Chapter Text
“My dear Jeeves,” Mr Wooster said to me this morning, his voice suffused with a warmth that made me ache, “do you know what the first step in getting rid of a dozen newts one suddenly and unexpectedly finds in one’s bed is?”
To call for me, sir? But I knew that answer would not please him, so I ventured instead,
“To ascertain the whereabouts of Mr Fink-Nottle?”
Sentences were—are—still incomplete without the sir that had always punctuated them at the end. It felt viscerally incorrect that I should lounge on the master bed with my master in my arms at mid-morning, and a hundred other worries preyed on my mind besides. Yet Mr Wooster laughed, and I felt the sound travel from his chest to his shoulder to my arm and my chest, rumbling pleasantly as thunder might over grateful hills at dusk after a draught.
“No, Jeeves,” he said, “that is the second step.”
I could not help an “indeed, sir?” then – a far too versatile and dear turn of phrase to give up entirely. He was not put out by it.
“Yes, indeed, dearest, the first step” –he endeavoured to turn his face towards me as much as he was able, which was only by a little, but the smile I could not see I could hear with perfect clarity in his voice– ‘is to acknowledge that there are indeed a dozen newts in one’s bed.”
Even as he may be blind to it himself, I am often taken aback by how astute and perceptive Mr Wooster—Bertie—can be. He is right and therefore I will start with the smallest newt of the dozen and tell you about the Dream of the Agatha Beast.
*
Readers—should I somehow fail to burn these pages and they be discovered one day—are no doubt familiar with the recent dream-sharing epidemic that blighted our kingdom, for how strange, inexplicable and disturbing the experience has been, and by now surely the less is said about it, the better. I will however note that at the time of the first dream featuring Mrs Gregson in her much altered form, Mr Wooster and I were still labouring under the belief that while a valet may appear as a captive guest in his master’s dreams (for his master may have need of him yet during the hours of slumber) the reverse was not possible, and neither were we yet fully aware of the dangers a staunch refusal to follow the dream’s usual plot posed to its participants.
Of course, this dream was a rare specimen of its kind in that it required no direction on the part of the host—at least not in its beginning or middle.
I was in a large cavern.
In hindsight, I suppose I always knew that I was dreaming—dreams, especially those of others—have a certain unmistakable quality that set them apart from the consciousness of waking. At the time, however, no sooner had I opened my eyes (as it were), than I heard a bloodcurdling scream. The voice belonged to none other than my master; he was in grave danger, and that knowledge ousted all thought from my mind, including where I was, how I had gotten there, or for that matter, even a complete comprehension of the fearsome, dragon-like beast that had him cornered.
“Jeeves!”
Mr Wooster spotted me. He was utterly terrified, his back pressed firmly against the wall of the cave, with no further possibility of retreat, yet attempting to clamber further back still, as if he wished to crawl into the hard stone of the wall itself, a plaintive, desperate look in his blue eyes.
I did not blame him, given the foe he faced, yet neither did I hesitate to throw myself between it and Mr Wooster. The beast, I now saw, had three heads, all of which bore the countenance of Mr Wooster’s aunt, Mrs Gregson. However, her curls had been transformed into slithering grey snakes and the tongue that darted in between razor sharp teeth as she promised to enact unspeakable horrors upon Mr Wooster was a forked one. I shudder to put down the insults and threats the creature spewed from its mouths for how vile they were, although a servant with less impeccable manners than myself might note that a similar sentiment equally applies to certain utterances Mrs Gregson has made towards Mr Wooster in the waking world.
Unfortunately for the creature, today she would feast on no nephews, let alone on my master. I would not allow it.
“Sir!” I called, not daring to turn behind but needing him to hear me just the same. “Run! Save yourself!”
In the time since—and even before Mr Wooster’s first memorable appearance in my most unfortunate recurring dream—I have often thought about the significance of his refusal to do so despite his bone-deep terror, and about those truths Mr Wooster’s dream might hint at when taken as a whole. I can admit that now.
At the time however, if Mr Wooster made reply, I did not hear it. Neither did I have further time to dedicate to the matter, for the beast now had myself in her sights and it lunged forward with remarkable fury. Luckily it was at this point that I looked down and noticed the flaming sword I appeared to be holding in my hand—a most useful weapon in the fierce and violent fight that ensued. I would like to claim that I do not fear death, which having fought in the Great War, I know is not true; yet, in that cave—as would later be the case in London and in my dream-cottage in Devon—the only bodily harm I feared was that which could befall Mr Wooster.
There was a moment in the battle when a blow I failed to duck swept me to the floor, knocking the wind out of my lungs, that I indeed believed all to be lost. In my disoriented state, the cave throbbed around me, and I saw one of the heads descend towards my person with great speed, the dark mouth open to display the awful, lurid teeth.
Just in this moment of despair, however, Mr Wooster called out to me once more. I turned to him and in doing so managed to roll away from the oncoming attack by the skin of my teeth. I made haste to clamber back to my feet and caught the waylaid sword he threw at me as if he had done so a hundred, a thousand times. That act of unspoken understanding became the creature’s end: with Mr Wooster’s sword in my hand, I was able to leap forward and drive the blade into its chest, dealing it the fatal blow.
When it collapsed onto its side with a final, terrible screech, time seemed to stop; a thick silence fell over the cave, extinguishing all sound in an instant like a blanket thrown over fire.
“Mr Wooster,” I called when the moment passed and I was able to move again, swivelling around with great speed, just as he called “Jeeves!”
“Mr Wooster, are you harmed?”
He was white as a bone, his fair face streaked with dirt and eyes blown wide. Though I could see no spots of red in his shirt, I knew full well the extent of injuries that clothing such as his can hide from the naked eye. But to my great relief he said, “no, Jeeves,” then closing what distance remained between us, called again like a plea or a hymn, “Jeeves.”
Perhaps it was the immediacy in his voice, or else now that the beast was slain, I was able to begin to take stock of my surroundings and the fantastical battle we had just fought, that I let out an aborted “I–”. I shook my head, suddenly feeling a little dazed and aware of the unseemly rhythm of my breathing.
“Your arm,” Mr Wooster said with grave concern, “you have been hurt.”
I followed his gaze and spotted a sizable tear in the chainmail (for that, alongside a few plates of armour, was indeed what I was wearing) which gleamed a bright crimson even in the low light. As soon as I noticed it, the wound started to throb as would be expected of a gash of its size and nature. The fact still remained however that I had just slain a three-headed dragon which bore the countenance of Mr Wooster’s stern aunt thrice over.
“Sir,” I asked, already puzzling through to the undeniable answer myself, “are we dreaming?”
“Oh.” For a second, Mr Wooster looked as stunned as I felt. Then he rose and fell on his heels like a child who had spotted a particularly remarkable bird circling overhead, and replied with a wave of his hand as if he was addressing the matter of a misplaced tea cup, “yes, terribly sorry about that, old thing.”
I composed my expression, and drew myself up to my full height, exerting considerable force to regulate my breathing.
“Not to worry, sir, it is not every day one gets to slay a dragon.”
Now that I knew we had not been in any real danger—and regardless, even if it had once been real, the said danger now lay dead on the damp cave floor—there was no excuse for slovenliness. A gentleman’s gentleman is put together at all times: he does not slouch, he is not rattled or overcome; he betrays no emotion except through the subtlest inflection of his voice, rather anticipating problems before they arise and devising elegant solutions before they can irritate—or God forbid—harm his master, through a meticulous attention to detail and an unwavering commitment to duty. It is said that trees that refuse to bend will be broken in the storm; yet no truth is more self-evident to me: we each have well defined parts to play in the tapestry of life and the wellbeing of our great society rises or falls by our commitment to upholding our part with utmost diligence. It is of course precisely for this reason that Devon had been such a thorn in my side for so long and that I now find myself struggling to return the infinite and infinitely generous affection Mr Wooster bestows upon me in kind.
But I digress.
“Yes!” Mr Wooster agreed heartily, clapping his hands together as he moved away from the wall around me and towards the slain creature with easy steps. “And such a rummy one, too. Good riddance is what I say and you will not be missed.”
“Indeed, sir.”
Now once again sure of my footing, I found myself joining him to inspect our fallen foe. My armour clinked together as I walked, and to my infinite gratitude and relief, my wounded arm gave a sharp twinge just then, before I could engage with what the appearance of the said armour on my person in our present setting might signify. Despite the sudden pain, I do not believe that I allowed any cracks to show in my expression, but over the years Mr Wooster has developed a rather uncanny ability to read its minutest shifts, and besides, we were currently in his dream.
Accordingly, “Jeeves,” he soon remarked again, “your arm”, gesturing towards it.
I afforded it another cursory glance.
“Only a scratch, sir, pay it no mind.”
“We bally well should, Jeeves. I will not have my knight in shining armour bleed to death because we couldn’t be bothered to tend to his injuries.”
Ah, I thought, forced to confront precisely that which I had taken pains to avoid dwelling on. Mr Wooster had regular nightmares featuring his aunt as a three-headed dragon and I was his knight (in shining armour).
“Sir–” I started prohibitively only for him to cut in.
“Do not sir me, I am jolly well refusing to wake up to a minstrel band playing in my head because you were too stubborn to see sense.”
Ah, I thought yet again then. Offered the choice between even severe pain and taking off my armour in front of Mr Wooster—little needs to be said about where my instincts lie, for better or for worse. However, the fact still remained that he was my gentleman, I would not be the only one afflicted with a headache come the morning should we deviate from the dream’s script, and despite an occasional scheme which may cause Mr Wooster a temporary inconvenience for his ultimate good, when all is said and done his comfort must come before mine.
“Very well, sir,” I thus replied with only a slight touch of frost, and began to look for the clasps of the plates of armour.
“You needn’t trouble yourself with that old fruit.” Mr Wooster gave a sharp smile all too common among dream-hosts, in which the mouth stretches up in the corners with considerable force even as the eyes indicate a profound desire to shrivel up into dust. “No, allow the y. m. with his deft hands to help—besides such twisting and turning on your part might jar your injury and we would not want that. I mean who would make me tea when I wake up if you were killed in action? Or press my suits or polish the silver.”
At his words, my heart jumped to my throat, then plummeted to my feet in the span of a second. He meant to undress me himself. This being a recurring dream, he had been undressing me himself, with regularity.
“Very well, sir,” I said, clenching my jaw and clinging onto that thin lie we have all been forced to tell ourselves and one another time and again in the past months to save our blushes, that dreams follow no rhyme or reason and neither do they reflect in any way on their host.
He has the hands of a pianist and true to his word he undid the clasps and removed the plates that covered by chest and right shoulder with elegant ease. I flinched when he moved onto the chainmail (which, rather unusually for its kind, appeared to be held in place with buttons). I noticed him notice it, but it was a reaction entirely involuntary: while I may dress and undress him every day, the reverse felt as viscerally wrong—to use an example Mr Wooster might favour—as a superfluity of nuns giving a too lively rendition of Minnie the Moocher in a music hall. He in fact did laugh when I offered the simile to him in a conversation earlier this week.
‘My dear Jeeves,’ he had asked moments earlier, ‘I must ask—do you find it terribly unpleasant when I liberate you of your clothes at the end of the day, before we turn in for the night?’
‘No [sir, unspoken], I enjoy it considerably.’
‘Jolly good. Jolly good, I say.’ A beat, then– ‘Do you really?’
He looked unsure of his footing. It was my fault entirely and not for the first time I wondered whether he would not be better off with someone who shared the easy and abundant zest he had for life rather than my taciturn and reserved self.
‘Yes—I am only . . . less adept at expressing the said joy than yourself. And–’
I stopped myself short, opting to swallow discreetly instead. Mr Wooster would not have it.
‘And–?’ he asked not unkindly with his warm blue eyes fixed on me.
Very well, I thought, though I could not help but glance at our collective shoes as I continued.
‘And, I am afraid that a master undressing his valet still feels as out of place to me as a superfluity of nuns giving a too lively rendition of Minnie the Moocher in a music hall, no matter what the terms of their relationship may be.’
He laughed then, heartily, and I sympathised anew with the stream of young women who seem unable to stop falling in love with him. I have always hidden behind elaborate words. Instead of scorning me, he laughed heartily, and I fell in love with him anew, falling deeper and deeper with each day, each morning, each breath.
In the cave, our eyes met for the briefest second before skittering away. He liberated me of the chainmail; I appeared to be wearing a white undershirt underneath—I was relieved and disappointed in equal measure when he stopped short of attempting to remove it as well. The wound, now that I could see it in full, did appear to be serious, bleeding rather freely, but the most I could muster towards it was derision for inconveniencing both Mr Wooster and myself thus.
“Now, Jeeves, sit,” Mr Wooster said, gesturing towards the high-backed chair placed most conveniently for an injured—and rather unprincipled—valet to sit upon. With an admonishment at myself for the carelessness I displayed in getting hurt and for deviating from decorum by allowing myself to shirk my duties to sit (to be tended to by the very man I was meant to attend) no matter how forced my hand may be, I did as I was told.
I felt my heart rip alongside the fabric when Mr Wooster turned to his own shirt to fashion a bandage for the wound.
“Please, sir, do not–” I could not help the appalled outburst that spilled from my lips.
Mr Wooster only gave me a chuckle and a look of unguarded fondness, which I would come to privately revisit and treasure in the weeks that followed, in moments of weakness in which my own guard slipped against my will (such is I suppose the experience of falling in love, as limited as my personal wisdom may be in the matter), and said, “you always say that.”
I gained a hold of myself and stiffened my upper lip.
“It is only right that well-made clothes should have an advocate, sir, whether in bedroom or cavern.”
He took me by surprise (as he is wont to do). “This may hurt a little”, he said; then the makeshift bandage was being tied around my arm. The tips of his fingers brushed my bare skin; they were hot as brands. I recoiled from the touch bodily, remembering only a full second later to let out a pained hiss—inappropriate as such an exaggerated display of discomfort may be, it was less so than the notion that a master’s action in a dream he has little control over should openly disgust his valet. Disgust was of course the furthest thing from my heart; yet, faced with a hundred brands and a hundred dragons, I could not have explained that a wretch who has spent his life entire in a dark cave may recoil and clutch at his eyes when exposed to even the most golden of mornings. Neither do I believe that I fully understood the true nature of my reaction at the time myself.
He pressed his hand firmly over the bandage and I endured it with unblemished perseverance, keeping my gaze fixed on the opposing wall. The wound must have hurt, but all I knew was his hand, the pressure it applied, the warmth it spread onto my skin, the universe being born in that tiny expanse of space with all the urgency and discomfort such a cosmic labour must entail. My heart had taken flight, split into two and settled in my ears, where it was now hammering furiously. When I glanced to my side without meaning to, I saw that his cheeks were touched with colour. Our eyes met; he opened his mouth but like lightning sound only followed a moment later.
“I’m sorry old thing, that must hurt terribly.”
“Not at all, sir.” How had I managed to form a complete sentence with a mouth that was as dry as the Sahara? But I continued. “You appear to have considerable skill in wound tending.”
My answer pleased Mr Wooster and he made no effort to hide his pleasure.
“Oh, would you say so, then?”
“Yes, sir, I would go as far as to posit that you appear to be an expert in the field.” And thus we carried on, as we always have.
I was puzzled when I awoke with a hollow ache in my chest. I wondered whether the corresponding ache I felt in my head was because I had failed to fight the dragon quite as I meant to, or of course, whether it was the performance I had given afterwards that had been unsatisfactory. Mr Wooster was quick to dismiss any gentle enquiries I made as to whether I followed the dream’s script adequately, and it would be weeks before I discovered our joint headaches’ true cause. But that is a story for another time.