I offered Uncle Hobart a crisp but he just shook his head, giving me one of his looks.
"Don't want ter spoil me beer with them things," he told me, clicking his dentures, "they stick under me plate." It was cloudy but warm in the garden of the Duck and Anvil, which apart from the two of us was empty. Holding up his glass, Uncle Hobart studied the amber fluid for a moment, then sighed wearily, took a long drink and burped loudly. After digging about in his ear for a bit, he extracted some wax and said, "Well Peter boy, yer making a good job o' it. I got ter admit that."
"Well thanks a lot, Uncle Hobart," I answered, my shoulders straightening in pleasure. Here was praise indeed.
"Fair do. Yer doing really well. Almost as good as me when I first started farming." He sighed again, taking took another deep draught.
"So what's up then?" I asked.
"Oh, nowt really. Just a bit bored, I guess. Yer know how it is, sitting around all day with nowt ter do but chase Martha around." His face suddenly lit up. "Yer know, I think I might be getting somewhere there, I definitely think she's beginning ter weaken."
I smiled back at him, shaking my head. "What the hell are you chasing a woman about at your age for anyway? God alone knows what you'd do if you caught her."
"Right smug, ain't yer?" he said, glaring at me. "Just 'cause yer young, yer think yer know it all, don't yer? Well let me tell yer some'at, Peter boy. As old as I am, I can still show yer a thing or two. There's many a fine tune played on an old fiddle, yer know."
"Not if the bow's broken," I taunted, wiggling my little finger at him.
Giving a snort, Uncle Hobart settled back in his chair, his eyes glazing over as his thoughts roamed. "Yer know," he said, after a long pause, "me and yer dad used ter be a right pair when we were young. Weren't no girl fer miles around was safe when the two o' us were out on the town."
"Dad?" My voice rose in astonishment. My father had died when I was very young and he hadn't entered my thoughts in years.
Uncle Hobart nodded absentmindedly. "Right ladies man 'e were, always putting it about. Mind, 'e slipped up a bit when 'e 'ad yer." Standing up, he held out his glass and waggled it at me. "Want another beer then?"
I grabbed his arm. "Hang on a minute. What do you mean, he slipped up a bit when he had me?"
Uncle Hobart sat down again, leaning across the table, fixing me with an earnest look. "Well yer were an accident like, weren't yer?"
I frowned. "Was I?" I didn't like the thought of being an accident.
"Aye, and it were real funny 'ow it 'appened too."
"Are you trying to tell me that you were there at the time?" The picture this brought to mind had me squirming.
Rubbing his chin, Uncle Hobart nodded. "Well in a manner o' speaking, I suppose I were."
"Well, here you both are." Aunt Martha sat down, smiling at Uncle Hobart.
He smiled back lop-sidedly, then turned to me. "While yer up getting yer aunt a drink, get me one as well," he ordered.
When I got back with the drinks, Aunt Martha and Uncle Hobart were deep in conversation and I started to feel like a gooseberry, so I downed my beer in two gulps and stood up to leave. "I'm going to do a bit of shopping in town. Want anything while I'm there Aunt Martha?" I studiously ignored Uncle Hobart, who was picking his nose.
She shook her head, quickly turning her attention back to Uncle Hobart, who surreptitiously wiped his finger down his trouser leg. I left before their behaviour made me feel any more of a voyeur than I already did.
*
The next couple of days were taken up with de-horning and castrating cattle, a job I disliked intensely. Every time the vet cut off a bull-calf's testicles, I would unconsciously cup my own in a protective gesture. And the fact that the vet was female, gorgeous looking and obviously enjoyed doing her work, didn't help my feelings of inadequacy one little bit.
I was kept busy most days and by the time the evenings came around I only had enough energy left to shower, eat supper and crawl into bed. I was dimly aware that Uncle Hobart was full of enthusiasm for some money making scheme he’d dreamt up but my only thoughts were for bed and sleep. If I hadn’t have been so tired I might have paid more attention to what he was doing and saved myself a lot of grief.
Well, I might have.
*
The newspaper was spread across my favourite chair and as I moved it I spotted Nettle Farm’s telephone number on one of the bigger adverts. Shaking the paper straight I took a closer look.
'HOBART'S PATENT FLY CATCHER'
'Having trouble with flies?
Are those nasty little critters
buzzing around your kitchen all day?
My flycatcher is guarantied to keep those pesky creatures at bay.
In the unlikely event your flycatcher doesn't work
a replacement will be dispatched at once.'
My feet hardly touched the floor as I headed for the kitchen. "Uncle Hobart? Hobart, where the hell are you?" I yelled at the top of my voice.
Aunt Martha pulled her hands from the soapsuds in the kitchen sink and reached for a towel. "What on earth's the matter, Peter? What's all the shouting about?"
"Where is he?" I snarled.
"He said he was going down to his shed to do some work. Why, what’s the matter? Is something wrong?"
"Take a look at this," I answered, spreading the newspaper across the table.
Aunt Martha scanned it once then read it again more slowly. "Oh dear, yes I see what you mean. It does appear he's up to his old tricks again, doesn't it? But let's not be too hasty, perhaps there's an explanation."
"Hah! I'll bloody explanation him when I get my hands on the scheming little toad. Patent bloody fly catcher indeed."
Following Aunt Martha's darting figure down the garden path to Uncle Hobart's shed, my nose went into overdrive.
"Goodness gracious me, what is that awful smell?" Aunt Martha asked, stopping in her tracks. Turning her head to one side she took a deep breath and let rip, her shout nearly lifting the shed from its foundations, "HOBART TUTTERSHED, ARE YOU IN THERE?"
There was a short pause, followed by footsteps shuffling about inside. Finally the shed door swung slowly open. We both coughed as a blast of foetid air whooshed out, followed closely by Uncle Hobart. At least I assumed it was Uncle Hobart, it being hard to tell who was under the World War II gas mask. Aunt Martha held out the newspaper, shaking it at him.
Uncle Hobart pulled off the gas mask and pursed his lips. "Ah, yer've seen it then," he said quietly.
"And what exactly is 'it' may one ask, Hobart?" Aunt Martha's tone could have etched steel.
He wilted under her glare. "I was only trying ter get some money tergether," he explained, staring at the floor, moving the tip of one shoe in small circles through the dirt.
Aunt Martha took a step forward, then quickly changed her mind, stepping back again. Wrinkling her prodigious nose, she pointed at the house. "First you'll go indoors and have a good bath," she ordered. "Then you'll tell me exactly what you've been up to."
Uncle Hobart didn't argue, he just dropped the gas mask on the ground and walked off with slumped shoulder, reminiscent of a naughty boy who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I picked up the gas mask and headed for the shed.
Walking through the door was like walking into a thick, black mass of madness. I flinched at the noise that bombarded me as millions of flies swooped and darted about my head. I could see that thousands of maggots were busily feeding on what was left of two dead sheep, the heaving mass over-flowing onto the floor as the mound of glistening grubs continuously fought each other for a space to eat. I looked around in confusion, trying to work out what Uncle Hobart wanted with a shed full of flies.
Stepping over the carcasses, I moved through into the small partitioned room he'd built in the back of the shed and things became a lot clearer. Tiers of glass tanks were set on a rack reaching from floor to ceiling and looking through the dirty glass of one, I spotted hundreds of spiders inside. Little ones, big ones, hairy ones, long legged ones; black ones, brown ones, multicoloured ones; spiders with yellow markings; spiders with red markings. Every conceivable classification and colour of spider you might possibly see running around the home or garden.
"Uncle Hobart's Patent Fly Catcher," I groaned into the gas mask, shaking my head at the seething mass of bodies.
Wandering back to the house, fantasising about how Uncle Hobart might look buried under three tons of wriggling maggots, I walked into the kitchen
"He's explained it all," Aunt Martha greeted me.
Taking a can of beer from the fridge, I tore off the tab, downing the contents in three long gulps.
"It's quite sweet really," she added, in a dreamy voice.
Ignoring her, I turned my gaze on Uncle Hobart. "How many have you sent off?" I demanded, dreading the answer I might get.
"Nowt yet. The ad only went in terday."
Heaving a sigh of relief, I sat down. "Well thank God for small mercies," I said. "Don't you realise that what you're doing is illegal? You could be arrested for fraud, you stupid old fool."
"He may be an old fool, Peter," Aunt Martha said from behind me, "but he's a kind fool. A fool with a heart of gold." I glanced over my shoulder at her, checking that she’d not suddenly taken leave of her senses. "I know he did a silly thing," she said, tipping her head to one side as she studied him. "But it was for a very good reason."
"Yeah, greed," I growled with feeling.
"Oh no, not greed Peter. He wanted the money for the wedding."
"Wedding? What wedding? Who's getting married?" My heart froze as Uncle Hobart and Aunt Martha continued to gaze fondly at each other and the penny suddenly dropped. "Oh no, not..." standing up, I waved a hand vaguely between the pair of them.
Aunt Martha flushed and giggled. "Yes Peter, isn't it wonderful? Your uncle has proposed to me."
"Well, I'll be damned!" Sitting down, my face reddened at the scowl my swearing evoked from Aunt Martha..
Uncle Hobart handed me another beer. "That's why I were selling the fly catchers, yer see? Ter get the money fer the wedding like. But now Martha's said she's going ter pay fer it, so I don't need ter sell 'em after all, do I?"
"And when's the happy event taking place?" I queried in a low voice, still having trouble getting my mind around the news.
Aunt Martha turned back to the washing-up, picked up one of the dishes and inspected it closely. "It'll be awhile yet," she replied quietly, "there's still a few things to sort out first."
"Yes," I agreed. "Like six thousand spiders and half a ton of bloody maggots!"
*
I'd just finished the evening milking when Uncle Hobart waltzed into the milking parlour, looking very much like the cat that had pinched the cream.
"And what're you so bloody happy about?" I muttered.
Throwing me a can of beer, Uncle Hobart sat down on a bale of hay, raised his can in a salute and nodded proudly, "Got rid o' them there maggots, ain't I?"
Sitting down beside him, I hissed open my can. "That right?"
He nodded. "Sold 'em to that fishing tackle shop in Oldburgh for thirty quid."
"Jammy bugger," I commented, taking a quaff from my can.
He smiled, clicking his dentures at me. "It's what's known as business acumen."
"Business acumen, my arse," I responded. "It's what's known as 'Sod's Law'."
"You're just jealous," he replied, holding out a closed fist to me.
"What's that?" I asked, nodding at his hand.
"Take it," he insisted, "it's the last one."
I held out my hand and Uncle Hobart dropped a large hairy spider onto my palm, which then promptly vanished up the sleeve of my jacket.
"Now look what you've bloody done!" I complained, shaking my arm.
"Won't 'urt yer, yer silly bugger. It's only a spider."
I whacked at my arm. "Well now it's a dead one," I replied smugly, shaking the squashed remains down my sleeve.
We both fell silent, drinking our beers and after a while, Uncle Hobart got up and walked halfway down the milking parlour, where he squatted down onto his haunches, clearing away some of the straw covering the floor.
"Aye, there it is," he said quietly, "just where I thought it'd be." He tapped the concrete with a gnarled knuckle.
Wandering up behind him, I stood looking down over his shoulder. "There what is?" I asked.
"The entrance to the bunker, o' course."
"What bunker?"
Looking up at me, he winked. "During the war me and yer dad were secret agents, like."
"Sod off!" I exclaimed.
"It's true," he insisted. "Churchill wanted people ter act as resistance fighters, should Jerry ever invade, yer see? 'E reckoned they'd be able ter come out and blow up the supply lines and make life generally difficult fer old Jerry. So they built these 'ere secret bunkers that the resistance fighters could go down and 'ide in if the invasion ever 'appened. They were kited out with loads o' things. Radio, food, water, explosives, everything yer might need."
"Yeah, and I'm the Prince of Wales," I laughed.
"God's honest truth, Peter boy. They built one right 'ere, in the middle o' the barn." Uncle Hobart tapped a large discoloured square in the concrete floor. "Only me and yer dad ever knew about it o' course. 'Ad ter keep it secret, yer see. 'Careless talk costs lives'. That's what they used ter say." He went silent for a moment, as though reliving some past experience, then tapped my leg. "Remember me telling yer that yer was an accident?" I nodded slowly, wondering what was coming. "Well it 'appened right 'ere. On the lid o' the bunker." He pursed his lips for a moment, then smiled. "Yer dad and yer mum - she were just 'is girl-friend then, o' course - were at it like hammer and tongs as usual. Randy old bugger 'e were. Any time, any place, any girl. That were 'is motto. Didn't make no difference ter 'im who it were, so long as she were willing, like. Anyway, I didn't know they was there, did I? And up I comes, right at the crucial moment, so ter speak." Uncle Hobart barked a short laugh. "The only contraceptives them days were whipping it out quick like, or maybe the rhythm method, if yer could get it right." He grinned up at me mischievously, giving a slow wink. "Reckon I upset their rhythm that day alright. Tipped 'em right off the lid, I did." He chuckled softly at the memory. "God, yer should 'ave seen the looks on their faces."
Standing up, Uncle Hobart laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. "But don't yer worry none, Peter boy. Just 'cause yer were an accident, and a bastard to boot, that don't mean that I think any the less o' yer. Yer Aunt Martha and me'll still be 'ere to take care o' yer, don't yer worry none." Giving my shoulder a squeeze, he slowly turned and sauntered out of the milking parlour, still chuckling to himself.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Being a bastard was a new experience for me.