Jooster multi-chapter series: The Long Road, Chapter 9

[triedunture]

Title: The Long Road, Chapter 9
[Previous parts: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight]
Rating: PG13? I feel very silly giving this a rating. Just make up your own minds!
Beta: the ever-so British hwshipper
Length: 3600
Warnings: Angst, violence, general dark themes.
Summary: A very bad thing happens. And then we must go on.

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Days passed, as they are wont to do. Jeeves healed, as people are sometimes able. Mrs Fennaweave still kept the man confined to bed for the most part, and when he did manage to negotiate with her for a turn round the bedroom, it was with the supporting arm of either his father or Bertie at his side. And nothing, but nothing, would convince Mrs Fennaweave that Jeeves could be allowed to perform even the lightest of chores, much to Jeeves' disappointment.

This presented a problem as Bertie, Mr Jeeves, and Mrs Fennaweave were not the most accomplished of chefs. Bertie had never cooked a meal in his life; Mr Jeeves had overseen a kitchen full of servants for years but had never been required to roll up his sleeves and pitch in with the roasting and boiling; and Mrs Fennaweave had volunteered to craft exactly one meal for the household on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

It was agreed quite democratically afterward that Mrs Fennaweave should be excused from any further cooking duties. Not that they weren't incredibly thankful for the mushroom mousse that she had made, they were quick to point out, but there was no need to tax the dear woman unnecessarily, was there?

Every two or three days, Catherine would make the effort of taking the bus to Berkeley Square with a heavily laden serving dish wrapped in butcher paper. While her fare wasn't nearly as toothsome as her brother's cooking, they were simple and solid meals that could feed all four inhabitants nicely. Bertie never stopped thanking Catherine for those casseroles and cold meat pies which kept them nourished in those long days.

However, on one of the days that Catherine couldn't tear herself away from her husband and children, Bertie found himself asking Jeeves what the devil was to be done about breakfast.

'Jeeves,' he said. 'Breakfast. What the devil is to be done about it?'

'I would be content with a few slices of toast, sir,' Jeeves said with placid grace from his sickbed, where he was perusing a copy of Spinoza.

Bertie sighed and collapsed in the bedside armchair. He and Jeeves Senior had been taking shifts at Jeeves' side, Bertie all through the night and the elder man all through the day. However, this morning Bertie had watched the sun climb past the windowsill and didn't feel the need to shake the old butler awake. Jeeves, upon opening his eyes, had agreed. 'Let my father get a few minutes' more sleep,' he said. 'It would do him some measure of good, if you are not too tired, sir.'

'No, not tired at all, Jeeves,' Bertie had said. In truth, in the past few days Bertie hadn't slept more than twenty or thirty minutes at a time before being jolted awake by night terrors. He was loathe to go to bed at the moment or indeed any moment. He got up and paced a bit, a tactic he had developed to keep himself alert during the long evenings of watching Jeeves slumber peacefully. It was during this pacing when it occurred to him that something needed to be done about breakfast, and surely every other meal.

'We've eaten toast and jam for three straight days,' Bertie said with a frustrated frown. 'You'll turn into a crumb if I feed you any more of it.'

'Well, sir,' Jeeves licked his thumb and turned a tissue-paper page, 'if you would like, I can instruct you in the making of a rudimentary omelette. I'm sure, with the proper guidelines, you can turn something quite edible out of the pan.'

Bertie raised a doubtful eyebrow. 'Yes,' he said, 'if something edible were to jump into the bally pan before I reached it.'

The bedroom door swung open and Jeeves' father stepped in, straightening his shirt cuffs. 'Good morning Reggie, Mr Wooster,' he said with a broad grin towards the former and a polite nod to the latter. 'Excuse my tardiness; I believe my usual alarm is no longer working.' He levelled an eye at Bertie in a half-fond, half-chastising fashion.

Bertie pointed to himself. 'Don't count on this Wooster as your alarm, Mr Jeeves. The time slips from me like thingummies in an hourglass.'

Jeeves gave a polite clearing of his throat. (His usual cough was still not back in full force due to the mending rib.) 'Mr Wooster has expressed a desire to concoct a meal, Father. Perhaps the two of you together could persevere in this task.'

'Two heads are better than one, you mean?' Mr Jeeves gave a gruff laugh. 'Well, I'm up for the challenge if Mr Wooster is. I'm getting rather tired of toast, you know.'

Jeeves made as if to rise from the bed, his hand still pressing instinctively to his injured flank, now covered with a modest pyjama shirt. 'If I would be allowed to sit in the kitchen and oversee your progress, then—'

'No, Jeeves!'

'No, Reg!'

Bertie and Jeeves Senior had shouted and started forward at the same moment, their hands outstretched. At their dual yells, the two looked at each other sheepishly and gave a nervous double-laugh. Jeeves merely looked heavenwards as if for divine guidance and relaxed against his pillows once more.

'I cannot be confined to bed forever,' he said, addressing them both. 'The pain is not at all bothersome today and I am beginning to feel restless. If Mrs Fennaweave does not object—'

'Mrs Fennaweave just left to go to the market,' Mr Jeeves broke in. 'We were, ah, running out of bread.'

'I see.' Jeeves' eyes sparkled with some of his old spirit; Bertie could imagine that same look on the valet's face while listening to a tale of the young master taking a dunk in the soup. 'Then the good nurse will not know, will she?'

'Well, Jeeves,' Bertie said with a discreet fidget, 'there is the problem of you actually sitting in the kitchen. Nowhere to sit, I'm afraid.'

'But sir,' Jeeves furrowed his brow, 'what of the kitchen table and chairs?'

'Erm...' Bertie glanced at the Jeevesian pater for assistance in the delicate matter. He had told Mr Jeeves about disposing the soiled articles, after being asked why there was no table in the kitchen at which to work.

Mr Jeeves took the hint and forged ahead admirably. 'I had them taken away. The things were really very shabby, you know. Mr Wooster will purchase a new set.'

'Yes, quite,' Bertie concurred.

'I was in the habit, before my convalescence, of buffing out every scratch that came across the surface of that table. I do not recall either it or the chairs being in poor condition,' Jeeves said slowly.

'Well, they're gone at any rate,' Bertie said quickly. 'Here, why don't you just lie back, Jeeves, and...' he scurried over to his writing desk to retrieve a pencil and a page of blank paper, '...write down some step-by-steps for us, what?'

Someone uneducated in Jeeves-speak might have considered Jeeves' answering look a bland glance at his father and Bertie, but the trained eye of Bertram Wooster could detect the look of a long-suffering valet. Nevertheless, Jeeves wrote out his instructions in an elegant hand, taking care to verbally explain a tricky point or two.

'Take care to butter the entire pan so the egg does not stick,' he said more than once. Bertie kept nodding his head and repeating, 'Butter, yes, right.'

Somehow, the butter was forgotten in the first attempt. After Jeeves Senior turned the slightly charred specimen from the frying pan, both he and Bertie eyed the smoking foodstuffs with guilty frowns.

'That'll be mine,' they both said at the same moment, and then they shared a laugh at their own carelessness. Into the rubbish bin went the first omelette, and the two men tried again. It took some squeezing for them to work only on the cramped counter space, but they managed. Bertie cracked the eggs, as his nimble fingers seemed well-suited to it. Only a few bits of runaway eggshell needed to be fished from the egg bowl. Jeeves' father diced more smoked ham and shredded another measure of cheese, and the race was on once more. Stirring, beating, pouring, and actual cooking commenced in the now-buttered pan.

'By Jove, I think we've got it,' Bertie mumbled to himself, carefully sliding the fluffy, firm omelette from the pan to plate. 'Why, that looks nearly edible!'

'Good show, Mr Wooster,' Jeeves Senior said, giving him a paternal pat on the back.

'Well, I'd be making a terrible mess of things, I'm sure, if you weren't here to keep an eye on me, Mr Jeeves.'

'Please, Mr Wooster. It must be terribly confusing to be calling both my son and I by the same name. You can, if you prefer, call me Clarence.' The older man clapped Bertie's shoulder with his huge hand. 'You're practically family now, you know.'

'Oh!' Bertie flushed with a strange combination of embarrassment and absolute pleasure. To think a family as stalwart and true as the Jeeveses would welcome him into the fold, and to know how keenly he wished it to be real, made the colour rise in his thin cheeks. 'I—I don't think Jeeves, that is, Jeeves the Younger, would approve of me using your given name, Mr Jeeves. He's a stickler for the feudal spirit, and if I started bunging "Clarences" into the conversation, I would expect you to start using the matching "Berties." And I'm afraid that would be too much for Jeeves, the poor fellow.'

Mr Jeeves laughed, the first real one Bertie had heard from him. It was deep and hearty, exhibited with a great deal of head-thrown-backedness. 'I suppose you are correct, Mr Wooster,' he said when the roar of laughter had died down. 'We shall keep to the appellations for Reggie's sake. Now, I believe we have several more of these things to produce, hm?'

Two more omelettes were summarily flipped from the pan, and Mr Jeeves readied the breakfast tray to deliver the meal to his son. He arranged the smoothly polished cutlery with the grace of someone long accustomed to the task, and he folded the serviette, much like Jeeves did, in a regal triangle beside the plate. With the last few slices of toast to be had in the house and a steaming cup of tea, it looked almost like a real breakfast.

'What do you think?' Jeeves Senior asked, and Bertie tapped a thoughtful fingers to his lips, looking it over critically.

'It's missing something,' he said. 'It doesn't look quite like the trays Jeeves always brings me in the ack emma.'

It was the elder who snapped his fingers in swift realisation. 'Do you have a bud vase handy, Mr Wooster? We shall need a fresh flower to complete the picture, don't you think?'

'Ah, topping!' Bertie turned to the crystal cabinet and fetched the small vase that had accompanied all of his breakfasts in bed. But he slowed as he placed the empty vessel on the tray. 'Just need a specimen of the floral variety, I suppose...'

'Where does Reggie usually procure your buttonholes?' Mr Jeeves asked.

'There's a woman who sits on the pavement in the square until eleven every day; he always gets the daily sprig from her flowerbasket.'

'Oh good; you can pop downstairs and get one.'

Bertie stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. He hadn't stepped outside the doorway since the morning Jeeves had been shot, and the idea of going out into the hallway filled him with dread, let alone down to the street! His aunts and friends had called and sent letters asking him where he had been; why he'd missed their appointed lunch; when they could stop by for cocktails; whether Bertie would like to take in a show. Those who hadn't heard the news of Jeeves' injury were told in brusque tones. Those who had and still insisted on Bertie's company were ignored. Leaving the apartment, in Bertie's mind, was quite out of the question.

'Perhaps you could...?' Bertie was unable to get the words out, his throat suddenly tight and closing in on itself.

'I've one more omelette to cook for Mrs Fennaweave's return.' Mr Jeeves had already turned his attention to the egg sizzling in the pan. 'I think I can handle it on my own; don't worry about me for an instant!' And he gave Bertie a slight wave of his hand to indicate he was free to leave.

Bertie considered telling the man all, confessing the fear that gripped him when he imagined stepping out of the house. But to do so would prove him unworthy of the Jeeveses and their trust. He was not a mouse; he was a Wooster, and he would march downstairs and get a bally flower from the flower-seller if it was the last thing he did.

He toddled into the sitting room on unsteady stilts and opened a drawer with all sorts of odds and ends. Between the spare pencil erasers and a half-dried bottle of ink, Bertie found a few shillings which he pocketed. Then he lifted his suit coat from where it had been folded over the edge of the chesterfield. (Jeeves would have never forgiven the wrinkles, but he did not have to see them.) He shrugged this on and popped on his hat, facing the front door with cold resolve.

'Right.' He straightened his tie. 'Stiff upper lip.'

Bertie unlocked the door's bolt and chain and turned the doorknob carefully. The thing swung open to reveal a large man dressed all in black. Bertie felt his heart nearly fail before he remembered it was just Officer Swanson, the daytime sentry.

'Hullo, Mr Wooster,' the young policeman said, turning and tipping his helmet politely. 'Stepping out, then?'

Bertie was still getting accustomed to Swanson and the nighttime fellow, Jenkins, standing outside the door. The inspector had sent them after Bertie's nervous telephone call about the matter, and the two guards were approved by whomever approved such things. They sentries had only knocked on the door a few times to report nothing of note and to ask leave to use the salle de bain. But Bertie was grateful for their protective presence.

'Yes.' Bertie licked at his dry lips. 'Very briefly. Just need to run downstairs, you know. I'll be back in the blink of an eye.'

'Ah.' The officer waited for a moment before adding, 'All right.'

Bertie nodded; so far this whole venture was going rather well, in his opinion.

The policeman coughed significantly. 'I suppose you're off, sir?'

'Yes! Yes, of course.' Bertie looked down at the threshold, weighing the thing in his mind. Not that a threshold weighs much, he reasoned; it was only an imaginary line between home and hall. 'Will you be needing a chair, Officer Swanson?' he asked suddenly, his eyes whipping back up.

'Not at the moment, sir, thank you.'

'A glass of ice water, perhaps?'

'Maybe later in the day, but I'm fine at the moment. Thank you, sir.'

'Perhaps a hand or two of cards to pass the time?'

'I really couldn't, sir.'

'Right.'

Another deep breath, and Bertie stepped quickly into the hall. Deciding that speed was the better part of valour, he flew past the officer with a parting goodbye and rushed down the stairs at a breakneck pace. He barely had time to 'what-ho!' Jarvis before bounding out into the sunlit square.

After so many days cooped up indoors, it took Bertie's eyes a moment to adjust to the brightness. The sunlight surprised him; the few times he had bothered to look out the window recently had revealed a stormy sky. The weather this day was just as perfect as that fateful day when he'd last ventured outside.

Bertie steeled himself and made his way down the front steps of his building. The streets were busy, as they normally were on a fine day. Taxicabs and two-seaters rambled down the street; the milk-cart's horse clomped steadily onward; gentlemen and ladies bustled up and down the pavement, causing Bertie no small amount of concern. The feel of a stranger's arm brushing against him pulled his heart into his throat.

It was a blessedly short walk to the flower woman on the corner. Bertie tipped his hat to her and gave a brave upturn of his lips.

'Why, if it isn't the gentleman of my favourite customer!' the flower woman exclaimed. 'Is it true? The doorman told me Mr Jeeves had been hurt by a robber. I told my acquaintance at the Covent Garden market, and she says Mr Jeeves hadn't been by to see her either. And the shopkeeper out on Tottenham, he says Mr Jeeves hasn't been round at all. So is it true? I've been telling everyone who asks, and I just want to make sure I haven't gotten the story all wrong.'

'Erm, yes,' Bertie said. 'Getting well, of course, but there it is.' It seemed everyone in London knew Jeeves. That explained the profusion of well-wishing telegrams and hand-delivered notes that Jarvis was constantly bringing up to the flat. The number of gifts from those everyday acquaintances rivaled the number from family members, including Jeeves' eldest sister, his Uncle Charlie, and his cousin Egbert. Bertie's tailor had even sent a seedcake with a tear-stained card attached. Truly a kindred spirit of Jeeves' conservative and expensive tastes, Bertie imagined.

The flower-seller gave a loud sigh of relief. 'That is good to hear. I hope he's on his feet soon. Otherwise, who will I sell all these lovely buttonholes to?' She indicated her baskets of carnations and such with a wave.

'Well, I can take at least one off your hands,' Bertie said with a glimmer of his easy smile. He took the coins from his pocket and counted them out. 'Erm, what does Jeeves normally purchase? I confess I've never noticed what he places on the breakfast tray or attaches to my lapel. Something plant-like and spiffing is all I recall.'

The flower lady plucked a long stem from one of the baskets. 'Mr Jeeves never buys anything but red roses.' She smiled much too girlishly for her years. 'A true gentleman.'

'Ah, yes! Now I recognise the fellow.' Bertie took the flower she offered and handed over his coins. 'Is that sufficient? I don't know the going rate for roses, I'm afraid.'

'It's more than enough, sir!' She tried to return a few coins. But Bertie refused, saying he owed her for her recent loss of business. After a small good-natured squabble, the woman relented. 'Do tell Mr Jeeves I wish him a speedy recovery, sir.' The flower woman gave Bertie a grateful smile. 'Oh! And would you like me to trim that stem off for you? So you can wear it in your buttonhole?'

'It's not for me, thank you.' Bertie tipped his hat once more. 'Toodle-pip.'

It was but the work of a moment to race back upstairs to the flat, giving both the doorman and police officer cursory greetings once more. Within seconds, Bertie found himself placing the long-stemmed rose in the bud vase on the breakfast tray with a sigh. He had done it.

'That's lovely, Mr Wooster,' Mr Jeeves remarked as he flipped the final omelette from the pan and placed it in the oven to keep warm. 'Why don't you take it in to Reggie?'

'Do you think we could eat in the bedroom as well?' Bertie asked. 'If you don't mind balancing your plate on your knees, that is.'

'Plenty of space on my knees, sir,' the giant said, and they rolled out with the foodstuffs like small children eager to show a parent their hard-earned marks at the end of term.

'Extremely satisfactory,' Jeeves declared upon tasting his first bite. 'Thank you very much, Father, Mr Wooster.' Bertie and Jeeves' father exchanged relieved glances.

Bertie was digging into his own fluffy and savoury omelette when he saw Jeeves fingering the red rosebud that stood cheerfully in its vase on his tray. A look of total wonder was gleaming in Jeeves' dark eyes, and he looked over to Bertie in awe.

'Did you purchase this from Mrs Montgomery, the woman on the corner?' he asked.

Bertie coloured slightly. 'Yes. Just biffed down to complete the morning repast ensemble. She wishes you well.' He fiddled with his fork. 'She distinctly said that you preferred the red roses. Did I make a blunder, Jeeves?'

'No, sir. It's only...' Jeeves traced an outer petal with his fingertip. He glanced over at his father, and Bertie followed his line of sight: the elder Jeeves was taking a deep drink of his coffee and not paying them much mind. 'You went out into the square, sir,' Jeeves said softly.

Bertie nodded. 'I did.'

Jeeves had never looked so proud. His eyes shone and every molecule of his being said as plainly as aloud, 'You have done well, Wooster.'

'Very good, sir,' he said significantly.

Bertie popped another bite of omelette into his mouth, grinning wider than he had in days.


Continue to Chapter 10.