bullfinch?’
‘How are you, bullfinch?’
‘To make it whistle, I mean.’
‘Ah, there you take me into deep waters. But I didn’t come here to talk about bullfinches, whether whistling or strongly silent. Where’s Beach?’
‘Gone into Market Blandings. The chauffeur took him.’
‘Dash the man. What did he want to go gadding off to Market Blandings for?’
‘Why shouldn’t he go gadding off to Market Blandings? The poor guy’s got a right to see a little life now and then. He’ll be back soon.’
‘He should never have left his post.’
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘This pig situation.’
‘What pig situation would that be?’
Gally passed a careworn hand over his brow.
‘I’d forgotten you weren’t there when Clarence broke the big story. You had left to go and write to that young man of yours … Dale, Hale, Gale, whatever his name is.’
‘Vail.’
‘Oh, Vail.’
‘One of the Loamshire Vails. You must learn to call him Jerry. So what happened after I left?’
‘Clarence appeared, buffeted by the waves and leaking at every seam like the Wreck of the Hesperus. He had just been talking to that hell-hound.’
‘What hell-hound?’
‘Sir Gregory Parsloe.’
‘Oh yes, the character who keeps taking off his shoes. Who is Sir Gregory Parsloe?’
‘Good God! Don’t you know that?’
‘I’m a stranger in these parts.’
‘I’d better begin at the beginning.’
‘Much better.’
If there was one thing Gally prided himself on – and justly – it was his ability to tell a story. Step by step he unfolded his tale, omitting no detail however slight, and it was not long before Penny had as complete a grasp of the position of affairs as any raconteur could have wished. When, after stressing the blackness of Sir Gregory Parsloe’s soul in a striking passage, he introduced the Queen of Matchingham motif into his narrative and spoke of the guerrilla warfare which must now inevitably ensue, fraught with brooding peril not only to Lord Emsworth’s dreams and ambitions but to the bank balances of himself and Beach, she expressed her concern freely.
‘This Parsloe sounds a hot number.’
‘As hot as mustard. Always was. Remind me to tell you some time how he nobbled my dog Towser on the night of the rat contest. But you have not heard the worst. We now come to the Simmons menace.’
‘What’s that?’
‘In your ramblings about the grounds and messuages do you happen to have seen a large young female in trousers who looks like an all-in wrestler? That is Monica Simmons, Clarence’s pig girl. Her high mission is to look after the Empress. Until recently the latter’s custodian was a gnome-like but competent old buffer of the name of Pott. But he won a football pool and turned in his seal of office, upon which my sister Connie produced the above Simmons out of her hat and insisted on Clarence engaging her. When this Queen of Matchingham thing came up, Clarence and I agreed that it would be insanity to leave the Empress’s fortunes in the hands of a girl like that. Simmons must go, we decided, and as Clarence hadn’t the nerve to tackle Connie about it, I said I would. I’ve just been tackling her.’
‘With what result?’
‘None. She dug her feet in and put her ears back and generally carried on like a Grade A deaf adder. And what do you think?’
‘What?’
‘Clarence had told me that Connie’s interest in this Simmons was due to the fact that she, the Simmons, was tied up in some way with someone Connie wanted to oblige. Who do you suppose that someone is?’
‘Not Parsloe?’
‘None other. Parsloe himself. In person, not a picture. The girl is his cousin.’
‘Gosh!’
‘You may well say “Gosh!”. The peril would be ghastly enough if we were merely up against a Parsloe weaving his subtle schemes in his lair at Matchingham Hall. But Parsloe with a cousin in our very citadel, a cousin enjoying free access to the Empress, a cousin whose job it is to
‘How are you, bullfinch?’
‘To make it whistle, I mean.’
‘Ah, there you take me into deep waters. But I didn’t come here to talk about bullfinches, whether whistling or strongly silent. Where’s Beach?’
‘Gone into Market Blandings. The chauffeur took him.’
‘Dash the man. What did he want to go gadding off to Market Blandings for?’
‘Why shouldn’t he go gadding off to Market Blandings? The poor guy’s got a right to see a little life now and then. He’ll be back soon.’
‘He should never have left his post.’
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘This pig situation.’
‘What pig situation would that be?’
Gally passed a careworn hand over his brow.
‘I’d forgotten you weren’t there when Clarence broke the big story. You had left to go and write to that young man of yours … Dale, Hale, Gale, whatever his name is.’
‘Vail.’
‘Oh, Vail.’
‘One of the Loamshire Vails. You must learn to call him Jerry. So what happened after I left?’
‘Clarence appeared, buffeted by the waves and leaking at every seam like the Wreck of the Hesperus. He had just been talking to that hell-hound.’
‘What hell-hound?’
‘Sir Gregory Parsloe.’
‘Oh yes, the character who keeps taking off his shoes. Who is Sir Gregory Parsloe?’
‘Good God! Don’t you know that?’
‘I’m a stranger in these parts.’
‘I’d better begin at the beginning.’
‘Much better.’
If there was one thing Gally prided himself on – and justly – it was his ability to tell a story. Step by step he unfolded his tale, omitting no detail however slight, and it was not long before Penny had as complete a grasp of the position of affairs as any raconteur could have wished. When, after stressing the blackness of Sir Gregory Parsloe’s soul in a striking passage, he introduced the Queen of Matchingham motif into his narrative and spoke of the guerrilla warfare which must now inevitably ensue, fraught with brooding peril not only to Lord Emsworth’s dreams and ambitions but to the bank balances of himself and Beach, she expressed her concern freely.
‘This Parsloe sounds a hot number.’
‘As hot as mustard. Always was. Remind me to tell you some time how he nobbled my dog Towser on the night of the rat contest. But you have not heard the worst. We now come to the Simmons menace.’
‘What’s that?’
‘In your ramblings about the grounds and messuages do you happen to have seen a large young female in trousers who looks like an all-in wrestler? That is Monica Simmons, Clarence’s pig girl. Her high mission is to look after the Empress. Until recently the latter’s custodian was a gnome-like but competent old buffer of the name of Pott. But he won a football pool and turned in his seal of office, upon which my sister Connie produced the above Simmons out of her hat and insisted on Clarence engaging her. When this Queen of Matchingham thing came up, Clarence and I agreed that it would be insanity to leave the Empress’s fortunes in the hands of a girl like that. Simmons must go, we decided, and as Clarence hadn’t the nerve to tackle Connie about it, I said I would. I’ve just been tackling her.’
‘With what result?’
‘None. She dug her feet in and put her ears back and generally carried on like a Grade A deaf adder. And what do you think?’
‘What?’
‘Clarence had told me that Connie’s interest in this Simmons was due to the fact that she, the Simmons, was tied up in some way with someone Connie wanted to oblige. Who do you suppose that someone is?’
‘Not Parsloe?’
‘None other. Parsloe himself. In person, not a picture. The girl is his cousin.’
‘Gosh!’
‘You may well say “Gosh!”. The peril would be ghastly enough if we were merely up against a Parsloe weaving his subtle schemes in his lair at Matchingham Hall. But Parsloe with a cousin in our very citadel, a cousin enjoying free access to the Empress, a cousin whose job it is to
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