Heavy Weather Page 2

  It occurred to him that mental strain might have affected his eyesight. He blinked and took another look.

  No, there it was, just as before.

  uncle woggly to his chicks

  Well, chickabiddies, how are you all? Minding what Nursie says and eating your spinach like good little men ? That's right. I know the stuff tastes like a motorman's glove, but they say there's iron in it, and that's what puts hair on the chest.

  Lord Tilbury, having taken time out to make a noise like a leaking siphon, resumed his reading.

  Well, now let's get down to it. This week, my dear little souls, Uncle Woggly is going to put you on to a good thing. We all want to make a spot of easy money these hard times, don't we ? Well, here's the lowdown, straight from the horse's mouth. All you have to do is to get hold of some mug and lure him into betting that a quart whisky bottle holds a quart of whisky.

  Sounds rummy, what? I mean, that's what you would naturally think it would hold. So does the mug. But it isn't. It's really more, and I'll tell you why.

  First you fill the bottle. This gives you your quart. Then you shove the cork in. And then - follow me closely here - you turn the bottle upside down and you'll find there's a sort of bulging-in part at the bottom. Well, slosh some whisky into that, and there you are. Because the bot. is now holding more than a quart and you scoop the stakes.

  I have to acknowledge a sweet little letter from Frankie Kendon (Hendon) about his canary which goes tweet-tweet-tweet. Also one from Muriel Poot (Stow-in-the-Wold), who is going to lose her shirt if she ever bets anyone she knows how to spell 'tortoise'. . . .

  Lord Tilbury had read enough. There was some good stuff further on about Willy Waters (Ponders End) and his cat Miggles, but he did not wait for it. He pressed the buzzer emotionally.

  ' Tots!'' he cried, choking. ' Tiny Tots! Who is editing Tiny Tots now?'

  'Mr Sellick is the regular editor, Lord Tilbury,' replied his secretary, who knew everything and wore horn-rimmed spectacles to prove it, 'but he is away on his vacation. In his absence, the assistant editor is in charge of the paper, Mr Bodkin.'

  'Bodkin!'

  So loud was Lord Tilbury's voice and so sharply did his eyes bulge that the secretary recoiled a step, as if something had hit her.

  'That popinjay!' said Lord Tilbury, in a strange, low, grating voice. ‘I might have guessed it. I might have foreseen something like this. Send Mr Bodkin here at once.'

  It was a judgement, he felt. This was what came of going to public dinners and allowing yourself to depart from the principles of a lifetime. One false step, one moment of weakness when there were wheedling snakes of Baronets at your elbow, and what a harvest, what a reckoning!

  He leaned back in his chair, tapping the desk with a paper-knife. He had just broken this, when there was a knock at the door and his young subordinate entered.

  'Good morning, good morning, good morning,' said the latter affably.' Want to see me about something ?'

  Monty Bodkin was rather an attractive popinjay, as popinjays go. He was tall and slender and lissom, and many people considered him quite good-looking. But not Lord Tilbury. He had disapproved of his appearance from their first meeting, thinking him much too well dressed, much too carefully groomed, and much too much like what he actually was, a member in good standing of the Drones Club. The proprietor of the Mammoth Publishing Company could not have put into words his ideal of a young journalist, but it would have been something rather shaggy, preferably with spectacles, certainly not wearing spats. And while Monty Bodkin was not actually spatted at the moment, there did undoubtedly hover about him a sort of spat aura.

  'Ha!' said Lord Tilbury, sighting him.

  He stared bleakly. His demeanour now was that of a Napoleon who, suffering from toothache, sees his way to taking it out of one of his minor Marshals.

  ' Come in,' he growled.

  ' Shut the door,' he grunted.

  'And don't grin like that,' he snarled. 'What the devil are you grinning for?'

  The words were proof of the deeps of misunderstanding which yawned between the assistant editor of Tiny Tots and himself. Certainly something was splitting Monty Bodkin's face in a rather noticeable manner, but the latter could have taken his oath it was an ingratiating smile. He had intended it for an ingratiating smile, and unless something had gone extremely wrong with the works in the process of assembling it, that is what it should have come out as.

  However, being a sweet-tempered popinjay and always anxious to oblige, he switched it off. He was feeling a little puzzled. The atmosphere seemed to him to lack chumminess, and he was at a loss to account for it.

  'Nice day,' he observed tentatively. 'Never mind the day.'

  'Right ho. Heard from Uncle Gregory lately?' ' Never mind your Uncle Gregory.' 'Right ho.'

  'And don't say "Right ho."' 'Right ho,' said Monty dutifully. 'Read this.'

  Monty took the proffered copy of Tots.

  'You want me to read aloud to you?' he said, feeling that this was matter.

  'You need not trouble. I have already seen the passage in question. Here, where I am pointing.' ' Oh, ah, yes. Uncle Woggly. Right ho.' ' Will you stop saying "Right ho"!.. .Well?' 'Eh?'

  ' You wrote that, I take it ?'

  'Oh, rather.'

  'Cor!'

  Monty was now definitely perplexed. He could conceal it from himself no longer that there was ill-will in the air. Lord Tilbury's had never been an elfin personality, but he had always been a good deal more winsome than this.

  A possible solution of his employer's emotion occurred to him.

  'You aren't worrying about it not being accurate, are you? Because that's quite all right I had it on the highest authority - from an old boy called Galahad Threepwood. Lord Emsworth's brother. You wouldn't have heard of him, of course, but he was a great lad about the metropolis at one time, and you can rely absolutely on anything he says about whisky bottles.'

  He broke off, puzzled once more. He could not understand what had caused his companion to strike the desk in that violent manner.

  ' What the devil do you mean, you wretched imbecile,' demanded Lord Tilbury, speaking a little indistinctly, for he was sucking his fist, 'by putting stuff of this sort in Tiny Tots?’

  ' You don't like it ?' said Monty groping.

  'How do you suppose the mothers who read that drivel to their children will feel?' Monty was concerned. This opened up a new line of thought.

  'Wrong tone, do you think?'

  ' Mugs... Betting. .. Whisky... You have probably lost us ten thousand subscribers.'

  'I say, that never occurred to me. Yes, by Jove, I see what you mean now. Unfortunate slip, what ? May quite easily cause alarm and despondency. Yes, yes, yes, to be sure. Oh, yes, indeed. Well, I can only say I'm sorry.'

  'You can not only say you are sorry,' said Lord Tilbury, correcting this view, 'you can go to the cashier, draw a month's salary, get to blazes out of here, and never let me see your face in the building again.'

  Monty's concern increased.

  'But this sounds like the sack. Don't tell me that what you are hinting at is the sack ?'

  Speech failed Lord Tilbury. He jerked his thumb doorwards. And such was the magic of his personality that Monty found himself a moment later with his fingers on the handle. Its cold hardness seemed to wake him from a trance. He halted, making a sort of Custer's Last Stand.

  'Reflect!' he said.

  Lord Tilbury busied himself with his papers.

  'Uncle Gregory won't like this,' said Monty reproachfully.

  Lord Tilbury quivered for an instant as if somebody had stuck a bradawl into him, but preserved an aloof silence.

  'Well, he won't, you know.' Monty had no wish to be severe, but he felt compelled to point this out. 'He takes all the trouble to get me a job, I mean to say, and now this happens. Oh, no, don't deceive yourself, Uncle Gregory will be vexed.'

  ' Get out,' said Lord Tilbury.

  Monty fondled the door ha
ndle for a space, marshalling his thoughts. He had that to say which he rather fancied would melt the other's heart a goodish bit, but he was not quite sure how to begin.

  'Haven't you gone ?' said Lord Tilbury. Monty reassured him.

  'Not yet. The fact is, there's something I rather wanted to call to your attention. You don't know it, but for private and personal reasons I particularly want to hold this Tiny Tots job for a year. There are wheels within wheels. It's a sort of bet, as a matter of fact.

  Have you ever met a girl called Gertrude Butterwick?.. .However, it's a long story and I won't bother you with it now. But you can take it from me that there definitely are wheels within wheels and unless I continue in your employment, till somewhere around the middle of next June, my life will be a blank and all my hopes and dreams shattered. So how about it? Would you, on second thoughts, taking this into consideration, feel disposed to postpone the rash act till then? If you've any doubts as to my doing my bit, dismiss them. I would work like the dickens. First at the office, last to come away, and solid, selfless service all the time - no clock-watching, no folding of the hands in. ..'

  'Get out!' said Lord Tilbury.

  There was a silence.

  ' You will not reconsider ?'

  'No.'

  ' You are not to be moved ?' 'No.'

  Monty Bodkin drew himself up.

  'Oh, right ho,' he said stiffly. 'Now we know where we are. Now we know where we stand. If that is the attitude you take, I suppose there is nothing to be done about it. Since you have no heart, no sympathy, no feeling, no bowels - of compassion, I mean -I have no alternative but to shove off. I have only two things to say to you, Lord Tilbury. One is that you have ruined a man's life. The other is Pip-pip.'

  He passed from the room, erect and dignified, like some young aristocrat of the French Revolution stepping into the tumbril. Lord Tilbury's secretary removed her ear from the door just in time to avoid a nasty flesh-wound.

  A month's salary in his pocket, chagrin in his heart, and in his soul that urgent desire for a quick one which comes to young men at times like this, Monty Bodkin stood hesitating in the doorway of Tilbury House. And Fate, watching him, found itself compelled to do a bit of swift thinking.

  'Now, shall I,' mused Fate, 'send this sufferer to have his snort at the Bunch of Grapes round the corner? Or shall I put him in a taxi and shoot him off to the Drones Club, where he will meet his old friend, Hugo Carmody, with momentous results?'

  It was no light decision to have to make. Much depended on it. It would affect the destinies of Ronald Fish and his betrothed, Sue Brown; of Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth, and his pig, Empress of Blandings; of Lord Tilbury, of the Mammoth Publishing Company; of Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe, Bart, of Matchingham Hall; and of that unpleasant little man, Percy Pilbeam, late editor of Society Spice and now proprietor of the Argus Private Inquiry Agency.

  'H'm!'said Fate.

  'Oh, dash it!' said Fate.'Let's make it the Drones.'

  And so it came about that Monty, some twenty minutes later, was seated in the club smoking-room, side by side with young Mr Carmody, sipping a Lizard's Breath and relating the story of his shattered career.

  'Turfed out!' he concluded, with a bitter laugh.' Driven into the snow! Well, that's Life, I suppose.'

  Hugo Carmody was not unsympathetic, but he had a fair mind and privately considered that Lord Tilbury had acted with great good sense. Obviously, felt Hugo, the whole secret of success, if you were running a business and had Monty Bodkin working for you, was to get rid of him at the earliest possible moment.

  'Tough,' he said. 'Still, what do you want with a job? You're rolling in the stuff.'

  Monty admitted that he was not unblessed with this world's goods, but said that that was not the point.

  'Money's got nothing to do with it. It was holding down the job that mattered. There are wheels within wheels. I'll tell you all about it, shall I?'

  'No thanks.'

  'Just as you like. Another spot ? Waiter, two more spots.'

  'Anyway,' said Hugo, with a kindly desire to point out the bright side,' if you hadn't got fired now, you'd have been bound to have got fired sooner or later, what ? I mean to say, I don't see how you could ever have been much good to a concern like the Mammoth, unless they had used you as a paperweight. And I'll bet you were all wrong about that whisky bottle.'

  Monty's spirit had been a good deal reduced by recent happenings, but he could not let this pass.

  'I'll bet I wasn't,' he said warmly.' I had the information straight from an authoritative source. Lord Emsworth's brother, old Gally Threepwood. My Uncle Gregory's place in Shropshire is only about a couple of miles from Blandings, and when I was a kid I used to be popping in and out all the time, and one day old Gally drew me aside...' Hugo was interested.

  ' Your Uncle Gregory ? Would that be Sir Gregory Parsloe ?' ‘Yes.'

  ' Well, well. I never knew you were Parsloe's nephew.' ' Why, have you met him ?'

  'Of course I've met him. I've been down at Blandings all the summer.'

  'Not really ? Oh, but, of course, I was forgetting. You and Ronnie Fish have always been pals, haven't you? You were staying with him?'

  'No. I was secretarying for old Emsworth. A nice, soft job. I've chucked it now.'

  'I thought a fellow called Baxter was his secretary.'

  ' My dear chap, you aren't abreast. Baxter left ages ago.'

  Monty sighed, as a young man will who is made to realize that time is passing.

  'Yes,' he agreed, 'I've lost touch with Blandings a bit. It must be three years since I was there. Somehow, ever since this business of going to the South of France in the summer started, I've never seemed to be able to get down. How are they all ? Is old Emsworth much about the same ?'

  ' What was he like when you used to infest the place ?'

  'Oh, a mild, dreamy, absent-minded sort of old bird. Talked about nothing but roses and pumpkins.'

  'Then he is much about the same, except that now he talks about nothing but pigs.'

  'Pigs, eh?'

  'His Empress of Blandings won the silver medal in the Fat Pigs' Class at last year's Shropshire Agricultural Show, and is confidently expected to repeat this year. This gives the ninth Earl's conversation a porcine trend.'

  'How's old Gally?'

  'Still going strong.'

  'And Beach?'

  ‘Buttling away as hard as ever.'

  'Well, well, well,' said Monty sentimentally. 'The old spot certainly doesn't seem to have changed much since ... Good Lord!' he exclaimed abruptly, spilling the remains of his cocktail over his trousers and in his emotion not noticing it. He had been electrified by a sudden idea.

  Although since his arrival at the Drones we have seen Monty Bodkin relaxed, at his ease, chatting of this and that, he had never forgotten that he had just lost a job and that, owing to there being wheels within wheels, it was imperative that he secure another. And a bright light had just flashed upon him.

  Minds like Monty Bodkin's may not always work at express speed, but they are subject to the same subconscious processes as those of more brain-burdened men. Right from the moment when Hugo had mentioned that he had been acting as secretary to the Earl of Emsworth, he had had a sort of nebulous idea that there was a big and important message wrapped up in this information, if only he could locate it. His subconscious mind had been having a go at the problem ever since, and now it passed the solution up to headquarters.

  He quivered with excitement.

  'Just a second,' he said.' Let's get this straight. You say you were old Emsworth's secretary.' 'Yes.'

  'And you've been fired ?'

  'I have not been fired,' said Hugo Carmody with justifiable annoyance, 'I've resigned. If you really want to know, I'm engaged to Lord Emsworth's niece, and I'm taking her down to Worcestershire in about half an hour to meet the head of the clan.'

  Monty was too preoccupied to offer felicitations.

  ' When did you
leave ?'

  ' Day before yesterday.'

  'Anybody been engaged to take your place ?'

  ' Not that I know of.'

  'Hugo,' said Monty earnestly, 'I'm going to get that job. I'm going to phone straight off to my uncle Gregory to snaffle it for me without delay.'

  Hugo looked at him commiseratingly. It was painful to him to be in the position of having to throw spanners into an old friend's daydreams, but he felt the poor chap ought to be told the truth.

  'I shouldn't count too much on Sir G. Parsloe getting you jobs with old Emsworth,' he said. 'As I remarked before, you aren't quite abreast of modern Blandings history. Relations between Blandings Castle and Matchingham Hall are a bit strained just at the moment. Not long ago your uncle did the dirty on old Emsworth by luring his pig-man away from him.'