As usual I was playing the invisible man, waving my ten pound note in the air to no avail, so I shouted above the noise. "Er, excuse me. Excuse me can...?" The barman walked right passed me as though I didn't exist. Sighing heavily I pushed my way nearer to the bar.
A rough voice exploded in my ear, "Oy! You berk!"
My heart sank as I felt beer slop over my arm. The owner of the now half-empty glass looked down at me with a scowl. He was big, very big.
"Sorry," I apologised quickly. "Here, let me buy you another one."
Turning away, he held up a finger to attract the barman’s attention. The barman instantly homed in on him, ready to take his order.
"A pint," he rumbled. "He's paying."
I nodded eagerly, trying to figure out how the big lug had done it, while handing over my money. "And I'll have a pint for myself and a whisky as well please."
Picking up the drinks I headed out of the crush, being extra careful not to jostle anyone else on the way.
"Yer always were a cack 'anded bugger, weren't yer?" Uncle Hobart greeted me as I lowered myself into a seat.
Forcing a smile I pushed his drink across the table at him, wondering why everybody seemed so intent on upsetting me today.
"Thanks for the show of solidarity," I replied sardonically.
Uncle Hobart just grunted, taking a long pull at his beer.
"Ah,” he sighed, “that's 'it the spot just right." Then, with another long gulp, he finished his drink and held up his glass. "'Ow about another one, then?"
Before I got the chance to point out that I’d not even started mine yet, Uncle Hobart was out of his chair, heading for the bar at a fast trot. Head down, elbows out, he disappeared into the crowd, the image of a demented ferret I’d once seen at a side-show. The only way I could follow his progress was by the angry comments being shouted at him from all sides.
"Oy watch out!"
"What the...?"
"Hey that's my foot!"
"What the hell! Oh sorry granddad, didn't see you there. Come on, I'll give you a hand."
The Neanderthal who’d cost me an extra pint of beer was now escorting Uncle Hobart to the bar. Raising my eyes to the ceiling, I shook my head in disbelief.
"Marvellous, isn't it?" I muttered under my breath. "When I try getting a drink, not only does the barman ignore me, I end up buying the Incredible Hulk one as well. But him..." I snorted at the unfairness of the world.
Emerging from the melee with a pint clutched in each hand, Uncle Hobart headed back. "Come on Peter boy," he called, trotting straight passed our table, "don't just sit there looking bleedin' glum!"
Before I could answer, he'd gone, disappearing through a doorway at the back of the bar. Sighing in resignation, I picked up my glass, following at a more leisurely pace. I found him sitting in a pleasantly shaded area, set out with tables and chairs.
"There, that's better, ain't it?" he asked as I settled down.
"How'd you find out about this, then?"
"Geezer in the bar told me. Built like a gorilla 'e were. Asked if I were with the pillock what spilt his beer. When I said I were, 'e suggested we come out 'ere ter the kiddies garden. Right embarrassing it were!"
"Yeah, I can imagine," I mumbled under my breath.
We sat in silence for a time, listening to the ducks on a nearby pond assail us for having no bread.
Finally Uncle Hobart smacked his lips and clicked his dentures. "Made out me will yesterday," he informed me in a chirpy voice.
"That right then?" I commented forlornly. We'd been down this road before.
"Aye. Left everything ter the Green Meadow 'Ome Fer Orphan Lambs."
"That right?"
"Nothing worse than a poor wee lamb that ain't got no mum."
"That right?"
"True as I sit 'ere." Tapping his nose with the side of his finger, he nodded sagely. "Worse than orphaned kids, that is."
"That right?" I repeated again, trying to figure out how anyone could believe an orphaned lamb was worse off than a motherless child.
Taking another quaff of beer, Uncle Hobart raised his leg. I turned my head aside as the smell of reconstituted alcohol wafted passed.
"Well", he mused, "with kids yer see, yer usually wants ter put 'em down at birth, don't yer?"
I concentrated on the ducks, doing my best to ignore Uncle Hobart’s inane remarks. They were making more sense than he was, even though it was only, "Quack. Quack!"
"Unless they're nannies o' course," Uncle Hobart continued. "Then yer might want ter keep one I suppose. Yer know, ter breed with another goat, like."
Shaking my head, I wondered how we had got onto the subject of goats. I’d obviously missed something along the way.
"And what's all this got to do with your will, then?" I countered, not sure which direction the conversation was going.
"Nowt! And fer Christ's sake, will yer pay attention. It's right irritating trying ter talk ter yer sometimes. It really is."
Picking up a stone, I threw it into the water, making the ducks quack in ill humour. One, with its big red beak and beady little eyes, reminded me of Uncle Hobart, so I threw another stone, which missed. And that summed up my luck with life so far.
"So how's Aunt Gertrude?" I asked, changing the subject.
"Dead!"
The bald statement caught me by surprise. I dabbed at the beer that now soaked my trousers, swearing. "For Christ sake, Uncle Hobart, you could have given me some warning. At this rate I'll be carrying the bloody brewery home with me."
He smiled, raising his glass. "It's better if yer drink it, not bathe in it, Peter boy."
Shaking my head, I did my best not to rise to his baiting.
"I knew Aunt Gertrude was ill, but I didn't realise it was that serious. What an earth happened?" I asked, wringing out my handkerchief.
Scratching the back of his neck, Uncle Hobart frowned at the floor. "Don't rightly know. I went up ter visit 'er as usual but she weren't there. So I asked the old biddy in the next bed where she were. She told me that they'd carted 'er off in the middle o' the night. Stiff as a board, she reckoned. Anyway, I left the daffs with the old biddy and came ‘ome. Couldn't see much point in wasting ‘em."
I nodded. "No, I suppose not."
"Ate the grapes meself, though."
"So when's the funeral going to be?" Uncle Hobart shook his head and shrugged. "Surely you know?" I persisted.
Shaking his head again, he frowned. "Fergot ter ask, didn't I?"
I silently prayed that when the time came for my funeral, somebody would be thoughtful enough to ask when it was going to be.
*
I was sitting on the dilapidated sofa in Uncle Hobart's front parlour - he always insisted on calling it the front parlour – watching various members of his family, most clutching cracked plates piled high with sandwiches of dubious origin. I turned to him, his nose was stuck deep in a pint glass as usual. Smacking his lips, he belched and threw me a quizzical look.
"Who's the old girl then?" I enquired, nodding towards a tall, thin woman stooping over a rickety table.
She was studying some gently curling sandwiches with a look of distaste, her long, painfully thin nose jerking this way and that as she patiently removed the top slice from each sandwich before poking the filling with a stick-like finger. Every movement was angular and twitchy, the overall effect that of a nervous bird. Uncle Hobart studied her for a moment, then grinned broadly, his upper set falling into his glass with a muted chink.
"Oh pith, I knew I thouldn't 'ave worn me new teeth," he lisped.
Plunging his dirty fingers into his glass, he extracted his teeth, wiped them on his cardigan and stuffed them back into his mouth. When they were firmly in place, he called out to the bird-woman. "Martha, come over ‘ere and meet my nephew, young Peter."
Martha twisted her head jerkily in our direction, zooming in on us with her prodigious nose, and for one awful moment, I thought she might impale me with it and carry me off to some secret eerie. Then, with a ramrod straight back, she picked her way across the room towards us. Uncle Hobart smiled at her, this time managing to hold onto his teeth. She frowned at him.
"What?" he asked, eyebrows arched above pale blue eyes.
"Your teeth," she replied, tapping her own with a long, lacquered fingernail.
"Aye, they're me new set. Like 'em?"
"Are they supposed to be that colour?"
"Blue fluff," I whispered. "From your cardy."
Hastily removing his dentures, Uncle Hobart picked off the offending piece of fluff, swirled them in his drink and fumbled them back in his mouth again. I looked at Aunt Martha with fond helplessness, shrugging my shoulders.
Trying to act the gentleman, Uncle Hobart struggled to stand up, but rather than put his glass and plate down first, he held onto them and in the ensuing struggle managed to knock Aunt Martha's plate sideways, shooting her sandwich straight into the punch bowl.
"Martha," he said, ignoring the mess that was now sinking slowly to the bottom of the mixture. "'Ere 'e is, me nephew, Peter - and Peter, this 'ere's Martha, my dear departed Gertrude's sister."
Suddenly Martha gave a kind of choked squeak, her cheeks turning red. My eyebrows rose when I realised that Uncle Hobart had just goosed her. She stepped forward, placing the heel of her shoe on Uncle Hobart's instep, then offering me her hand with a broad smile, she leant forward, bearing down with her full weight. Uncle Hobart’s mouth began working frantically but no sound came out.
"Oops, sorry Hobart!" Aunt Martha apologised. "Did I stand on your foot? Goodness, how clumsy of me!"
Clenching his jaws, Uncle Hobart hobbled off towards the toilet and I returned Aunt Martha's smile, shaking her hand warming.
How careless of you to step on his foot!" I observed with a grin.
"Yes, wasn't it?" she agreed, settling down next to me on the sofa. "Do you know, that impudent man was just the same when poor Gertrude was alive. The fact that I'm his sister-in-law has never put him off one bit."
I took a pull at my beer, then pursed my lips. I was growing to like this newly discovered relative of mine.
"Allow me to get you a drink," I suggested, standing up.
"Well thank you very much, young man. Yes, I'd like that. A glass of punch if you will."
I raised an eyebrow, nodding at the sandwich which had risen to the surface of the bowl and was now soggily floating amongst the pieces of fruit. "Well perhaps not," she agreed. "Do you think there might be any port about the place?"
I tapped my nose. "Oh, I think I might be able to find you some from somewhere."
I finally tracked it down, hidden under Uncle Hobart's bed in an old shoebox. The whiff from an half-filled chamber pot made me glad to get back to the relative fresh-air of the parlour. As I handed Aunt Martha a glass of his very expensive Fine Old Ruby, Uncle Hobart frowned at me.
"What's that?" he growled.
"Port," we answered in unison.
"But I've been saving that fer a special occasion!"
"I'd have thought your wife's funeral was a special occasion, Hobart," Aunt Martha snapped, turning a smouldering look on him.
Clicking his teeth, he snorted and walked off in a huff.
Oh yes, I was beginning to be very glad that I'd found this wonderful addition to the family.