R gave me two books for Christmas. I took the precaution of nominating them, so both are palpable hits.
Jeeves and the Leap of Faith I read first. It is a PGW homage by Ben Schott but really is a comic novel that borrows a cavalcade of Wodehouse’s characters and weaves in a few allusions to Wodehouse works. However, it did make me laugh so passed the Plum Test. There is a great chase scene parodying every James Bond film and some farcical set-ups worthy of Ben Travers (not related to Uncle Tom Travers) and Brian Rix, the 20th century kings of farce.
The other is Ferdinand Mount’s, Kiss Myself Goodbye, a discursive investigation into the identity of his aunt. I have only read superlative reviews, all careful not to reveal too much. I concur, it is an astonishing story. But not wanting to spoil it I will have to write about Ferdy instead.
His memoir, Cold Cream, had a mention here in May last year. Funny that he signs ‘Ferdy’ but he is a modest baronet. If I can just cast back, as beagles sometimes have to do to pick up the scent, I joined a syndicate to fish the Enborne, a trout stream on Sir William Mount’s estate at Wasing in Berkshire. I looked forward to slipping away from the office early on summer evenings and landing plump trout. I was mistaken. I migrated to working for an easy-going British firm to an American firm. Performance was expected and, you might be surprised, delivered; so the fishing rod only came out at weekends. The Enborne, or at least the stretch belonging to Sir William, was not the place for a duffer like me. As you know by now, I’m a nerdy recorder. My fishing book records I caught only one trout weighing twelve ounces on a shrimp nymph on 24th May 1992. The entry mis-spells both Wasing and Enborne. This is the last page as I haven’t entered trips where I caught nothing – a mistake, as they would be interesting too.
You will notice that the tiny tilapia was not caught entirely sportingly in Ethiopia. My ghillie was the Military Attaché at the British embassy and, no doubt, a spook. He revealed his guile when he gave me some ox heart to add to the attractions of my fly. He was a good chap. The water was the colour of a rich mulligatawny soup and tilapia don’t rise to a fly.
Last year I was fortunate to be invited, as a guest of course, to the baronets’ Christmas lunch. It was great fun and, my, don’t baronets let their hair down – well as much as they have. There wasn’t a baronet round the table without a paper hat from crackers but Sir Ferdinand I don’t think was present. He eschews his title, perhaps because he inherited from his cousin when he already had made a name for himself and he doesn’t want to swank.
I met his son, Harry, in Westminster Abbey last year at the presentation of the Wodehouse memorial; a jovial cove. I asked him to make The Oldie, of which he is the editor, crossword more testing. He hasn’t!
Now I’ve gone on too long to even hint at the pleasures I am encountering reading The Many Lives of Aunt Munca. Ferdy writes discursively and it comes as highly recommended as M & S shares.
You gave me a copy of Cold Cream in 2008 when it first appeared and I enjoyed it very much so I will buy a copy of Kiss Myself Goodbye. Cold Cream intrigued me for two reasons. It mentioned lunch with Ferdy’s father at “the Ladder Club in St.James’s where pre-war belles would perch on high stools to show that their legs were as good as ever”. I remember visiting the Ladder Club with my mother and aunt when I must have been about ten but I don’t remember the pre-war belles.
When he arrived at Number 10 as head of Margaret Thatcher’s Policy Unit:
“There was a cough at the door…A Jeeves cough. It was John Vereker, who had been until half an hour earlier the sole member of the Policy Unit. John Vereker was a Vereker of Co. Galway ” not that either of us would have dreamed of mentioning such a thing and only an obsessive genealogist like me would have known it…”.
My great great grandmother was a Vereker so John is a remote cousin. I read this passage to my wife drawing her attention to Ferdy’s self description as an obsessive genealogist “That makes two of you” she commented.