Uncle Hobart was sitting on a bale of hay with tears in his eyes. I was sitting beside him, my arm across his thin shoulders. He appeared smaller, shrunken somehow. We had just watched a large articulated lorry disappear up the rutted lane with the last of his stock inside. All that was left to do now was sell the farm.
I squeezed his shoulder. "You alright, Uncle Hobart?"
Nodding silently, he wiped his eyes with the edge of a dirty cuff, then sniffing loudly he said, "Fifty years I've been 'ere. Fifty years man and boy." There was a catch in his voice. "Fifty years carted off on the back o' a bleedin' lorry!"
There was nothing I could say that would comfort him, so I gave his shoulder another gentle squeeze instead. "Come on, let's go and have a drink."
"You go on ahead if'n yer like. I'd rather stay 'ere fer a bit, with me memories like."
"Right," I said, standing up.
Looking up at me with misty eyes, he confided, "I'm just glad that me poor old Gertie weren't 'ere ter see this day. If'n she 'ad 'ave been, it would 'ave broken 'er poor old 'eart."
I left him to his memories and trudged dejectedly back to the cold, empty house.
*
"And this is the lounge area," the matron told us, stepping aside so that we could view a dismal room dominated by a large, wide-screened television set.
"Well, at least you'll be able to watch the football," I whispered to Uncle Hobart.
"I 'ate bleedin' football!" he snapped back.
"Oh yeah. Sorry, I forgot." Tapping my chin, I tried a different tack. "Well you like cricket and that'll be starting soon. So you'll be able to watch that, won't you?"
"Not if Mrs Prescott and Miss Plunkett are in the lounge," the matron informed us sternly. "Television viewing is by agreement only, with everybody having a democratic say in the decision."
Uncle Hobart sighed and shrank another inch in height. "Let me guess," he mumbled. "They don't like bleedin' cricket, so no one gets ter see it, right?"
The matron jerked her head as though she had suddenly smelt something offensive. "Really Mr Tuttershed, we don't allow that sort of language here!"
Uncle Hobart mumbled something inaudible under his breath, farted loudly and then sauntered into the lounge.
"Nice comfy chairs," I observed, trying to suppress a smile.
"Fat lot of bleedin' good being comfy is if yer can't watch the cricket on the telly, ain't it?" he snapped back.
"I could always get you a portable, I suppose. You could watch it in your own room then, couldn't you?"
The matron's breath hissed across her teeth. "No televisions or wirelesses are allowed in shared rooms, Mr Barns. They might disturb the other residents."
I pursed my lips, wondering why she found it necessary to stress every other word.
Uncle Hobart rounded on her, his twisted face displaying his inner turmoil. "And that's another thing. 'Ow come I have ter share a room with someone else? Why can't I 'ave me own?"
"I've already explained that to your nephew, Mr Tuttershed. We have limited space in this residence. But rest assured, as soon as a room becomes available, it will be offered to you."
"Dead men's shoes," he muttered dejectedly.
"What's that?" The matron asked in a waspish tone.
Ignoring her, he turned to me, a hang-dog expression on his face. "Where's me room then?"
The room was small, almost claustrophobic, containing two beds, two bedside cabinets, two small chest-of-drawers and a large double wardrobe. The walls were painted an insipid yellow, the small window covered by a set of floral patterned curtains that didn't quite meet in the middle. An old man was snoring gently in one of the beds.
As soon as the door closed behind us, Uncle Hobart rounded on me. "Bleedin' 'ell, Peter boy. Is this the best yer could do?"
Sitting down on the empty bed, I swept a hand through my hair. "It won't be for long, Uncle Hobart. It's only until I can find someone to take over my Saudi contracts. When that's sorted, I'll come back and you can move in with me. It'll only be for a few weeks. Its not like it's forever, is it?"
"Maybe not fer yer. But fer me, stuck in 'ere, with 'im?"
The object of Uncle Hobart's scorn chose that moment to wake up. Opening his eyes, the old man swallowed noisily and I watched in amazement as the bottom half of his face turned in upon itself. I had always hated the way old people look when they leave their teeth out.
Uncle Hobart nodded at him. "'Ow do."
The old man struggled to reach his dentures, floating in a glass of murky water on the bedside cabinet. It was painful to watch his feeble efforts, so I got up to give him a hand. As I reached across, I felt a restraining hand on my arm.
"Let the poor old bugger do it fer 'imself," Uncle Hobart told me. "It's probably the only bleedin' excitement 'e gets all day."
The old man finally worked his dentures into his mouth, looking at Uncle Hobart with his watery eyes screwed up. "That you, Mable?" he asked, in a tremulous voice.
Uncle Hobart took off his cloth-cap and slapped it against his thigh in agitation. "Bleedin' 'ell Peter boy, 'e's bleedin' gaga!"
"Sh! He'll hear you," I warned.
"Have you cut the crusts off, Mable?" the old man asked, oblivious to his surroundings.
"Listen ter 'im. Come on, yer can't leave me 'ere with 'im. Please!"
Gently taking Uncle Hobart by his shoulders, I sat him down on the bed. He looked up at me, his eyes full of fear.
"Don't make this any harder than it already is, Uncle Hobart," I pleaded. "I don't want to leave you here anymore than you want to be left here, but I've got no choice have I? You don't think that I'd have let you sell the farm if I there'd been any other choice, do you? I do hope you understand that."
He swallowed and looked down at the floor, and for a moment time ceased. It was then that I suddenly understood what emptiness he must be feeling. What desolation and failure. Sighing deeply, he looked up at me with his faded blue eyes, but he didn't say anything, just gave me a wane smile, while a single large tear rolled down his cheek.
*
I was back from Saudi, my contracts given over to another salesman and if things went well I’d soon be free to take early retirement and start looking after Uncle Hobart.
"Mr Barns?" The voice on the telephone sounded vaguely familiar.
"Speaking," I replied cautiously.
"This is Ms Hardarm from the 'Sunshine Rest' Residential Home for the Elderly Person."
"Oh yes, good afternoon Ms Hardarm, I was about to give you a call. So what can I do for you? Nothing wrong I hope?"
"Well actually there is, Mr Barns, that's why I'm telephoning you."
The tone of her voice made me feel somehow inferior. A feeling that my mother always evoked in me, right up to the day that she died. There was a long pause on the line, during which my stomach tightened.
"The thing is Mr Barns," Ms Hardarm continued. "You're uncle appears to have disappeared."
"Disappeared! What do you mean, disappeared?"
Ignoring my outburst, she continued, "I don't know where he's gone or why. He just packed some things and left before anyone could do anything to stop him."
"When was this?"
"Today, after dinner," she informed me. "Mrs Prescott - fortunately she was watching the traffic as she usually does in the early evening - saw him leave and told me. Otherwise I might not have known that your uncle had gone until it was time to retire. Mrs Prescott told me that he was walking down the road with a pillowcase over his shoulder," Ms Hardarm sniffed with disdain. "Just like some common tramp." She sniffed again before continuing. "I do hope nobody saw him. Such behaviour does so lower the tone of the place, you know."
"My God!" I exclaimed.
There was a short pause, followed by, "There is the letter of course."
"Letter?" I asked. "What Letter?"
"You're uncle left a letter on his bed, addressed to you."
"Well, what's in it woman!"
"I'll thank you not to take that tone with me, young man! After all, I haven't caused all this commotion you know. He’s your uncle."
"The letter! The letter!" Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm myself. "Sorry, Ms Hardarm," I managed in a fairly reasonable tone. "It's just that I'm worried. Perhaps if you told me what he said in the letter."
"Yes, well I'd say that you've got every reason to be worried, Mr Barns. Your uncle is obviously not quite right in the head and if you hadn't been unobtainable because you were out of the country, I would have insisted on his removal a long time ago. Now that he's left of his own accord it will save me the trouble of course, and I'm thankful for that! I'll send you the outstanding bill, which will include the cost of a replacement pillowcase. And I'll expect prompt payment, Mr Barns, prompt payment."
The muscles along my jaw tightened and my knuckles whitened on the receiver. "I see Ms Hardarm. Well, while we're being so blunt and putting our cards on the table, let me deal mine. I'd just like to tell you that if anything happens to my uncle, I'll hold you personally responsible and I'll sue that decrepit little home of yours for every penny it's got! Do you understand that, Ms Hardarm? Every penny. Now I suggest that you tell me what's in that letter so I can get on with finding out what's happened to my uncle. Who, thanks to your incompetence, is probably in some considerable danger!"
Ms Hardarm sniffed heavily, it was obvious that she was not used to being talked to in such a manner. I grinned, imagining the look of snooty disdain on her face.
"I don't open other peoples letters, Mr Barns," she suddenly blurted. "The letter is addressed to you and if you want it, you can come and collect it from reception." There was a short, loaded pause. "And don't ask for me when you arrive because I have no wish to speak to such an ill mannered, obnoxious person as yourself."
"And up yours too!" I shouted, slamming down the receiver.
See how you like that, I thought!
*
I was sitting in my local, reading Uncle Hobart's letter, the noise and bustle fading into the background as I concentrated on his shaky handwriting. The letter said that he had done his best to settle down in the 'Sunshine Rest' Residential Home for the Elderly Person, but had found Ms Hardarm and her overbearing ways insufferable. The last straw had come after he'd spent two hours talking to his room-mate, only to find out that the old man had died earlier that afternoon and nobody had thought fit to remove his body, or mention the fact that the poor old guy was dead. Uncle Hobart ended his letter by saying that he hoped I would understand and find it in myself to forgive him. A postscript told me that he was going to London to visit an old friend who lived in Kings Cross.
After a lot of false starts, I finally drove to the depot where Uncle Hobart's belongings were stored, with something nagging away at the back of my mind, something about Kings Cross and an old friend. An hour later I was clutching Uncle Hobart's tattered old address book and had the answer to where he’d gone.
*
The house was in a run-down square behind Kings Cross Station. The old Victorian building appeared dark and dirty in the dim street lighting, and I looked about nervously as I pushed the button on the entry-phone.
"Yes?" a sensual voice whispered from the speaker. "This is Tiger Girl, who's this?" I was too confused to answer for a moment. "Hello, is there anyone there?" the voice sent shivers of pleasure down my spine.
"Oh... well... er... yes. Yes, I'm here," I stuttered.
"And what time is your appointment, Honey Bear?"
"Well... I haven't got an appointment exactly, I..."
"Sorry, no appointment, no knooky. You know the rules. Why don't you telephone my maid and I'll see you later?"
"Appointment? No wait, you don't understand." But it was too late, the entry-phone had gone dead.
Pushing the call-button again, I waited. Getting no response, I pushed it again, then again. Finally I kept my finger on the button, determined I was going to get an answer one way or another. And get one I did. Suddenly the front door slammed open and the Jolly Green Giant glared down at me. But this particular giant wasn't green, or jolly, he was Greek.
"Shit!" I exclaimed, stumbling backwards, nearly falling down the stone steps.
"What'cha want? Can'ta ya hear? She say go away. Now puss off."
"Right," I nodded vigorously, "Puss off. Anything you say."
"Just a mo', Makis," someone with a familiar voice called from inside the house. Heaving a sigh of relief, I threw my arms around my old uncle as he appeared out of the gloom. "Well, Peter boy," he greeted me. "It's nice ter see yer too. Come on in. Come on in out o' the cold."
Following him into a dimly lit hallway that was covered in red flocked wallpaper, I whispered in Uncle Hobart's ear, "God, this place reminds me of a brothel."
"That's 'cos it is one," he whispered back. "Best damned brothel in Kings Cross." Guiding me into a room off the corridor, he asked, "And do yer know why?"
"Why?" I replied, turning around to take in the decor.
The walls of the room were hung with pictures of people in various sexual positions, while strategically placed racks were filled with ropes, whips, masks and other dubious looking objects that I didn't even want to try and identify. The ceiling, covered in mirrors, reflected the shiny rubber floor that squeaked beneath our feet.
"'Cos it's run by an old friend of mine, that's why." Uncle Hobart smiled at the expression on my face.
"Well thanks, honey," a soft voice acknowledged from behind us.
I turned around, surreptitiously studying the slim black woman who had entered the room. Though I estimated her to be in her late sixties, I could see that she must have been very beautiful when younger and even now, carried a certain sexual attraction about her.
"This is Maggie, and this 'ere's Jill," Uncle Hobart introduced the black woman and a slim, attractive girl who'd silently joined her. "Girls, this is Peter, who's come to take me back 'ome, unless I'm much mistaken."
"Hi," I nodded shyly, eyeing Jill's curvaceous body.
"Oh, but do you really have to go right now, Hobart?" Maggie asked with a petulant frown. "I had a nice surprise planned."
"We sure did," Jill agreed, hugging his arm to her ample chest.
When I recognised the sultry voice from the entry-phone, my toes tingled and I wished with all my heart that for just one moment, I could be Uncle Hobart's arm!
"Can't you stay a bit longer?" Maggie pleaded. "We've hardly had time to talk yet."
Uncle Hobart looked at me with raised eyebrows.
"Well I suppose we could stay for a bit longer," I said.
A smile lit up Jill's face and she winked slowly as she walked towards the door with a suggestive swing of her hips. When she reached the threshold, she turned back, beckoning to me. "Come on then, lover boy," she said in a low, husky voice. "You can have this one on the house. After all, any friend of Hobart's is a friend of ours. Right Maggie?"