulting cricket is a low blow, in my opinion.
“It’s a ‘bit thick’ that you stand there arguing when you should be packing, my lad. Hurry, or you’ll miss that train!”
“But...”
“But what?”
“But what’s the panic, Aunt?”
“Barbaria.”
That one word spoke volumes. The Honorable Barbaria Fortescue-Phipps, heiress to one of the largest estates in Scotland, drew trouble to herself like bees to a honey pot. Terribly fond of her though I am, I could not help but gasp.
“And Thessela.”
Her arguments were crushing me. Thessela Threepwood and Barb together? Disaster. Without further questions, I knew that Aunt Eulalia would really be in the soup.
“What have they done?”
“They’ve gone off with an Australian!”
“An Australian?” This was getting worse. No country counted more bounders amongst its sons than Australia. Just spend an afternoon at Lords during an Australia v England Test Match if you don’t believe me.
“He says he wants to ’Find some more Great Pics’”
That rang a bell. “I say, Aunt, I don’t suppose his name was ‘Phlebas’, was it?”
“That’s right! I thought it an odd name, even for an Australian!”
That did it. I’d met this Phlebas fellow at Messaline’s place last year. He’d jolly nearly done for Jollyrei’s engagement to Thessela. Another dose of Phlebas could spell curtains for Jollyrei’s happiness. And Jollyrei would blame me. Jollyrei blamed me for everything.
I realise that during my eulogy about the pleasures of bathtime I may have given you the impression that I am something of a softy. Put all such thoughts far from your mind. When action is required, we Wraggs are men of steel. We rise to the challenge, like Spartan Warriors, or something like that. I'll check with Jeeves later.
“Aunt Eulalia?”
“Yes, Bertram?”
“I’m on my way, just as quick as the LM jolly S railway can get me there. Toodle pip!”
I hung up the phone. “Jeeves!”
“Sir?”
“We’re going to Scotland. We have to catch the ten o’clock sleeper from Euston!”
“Very good, sir. I shall commence packing immediately.”
I told you he was a marvel. Nothing rattles Jeeves.
)
