A Corking Evening
December, 1963
All day today (said Antrobus), I have been addressing Christmas cards, an occupation both melancholy and exhilarating; so many of us have gone leaving no address. They have become "Bag Room Please Forward," so to speak. Some are Far Flung, some Less Far Flung, some Flung Out Altogether, like poor Toby. It is a season which sets one to wondering where Diplomatic Dips go when they die, old man; do they know that they can't take it with them, or is there perhaps a branch of Coutts' in Heaven which will take postdated checks? And if they live on as ghosts, what sort of ghosts? Is there a diplomatic limbo — perhaps some subfusc department of the UN where they are condemned perpetually to brood over such recondite subjects as the fishing rights of little tufted Papuans? Ah me! But perhaps it would be more like some twilit registry where a man might yet sit down to a game of cooncan with a personable cipherine....
Yes, as I riffled my address book so many forgotten faces drifted across my vision. Who will ever tell their stories? Not I. What has become of Monksilver and Blackdimple — those two scheming Jesuits? What of "Tumbril" Goddard who believed in the Soviet way of life until he tried kvass? What of old "Tourniquet" Matthews and "Smegma" Schmidt, the Polish avalanche? If ever the secret history of the Office is written, their names will be blazoned abroad. Some have never had their due — like poor little Reggie and Mercy Mucus, the British Council couple. They died in the execution of their duty, eaten by wolves. Despite the falling barometer they tried to cross a frozen lake bearing a sack full of Collins' Clear Type Shakespeares; they were heading for some remote and flyblown khan where their eager clientele of swineherds waited patiently, eager to ingest all this foreign lore. In vain! In vain!
Then my eye fell upon the name of Dovebasket, and forgotten scenes thronged back, one more painful than the next. I remembered, for example, the age of emulation — I have often remarked how emulous heads of Missions can be. That winter it was champagne. Several old European cellars had been up for sale and (concluded on page 213) Corking Evening (continued from page 147) those who had not overspent on their frais had cried snap, among them Polk-Mowbray. He, was at that time, going through a difficult period. He had become much enamored of young Sabina Briganza, daughter of an Italian colleague; mind you, all this in a perfectly proper and avuncular way. When she announced her engagement, he was so pleased that he decided to throw a party for the event which would both celebrate her beauty and allow him to show off his champagne. Though often misguided, he was a good man at heart. But he had offended Dovebasket. And Dovebasket harbored a Grave Grudge. He decided to "touch up," or as he put it, "to excite" Polk-Mowbray's cherished cases of Pommery. With a blowtorch in hand, and clad in a steelworker's mask, he prowled the cellars like a figure from Greek tragedy, warming the stuff up and loosening the wires. The result was unforeseen, but satisfying from his point of view. The banqueting room was shaken by dull explosions; some of the bottles went off like Mills bombs, others threw out parabolas of foam. I saw Drage holding one of these spouting bottles up with the astonished look of a man whose umbrella has blown inside out. Worst of all, the Briganza child received a black eye from a cork.
The failure of this party and the fury of the parents all but unhinged Polk-Mowbray; he took to locking himself up, talking to himself, and even to starving a bit. It got to such a pitch that he even started sleepwalking. One morning Drage saw him in the light of a dim dawn, walking out of the Embassy and into the road clad in the blue nightshirt he always wore (with the Royal Arms embroidered on it). It was horrifying. There was our Head of Mission crossing the main road in his tasseled bedcap, hands outstretched, lips moving. Drage sped after him, Bible in hand. He tried to wake him by talking to him, but in vain. He dared not actually shake him for the person of a Plenipotentiary Extraordinary is sacred and can be touched, pulled or pushed only by someone of equal rank. Drage was at his wit's end: he even read bits of the Gospel loudly to his chief, but to no purpose. All he heard was the muttered whisper: "I have come to apologize." They were nearly run down by an early-morning tram full of workmen who cheered them. Then, with increasing horror, Drage saw Polk-Mowbray turn into the gate of the Italian Mission and start climbing the ivy toward the second floor where the unfortunate Briganza girl slept. Now the situation was saved only by an extraordinary coincidence.
Drage grabbed one ankle and yelled for help. And De Mandeville, who had been on a diet that week and had been limiting himself to a glass of early-morning dew which he gathered himself from the Embassy grass, heard him, and glass in hand, bounded to the rescue across the road. Less intimidated by Polk-Mowbray's rank than the butler, he sacrificed the dew he had gathered by pouring it down his Ambassador's back. Polk-Mowbray awoke with a start and fell, bringing down most of the trellis with him. There was a moment of agonizing reappraisal as the three of them sprawled among the flower beds. Then Polk-Mowbray realized where he was, though he knew not quite how. They rushed, they ran, they galloped back to the safety of the Mission. That morning, Drage served them an early breakfast in the buttery and Polk-Mowbray swore De Mandeville to secrecy; he also told him that he was putting him up for the lifesaving medal — a cherished decoration normally given only to people who rescue dogs from wells. "Furthermore," he added, for he knew how to do the handsome thing, "I want to apologize for making you waste your dew. I know it is jolly hard work gathering it." De Mandeville was deeply touched, and replied: "Not at all, sir. There is plenty more where it came from." Upon which amiable exchange, the incident was closed.
Like what you see? Upgrade your access to finish reading.
- Access all member-only articles from the Playboy archive
- Join member-only Playmate meetups and events
- Priority status across Playboy’s digital ecosystem
- $25 credit to spend in the Playboy Club
- Unlock BTS content from Playboy photoshoots
- 15% discount on Playboy merch and apparel