England is a (Single) Man's Land

by Cate Pilgrim
Written in memoriam of Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (1881–1975)

There are times when a man’s soul craves refuge from the woes and sorrows of the world in solitude, and there are times when what he wants most is a pint of bitter surrounded by his fellow man. Tonight was one of the latter. I had been working like a galley slave for weeks as undersecretary for Lord Widders, editing his publication England is a Man’s Land. My soul was feeling pinched. A spot of olden golden at the White Swan was just the thing, and I’d just sent my man for an overcoat when the telephone buzzed.

It was Archer Campden, asking a favor. Young Archer is a decent specimen, but he has one significant flaw. He’s the sort of chap who loses his head over long-lost brothers, stray dogs, and damsels in distress. His mother’s friends say he has a beautiful soul. I’ve never seen it, but I have seen his Robin Hood routine land him in some devilish tough spots on several occasions.

From what I could gather through the static, he had encountered a beleaguered damsel on the train, and promised to assist her. “Bruton, old man, she’s a striker. A peach. A doll. All of merry England rings in her laughter,” he began, and I thought wistfully of the White Swan, and the low table in the corner that was lamentably empty of my lankly, masculine form. I decided to be firm. “All of merry England? Archer, she sounds like a public menace. In which I am not interested. But if you are, I wish you the best. Good nig….”

Here, Archer cut in.

“She’s arriving at Tenbury Wells on the 4:15, and dash it, Bruton, be a man. Meet her at the station and take her to dinner. Remember our days at Bewdley Primary in Wribbenhall?”

There are many notable forms of unsportsmanlike behavior: kicking a man when he’s down, drowning kittens, and swindling widows out of their mites. But chief of all is dredging up old debts of honor, especially those long since paid, in order to get a chap to entertain a female stranger. With the phrase “Remember our days at Bewdley Primary,” Archer had me. The ancient code of the Brutons forbade me to ignore his request, as he had once rescued me from mortal peril (in the form of Headmaster Cradleblood). “Tenbury Wells, eh?” I barked, pained at the thoughtlessness of his parents, who had somehow failed to strangle him at birth. “Right. Tenbury Wells. Bruton, you’re a godsen....”

With a low cough, my man entered with my overcoat and trilby. He must have noted the abrupt termination of my conversation with that loathsome thing Archer, but he said not a word. Nor did I. I shouldered on the coat, affixed my hat, and exited my flat with my face set like a flint.

In November, the weather is beastly in Bewdley. Villagers do not stir, save to go to church, or visit the hallowed premises of The White Swan, the Horn and Trumpet, or the Woodcollier Arms. And here I was, exposed to the elements all for the sake of some idiot female.
The spirit of chivalry was not dying naturally, I reflected bitterly, thoughtless girls were killing it in their spare time.

An hour later I was gazing into the deep brown eyes of Claire Talbot, a true English rose. Although an authoress, Claire was slim, charming, and entirely enamored with Lord Widder’s dashing young undersecretary. She clucked over my overworked state, and sympathized with the dangers of the modern work ethic. Her clear laugh rang out over the soup, and by the time the waiter served the fish, we had got through weather, politics, aunts, and were moving into poetry. Tennyson had just surfaced when there was a crash at the table behind ours.

I craned my neck to the north, just in time to get a face-full of orange marmalade. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a day when nothing has gone as planned, but if you ever find yourself in one, beware orange marmalade. It’s very unpleasant to the optic orbs. Once I had cleared the stuff from my visionary region, I found myself watching a scenario, which, as Bert at the White Swan would say later, was “rum indeed.”

Lord Widders, my sober and responsible employer, was crouched in a defensive posture behind the table’s decorative centrepiece, while a well-endowed blonde was hurling condiments and cutlery in his direction. Although the code of the Brutons also frowns upon eavesdropping, I couldn’t help but overhear what the blonde was saying, partly because she was booming like a steamer in full sail, and partly because she had run out of missiles and had crossed to our table and begun launching our condiments.

“You pompous, arrogant oaf! How dare you criticize The Ladies Home Gazette in your nasty newsletter! We are a force for good in this country! Do you feed the poor?”

Here she seized a plate of small pickles, showering them down upon Lord Widder’s collar.

“Do you minister to the sick?” Next went the bowl of olives. “Do you shepherd the souls of young girls into the mysteries of womanhood?”

At that, Lord Widders shuddered, although it may just have been the result of a blob of mayonnaise connecting with his left ear-lobe. “You said female literacy was responsible for the erosion of common sense,” the blonde shrieked. “Philistine! You and your aristocratic Neanderthals would have all of England’s women illiterate, would you?”

Up to this point, I had, like Banquo’s ghost, watched with a mild sense of wonder and bemusement. It did not reflect well on me to be undersecretary to a man mostly covered in gravy, and I turned back to Claire, to reassure her and perhaps talk a bit more about the blighter Tennyson. You needn’t imagine my surprise when a second dish of marmalade made contact with my person, because I will describe it. I was surprised.

Shocked may be a better word.

My eyebrows traveled to my hairline.
My mouth opened.
I gasped.
I gaped.

And then I crouched behind the table centrepiece as the lady Talbot stood, flung back her head like a war horse and started howling at me. “Sexist swine! You work for the author of England is a Man’s Land? Hanging is too good for you! Waiter, more marmalade!”

********

I believe I have already observed that at times a man’s soul craves refuge from earthly tribulation in solitude, and at others he wants a pint in the company of his fellow man. Fellow man, not feminist authoresses with egalitarian ideologies and homicidal tendencies. As, somewhat stickily and smelling strongly of citrus, Lord Widders and I slid into the low table in the corner of the White Swan, I sighed. "Lord W, it would appear that England is a single man's land." Bert brought two foaming mugs. I sighed again, more contentedly, and began imbibing that liquid balm of the soul. With the first sip, a pleasant thought occurred to me. “I’m going to kill Archer Campden.”