azdak

nineveh_uk and I are very bad for each other. During a perfectly civilised and sensible discussion over on the Peter Wimsey mailing list about whether Peter had ever seen Bunter's impressions of "the talkies", she observed:

This raises the question of just when Peter has seen Bunter off-duty (other than in the war). Do they go out on the town together?

To which I replied:

I totally think they did! Possibly they ran into each other on an occasion when Peter was utterly inebriated and the Hon Freddy could no longer walk,
and since Bunter had had the evening off and was several over the eight himself, they went to visit some places of disrepute that Bunter happened to
know about.

The next thing I knew, she was writing fic on the bus and sending me snippets, and of course I couldn't help myself, and had to have a go as well, proceeding from the same starting point.



"Wassat?" said Lord Peter Wimsey, his forefinger describing wobbly circles in the air.

"Wha'?" said the Hon. Freddy. "Wha'? Where?"

He slid gently down the lamppost until his rear end was resting on the pavement.

"Over there," said his lordship. "Looks like Bunter. You know, my man. The Admirable Bunter. Put him on a desert island and he'd be king in three days. Can't be, though. 'S Bunter's evenin' off."

"'Tis him, though," pronounced the Hon. Freddy, peering through the gloom. "I say, Flim, I wish you'd call me a taxi. Can't make me legs move at all."

"You're not leavin' me?" said Lord Peter. "The night is but young. Less' all go down the Strand! Have a banaaaaana!"

"No," said Freddy. "No, no, no. Don' wanna sing. Wanna go home. Not feelin' too good, dontcha know?"

"Yes, but look here, Freddles," protested his lordship, "you can' just toddle off an abandon me like a dicsarded- dicsard – tossed off old sock. What is a woman that you forsake her, and the hearth fire and the home acre, to go off in some bloody taxi and coddle yourself with hot milk an' an early night?"

"Stop quotin' poetry, you ass, an' call me a taxi."

"I would, Freddy, I would, seein' as you're in such dire strait's an' all, only I can' see any taxis for miles around. Iss not a part of Town where you find taxis, is it? We're poor little lambs who've lost their way! Baaaa!"

The Hon. Freddy, who was feeling genuinely unwell, might have committed an act of violence serious enough to have him banged up for several decades, had not a voice at that moment said, "May I be of assistance, my lord?"

"Bunter!" said Peter. "It is you! Well, bless my soul. What're you doin' in this part of town? On second thoughts, don't answer that question. Jus' get Mr Arbuthnot here a taxi. He wants to go home." This last was pronounced with a withering scorn that would have stricken a lesser man than the Hon. Freddy to the core.

"Does you lordship wish me to summon a further cab?" said Bunter, having poured Mr Arbuthnot into one such vehicle and watched it drive off. "Whilst it is a pleasant night for as walk, Piccadilly is perhaps rather distant, under the circumstances."

"Don' wanna go home," said Lord Peter irritably. "Home's empty. An' iss dark when all the lights are out. Wanna go somewhere where there're people. Where're you goin', Bunter?"

There was a perceptible hesitation before his manservant answered, but Lord Peter entirely failed to perceive it.

"I was on my way to visit my mother, my lord."

"Splendid!" enthused his lordship. "Charitable visit to lonely old ladies, jus' what the doctor ordered. Come on, Bunter, where's the old bird live?"

"Ah, this way, my lord. If your lordship would perhaps allow me to shift your left arm slightly further round my shoulder, I believe there would be less risk of your lordship's succumbing to the forces of gravity."

"Ver' good, Bunter, ver' good. Carry on. You know the way, eh?"

"Yes, my lord. I have been visiting my mother for many years now."

They passed down an alley, against whose dinginess an assortment of colourfully dressed young women in ruffles and feathers stood out like veritable birds of paradise. Lord Peter raised his voice to address them.

"You meaner beauties of the night
That poorly satisfy our eyes,
More by your numbers than your light,
You common people of the skies,
Where are you when the moon shall –"

"'Ere!" said a voice. "'Oo are you callin' common? You've got a cheek, you' ave, comin' down 'ere and – oh!" it continued, in quite different tones. "Why it's you, Merv. On your way to see us, were you? Oo's that toff you've got with you?"

"This," said Bunter, in an accent that was somehow less civilised than the tones Lord Peter was accustomed to hearing from him, "is Lord Peter Wimsey, and I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head in his lordship's presence."

"All right, all right, keep your 'air on. I was only askin'. A cat may look at a king, you know."

"Assolutely," Wimsey agreed. "You assolutely may look at me. And I daresay I may return the compliment. Only it's so dark out here I can' seem to see prop'ly. Bunter, you appear to know this young lady. What say we accompany her through that doorway she's standin' in? There's music goin' on in there – no, don' deny it, I can hear it - an' I daresay there'll be something drinkable, an' we can carouse the night away, an' I won' have to go home till daylight."

"Yeah, come on, Merv," said the young lady. "It'll be a laugh. I won't let anything happen to yer proterjee, I promise."

Bunter glanced along the street with a degree of irresolution, possibly wondering how long his aged mother would be prepared to wait for her errant son. But all he said was, "I am, as ever, at your lordship's service."