Stiff Upper Lip (5 page)

I said no more. Seven days later a disgraceful scene took place on the platform at Venice. The bees, maddened by their solitude in the bag, broke out and stormed into the first-class carriage where Fothergill the courier was eating a ham sandwich. They stung him. He, poor fellow, was attached by a padlock to the sack and could not free himself in time. The next thing was the spectacle of the F.O.'s senior courier running howling across the town waving a bag out of which poured bees and confidential reports in ever increasing quantities. The other couriers, in a vain attempt to help followed him in a sort of demonic paper-chase which only ended at St. Marks, where Fothergill took sanctuary behind the altar. Here the darkness foxed the bees and they turned their attention to the priests. And our mail? Old man, it was all at the bottom of the Grand Canal. The consul general was forced to set out with a fleet of gondolas to rescue it before it fell into Unauthorized Hands. You can imagine what a scandal. Fothergill arrived beeless and bagless and under a threat of Excommunication. I thought this would cure Polk-Mowbray. Not a bit. The next lot were sent out by air in an airtight container and Drage was sent to meet them at the airport. A hive had been rigged up in the garage and Polk-Mowbray walked about the Residence in his veil waiting for his blasted bees with feverish professional impatience. At last the moment came. He knew just how to tip them out, and so on. But the bees took violent exception to the hive and within a matter of seconds were darkening the sky. They flew round and round in a desultory fashion at first and then with a roar flew into a drainpipe and emerged in the Chancery where they settled in the old tin stove by the bookcase. For a while everyone was on guard but the little creatures were quite well behaved. “Live and let live,” cried Polk-Mowbray sucking his thumb. (He had been stung.) “If the brutes want to live here we shall respect their wishes.” “I thought it a bit hard on the junior secretaries but what could I say?

But somewhat to my surprise the bees gave no trouble whatsoever; indeed as time went on their subdued murmuring helped rather than hindered the composition of despatches. Polk-Mowbray rather lost interest in them: from time to time he would put on his veil and peer up the stove-pipe, calling upon them to be good boys and come out for a fly round, but much to everyone's relief they ignored him. Gradually nobody thought of them at all. But alas! This was not to be the end of the story. When the bees finally did emerge they created unparalleled havoc. It was all due to a new secretary, Sidney Trampelvis, who had been insufficiently briefed, and who, on a whim, filled the stove with old betting slips he no longer needed and blithely set them alight. Now at this time there was one of those Ineffably Delicate Conferences taking place in the committee-room, presided over by no less a personage than Lord Valerian—you know, the Treasury chap. It was all about a trade pact—I must not reveal the details. Now this fellow Valerian—rather a bounder I thought—for some reason awed Polk-Mowbray. I don't know why. Perhaps he had highly placed relations in the F.O. Perhaps it was his enormous beard which hung down like a fire curtain and only parted occasionally when he moved to reveal a strip of O.E. tie. Typical of course. The rumour was that he used to wear his O.E. tie in bed, over his pyjama jacket. Well, we Wykehamists can only raise a lofty eyebrow over this sort of gossip—which by the way we never repeat. Well, there we all were in solemn conclave when there arose a confused shouting from the Chancery where Trampelvis was receiving the first thrust, so to speak. There followed a moment of silence during which Valerian cleared his throat and was about to launch himself again, and then there came a tremendous hum followed by the sound of running feet. I did not know Drage was capable of such a turn of speed. Into the room he bounded—perhaps with some vague idea of saving his Chief, perhaps of issuing a general gale warning. But it was too late. They were upon us in a compact and lethal cloud, flying very low and with stings at the ready. The confusion was indescribable. Have you ever seen
bees
on a fighter sweep, old boy? Ever felt them crawling up your trousers, down your collar, into your waistcoat? One would have to have nerves of steel not to shriek aloud. To judge by the noises we started making it would be clear that diplomatic nerves are made not so much of steel as of raffia. People began beating themselves like old carpets. Polk-Mowbray after one plaintive cry of, “My bees,” seized a poker and started behaving like Don Quixote with a set of particularly irritating windmills. Drage lapsed into Welsh religious verse punctuated by snarls and a sort of involuntary pole-jumping. I hid myself in the curtains and extinguished the bees as hard as I could. But the awful thing was that the Queen (I imagine it was her) made a bee-line (to coin a metaphor) for the Drury Lane beard of Lord Valerian who as yet had not fully grasped the situation. He looked down with ever-growing horror to find them swarming blithely in it, with the obvious intention of setting up house there. He was too paralysed to move. (I think personally that he used to spray his beard with Eau de Portugal before committee meetings and this must have attracted the Queen.) Mind you this all happened in a flash. Polk-Mowbray, what with guilt and solicitude for Valerian, was almost beside himself; no sacrifice, he felt, was too great to save the day. In a flash of gallantry he seized the garden shears which had been lying on the mantelpiece (pitiful relic of the days when he played with string) and with a manful though ragged snip … divested the Chairman of both beard and O.E. tie at one and the same stroke … I cannot say it improved Valerian's temper any more than his appearance—Polk-Mowbray had sliced rather badly. But there it was. Walking wounded had to retire to the buttery for a Witch Hazel compress. The bees, having done their worst, flew out of the window and into the Ministry of Foreign Affairs across the road. I did not wait to see the sequel. I was so grateful for emerging from this business unscathed that I tip-toed back to my office and rang down to the buttery. I don't mind admitting that I ordered a Scotch and Soda, and a stiffer one than usual. I would even admit (under pressure, and
sotto voce)
that you might have seen a faint, fugitive smile graven upon my lips. I was not entirely displeased, old man, with Polk-Mowbray's method of dealing with an O.E. tie. In my view it was the only one. Was it, I wondered, too much to hope that it might become More General?

Polk-Mowbray got a terrific electric shock

6

The Unspeakable Attaché

It was (said Antrobus) a bit before your time—mercifully for you. The creature was posted just before you arrived. Now of this fellow, Trevor Dovebasket (he was then assistant Military Attache), I have only this to say: it was clear that the youth was in league with the Devil. Some fearful Faustian compact had taken place. You could tell from his appearance—eyebrows meeting in the middle. It was clear from the way that he bit his nails that he read
Popular Mechanics
in secret. More, his office was always full of meccano and string. He was always tampering with electrical circuits, fuses, and using that beastly sticky stuff and so on. A really vicious streak. One day Polk-Mowbray got a terrific electric shock off his telephone. Then some Juliets exploded under the noses of the Rotary Club causing grave loss of morale. It was never proved, of course, but I knew.… Something told me it was Dove-basket.

He was in league with the Devil on one side and De Mandeville on the other. Together they organized a form of beetle-racing in the Chancery. Beetles with electromagnets tied to their tails, if you please. Imagine my concern. The beetles were named after us. They made a book and encouraged betting wholesale. Dolly Pusey, the new cipherine, gambled away a year's unearned increments and most of the fruits of the F.O. Pension Scheme in a matter of minutes. When I found out I had no option but to return her to London. But that was not all.…

They invented an electric train for serving food and sold the idea to Drage as a labour-saving device. The train ran on to the dining-table and stopped before the diners with a plate on each carriage. On the face of it it seemed ingenious. It was worked by buttons from Polk-Mowbray's place. Mind you, I had my doubts. But as there was an Electrical Trades Union Conference and we had some of its members to lunch Polk-Mowbray (who had a childish streak) thought he would impress them with his little toy. You have guessed? It was not until the
Bombe Surprise
was loaded that the machinery went wrong. There was a frightful accident, the train was derailed into our laps, and the
Bombe
(a marvellous creation on which Drage had spent all night) lived up to its name … De Mandeville got Number One Field Punishment. He had to feed the goldfish in the Residence for a month.

Well, this is only to show you what I was up against with this fellow Dovebasket. At this time the Corps was going through one of its Little Phases. Dips are a somewhat emulous tribe as you know, always trying to vie with one another. That winter it was dogs. The Hungarians led off. Their Labour Attaché suddenly appeared with some colossal greyhounds from the Steppes. He allowed himself to be towed about in public by them wearing a somewhat fanciful air. At once everyone got emulous. In a matter of weeks the dog market was booming. Everyone had dogs of various sizes and shapes: huge ones, little ones, squashed-looking ones and ones that looked like cold rissoles. The French went in for topiary jobs, the Italians for the concertina shape, the British for those great torpid brutes which carry Hennessy's Brandy round in artful little barrels. I forget their names. They rescue people from snowdrifts by licking their faces and dealing out a much-needed tot at the right time. Horrible. The Albanians produced some green-fanged sheepdogs so fierce that they had to be kept tied to trees in the grounds and fed by a system of underarm bowling until a shepherd was found who understood their natures. He took them for walks on a length of steel hawser.

Well, this was all very well, had not Polk-Mowbray been fired by the idea of a Diplomatic Dog-Show. He was always easily led and this fellow Dovebasket fired him with thoughts of winning a first prize in the barrel-pushing class. I viewed the whole thing with concern, but I could not guess from which quarter the blow might fall. Anyway, they worked out a splendid dog-show at which every Mission would win the first prize of its class and all our honours be simultaneously saved. Rosettes, buttons, marking-cards—everything was thought out. A firm of dog-biscuit manufacturers was persuaded to put up some rather depressing prizes in the form of dog-statuettes in pressed steel which De Mandeville painted with gold leaf to make look more expensive. The Town Hall was engaged for the
venue
and the press was fed with a great deal of advance information in the form of newsflashes which it did not use. Speeches were carefully worked up containing the requisite number of Tactful Phrases about Everything. The ladies of the Corps decided to make it a contest of dresses as well as dogs. Many were the clever little creations run up overnight, many the models flown from Paris. The air was full of excitement. It was the first Spring engagement. Sewing machines hummed night and day. The Minister For Interior was invited to give away the prizes—there was one for each Chief Of Mission. Polk-Mowbray went through agonies of excitement practising his Few Words Of Thanks in the Residence pier-glass. Altogether it looked like a pleasurable and harmonious afternoon. But … there was a look in Dovebasket's eye I misliked. Could it be, I wondered, that the fellow was Up To Something? One never knew. I confess that there was a still small voice within me which whispered “Something is bound to give” as I studied the (I must say) very creditable lay-out of the Town Hall, gay with the flags of every nation and made brilliant by the courtly presence of Our Ladies in their prettiest frocks. The day was fine and sunny. The dogs were extremely even tempered, wagging their grotesque stumps and coloured ribbons as the solemn group of judges circulated marking down points on their embossed cards. Cocktails were coming up thick and fast.

It was at this point that I distinctly heard De Mandeville say in the hoarse undertone. “Let her go now, Dovie.” Together the two retreated to a high stand above the
mêlée
while a look of intense interest came over their faces. Dovebasket appeared to have a cold and put a handkerchief to his face. He appeared to blow his nose. Suddenly a quiver of anguish appeared to run through the canine population like a wind in corn. The Albanian sheep-dogs gave one long quivering howl like an Alban Berg violin solo and then … all hell broke loose. These peaceable amiable dogs suddenly turned upon their masters and the judges, seething with an inexplicable rage. They turned upon one another. Cries and tumult arose. Stands were overturned. The sheep dogs went into action against the Labradors, the Airedales against the Fox terriers. Owners were dragged hither and thither by their leashes which got inextricably mixed up with chairs and legs and dips. Bites of all sizes and depths were registered. Blood began to flow, tempers to rise. The Russians began to shake their fists. The Minister was bitten in his … seat of office. Polk-Mowbray lost a spat to a shaggy mixed-up Borzoi. Lap-dogs squealed like piccolos, the bigger brutes bayed, the diplomats moaned, positively moaned.