I was standing by the edge of the cliff, gazing out over the turbulent sea pounding at the rocks below. The frothy waves seemed hungry as they clawed their way up the cliff-face towards me. Tentacles of cold spray wrapped themselves around my legs and I shivered, hunching my shoulders against the wind as I walked back towards the graveyard.
The last sleek limousine waited with its back door agape. Bending forward, I slid into its warm interior beside Uncle Hobart. He was huddled into the corner of the brown leather seat and glanced over at me as I settled back with a sigh.
"They've gone on," he said.
"Right." I nodded, my thoughts still back with the sea. A shiver ran down my spine. "God, I think someone's just walked over my grave!"
Uncle Hobart threw me a guarded look and my face reddened. I sniffed, looking out of the window to hide my embarrassment. The rows of gravestones I saw didn't help my composure any.
"So, yer staying fer long then?"
I shook my head. "No, I'm going back tomorrow." Rubbing condensation from the window with my sleeve, I stared out at the light-dappled grass, adding quietly, "I only came up for the funeral."
As the limousine moved out of the church grounds and into the narrow country lane, we sat silently, both preoccupied with our thoughts. The wind eased and the sun broke through the clouds, flickering between the trees. I felt a headache building-up behind my left eye. Uncle Hobart fidgeted himself into a more comfortable position.
"Didn't know 'im too well, did yer?" he asked.
I turned and studied him for a moment. His hands twisted back and forth on the carved handle of his walking stick. They were hard, strong hands; a farmer's hands. He was well into his seventies and still worked the farm. Removing a cloth-cap, he scratched his balding head and clicked his dentures - a habit that annoyed me intensely.
"Funny old bugger 'e were," he said.
I raised my gaze to his faded blue eyes, arching my eyebrows.
"They used ter call 'im Jonah. Be'ind 'is back, like."
"That right?" I asked, only half listening.
He glanced out the window, nodding slowly, as though trying to remember something.
"And why did they call him Jonah, then?” It was more politeness than interest on my part.
Uncle Hobart turned his weathered face towards me, pursing his lips.
"No, really," I insisted. "Do tell."
As soon as the words slipped from my mouth I kicked myself. I should know better, bitter experience having taught me that once Uncle Hobart started in on one of his stories, there was no respite. At least, not until he’d rung every last drop from it.
After considering my request for a moment, he leant forward to rap the handle of his walking stick on the partition separating us from the chauffeur. The driver reached back over his shoulder and slid it open.
"Yes sir?” a pretentious voice enquired.
"Turn the car around. I want ter go back."
The driver’s tone abruptly changed to an indignant squeak. "But I'm only being paid to drive you to the..."
"Stop yer bleedin' arguing man!” Uncle Hobart interrupted. "We've just passed a pub and the youngster 'ere wants ter stop fer a wet."
"But..."
"What's the matter with yer? Don't yer know we've just been ter a funeral? Fer God's sake man, I fought a war fer the likes o' yer."
The driver held up a hand in submission. "Okay, okay. I'll go back to the pub, granddad. But it's going to cost you a drink!"
The chauffeur struggled to turn the limousine around in the narrow country lane, keeping up a steady flow of profanities. Uncle Hobart just sat back in the tooled leather seat with a smile on his thin lips.
A little later we glided to a stop outside the pub and when I trotted around to open the car door, I was met with a withering look and muttered comments about the bloody impudence of young people these days. Shrugging at the driver I followed my uncle's disappearing back into the dim interior of the pub. So much for being helpful, I thought.
Uncle Hobart slipped the chauffeur a five-pound note and pointed at the bar. "'Ere, get yerself a drink," he instructed, "and wait fer us 'ere. We'll be through the back. in the snug."
The barmaid looked up and smiled as we approached. "Yes luv?"
"Two whiskeys, with chasers," Uncle Hobart ordered, slapping down some loose change on the counter.
Not waiting to be served, he headed for a table beside the roaring log fire. I shrugged at the barmaid and followed him like a loyal puppy. After poking at the fire, Uncle Hobart sat back in his seat, ignoring the obnoxious smell now wafting across the room as the rubber feral on the end of his walking stick began to smoulder. The barmaid came over and placed a bent metal tray on the table between us, giving Uncle Hobart a withering look.
"Thanks," I acknowledged, smiling broadly. Uncle Hobart just grunted.
Hooking the still smoking walking stick onto the back of his chair, Uncle Hobart took a hefty pull at his beer, then downed the whisky in one gulp. Sighing contentedly, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, belching loudly. "God, I needed that." Cocking his head to one side, he gave me a quizzical look. "Yer've no idea 'ow much I 'ate bleedin' funerals. It ain't right ter 'ave ter go ter them things at my age, yer know."
I sipped at my drink, studying the barmaid's swinging hips as she sauntered between the tables, clearing the glasses.
"Talkative bugger, ain't yer?"
I shrugged, finishing my beer with a flourish. "So why did they call him Jonah, then?" I asked, stumped for something to say.
Uncle Hobart settled back in his chair and I could tell I was in for a long session.
"It were right queer, that," he began. "It goes back ter when 'e were in the navy."
"I thought he was in the army," I interrupted. Not that I was that interested, I just enjoyed winding him up whenever I got the chance.
"Yer don't know nothin' about 'im, so 'ow come yer think 'e were in the bleedin' army!" He gulped at his beer and shook his head. "Nah, he were in the navy. Midshipman far as I remember. Any'ow, 'e got sunk like."
"Sunk?"
Uncle Hobart nodded, eyes glazing as his mind drifted back through the years. "Aye, torpedoed 'e were."
"That must have..."
"And bombed. And run aground."
"What, all at the same time?"
"Nah, o' course not, yer silly bugger!" Finishing his beer, he rattled his glass on the table to attract the barmaid's attention. "Same again luv," he shouted. "And one fer the youngster 'ere. Turning back he frowned. "Now where were I? Oh aye, yer Uncle Fred. 'E were sunk six times altergether." Leaning forward he gazed into my eyes with an intensity that made me feel uncomfortable. "And yer know what?" I blinked rapidly and shook my head. "Every bleedin' time it 'appened, 'e were the only survivor. 'Ow about that!"
Having finished his story, Uncle Hobart leant back in his chair in obvious satisfaction, a large smile creasing his weathered face.
"Oh yeah! Sure." My tone left no doubt as to what I thought of that story.
"But it's true! True as I sit 'ere. 'E showed me all the noospaper cuttings 'e'd saved."
I took a sip of my whisky. "Six times, eh?"
The barmaid brought fresh drinks and gave me a half-smile as she bent over to place them on the table. Over the edge of her gaping top I could see that she was wearing a frilly black brassiere. Uncle Hobart took a deep swallow of his beer and winked at me as she wound her way back to the bar.
"Won't do yer no good that," he said. "Anyway, that weren't all. The last time 'e were sunk, only 'im and the captain got off the ship. Adrift in a lifeboat fer three weeks they were, afore they was picked up." He took another deep pull at his beer and burped loudly. "And all that were left when they found 'im, were 'im and one tatty looking leg."
I threw him a look but he ignored it.
"Anyway, after the war Fred took up fishing, and that went fine. At least it did fer awhile. But suddenly every ship 'e went on..." Uncle Hobart stared pointedly at the floor, shaking his head. "Well no bugger'd sail with 'im in the end, so 'e 'ad to buy 'is own boat."
I raised an eyebrow at the barmaid, who was listening to our conversation. "Well that's hardly surprising," I said standing up. The barmaid smiled and I winked at her. "Come on, let's get back - I think you've tried to wind me up enough for one day."
"Think yer know it all, yer young 'uns, don't yer?"
I handed him his walking stick and chuckled. "Well I know enough not to be taken in by any of your stories."
*
We had driven about half a mile when the sound of a loud explosion cut through the balmy afternoon.
"What the hell was that?" the chauffeur asked, pulling the limousine into the side of the road.
"Probably dynamiting in the quarry," Uncle Hobart replied. "Come on, never mind that. Let's get back to the 'ouse afore they scoff all the bleedin' sandwiches!"
*
The next day our local newspaper carried an interesting piece. An underground gas main had blown up, causing the cliff-face at the back of the churchyard to collapse into the sea, taking a large part of the graveyard and dozens of coffins with it. The article went on to say that only one coffin had been recovered.
Uncle Hobart muttered something about cremating old Fred next time round.