Let's Kill Uncle

by Rohan O'Grady; Rohan O’Grady

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. I’ve got to be going now.’

  As he took a step she put her hand on the holster of his gun.

  ‘Don’t touch that!’ he said sharply. ‘Now or any other time.’

  She nodded.

  He should never have sat down and started talking to her. The golden head was bouncing by his elbow.

  ‘I don’t, do you, Sergeant Coulter?’

  ‘Don’t what?’ he said irritably. It was like trying to get rid of a friendly puppy.

  ‘I don’t like Barnaby’s Uncle Sylvester.’

  ‘You run along home now,’ he said.

  ‘Okay. He’s a real wicked uncle.’

  He stopped.

  ‘Now look here, it’s not nice to say things like that about people. You remember what I say, and run along now.’

  She turned and ran back to the store. From the porch she waved to him in a friendly manner.

  He shook his head as he strode back to the launch. Kids! Well, it served him right for starting the conversation. They were all the same.

  And then a pleasant glow suffused his body. She thought he was handsome. Oh, the little girl wasn’t bad. Imagination too lively, that’s all. Still, she shouldn’t tell stories like that. Saying Barnaby’s uncle had done something awful, he had taken off his long pause glasses and she had seen his long pause eyes. Innocent men had been sent to prison because little girls started nasty rumors.

  She was right about Dudley. He was a damned nice fellow.

  Albert felt honourable liking Dudley Rice-Hope. It helped balance the scales and the incontestable fact that he was in love with Dudley Rice-Hope’s wife.

  He wondered, on his way to Benares, if he would catch a glimpse of her there.

  The police launch was cutting past the arbutus point, and looking up, Sergeant Coulter could see the Brookses’ cottage. He lifted his binoculars and swept them in an arc over the place. Everything seemed in order. Uncle, Barnaby, sitting on the front porch. Uncle waved, then, as if prompted, Barnaby did. Sergeant Coulter raised a hand in greeting.

  That evening he began his weekly letter to her, the precious book unwrapped and at his elbow, and the soft slap, slap of the waves against the hull making him feel contented and drowsy.

  The little girl told me today that you said you thought I was handsome. She doesn’t always stick to the truth, but in this case, I hope she has.

  I finally got my copy of Fascinating Fragments of Etruscan Pottery from Professor Hobbs. He wrote an inscription to me in it. It’s a wonderful book, with marvellous colour illustrations. Speaking of Hobbs, by the way, I must write to him. Brooks tells me that the boy’s uncle was at Colditz. Hobbs was finally sent there from our Stalag. I don’t suppose the name Colditz means anything to you, but that’s where they sent the bad boys, mostly officers, but in Hobbs’s case they made an exception. The veteran escapers and the ones who wouldn’t accept discipline, or, as the Jerries called them, the incorrigibles, were sent there. Hobbs, being an archaeologist, just had to dig. Force of habit, I suppose. He dug himself out of our camp four times before they sent him to Colditz. Even Hobbs couldn’t dig himself out of that place. It was supposed to be escape-proof, a huge medieval castle set on a rock mountain, walls twenty feet thick and all that sort of thing. I’d like to have a chat with Murchison-Gaunt about it, but old Brooks says he can’t, the Major, that is, bear to speak of it. Well, he’s not the first POW to feel that way. When we were liberated by the Americans, some of us were taken as witnesses to view the concentration camps. I still can’t speak of that.

  I’ll close for now and maybe read a chapter of the book before turning in. By the way, I’m sorry the boy threw up, the greedy little hound.

  With love,

  Albert.

  As usual, he folded the letter carefully and put it in his pocket, next to his heart. Then, like a miser with his gold, he opened the book.

  Constable Browning raised his mild eyes from the police radio and looked over his shoulder. At his own elbow was a book, Beekeeping in the Argentine.

  ‘Say, that looks interesting, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Can I have a look at it?’

  ‘It’s not something to be taken lightly, like your damned beekeeping or Bright’s disease. Where do you get those crazy books, anyhow?’

  ‘Oh, at the library. Mrs Rice-Hope’s a volunteer worker, and she puts aside the interesting ones for me.’

  That, of course, was different. He would have to read some of those himself.

  He opened the book and pointed proudly to the inscription.

  ‘To my dear friend, E. A. Coulter,

  with kindest regards from

  Percival Hobbs.’

  ‘See? It should be A. E., of course. He’s a professor and he wrote this book. We were together overseas. You know, archaeology is really fascinating, it’s like detective work. Hobbs is busy now trying to decipher the Etruscan language. It’s never been broken. It’s like decoding, only much more difficult.’

  He flipped through the book and stopped at two full-page colour illustrations.

  Two magnificent terracotta Etruscan warriors, with raised weapons, stood on guard.

  ‘You see these boys? They’re in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. The statues are over seven feet high. I’ve got a month’s leave coming in September, and I’m going there to see them. Next year I hope to get to Rome, maybe help Hobbs on a dig. I’ve never been in on a field party, but he says I’m welcome.’

  The young constable looked impressed.

  ‘That’s really something, isn’t it? I guess you know pretty well all there is to know about these Etruscans, eh?’

  ‘I know quite a bit,’ said Albert modestly. ‘All from books, of course. Hobbs taught a course in archaeology in the prison camp, and he says I’m a born archaeologist. You need the same qualities as a policeman, he says, patience, intelligence and persistence.’

  ‘That’s us,’ said Constable Browning blithely, ‘we always get our man.’

  Sergeant Coulter gave him a reproving glance. Archaeology was hardly a subject for levity.

  The nasal, staccato voice of the police radio cut in.

  ‘Gale warnings all through the straits,’ repeated Constable Browning. ‘I wonder if it will bring rain? We could do with some.’

  The door of Uncle’s cottage was open, and Constable Browning stood hesitant, wondering how to announce his presence.

  A soothing voice, soft as the summer breeze, wafted on the silent evening air.

  ‘You are very tired, Barnaby. Your eyes are heavy. You can’t keep them open. You are falling asleep, Barnaby. Soon you will be asleep.’

  Puzzled, Constable Browning reached in and knocked on the open door.

  Uncle, clad in his white silk kimono, padded around the corner, appearing so suddenly that Constable Browning took a step back.

  ‘Good evening, Constable. I didn’t hear you coming up the path. Come in, sir, come in.’

  Constable Browning’s tolerant eyes fell upon Barnaby, sitting drowsily by the fireplace.

  ‘Hello, Barnaby.’

  ‘Stand up when Constable Browning addresses you, Barnaby, and say good evening.’

  Without effort, Uncle lifted Barnaby to his feet.

  ‘Good evening, Constable Browning,’ said Barnaby.

  ‘Really, Constable, children these days- ’ Uncle sighed and patted Barnaby’s head. ‘He used to have very nice manners.’

  Constable Browning smiled at the sleepy little boy, then turned to his uncle.

  ‘We didn’t know if you had a battery radio here and we just got a storm warning. They’re expecting gale-force winds all down the straits. We’re protected here, but Sergeant Coulter thought you might want to put an extra anchor on your plane.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable. Thank you very much indeed. May I offer you a drink for your trouble?’

  ‘No, thank you, Major.’ The young Mountie touched the brim of his hat politely. ‘Goodnight, sir.’<
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  Barnaby sat in a high-backed winged chair before the cobblestone fireplace. His uncle sat opposite him, reading.

  ‘Uncle, can I get some new running shoes soon?’

  Uncle peered over the top of his book and down to Barnaby’s shoes.

  ‘Good heavens, boy, you do need them, don’t you?’

  Barnaby’s running shoes were too short and he had slit the rubber toes for comfort.

  ‘I’ll pick you up a pair when I’m in town. What size?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Uncle went back to his book.

  ‘May I go to bed now, Uncle?’

  Uncle looked up absently.

  ‘Are you tired, my dear?’

  Barnaby nodded.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like a glass of milk and a biscuit before retiring, Barnaby?’

  Barnaby looked confused.

  ‘I - yes - no - no, thank you.’

  ‘Come now, Barnaby, indecision is the hallmark of a mediocre mind. Now, Barnaby, think carefully. Would you like a glass of milk and a biscuit?’

  ‘No, thank you, Uncle.’ Barnaby rose and got as far as the door.

  ‘Oh, Barnaby, come here.’

  Barnaby returned and stood before his uncle.

  ‘My dear boy, you haven’t said goodnight. Sometimes I fear I’ll never make a gentleman out of you, Barnaby.’

  Barnaby said goodnight and got as far as the door again.

  ‘Oh, Bar-na-beeee.’

  Barnaby stopped and turned.

  ‘Yes, Uncle?’

  Uncle crooked a finger and Barnaby returned.

  ‘Barnaby, I was always taught to shake my father’s hand when I retired.’

  Barnaby, who knew Uncle’s little games only too well, extended a trembling hand. He had never yet won a set with Uncle.

  ‘That’s better, my boy.’

  He got to the door again.

  ‘Bar-na-beeeeee!’

  Barnaby took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  ‘Did you say you did or did not want milk and a biscuit?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Uncle smiled. ‘They’re on a tray beside your bed. The milk will be drunk and the biscuit will be eaten.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Barnaby was shaking when he reached the door.

  ‘Barnaby.’

  ‘Uncle, please!’

  Uncle’s voice was no longer soft.

  ‘Come here!’ he roared.

  Barnaby returned.

  ‘Barnaby, you seem to have forgotten Rodney. Poor Rodney. Do you remember Rodney, Barnaby? Poor, poor Rodney. We don’t want any more regrettable accidents, do we, Barnaby? And we won’t have any, if you do what Uncle tells you.’

  His voice was soft and mocking.

  ‘Goodnight, dear boy.’

  Unable to believe the game was over, Barnaby stood with bowed head.

  ‘Oh, by the way, Barnaby, you must bring your little friend over some time soon.’

  Barnaby’s face went scarlet and his hands clutched convulsively.

  ‘She’s my friend!’ he shouted. ‘You never let me have friends. I never had one before. You can’t have her! She’s mine!’

  Uncle was amused.

  ‘I do believe you are jealous, Barnaby. Oh, by the way, you really don’t have to have the biscuit and milk, I was only ragging you.’

  The wretched child clung to the doorway.

  ‘Oh, just one more thing, Barnaby. Mr Brooks tells me you have been a very good boy since you came to the Island!’

  Barnaby screamed and ran to his bed.

  ‘Don’t forget your biscuit and milk, dear.’

  Chuckling, Uncle went back to his book and his favourite author, the Marquis de Sade.

  Constable Browning rubbed his eyes and yawned. He was tired and puzzled.

  Sergeant Coulter looked up from his book.

  ‘What’s the matter? Coming down with Bright’s disease?’

  ‘Constable Browning didn’t laugh.

  ‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘that Major’s a queer duck. There’s something creepy about him. I heard him telling him that he was tired and sleepy and couldn’t keep his eyes open. He kept repeating it.’

  It was Sergeant Coulter’s turn to yawn.

  ‘First of all,’ he said, ‘who was telling who?’

  ‘The uncle was telling the boy. It didn’t sound natural, somehow.’

  ‘Browning,’ said Sergeant Coulter, stretching, ‘look at your watch and tell me the time.’

  ‘Five after ten.’

  ‘All right. What time was it when you were at the cottage?’

  ‘I’d say about a quarter to.’

  Sergeant Coulter smiled and stood up.

  ‘It sounds like a reasonable statement to make to a child, this time of night, doesn’t it?’ He slapped his constable on the back, then, ‘You know, you’re young yet and new at this game. You’ll find, after a few years, that you develop a certain instinct, a sort of sixth sense, about people and things and situations. I’m telling you this for your own good. You’ve got to have facts. When you are called upon to give evidence in real cases - well - you’d look pretty silly making a statement like that in court, wouldn’t you?’

  The next day Barnaby was spiteful to Christie and insolent to Mr Brooks.

  ‘Upon my word, I don’t know what’s got into that boy. I hope he’s not coming down with something. Do you think he looks feverish?’ said Mr Brooks.

  ‘It’s the heat,’ said Mrs Brooks, fanning herself. ‘It always made Dickie cross. Barnaby should have a nap in the afternoon. Although he looks like a strong child, he really isn’t, and he tires easily.’

  But when Uncle climbed into his plane and flew to the city for the week, Barnaby was restored to health and good spirits and he apologised to Christie.

  Christie looked into his eyes and spoke one word.

  ‘Uncle?’

  Barnaby nodded.

  There was no more to be said. She understood.

  IT WAS BACK to the old grind, the quest for firearms, for Barnaby and Christie. The afternoon, they decided, would be given over to serious business, but after their morning chores they allowed themselves a treat. They would visit their dear One-ear.

  One-ear, snoozing peacefully in a ferny dell, heard them before he saw them. Their shrill laughter went through his eardrums like porcupine quills. Pursued as if by the furies, he sought an avenue of escape, but too late, for they were upon him.

  ‘There he is! Did you miss us?’ yelled the boy. They flung themselves upon him as if he were an old log.

  He settled down moodily, laying his huge flat head on his paws.

  ‘How are you, dear?’ The girl gave him a smacking kiss.

  Dirty, sticky, dreadful little creatures.

  Had he been capable of speech he would have informed them that he felt terrible. His ribs ached, his shoulder was stiff, his missing claw throbbed and he had a pain right below his heart.

  Not that anybody cared.

  There was also the matter of his nerves. He hadn’t slept a wink for two days, just dropping off when they barged in. He had had to force himself to eat lunch, even though it had given him heartburn.

  If the dogs or that monstrous police sergeant didn’t finish him, his own overwrought, delicate constitution would.

  ‘You’d better watch out, Sergeant Coulter will be here tomorrow,’ shouted the boy, who was sitting astride him as if he were a pony.

  Why did they have to shout?

  The boy flipped over One-ear’s head and knelt before him, looking into his mouth.

  ‘Gee, he’s got big yellow teeth!’

  ‘That’s because he doesn’t brush them,’ yelled the girl. They shrieked with laughter.

  ‘Quick! Christie, look! I’ve got my head in the lion’s mouth, just like at the circus!’

  One-ear gagged with disgust and snarled.

  Even his snarls amused them, and they went into more gal
es of laughter.

  When the girl took hold of his tail and draped it about her shoulders, he sprang to his feet with a roar.

  She was not frightened.

  ‘I know somebody who’s grouchy today,’ she declared archly.

  ‘Did you hear what I said about Sergeant Coulter?’ asked the boy, rubbing his cheek against the cougar’s shoulder.

  One-ear turned and yawned rudely in the boy’s face.

  He sat down squarely, his massive paws splayed. Had they known the fate of the little Indian boy, the author of all his misfortune, they would think twice before taking their liberties.

  But no. They would not be frightened. That horror of a boy would only want to know if he’d tasted different from white people, and the girl, with playful reproach, would, as usual, call him a great big naughty kitty cat.

  Traps, dogs, guns, hunger, and now in his declining years them. The eternal outlaw blinked back the never distant tears. He sank onto his belly and closed his eyes. If he couldn’t eat them, he could at least ignore them.

  They took it as a sign that a rest was in order for all. They had been running and jumping in the morning heat and now they were tired. Sleepily, they flopped down on him, the boy’s head leaning nonchalantly on his shoulder, the girl using his paws as a cushion. They fell asleep almost immediately.

  He tried to slide his paws out from under the girl, but she stirred in her slumber, and flinging a slender golden arm carelessly, she bopped him on the end of his flat, tender nose.

  He lay immobile so he would not disturb their rest; they were not quite so bad when they were asleep.

  They snored sweetly and quietly.

  One-ear held his head erect until his neck felt strained, then, sighing, he put his chin delicately on the girl’s chest and tried to catch a nap himself.

  Fifteen minutes later they woke up and bounded to their feet, completely restored.

  ‘Goodbye, One-ear! You watch out for Sergeant Coulter!’

  ‘Race you down the path!’

  They were gone. He’d have to start sleeping in trees, he thought with despair. At his age.

  He growled hopelessly and sharpened his razor talons on a handy cedar, ripping the bark off in huge shreds.

  And the children, racing merrily through the forest trail, stumbled and almost stepped on the remains of One-ear’s lunch.