Let's Kill Uncle Read online

  Christie put the plate on the porch and stood watching the old dog as he gulped down her colourful breakfast.

  ‘Hello.’ Barnaby Gaunt sauntered to the door and looked the goat-lady up and down.

  ‘They told me at the store, Mr and Mrs Brooks, to come over here and play with her.’ He jerked his thumb at Christie.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the goat-lady. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Barnaby. Barnaby Gaunt.’

  ‘I’m Mrs Nielsen, but you can call me Auntie.’

  He didn’t answer her. Licking his lips, he stared enviously at the dog, which was still wolfing down Christie’s breakfast.

  ‘Gee,’ he said finally, ‘that looks good.’

  The goat-lady put some cookies in a paper bag and handed it to him.

  ‘Why don’t you two run along and play? Take Shep with you so you won’t get lost.’

  ‘I don’t want to play with him,’ whined Christie. ‘He’s not nice. My mother wouldn’t like me to play with him. He swears and tells lies.’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t.’ The goat-lady patted Barnaby’s bright yellow hair. ‘You don’t, do you? It’s such a nice day, off you two go now and play. I’ve got a lot of work to do, the dough has risen and it’s nearly time to get the bread in the oven.’

  The old dog trotted along, and the goat-lady watched the little party disappear down the path.

  What an odd child that Christie was. Polite and obedient enough, but with a very decided mind of her own. She needed to play with other children, boisterous, normal children. Like Barnaby.

  The children walked slowly down the path until they came to a dusty lane. Timid Christie did not want to go too far away. The country looked all the same to her, with no landmarks. She looped her hand in the old dog’s collar for confidence, but Barnaby Gaunt forged ahead as if he owned the Island.

  They came to a large field, girdled with a cedar snake fence. Climbing the first two bars, and shielding their eyes from the bright morning sun, they peered in all directions.

  A monstrous bull, tethered in the field, lowered his head and bellowed, rolling a fearsome, bloodshot eyeball at them.

  Christie climbed hastily down, but the boy merely took a stone from his pocket and tossed it in the direction of the bull.

  Past the bull an elderly man was painting a barn bright blue. He stopped his work and shook an angry fist at the boy. Barnaby climbed down from the fence and stuck out his tongue.

  On the other side of the field, in the distance, the children could see a tall, red-haired woman plowing behind two giant Clydesdales.

  ‘Everything’s big here,’ said Christie, staring first at the bull, then at the horses.

  The woman stopped plowing and waved. The children waved back, watching the horses tugging lightly, like locomotives harnessed to a toy implement.

  ‘They’re pretty,’ said Barnaby. The horses’ coats gleamed like polished mahogany and their powerful rumps dimpled as they lifted ponderous fetlocked feet.

  The children moved aimlessly on, down the leafy country lane.

  Fifteen minutes later, dusty and whining again, Christie was back at the goat-lady’s.

  ‘He pushed me down, that Barnaby Gaunt! He’s a bad boy.’

  The goat-lady, relieved it was nothing more serious, brushed Christie’s lank hair from her face.

  ‘How did it start? Did you push him?’

  ‘Well - yes,’ said Christie.

  ‘Did you push him first?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Christie.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wouldn’t give me the cookies! They’re mine! I came here to stay with you, not him! It’s not fair he got the cookies.’

  The goat-lady sighed.

  ‘Never mind now, it’s all right. Come along, we’ll get the milk from the well, and you can have a nice cool glass with a cinnamon bun.’

  From a covered stone well beside the house, she drew up a milk can. Carrying it under one arm, and with the other about Christie’s thin shoulders, she led her into the house.

  ‘You haven’t any brothers or sisters, Christie, and you’re not used to sharing things. You’ll have to learn to. And you and the little boy must learn to be friends, or you’ll be lonely here.’

  Christie sat miserably on the leather sofa, munching the bun and drinking the milk. The little dog Trixie licked her face and begged for a snack.

  It was comforting to be back in the goat-lady’s snug kitchen. She watched as the goat-lady cleared off the table and began kneading dough. The yeasty scent and the heat from the roaring fire in the black stove made her drowsy again. She hugged the little dog and gave the goat-lady a wan smile.

  ‘You’re almost asleep. Lie down and have a nap.’

  When Christie awoke, shiny loaves of bread with golden crusts were lined up on the kitchen table. The room was much cooler now, and the goat-lady sat in her rocking chair, shelling peas.

  ‘Your little friend Barnaby was back. He wouldn’t come in, but he said he was sorry. He’ll be around tomorrow morning to play with you again.’

  ‘Do I have to play with him?’

  The goat-lady put down the bowl of peas and thought for a few minutes before answering.

  ‘He’s not a bad boy, Christie. You try and get along with him. You two could have lots of good times this summer, if you’ll just learn to get along with each other. You’ll try, won’t you?

  After a long pause, Christie nodded. She was an obedient child - in most things.

  BARNABY GAUNT lost no time in fulfilling Sergeant Coulter’s direst prophecies. Before the sun had set on his first full day on the Island, Sergeant Coulter had already received three complaints about the boy.

  Mr Brooks, busy sorting the mail, looked up to find Sergeant Coulter standing at the counter of the store.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

  ‘No. I just dropped by. Is there a parcel here from London for me?’

  ‘Nothing yet, Albert.’

  The quiet of the country store was suddenly rent with a childish treble that made the rafters ring.

  ‘I’m not eating this damned baby slop!’

  Sighing, Mr Brooks shook his head and turned to Sergeant Coulter.

  ‘We’re having a little trouble getting Barnaby to eat.’

  A loud crash of crockery bore out this statement.

  ‘Yes, it sounds as if you are,’ said Albert.

  Mrs Brooks, looking frail and wraithlike, came through the beaded curtains that separated the store from their living quarters.

  ‘Oh, Sydney,’ she cried, clasping her hands, ‘you must come and help me. The child will starve, he’s hardly swallowed a bite. I fixed Dickie’s favourite supper for him and he won’t touch it. And he’s just thrown the sugar bowl at the wall.’

  She turned to Albert.

  ‘He’s so highly strung. You have no idea, Albert. He’s just like Dickie.’

  She paused and looked quickly to Mr Brooks.

  ‘Although Dickie never threw things,’ she added in a gentle, bewildered voice.

  No, not likely, not the ever-lamented Dickie. Sergeant Coulter rubbed his hands together.

  ‘Perhaps I can persuade the little fellow to eat. I want to speak to him anyway. You two stay here.’

  When he entered the parlour, he understood why Barnaby threw the sugar bowl.

  Barnaby sat with his belligerent head lowered and his supper in front of him.

  Dickie’s favourite repast. A coddled egg, a bowl of bread and milk sprinkled with brown sugar, a cup of very weak tea, an apple peeled and cut into tiny pieces so that he should not tire himself unduly chewing, and a plate of arrowroot biscuits.

  Sergeant Coulter sighed.

  Barnaby looked up at the policeman, his expression one of outraged manhood.

  Sergeant Coulter sighed again. Nursery food for a strapping, active child like this.

  He put his finger against his lips.

&nbs
p; ‘Shhhhh!’ He said and leaned over the boy.

  ‘Barnaby,’ he whispered, ‘eat it now, like a good boy. I’ll speak to them and see you get some decent food tomorrow. Don’t make a fuss tonight. It’s been a long time since they had a boy around.’

  Barnaby looked at him blankly, then at the food.

  He shook his head.

  Sergeant Coulter placed an arm on either side of the table and leaned closer to the boy.

  ‘I thought you said you wanted to be a Mountie. The first thing you have to learn is to do what you’re told.’

  He leaned back.

  ‘Eat it,’ he said in a low, even tone.

  Barnaby stared at him.

  The hard eyes of the Mountie regarded him with detachment. Suddenly Barnaby smiled, a quick, cheerful grin.

  ‘Okay,’ he said and began eating.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Sergeant Coulter, and the boy gazed up at him with adoring eyes.

  ‘Now another thing, Barnaby. I don’t want to hear any swearing from you in front of Mr and Mrs Brooks. Do I make myself clear?’

  Barnaby nodded agreeably.

  Sergeant Coulter walked to the beaded curtain, stopped and turned.

  ‘Oh, yes, there’s one more thing. You wouldn’t happen to know who opened the bars of Mr Allen’s sheep pen and drove all the sheep out, would you?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Barnaby Gaunt.

  ‘Really?’ said Sergeant Coulter. ‘That’s odd. You see, Mr Allen saw a blond boy running down the road after the sheep.’

  ‘Did he?’ said Barnaby.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ said Sergeant Coulter. ‘And this Island isn’t exactly overrun with little blond boys. As a matter of fact, you’re the only one.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Sergeant Coulter nodded.

  ‘You watch your step, young man.’

  Sergeant Coulter was thirty feet from the store when that clear treble echoed again through the quiet dusk.

  ‘No! I’m not having any bloody bath and I’m not saying any God-damned prayers!’

  Sergeant Coulter paused momentarily, then walked on. He’d have to watch that boy. He had all the earmarks of a juvenile delinquent.

  Unshriven, unrepentant and unwashed, Barnaby lay on his cot in the Brooks’ parlour.

  Mr Brooks held the flickering coal oil lamp high as he and Mrs Brooks gazed with awe at the sleeping child.

  It had come to pass, even as Dickie had prophesied. Changed in corporeal form, perhaps, but here nevertheless, as he had promised them through the lips of the medium.

  Slumber cast a spell of tranquillity on Barnaby’s stubborn face. His cheek lay on one grubby hand, while the shadow of a smile played on his lips. Asleep he looked quite sweet-natured.

  The voice at the séance had not sounded like Dickie’s but as the medium had explained, Dickie was on too high an astral plane to descend personally, and he had to be relayed through the spirit control, White Deer.

  White Deer had delivered the message as clearly as though Dickie had been in the room. Yes, Dickie was very happy on his astral plane, but it saddened him to see them grieving. Yes, he would comfort them.

  They had never doubted it. And here was little Barnaby.

  Mr Brooks turned to Mrs Brooks.

  ‘I think, perhaps, that we had better not discuss this with Sergeant Coulter or Mr Rice-Hope,’ he whispered.

  Mrs Brooks nodded.

  Everyone was entitled to his own beliefs, of course, even Sergeant Coulter. Albert had always had a hard, uncompromising streak in him, still, surely it had been unkind of him to refer to the medium, whom he had never even met, as a fraud. Or, to quote Albert’s exact words, ‘A bunko artist’.

  Upon their return from the séance, which had taken place in the city, they had also confided in Mr Rice-Hope. The Reverend Mr Rice-Hope’s attitude, like Albert’s, had not been encouraging. Meek though he generally was, their minister had stated firmly that they lacked faith, and difficult as he knew it was, they must bear Dickie’s loss as a test of their belief in life everlasting, as decreed by the church.

  Only parents bereaved could understand fully that it was impossible for Dickie to leave them forever. They had had faith, of their own kind, and now their prayers had been answered.

  As they blew out the lamp and tucked the covers about the sleeping child, they realised that the resemblance was uncanny. Nothing so commonplace or tangible as mere physical resemblance, but rather an indefinable aura, so unmistakable that to suppose the contrary would be absurd. Let Albert scoff; it could not be explained to the earth-bound Sergeant Coulters of the world. Only those with extrasensory instincts could appreciate the likeness.

  When Christie came down the ladder on the second morning she found another steaming platter waiting at her place.

  Neither tea nor cornflakes were in evidence, but there was one new addition. Barnaby Gaunt sat contentedly in the rocking chair.

  Seating herself, Christie smiled brightly at the goat-lady.

  ‘Good morning. May I have my breakfast now, please?’

  The goat-lady smiled back.

  ‘You certainly may.’

  Serene, Christie stared out at her fir tree.

  The goat-lady poured herself a cup of coffee, and standing in the open doorway stirring it, she remarked on what a lovely morning it was.

  Christie’s face tightened.

  ‘I’d like my tea and cornflakes now, please.’

  ‘No tea. No cornflakes,’ said the goat-lady. ‘How is Mrs Brooks today, Barnaby?’

  ‘Fine.’ He eyed Christie’s breakfast and licked his lips.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  He nodded.

  The goat-lady pointed to the table.

  Leaning over, she placed Christie’s plate before him.

  ‘Oh, boy!’

  The goat-lady noticed his table manners were curiously delicate for a child.

  Every drop of canny Scots blood in her boiling, Christie watched him with narrowed eyes. Had not the goat-lady reminded her only yesterday that her poor overworked mother was paying for her board?

  Unable to bear watching that boy putting her food into his mouth, she sprang to her feet.

  ‘That’s my breakfast!’

  The goat-lady sat in the rocking chair that Barnaby had vacated and picked up her knitting.

  ‘Oh, no. You only eat cornflakes and tea. Well, it’s too good to throw to the dog, isn’t it, Barnaby? And Christie doesn’t want it.’

  ‘I want it now,’ said Christie, biting her lips.

  ‘Too late.’ She turned to Barnaby. ‘What nice table manners you have.’

  He looked up, surprised.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘my uncle is strict about table manners.’

  ‘Well, as long as you enjoy your food.’

  He looked surprised again. ‘You mean I don’t have to eat this way? You mean I can eat any way I like?’

  ‘As long as you eat it, I don’t care.’

  Barnaby shovelled the ham and potatoes into his mouth. He finished them and the tomatoes and he drank the milk. Then, with an engaging grin, he turned to the goat-lady.

  ‘Can I have the bread and jam too?’

  ‘Certainly. More milk?’

  His mouth was too full to answer, but he nodded.

  When he had finished everything on the table, the goat-lady pulled a speckled blue coffeepot to the front of the stove.

  ‘Like a cup of coffee?’

  He smiled and nodded again.

  It was too much for Christie.

  ‘How come he gets coffee like a grown-up, and I can’t even have my tea!’

  ‘Because he likes my cooking.’ The goat-lady paused and rewound the yarn which the cat had pulled askew. ‘I used to be a cook, you know. It’s nice to have someone to cook for again.’

  A very sulky Christie watched Barnaby drink his coffee.

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Well,’ said the goat-lady, ‘it’s only twenty-four ho
urs till tomorrow morning.’

  Christie glowered.

  ‘I want some breakfast.’

  ‘Cornflakes and tea?’

  ‘No.’ She gave in and pointed to Barnaby’s empty plate. ‘I guess I’ll have to eat what he had.’

  Without a word the goat-lady arose and cooked another breakfast. Christie ate until her shrunken stomach was tight and she felt almost ill, then she sighed.

  ‘I can’t finish it.’

  ‘Give it to Shep. Maybe you can do better tomorrow.’

  Again she put cookies in a bag and handed them to Barnaby.

  ‘Now divide those evenly. And no quarrelling today. Go and play and have a good time. I’ve got a lot of work to do, so don’t bother me for the next couple of hours.’

  At the door Barnaby turned.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. He and the goat-lady smiled at each other.

  When Christie reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused and stared back at the goat-lady.

  ‘You can curl my hair tonight,’ she announced.

  The two children followed the path they had taken the day before. They climbed the cedar fence and waved to the tall woman plowing, and again they stared fascinated at the bull, who surveyed his domain with murderous eyes.

  He was grand champion and he knew it. For all the loving attention lavished on him, he remained, at the bottom of his mean heart, a sullen brute. A brute who ruminated by the hour, wondering how he could, with his polished black horns, impale his patron, Mr Duncan.

  Once a year, at the end of August, sleek, shining and burnished like a pagan bull-god, he was shipped to the Exhibition. During his absence, the Islanders hung anxiously over their battery radios until reassured that he had won again. He was their one claim to fame.

  Agnes Duncan stopped, tied the reins to the handle of the plow and walked over to the children. Red-haired, six feet tall and as strong as a man, she was held in eternal bondage by her father who had no intention of paying wages to a labourer as long as Agnes could put in an honest day’s work.

  ‘Hello,’ she said shyly to the children. ‘I heard you were here. How do you like the Island?’

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ said Christie. Both children smiled at her.

  ‘I hope you won’t be lonely.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Barnaby. He pointed to the bull. ‘What’s his name?’