Gerald Durrell: Rosy Is My Relative

“Hello, boy,” he greeted Adrian, waving the sandwich at him amicably. “Want some breakfast? Spot of beer, eh?”

“No, no,” said Adrian, out of breath and pale with emotion, “I want your advice.”

“Ho?” said Mr. Pucklehammer, raising his shaggy brows. “What’s to do? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Far worse, far worse,” said Adrian dramatically. “I’m ruined . . . read this.”

He thrust the letter at Mr. Pucklehammer, who surveyed it with interest.

“I can’t read,” said Mr. Pucklehammer simply. “Never seem to have had time to learn, somehow, what with one thing and another. You read it to me, boy.”

In a voice trembling with emotion Adrian read him the Contents of his Uncle Amos’s letter. When he came to the end there was silence as Mr. Pucklehammer inserted a large section of cheese sandwich into his mouth and chewed meditatively.

“Well,” said Adrian at last, “what am I to do?”

“To do?” said Mr. Pucklehammer, swallowing his sandwich in surprise. “Why, do exactly as your uncle wants you to do.”

Adrian gazed at his friend in amazement, wondering if Pucklehammer had either misunderstood the letter or had taken leave of his senses.

“But how can I?” he said, his voice rising. “How can I take on a strange female . . . a strange, drunken female? Mrs. Dredge would never allow her in the house . . . then there’s my job. Good Lord, if they got to know about it they’d sack me. And suppose she’s one of those female acrobats, what do I do then?”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” said Mr. Pucklehammer judicially. “Saw one of them myself once. Nice fleshy piece she was too. Had sequins all over her. Lovely bit of dolly-roll.”

“Oh, my God,” said Adrian hi agony, “I hope she’s not going to arrive here all covered with sequins.”

“There’s no denying,” said Mr. Pucklehammer musingly, “there’s no denying that five hundred pounds is a very generous sum, very generous indeed. Why, with that sort of money you could give up your job . . . you’ve often said you wanted to.”

“And what about this inebriated female?” asked Adrian sarcastically.

“Well, you two could live very comfortably on a hundred and twenty a year and in four years you could set up a little business,” said Mr. Pucklehammer. “If she’s one of the fair folk you want to go in for something like a Punch and Judy. I’ve got a nice Punch and Judy I could let you have cheap.”

“I have no intention of spending the next four years with a large, sequin-covered drunk playing at Punch and Judy,” said Adrian loudly and clearly. “I wish you’d be more constructive.”

“I don’t see what you’re flapdoodling about, boy,” said Mr. Pucklehammer severely. “Here you’ve got a nice legacy with a female thrown in. Lots of young men would give anything to be in your shoes.”

“I wish they were in my shoes,” said Adrian desperately. “If they want to spend the rest of their lives with a drunken acrobat, they’re welcome.”

“Your uncle didn’t say she was drunk all the time,” said Mr. Pucklehammer fairly. “She might be quite nice. Why don’t you just wait and see what she’s like when she turns up?”

“I can imagine what she’s like, and the thought appals me,” said Adrian. “Why, I don’t even know her surname.”

“Well, as long as you know her Christian name that’s the main thing,” said Mr. Pucklehammer philosophically. “Gets you on to a more intimate footing straight away.”

“I don’t want to get on an intimate footing with her,” shouted Adrian, and the; smitten by a dreadful thought, “My God! What happens if she turns up while I’m at work and Mrs. Dredge meets her?”

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Pucklehammer musingly, “that’s a point. You want to avoid that if you can.”

Adrian paced up and down, thinking desperately, while Mr. Pucklehammer finished off the remains of his beer and wiped his mouth.

“I’ve got it,” said Adrian at last, “It’s Mrs. Dredge’s Day to-day . . . you know, she goes to visit Mr. Dredge at the cemetery and spends the whole day there. She doesn’t generally get back until evening. If I could send a message to work to say that I’m ill, or something, then I could hang around and wait for this Rosy person.”

“Good idea,” agreed Mr. Pucklehammer. “Look, I’ll send young Davey round to the shop to tell ’em you’re not well. Don’t you worry about that. What you’d better do is to nip back smartish and keep an eye on the house. I’ll be here if you want me.”

So Adrian, cursing the day he said he wanted adventure, made his way back to Mrs. Dredge’s establishment, and lurked furtively on the corner. Presently, to his relief, Mrs. Dredge appeared, clad in flowing black bombazine and with a large, purple hat on her head, clasping in her hand an enormous bunch of roses which were her weekly tribute to Mr. Dredge’s grave. She passed down the road like a large and ominous galleon in full sail, and disappeared from sight.

Adrian paced up and down, his mind filled with wild, impracticable solutions to the problem. He would run away to sea. He rejected this almost immediately, for he felt sick on the top deck of a horse-drawn bus travelling very slowly, so he knew that he—or rather, his stomach—was not cut out for a nautical career. Should he pose as Mr. Dredge and say that he, Rookwhistle, had unfortunately just died? Intriguing though this solution was he was compelled to admit that it would require someone more skilled in the art of duplicity to achieve success.

It’s no good, he thought desperately, wiping his damp hands on his handkerchief, I shall just have to be firm with her. I shall point out that I am a young man making my way in the world, and that I cannot, at this stage, accept the responsibility of a strange woman. I will let her have the five hundred pounds and she must go But what if she bursts into tears and has hysterics or, worse still, what if she is drunk and turns belligerent? The sweat broke out on his brow at the thought. No, he must remain firm, kind but firm. Hoping that he would have the courage to be kind but firm when the moment arrived, Adrian resumed his pacing.

By midday he was in such a state of nervous tension that a leaf falling from a tree made him start uncontrollably. He had just decided that death would be preferable to this agony of waiting, when the dray turned into the road. It was an enormous dray, pulled by eight extremely exhausted-looking cart horses, and driven by a stout, choleric looking little man in a bright yellow bowler hat and a red and yellow check waistcoat. Idly, Adrian wondered what such an enormous dray could contain. The man in the yellow bowler was obviously nearing his destination, for he had pulled a piece of paper out of his waistcoat pocket and was comparing it with the numbers of the houses as he passed. Then to Adrian’s astonishment he pulled up his team of horses outside Mrs. Dredge’s house. What on earth, thought Adrian, had his frugal landlady been buying? The dray was large enough to contain almost anything. He walked down the road to where the driver was mopping his face with a large handkerchief.

“Good morning,” said Adrian, full of curiosity. The man settled his bowler hat more firmly on his head and gave Adrian a withering look.

“’Morning,” he said, brusquely, “if it is a good morning, which I, for one, doubt.”

“Are you . . . er . . . have you got something for this house?” enquired Adrian.

“Yes,” said the man, consulting the piece of paper in his hand. “Leastways, I got something for a Mr. Rookwhistle.”

Adrian jumped and broke out in a cold sweat. “Rookwhistle . . . are you sure?” he asked faintly. “Yes,” said the man, “Rookwhistle. Mr. A. Rookwhistle.”