Uncle Dynamite (2 page)

The
kindly peer had always been a practical man. He did not, as others might have
done, content himself in this crisis with a pitying glance or a silent
hand-clasp.

‘Nip
under the seat,’ he advised.

To Bill
it seemed like a voice from heaven. It was as if in the hour of deadly peril
his guardian angel had suddenly come through with something constructive. He
followed the counsel without delay, and presently there was a lurch and a heave
and the train resumed its journey.

When he
crawled out, dusting his hands, he found his companion regarding him with open
admiration.

‘As
neat a vanishing act as I have ever witnessed,’ said Lord Ickenham cordially.
‘It was like a performing seal going after a slice of fish. You’ve done this sort
of thing before, Bill Oakshott. No? You amaze me. I would have sworn that you
had had years of practice on race trains. Well, you certainly baffled them. I
don’t think I have ever seen a Silver Band so nonplussed. It was as though a
bevy of expectant wolves had overtaken a sleigh and found no Russian peasant
aboard, than which I can imagine nothing more sickening. For the wolves, of
course.’

Bill
Oakshott was still quivering. He gazed gratefully at his benefactor and in
broken words thanked him for his inspired counsel.

‘Not at
all,’ said Lord Ickenham. ‘My dear fellow, don’t mention it. I am like the chap
in Damon Runyan’s story, who always figured that if he could bring a little joy
into any life, no matter how, he was doing a wonderful deed. It all comes under
the head of spreading sweetness and light, which is my constant aim.’

‘Well,
I shall never forget it, never,’ said Bill earnestly. ‘Do you realize that I
should have had to make a speech, besides probably kissing all those ghastly
children with the flowers?’ He shuddered strongly. ‘Did you see them? About a
million of them, each with a posy.’

‘I did,
indeed. And the sight confirmed me in my view that since the days when you used
to play tennis at my place you must have become pretty illustrious. I have
knocked about the world long enough to know that infants with bouquets don’t
turn out for every Tom, Dick and Harry. I myself am a hell of a fellow — a
first-class Earl who keeps his carriage — but have infants ever offered me
bouquets? What have you been doing, Bill Oakshott, to merit this reception —
nay, this Durbar?’

‘I
haven’t done a thing.’

‘Well,
it’s all very odd. I suppose it
was
in your honour that the affair was
arranged? They would hardly have said “Mr Willm,” if they had meant someone else.’

‘No,
that’s true.’

‘Have
you any suspicions as to the ringleaders?’

‘I
suppose my uncle was at the bottom of it.’

‘Was he
the impressive citizen with the moustache, who looked like Clemenceau?’

‘Yes.
He must have got the thing up.’

‘But
why?’

‘I don’t
know.’

‘Search
your memory. Can you think of nothing you have done recently which could have
put you in the Silver Band and Boy Scout class?’

‘Well,
I went on this expedition up the Amazon.’

‘Oh,
you went on an expedition, did you, and up the Amazon, to boot. I didn’t
realize that. I assumed that you had merely been connected with the Brazil nut
industry or something. That might account for it, of course. And why did you
commit this rash act? Wanted to get some girl out of your system, I suppose?’

Bill blushed.
It had indeed been the seeming hoplessness of his love for his cousin Hermione
that had driven him to try a cure which, as he might have foreseen, had proved
quite ineffective.

‘Why,
yes. Something of the sort.’

‘In my
day we used to go to the Rocky Mountains and shoot grizzlies. What made you
choose Brazil?’

‘I
happened to see an advertisement in
The Times
about an expedition that
was starting off for the Lower Amazon, run by a chap called Major Plank, and I
thought it might be a good idea to sign on.’

‘I see.
Well, I wish I had known of this before. I could have stuck on a lot of dog on
the strength of having met you as a boy. But we shall be at Bishop’s Ickenham
in a minute or two, and the question arises, what do you propose to do? Wait
for a train back? Or shall I take you to my place and give you a drink and send
you home in the car?’

‘Wouldn’t
that be a nuisance?’

‘On the
contrary. Nothing could suit my book better. That’s settled then. We now come
to a matter to which I think we ought to devote some little attention. What
story are you going to tell your uncle, to account for your non-appearance at
the revels?’

A
thoughtful look came into Bill Oakshott’s face. He winced slightly, as if a
Brazilian alligator had attached itself to the fleshy part of his leg.

‘I was
rather wondering about that,’ he confessed.

‘A
good, coherent story will undoubtedly be required. He will be feeling chagrined
at your failure to materialize, and he looked a dangerous specimen, the sort of
man whose bite spells death. What is he? An all-in wrestler? A chap who kills
rats with his teeth?’

‘He
used to be Governor of one of those Crown colonies.’

‘Then
we must strain every nerve to pacify him. I know these ex-Governors. Tough
nuts. You didn’t mention his name, by the way.’

‘Bostock.
Sir Aylmer Bostock.’

‘What?
Is that who he is? Well, I’ll be dashed.’

‘You
know him?’

‘I have
not seen him for more than forty years, but at one time I knew him well. We
were at school together.’

‘Oh,
really?’

‘Mugsy
we used to call him. He was younger than me by some three years, one of those
tough, chunky, beetle-browed kids who scowl at their seniors and bully their
juniors. I once gave him six of the juiciest with a fives bat in the hope of
correcting this latter tendency. Well, the mystery of that civic welcome is now
explained. Mugsy is to stand for Parliament shortly, my paper informs me, and
no doubt he thought it would give him a leg up. Like me, he hopes to trade on
his connection with a man who has extended the bounds of Civilization.’

‘I
didn’t extend the bounds of Civilization.’

‘Nonsense.
I’ll bet you extended them like elastic. But we are getting away from our
discussion of what story you are to tell. How would it be to say that the
warmth of the day caused you to drop off into a light slumber, and when you
woke up blowed if you weren’t at Bishop’s Ickenham?’

‘Fine.’

‘You
like it? I don’t think it’s so bad myself. Simple, which is always good. Impossible
to disprove, which is better. And with the added advantage of having a historic
precedent; the case, if you remember, of the lady who wanted to go to
Birmingham
and they were taking her on to
Crewe
. Yes, I fancy it ought to get by. So
that was young Mugsy, was it?’ said Lord Ickenham. ‘I must say I’m surprised
that he should have finished up as anything so comparatively respectable as
Governor of a Crown colony. It just shows you never can tell.’

‘How
long did you say it was since you had met him?’

‘Forty-two
years come Lammas Eve. Why?’

‘I was
only wondering why you hadn’t run across him. Living so close, I mean.’

‘Well,
I’ll tell you, Bill Oakshott. It is my settled policy to steer pretty clear of
the neighbours. You have probably noticed yourself that the British
Gawd-help-us seems to flourish particularly luxuriantly in the rural districts.
My wife tries to drag me to routs and revels from time to time, but I toss my
curls at her and refuse to stir. I often think that the ideal life would be to
have plenty of tobacco and be cut by the County. And as regards your uncle, I
look back across the years at Mugsy, the boy, and I see nothing that encourages
me to fraternize with Mugsy, the man.’

‘Something
in that.’

‘Not an
elfin personality, Mugsy’s. I’m afraid Pongo doesn’t realize what he’s up
against in taking on such a father-in-law. It’s his daughter Hermione that he’s
gone and got engaged to, and I see a sticky future ahead of the unhappy lad.
Ah, here we are,’ said Lord Ickenham, as the train slowed down. ‘Let’s go and
get that drink. It’s just possible that we may find Pongo at the old shack. He
rang me up this morning, saying he was coming to spend the night. He is about
to visit Ashenden Manor, to show the old folks what they’ve got.’

He
hopped nimbly on to the platform, prattling gaily, quite unaware that he had to
all intents and purposes just struck an estimable young man behind the ear with
a sock full of wet sand. The short, quick, gulping grunt, like that of a
bulldog kicked in the ribs while eating a mutton chop, which had escaped Bill
Oakshott on the cue ‘got engaged to’, he had mistaken for a hiccough.

2

The summer afternoon had
mellowed into twilight and Bill Oakshott had long since taken his bruised heart
off the premises before Pongo Twistleton fetched up at the home of his
ancestors. One of those mysterious breakdowns which affect two-seater cars had
delayed him on the road. He arrived just in time to dress for dinner, and the
hour of eight found him seated opposite his uncle in the oak-panelled
dining-room, restoring his tissues after a trying day.

Lord
Ickenham, delighted to see him, was a gay and effervescent host, but during the
meal the presence of a hovering butler made conversation of a really intimate
nature impossible, and the talk confined itself to matters of general interest.
Pongo spoke of New York, whence he had recently returned from a visit connected
with the winding up of his godfather’s estate, and Lord Ickenham mentioned that
Lady Ickenham was on her way to Trinidad to attend the wedding of the daughter
of an old friend. Lord Ickenham alluded to his meeting with Pongo’s former
crony, Bill Oakshott, and Pongo, though confessing that he remembered Bill only
imperfectly — ‘Beefy stripling with a pink face, unless I’m thinking of someone
else’ — said that he looked forward to renewing their old friendship when he
hit Ashenden Manor.

They
also touched on such topics as the weather, dogs, two-seater cars (their treatment
in sickness and in health), the foreign policy of the Government, the chances
of Jujube for the Goodwood Cup, and what you would do — this subject arising
from Pongo’s recent literary studies — if you found a dead body in your bath
one morning with nothing on but pince-nez and a pair of spats.

It was
only when the coffee had been served and the cigars lighted that Lord Ickenham
prepared to become more expansive.

‘Now
we’re nice and cosy,’ he said contentedly. ‘What a relief it always is when the
butler pops off. It makes you realize the full meaning of that beautiful line
in the hymn book — “Peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away.” Not that I
actually love Coggs. A distant affection, rather, tempered with awe. Well,
Pongo, I’m extraordinarily glad you blew in. I was wanting a quiet chat with
you about your plans and what not.’

‘Ah,’
said Pongo.

He
spoke reservedly. He was a slender, personable young man with lemon-coloured
hair and an attractive face, and on this face a close observer would have noted
at the moment an austere, wary look, such as might have appeared on that of St
Anthony just before the temptations began. He had a strong suspicion that now
that they were alone together, it was going to be necessary for him to be very
firm with this uncle of his and to maintain an iron front against his insidious
wiles.

Watching
the head of the family closely during dinner, he had not failed to detect in
his eyes, while he was speaking of his wife’s voyage to the West Indies, a
lurking gleam such as one might discern in the eye of a small boy who has been
left alone in the house and knows where the key of the jam cupboard is. He had
seen that gleam before, and it had always heralded trouble of a major kind.
Noticeable even as early as the soup course, it had become, as its proprietor
puffed at his cigar, more marked than ever, and Pongo waited coldly for him to
proceed.

‘How
long are you proposing to inflict yourself on these Bostocks of yours?’

‘About
a week.’

‘And
after that?’

‘Back
to London, I suppose.’

‘Good,’
said Lord Ickenham heartily. ‘That was what I wanted to know. That was what I
wished to ascertain. You will return to London. Excellent. I will join you
there, and we will have one of our pleasant and instructive afternoons.’

Pongo
stiffened. He did not actually say ‘Ha!’ but the exclamation was implicit in
the keen glance which he shot across the table. His suspicions had been correct.
His wife’s loving surveillance having been temporarily removed, Frederick
Altamont Cornwallis, fifth Earl of Ickenham, was planning to be out and about
again.

‘You
ask me,’ a thoughtful Crumpet had once said in the smoking-room of the Drones
Club, ‘why it is that at the mention of his Uncle Fred’s name Pongo Twistleton
blenches to the core and calls for a couple of quick ones. I will tell you. It
is because this uncle is pure dynamite. Every time he is in Pongo’s midst, with
the sap running strongly in his veins, he subjects the unfortunate young egg to
some soul-testing experience, luring him out into the open and there, right in
the public eye, proceeding to step high, wide and plentiful. For though well
stricken in years the old blister becomes on these occasions as young as he
feels, which seems to be about twenty-two. I don’t know if you happen to know
what the word “excesses” means, but those are what he invariably commits, when
on the loose. Get Pongo to tell you some time about that day they had together
at the Dog Races.’