The morning sunshine beamed brightly as its rays touched the treetops, house roofs, and telephone poles. The golden light shone on the heads of commuters scrambling for their cars, and on children waiting for the bus. The rays peeked into the windows of houses, brightening the lives of those loading plates into the dishwasher. As a cheery little ray of sunshine attempted to fall across the living room carpet of 214, however, it seemed to visibly dim before the gloom of the room’s occupant, and contented itself with creating a pale shadow on the blue carpet.

Becca Worley, the aforementioned gloomy occupant, sighed heavily. Even the plate of hot buttered t. and marmalade brought in by Josephine lacked its usual heartening effect. Absently, she ate two slices and drank a cup of Earl Grey. Pushing the papers on her desk around in a vague sort of fashion, she sighed again.

“Josephine, I’m in a pickle.”

Josephine, entering noiselessly, refilled the teacup. “Indeed, madam? May I ask why?”

“It’s this infernal article. The Powers That Be, in the shape of the Editors, have decreed that I must write an article on P.G. Wodehouse.”

“That would seem to be a happy choice for you, madam. If I’m not mistaken, you were chuckling over one of his volumes only last evening.”

“Yes, of course, I was reading Young Men in Spats, a collection of short stories. “Archibald and the Masses” in particular. I tell you Josephine, Wodehouse is a master. There is not a story in that book but makes you forget dull care, and thank heaven that such a man was permitted to live and write. The picture he draws of Archibald in the pub, being commanded to eat the fat on the steak by an angry member of the martyred protelariat or giving his impression of a hen to the girl he loves… it doesn’t get much better. Then there’s the story of Pongo Twistleton and his Uncle Fred, full of mistaken identities, talking parrots, and young men who jelly eels leaping from behind sofas to kiss girls with faces like dewy rosebuds … have you ever seen someone with a face like a dewy rosebud?

“Not that I can recall, madam, although the girl behind the dry cleaning counter appeared rather glowing when I picked up the clothes. And speaking of which, she gave me this garment.”

Becca gazed at the clothes bag that Josephine brought in. “Yes, of course, that is my new coat. Rather dashing, wouldn’t you say?”

Josephine coughed. “That would be one word for it, perhaps. This – coat – is certainly vivid.”

“It’s turquoise leather. All the fashion, I’m told by those in the know.”

“The question is, what do they know?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Josephine. The coat is marvelous.” Becca took the bag from her, and hung it carefully from the stair rail. “And I’m going to wear it to dinner at the Finleys tonight.” She turned away, ignoring the tremor that ran over Josephine’s face. “I’ll never get to their house, though, if I don’t finish this article!”

“What exactly is the problem madam? Wodehouse is one of your favorite authors. One might assume it would be easy to write about a favorite author.”

“One might assume wrongly, then. Somehow, Josephine, I can’t think of the way to fully convey his charm, his dash, and his wit – if wit is the word I want – in the best way. Who has so lovingly satirized the British upper class as Wodehouse? Where else can you find such characters as that lovable ass Bertie Wooster, who is always being rescued by his manservant Jeeves? Or Madeline Bassett, who believes the stars are God’s daisy chain? Then there’s the Earl of Emsworth, doddering around his castle, caring about little except the health of his precious pig, the Empress of Blandings. Meanwhile, assorted relatives fall in love with chorus girls, or young men with a vocabulary of “Oh, I say!” There are aunts, such as Bertie’s Aunt Dahlia, with a voice like a megaphone, or Lady Constance, who stalks efficiently and ruthlessly through Blandings castle. Or… oh, it’s hopeless. But I must persevere. The Worleys always come through. Leave me for a moment, Josephine, and clear away this toast. I must begin to think with a clear head.”

Thus commanded, Josephine wafted the toast off to the kitchen, while Becca took another refreshing sip of tea, and tried to compose her thoughts. She typed a few sentences on her computer, then read them and frowned. They were too stiff, and stilted. Blast it, how was she ever to finish this? What could she say to make the readers want to jump out of their chairs and find the nearest Wodehouse tome? She was a kind-hearted woman, and sincerely wished that as wide an audience as possible would come to read and appreciate the man’s work. Her own discovery of Wodehouse’s work years earlier had led to many happy hours, following the exploits of Galahad Threepwood and his racy memoirs; the efficient secretary Baxter, scourge of Lord Emsworth’s soul; Roderick Spode; Gussie Fink-Nottle; and Joan Valentine, who found her true love as they sought to steal the same scarab. Though not a golfer herself, she had laughed her way through Wodehouse’s book of golf stories, and learned that indeed there are some mornings when “all nature shouted ‘Fore!’” Here, in this world of slightly dim but nice young men in spats, clear-headed young women, superbly efficient butlers and manservants, cheeky housemaids and footmen, sinister business tycoons, and aunts with spines of iron did she find rest and amusement for her mind and soul. Wodehouse, it seemed to her, had found and created a style of writing and characterization like nothing else. In this cold, cynical world, it was a positive necessity to dip into stories such as his, which always seemed to be infused with sunshine. In short, Wodehouse was a good thing, and she wished to push it along. But how?

When Josephine entered an hour later, she found Becca still staring at a blank computer screen and biting her nails.

“How is the article developing, madam?”

“Oh good grief, Josephine, you can see perfectly well that it isn’t developing at all. I’m drawing an absolute blank. The more I think about it, the worse it gets.”

“If I may say so, madam, perhaps that is the problem. Consider Sidney.”

“Consider what? Now, I admit that it will be embarrassing not to be able to write this article, but I have no intention of running off to Australia. You know how I sunburn.”

“You misunderstand me, madam. I refer to the 16th century poet Philip Sydney. He wrote an exquisite sonnet sequence about Astrophil and Stella, or ‘Starlover and Star.’”

“An astronomer, eh? It’s a wonder he had time to write. Anyway, what did that chap have to say?”

“In one of the sonnets, madam, he notes the difficulty he has in trying to write about his beloved, to truly describe her beauty. He finally resolves to look in his heart and write.”

A smile spread over Becca’s face. “Josephine, I believe you’ve hit it! I’ve been sitting here trying to write something profound and scholarly. In fact, I should simply write from the heart, trying to express why I love his works. I believe that’s it! I shall finish this article after all, and the pride of the Worley name shall be upheld. How can I thank you?”

Josephine paused, then looked over the bag still hanging from the stair bannister. Becca followed her gaze, and sighed. “Very well, Josephine. I know you have doubts about that turquoise leather coat. I assure you, I’m an arresting sight in it, but, if you wish, I shall donate it to Goodwill.”

“Thank you, madam. If I may, I’ll drop it off at the collection site myself.”

“Yes, that would probably be best. Carry on, Josephine.”

Bio:
Julia Whitfield likes so many Wodehouse characters and stories that she can’t pick a favorite one, although she has a soft spot for Lord Emsworth. Last week, she had a revelation – a co-worker had been reminding her of someone for months, and she suddenly realized that he could be Lord Emsworth’s first cousin. This realization has delighted her ever since.