Pigs Have Wings Read Free Page A

Penelope. Penelope Donaldson. I thought you were out for a walk together.’
    ‘Oh, Penny? Yes, we have been strolling hither and thither, chewing the fat. There’s a nice girl, Clarence.’
    ‘Charming.’
    ‘Not only easy on the eye and a conversationalist who holds you spellbound on a wide variety of subjects, but kind-hearted. I happened to express a wish for a whisky -and- soda, and she immediately trotted off to tell Beach to bring me one, to save me trudging to the house.’
    ‘You are going to have a whisky and soda?’
    ‘You follow me like a bloodhound. It will bring the roses back to my cheeks, which is always so desirable, and it will enable me to drink Beach’s health with a hey-nonny-nonny and a hot-cha-cha. It’s his birthday.’
    ‘Beach’s birthday?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘God bless my soul.’
    Lord Emsworth was fumbling in his pocket.
    ‘By the afternoon post, Galahad, I received an extraordinary communication. Most extraordinary. It was one of those picture postcards. It said “Many happy returns, old dear. Love and kisses”, and it was signed Maudie. Now that you tell me it is Beach’s birthday, I am wondering … Yes, as I thought. It was intended for Beach and must have got mixed up with my letters. Look.’
    Gally took the card and scrutinized it through his monocle. On the reverse side were the words:
    Mr Sebastian Beach,
    Blandings Castle,
    Shropshire
    A grave look came into his face.
    ‘We must inquire into this,’ he said. ‘How long has Beach been at the castle? Eighteen years? Nineteen? Well, the exact time is immaterial. The point is that he has been here long enough for me to have grown to regard him as a son, and any son of mine who gets picture postcards of nude Venuses from girls named Maudie has got to do some brisk explaining. We can’t have Sex rearing its ugly head in the butler’s pantry. Hoy, Beach!’
    Sebastian Beach was approaching, his customary measured step rather more measured than usual owing to the fact that he was bearing a tall glass filled to the brim with amber liquid. Beside him tripped a small, slender girl with fair hair who looked as if she might have been a wood nymph the butler had picked up on his way through the grounds. Actually, she was the younger daughter of an American manufacturer of dog biscuits.
    ‘Here come the United States Marines, Gally,’ she said, and Gally, having replied with a good deal of satisfaction that he could see them with the naked eye, took the glass and drank deeply.
    ‘Happy birthday, Beach.’
    ‘Thank you, Mr Galahad.’
    ‘A sip for you, Penny?’
    ‘No, thanks.’
    ‘Clarence?’
    ‘Eh? No, no thank you.’
    ‘Right,’ said Gally, finishing the contents of the glass. ‘And now to approach a painful task. Beach!’
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘Peruse this card.’
    Beach took the postcard. As his gooseberry eyes scanned it, his lips moved the fraction of an inch. He looked like a butler who for two pins, had he not been restrained by the rigid rules of the Butlers’ Guild, might have smiled.
    ‘Well, Beach? We are waiting. Who is this Maudie?’
    ‘My niece, Mr Galahad.’
    ‘That is your story, is it?’
    ‘My brother’s daughter, Mr Galahad. She is what might be termed the Bohemian member of the family. As a young girl she ran away from home and became a barmaid in London.’
    Gally pricked up his ears, like a specialist whose particular subject has come up in the course of conversation. It was as if razor blades had been mentioned in the presence of Mr Gillette.
    ‘A barmaid, eh? Where?’
    ‘At the Criterion, Mr Galahad.’
    ‘I must have known her, then. I knew them all at the Criterion. Though I don’t remember any Maudie Beach.’
    ‘For business purposes she adopted the nom de guerre of Montrose, sir.’
    Gally uttered a glad cry.
    ‘Maudie Montrose? Is that who she was? Good heavens, of course I knew her. Charming girl with blue eyes and hair like a golden bird’s nest. Many is the buttered