vocab_drabbles | #038: Convivial: Jeeves & Wooster: Gen

Title: Convivial
Fandom: Jeeves & Wooster
Length: 600
Rating: Gen
Notes/Warnings: Angst.
Summary: Bertie's lost his Yuletide spirit.

I returned to Berkley Square much earlier than anticipated and heard the clear note of concerned inquiry in Jeeves’ greeting. He met me at the front door and proceeded to help me out of the gent’s outer raiment.

“Good evening, sir. A chilly night.”

“Bracing wind,” I agreed.

“I trust you enjoyed yourself.”

“I don’t know, Jeeves. The mood at the Drones was convivial—if that’s the word I want—in the extreme, but I felt very much like a spectre at the feast, watching, hovering at the fringes, unable to join the celebration, unable to share in the revelry.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Normally I am full of Yuletide spirit, brimming with Saint Nick buck and reindeer beans, but today I can’t seem to manage one ‘ho!’ much less a trio of them.”

We moved into the sitting room. I folded the willowy frame in the cosiest armchair on the premises, and Jeeves, no doubt acting on well-honed instincts, oozed toward the bar and set about a b. and s or similar libation.

“The Drones was lively,” I repeated. “And the Bertram Woosters of Old would have frolicked with the best of them, probably until the rosy-fingered dawn appeared. For one thing, there were charades, a favourite of mine. Secondly, they put together an impromptu skit along the lines of the Dickens yarn, and Oofy Prosser hid under a bedsheet and went round banging a tea tray and calling himself the Ghost of Christmas Pickle. I mean to say, who couldn’t find amusement in that?”

Jeeves made a noncommittal noise as he presented the cocktail on a salver like an especially refreshing head of John the Baptist.

“Bertram Wooster, that’s who,” I said, continuing my lament, beating my breast not unlike a certain briny tea tray of yore. “All I could do was bear witness and wonder what it was all for. I mean, what is the meaning of Christmas? What is the meaning of tinsel and mistletoe and all the rest of it?”

I wasn’t expecting an answer, which was just as well because Jeeves didn’t proffer one. Instead, he informed me that a missive from Lady Smithby-Greene had arrived by late post.

“I suppose she’s politely refuting or politely accepting my efforts to have myself invited to spend the holidays at Groaning Spinney, but frankly, at this moment, I don’t even care. Let’s not go anywhere for Christmas, Jeeves. I’ll not foist my sorrowful countenance on any merry party. Or if you have an invitation, I suggest you accept it, and leave me to my lonesome. I can bunk in some hotel. Or haunt the streets, advising people to mend their ways.”

“I don’t fancy travel, nor do I have any plans for the holidays, sir. Would you care for a bath this evening?”

“No, a bath would only make me more meditative, and I don’t need more thinking. My onion’s already sore.” I drained the glass. “I’m going to tuck in. I say, Jeeves, do you think I’ll be visited by three spirits in the night?”

“Did you have the Welsh rarebit?”

“Never touch it after that one nightmare about being a unicorn at a church fete.”

“Then I think the risk is minimal.”

“Very well.” I got my pins under me.

“Shall I assist you, sir?” Jeeves asked, rising to his feet as well.

I felt something like the protesting invalid. “No. I can manage. Good night, Jeeves.”

“Good night, sir. I hope your spirits are revived in the morning.”

“As do I, Jeeves. Thank you.”