Psmith fic!
Title: Psmith Has The Cure
Fandom: Mike & Psmith
Characters: Just like it says on the tin: Mike and Psmith!
Rating and word count: G, about 2,900
Summary: Mike's famous temper rises to the fore as he thumbs his nose at his cricket team. For good measure, he tells Psmith there's nothing he can do about it. But then again, this is Psmith we're talking about.
A/N: Thanks so much to hazeltea for taking a monocle to the story. Written for smallfandomfest.
Mike Jackson wanted a fight. He wanted one badly enough to start something with Psmith but decided against it since Psmith wouldn’t have noticed, anyway. He’d been jawing for the past hour about some such thing, but the story had meandered in so many directions that Mike had gotten lost somewhere between a mangled bicycle and the pocketwatch a thief had nicked from the prime minister.
“Comrade Jackson, do attend.” Psmith arranged one long leg over the arm of his easy chair and cast Mike a dark look. “I’ve been regaling you with the dire events that occurred after lunch, but you’ve not heard a word.”
“Sorry.” Mike wasn’t sorry, but it was easier than explaining. He didn’t know how to explain, at any rate. Why should he? It was no one’s business, least of all Psmith’s.
“A thin apology, if it can be called such.” Psmith wore a pained expression. “But I suppose I must accept it.”
“You’d better.” Mike curled his lip at Psmith. “Because there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Psmith raised an eyebrow. Mike braced himself.
“You appear to be out of sorts, my old friend.”
Mike cleared his throat.
“Under the weather? Off your feed?”
Mike attempted a withering glare.
“That expression wouldn’t frighten a mouse.” Psmith examined the fingernails on his left hand. “Perhaps you should clear the air, Comrade Jackson. Get whatever it is off your chest. You’ll be all the better for it, and then I shall continue my story unimpeded by your foul temper.”
Anything was better than listening to Psmith go on and on about pocketwatches.
“I’ve decided I won’t play cricket this season.”
Psmith clapped his hands in delight. “Excellent decision, my dear old thing, excellent decision. You shall come home with me to the family pile and partake of country life.”
“I can get all the country I want at home.”
Psmith shook his head. “You might get drawn into playing for your village. We can’t have that, not when your nerves are so delicate. No, you shall accompany me, both as my confidential secretary and my dearest friend. I will brook no argument.” He unfolded himself from his chair and got to his feet. “I shall dispatch a telegram this instant so that Mother may prepare for our imminent arrival.”
Mike got up, too. The last thing he needed was to spend the cricket season with Psmith. He wanted to go to his own home where he could sulk to his heart’s content and boss his sisters. Not that they ever listened to him, but that wasn’t the point.
“Look here, Psmith-”
“He who hesitates is lost,” Psmith said. He paused at the door. “What shall we have for our homecoming feast? Something humble, yet delicious. A roast, perhaps.”
“I’m not-”
“But you shall be.”
Psmith put on his hat and coat, adjusted his monocle and strode out the door, leaving Mike gaping after him. Psmith hadn’t even asked why Mike wasn’t playing cricket. That was all right, Mike told himself, because chewing over a problem did nothing to solve it. Best to leave things as they were. By the time Psmith returned to their rooms, Mike was already packing.
“We’ll take the last train out,” Psmith said as he dragged his valises out of his closet. “Do assist me, Comrade Jackson. We haven’t much time.”
“I’m leaving my kit,” Mike said, half hoping Psmith would try to persuade him otherwise. He hadn’t had his argument and was keenly feeling the loss.
Psmith nodded his approval. “Sound thinking. You’ll have no use for it.”
“Nobody better ask me to play.” Mike gave Psmith the fish eye. “Because I won’t be able to.”
“It would be the height of boorishness for anyone to suggest such a thing.” He tipped his head at the door. “Shall we make for Shropshire?”
With the exception of a few moments of contemplative staring out the window, Psmith kept up running stream of conversation, listing in excruciating detail the delights of the country. Mike knew those delights perfectly well and said so, but in Psmith’s view, there was nothing to compare to the ecstasy of holing up in Shropshire.
“We shall tramp across the hills and dales, exercising our legs along with our wit, to return to tea and the bosom of the Psmith family,” Psmith droned on. “Did I tell you my Aunt Edith will be with us as well?”
“About five times now,” Mike grumbled. He shifted on the hard wooden seat, wishing Psmith had thought to get first-class tickets.
“She’s a lovely old woman, quite keen on fishing. Have you ever fished, Comrade Jackson?”
“I hate fishing.”
“Then you’ve been. The fish in Shropshire are so eager to be caught they come to the surface and beg for the hook. You’ll not find any finer fishing anywhere in England, I assure you.”
“You told me.”
“It merits repeating. Everything in Shropshire merits repeating.”
To Mike’s dismay, Psmith did just that, right from the beginning and perhaps even before that. Just as Psmith was gaining speed, Mike decided to put a stop to it.
“You haven’t even asked why I’m not playing cricket.”
Psmith drew his monocle from his pocket, fixed it to his eye and peered at Mike as if he were a specimen under glass. Mike squirmed under his regard, wishing he’d never mentioned cricket.
“As you are admirably well accustomed to suffering in silence, unlike myself who readily shares his misfortunes with a sympathetic ear, I assumed you had nothing to say on the subject.” He removed his monocle, polished it with a snowy handkerchief and placed it back in his pocket. “Discourse forth, Comrade Jackson. I shall provide an attentive ear as well as all manner of advice, both practical and frivolous.”
Mike opened his mouth to tell Psmith to mind his own business, but Psmith forestalled him.
“Your newfound hatred of that infernal game puts me in mind of dear Sedleigh, to the point where a tear threatens the eye. Two boys, exiled from their families by way of scurrilous school reports, banded together and took on the world. From that day forth, you and I, Comrade Jackson, became the closest of friends and confidantes, together still.” He paused, greatly moved by the memory of his younger self. “One wonders what has become of Comrade Spiller. I fear for his future as he is not the brightest coin in the jar. Still, he is of strong back and feeble mind, so I’m sure the world has something in mind for him.”
“I don’t want to talk about Spiller. I was telling you-”
“I am aware that Comrade Jellicoe came into his own just recently, having inherited an obscene sum from his great-aunt. He giggled all the way to the bank, I’m told.”
Mike had been somewhat fond of Jellicoe, who, infernal giggling aside, has his uses, but he didn’t want to talk about him, either. He had screwed up his courage to discuss cricket, but it was as if Psmith hadn’t heard him. Psmith continued reminiscing, touching on the lives and probable fortunes of various Sedleigh personalities, none of whom Mike cared a fig.
Before he could interject a word, the train stopped at the Shropshire station. Mike was glad to see it, for it might mean an end, or at least a respite, from Psmith’s chatter. A moment later, Psmith’s father hove into view, rubbing his hands together in glee when he spotted Psmith in the train window. He began yelling something Mike could not hear, and Mike began to think staying in London might have been the thing to do after all.
“Rupert, my boy, so delighted to see you!” Mr. Smith (he did without the P) grabbed his son by the shoulders and shook him like a wet dog. “Your telegram arrived just as I was wishing I’d get one.” He turned to Mike, ready to grab him as well, but Mike took a step backward, just to be safe. “You’ve brought Jackson, too, just as you promised.” His expression turned grave. “I’m sorry to hear about the cricket season, my boy, but when one is past it, it is better to admit defeat than to play on. Embarrassment awaits the man who doesn’t know when enough is enough.”
Mike’s sense of outrage, never far from the surface, bubbled anew. He was not past it; he simply did not want to play. Who was this old man to say he was past it? He marshaled his arguments, ready to defend his considerable skills, but he was too late. Mr. Smith was already ushering them to his car, talking about the roast being prepared for dinner and the fishing excursion planned for the next day.
“There’s to be no cricket; Rupert was firm on that score,” Mr. Smith said as they set off for home. “No one is allowed to mention it in deference to your fragile sensibilities, Jackson. The household has been warned.”
“Fragile?” Mike sputtered in protest. “I’m not-”
“A cry goes round the village,” Psmith said. “Comrade Jackson no longer wishes to indulge in careless frivolity and therefore will not so much as touch a bat, let alone score a century. You will not be bothered with such nonsense. You have my word on that as a Psmith.”
“As a Smith without the ‘P,’ as well,” Mr. Smith said with needless jocularity. “We will take care of you, Jackson. We will shelter you as one of our own.”
Mike glanced back just as the station receded from view, wishing he’d gone straight in and bought a ticket back to London. There was nothing for it now but to go with Psmith and Smith and rot away the cricket season in Shropshire. He told himself he didn’t care, that rotting in one place was all the same as rotting in another. If things got too bad, he could pretend he’d gotten a telegram saying his mother was ill and his presence was needed immediately. That settled, he sat back in his seat and tried to ignore the incessant chattering from the car’s other two occupants.
*****
Mike was not a patient man, and, as such, the antics of Psmith the younger and Smith the elder tried that patience to its limits. He’d been in Shropshire for five days and had not even had the chance to draw an easy breath. Every moment was devoted to one activity or another, from fishing in cold, deep streams with Aunt Edith to tramping through endless fields to being chased by a bull. The latter incident was not Psmith’s fault, Mike had to admit, but he should have known better than to address the beast directly.
Mike had never seen Psmith carry on with such purpose and energy. While Psmith could not be termed a lazy man, he never moved unless he thought such movements were necessary to his own health and well-being. Sprawling about on deck chairs was more to his taste, but it seemed Psmith was possessed of unusual vigor.
“It’s the country air,” Psmith said after they’d returned from yet another outing, this time a church fete in which Psmith had persuaded Mike to help him serve tea and cakes. “It invigorates the mind as well as the spirit.” He consulted a small notebook. “You’d better turn in early tonight, Comrade Jackson. We’ve got a full schedule tomorrow, beginning with the attic. Mother wants some furniture brought down, and I assured her we’d handle the job.”
Psmith’s view of handling a job was limited to his making suggestions while Mike carried them out. He put a hand to the small of his back, already feeling the ache.
Mike thought about appealing to Psmith’s father in hopes the old man could persuade his son to ease up, but in Mr. Smith’s view his son could do no wrong. Every suggestion Psmith made was met with enthusiasm, every lunatic idea considered sound. No help would be found in that quarter. Mrs. Smith was even worse. She showered Psmith with attention and praise, asked after his every need, and beamed at Mike and asked him if didn’t agree with everything Psmith said. Mike found himself nodding and wondering why his own mother didn’t beam at him that way.
*****
A fortnight passed. At least, Mike thought it was a fortnight. It was difficult to tell, what with one day running into the next. He was so tired he could barely keep from nodding off during dinner, and only snapped to attention when Mr. Smith asked if everyone in his family suffered from a delicate constitution.
He began to think that perhaps he’d made a hasty decision regarding cricket. He hadn’t told anyone why he’d not wanted to play; indeed, he was hard-pressed to remember the circumstances under which he’d made that fateful decision. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he recalled some lesser player disparaging his batting, but it might have been another person calling his bowling into question. He began to see that he’d acted rashly, and if he’d only kept his temper he might be playing now instead of pursuing butterflies to add to Mr. Smith’s insect collection.
Mike knew when he was wrong, but like any man, he had a difficult time admitting it. He could see no way to gracefully suggest he return to London, let alone resume playing cricket. In the end, however, the decision was made for him.
Mike and Psmith were just setting out on a long journey to view some ancient church ruins, the point of which trip Mike could not fathom. Who wanted to see a lot of old stones? England was rotten with such sites; one could scarcely avoid tripping over them during the course of an average day. Psmith opened the door to find a messenger with a telegram in hand.
“Message for Mr. Jackson,” the man said, tipping his hat. Psmith gave the man a coin, thanked him profusely for his service and shut the door in his face.
“A missive for you,” Psmith said, handing the envelope to Mike. “Hurry and read it; we’ve a long way to go.”
Mike tore open the envelope. Joy and relief jockeyed for position as Mike read the telegram once, twice and third time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.
“Well?” Psmith adjusted the enormous pack on his back. “What, pray tell, is so important that it delays our labors?”
Mike read:
“Please return at once. Season in jeopardy. Apologies await.
George Bennett”
Here was the answer to Mike’s dilemma. He could go back to the team, his pride intact, and he could leave the dubious pleasures of Shropshire far, far behind him. He handed the telegram to Psmith and tried to look bored.
“Comrade Jackson, you must leave at once. Sooner if possible. One does not leave one’s team to wolves when one can do something about it.” Psmith let his pack drop to the floor. “Now is the time for all men to come to the aid of the party, and we are the men in question.”
“We?” Mike stared at Psmith. “What about the pleasures of Shropshire and all that rot about country air?”
“One does what one must,” Psmith said, assuming a noble expression. “I am loath to leave this sainted place, but duty calls. As my confidential secretary, you should remember that.”
Mr. Smith and his wife took the news in good part, with Mr. Smith telling Mike not to mind if he found his skills were a bit on the rusty side after having been away from the game for so long. Mike bit his tongue and agreed, with Mrs. Smith beaming all round.
They arrived in London late that afternoon. Mike was glad to be in their rooms again, and after a while it seemed liked they’d never left. Tomorrow he’d get hold of Bennett, see what disaster had befallen the team and take up where he’d left off. He had no idea what Psmith would do with himself.
“I shall spend the hours awaiting your return,” he said as he seated himself in his customary position, one leg would around the arm of his easy chair. “It will be quite dull compared to the past fortnight, but I will do my best to keep my mind occupied.”
Mike had no doubt of that. He took up residence in the second easy chair, stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. If he was going to play cricket tomorrow, he needed his rest.
A funny thought popped into his brain just as he was drifting off to sleep. That telegram had arrived just as they’d been ready to set out on their worst adventure yet - a hike of some ten miles followed by climbing in and out ruins followed by another ten-mile trek back to Psmith’s home. Mike’s feet ached just to think about it.
The timing seemed opportune. Mike wondered if there was more to it than serendipity, but his tired mind refused to work it out. He let it go, needing sleep more than he needed to puzzle over the day’s events. Perhaps he’d ask Psmith what he thought. No, that was never a good idea.
Best to let it go, he decided. Yes, best to let it go.
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*
Fandom: Mike & Psmith
Characters: Just like it says on the tin: Mike and Psmith!
Rating and word count: G, about 2,900
Summary: Mike's famous temper rises to the fore as he thumbs his nose at his cricket team. For good measure, he tells Psmith there's nothing he can do about it. But then again, this is Psmith we're talking about.
A/N: Thanks so much to hazeltea for taking a monocle to the story. Written for smallfandomfest.
Mike Jackson wanted a fight. He wanted one badly enough to start something with Psmith but decided against it since Psmith wouldn’t have noticed, anyway. He’d been jawing for the past hour about some such thing, but the story had meandered in so many directions that Mike had gotten lost somewhere between a mangled bicycle and the pocketwatch a thief had nicked from the prime minister.
“Comrade Jackson, do attend.” Psmith arranged one long leg over the arm of his easy chair and cast Mike a dark look. “I’ve been regaling you with the dire events that occurred after lunch, but you’ve not heard a word.”
“Sorry.” Mike wasn’t sorry, but it was easier than explaining. He didn’t know how to explain, at any rate. Why should he? It was no one’s business, least of all Psmith’s.
“A thin apology, if it can be called such.” Psmith wore a pained expression. “But I suppose I must accept it.”
“You’d better.” Mike curled his lip at Psmith. “Because there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Psmith raised an eyebrow. Mike braced himself.
“You appear to be out of sorts, my old friend.”
Mike cleared his throat.
“Under the weather? Off your feed?”
Mike attempted a withering glare.
“That expression wouldn’t frighten a mouse.” Psmith examined the fingernails on his left hand. “Perhaps you should clear the air, Comrade Jackson. Get whatever it is off your chest. You’ll be all the better for it, and then I shall continue my story unimpeded by your foul temper.”
Anything was better than listening to Psmith go on and on about pocketwatches.
“I’ve decided I won’t play cricket this season.”
Psmith clapped his hands in delight. “Excellent decision, my dear old thing, excellent decision. You shall come home with me to the family pile and partake of country life.”
“I can get all the country I want at home.”
Psmith shook his head. “You might get drawn into playing for your village. We can’t have that, not when your nerves are so delicate. No, you shall accompany me, both as my confidential secretary and my dearest friend. I will brook no argument.” He unfolded himself from his chair and got to his feet. “I shall dispatch a telegram this instant so that Mother may prepare for our imminent arrival.”
Mike got up, too. The last thing he needed was to spend the cricket season with Psmith. He wanted to go to his own home where he could sulk to his heart’s content and boss his sisters. Not that they ever listened to him, but that wasn’t the point.
“Look here, Psmith-”
“He who hesitates is lost,” Psmith said. He paused at the door. “What shall we have for our homecoming feast? Something humble, yet delicious. A roast, perhaps.”
“I’m not-”
“But you shall be.”
Psmith put on his hat and coat, adjusted his monocle and strode out the door, leaving Mike gaping after him. Psmith hadn’t even asked why Mike wasn’t playing cricket. That was all right, Mike told himself, because chewing over a problem did nothing to solve it. Best to leave things as they were. By the time Psmith returned to their rooms, Mike was already packing.
“We’ll take the last train out,” Psmith said as he dragged his valises out of his closet. “Do assist me, Comrade Jackson. We haven’t much time.”
“I’m leaving my kit,” Mike said, half hoping Psmith would try to persuade him otherwise. He hadn’t had his argument and was keenly feeling the loss.
Psmith nodded his approval. “Sound thinking. You’ll have no use for it.”
“Nobody better ask me to play.” Mike gave Psmith the fish eye. “Because I won’t be able to.”
“It would be the height of boorishness for anyone to suggest such a thing.” He tipped his head at the door. “Shall we make for Shropshire?”
With the exception of a few moments of contemplative staring out the window, Psmith kept up running stream of conversation, listing in excruciating detail the delights of the country. Mike knew those delights perfectly well and said so, but in Psmith’s view, there was nothing to compare to the ecstasy of holing up in Shropshire.
“We shall tramp across the hills and dales, exercising our legs along with our wit, to return to tea and the bosom of the Psmith family,” Psmith droned on. “Did I tell you my Aunt Edith will be with us as well?”
“About five times now,” Mike grumbled. He shifted on the hard wooden seat, wishing Psmith had thought to get first-class tickets.
“She’s a lovely old woman, quite keen on fishing. Have you ever fished, Comrade Jackson?”
“I hate fishing.”
“Then you’ve been. The fish in Shropshire are so eager to be caught they come to the surface and beg for the hook. You’ll not find any finer fishing anywhere in England, I assure you.”
“You told me.”
“It merits repeating. Everything in Shropshire merits repeating.”
To Mike’s dismay, Psmith did just that, right from the beginning and perhaps even before that. Just as Psmith was gaining speed, Mike decided to put a stop to it.
“You haven’t even asked why I’m not playing cricket.”
Psmith drew his monocle from his pocket, fixed it to his eye and peered at Mike as if he were a specimen under glass. Mike squirmed under his regard, wishing he’d never mentioned cricket.
“As you are admirably well accustomed to suffering in silence, unlike myself who readily shares his misfortunes with a sympathetic ear, I assumed you had nothing to say on the subject.” He removed his monocle, polished it with a snowy handkerchief and placed it back in his pocket. “Discourse forth, Comrade Jackson. I shall provide an attentive ear as well as all manner of advice, both practical and frivolous.”
Mike opened his mouth to tell Psmith to mind his own business, but Psmith forestalled him.
“Your newfound hatred of that infernal game puts me in mind of dear Sedleigh, to the point where a tear threatens the eye. Two boys, exiled from their families by way of scurrilous school reports, banded together and took on the world. From that day forth, you and I, Comrade Jackson, became the closest of friends and confidantes, together still.” He paused, greatly moved by the memory of his younger self. “One wonders what has become of Comrade Spiller. I fear for his future as he is not the brightest coin in the jar. Still, he is of strong back and feeble mind, so I’m sure the world has something in mind for him.”
“I don’t want to talk about Spiller. I was telling you-”
“I am aware that Comrade Jellicoe came into his own just recently, having inherited an obscene sum from his great-aunt. He giggled all the way to the bank, I’m told.”
Mike had been somewhat fond of Jellicoe, who, infernal giggling aside, has his uses, but he didn’t want to talk about him, either. He had screwed up his courage to discuss cricket, but it was as if Psmith hadn’t heard him. Psmith continued reminiscing, touching on the lives and probable fortunes of various Sedleigh personalities, none of whom Mike cared a fig.
Before he could interject a word, the train stopped at the Shropshire station. Mike was glad to see it, for it might mean an end, or at least a respite, from Psmith’s chatter. A moment later, Psmith’s father hove into view, rubbing his hands together in glee when he spotted Psmith in the train window. He began yelling something Mike could not hear, and Mike began to think staying in London might have been the thing to do after all.
“Rupert, my boy, so delighted to see you!” Mr. Smith (he did without the P) grabbed his son by the shoulders and shook him like a wet dog. “Your telegram arrived just as I was wishing I’d get one.” He turned to Mike, ready to grab him as well, but Mike took a step backward, just to be safe. “You’ve brought Jackson, too, just as you promised.” His expression turned grave. “I’m sorry to hear about the cricket season, my boy, but when one is past it, it is better to admit defeat than to play on. Embarrassment awaits the man who doesn’t know when enough is enough.”
Mike’s sense of outrage, never far from the surface, bubbled anew. He was not past it; he simply did not want to play. Who was this old man to say he was past it? He marshaled his arguments, ready to defend his considerable skills, but he was too late. Mr. Smith was already ushering them to his car, talking about the roast being prepared for dinner and the fishing excursion planned for the next day.
“There’s to be no cricket; Rupert was firm on that score,” Mr. Smith said as they set off for home. “No one is allowed to mention it in deference to your fragile sensibilities, Jackson. The household has been warned.”
“Fragile?” Mike sputtered in protest. “I’m not-”
“A cry goes round the village,” Psmith said. “Comrade Jackson no longer wishes to indulge in careless frivolity and therefore will not so much as touch a bat, let alone score a century. You will not be bothered with such nonsense. You have my word on that as a Psmith.”
“As a Smith without the ‘P,’ as well,” Mr. Smith said with needless jocularity. “We will take care of you, Jackson. We will shelter you as one of our own.”
Mike glanced back just as the station receded from view, wishing he’d gone straight in and bought a ticket back to London. There was nothing for it now but to go with Psmith and Smith and rot away the cricket season in Shropshire. He told himself he didn’t care, that rotting in one place was all the same as rotting in another. If things got too bad, he could pretend he’d gotten a telegram saying his mother was ill and his presence was needed immediately. That settled, he sat back in his seat and tried to ignore the incessant chattering from the car’s other two occupants.
*****
Mike was not a patient man, and, as such, the antics of Psmith the younger and Smith the elder tried that patience to its limits. He’d been in Shropshire for five days and had not even had the chance to draw an easy breath. Every moment was devoted to one activity or another, from fishing in cold, deep streams with Aunt Edith to tramping through endless fields to being chased by a bull. The latter incident was not Psmith’s fault, Mike had to admit, but he should have known better than to address the beast directly.
Mike had never seen Psmith carry on with such purpose and energy. While Psmith could not be termed a lazy man, he never moved unless he thought such movements were necessary to his own health and well-being. Sprawling about on deck chairs was more to his taste, but it seemed Psmith was possessed of unusual vigor.
“It’s the country air,” Psmith said after they’d returned from yet another outing, this time a church fete in which Psmith had persuaded Mike to help him serve tea and cakes. “It invigorates the mind as well as the spirit.” He consulted a small notebook. “You’d better turn in early tonight, Comrade Jackson. We’ve got a full schedule tomorrow, beginning with the attic. Mother wants some furniture brought down, and I assured her we’d handle the job.”
Psmith’s view of handling a job was limited to his making suggestions while Mike carried them out. He put a hand to the small of his back, already feeling the ache.
Mike thought about appealing to Psmith’s father in hopes the old man could persuade his son to ease up, but in Mr. Smith’s view his son could do no wrong. Every suggestion Psmith made was met with enthusiasm, every lunatic idea considered sound. No help would be found in that quarter. Mrs. Smith was even worse. She showered Psmith with attention and praise, asked after his every need, and beamed at Mike and asked him if didn’t agree with everything Psmith said. Mike found himself nodding and wondering why his own mother didn’t beam at him that way.
*****
A fortnight passed. At least, Mike thought it was a fortnight. It was difficult to tell, what with one day running into the next. He was so tired he could barely keep from nodding off during dinner, and only snapped to attention when Mr. Smith asked if everyone in his family suffered from a delicate constitution.
He began to think that perhaps he’d made a hasty decision regarding cricket. He hadn’t told anyone why he’d not wanted to play; indeed, he was hard-pressed to remember the circumstances under which he’d made that fateful decision. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he recalled some lesser player disparaging his batting, but it might have been another person calling his bowling into question. He began to see that he’d acted rashly, and if he’d only kept his temper he might be playing now instead of pursuing butterflies to add to Mr. Smith’s insect collection.
Mike knew when he was wrong, but like any man, he had a difficult time admitting it. He could see no way to gracefully suggest he return to London, let alone resume playing cricket. In the end, however, the decision was made for him.
Mike and Psmith were just setting out on a long journey to view some ancient church ruins, the point of which trip Mike could not fathom. Who wanted to see a lot of old stones? England was rotten with such sites; one could scarcely avoid tripping over them during the course of an average day. Psmith opened the door to find a messenger with a telegram in hand.
“Message for Mr. Jackson,” the man said, tipping his hat. Psmith gave the man a coin, thanked him profusely for his service and shut the door in his face.
“A missive for you,” Psmith said, handing the envelope to Mike. “Hurry and read it; we’ve a long way to go.”
Mike tore open the envelope. Joy and relief jockeyed for position as Mike read the telegram once, twice and third time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.
“Well?” Psmith adjusted the enormous pack on his back. “What, pray tell, is so important that it delays our labors?”
Mike read:
“Please return at once. Season in jeopardy. Apologies await.
George Bennett”
Here was the answer to Mike’s dilemma. He could go back to the team, his pride intact, and he could leave the dubious pleasures of Shropshire far, far behind him. He handed the telegram to Psmith and tried to look bored.
“Comrade Jackson, you must leave at once. Sooner if possible. One does not leave one’s team to wolves when one can do something about it.” Psmith let his pack drop to the floor. “Now is the time for all men to come to the aid of the party, and we are the men in question.”
“We?” Mike stared at Psmith. “What about the pleasures of Shropshire and all that rot about country air?”
“One does what one must,” Psmith said, assuming a noble expression. “I am loath to leave this sainted place, but duty calls. As my confidential secretary, you should remember that.”
Mr. Smith and his wife took the news in good part, with Mr. Smith telling Mike not to mind if he found his skills were a bit on the rusty side after having been away from the game for so long. Mike bit his tongue and agreed, with Mrs. Smith beaming all round.
They arrived in London late that afternoon. Mike was glad to be in their rooms again, and after a while it seemed liked they’d never left. Tomorrow he’d get hold of Bennett, see what disaster had befallen the team and take up where he’d left off. He had no idea what Psmith would do with himself.
“I shall spend the hours awaiting your return,” he said as he seated himself in his customary position, one leg would around the arm of his easy chair. “It will be quite dull compared to the past fortnight, but I will do my best to keep my mind occupied.”
Mike had no doubt of that. He took up residence in the second easy chair, stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. If he was going to play cricket tomorrow, he needed his rest.
A funny thought popped into his brain just as he was drifting off to sleep. That telegram had arrived just as they’d been ready to set out on their worst adventure yet - a hike of some ten miles followed by climbing in and out ruins followed by another ten-mile trek back to Psmith’s home. Mike’s feet ached just to think about it.
The timing seemed opportune. Mike wondered if there was more to it than serendipity, but his tired mind refused to work it out. He let it go, needing sleep more than he needed to puzzle over the day’s events. Perhaps he’d ask Psmith what he thought. No, that was never a good idea.
Best to let it go, he decided. Yes, best to let it go.
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*