Peculiarities of the Perceivable Sort
I am not typically the sort of man given to enjoy train rides, but I found this one more bearable than usual.
There was no need to bring the car—there’s no-one here to impress, after all. A fellow of my acquaintance at the Drones last Thursday overheard my wistful musings of a stay in Falmouth, and sallied up quite gracefully to inform me that he keeps a little cottage down there, and would I like to stay?
Pleasantly surprised by the whole thing, I shook his hand and agreed almost immediately—Gosh, what a generous offer, and are you sure it’s no trouble?
I informed Jeeves of the whole thing when I arrived home later that evening, thoroughly fed and watered and ready for a spot of tea before bed. He fixed me with that usual minute raise of the eyebrows and divested me of my coat, all the while saying, “Indeed, sir; I shall make the necessary arrangements.” A good man, my Jeeves—one of the best, certainly.
The kind chap who offered up the house—Steffan—is one of those elven, artsy types who much prefers the dreary weather of the highlands to the cheery coast. I don’t think he comes within a ten-mile radius of Falmouth until the old mercury is down in the single digits. As such, Jeeves and I are welcome to stay as long as we like.
We planned on two weeks, and packed accordingly—a case of clothing and low-grade paperbacks for me; a case of clothing and brick-like tomes of philosophy (and, presumably, the tools of his valeting trade) for him. I had upon my lap an additional satchel for writing materials, as well as the book I was reading.
It’s not an impossible load to bring by car, but it was much easier to take a train, and the views were spectacular—endless rolling pastures dotted with cattle and sheep and the occasional farmstead, homey little buildings of brick and tin. The sun was, for once, obliging to shine over merry England with just enough strength to be warm but not so much as to glare.
Jeeves and I had, for the past hour and a half—judging by his pocket-watch—been sitting quietly and reading as the steam engine clunks along the tracks to the coast. I was thoroughly antsy by this point.
Thus, it was at this point in our voyage that I turned my attention away from my reading and—attempting to be surreptitious, but surely failing—to Jeeves.
It may prove illuminating at this point to explain that, though I may in other respects be a blemish on the family name, I am a perceptive man. I am wont to notice things, even if I do not know what conclusions to draw from them.
It is with this information in mind that one might understand my following train of thought.
If you know Jeeves—and you almost certainly do, as he seems to know just about everyone—then you’ll know that the man is as unflappable as they come. That Atlas fellow could have handed over the Earth for Jeeves to take upon his broad shoulders, and neither his expression or his hair would shift an inch. That man is as steely in the face of stress as I am flighty.
It will, therefore, come as some surprise to you that my man was sitting with his leg at an odd angle and, every time he moved it—about every ten minutes—would take in a tiny bit of air, as though he was startled each time by the sensation.
If one were to enter a library of all the books that could ever exist, and move to the section marked nonfiction, somewhere along the Natural World aisle would sit a book entitled Understanding the Jeeves: Nature’s Rarest Valet. This book would, in a similar fashion to those detailing the appearance and behaviours of birds, explain to the avid reader the typical state of a Jeeves.
Absolutely nowhere in this book would be the word ‘grimace’, at least not in isolation from the phrase ‘unwashed hands’. Jeeves simply does not grimace, or grunt, or make any sort of noise beyond the ever-charming “Yes, sir?” and “No, sir,” and “Indeed, sir, that navy blue waistcoat goes perfectly with those sky blue trousers.” It just does not happen.
I have only ever seen Jeeves injured once, in the direct aftermath of a paper-cut, and he did not do so much as gasp when his thumb welled up with tiny beads of blood. He merely raised his eyebrows and excused himself, and returned with no sign of the injury on his mien or person, save for a tiny sliver of disturbed epidermis.
I have sustained many a paper-related injury in my time—though the culprits are usually significantly less improving than Paradise Lost, which I believe is the tome to blame for Jeeves’s injury—and have come out of each instance only a hair away from howling with the shock. And people say that reading isn’t an act of bravery. Why, for at least a week following a paper-related injury, I must summon the bravery of a battalion to turn a page!
Ever so slightly, I digress.
If Jeeves’s calm in the face of a paper-cut does not serve to illustrate the sheer magnitude of the man’s self-control, I’m not sure what will. I have not seen him more grievously injured than that. (I must clarify here that I am exquisitely grateful for this specific gap in my knowledge.)
It is thus with some concern that I considered the image before me, of a Jeeves discomfited or perhaps even pained by a simple movement of his leg. Not all unfamiliar things are to be immediately dismissed, but it took me only the barest acquaintance with this set of circumstances to conclude that I quite disliked them.
The thing about Jeeves, though (in the spirit of honesty, there are many Things about Jeeves, so this is less of The thing and more A thing, but the latter sounds decidedly less robust as the start of a sentence) is that even if he was immensely pained by the paper-cut that I witnessed him receiving, he would most definitely not voice that. He has the sort of work ethic that most men could only dream of, and applies himself to professionalism with such gusto that one might start to think he’s partaken in some sort of long-running bet as to who can maintain propriety for longest.
It is thus with an understandable level of concern that I kept an eye on my man for the remainder of the trip. The staff brought around morning tea at half ten—tea and biscuits and a lovely little apple tart—and still Jeeves was shifting his leg and gasping so quietly that I would never have noticed it over the sound of the train had I not been paying such attention.
We arrived in Falmouth at precisely fifteen minutes past eleven. It was just as beautiful a day there as it was back home in London, but this time the sky was thrumming with wheeling waterbirds and the Channel was sparkling on the horizon, visible even from the train station.
“Ah,” said I, immediately satisfied by the weather. I paused for a moment to take it in, then began walking. “What a lovely day.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Jeeves, by my side, unruffled—still with the felt hat, even in this lovely weather.
I noted this last grievance aloud, and he inclined his head solemnly.
“One must endeavour for a professional appearance, sir,” he said, “lest one’s state of employment be misunderstood.”
I goggled at him for a moment, as I tend to do, then attempted to translate. “Lest you be mistaken for my equal, you mean?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jeeves as we exited the station. He has a way of speaking, my Jeeves, that makes even the simplest of phrases an utter delight from his mouth. I could fall asleep to that smooth ‘Yes, sir’, I really could.
I drew myself up to my fullest height (which is not much, compared to Jeeves, as that man is built like the finest of horses, the kind that one could very safely win a lot of money on—not, of course, that I make a habit of betting on horses, definitely not) and announced, “We’re on holiday.”
“Sir?” said Jeeves, with an alarmed raise of the eyebrows. Even when affecting surprise he is the picture of masculine beauty—the sort of chappie that one of those old sculptor fellows might bring to life from marble.
Distracted by this train of thought as we crossed a road, I spared a moment of candid speech to ask, “Who’s the fellow who did those terrific marble sculptures?”
Accustomed to my nonsensical turns of conversation, Jeeves supplied, “Michelangelo?”
I snapped a triumphant finger. “That’s the one.” I tend to explain these unprompted questions to him, but I wasn’t certain how to divulge the quick leaps of logic that had brought me from looking at my valet’s face to thinking of classical sculptures of angels and the like, so I chose not to. Jeeves, the excellent man he is, did not question this.
“What was I talking about?” I said after a moment, utterly lost. We turned a corner down a street.
“We’re on holiday, sir,” Jeeves said. Oh, but I would lose my head without the man. If you’ve never had the pleasure of having someone even half as good as Jeeves in your life, I invite you to imagine it—it’s something like having a second brain that’s ten times as good as your own. He remembers even the tiniest scraps of information and can call them forth at a moment’s notice; he anticipates my every need before I need even ask for it; he essentially keeps my life running. What a man.
“Right!” I pointed at him. “We’re on holiday.”
“You are on holiday, sir,” said Jeeves, with such a gentle emphasis on the first word that it scarcely warrants the italics with which I have embellished it. The undercurrent of the sentence was clear: I was on holiday, perhaps, but regardless of location or occasion, Jeeves was On The Job.
“That simply won’t do,” I said, shaking my head. “Come on, Jeeves, this should be a chance for the both of us to relax. Put our feet up.”
One of those perfectly shaped eyebrows crept one sixteenth of an inch up that most excellent forehead. “You wish me to act as though I am off-duty?” he asked, pronouncing the last two words (or one word? Someday I’ll have him explain to me just how hyphenation works) with such a particular brand of Jeevesian derision. Only he could make the prospect of time off work sound appalling.
I thought of the few occasions upon which I have attempted to do my own laundry, and frowned slightly. “Perhaps not,” I acquiesced, as we made our way down a quaint little street. “But you’ll lose the hat, at least.”
That most excellent forehead had only just smoothed out at my surrender, but it hastily formed another furrow. “Sir,” said Jeeves, packing shock and horror and reproach into the word with the practised hand of a man who is presently working on an upper limit of three emotions per syllable.
“Jeeves,” I returned, going for challenging and teasing and a dash of fond and only really managing to land that last one.
Quite conveniently, it was then that we arrived at our destination—a lovely cottage, as promised, with a pretty little garden out the front and a divine stained-glass window in the door.
“Oh, this is magnificent!” I exclaimed to Jeeves, thoroughly diverted from my line of questioning. He murmured his agreement, extending a hand to take my suitcase up the (somewhat steep) front garden and deposit it upon the steps before producing a key from somewhere on his person and letting us in.
As I entered the cottage, I thought: He seemed so discomfited on the train, yet not once has he flinched or gasped on the way here. He is not the sort of man who fishes for attention, my Jeeves, so the only suitable conclusion to be drawn from this was that either his leg had miraculously recovered, or walking didn’t aggravate whatever manner of injury he had sustained. I was, as I had just impressed so thoroughly on my companion, on holiday, but a man can’t simply lay about on holiday—he still needs something with which to occupy his mind. It was then that I made it my holiday’s aim to determine just what was going on with Jeeves.
Settling in at the Cottage
There was still a good deal of time left in the day after we deposited our bags in the cottage, so I suggested we grab a bite to eat, and the necessary perishable foodstuffs for a week or two of cooking. Jeeves had already had a look around the kitchen, no doubt casing the joint, and it was a cause of little surprise that he agreed to the expedition. I’m sure he already had a week’s worth of shopping laid out in his head, along with rudimentary tottings-up of the prices.
Thus, I found myself five minutes later walking unencumbered along the streets of Falmouth with my dear friend and companion at my side. It’s a lovely little town, as I’m sure you know, in Cornwall—right on the Channel, with the most delightful weather especially in summer. And it was summer, at this point, so the weather was cheerful, and so was I.
“I say, Jeeves,” I I-say-Jeevesed, “we ought to visit more often. Even the brightest day in London is downright dreary in comparison to this stunning clime.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Jeeves from my side, with that slight tilt of the neck he gets whenever he’s talking to someone shorter than him (which is most of the time). It was an endearing sight, and he an endearing man, and I very nearly looped my arm through his, all the better to traipse about the town.
I restrained myself, of course, as that would be thoroughly indecorous, but the urge was still there.
Strangely, I find that I often get such urges around Jeeves—something about the man just provokes the limpet in me, perhaps, as I am often struck by nagging compulsions to arrest his motion with an embrace, or pat his shoulder companionably, or suchlike. Odd—and rather bothersome—that it should be Jeeves for whom I experience these urges, as he is one of very few fellows in my life upon whom I would be ill-advised to lay my hands. There’s the matter of propriety, you see—a chap can’t just go around petting his valet; it simply isn’t On. Jeeves already does so much for me; I shan’t force the man to put up with unnecessary contact.
It is this resolution that prevented me from taking my man’s arm, but with no small measure of dissatisfaction. I did my best not to let this show, though, as Jeeves would undoubtedly be able to deduce the source of the emotion almost immediately. It can be a blasted headache trying to keep a secret from Jeeves. I suppose I should be glad that I don’t usually have to.
We strolled down a lovely little tree-lined road, then, decidedly without touching. I kept a close eye on Jeeves—I had not yet ascertained the cause of his mysterious grimaces and sighs on the train.
He completed most of the walk without issue, entertaining conversation for a good ten minutes of travel, and I was just starting to wonder if I had been imagining his expressions on the train when we came to a set of steps. He slowed as we approached, more than one does to allow a fellow pedestrian to go before them—he slowed at the rate of one dreading one’s next few steps. I made quick work of the steps—I am, on occasion, surprisingly (even to myself) nimble—and turned around just in time to see my poor man wince as he ascended the first step.
Aha! I thought, triumphantly, and then, Oh, poor Jeeves, I thought, holding back a frown on seeing his obvious discomfort. I would offer him my arm, but he would most definitely look at me askance, and put much more effort into masking his pain, and that would put me even further back than square one. Square zero, perhaps.
I disguised my turning around as a ploy to continue the conversation without pause, a disguise he readily accepted by way of an expertly-timed, “Indeed, sir.”
We arrived shortly thereafter at a sort of bistro, where Jeeves ordered me a light meal and disappeared around the corner to complete a quick shop. I sat down at a table just outside the establishment to eat, and watch the passers-by, and wait for Jeeves.
As I waited, I put the old Woosterian grey matter to use, wondering what could be up with Jeeves. I’d never noticed this strange affliction before, and that couldn’t simply be chalked up to my being dense—I paid close attention to all matters concerning Jeeves, especially his person. Besides, I live with the man, for crying out loud. I would have noticed this before!
The only conclusion, therefore, is that these circumstances are newly-emerged. Jeeves must have injured himself.
It was with this dread knowledge that I cast my mind back in time, dredging up the events of the past week or so, searching for some possible cause of such an injury. It appeared to be a malady of the leg—the hip, perhaps, given that he seemed to be fine when upright, but sitting down or lifting up his leg enough to ascend stairs causes that awful wince.
We had not done much of note for the past few weeks—a trip to my tailor to pick out fabrics for a new suit; an amble around Hyde Park along the Serpentine; a weekend with Freddie at his house in Sutton. Even the last event, as rural as it was, had been remarkably gentle on the legs—some of Freddie’s chums had issues with uneven ground, so he’d arranged specially to have his land managed in such a way as to avoid any of that.
Though, I realised, dusting off the last morsels of my meal and dabbing at my mouth with a handkerchief, I would have noticed anything happening to Jeeves while he was with me. The logical conclusion, then—don’t let it be said that I am incapable of reaching such things—was that Jeeves had been injured while we were not together. Perhaps even on one of his Thursday evenings off….
It was with a newfound sense of single-mindedness that I ran through all the things that Jeeves could possibly have done last Thursday evening. He had left the house at five in the evening, and returned at half past nine to see me to bed. There is very little a man can do in four and a half hours—he could have gone to the park, I suppose, or to the gentlemen’s club that I have heard him mention a few times. Or perhaps, I thought, with a sinking feeling, he had been attacked. It is often said that the streets of London are unsafe after dark, and we live in London, and it had been most definitely dark by the time he got back.
There were all sorts in London, all the wrong and dangerous sorts, and anything could have happened to Jeeves, anything at all.
This dreadful notion had just settled in my mind like an anvil into a pond when Jeeves returned, bearing two bags of shopping.
“What ho, Jeeves,” said I, glad to see him. He did that indulgent nod of his.
“Hello, sir. I trust your meal was enjoyable?”
Despite the aforementioned anvil in the duck pond of my soul, I smiled at this. “Yes, it was—as in most things, I find it best to defer to your judgement.”
His expression softened a bit, and damn anyone who claims that Jeeves doesn’t show emotions; he does nothing of the sort. The man is bally well expressive, if you’re doing him the courtesy of paying attention. “Thank you, sir,” he said, then, smooth as the glide of a waterbird, and my soul rested a little easier. “Shall we return to the cottage?”
I agreed, and stood, and we made our way back.
As we did, I kept a careful eye on Jeeves once more. He accepted my offer to carry a bag of shopping, oddly enough, which led me to believe that perhaps he was struggling even more than he let on. Normally, his feudal spirit would get in the way of such an arrangement before I could even finish voicing my offer.
We came to the steps again, this time from the opposite direction, and I paid close attention as Jeeves stepped down. Just as before, he winced slightly as he moved, and just as before, I had to restrain myself from asking after the expression. Jeeves in pain would simply not do, but I had to be clever about this predicament.
The cottage was just as pleasant when we returned, this time late enough in the day that the sun was properly golden, and the stained glass windows were casting colourful shadows on the floor inside. I entered before Jeeves, set down the bag I was carrying, and waited for him to pass before I closed the door. He made as if to pick up the abandoned bag, but I said, “No, I’ll get it,” and he aborted the movement with a silent nod. I watched him retreat into the kitchen, and felt rather miserable about the whole thing.
I suppose I should have been surprised by how much I cared about the situation, but by this point I was well aware that I was fonder than the average fellow of his valet. We were not just master and servant—we were friends, or so I hoped. It’s nigh impossible to make Jeeves speak plainly, and as such I had not heard the sentiment echoed by the man, but I was fairly sure it was true.
It was because of this unorthodox friendship that I found myself quite moved by the circumstances, watching my man set about stowing his purchases in the pantry and icebox. There was a certain absence of vigour in his movements, a gingerness that didn’t suit him. All at once, I wanted very much for him to feel well again.
Diverting Antediluvian Animals
Sunrise greeted us sluggishly on the top of a cliff. I do not usually wake before dawn, especially not in the summer, when that can be at an absolutely unconscionable hour, but Jeeves does, and he mentioned the previous night that he was going to climb this cliff to watch the boats come in, and I thought, Well, that sounds interesting, but I also thought, But his leg! What if he hurts himself? so there I was, standing in the dewy grass, panting slightly from the trek—both from Steffan’s cottage, and up the cliff. There was no proper path up to where we were standing (which was, for the curious, just above Maenporth beach), so we’d just spent a few regrettable minutes wading through the wild grass. At least the snakes in this country are nothing to worry about.
I’m afraid I don’t know what time it was, as I had resolved in the walk not to check my watch; the most precise measure I can provide is that we made it to the cliff just in time to see the sun start to rise properly, and to see the tiny shapes of all manner of seafaring vessels start to appear on the horizon.
I regained my breath, but couldn’t think of anything to say. There has always been something timeless about the coast, to me—if one doesn’t look too closely, the silhouettes peeking out over the distant plane of the water could be old Viking longboats, ready to pillage, or little fleets of fishermen setting out to catch breakfast, or one of those staggeringly huge cruise liners they’re trying out in America. For a moment, the enormity of human existence weighed upon me, and I wondered how many people had crested that horizon, and if any of them were remembered.
It was an awe-inspiring thought, but a melancholy one, too, and I suppose these warring reactions must have been visible in my expression, as Jeeves spoke for the first time in half an hour:
“You know of Charles Darwin, sir?”
This startled me well out of my reverie. I thought on the matter. “I think so—the chappie with the turtles, what?”
“Tortoises, sir,” said Jeeves. I turned to look at him, then, and found he was already looking at me with that steady gaze of his. “His ship, the Beagle, anchored in Falmouth after her second voyage, in 1836.”
Jeeves has, over the years, managed to remain novel. It feels as though every few months he’ll reveal another skill, or habit, or diplomatic connection. Despite the frequency of their revelation inviting me to become accustomed to such unknowns, I remain most oddly on my toes.
I still, for example, have not come to expect his disposition to retain and share scraps of relevant information for just about every situation.
He must know this, I figure, because he knows me, and he could probably tell that asking me what I was dwelling on would only make me dig further into the gloom. Much better to distract me with a shiny little tidbit, and the surprise of remembering this little fact-dispensing habit of his combined with the mental load of processing and storing aforedispensed fact would divert me quite neatly from my prior train of thought.
It worked excellently, as do most of Jeeves’s pursuits, and I found myself mulling over the life and times of old Darwin.
“Where were those tortoises?” I asked Jeeves.
“The Galápagos Islands, sir, off South America,” he answered readily.
Not until I met Jeeves did I understand what people meant when they described someone else as a ‘rock’. Despite the wealth of secrets I am surely yet to uncover regarding my man, I can depend on him to remain essentially the same. It’s a sort of trust I’d only ever previously had in animals. They’re much less given to turn against you on a whim, or up and leave to pursue something better, or lie to you. If they remain fed and watered, then they will—simply put—remain.
I should probably be sad about having encountered so late in life the bliss that is trusting someone to the utmost, but I am too distracted by said bliss.
The boats were close enough that the shapes were starting to make sense. We watched them, both of us silent, and my thoughts taking much kinder paths.
After a time, the sun started shining in earnest, and the damp of the night was slipping away. When I turned my gaze away from the sea and set it upon Jeeves, I found he was—once more—already looking at me. I found myself wondering if perhaps he disapproved of my ensemble before I recalled that he’d picked it out this morning.
Then I realised that his expression wasn’t one of disapproval at all, nor was it his usual pin-sharp focus. It was gentler than that.
It was the sort of soft regard one gives a sleeping cat, or a dashing but callous hero who is slowly growing on one, when he’s looking away (at least, if my novels are to be believed).
If I knew one thing for certain, it was that I was not a cat. This was not exactly reassuring knowledge—rather, it left quite the quandary in its wake.
There was no time to consider the matter, though. The odd expression was gone almost as soon as I turned around, replaced with the usual smooth-as-a-duck’s-back Jeevesian mien.
Over the lapping of the sea, I said, “I think we’d best get some breakfast, what?”
Jeeves inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”
And we made our way back.
Again, I paid close attention to my companion as we walked, and he seemed just as well as he ever did. How very odd, I thought, for him to go from wincing with each awkward step to perfectly all right in the span of a day. It merited closer observation, so that is exactly what I did.
We returned to the cottage at eight for breakfast, and Jeeves had the bright idea to make pancakes. I sat down in the dining nook, glancing occasionally through the bay window to watch the tree-lined barrier between this house and the next dance in the breeze. Mostly, though, I was looking at Jeeves, working away all neat and tidy in his shirtsleeves and apron.
I’m quite fond of Jeeves in his apron, I must admit. It suits him terribly well. It is always a little disarming to see the fellow sans jacket, though I’m sure, between sleeping and bathing and cooking, he spends most of his time attired thusly. I don’t really see him at these times, though (barring a few exceptional mornings upon which I have risen early), which I suppose is how it remains novel.
The cottage was just big enough not to feel cramped, but it was still a tight fit for myself and the tallish Jeeves in the little nook that served as a dining room. I could definitely see why Steffan kept this house, though he visits so rarely—it would be absolutely perfect for the solitary artistic type, a niche that the fellow falls quite neatly inside. Enough space to facilitate one person’s crafts and stave off insanity, but not so much that the one person might struggle to keep it tidy. It suited him down to the ground—myself and Jeeves, not so much. I would want a slightly larger house, I think, such that I have ample space to wander about when the urge strikes me but I don’t wish to go to the trouble of going outside. Jeeves would want a bigger kitchen and larder, definitely, and I would want enough space for a piano. I might look into acquiring such a house—in Sussex, perhaps. We could have a garden, maybe even a dog.
Jeeves joined me in the nook to nibble away at some pancakes. I rested my chin on my hand and made idle conversation. Apparently the art gallery was a prime locale to soak up some culture, so—once sufficiently breakfasted—we ankled down to it, ready to submit ourselves as sponges.
The art was all very lovely, certainly, but I must admit that I was rather distracted by Jeeves. As we made our way to the art gallery (which was situated in the heart of town, a few minutes from the piers), we were overtaken by a small, excited child. Jeeves, walking on the kerbside, side-stepped towards me to prevent the child from barrelling into his legs, and—once the child’s carer apologised, then rushed to catch up to the child, who was already a ways down the street—I was dismayed to notice that the usual Jeevesian spirit was significantly dampened, and even the act of taking a step was provoking that awful little gasp-grimace from the fellow.
It was because of this that I found myself largely indifferent to the gorgeous little watercolours and the marvellous charcoals and all the other beautiful things that the art gallery contained—it was as I stood in front of one such artwork (the details of which slipped from my mind almost immediately after I turned away) that I decided I would get to the bottom of this situation that very day.
By half past eleven, I was once more feeling peckish, and standing around idly was starting to bore me. I’m a man of movement, you see, and having to be relatively subdued in a gallery or library wreaks havoc on the Woosterian nerves.
(In an unhappy addition, I could also feel the weight of the morning’s activities starting to drag on the already-limited processes of my brain. I am simply not built for early mornings, I fear.)
It was with an abridged version of this explanation that I persuaded Jeeves to leave behind a little sketch of the bay that I feared was to become his One True Love, going by the intensity with which he was examining it. (In retrospect, I think he looks at everything in that manner, but what with the stress of being concerned for his health, I was rapidly misplacing marbles.)
Outside the gallery, where the sound of conversation and boats and all such bits of evidence for the continued existence of human life permeated the air, I bit down on the urge to take Jeeves’s arm. Stiff upper lip, what?
On that train of thought—the man didn’t seem terribly distressed by the whole sitch. I mean, besides the pained gasps, he was performing his duties exactly as normal, even going out of his way for that morning’s expedition. I know he has a tendency to throw himself into his work as a means of distraction from his own troubles, but the walk that morning was beyond the necessities of his job. He was used to it, then, or at the very least not concerned by it.
The only possibility was that this issue was chronic, but how then would I have failed to notice it all this time? Unless this was the first time in a while that it was bothering him… perfectly feasible that he had some underlying injury that he’d aggravated. My concerns re his being violently accosted in London abated, though the main body of concern remained.
We came to those dratted steps once more. They lay between the cottage and the town, and it seemed we could not shake their presence in our route back to the former.
I steeled myself for the unpleasant experience of watching my man wince, but it was not quite enough, as he seemed this time to exert himself even more than he previously had, and he very nearly stumbled.
“Jeeves!” I cried, startled, and rushed up to steady the man. One hand found his waist before I had really processed its movement, but the other was wholly occupied with carrying my… cane.
Ah!
“Here, man,” I said, offering it to him. He looked at me askance, then, and I realised that I was still holding his waist, though he was long since steadied. I removed my hand. “Sorry, old thing, you just gave me a fright. Here.”
He looked down at the cane, uncharacteristically silent. “That would be.” The sentence, fragmented, hung awkwardly in the air. His brow knit. “Unprofessional, sir.”
Oh, Jeeves, I thought.
“Oh, Jeeves,” I said, neglecting to append the you poor thing that my mind contributed. “You haven’t been doing well the past few days.”
He closed his eyes briefly. It occurred to me before he spoke that I had phrased that all wrong. That’s the trouble with conversation, as opposed to writing—with a pen and paper you have all the time in the world to say things just right. I’m prone to muddling through conversations that would be a breeze, had I the ability to stop time and have a proper dashed think.
“My apologies, sir. I will be—”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I corrected, hastily. “All I mean is that I’ve noticed you’ve been in some discomfort in the past few days. Your hip?”
Jeeves appeared momentarily surprised, but quickly masked the expression. “Yes, sir.” The man can be wonderfully soft-spoken, but these were not his usual dulcet tones. These were the quiet words of a man ashamed.
I hesitated for just a moment before deciding that if Jeeves was dropping the mask, then so could I, and I placed my hand on the upper portion of his arm in as consoling a manner as I could muster. “I’m just worried for you.”
He looked at me then with a disarming vulnerability in his beautiful face, and my breath caught. The sound must have nudged his brain back into gear, because then he looked away again, and shook his head. “It would be improper, sir.” Then, at what I’m sure was an expression suggesting impending disagreement surfacing on my face, he added, “I will be able to complete the rest of the return journey without issue.”
I stood for a moment, cane aloft, before I decided, If he says so. But I would be keeping an eye on him.
I informed him of this resolution as I withdrew my cane, returning it to its rightful place on the ground. He nodded solemnly (though I don’t suppose the adverb is necessary; I doubt he’s capable of nodding in any other way).
“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves, though there was a dash less verve in the phrase than usual. If only he were my equal, I thought unhappily, and then we would be able to walk arm-in-arm. I must persuade him to dress down for a day, and we can go somewhere that nobody recognises us. That would be nice.
I slowed down a touch for the remainder of the voyage, and we staggered on back.
Stained Glass Fishes
“I must admit, Jeeves, I’ve been rather concerned,” said I, closing the door behind myself as we entered the cottage.
Jeeves, with his back turned to me as he deposited his hat on the stand, did not answer immediately. I leaned to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of his expression and perhaps even to scrute it.
And that I did, good grief—for Jeeves turned to me then to take my hat and cane, and there was a definite downturn to that lovely mouth, and a tinge of sorrow about the man’s whole bearing. Oh, that was simply not Right.
He stowed my accoutrements in their appropriate stands, then paused, empty-handed, to deliberate. He even went so far as to worry at his lip with his teeth, a move so un-Jeevesish that I had to force down a remark about his being replaced by a Jotun, or some such.
“I had hoped to avoid this,” Jeeves said, making resolute eye contact with the ground, where the stained glass fishes of the front door were casting colourful shadows.
“Avoid what?” I probed gently.
He looked up, then, and considered me. The weight of his calculating gaze was as dizzying as ever.
“It does not affect my work,” he insisted.
I blinked. “Perhaps not, but it affects you. And I’d wager I care rather a lot more about you than the work you do, old thing.”
He stared for a moment. I didn’t know what to make of this at the time, but I suppose I’d never expressed the sentiment so plainly before. Jeeves must have been rather startled.
“Yes, sir,” he said, with a barely detectable stammer to the opening Y. He cast his gaze around for a moment, presumably processing.
I took a chance and Jeeves’s arm, and—when he allowed himself to be shepherded, much to my surprise—led him to the couch, where we situated ourselves. In light of his disinclination to protest the position of my corpus in relation to his own, I retained my loose hold of the man’s upper arm, hoping it provided some sort of assurance.
“I served in the Great War,” said Jeeves, by way of opening. “I was dismissed early, following a bout of sickness.”
I stilled.
It is no cause of grief to me that I do not know everything about Jeeves. He has lived for a few years longer than I, and in vastly different circumstances; of course there are details of his past of which I am not aware—but it surprised me on the cliff that morning, and it surprised me now.
Funnily enough, I was the one who took in a shaky breath, not he—one would assume that the chappie who got shot at would be the one broken up about discussing it. I supposed he’d had more time to come to terms with it, and learn how to hold the memories at an arm’s length. (The very same arm at which I was grasping with a nervous hand, what?)
“It was most likely influenza,” Jeeves continued. “I recovered rather well from the affliction itself, but after a time found my joints more susceptible to inexplicable issues.” He looked down at his lap. “I jostled my hip while climbing into bed last Wednesday.”
I did some quick arithmetic (which is not one of my stronger suits, it should be noted). “But it’s been almost a week, then!”
He nodded. “Inexplicable, as I said, sir.”
“All this walking surely hasn’t helped it,” I fretted.
Then he did something so inconceivable that I cannot help but doubt my recollection: those broad shoulders of his that I mentioned earlier—he lifted them up just a tad, then allowed them to fall again. In plainer language, the fellow shrugged.
I’m sure my mouth fell open as I attempted to come to terms with this anomaly. He tilted his head a few degrees to the side, that fond expression of puzzlement affixed to that fine face.
“Perhaps,” said Jeeves noncommittally, “but not so much as to make resting more worthwhile than my duties.”
“Oh. So you’re saying there’s a balance to be struck.”
“Precisely, sir.”
I mulled over this, and supposed it made sense—it must get rather tiring to be constantly in pain without any sort of distraction. A cost-benefit analysis is the natural conclusion, then. But I couldn’t help but worry that my lifestyle, and thus the demands placed on dear Jeeves, were too much for the man.
“Your duties, though, Jeeves—I mean.” I paused, gathering my thoughts. The words were already there in my mind, but needed unscrambling. “I can shoulder more of the day-to-day, if it’s too much for you.”
Jeeves fixed me with that particular Look he gets when I am being a veritable fool. “Sir,” said he—remarkably gentle despite the aforementioned Look. “I am in the fortunate position of finding my work extraordinarily fulfilling. I would rather attend to you.”
I made a sort of woeful whimper. “I don’t want to ask too much of you, though.”
The Look turned softer. Jeeves glanced down at my hand on his arm. “I know my own body, sir,” he said kindly. “If I require respite, I will inform you.”
I gave an awkward little smile and squeezed his arm. “Good,” I said. “Topping, even, what?”
His expression turned positively warm. “Yes, sir.”
We sat in settled silence for a second. Then he navigated one broad hand to the watch pocket of his waistcoat, and retrieved the aforementioned timepiece to give it a glance.
“A quarter past, sir,” he informed me—in response, I presume, to my attempt to catch a glimpse of the face of his watch.
“Thank you,” I said. On the slipstream of a whim, I removed my hand from his arm to delicately pluck the watch from him, and return it to its woollen home myself. Jeeves’s grey eyes followed the movement, most definitely analysing it. I have come to terms with the reality that, at any given moment, he probably knows more of my motivations than I do.
A fascinating reality to confront, really, when he arose from the couch, and I—much to my shock—found momentarily that there was a large hand on my shoulder, just resting there. I looked up.
“Tea, sir?” Jeeves asked, in that perfectly precise manner of his, as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about his contact with my person.
I swallowed my startlement at the steady weight of his hand and said, “Yes, please.”
The edges of Jeeves’s mouth turned up by a fraction—his equivalent of a beaming grin. “Very good, sir.”
His hand made the brief voyage back to his side, leaving my poor shoulder feeling oddly bereft. Under my attention, he did not so much shimmer to the kitchen as he did walk, just as any man might. How odd. I averted my gaze, feeling that I was observing something I wasn’t meant to.
I twiddled my thumbs on the couch, and listened to the familiar pitter-patter of Jeeves in the kitchen. The mystery of his limp was solved; I would be able to rest comfortably that evening in the knowledge that he would be all right.
And yet.
Just knowing he was all right wasn’t enough to get the sentiment through to my brain. I needed to see it.
“Jeeves?” I called.
A perfectly-groomed head poked through the threshold of the kitchen. “Sir?”
“Make yourself some tea, too, will you?”
If he was surprised, he did not show it. That must mean he wasn’t surprised, I suppose, as he tends to express most emotions upon his magnificent face if it is appropriate to do so. Perhaps he had spent his time in the kitchen counting down to the instant within which I would inevitably call his name. He knows me better than I know myself.
“Yes, sir,” he said, and disappeared once more into the kitchen. I watched the slow shimmer of the fish-shaped shards of light on the ground. There was a clink of cutlery, and the kettle started to boil.