Dorothy Sayers - Busman’s Honeymoon

So saying, Mr Puffett turned up his various sleeves, flexed his biceps once or twice, picked up his rods and brushes, which he had laid down in the passage, and asked where he should begin.

‘The sittingroom will be required first,’ said Mr Bunter. ‘In the kitchen I can, for the immediate moment, manage with the oil-stove. This way, Mr Puffett, if you please.’

Mrs Ruddle, who, as far as the Wimseys were concerned, was a new broom, had made a clean and determined sweep of the sittingroom, draping all the uglier pieces of furniture with particular care in dust-sheets, covering the noisy rugs with newspaper, decorating with handsome dunce’s caps two exceptionally rampageous bronze cavaliers which flanked the fireplace on pedestals and were too heavy to move, and tying up in a duster the withered pampas-grass in the painted drain-pipe near the door, for, as she observed, ‘them things do ’old the dust so.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett. He removed his top sweater to display a blue one, spread out his apparatus on the space between the shrouded settles and plunged beneath the sacking that enveloped the chimney-breast. He emerged again, beaming with satisfaction. ‘What did I tell you? Full ’o sut this chimney is. Ain’t bin swep’ for a mort o’ years, I reckon.’

‘We reckon so too,’ said Mr Bunter. ‘We should like to have a word with Mr Noakes on the subject of these chimneys.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Puffett. He thrust his brush up the chimney and screwed a rod to its hinder end. ‘If I was to give you a pound note, Mr Bunter’-the rod jerked upwards and he added another joint-’a pound note for every penny’-he added another joint-’every penny Mr Noakes has paid me’-he added another joint-’or any other practical sweep for that matter’-he added another joint-’in the last ten years or may be more’-he added another joint-’for sweeping of these here chimneys’-he added another joint-’I give you my word, Mr Bunter’-he added another joint and swivelled round on his haunches to deliver his peroration with more emphasis-’you wouldn’t be one ’apenny better off than you are now.’

‘I believe you,’ said Mr Bunter. ‘And the sooner that chimney is clear, the better we shall be pleased.’ He retired into the scullery, where Mrs Ruddle, armed with a hand-bowl, was scooping boiling water from the copper into a large bath-can. ‘You had better leave it to me, Mrs Ruddle, to negotiate the baths round the turn of the stairs. You may follow me with the cans, if you please.’

Returning thus processionally through the sittingroom he was relieved to see only Mr Puffett’s ample base emerging from under the chimney-breast and to hear him utter loud groans and cries of self-encouragement which boomed hollow in the funnel of the brickwork. It is always pleasant to see a fellow-creature toiling still harder than one’s self.

In nothing has the whirligig of time so redressed the balance between the sexes as in this business of getting up in the morning. Woman, when not an adept of the Higher Beauty Culture, has now little to do beyond washing, stepping into a garment or so, and walking downstairs. Man, still slave to the button and the razor, clings to the ancient ceremonial potter and gets himself up by installments. Harriet was knotting her tie before the sound of splashing was heard in the next room. She accordingly classed her new possession as a confirmed potterer and made her way down by what Peter with more exactness than delicacy, had already named the Privy Stair. This led into a narrow passage, containing the modern convenience before-mentioned, a boot-hole and a cupboard with brooms in it, and debouched at length into the scullery and so to the back door.

The garden, at any rate, had been well looked after. Then were cabbages at the back, and celery trenches, also an asparagus bed well strawed up and a number of scientifically pruned apple-trees. There was also a small cold-house sheltering a hardy vine with half a dozen bunches of black grapes on it and a number of half-hardy plants in pots. In front of the house, a good show of dahlias and chrysanthemums and a bed of scarlet salvias lent colour to the sunshine Mr Noakes apparently had some little taste for gardening or at any rate a good gardener; and this was the pleasantest thing yet known of Mr Noakes, thought Harriet. She explored the potting-shed, where the tools were in good order, and found a pair of scissors, armed with which she made an assault upon the long trail of vine-leaves and the rigid bronze sheaves of the chrysanthemums. She grinned a little to find herself thus supplying the statutory ‘feminine touch’ to the household and, looking up, was rewarded with the sight of her husband. He was curled on the sill of the open window, in a dressing-gown, with The Times on his knee and a cigarette between his lips, and was trimming his nails in a thoughtful leisurely way, as though he had world and time enough at his disposal. At the other side of the casement, come from goodness knew where, was a large ginger cat, engaged in thoroughly licking one fore-paw before applying it to the back of its ear. The two sleek animals, delicately self-absorbed, sat on in a mandarin-like calm till the human one, with the restlessness of inferiority, lifted his eyes from his task, caught sight of Harriet and said ‘Hey!’-whereupon the cat rose up, affronted, and leapt out of sight.

‘That,’ said Peter, who had sometimes an uncanny way of echoing one’s own thoughts, ‘is a very dainty, ladylike occupation.’

‘Isn’t it?’ said Harriet. She stood on one leg to inspect the pound or two of garden mould adhering to her stout brogue shoe. ‘A garden is a lovesome thing. God wot.’

‘Her feet beneath her pettitcoat like little mice stole in and out,’ agreed his lordship gravely. ‘Can you tell me, rosy-fingered Aurora, whether the unfortunate person in the room below me is being slowly murdered or only having a fit?’

‘I was beginning to wonder myself,’ said Harriet; for strange, strangled cries were proceeding from the sittingroom. ‘Perhaps I had better go and find out.’

‘Must you go? You improve the scenery so much. I like a landscape with figures… Dear me! what a shocking sound-like Nell Cook under the paving-stone! It seemed to come right up into the room beside me. I am becoming a nervous wreck.’

‘You don’t look it. You look abominably placid and pleased with life.’

‘Well, so I am. But one should not be selfish in one’s happiness. I feel convinced that somewhere about the house there is a fellow-creature in trouble.’

At this point Bunter emerged from the front door, walking backwards across the strip of turf, with eyes cast upward as though seeking a heavenly revelation, and solemnly shook his head, like Lord Burleigh in The Critic .

‘Ain’t we there yet?’ cried the voice of Mrs Ruddle from the window.

‘No,’ said Bunter, returning, ‘we appear to be making no progress at all.’

‘It seems,’ said Peter, ‘that we are expecting a happy event. Parturiunt montes . At any rate, the creation seems to be groaning and travailing together a good deal.’

Harriet got off the flower-bed and scraped the earth her shoes with a garden label. ‘I shall cease to decorate the landscape and go and part of a domestic interior.’

Peter uncoiled himself from the window-sill, took off his dressing-gown and pulled away his blazer from under ginger cat.

‘All that’s the matter with this chimney, Mr Bunter,’ announced Mr Puffett, ‘is, sut.’ Having thus, as it were, come out by the same road as he had gone in, he began to draw his brush from the chimney, unscrewing it with extreme deliberation, rod by rod.

‘So,’ said Mr Bunter, with an inflection of sarcasm lost on Mr Puffett, ‘so we had inferred.’