The Red Book Magazine/Volume 43/Number 4/Universal Uncles

by Ian Hay

Way back when motorcars had only one cylinder, a young Englishman wrote a very funny auto story—his first for an American magazine. Years later the Great War broke, and the most successful of all the foreign military commissioners in this country was that story-writer—Ian Hay. That first tale was published in this magazine. And here's his latest.

 

Universal Uncles

By

Ian Hay

“UNDERSTAND,” I said to George, “I will not kiss anybody.”

“Don't you worry about that,” replied George. “You'll be lucky if any of them give you two fingers to shake. Children aren't what they were when you and I were promoted to braces.”

“And I wont do conjuring tricks.”

“You wont be asked. They're going to have a bran pie and radio. All you and I have to do is to make ourselves generally affable—run round effecting introductions, breaking down social barriers and what not. Barbara is fearfully pleased you're coming. I told her that going to children's parties was the one thing in the world you did everything but; so naturally she feels honored that you should have broken the rule of a lifetime in favor of her two kids.”

With such soft soap he beguiled me until we reached Barbara's.

The first half-hour was well enough, because the young lions were upstairs having refreshments. We elderly Christians had ours in the drawing-room, with Barbara and four more young mothers. Barbara is George's first cousin on the side of the family remote from mine. That means that Barbara is not related to me. Sometimes I wish she were: she is what is technically known as a dear.

George and I sat meekly nibbling éclairs and listening to nursery politics. I heard some things about modern nurses which made me glad that I was safely grown up. We were just getting down to the pros and cons of shingled hair for youthful matrons with Early Victorian husbands, and George and I were enduring some pretty nasty side-jabs, evidently designed to be passed on to the proper quarter, when the double doors were thrown open by a white piqué nurse, and the guests of the evening filed in.

There were about a dozen of them, of assorted sexes, and one sorted them out gradually. I was introduced to three or four others I eventually recognized as old acquaintances. With the rest I just clicked, to employ George's plebeian expression, as occasion arose.

I liked Rosemary best. In fact, we took to one another at once—or rather Rosemary adopted me, evidently recognizing me from the start, as the pariah of the party. I am inclined to be shy with children, and Rosemary was by nature the mother of all living, and so we got on famously. She wore white socks. Not that she was singular in that respect, but her socks seemed to be the only socks in the company—excepting George's and my own—which would stay up. After we had pulled our third cracker together, I asked her how it was done—less because I really wanted to know, than because I was a little short of conversational openings. She explained that they had white elastic sewn round the tops, inside. Her mother had invented the idea. Rosemary cherished an enormously high opinion of her mother, I found. Unfortunately that gifted lady was not present, having to stay at home and look after Reggie, who was having one of his bad days, it seemed.

Then Rosemary asked me how I kept my socks up. I explained, and even revealed to her a portion of the mechanism employed. After that we were practically inseparable.

But I must tell you about the other members of the party. When first introduced into our presence, they were obviously suffering from repletion, and betrayed a languor of demeanor and 1 fixity of expression which amounted, in the case of one or two of the young gentlemen guests, almost to a state of coma. Gwennie's case went farther than that. Shortly after her arrival in the drawing-room she developed frontal pains of a nature so instant and tear-compelling as to necessitate her temporary removal to the nursery, with a hot-water bottle.

But the rest soon roused up over the pulling of crackers and

“Is Winnie Wigham here?” “No!” we all shouted. “I expect Winnie is listening somewhere, children,” Barbara reminded us.

the donning of paper caps—I got a pea-green one, by the way; and when the bran pie was opened, the birds began to sing with a vengeance, and individual characteristics, hitherto dormant, sprang out like knobs.

Foremost in the fray were Barbara's own two fair daughters, aged about eight and six, and named by an observant but unsentimental male parent the First Murderer and the Second Murderer, respectively. These, I thought, made rather more than justifiable use of what is known upon golf courses as “local knowledge” when their turn came to dip into the pie. Then there was a youth named Basil, to whom I took an instant and violent dislike. He was attired in velveteen, and breathed loudly through an ever-open mouth. However, as a fundamental explorer of bran pies, he showed us that the meanest of God's creatures is an expert at something. The bran pie, by the way, was contained in a barrel, cunningly draped in muslin, which stood in the center of a sheet in the adjoining room—the smoking-room, in fact. By the time the pie had been rifled and the presents unwrapped, the room looked more like a city park on the Monday after Easter than anything else; but Barbara said that it served Harry right for not coming home to help with the party, and George and I basely applauded her.

Prominent among the other guests was Charlotte, a sharp-featured child with the soul of a nursery governess, who devoted herself throughout the proceedings to shrill reproof and the herding of stragglers. At the opposite end of the scale came Blossom, the junior member—so recently arrived, it seemed, in this profoundly interesting world, that the wonder of it all had not yet died from her large unwinking blue eyes. She sat upon a cushion upon the hearthrug, supervised by a proud and absurdly youthful mamma, gazing placidly, benevolently and a trifle absent-mindedly upon the revels, receiving more attention and giving less trouble than any other guest. Rather like royalty, George thought.

To be frank, we made rather heavy weather of the revels. The modern child does not seem to romp with any degree of spontaneity. It eats heartily, and is well to the fore when anything is being given away free—especially things which seem to be coveted by some one else; but as a guest it is a heartbreaking proposition. Gone is that responsiveness to hospitable intention, that readiness to be amused, which marked the finer product of a bygone age. The only real joy which the present generation seems to derive from being taken to a party is in sitting well back and disparaging the arrangements made for its entertainment.

WE were soon to discover this. A game of Oranges and Lemons was proposed by Barbara. Needless to say, George and I were bidden to clasp hands in the middle of the floor and form the nucleus of the conflict. George was Oranges, and I was—and felt like—Lemons. A string of reluctant infants was hounded (by the officious Charlotte) under our outstretched arms; and each, upon being encircled and captured, was asked the usual question. Some said they would be Oranges, others Lemons; but all practically implied that they did not care a tinker's dam which they were. Excepting Rosemary, of course! With a ravishing smile, she replied in a hoarse whisper that she would be whatever I was. Old age has its moments.

Presently the usual tug-of-war began. George and I threw ourselves loyally into the task, wrestling furiously together, getting exceedingly hot and disheveled, and uttering encouraging cries to our supporters. Presently George said:

“I think we're making ourselves rather conspicuous, old man—what?”

I looked over my shoulder: Rosemary was hanging nobly to my coat-tails, but the rest of my flock had abandoned me. I looked over George's shoulder: there was nobody there at all. Our late adherents were sitting silently round the room, regarding our futile entertainment with the indulgent boredom of county families watching yokels climbing a greasy pole. Abashed, we crept to our seats.

“Splendid!” said Barbara kindly.

“We won!” announced Rosemary, squeezing my hot hand with a hotter one.

George and I merely sat and panted. Nobody else said anything. Plainly, the party had reached what is mechanically known as a dead-center. Barbara glanced at the clock, and rose briskly from the floor.

“I think it is time,” she announced, “for Uncle Septimus.” She removed a screen and revealed a contraption of knobs and electric bulbs unfamiliar to me.

“What's this?” I asked George. “Phonograph?”

“No—a radio. Listening in and so forth. We're going to have bedtime stories from Uncle Septimus and other well-known raconteurs.”

By this time, needless to say, Charlotte had arranged seats in a convenient semicircle, and was conscripting an audience. I distinctly saw her cuff a conscientious objector considerably larger than herself.

“This is something quite new to me,” I said to Rosemary. “I suppose you know all about it?”

“We've got a set at home,” replied Rosemary—adding, with characteristic tact: “But it's only a little one—not nearly so nice as this. This'll be loverley.”

“We've got one like this at home,” announced Basil, “—only bigger.”

“Is it a tube or a cwystal set?” briskly inquired a cherubic little girl, apparently about five years old.

“Tube, of course! You can't have a loud speaker with a crystal set. You are a silly kid, Dorothy. Where do you keep your aërial?”

“On ve woof. Our 'gwound' is a tap in the bafroom. We nearly got Paris ve uvver night, only ve wave-wength—”

“Are our services urgently required for the next ten minutes?” I whispered to George, whose tongue, I noted, was still hanging out.

“I don't think so.” Together we caught Barbara's eye. She smiled and nodded.

“You've both been sweet,” she said. “You'll find the tray in the smoking-room. You'll have it to yourselves. Don't be too long. We shall miss you.”

We tiptoed out, as from a meeting of the Royal Society. As we left the room, the horrid child Basil hurled the following remarkable taunt at his seraphic opponent:

“I bet you've never picked up the Eiffel Tower!”

“No; but next week Daddy's goin' to inthtal a high-fwequenthy ampwifier—and then you'll see!”

A sound retort, we decided.

BARBARA was wrong about our getting the smoking-room to ourselves, because we found the Second Murderer there.

We did not recognize her immediately, because all we could see of her at first was a pair of inverted and agitated legs protruding from the top of the barrel which had contained the bran pie Apparently she had returned privily to the smoking-room upon a salvaging expedition. (How she eluded Charlotte I do not pretend to explain.) Delving far down into the very bottom of the barrel, in the hope of an overlooked parcel, she had quite literally overreached herself, and now stood upon her head, with every prospect of remaining there until the arrival of the coroner.

We pulled her out, crimson and inclined to tears; and having brushed the bran out of her curls, eyes and ears, comforted her with fancy cakes, which we found upon our refreshment tray. After that we promised faithfully not to tell Mother. (Evidently Barbara is more of a disciplinarian than she looks.) Then George and I helped ourselves to refreshment, the Second Murderer kindly operating the siphon for us, and thereby converting the already unpleasant litter on Harry's carpet into an adhesive bran-mash.

Suddenly a ghostly male voice was audible in the drawing-room—a voice suggestive of a rowing coach on a towpath contending with a March gale through a megaphone.

“Now we'll have another of those interesting old sea-chanteys children,” said the voice. “This one was used long ago by sailors when they were getting the anchor up. I'll ask the orchestra to play it.”

“Is that Uncle Septimus?” I inquired.

“No, that's Uncle Bartholomew. He's only educational. He'll be finished in a minute, though, and then we shall get Uncle Septimus. Will you drink any more whisky or brandy, or anything? I'll pour it out.”

We declined this bald but hospitable suggestion, and returned to the drawing-room, completely braced for a further spell of duty

The children were grouped round the loud speaker, kept at arm's-length therefrom by Charlotte, on point-duty. I was pleased to observe that Gwennie was sufficiently recovered to have rejoined the party. (After all, it might have happened to any of us.) I sat down on the floor beside Rosemary. The orchestra concluded its chantey, and Uncle Bartholomew's enthusiastic comments came booming after.

“I say, wasn't that jolly? Did you notice that little bit in the middle—tiddy-um-tum-tum? I really think I must ask the orchestra to play it again. Shall I?”

“No!” replied Basil.

But Uncle Bartholomew took no notice, and the encore was immediately forthcoming.

“It's no good talkin' back to them,” explained Rosemary to me. “They can't hear you. I'll tell you afterward.”

UNCLE BARTHOLOMEW now gave way to Uncle Septimus, an extraordinarily bluff and breezy person, who greeted us in a manner which made it clear that he was the “featured” item on the program.

“Hello, hello, hello, kiddies!” he bellowed. “Here I am! Wait a minute while I push Uncle Bartholomew out of the way: he's always under my feet.” Sounds of a playful struggle followed, wherein Uncle Bartholomew was plainly outmatched from the start. Then the hearty voice of Uncle Septimus resumed:

“That's all right, kiddies. I've put Uncle Bartholomew to sleep inside the big drum. Now, somebody take the baby out of the loud speaker, and we'll get to work. First of all, I have some letters to answer. Is Winnie Wigham, of Wimbledon, here?”

“No!” we all shouted.

“I expect Winnie is listening somewhere, children,” Barbara reminded us gently.

Apparently Uncle Septimus thought so too, because he proceeded to wish Winnie many happy returns of her birthday. Furthermore he informed her that if she looked in the right-hand top drawer of her mother's dressing-table, she would find a present from the Wireless Fairy.

Our audience uttered squeals of disinterested rapture.

Uncle Septimus now addressed himself to Maudie Bates, of Notting Hill.

“Well, Maudie, so you have caught the measles? That's very clever of you; I can't! Now that you've caught them, I'll tell you what to do with them: count them! That'll help to pass the

time, and take your headache away. Count 'em, Maudie! See if you haven't got more than brother Arthur, and then ask your mother to write and tell me. Meanwhile, be sure and take all your medicine, like a good little girl, and think of all the jolly things you'll have to eat when you're better. Good night, Maudie! Good night, Arthur!”

I caught Barbara's eye. It was suspiciously bright.

“Can't you imagine those two waiting all day for that moment?” she said.

I nodded. I was beginning to like Uncle Septimus. Meanwhile I became conscious of a small and rather wistful voice beside me. It was Rosemary.

“I wish he could talk to Reggie,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I asked him once, but it was no good.”

“How did you ask him, Rosemary?”

“I called down one of those things”—Rosemary indicated the mouth of the loud speaker—“when I was left alone with it for a minute. It was at a party, you know. Ours at home is only a thing you put on your ears.”

“What did you say?”

“I told Uncle Septimus about Reggie's lyin' in bed ever so long with his back, and gettin'—and gettin' fractious toward the end of a long day, and how Mother had said that if only he could take an interest in somethin', he might get better; and would Uncle Septimus speak to him and say he'd soon be sittin' up again, if he didn't wiggle about and fret; and would he promise to call him again if he was good? But”—Rosemary shook her golden head despondently—“he never did. That's why I knew just now it was no use shoutin' back. They can't hear you.”

By this time Uncle Septimus had concluded his entertainment, and was audibly struggling, with the aid of Uncle Bartholomew and a pleasant-voiced lady called Auntie Hildegard, to wake up a fourth relative with the singular name of Uncle Lazybones Van Winkle.

“He's nearly always asleep,” whispered Rosemary.

Ultimately the awakening was successfully accomplished, and Uncle Lazybones, having audibly stretched himself and asked if it was really Thursday, was on the point of obliging with a song, when the doors were thrown open and a bevy of nurses entered, carrying shawls and overshoes and miniature top-coats. The revels were over.

“WELL,” said George pensively, as we walked through the fresh spring darkness to the club, “I take off my hat to those uncles. I've tried their job for a couple of hours, and I'm a corpse. Fancy doing it every day!”

“I suppose you don't happen to know Uncle Septimus?” I inquired.

“No, but I have a friend in the business. He could bring you together. Why?”

“I want him to call up a friend of mine.”

“Oh! What's his name?”

“Reggie.”