Let's Kill Uncle Read online

  ‘Who’s he?’ she gasped.

  Mr Brooks, with his courtly, old-world manner, stepped forward.

  ‘This is Sergeant Coulter of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and I’m Mr Brooks. I run the store here. Welcome to the Island.’

  Sergeant Coulter did not look at all welcoming.

  Christie gazed up at him and down again, from the top of his broad-brimmed hat to his polished boots. Then she smiled and her face was radiant.

  ‘A real Mountie,’ she said softly. She remembered her fellow traveller who still stood at the top of the gangplank, and she jerked her thumb at him.

  ‘Can you put him in jail? He’s a bad boy. He tells lies and he’s not nice.’

  Picking up the paper shopping bag, she turned to the goat-lady.

  ‘Well, let’s go.’

  As she and Mrs Nielsen walked up the wharf she looked over her shoulder to Sergeant Coulter and smiled again.

  ‘A real Mountie,’ she repeated.

  The boy suddenly hurtled down the gangplank, his face sullen and his bold eyes insolent.

  ‘I am not a liar! I have so got ten million dollars! She threw the salt cellar at me!’ He pointed to a purple bump on his forehead, ‘and she said she’d push me overboard if I didn’t shut up!’

  When the Mountie stood expressionless and silent, the boy’s outburst stopped and he looked about.

  Mr Brooks stepped forward.

  ‘You must be Barnaby,’ he said and held out his hand.

  Barnaby took no notice of the gesture.

  ‘Where’s my uncle? And I am not a liar! She’s a liar!’

  His voice was shrill, almost hysterical.

  Mr Brooks put his arm about the boy’s shoulder.

  ‘Of course you aren’t. Your uncle isn’t here, Barnaby. At least, not yet, so you are going to stay with Mrs Brooks and me for a little while.’

  He patted the boy’s flaxen head, but the child drew away from him.

  ‘Won’t that be nice, Barnaby? We’re so happy to have you, we’ve wanted a little boy like you for such a long time.’

  Barnaby turned to Sergeant Coulter.

  ‘Are you a real Mountie?’

  ‘Of course he is,’ said Mr Brooks. ‘He always meets the boat when he’s on the Island. This is Sergeant Coulter, Barnaby, and he was born here. Now then, shall we go up to the store and see Mrs Brooks? She’s so anxious to meet you.’

  The boy ignored Mr Brooks, his admiring eyes fixed on the policeman.

  ‘When I grow up, I’m going to be a Mountie.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Sergeant Coulter, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Because you can put people in jail if you don’t like them.’

  The policeman smiled and turned to Mr Brooks.

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that, is it, Mr Brooks?’

  ‘Shall we go and see Mrs Brooks, Barnaby?’

  ‘Where’s my uncle?’

  Mr Brooks and Sergeant Coulter looked at each other.

  ‘But I just told you, Barnaby, he couldn’t get here in time.’

  ‘You mean he’s really not here? He’s not playing a game?’

  The child’s manner changed, his face crumpled and he looked dependent and pathetic as he gazed in a confused way from Mr Brooks to Sergeant Coulter.

  ‘No, of course he’s not playing a game, Barnaby. He’s been detained, but he’ll be here soon. Everything will be all right, my boy, and in the meanwhile, I know you’ll be happy with us. Now come along.’

  He offered Barnaby his hand again, and this time, looking dazed, the child took it.

  They walked together for several yards, then the boy pulled away from Mr Brooks and ran back to the policeman.

  ‘But if he isn’t here, where is he?’

  His face was desperate.

  The Mountie pointed to Mr Brooks.

  ‘He’s in Europe. Mr Brooks will explain everything to you. Go with him like a good boy. We’ll get in touch with your uncle. Don’t worry, we’ll look after you.’

  The boy stared up at him.

  ‘You mean you’ll really look after me?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Brooks will.’

  ‘And nothing will happen to me?’

  Puzzled, the Mountie stared down at the boy.

  ‘No, of course not. You run along with Mr Brooks now. Mrs Brooks is waiting to meet you.’

  Barnaby returned to Mr Brooks, and as they walked up the wharf he turned and shouted: ‘I’m going to be a Mountie. Just like you.’

  Sergeant Coulter sat in the police launch, pondering. One small boy unmet by uncle.

  He was a precise, dedicated man who rarely made snap judgements, but he felt that there was something very much the matter with that boy.

  He leaned back and lit a cigarette. When you stopped to think of it, there was something the matter with most children these days. They needed more discipline. Take that boy, rude, spoiled, private-school brat. ‘I’ve got ten million dollars!’ Imperious little devil. A good hiding was what he needed. But that sort of treatment was considered old fashioned today. It worked when he was a boy, though.

  Well, the boy was, after all, only a child. Frightened when his uncle wasn’t there to meet him. Left stranded on the dock like a lost puppy.

  Sergeant Coulter, smiled as he remembered the admiration in the boy’s eyes. They all wanted to be Mounties.

  But the smile faded. There was something the matter with that boy. He was more than frightened. He looked almost insane, and that expression on his face when he asked about the uncle …

  What was it? Where had he seen that expression before? The policeman’s mind couldn’t let it go. Then things clicked into place and he remembered. The prisoner reprieved from the gallows.

  Oh, no. He was imagining things.

  Sergeant Coulter put his fountain pen away and brushed a speck of dust from his hat. The old people of the Island weren’t used to boys. Especially bad boys. He’d be breaking windows and cheeking the old birds.

  That boy needed a firm hand. Yes, he’d watch that boy.

  CHRISTIE LOOKED AROUND the goat-lady’s kitchen. A Big Ben alarm clock ticked noisily on the window sill, while under the window on an old black leather sofa, a cat and dog napped. The cat, a large tom, was curled in a tight circle at one end of the sofa, his tryst-scarred head half tucked under his paws. At the other end a tiny brown-and-white dog woke up and opened its mouth as if it were barking. Nothing came out but hoarse gasps.

  The child turned a puzzled face to the goat-lady.

  ‘It doesn’t make any noise.’

  ‘She never has,’ said the goat-lady. ‘Even when she was a puppy. Nobody knows why. Her name is Trixie.’

  Christie put out her hand and then drew it back.

  ‘Does she bite?’

  The goat-lady smiled. ‘No. Would you like some dinner?’

  The child fondled Trixie’s silken ears as she shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Then I’ll make some cocoa for you.’

  She changed her sensible black oxfords for a comfortable, sloppy pair of carpet slippers.

  There were chickens on her little farm, she said, as she made the cocoa, and ducks and a few geese. There was an old dog called Shep who had once helped her tend her goats. She didn’t keep goats any more because not enough people bought the milk. Instead she made bread now and sold it to the Islanders. Then there were Trixie and Tom who stayed in the house, and of course, Gudrun the cow, who lived in the barn.

  Suspecting the child was homesick, she chatted on, but if Christie heard her, she gave no indication. Her little old-maid’s face was preoccupied as she gazed around the kitchen, so different from the small, clinically neat apartment she and her mother shared.

  The kitchen, though clean, was cheerfully untidy, and fragrant with the scent of cedar. On the window sill a clutter of soap coupons, knitting needles, wool and stray buttons was flanked by a handful of wild roses crammed in an empty jam jar. The wood in the huge,
black iron stove crackled merrily and the soothing sound of the kettle in the background made Christie’s eye droop with sudden weariness.

  She blinked her eyes again to wake herself and stared at the embroidered cloth on the kitchen table. In the center were a blue-and-white-striped milk jug and sugar bowl. Behind them, looking out of place in the simple surroundings, stood a cut-glass cruèt set in a silver stand, the diamondlike surfaces glittering in the lamplight.

  The floor was plain, unvarnished scrubbed boards, and in front of the stove, the sofa and an old rocking chair, were hand-hooked rag rugs in gay colours.

  Inside the fluted glass of the lamp chimney a delicate flame burned, narrow, orange and tall. Almost hypnotised, Christie watched it flicker.

  The goat-lady, receiving neither interest nor answers to her conversation, gave up. She put the steaming cup of cocoa on the table, pointed to it and nodded to Christie.

  The child rose without enthusiasm, and sitting at the table, obediently sipped the drink. Her eyes were resting on the two little windows framed by frivolous sprigged curtains.

  In the distance a giant jagged fir tree, one of the last of the old forest monarchs, stood proudly among the second-growth dwarfed timber, and as the moon rose behind it its feathery boughs were etched like black lace against the darkening summer sky.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  Reluctantly the child drew her eyes from the window.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  The goat-lady looked puzzled, then she laughed.

  ‘I meant the cocoa.’

  Christie turned her tight little face to the goat-lady.

  ‘I meant the tree.’

  The goat-lady sighed. It appeared she and Christie were not destined to share many spirited conversations during the course of the summer.

  ‘You must be tired. It’s time for bed.’ In a kindly fashion she put her hand on the child’s lank, pale hair. ‘Come, you’ll sleep in Per’s room. In his bed.’

  She pointed to a ladder in the corner of the room which led to an attic above the kitchen.

  ‘Up here. Per is my son. He’s a fisherman and he’s away until November.’

  She pointed to a door beside the stove.

  ‘My bedroom is there. If you’re frightened or lonely, you have only to call; I’ll hear you and come.’

  But already Mrs Nielsen had a feeling that this self-contained, dour child was not likely to call for assistance.

  Lighting a candle, she picked up the brown-paper shopping bag containing Christie’s possessions and began climbing the ladder. Christie followed her.

  The room in the attic was tiny, tinier even than the kitchen, and the child looked about her with interest.

  A narrow, ornately carved wooden bed was beneath the lattice window, and Christie could still see the big fir tree, standing like a sentinel in the distance.

  ‘You mean this will be my room while I’m here?’

  She sat on the patchwork counterpane, her eyes those of a suspicious child listening to a fairy tale.

  ‘Yes. Do you like it?’

  Christie nodded.

  ‘Well.’ The goat-lady gave a sigh of relief. ‘That’s something, isn’t it?’

  Christie gazed up at the sloping roof beams, only a few inches above the goat-lady’s head. Between the cedar shakes tiny glimpses of the evening sky flashed.

  Christie pointed her index finger up.

  ‘Rain come through there?’

  ‘No. You get undressed and washed now.’

  On a carved chest of drawers near the foot of the bed stood a big water jug and washbowl. Fat cabbage roses, pink and red, romped across the white china and the child suddenly stretched her hand out and patted them.

  The goat-lady put the candle on the chest of drawers, took Christie’s nightgown from the paper bag and handed Christie a white linen towel.

  As Christie dried her face, she sniffed the towel.

  ‘It smells nice,’ she said, then, pointing to the water jug and washbowl, she added in her begrudging way, ‘they’re nice too.’

  A breeze, laden with the warm scents of the forest, blew softly in the little window.

  ‘Into your nightgown and say your prayers now. Remember, I’ll be downstairs if you want me.’

  Christie looked at her in surprise.

  ‘I don’t say prayers.’

  ‘You don’t? Don’t you go to church?’

  ‘No. My mother was brought up a Presbyterian, and MacNab, that’s my father, he used to be a Catholic, so my mother says we’ll just leave well enough alone with me.’

  Her manner was polite, but irritatingly adult.

  ‘Well, goodnight, Christie.’ She leaned over to kiss the child’s cheek, but Christie took a step back.

  ‘Blow out the candle when you are through, Christie. I left matches next to it on the dresser if you want to light it again, but be careful.’

  She backed heavily down the ladder, leaving the child standing in the middle of the room.

  Looking small and forlorn now she was alone, Christie blew out the candle and crawled into the snug, bunk-like bed. By moonlight she could see strange little trolls carved on the headboard, laughing and hiding behind ferns. She touched them gently and then sank back, pulling the covers up to her neck.

  She lay for a long time thinking of her mother. Though she knew her mother would not wish her to be unhappy on the first night of her holiday, her small, plain face became sadder by the minute. She sniffed as she thought of the acres of hospital floors her mother scrubbed, of the endless hospital beds she made, so that Christie could escape from that baking little apartment in the heart of the city.

  Dwelling on her mother’s sacrifices only made Christie sadder still, and so, burying her head on the crisp pillowcase, she decided to think about how much she hated the boy on the boat.

  Soon she was asleep, and when the moon rose like a large golden coin and shone on her face she was smiling.

  When she awoke, the sun had already been up for hours, and the fir tree, now a bright green, was motionless in the morning heat.

  The sounds of the day came pouring in her little window, urging her to get out of bed. Ducks quacked, chickens clucked, Tom mewed, Trixie gasped, and from the barn Gudrun the cow lowed moodily.

  A delightful morning on the farm, with all the animals calling welcome to a city-bred child.

  But Miss MacNab was plainly not impressed with the rustic atmosphere, for as she climbed down to the kitchen her face wore its usual prim look of disapproval.

  The goat-lady was cooking at the stove.

  ‘Good morning, Christie. Did you sleep well?’ She turned, and pointing her cooking fork to the table, motioned Christie to sit down.

  ‘It’s noisy here in the morning,’ replied her guest courteously.

  The goat-lady placed a bowl before Christie. It was filled with fresh-picked wild blackberries, winking like garnets and half covered with clotted cream.

  Christie picked at the dish.

  When the goat-lady put a steaming platter on the table, Christie looked up.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Your breakfast.’

  With a royal wave Christie dismissed the plate of golden fried potatoes, pink ham curling prettily brown about the edges and scarlet tomatoes cut in thick slices.

  ‘I only have cornflakes and tea for breakfast.’

  She pointed to the homemade white bread, already buttered, and a jar of raspberry jam, which sat behind the platter. ‘I don’t eat things like that. Just cornflakes and a cup of tea.’

  The goat-lady sat in her rocking chair and regarded Christie with astonishment.

  ‘No wonder you’ve got a complexion like a chicken’s foot.’ As she rocked back and forth she took out her knitting.

  ‘Listen,’ she said finally, ‘your mother is paying for your board. You know how hard she works, and you know she’d like you to eat properly.’

  ‘Cornflakes and tea,’ repeated Christie, and l
ooking at the ceiling she added, ‘when I was a year old, my mother took me to the very best baby doctor there was and I only weighed six pounds more than when I was born.’

  ‘Well, if all she fed you was cornflakes and tea, it’s no wonder.’

  Christie gave her a level look.

  ‘I was a very delicate baby. The doctor told my mother, he said it was love and love alone that kept that child alive.’

  The goat-lady sniffed and counted stitches.

  ‘Christie,’ she said, when she reached sixty-two, ‘what do you want more than anything in the world?’

  ‘Curly hair,’ said Christie without hesitation. ‘But my mother won’t let me have a permanent until I’m eighteen. She says they’re vulgar on children.’

  ‘Curly hair?’

  ‘No,’ Christie sighed patiently. ‘Permanents on children.’

  The goat-lady poured herself a cup of coffee.

  ‘Well,’ she said after a pause, ‘let’s have a bargain. I’ll curl your hair for you every night, and you eat a good breakfast every morning.

  Christie thought carefully.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ and she primped her whispy hair, ‘because I want a permanent.’

  The goat-lady took up her knitting again.

  ‘Try and eat just a bit.’

  The child took a token bite of tomato, one small potato slice and a morsel of ham; then she pushed her plate away.

  ‘Cornflakes and tea,’ she repeated with the persistence of a bill collector. ‘Cornflakes and tea. That’s all I ever eat for breakfast.’

  A large humble-looking dog stood at the door, mouth watering, mournful eyes gleaming and tail wagging hopefully.

  ‘You’re going to be awfully hungry by September,’ said the goat-lady. ‘Well, give it to Shep. He’ll eat it.’

  The dog put a tentative foot in the doorway, testing his welcome.

  ‘Does he bite?’ asked Christie.

  ‘Old Shep? No.’ The goat-lady stroked his grizzled head affectionately.

  The silent little Trixie, who had been napping on the sofa, suddenly flew like an angry wasp at the big dog and drove him out of the door.

  ‘Trixie’s jealous,’ said the goat-lady, sweeping the little dog up in her arms. ‘She won’t let him in the house.’