triedunture | Jeeves Drabble: Notes While Packing Up

Title: Notes While Packing Up
Pairing: Jeeves, Wooster gen
Rating: G
Words: 1200
Warnings: none
Summary: Jeeves prepares to leave for Chuffnel Hall.

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Reginald Jeeves had moved many times in his life. As a boy, he left the Killingsworth estate where his mother and father served as housekeeper and head butler, respectively (of course), in order to take a position as a page boy at a girl's school. After several years there, he left to take a job as a footman. And after that, an underbutler. And after that, a valet.

Each of these different positions required moving to a new town, to live in a new institution or household, to start over in a strange and unfamiliar place. But Reginald Jeeves was very, very good at adapting to strange and unfamiliar things. That is why the calling of the valet suited him so well: each new master (and there were many) demanded a new set of skills, a new approach to delivering breakfast or speaking of unwelcome news or merely opening the front door. And Jeeves could tell, as if from some inborn instinct, how each gentleman preferred things without being told.

This long string of moves, of being shuffled from one gentleman for the next, stopped with Mr Wooster.

In Mr Wooster's employ, Jeeves found himself on the most solid ground he'd ever been on in his entire life. Mr Wooster had made it quite plain that he'd never be willing to give Jeeves up; he swore to never trade Jeeves to another gentleman like a winning greyhound, or banish him for speaking his mind on matters sartorial, or leave him behind in England when going abroad. Most importantly, Mr Wooster made it quite clear that he never wished to marry. This was the best kind of security a valet could ask for.

So when Jeeves left, he did so of his own volition.

With the sounds of Mr Wooster's bangolele still echoing through the apartment, Jeeves retired to his quarters to pack his things and go, to make good on his threats to quit his post. From the slowing of the twanging strings in the sitting room, Jeeves knew the ramifications were becoming clearer to the young master. The flat became silent after one last plaintive snap from the unfortunate instrument. Jeeves paused, wondering if Mr Wooster was about to sally forth to the servant's quarters to plead his case once more. But no; Mr Wooster could be very stubborn, and Jeeves heard only the sullen shutting of the master bedroom's door.

So that was it. Jeeves sighed. He really would have to leave.

When Jeeves had arrived at Mr Wooster's residence six years hence (was it already that long?), he had only the clothes on his back, the hat on his head, and one small black valise with his usual essentials: an extra suit, two shirts, three pairs each socks and underthings, a suit of pyjamas, three well-loved and worn books (one each poetry, philosophy, and prose), a shaving kit, and a bottle of hair tonic. Those possessions were all Jeeves needed; indeed, all he could need, for the life of a valet was an uncertain one, and Jeeves found that the less he had, the better.

Now, as Jeeves surveyed the room that had been his for the last six years, the longest single span of time he'd ever lived anywhere, he wondered what had happened to his neat little set of worldly goods. He now owned a tweed travelling suit, a pair of brown shoes to match, a newer suit of tails, and an entire bookshelf bursting with improving material. On his washstand his bottle of hair tonic was kept company by various creams and ointments for the skin and nails. His walls were still bare, a situation born of habit, but there were now baubles on his dressing table. Gifts from Mr Wooster and his friends. Thanks for Jeeves' help in their life's troubles.

A small golden swan. A framed sketch of Mount Everest. (Inscribed on the back in Mr Little's looping hand: "Still not as stalwart and true as one Jeeves!") A bit of ribbon tied into a monkey's fist. Last week, there had been a newt in a small glass tank, but Jeeves had found it prudent to gift the creature to an errand boy from the tailor's shop.

Jeeves picked up the swan and wondered why he had bothered keeping these trinkets. He placed the swan back in its little corner. There was no way to fit all these new acquisitions in his one small suitcase. He'd have to pare things down somewhat.

The thought to purchase an additional valise didn't cross Jeeves' mind. In fact, he scolded himself quite harshly while stacking his books neatly in a corner, where he could divide them into suitable piles: to keep (the original three), to give away, and to sell at the second-hand shop.

Jeeves thought to himself: Never again, Reginald. No employer is permanent; you should know that. You allowed yourself to become complacent. Look at all these creature comforts you've surrounded yourself with. No, Reginald. You will start over again, like always.

A small voice said in the back of Jeeves' great brain: Perhaps I shall return someday. Mr Wooster--

Mr Wooster would rather you walk out the door and never return before he puts down his banjolele, the stronger voice said. Cease your wishful thinking.

Jeeves picked through the books, dropping them into their appropriate piles, before his hand closed over a beautifully bound copy of Spinoza's Ethics. He caressed the embossed cover, allowing it to flip open. On the inside title page, there remained a light pencil mark. The price, in dollars: $9.25. An exquisite edition. On the other side of the page, a gaily penned inscription:

Happy birthday, old ~~chap~~ friend.

Perhaps I could abide a small amount of banjolele-playing, Jeeves considered.

No. The book snapped shut. Jeeves' eyes snapped shut. A valet must have his limits. It was time to go.

He placed all his unnecessary accumulations in a neat pile under the window and left a note for whomever Mr Wooster's new valet would be, hopefully a fellow Junior Ganymede member. Please dispose of these as you see fit, it read. I no longer need them.

Jeeves took his hat from its hook and picked up his single valise. He swept his eyes round the room, nodding resolutely. But his gaze fell on the copy of Spinoza, and he sighed. He put down his hat and suitcase and, with the help of his trusty penknife, lifted a loose floorboard near the foot of the bed. In the dark cavern between the floor and the ceiling of the flat below, he placed the copy of Spinoza, careful not to damage its lovely leather cover.

Jeeves replaced the floorboard and shook his head, still on his knees next to the tiny makeshift book-grave. 'It is dangerous to foster these sorts of attachments,' he murmured to himself.

Hat and case well in hand now, Jeeves strode from his quarters, through the flat, and out the front door.

His mantra was: I don't want to leave, but I must.

This is what all travellers say when leaving a place. And Jeeves was nothing more than a lifelong traveller.

fin.

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