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“I say, Jeeves!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Will you come with me on the river float, old fruit?”
My back straightened; I paused in my habitual dusting of the mantelpiece. This was a yearly occurrence, my master asking me along on this particular excursion. Every year I declined, though it had become harder and harder to say no over the years as my secret love for him grew. “Sir, I don’t think—”
“ Jeeves ,” he interrupted with a pout. “I got us matching swimsuits.”
“You—You what, sir?”
“Hang on a mo’.”
Mr. Wooster disappeared into the master bedroom for a few seconds before reappearing with a heap of fabric in his arms. He tossed one article to me and held the other one aloft. They both appeared to be old fashioned men’s swimsuits, the kind from the early twentieth century that covered from one’s shoulders all the way down to one’s mid-thigh. His was a narrow-striped yellow and white sleeveless number, while mine bore wide blue and white stripes with short, capped sleeves.
“Thought these might suit your old-fashioned sensibilities, what?” His grin was brighter than a camera flash.
“Sir, I…” I love you, was what I wanted to say. “I must say I’m rather touched.”
“Really? Does that mean you’ll come with me?”
I sighed resolutely, though not without mirth. “I don’t think I could say no in these circumstances, sir.”
“Spiffing! We’ll have to find you a floaty, and, oh, I’d best order you a phone protector because I just know you’re going to want to take pictures, and…”
Mr. Wooster continued in the same fashion, his voice drifting away as he wandered back into the master bedroom. I spent the rest of the afternoon wondering what on Earth I’d gotten myself into.
The river float was weeks away, but it seemed to be the only thing on the young master's mind. He called to me from the sitting room and I found him hunched over his MacBook on the Chesterfield. "Old Reliable gave its final gasp last year after it was punctured by a tree root, so I'm in search of a new floaty. You'll need to pick one out for yourself as well, of course. Bit of a rite of passage, this."
"Very good, sir."
"Here, sit with me, will you? I've got Amazon pulled up."
I perched myself at a respectable distance next to Mr. Wooster and glanced at his computer screen.
"I'm afraid that floats of this kind are meant to be used solely in swimming pools, sir."
"Pah!" He said with a dismissive gesture. "Where's the fun in that? Look, this one's a lobster."
"If I may, sir?"
"Yes, Jeeves?"
"I think what you are looking for, sir, is something both fun and practical. This lobster does not look like something that one would be comfortable lounging on for upwards of three hours."
"I suppose you're right. Let's see… Ooh, fancy yourself atop a peacock, Jeeves?"
"I'm afraid that one would require its rider to hold onto the handles on the neck throughout the duration, making it quite tiresome to ride."
"A most clever observation, old thing. Here, I'll scroll, and you just holler if you see one that catches your fancy."
Mr. Wooster scrolled, and I was impressed by the sheer number of options. There were flotation devices in the shapes of fruits and vegetables, several animals both real and imaginary, along with other novelty items such as a large bottle of beer. After a while I touched his arm lightly to stop him. "That one, sir. The swan. See how it offers a large surface upon which to recline, as well as a pocket for one's beverage of choice, while also being rather grand and majestic?"
Mr. Wooster turned to me with an enormous grin. "That's the spirit, my man!" He clicked on the item and added it to his cart.
"Sir, I am perfectly capable of purchasing the swan of my own accord."
"Ah, but you see, it's in my cart already. No sense taking it back out."
My lips twitched. "If you insist, sir."
"Jolly good, now we just need to find one for—" He paused with a dramatic gasp. "JEEVES, LOOK."
I looked. The flotation device in question was one in the shape of a tanned gentleman, naked save for his sunglasses and a bright red Speedo covering an exaggerated bulge. His right hand was curled to form a cup holder. I nearly had to bite my lip to keep from reacting to it as I would an offensive necktie.
"It's perfect," Mr. Wooster whispered, his blue eyes twinkling with delight.
"It is, if I may say so, rather…" I searched for the appropriate word. "Crass, sir."
He gave me an evil grin before clicking add to cart and completing his checkout.
The day of the annual river float arrived, a balmy and perfectly warm July morning. I packed a dry bag full of all the essentials—our swimsuits, a change of clothes for each of us, beach towels, sunblock, waterproof cell phone protectors, a portable air pump, cigarettes, a waterproof lighter, a plastic waste bag, wallets and keys. I packed a separate container with snacks—biscuits and crisps for Mr. Wooster, and a small charcuterie board for myself. I also procured several drinks that would go in the floating cooler: bottles of water, iced tea, and a few canned cocktails. I had considered bringing a well-loved paperback for the journey, but resolved myself to reading on my phone.
The float started at a small lake, then traversed a shallow river until it reached a larger lake. Our party, which consisted of several members of the Drones Club and some of their respective partners, met up at the starting point and then corralled most of the cars to the end point, which was several hours away by river but only twenty minutes away by car. The flotilla was due to depart by ten a.m., but by the time the cars had been corralled, the party members all accounted for, the cooler filled, and all the floats inflated, it was nearly noon.
We took turns changing into our swimsuits in the small outhouse near the river's mouth. I helped Mr. Wooster apply sunblock to the back of his neck, and he returned the favor. Suddenly I felt a cool wetness at my back, and turned to see Mr. Little pointing a small water pistol in my direction. I levied a stern look at him, and he lowered his arm.
“Bingo, you’d better not shoot Jeeves with that or you might find yourself at the bottom of the river,” said Mr. Wooster. I gave him a silent nod in thanks.
With everyone ready to go and the flotilla assembled, it was time for one last photograph before our departure. I was prepared to take the picture myself, but a kind passerby offered to take it so that I could be included. There was Mr. Wooster and his ridiculous man-shaped float, and me with my majestic swan. Ms. Travers was dressed as a mermaid, complete with a fin that she would apply after takeoff, and her float was in the shape of a giant clamshell. To no one’s surprise Mr. Fink-Nottle had a float in the shape of a newt. Mr. Glossop’s float was a shark, Lord Chuffnell’s was a dragon, and Mr. Little’s was in the shape of a tennis racket. Mr. Fittleworth and Ms. Hopwood shared a large round innertube.
The nine of us posed with our respective floats, and Mr. Wooster placed his arm around my shoulders. I did not manage to school my features into a smile for the camera, surprised as I was. He lingered there for a moment even as the gentleman who offered to take the picture handed my cell phone back to me, and I felt a warmth separate from the summer heat blossoming in my skin where he touched me.
“Right ho!” Mr. Wooster exclaimed as he left my side, and I felt the loss most distinctly. “Are we all ready for takeoff? Who’s going to lead our merry band of misfits?”
“We should go first, we’ve got paddles,” said Ms. Hopwood.
The area where the lake and river met was rather shallow, so it was relatively easy for most of us to get our floats in the water and get them mounted. Mr. Wooster seemed to be struggling, however.
“I say,” said Mr. Wooster, pushing down on his man-shaped float with both hands as he tried to throw one leg over it. “Old Juan here is not cooperating.”
“Do you require assistance, sir?”
“That would be topping, old thing.”
I disembarked from my swan to assist the young master. I held “Juan” steady so that he could be mounted safely, and soon Mr. Wooster was lounging comfortably. I was the last to join the flotilla, and then we were off. A long nylon rope connected all of us along with the floating cooler.
The river flowed slowly but steadily, and I found myself drifting most pleasantly. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and I couldn’t have been more content.
“Jeeves, what have you brought along for drinks?” Mr. Wooster asked.
I pulled on the rope until the floating cooler was within reach. “An assortment, sir. We have bottled water, iced tea, and I found this canned cocktail for you. I believe there is a strawberry daiquiri flavor and a mojito flavor.”
“I brought a few beers, too, Bertie,” called Mr. Little. “I think Gussie brought sparkling water or somesuch.”
“That’s mine!” Mr. Fink-Nottle shouted. “I’m not sharing.”
“I’ll have the strawberry whatsit, Jeeves,” said Mr. Wooster. “Since I can’t have the standard b. and s. at the moment.”
“Very good, sir,” I said, pulling out the cocktail and paddling over to Mr. Wooster until I could hand it to him. “Would you like any snacks at this juncture?”
“Not just yet, I think,” he answered, popping the can open and taking a sip. “I say, that’s rather corking. Try some, Jeeves.”
The offer of an indirect kiss was tempting, but I declined.
“Does anyone want an edible?” called Ms. Travers from her giant clamshell.
“Me!” said Lord Chuffnell.
Drinks and drugs were passed around, and I took an iced tea for myself. I settled in with Richard Siken’s Crush on my Kindle app, my cell phone safely tucked inside a waterproof case. I was quickly engrossed; I had read this particular collection of poetry once before, but it had been many years ago. As I read these personal accounts of queer longing and heartbreak, I felt pangs of sympathy for the author, and meditated on some of my own struggles. I glanced at Mr. Wooster several paces ahead of me; he was reclined on his float, straw boater hat perched over his face.
I had been harboring a secret love for my employer for some years now, nearly as long as I had been in his service. Of course, our sexual compatibility was not the issue; were we not bound by contract and the laws of propriety, I would have wooed him ages ago. My resolve had begun to crack somewhat recently, however; for whatever reason, it was becoming harder and harder to keep my feelings to myself. I had nearly kissed him around Christmas time due to some inconveniently placed mistletoe.
I stopped pining for the moment and delved back into my book. I was half way through when disaster struck.
“Jeeves, look out!”
I don’t know who called out to me, because by the time I had registered the outburst I was already underwater. Now, I am not an experienced swimmer; I never had formal lessons, and opportunities to learn growing up were few and far between. I could make it from one end of a pool to the other, and I could float in still water, but more advanced techniques were beyond my capabilities.
In hindsight, I believe what happened is that my swan collided with some sort of large branch, depositing myself and my belongings into an uncharacteristically deep section of the river. The bottom of the river was pure muck, sucking my feet in like quicksand. There were also a number of slippery downed logs and branches in the water that made my escape quite difficult. My memory falters in the chaos and fear that took hold of my brain in that moment.
At some point I found myself on a sandy outcropping, clutching Mr. Wooster’s arm as I coughed and sputtered.
“Are you all right, old thing?” Mr. Wooster asked in the gentlest tone of voice I had ever heard him speak. He was soaked from head to toe, water dripping into his eyes, his boater hat on the ground.
Once I could breathe properly again I said, “Sir, did you… did you save me?”
“Of course I did, Jeeves. You nearly drowned.”
An enormous impulse came over me in that moment, and for once in my life I gave in. I hugged him, wrapping my arms tightly around his shoulders and pulling him against my chest. I felt him inhale, then his arms encircled my waist. “Thank you,” I said softly against the shell of his ear. He shivered. “Are you cold, sir?”
“No, Jeeves,” he said quietly, drawing back just enough to look me in the eyes. His were shining. “I—” He glanced down at my lips, then licked his own. My heart beat a fierce rhythm inside my chest.
“Found your phone!” Mr. Little exclaimed, startling both of us. We drew apart, and I swallowed thickly.
“Thank you, Mr. Little,” I said, taking the item from him. The waterproof case seemed to have done its job.
“Cheers, Bingo,” said Mr. Wooster, clapping Mr. Little on the shoulder. “Jeeves, what else are you missing?”
“The dry bag, sir, and the snacks.” I glanced around, looking for my swan. Mr. Fink-Nottle had righted it and pulled it onto the shore. “It appears my beverage is still in its holder.”
Mr. Fink-Nottle parked his newt and waded back into the water.
“Gussie, I think I see the bag,” said Mr. Little. “It’s snagged on that log there.”
Mr. Fink-Nottle retrieved the bag and returned to shore. The bag had indeed kept its contents dry as promised, to my utmost relief. The snack box was another matter. After some searching Mr. Wooster, Mr. Little and Mr. Fink-Nottle managed to locate the box, and I opened it to find its contents waterlogged. Mr. Wooster’s packaged biscuits and crisps would survive, but my carefully curated charcuterie board was ruined. I left the soggy crackers and wet meats on the ground for some local creature to find, shedding an internal tear for my beloved Marcona almonds.
“Sorry about your comestibles, old fruit,” said Mr. Wooster. “I’ll gladly share my Hobnobs.”
“Very generous of you, sir.”
Eventually we got back into the river, carefully avoiding the area where I’d gone overboard. With some determined paddling we quickly caught up with the others downstream and reattached ourselves to the rope.
“Did somebody fall in?” asked Ms. Travers with a giggle, fully under the influence now.
“I did, in fact, fall in, madam,” I said dryly.
“Happens every year,” said Mr. Glossop. “Last year Bertie fell off the horse before we’d even gotten started.”
Everyone but myself laughed. Having just experienced that particular horror, I did not find much to laugh about.
I did not look at my cell phone for the rest of the trip; I was on high alert for any stray branches or logs that might cause my premature demise. I tried to relax, however; I pulled the package of cigarettes and the waterproof lighter out of the dry bag.
“Care for a cigarette, sir?” I asked Mr. Wooster as I lit one.
“I’ll take a puff or two of your gasper, Jeeves, if you don’t mind. Can’t say that I want a whole one of my own.”
I took a drag from the cigarette before offering it to Mr. Wooster; our fingers brushed, and I reveled in that small exchange as I watched his lips wrap around the filter where mine had just been. He locked eyes with me as he handed it back, blowing out smoke. We passed the cigarette back and forth until the white of it had gone. I carefully snuffed the embers in the water before placing the butt in the waste bag.
A not insignificant amount of tension remained between us for the duration of the float. Every time we caught each other’s gaze, something electric ran through me. I imagined what it must have looked like when he rescued me, what he must have felt. It would have taken a great deal of strength for him to pull me out of the muck; I’m sure it was the work of adrenaline. I understood, then, that I was not the only one harboring this longing beneath my breast.
“We’re nearly at the end,” said Mr. Wooster, pointing at the large lake up ahead. “Normally I’d like to faff about in the water for a while, but I think I’m ready to go home soon.”
“Agreed, sir,” I said.
The rest of our party had reached the lake; some stayed on their floats while others left them on the shore in favor of a swim. Mr. Wooster and I got to a natural stopping point where the water was only ankle-deep and clambored off of our respective rafts, dragging them up and out of the water. Mr. Wooster let the others know of our plans as I started deflating Juan and the swan.
“Before we change, let’s get a selfie on the bridge in our swimming costumes,” said Mr. Wooster after the floats had been deflated, de-sanded and returned to the car. He brought me over to the small bridge that we had passed under just minutes before, and we stood at the railing facing the lake. He put one arm around my waist and held up his cell phone with the front-facing camera turned on, giving a smile with all his teeth.
As soon as Mr. Wooster took the picture, I turned to him with a smile of my own. I placed one hand on his lower back and one on his upper, then dipped him in a quarter-turn. I barely registered the look of surprise on his face before I kissed him soundly on the lips.
I pulled back; Mr. Wooster was clutching the boater hat to his head and looking at me as though I’d hung the moon and stars. I righted him and he stumbled, grasping at the front of my swimsuit. “Oh, Jeeves,” he said dreamily, “Do that again. I mean, the kissing bit, not the dipping bit.”
“As you wish, sir,” I murmured, pressing my fingers against the back of his neck and tilting our heads just so as I went in for another kiss. This time he kissed me back, and his lips were soft as velvet as they moved against mine. I heard his cell phone drop to the ground as he gripped the back of my head with one hand and squeezed my torso with the other. I vaguely registered the sound of a wolf whistle—perhaps several wolf whistles—but I didn’t care. The only sounds I wanted to hear were his soft sighs and little mmms.
Eventually we had to part for air, and the sight before me was something to behold. Mr. Wooster—Bertram—was starry-eyed and slack-jawed, his lips red, his hat askew. “Topping,” he said dazedly, “Corking. Spiffing. Jolly good and all that rot.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, giving him the full breadth of my unmasked joy.
“About bloody time,” someone shouted from under the bridge.
“Get stuffed, Bingo,” said Bertram cheekily. “Jeeves—Reginald? What do I call you now that we’ve swapped spit?”
“Call me whatever you like, Bertram,” I said, watching his eyes light up.
“Oh, that’s splendid. Let’s go home, Reg.”
We changed into dry clothes and bid farewell to our companions. We got into the car, and I paused before driving away.
“In case it wasn’t evident, Bertram,” I said, looking at him, “I love you most severely.”
“Oh, it was evident,” he grinned. “Me too, old thing.”