“Does it?” I said. “I’d always thought that Wingham—”
“Oh, I’m not worried about him,” said Bingo. “I was just going to tell you. Wingham won’t be out and about for weeks. And it’s not all. You see, he was producing the Village School Christmas Entertainment, and now I’ve taken over the job. I went to old Heppenstall last night and signed the contract. Well, you see what that means. It means that I shall be absolutely the centre of the village life and thought for three weeks. My job will have a powerful effect on Mary’s mind. It will show her that I am capable of serious effort; that there is a solid foundation of worth in me; that, mere butterfly as she may once have thought me, I am in reality—”
“Oh, all right, go on!”
“It’s a big event, you know, this Christmas Entertainment. A big chance for me, Bertie, my boy, and I mean to make the most of it. But the uninspired curate wanted to give the public some boring play out of a book for children published about fifty years ago. It’s too late to alter the play entirely, but at least I can add some jokes. I’m going to write them to make the play funnier.”
“You can’t write.”
“Well, when I say write, I mean borrow. That’s why I’ve come to London. I saw that revue, Cuddle Up! at the Palladium[200], tonight. Full of good jokes. Of course, it’s rather hard to create anything in the Twing Village Hall, with no scenery to speak of and a chorus of practically imbecile kids of ages ranging from nine to fourteen, but I’ll try. Have you seen Cuddle Up?”
“Yes. Twice.”
“Well, there’s some good stuff in the first act, and I can borrow practically all the numbers. I can see the matinée[201] of that tomorrow before I leave. Leave it to me, friend, leave it to me. And now, my dear old chap,” said young Bingo, “leave me alone. I can’t talk to you all night. It’s all right for you fellows who have nothing to do, but I’m a busy man. Good night, old man. Close the door quietly after you and switch out the light. Breakfast, about ten tomorrow, I suppose. Good night.”
For the next three weeks I didn’t see Bingo. But I heard his voice. He was constantly ringing me up and consulting me on various points. I told him then that this nuisance must now cease, and after that he practically passed out of my life, till one afternoon when I got back to the flat to dress for dinner and found Jeeves inspecting a big poster which he had draped over the back of an armchair.
“Good Lord, Jeeves!” I said. I was feeling rather weak that day, and the thing shook me. “What’s that?”
“Mr Little sent it to me, sir, and desired me to bring it to your notice.”
“Well, you’ve certainly done it!”
I took another look at the object. There was no doubt about it, he caught the eye. It was about seven feet long, and most of the lettering in bright red ink:
Twing Village Hall,
Friday, December 23rd,
Richard Little
presents A New and Original Revue
Entitled What Ho, Twing!!
Book by Richard Little
Lyrics by Richard Little
Music by Richard Little
With the Full Twing Juvenile
Company and Chorus.
Scenic Effects by
Richard Little
Produced by
Richard Little
“What do you think of it, Jeeves?” I said.
“I am a little puzzled, sir. I think Mr Little would have done better to follow my advice and confine himself to good works about the village.”
“You think the play will be bad?”
“Sir, my experience has been that what pleases the London public is not always so acceptable to the rural mind. The metropolitan tricks are sometimes too exotic for the provinces.”
“I suppose I ought to go and see the play?”
“I think Mr Little would be wounded were you not present, sir.”
The Village Hall at Twing is a small building, smelling of apples. It was full when I came in. I secured a nice strategic position near the door at the back of the hall.
From there I had a good view of the audience. As always on these occasions, the first few rows were occupied by the important persons. The Squire, a fairly mauve old sportsman with white whiskers, his family, local parsons. Then came what you might call the lower middle classes. And at the back, where I was, village people gathered. The girl, Mary Burgess, was at the piano playing a waltz. Beside her stood the curate, Wingham, apparently recovered. The temperature, I should think, was about a hundred and twenty-seven[202].
Somebody jabbed me in the lower ribs, and I perceived Steggles.
“Hallo!” he said. “I didn’t know you were coming down.”
I didn’t like the chap, but we Woosters can wear the mask.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Bingo wanted me to arrive and see his show.”
“I hear he’s giving us something pretty ambitious,” said Steggles. “Big effects and all that sort of thing.”
“I believe so.”
“Of course, it means a lot to him, doesn’t it? He’s told you about the girl, of course?”
“Yes. And I hear you’re laying seven to one against him,” I said.
He didn’t even quiver.
“Just because of the monotony of country life,” he said. “But you’ve got wrong facts. How about a tenner at a hundred to eight?”
“Good Lord! Are you joking?”
“No.” said Steggles meditatively, “I have a sort of feeling, a kind of premonition that something’s going to go wrong tonight. You know what Little is. A bungler. Something tells me that this show of his is going to be a catastrophe. And if it is, of course, I should think it would prejudice the girl against him pretty badly.”
“Are you going to try and smash up the show[203]?” I said sternly.
“Me!’ said Steggles. “Why, what could I do? Half a minute, I want to go and speak to a man.”
He buzzed off, leaving me disturbed. I could see from the fellow’s eye that he was meditating some of his mean tricks, and I thought Bingo ought to be warned. But there wasn’t time and I couldn’t get at him. Almost immediately after Steggles had left me the curtain went up.
The play was merely one of those dull dramas which you dig out of books published around Christmas time. The kids were acting, the voice of Bingo was ringing out from time to time behind the scenes when the fatheads forgot their lines; and the audience was nearly sleeping, when the first of Bingo’s ideas appeared. It was that song which a girl sings in that revue at the Palace. It is always popular at the Palace, and it went well now, even the village people liked it. But at this point all the lights went out. The hall was in complete darkness.
People started to shout and, of course, young Bingo made an ass of himself. His voice suddenly shot at us out of the darkness.
“Ladies and gentlemen, something has gone wrong with the lights—”
Then, after about five minutes, the lights went up again, and the show was resumed.
It took ten minutes after that to get the audience back into its state of coma, when a small boy with a face like a turbot started to sing that song out of Cuddle Up! You know the one I mean. “Always Listen to Mother, Girls!” it’s called, and the singer gets the audience to join in and sing the refrain. Quite a nice ballad, and one which I myself have frequently sung in my bathroom; but not for the children’s Christmas entertainment in the old village hall. Right from the start of the first refrain the important audience had begun to stiffen in their seats and fan themselves, and the Burgess girl at the piano was accompanying in a mechanical sort of way, while the curate at her side averted his gaze in a pained manner. The village people, however, were very glad.