Jeeves and the Wedding Bells(70)

Sir Henry Hackwood appeared from the wings, in front of the curtain, to a decent reception. The standees seemed pleased not to be subjected to a lecture from the vicar, as is often the case with such a bash, and were further cheered when Sir Henry told them he had paid for a barrel of beer from the Hare and Hounds for them to get stuck into during the interval. Sir Henry disappeared and the curtain rose on the Melbury Glee Club – six stout women in satin frocks and six sheepish-looking consorts wearing bowler hats. ‘Glee’ was not the word that first came to mind; ‘dejection’ might have been nearer the mark. The vicar’s wife at the upright piano seemed under the impression that she was playing a dirge; the sopranos were obliged to hang on and warble for all they were worth until she caught up. ‘The Ballad of Cranborne Chase’, by contrast, turned into a straight six-furlong sprint between choir and vicar’s wife, the latter apparently determined to make up for lost time. Either that, or she had remembered that she’d left dinner on the vicarage stove. The piano got home by a short head, with half a length separating tenors and sopranos for the places.

Next on was one Susan Chandler, a ten-year-old schoolgirl with plaits and thick glasses who stood with her hands behind her back and her feet planted like a guardsman told to stand at ease. She eyed the audience in a threatening manner. ‘“By Last Duchess” by Robert Browdig,’ she announced. It was not only the child’s adenoids that made the next seven or eight minutes hard to endure; I hadn’t the faintest clue what old Browning was on about, and I’m pretty sure that no one else did either. At the end I was relieved to see there was no sign of young Susan getting the bird; the applause was tepid, but the right side of polite. A small flame of hope flickered in the Wooster bosom.

The conjuring by Major Holloway’s wife’s brother would have gone down well in the Pink Owl in Brewer Street. The quick-fire patter seemed to have come from the paddock at some seaside racecourse, and the relish with which the conjuror withdrew the missing Queen of Hearts from the clothing of the saloon barmaid at the Hare and Hounds caused dismay in the two-bobbers. None of the above means the major’s wife’s brother was without his admirers; indeed, you could say that, so far as the standees were concerned, he was by some way the best thing yet. Just as well, because the Puddletown Barbershop Quartet, with which the first half closed, were a man short; and a barbershop quartet with only three barbers is bound to lack a certain something.

During the stampede for the free beer, I left the hall and went round to the stage door, or ‘back entrance’ as its homely architect might have termed it, there to join my fellow performers. Woody was coming the other way.

‘All set, Bertie?’

‘Yes, thanks. You?’

‘Fine. Snout only has a couple of lines. We’ve all been trying to ginger up old Etringham.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Not much. He sounds like a speak-your-weight machine. How’s your crosstalk script?’

‘Pitiful.’

‘There’s a splendid bar in the hall. I’ll send you through a zonker to put you in the mood.’

‘It may take more than that, old friend.’

The backstage area doubled as a shed where various agricultural machines and implements were kept. Georgiana was already in costume as Titania, wearing a tutu, if that’s the word I want – the sort of frilly thing you see in Swan Lake, anyway. There was a good deal of netting and feathery wings, and a tremendous amount of slender limb to boot; her hair was piled up and held by a fake-diamond tiara and her dark eyes were rimmed with some theatrical paint.

I became aware that I was unwittingly doing an impression of Monty Beresford’s golden retriever on the Fourth of June and moved to push the lower mandible back into some sort of connection with the upper. Georgiana seemed oblivious of her appearance as she fussed over old Etringham, who was now wrapped in a sheet with a pair of knitting needles stuck in his belt. My own costume consisted of no more than the addition of a rhododendron flower in the buttonhole and a deerstalker borrowed from Sir Henry. Venables hadn’t wanted the straight man to catch the eye too much; he himself wore a red beard and a top hat.

The second half got under way with the Melbury Tetchett string quartet. The best thing you could say about them was that, unlike the barbershop chaps, they were quorate. Whether the scraping sounded better out front than backstage I was in no position to say, but the re-refreshed audience was in generous mood. While they played in front of the curtain, the Ladies’ Sewing Circle set the scene for their tableau vivant. A backdrop painted by the Sunday School showed a cloudy harbour with a couple of galleons. Stage left were two plasterboard pillars and a step. Centre stage was a rowing boat behind which a boy scout, concealed from the audience, lay flat on his face gently rocking the hull. The Ladies of the Sewing Circle disported themselves in set positions, representing King Solomon, the Queen of Sheba and sundry courtiers. The coup de théâtre, as we buffs call it, was the spotlight that shone through the backdrop towards the audience, bathing the whole scene in a twilight effect.