by Ruskin Bond
The voyage lasted eighteen days, with stops for passengers and cargo at Aden, Port Said and Marseilles, in that order. It was at Port Said that Uncle Ken and his friend went ashore, to look at the sights and do some shopping.
‘You stay on the ship,’ Uncle Ken told me. ‘Port Said isn’t safe for young boys.’
He wanted the girl all to himself, of course. He couldn’t have shown off with me around. His ‘man of the world’ manner would not have been very convincing in my presence.
The ship was due to sail again that evening and passengers had to be back on board an hour before departure. The hours passed easily enough for me, as the little library kept me engrossed. If there are books around, I am never bored. Towards evening I went up on deck and saw Uncle Ken’s friend coming up the gangway, but of Uncle Ken there was no sign.
‘Where’s Uncle?’ I asked her.
‘Hasn’t he returned? We got separated in a busy marketplace and I thought he’d get here before me.’
We stood at the railings and looked up and down the pier, expecting to see Uncle Ken among the other returning passengers. But he did not turn up.
‘I suppose he’s looking for you,’ I said. ‘He’ll miss the boat if he doesn’t hurry.’
The ship’s hooter sounded. ‘All aboard,’ called the captain on his megaphone. The big ship moved slowly out of the harbour. We were on our way! In the distance I saw a figure that looked like Uncle Ken running along the pier, frantically waving his arms. But there was no turning back.
A few days later my aunt met me at Tilbury Dock.
‘Where’s your Uncle Ken?’ she asked.
‘He stayed behind at Port Said. He went ashore and didn’t get back in time.’
‘Just like Ken. And I don’t suppose he has much money with him. Well, if he gets in touch we’ll send him a postal order.’
But Uncle Ken failed to get in touch. He was a topic of discussion for several days, while I settled down in my aunt’s house and looked for a job. At seventeen I was working in an office, earning a modest salary and contributing towards my aunt’s housekeeping expenses. There was no time to worry about Uncle Ken’s whereabouts.
My readers know that I longed to return to India, but it was nearly four years before that became possible. Finally I did come home and, as the train drew into Dehra’s little station, I looked out of the window and saw a familiar figure on the platform. It was Uncle Ken!
He made no reference to his disappearance at Port Said, and greeted me as though we had last seen each other the previous day.
‘I’ve hired a cycle for you,’ he said. ‘Feel like a ride?’
‘Let me get home first, Uncle Ken. I’ve got all this luggage.’
The luggage was piled into a tonga, I sat on top of everything, and we went clip-clop down an avenue of familiar litchi trees. Uncle Ken rode behind the tonga, whistling cheerfully.
‘When did you get back to Dehra?’ I asked.
‘Oh, a couple of years ago. Sorry I missed the boat. Was the girl upset?’
‘She said she’d never forgive you.’
‘Oh well, I expect she’s better off without me. Fine piano player. Chopin and all that stuff.’
‘Did Granny send you the money to come home?’
‘No Ruskin, I had to take a job working as a waiter in a Greek restaurant. Then I took tourists to look at the pyramids. I’m an expert on pyramids now. Great place, Egypt. But I had to leave when they found I had no papers or permit. They put me on a boat to Aden. Stayed in Aden for six months teaching English to the son of a Sheikh. Sheikh’s son went to England, I came back to India.’
‘And what are you doing now, Uncle Ken?’
‘Thinking of starting a poultry farm; lots of space behind the house. Maybe you can help me with it.’
‘I couldn’t save much money, Uncle.’
‘We’ll start in a small way—there’s a big demand for eggs, you know. Everyone’s into eggs—scrambled, fried, poached or boiled. Egg curry for lunch. Omelettes with dinner. Egg sandwiches for tea. How do you like your egg?’
‘Fried,’ I said. ‘Sunny side up.’
The poultry farm never did happen, but it was good to be back in Dehra, with the prospect of limitless bicycle rides with Uncle Ken.
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This collection published 2011
Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2011
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ISBN: 978-0-143-33135-3
This digital edition published in 2016.
e-ISBN: 978-8-184-75500-8
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*In the early 1940s, Dehra had only one or two taxis. Today, there are over 500 plying in the town.
*Bada was a term used for a senior or elder member of the family.
*Now Mumbai.