Kevin Kiernan has come across an unpublished Jeeves and Wooster story, ‘Jeeves and Father Christmas’. It finds Bertie in reflective mood…
It was the 23rd of December, and shops were just beginning to stock their Christmas goods. It gets earlier every year! But the burning question for Bertram was where would I go for Christmas? Festivities at home with Jeeves, albeit technically harmonious….., are best understood when you realise that Jeeves would always rather be reading the Philosopher Spinoza’s more obscure works. He is also a whizz at all board and card games. He insists on playing scrabble in German. But when he has swept the board, counting his well-gotten gains, we end up having an early night.
The Drones, my club, is not what it was. The latest cohort of members are all fresh from National Service, so they join the Sealed Knot and play Roundheads vs Cavaliers. When they are at the club, they all address me as Uncle Bertie or, even worse, Pop Wooster.
My friends: Bingo Little, Gussie Fink-Nottle, Kipper Herring, Catsmeat Potter Pirbright etc were all fellow Boulevardiers around town. Then Cupid’s dart struck them all, like the Great flight of English arrows at Agincourt. Although what happened next wasn’t quite so simple. They were all either too shy to propose, or their senior relatives (particularly those bankrolling them their daily crust), were disapproving of their choice (chorus girls in particular). Then Jeeves’s great brain roared into action, things were sorted and they were all married off. Rather disappointingly, however, their wives seemed reluctant to invite me to any Xmas or other social festivities. Perhaps thinking I would tempt their husbands back to the Mayfair flesh pots. In any event, they all now live in the sticks, chasing the fox and being near good schools. They probably attend functions where a bread roll is seen as food, rather than a projectile. Ghastly thought.
Of course, there had been one or two candidates for married bliss with yours truly, but they all treated me as if I was stage one of a project. Jeeves tells me that great works of art often conceal an earlier attempt underneath. Essentially, I was that early draft, so a possible fiancee, on the second date, would bring along her mother as a consultant engineer to conduct a feasibility study on how I could be changed.
There was one exception. I had met Pamela at a sports match between the Drones and her club, the Queen Bees. She was their squash and darts champion. My own speciality sports. So we were paired up. Mention was made of a handicap, which I heartily agreed with, until I realised that I was the one who would benefit from it. I came, as she politely put it, ‘an honourable second’. All in all, a good egg. She seemed keen on Jeeves, and more importantly, she also had a love for detective fiction, which is as far as my literary ambition has reached. She wanted to be an author, but felt she needed more experience of life first. I might just have persuaded her to plight her troth with me (and Jeeves,of course), but Madelaine Basset, on the rebound from Gussie Fink-Nottle, seemed to think I was her ever-ready reserve fiance. It all got sorted out (thanks to Jeeves) but, in the meantime, Pamela had embarked on a Round the World – solo plane flight and hadn’t been heard of since. Attacked by a croc on the banks of the Limpopo, possibly. Although I would have felt sorry for the croc. Yes, Christmas with Pamela would have been fun.
My last recourse was to book in at Brinkley Court, the abode of my favourite relative, Aunt Dahlia. She had, of course, in her establishment, Anatole, the French chef. His ‘Timbale de ris de veau toulousaine’ or his ‘Mignonette de poulet Petit Duc’ were classics.
I had sent a couple of telegrams requesting bedroom availability at Festivetide but, so far, no reply. Puzzling.
It was at this point that Jeeves came in with my breakfast beverage, or ’elevenses’ as Aunt Dahlia would call it. Sipping the brew, I chewed the fat with Jeeves and raised our forthcoming yuletide black hole.
Jeeves coughed slightly which is always a sign that a prepared speech was in the offing.
‘Sir, I have spoken to Seppings, Aunt Dahlia’s butler. He said that a cloud of gloom had descended on Brinkley Court. Your uncle, Mr Thomas Travers, appears convinced that the Chancellor is targeting him alone. Corners are being cut and a Cromwellian, parsimonious Xmas is being planned. A new housekeeper has been taken on, at a reduced salary, it is rumoured. The staff say she is just there getting background for a novel. As a result they are being overly-dramatic hoping to get a cameo part in a future production.
Jeeves double coughed which usually means he is getting to the gist….
A mere 30 minutes later, as I sat in the two-seater on the way to Brinkley Court, Jeeves outlined the deal that had been made for my Xmas booking to be accepted.
Market Snodsbury Village Hall Christmas Fair (Patroness: Aunt Dahlia) needed a Father Christmas to hand out the presents. Jeeves had signed me up. He said it would all be over by 4pm and then Xmas at Brinkley lay ahead. I grumpily conceded, but would I ever forgive him?
On arrival we were ushered into a side room. There was a wicker basket full of Father Christmas costumes from past Fairs, the previous FCs were either very fat or very thin. While I was choosing between the ridiculous and the ridiculous, someone opened the door and I got a whiff of the main hall. It was Parfum de Farmer and Abbatoir No 5. But the most pungent aroma was the Food Stall. The villagers had clearly donated items that had tarried far too long at the back of the pantry.
Ready or not I was escorted to Santa’s Grotto. There to be met by a sea of baying children. Some just stared at me with mouths agape like a letter box, others looked as if they would take the presents straight back to the Returns counter at Customer Service. My Santa appearance wasn’t enhanced by my pince-nez and cigarette-holder. All I can then remember was a mad rush and Jeeves intervening like a Chief Bouncer at a rough night club.
It was finally over and I was looking forward to a well-deserved supper at Brinkley Court. Then I saw Aunt Dahlia with the Vicar. Apparently a BC supper was off as the Vicar’s wife had invited us all to a light supper using left over items from the food stall. ‘Any money we save will go to a good cause.’
At that point Jeeves, mumbling an apology, saying there was someone I must meet, whisked me off to the Butler’s Pantry at BC. There was a handsome Xmas spread and five seats at the table. There was Seppings, Anatole, Jeeves and myself and on the fifth seat sat the New Housekeeper. It was Pamela.
She squeezed my hand and said that there was a darts board next door. Well, Tinkerty Tonk.
Reader, I married her.
P. G. Wodehouse, Alfred Leete, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
