In imitation of Wodehouse part II

Continuation of a previous post. Hope you enjoy it!

As luck would have it, Bingo was just sitting down to a spot of food at the Drones Club.

‘Hullo, face!’ I greeted him cheerfully.

‘Bertie!’ the fellow broke out in smiles at seeing his childhood friend. ‘Come and sit with me.’

I went and sat with him.

‘Early lunch what? It’s barely eleven.’

‘I have to tutor at twelve. A young brat of a distant relative they’re trying to get into Harrow.’ Bingo sighed as he tore up his bread roll and sprinkled the pieces into the gravy like a widow might sprinkle earth into a fresh dug grave.

‘And they don’t lunch?’

‘They are vegetarians.’ Bingo quivered and his lips set in grim determination as he cut up the lamb chops with determination.

‘The old heart bleeds. Now look, you…’

‘You know I like salads and roasted potatoes and char-grilled aubergines and lovely fluffy bread just as much as the next man. But lunch without meat makes me weak-legged. Protein is the word!’

‘Quite! But let me ask you, are you occupied this…’

‘Oh Bertie, I have something to tell you!’ Bingo suddenly gushed through a mouthful of protein and rosemary.

‘Would be glad to hear it, friend of my youth, but first, you aren’t busy this Fri…’

But the blighter wasn’t paying attention. Stout fellow though he is, sometimes talking to him is like talking to a five year old.

‘Oh Bertie, I’m in love!’ he said with a fish-like look.

‘Are you? Right-ho. Now, about Wednesday night.’

Before you think me callous to brush aside the love affairs of my nearest and dearest, the thing you have to realise is that Bingo is one of those young idiots who fall in love every year half a dozen times before Easter. He even fell in love with Honoria Glossop, a girl with a voice like a pride of hearty lions and who is always trying to bring out people’s inner potentials by making them read Spinoza or Schopenhauer.

‘Dash your Wednesday night Bertie! Bingo said, peeved at my lack of appropriate response. ‘I’m in love I tell you! I’m in love with an angel!’ He tucked into his steak with an unsightly grin on his map.

I sighed. When Bingo falls in love, one unavoidably has to hear all about it.

‘Tell me all, old thing.’ I ordered some coffee to fortify myself against the oncoming assault.

‘Her name is Alice, Alice Wittlesham. Isn’t that the most beautiful name you’ve ever heard?’ Bingo said between mouthfuls.

‘I know an Alice Wittlesham. Tall girl, wearing spectacles? Ginger hair? Rather tremulous voice that makes you prone to be a bit sea sick after a lengthy conversation?’

Bingo gave me a dirty look.

‘Ms Wittlesham is slender and regal. She is a scholar. Her auburn hair is like a sunset. Yes, just like a sunset! And her voice is like the gentle murmur of the sea.’ I have to admit, he did put it more chivalrously. ‘She is a tender goddess.’ He added.

‘You called Honoria Glossop a tender goddess.’ I reminded him, not without some venom. I mean, if you’re going to call Honoria, a six-footer who is wont to go riding at 4am in the morning then go for three sets of tennis before dragging you mercilessly to breakfast whilst recanting the works of Immanuel Kant and at all times laughing like a seal during the mating season, a tender goddess, what then is the good of the phrase?

‘Don’t compare Alice to Honoria!’ the pig-head waved a fork dismissively, ‘that was but a passing infatuation. The foolishness of youth. Alice is different, she is divine!’ the fish-like expression returned.

‘Isn’t her old man a Don at Oxford?’

‘Yes, Sir Wittlesham is professor of literature. She takes after him Bertie, she would recite the most romantic poems.’

‘I think I was taught by the old thing at Oxford. Milton, Keats and whatnot. How’d you come to know her?’ Literary circles are not Bingo’s usual niche, having scraped through Oxford by the skin of his teeth. I seem to remember Wittlesham as a daunting kind of chap with a big beard who likes to trap you with sudden questions about John Donne just as you recovered from a short nap.

‘I met her and her father on a cruise Bertie.’ I’ve always said cruises are dangerous things. You never know who you might find yourself at close quarters with.

‘What are you doing on a cruise? Aren’t you broke?’

‘My aunt paid for it. She wanted me for company and to carry things.’ Bingo’s lips tightened at the memory of prolonged social interaction with his aunt.

‘Dear, dear.’ I said consolingly. 

‘But it’s all for the best! I wouldn’t have met Alice otherwise. God opens a window and what not you see? I first saw her standing on the prow when I snuck out for a smoke. She would stand on the prow and gaze into the sea for hours on end. The evening sun would set her auburn hair ablaze. Then she would recite ten poems to me about sunsets.’ Bingo continued, in a quieter voice, for if the chaps at the Drones heard this revolting muck they would rightly have pelted him with bread rolls till Christmas. I’ve had about all that I can take re. Alice Wittlesham.

‘I’m sure she’s all that, my good chap. Congratulations and all that rot. Now, with regards to Wednesday night, you are to come to dine with me at the Ritz.’ I went straight to the point.

‘Wednesday? Ritz?’ Bingo came out of his reverie.

‘Wednesday, Ritz, dinner, seven sharp.’ I repeated with some emphasis.

‘Oh I couldn’t possibly do that Bertie!’ said Bingo, ‘I’m going to invite Alice to dinner.’ 

‘But Bingo!’ I wailed as the last ember of hope flitters in the rough wind of ill fortune. ‘You must come! Otherwise I’m stuck with Aunt Agatha and some American girl whom I’ve never met that she is trying to shackle me with in matrimony!’

‘Well…’ Bingo was moved, I could see. He has met my Aunt Agatha. An ass though he is, he is a loyal ass.

‘I’ll foot the bill of your next romantic outing!’ I offered desperately.

‘Really?’ Bingo said, suddenly all bright-eyed and sparkling-teeth. ‘I am a bit short this month. Plus I want to take her some place with an atmosphere, with je ne sais quoi! Not some pretentious, plebeian place. No, no, a place with grace and quiet dignity and romance and poetry. Unfortunately that does cost rather a bit.’

‘You can count on me old thing.’ I said enthusiastically, whilst cringing inside. Bingo’s tastes are rather the tops, although his income is largely dependent on Lady Luck’s mood at the race courses. You see, although his uncle, a rich man with a tight purse string, gives him a not-mean monthly allowance, Bingo can burn through it in a single night if the right girl hovers into view. To make ends meet, the fathead frequents the races, where he would inevitably lose what little he has and then has to find a tutoring job or something. By the wolf-like look shining in his eyes, he must’ve already lost his lot for the month, and it’s only the twelfth!

‘Alright Bertie! Never is Bingo Little one to disappoint a pal. Wednesday you say? I’ll be there!’  

Part III