It was probably a little cruel to give anyone as earnest as Kenneth Grahame the Shipwreck treatment, but no more cruel than what Disney did with the material. I adore this book for its quiet simplicity. As Ratty says, “There is nothing—absolute nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.” So naturally my favorite piece involves Grahame and his chums in a historically accurate orgy of privilege on the water.—Casey
“I say, Kenny, why do you write all that rot anyway?”
His Royal Highness was eyeing me over the top of his cards. The Prince of Wales, along with myself and Ratty, were at the card table at Boodle’s. Toad was greedily shoveling Orange Fool into his gullet while Mole and Badger snored away in their overstuffed wingbacks.
“What do you mean?” I said, a bit taken aback.
“Oh, you know… all that Merrie Olde England nonsense… tea at four, bluebells in the meadows… Why not write something with a bit of vim?”
“Vim?”
“He means a bit of cock,” sputtered Toad, spraying cream and bits of cake.
“Hmmm. Well, what would you suggest?”
The prince leaned back in his chair meditatively, his head wreathed by the smoke of his cheroot.
“Why not write about our boating down at Henley? Jolly fun that was, what.”
“Boats,” said Ratty. “Yes, I like that.”
“I’m not sure that story would suit the dignity of Your Highness,” I said as my hand reached reflexively for the small scar on my left temple.
It had been one of those perfect English afternoons—soft breezes whispering through the willows, the river’s water gently lapping the banks, etc. You get the picture. Ratty was usually not inclined toward society, but the Henley Royal Regatta was one exception. He’d brought out his favorite skiff, and as Toad and the Prince had been up to Oxford together, we had an open invitation to His Highness’s pavilion, down in front of the Red Lion.
The race was over and we’d all enjoyed our day immensely. I was helping Ratty prepare the boat for our return to Cookham Dean, when a great hullabaloo arose from up the bank. We turned to see Toad and the prince, looking very much like fat schoolboys and both clearly well in their cups. On the prince’s arm was his amour, the Lady Churchill, giggling like an addle-brained moppet.
“What ho, you fellows!” shouted the prince. “I’m commandeering this vessel by right of the Royal Navy!”
“Oh, Bertie,” cried Lady C, “what a wascal you ahw!”
“We’re all heading to Toady’s pile for the weekend. Be good chaps and give us a row up the river, what.”
Ratty’s skiff was crowded as it was but we made room best we could for our three additionals.
“In you go now, Jenny, that’s a gel!” said the prince.
She squealed as he grabbed a handful of her bustle, while helping her up over the gunwale. I planted myself at the tiller and Ratty took the sculls, pulling us out into the stream. The prince was quite stewed. He leered at Lady Churchill, while a line of drool crept out along the cheroot he held loosely between his lips.
“Come over here, Jenny,” he slurred, “sit on my lap. Let me take your temperature.”
Lady C giggled but refused to move.
“Here now, you mincing little bint…,” he slobbered, rocking the boat as he lumbered toward her.
“Oh, you beast!” cried the lady.
With deft movements far exceeding what one so intoxicated should be capable, he’d managed to undo his fly and lift her skirts from behind. Popping the buttons on the front of her dress, he took her plentiful bosom in his other hammy hand.
“There now… how’s that? You like a bit of the Royal Prerogative, don’t you, my dolly?”
“Oh, Bertie yes, woger me! Woger me good!”
I glanced at Toad and saw that strange expression come over him—the one we knew, of which no good would come. He chewed his cheroot, muttering unintelligibly.
“Bertie,” said Lady Churchill with a tone of concern, “what’s wong? Are you quite all wight?”
He was clearly not—all in a sweat and breathing heavily. He disengaged his limp pudenda and fell back onto the bench.
“No, no,” he said, “I’m fine. But my Old Fellow seems to have taken forty winks. Must be all the rum punch. Speaking of… I must see to the royal wee.”
And without further ado, he stood up, aimed his honorable member over the saxboard, and added his own tributary to the Thames.
“Weally, Bertie! How vulgah!”
“Still fucking stoats and weasels are you, Toady?” the prince jeered while he pissed.
Toad merely grunted and chewed on his cheroot.
“Toady never stays interested in anything for too long,” said Ratty.
“Oh,” said the prince, “then what are you fucking these days?”
As if in answer, Lady Churchill let loose with a shriek.
“Oh! You bwute! You bwute!”
Toad had quickly managed to mount Lady C and we watched in wonder as he rapidly thrust away like the piston of an engine. His eyes were transfixed, and he puffed great plumes of smoke from his cheroot, at regular intervals. It was at this moment that I stepped back from myself, as they say, and objectively took in this absurd scene. Here was a cigar-chomping, three-foot-high amphibian rogering the mother of our future prime minister.
The prince swung himself around, but being still in mid-spray, painted a wet stripe up the back of Toad’s white boating jacket.
“The Deuce!” cried Toad irritably, his spell broken.
“Here you little cretin… I’ll not have you doing that to my lady!”
Grabbing Toad by the collar, he tore him from Lady Churchill’s posterior with such force that Toad’s cheroot went flying from his mouth. The whole boat pitched violently and Lady Churchill fell forward. Ratty found himself with his whiskers firmly wedged between her gloriously exposed poonts.
“Jolly good!” said Ratty in delight. “I say, do you smell something burning?”
The prince, seeing Lady Churchill prone thus, with her rump in the air, reached for his pego, which had quite come back to vigor and was valiantly thrust to the fore.
“My brush always stiffens,” he bellowed, “at the sight of a freshly gessoed canvas!”
But before he could mount, the prince roared in outrage.
“What the bloody deuce?!”
Toad, although quite fat, was also very nimble and, in a flash, had managed to come around and launch a rear assault on the prince himself. His Highness gasped in indignation as Toady yelped and thrust with glee.
“Just like back at the old school, eh, Bertie?”
“Help! Help! I’m abwaze!”
It was Lady Churchill. She jumped off of Ratty in a panic. Toad’s cigar had landed in the mess of crepe, on the top of her bonnet, setting it fully alight. As she scrambled about in terror, the boat rocked up on its side, sending us all over into the drink. One of the sculls knocked me square in the head, just as I came to the surface, sputtering for breath.
The room fell silent as we all, each of us, mused over our memories of the day. My eyes happened to fall on a portrait of young Winston, recently made a member. I pondered for a moment his squat toadlike features, then put the thought right out of my head.
“Yes,” said the prince, “best not to write about that one.”