Uncle Cheroot Read online

  ‘But Jim, dear, we really need to buy new furniture! It won’t do to have visitors talking behind our backs about the state of our couch and chairs, not to mention our faded carpets, curtains, and rugs. Besides, the house would look much better with new furniture – for us to enjoy too! And have you thought about Turtle? She’s growing up fast and will soon be having her young friends visiting us. Surely we can’t embarrass the girl? And these new blenders just do the job in a few seconds, while that damn old mincing machine we have has to be cranked on, and on again, by hand, and all the damn parts have to be washed and cleaned afterwards!’

  ‘Bah!’ Pop would retaliate, muttering multiple invectives under his breath. (‘Bollocks!’ an often repeated favourite.) He would slowly slink away to some spot on the farm, still muttering inaudible invectives under his breath, where he could be left in peace, safely away from Mom’s badgering. A favourite hideout was the piggery, where the squealing of the young pigs was like music to his ears. Mom was frustrated over these petty differences between her and Pop, although in later years when she started to make big money on her own from her paintings, she started buying the best and classiest of furniture and fittings for the entire farmhouse, throwing Pop’s old stuff onto a heap in the front lawn, much to Pop’s chagrin. Pop diligently reallocated the discarded items of furniture into the farm sheds and barns. The old couch that Mom positively hated, he installed in the piggery, where he would often sit and smoke his pipe, watching his beloved pigs all the while. Pop wasn’t a parsimonious man in the strict sense of the word, but he just hated change of any sort.

  I keep on using Uncle’s name in the past tense, and that is because Uncle is dead, or rather that is what we came to know that awful morning in 1962 when Mom burst into our large kitchen while Pop, Ben, and I were still sitting at the breakfast table enjoying a very late breakfast. Mom was clutching a telegram in her shaking hands that had been delivered that very morning by Albert, our faithful postman. Albert on this occasion was the harbinger of dreadful news. Mom’s voice was like a death rattle, barely audible as she addressed us, the alabaster of her face changing into a distinct pure white.

  ‘My dear Cheroot is dead!’ she said, emitting a huge cry of agony. … ‘This telegram from his solicitor says he was in that plane that went down in the Channel with all passengers on board. The one they mentioned on the radio and tele two days ago. Turtle! You dust and clean up Cheroot’s room, and keep everything the way it was. I am locking up that room from today. Nobody’s to use it anymore.’

  Saying thus, Mom dashed off into the garden after her devastating announcement, leaving us all shell-shocked at the table. From the garden we could hear her sobbing and calling out Uncle’s name loudly in intervals between her sobs. Inky had followed Mom to the garden, letting out small howls of anxiety, sensing something was very amiss with his senior mistress. Inky was like that – almost human – and could sense all our emotions. He knew instinctively that something was very wrong, and was probably supporting Mom’s sorrow in his own way.

  I did as Mom asked that day and set about immediately cleaning out Uncle’s room. Not that it needed much cleaning, for Uncle was a tidy man, but there was a lot of dust that had gathered on the dresser and other bits of furniture. I opened the window to let in some fresh air, and then, curiosity getting the better of me, I opened the drawers of Uncle’s desk to sneak a look at what was in there. In the top drawer I found a large diary capable of recording a lifetime’s events, as it was almost the size of two extra-large pocketbooks. Opening it and skimming roughly through the pages, I saw that it was a record of the events of his visits to us over the years. The start of the diary was the year 1954, the same year I had met Uncle incipiently. As mentioned previously, apart from his visit when I was two, I first met Uncle as an adult when I was twelve, with several visits in between until 1962, when he visited for the last time. The diary recorded events of his stay here with us and nothing about his life away. I sat on Uncle’s bed and read the opening entry in his diary for 1954:

  What a wonderful thing it was to meet up with Julia again. She’s as beautiful as ever! Why ever didn’t I come sooner! Jim’s the same too. I guess he knows that I have had relations with Julia in the past and would resume them again, but there is this look on his face that tells me he doesn’t mind. I could even swear that he is in fact quite relived that I am here. The boy Ben’s going to be like his father and probably will take over the farm one day, but Turtle is a revelation. She’s not going to be a great beauty like Julia, but she has the same bone structure and attractiveness as her mother even at these tender years of hers. I know there is Druid blood in Julia, and I must try and turn her if we are to be together. Julia is old Saxon stock, and Druid traditions ran deep in the Saxons. As for the girl, the blood will run in her too – and the boy too, I suppose – but that is of no concern to me right now. Turtle could be a candidate in time, I suppose. … Perhaps time will tell. I do so sorely regret that she caught me drinking from the sacred stone. I hope she won’t read too much into it …!

  What Uncle meant by ‘I must try and turn her’ or ‘drinking from the sacred stone’ I didn’t know, nor did I understand what he meant by me being a ‘candidate’. A candidate for what? A myriad of perceptions marched on in my young mind, largely influenced by a good number of the occult books I had been reading that often referred to witches, fairies, vampires, and the like. I hadn’t a clue as to what Uncle meant in his strange opening entry, but in later years, after I had done much research on ancient Druids and their customs, and had come to terms with my own special qualities, I came to realize something of what he probably meant. I hastily put the diary inside my frock in front of my bosom, completed cleaning the room, and then hightailed it into my own bedroom, where I locked the diary in my dresser, fully intending to read it later on that night before I went to sleep. I kept the diary a secret from the family; nobody was the wiser to my purloining.

  I’m afraid I have been running ahead of myself in this narrative, in my earlier paragraphs describing some of the more striking events of Uncle’s first visit, instead of relating everything in an orderly fashion. I shall make amends for my avidity and pull you back to the start of Uncle’s first visit that Christmas of 1954, relating events as they happened, omitting of course what I have already written …

  Pop drove to the railway station in the morning to pick up my relative upon his arrival on the London train. Pop loved any excuse to drive anywhere in his battered old Land Rover open-back pickup truck, and picking up Uncle was no exception. The Rover could seat four in the front section, but Mom, Ben, and I decided to wait on the farm while Pop fetched Uncle, sitting outside the front porch the forty-odd minutes it would take for Pop to come back with his passenger. We were kept company by my beloved Inky and our busybody turkey cock Gobble.

  Uncle and Pop arrived neatly on time. As our visitor stepped out from the Land Rover, I noticed his immaculate well-cut clothes, his handsome countenance – somewhat marred by a crooked nose – and his long flowing golden hair, worn well down to his neck. Inky, who normally gave off frenzied barks of warning at any stranger, refrained from doing so this time, respectfully wagging his tail in greeting, although in a wary sort of manner. Even stranger was Gobble’s behaviour. The turkey did a kind of Indian dance around Uncle, gobbling away at his inimitable best, even cornering our visitor into a section of the garden, where Gobble appeared to ‘talk’ to Uncle using an incoherent series of turkey gobbling that we had never heard before. Uncle remained unperturbed during the siege he was under, just cocking his head to one side as though listening in keen rapture. He patted and smoothened down some of Gobble’s feathers which were still kind of ruffled after his initial ceremonial dance, stroking his hanging combs as he did so. That he even managed to come that close to the turkey and touch him was a small miracle in itself, as Gobble rarely allowed anyone to lay a hand on him. He allowed Mom and me, and on occasion Ben, to st
roke him, but never Pop. The bird had a running dispute with Pop, always threatening the latter like a duellist en garde. Pop was quite upset over Gobble’s treatment. He always got along well with all our farm animals, but he couldn’t get anywhere with his turkey nemesis. Gobble showed off his famous ‘en garde’ pose to all strangers – but beyond the intimidating pose he struck, he was pretty harmless really, unless somebody went too close to the turkey coop and Gobble’s many ‘wives’, or if he distrusted anybody for reasons known only to him. In these instances, he would chase the intruder away using his powerful body as a lever, and sometimes even taking a painful peck at the object of his ire. Gobble’s friendliness to Uncle was surprising to me, but as I later came to know, all animals showed a wonderful servility, respect, and affection for Uncle. Apart from Gobble, who in essence was a bird, animals warmed to my relative more than they did with other humans. Ravens especially showed much friendliness, some even settling down on Uncle’s shoulders to our great surprise. Animals and birds seemed to sense a kindred spirit in Uncle. At times, I could almost swear they could even communicate with him. He certainly could communicate with Gobble, as I was shortly to learn.

  Inky’s feelings towards Uncle were ambivalent. He was friendly enough but was strangely subdued in the latter’s presence, and would often look at Uncle in a puzzled sort of way, although he didn’t show any fear at all. Inky was my best friend, whom I loved above everyone else, Mom perhaps being the only exception. Inky and I did everything together. At nights he would sleep on my bed by my feet, which he would give a thorough licking before I fell asleep.

  Uncle embraced and greeted Mom, and then me and Ben. He spoke with a marked French accent as Mom and he exchanged a flurry of words, Mom’s face red and flushed with sheer joy. Pop’s attitude towards Uncle was ambivalent like Inky’s, presumably for different reasons. He had known before and knew even now that Uncle had, and probably would resume, intimate relations with his wife. On the one hand, having lost interest in sexual matters permanently, he was glad that Mom could find that avenue of pleasure with another man, and discreetly at that. On the other, Pop being Pop, he only liked dour people like himself to have around. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to have Uncle with us, considering the latter to be avant-garde and not a true ‘Englishman’. For a super-conservative and reserved man like Pop, Uncle was the worst type of guest one could endure …

  I don’t know what Gobble had prattled on about with Uncle Cheroot that day of his arrival – if the turkey had confided anything at all, that is – but it seemed to my twelve-year-old mind that the two could definitely communicate in some bizarre sort of fashion. Gobble’s snood and wattle flashed a bright red when he ‘spoke’ to Uncle, showing immense agitation at something or another that seemed to be bothering him. Later, and whenever Uncle Cheroot stayed with us, Gobble followed his new friend around the garden whenever Uncle took a stroll or sat on a garden chair to relax in the evenings. Turkeys in captivity live to be around twelve, or so they say, but Gobble lived on to a stately twenty-odd years, enjoying many visits by Uncle. My lovely Inky followed anyone who strayed outside the house, but he kept a few feet away from Uncle whenever the latter took a walk to stretch his legs. It wasn’t an uncommon sight to see Uncle walking leisurely with Gobble behind him and Inky following from a distance away. Gobble would have loved to follow Uncle inside the house as well, but Pop put his foot down firmly, despite the bird’s best efforts to thwart him. Other than Inky, no animal was allowed inside the house, not even the farm cats living otherwise in the barn.

  Uncle took Ben and me shopping the following morning. Uncle wore a pair of thick sunglasses, although the overhead sun wasn’t that bright in a slightly overcast sky. The sunglasses became a trademark accessory with Uncle in the years I got to know him. He never went out in the daytime without them. Given that it was just a few weeks before Christmas, festive lights and decorations had already come up in our village main street and in the shop windows along it. Ben and I were deluged with gifts. I was fitted with a brand-new wardrobe and was even indulged with three pairs of shoes with slightly elevated heels, in addition to dozens of knickers and other undergarments. What was really great was that I was allowed to pick and choose whatever I wanted, which delighted me no end. Mom and Pop, the latter especially, always bought me what they thought was fashionable for a twelve-year-old, but not so Uncle. I was allowed carte blanche. … Ben was also bought new clothes and shoes, but he wasn’t really enthusiastic about it all until Uncle took him to the general stores, where he was bought a large toy fire engine that ran on batteries and had a small siren that went off regularly. Ben loved the engine and never let it out of his sight the next few weeks. Uncle also bought Mom new lingerie after first speaking in earnest to Miss Selby at the lingerie section of the general store. Miss Selby, a middle-aged good-looking spinster, was startled at first by whatever Uncle was saying to her, blushing several shades of crimson, but she was soon seen displaying garment after garment to Uncle, who seemed to know all about the flimsy knickers, mini corsets, garters, and other delicate underwear Miss Selby fished out, nodding his head now and then in complete satisfaction. Mom was also bought a complete set of oil paints, brushes, cleaning spirits, painter’s palettes, and a whole heap of blank canvases of assorted sizes from the only paint and hardware stores in the village. Uncle had seen a few of Mom’s rough sketches and completed watercolours of the trees and animals on the farm and, being highly impressed, had decided that Mom ought to try her hand at oils. Mom never looked back. … She took to oil painting like a duck takes to water, and in the course of the following decades became England’s most famous painter of still life, especially fruit, but also orchards in bloom and country landscapes whenever the mood took her.

  Arriving back home in the village’s only taxi, owned by Eoin Tolley, a free-speaking Irishman, both Inky and Gobble rushed out to greet us. Inky let out a few warning barks at Eoin as the taxi driver alighted with us to help unload our shopping stuff from the boot of his car, but Gobble was most aggressive towards the bewildered taxi driver, gobbling and making quite a din, dancing around him in circles. Eoin was much surprised by the turkey’s behaviour, but he wasn’t cross. On the contrary, he was full of admiration for the bird.

  ‘Cor blimey! Is that a turkey or a blooming hound? Crikey! That bird can guard my house any time he wants! Never seen anything like it!’

  Eoin drove off after being paid by Uncle, still giving Gobble looks of wonder. The latter still behaved aggressively, seemingly agitated about something that obviously hadn’t to do with Eoin – something entirely different. The bird intentionally manoeuvred Uncle into a more secluded section of the garden and proceeded to give off a series of militant-sounding gobbles – almost the same sort he had uttered when Uncle first arrived. Uncle listened with one ear cocked and, after Gobble had finished his discourse, came back to the house with a determined look on his always pale countenance.

  Uncle seemed preoccupied with something that day over lunch, as though turning something over in his mind. After lunch, when we were all reposing in the porch outside the house, Pop walked out to the front garden, where he had been tinkering with the pickup the whole morning. He had removed all the connecting wires and mechanics from the engine block and was preparing to lift the engine out with a hand-cranked mechanical crane mounted on wheels. Uncle, who had followed Pop out, took a look at what was going on and casually, as though it was the most simplest thing in the world, bent over the Land Rover and lifted the block plumb out from the car with his bare hands. Pop gazed on in amazement, and so did we from our short distance away. Normally it would have taken at least two persons to lift such a weight. Pop said nothing, though, at this mind-boggling feat of strength, just having a bewildered look on his face. Uncle, who didn’t quite grasp that his helpful act had caused Pop’s brain to swirl around and around, addressed the latter severely, his voice clearly audible to Mom, Ben, and me. ‘I heard that you are pla
nning to have old Gobble slaughtered for Christmas dinner this year, Jim. Is this true?’

  Pop looked up at Uncle apprehensively before answering stolidly, obviously unappreciative of Uncle’s gruff tone. ‘Why, yes, Cheroot. The damn aggressive blighter will make an excellent roast. The troublesome bugger is past ten now, if I remember right, and he should have been slaughtered years ago. Kept the fellow on because he is such a good breeder and takes care of the turkey flock so well. He can’t live forever, you know, and it would be a shame if he passes on.’ (Pop never sold or ate animals or fowl that died naturally.) ‘Gobble is just the right size for Christmas lunch. The other gobblers and jennies are far too young as yet. But why do you ask, eh?’

  ‘Balderdash, Jim!’ said Uncle, still maintaining his severe tone. ‘I’ll get you a large turkey for Christmas some other way. Just keep you blooming chopper away from old Gobble, you hear! And don’t rush off somewhere now. Stay in the living room and swear on the Good Book that you will do as I say. Gobble needs to be around for many more years to take care of that turkey brood you have. And besides, he guards the turkey enclosure against foxes and the like, doesn’t he? The other cocks are far too young to be doing anything like that. And doesn’t he discourage unwanted persons from entering the farm, together with the dog?’ Uncle paused a bit in his discourse for effect, continuing with a compelling look of command on his face. ‘Don’t slaughter Gobble this year or any year onwards, you understand? It’s my wish, and I’ll trouble you to abide by it. I will buy you the best and fattest blasted slaughtered turkey from the supermarket at Rothwell this year, and will place a standing order with them to provide you with a similar bird every single Christmas hereafter. Gobble is family, and we don’t kill family members.’