In imitation of Wodehouse IV

Continued from a previous post 

I assumed that Eggleston is still published by Alcott and Wheaton, the same publisher that does ‘Milady’s Boudoir’. They also publish a lot of books with rummy titles like his – I got given a few for my article. I distinctly remember one was called ‘The Beast in Man’ by a fellow named Zola or something. Wasn’t nearly as saucy as I had imagined. In any case, the headquarters is not two blocks away. Eggleston seems like a decent chap, so it’s easy enough to do him a good turn. As the Buddhists say, it’s all swings and roundabouts.

I tucked the brown paper parcel under an armpit, straightened my fedora, waved aside gracefully Mr Shaw’s torrent of gratitude and set off at a brisk pace. It was certainly a tumultuous day, I thought to myself. But, as I cut across the local park, smelling the flowers and hearing the twittering of birds, observing the sunlight lighting up the golden curls of a little girl in a blue dress playing with her faithful Labrador, I concluded that all’s well that ends well. I should do a fellow a good turn more often.

The offices of Monsieurs Alcott and Wheaton was situated in a rather spiffy Art Deco block with pleasing parallel lines and lovely rounded corners. With a nod to the doorman I leaped my way up the curving staircase in the lobby with balustrades that reminds me of cicada wings, and gave the door to the publishing house a cheerful rap.

The girl at the front desk, by the name of Beatrice, a generously proportioned and personable young lady, answered and sat me down in a comfy upholstered chair, as Mr Alcott (Wheaton has recently retired) was with another client. I declined Beatrice’s kind offer of tea and barely did we begin a conversation when the door to the Alcott office was opened and who should appear but old Professor Wittlesham, my old Oxford lecturer and father of Bingo’s current love interest! He peered at me blankly for a second or two before a glint entered his small eyes, shaded under bushy brows. His lips pursed, not in a way that suggest fond reminiscences.

‘Aren’t you Wooster? I taught you at Oxford. What in devil’s name are you doing here?’ He sounded like a man who found fish and chips being served at a banquet in Buckingham Palace.

‘Hullo there, Prof W!’ I’m afraid I rather quavered. I’m not very good with authority figures who knew one’s early misdemeanours. Like Aunt Agatha, Wittlesham knows the time when I skipped his class to play cricket for the Magdalen XI, filling in for Alfie ‘Feline’ Felden, who, the night before, fell down some stairs playing indoor Wellie-wanging and broke an ankle. I had Bingo tell the old man that I was under the weather, but who was to know he would be tramping down the grounds just as I hit a six and the team yelped ‘Wooooo-Wooster!’?

Wittlesham saw the brown paper parcel that is Eggleston’s manuscript and almost recoiled.

‘Are you here to hand in a manuscript?’

Mr Alcott, a short, jolly man with a shiny bald head and a soothing voice chipped in at this moment, undoubtedly happy to see one of his favourite hacks.

‘Ah Mr Wooster! Good to see you again. You know Professor Wittlesham? He’s here to discuss a marvellous manuscript for a book on the intersection of literature and politics. Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant.’

‘The book hinges with Shelley’s In Defence of Poetry, though I doubt Mr Wooster will have remembered anything of Shelley I tried to teach him, nor Blake, Byron, Wordsworth or any others for that matter!’ The man snorted out derisively. It’s a bit much for a Wooster to simply stand and take it. My mind flashed like quicksilver and I reposted thusly:

‘“Poets are the hierophants or an unapprehended inspiration”, I believe Shelley wrote. Rather fine, I always thought.’

Wittlesham looked at me with his small eyes opened alarmingly wide.

‘Have you brought us another of your fine work? It’s been a while since your last piece.’ Mr Alcott and I got along rather well, especially after a particularly good dinner at Aunt Dahlia’s where we discovered a mutual liking to boat races. Aunt Dahlia has mentioned that he had asked for more contributions from yours truly.

Wittlesham looked more discombobulated by the minute, a pleasant sight to see. It might have been the accumulation of Aunt Agatha, Honoria Glossop and now Wittlesham in a single day that has imbued in the old Wooster bosom a knot of acrimony. Against my better judgement, I wanted to have one over Wittlesham.

‘Yes, Mr Alcott, a small novel this time. Hope it pleases your clientele. It’s titled The Breathings of Your Heart. I stole the title from Wordsworth.’

I airily passed the parcel to Alcott and watched, from the corner of my eye, with tremendous enjoyment at the confused face of Wittlesham, shaken to his foundations. Caesar himself might have looked like this when he saw the face of Brutus growing from the arm holding the dagger in his kidney.

‘Well, good day gentlemen! I must dash.’ And dash I did, before Wittlesham could ask me any pointed questions about Wordsworth or Shelley. The day has gone from strength to strength.

To Part V