Rosy Is My Relative Read Free Page A

style to which she is accustomed.
    As death-bed scenes are always unpleasant, I am sending Rosy down to join you immediately so that she will not have to stand by and be harrowed by the sight of me drawing my last breath. She should, in fact, arrive almost simultaneously with this letter.
    Whatever your father may have said of me (and it’s probably all true) this is, at least, one good act that I am performing in an otherwise satisfactorily corrupt existence. Your father was, in his rather weak-minded way, always a champion of those unfortunates who were left friendless in the world, and I can only hope that you have inherited this trait. Therefore, I beg, do what you can for Rosy. The whole thing has been a great shock to her, and I look to you to soothe her in her grief.

    Your very affectionate Uncle,

    AMOS ROOKWHISTLE

    P.S. Rosy, unfortunately–and I feel that I am, in some small measure, to blame for this–has a certain inclination towards what your father (never at a loss for a trite phrase) frequently described as ‘The Demon Drink.’ I beg that you will watch her alcohol consumption, as a surfeit tends to make her intractable. But then she is, alas, not alone in this.

    A.R.”

     

2. THE INTERMINABLE WAIT

     
    It seemed to Adrian that the whole world had become dark and gloomy; an icy trickle of water was running up and down his spine, defying the laws of gravity. Through the dull buzzing in his ears he dimly heard Mrs. Dredge’s voice.
    “Well?” she said, “what’s it all about?”
    Dear heaven, thought Adrian, I can’t possibly tell her.
    “It’s . . . it’s a letter . . . um . . . from . . . er . . . one of my father’s friends,” he said, prevaricating wildly. “He just thought that I would like to know how things were in the village.”
    “After ten years?” snorted Mrs. Dredge. “’Es taken ’is time, ’asn’t ’e?”
    “Yes . . . yes, it has been a long time,” said Adrian, folding the letter up and putting it in his pocket.
    But Mrs. Dredge was not one of those people who could be fobbed off with a précis. Her own harrowing description of Mr. Dredge’s death generally occupied an hour and a half, so this flimsy explanation of the letter’s contents hardly satisfied her.
    “Well, how are they all, then?” she enquired.
    “Oh,” said Adrian, “they appear to be enjoying good health, you know.”
    Mrs. Dredge waited, her black eyes fixed on him implacably.
    “Several of the people I knew have got married,” Adrian went on desperately, “and . . . and . . . several of them have had babies.”
    “You mean,” enquired Mrs. Dredge, a hopeful gleam in her eye, “you mean the ones that ’ave got married ’ave ’ad babies, or the other ones?”
    “Both,” said Adrian unthinkingly. “No, no, of course I mean the ones that have got married. Anyway, they’re all in great . . . er . . . great spirits and I must . . . um . . . I must write and congratulate them.”
    “You mean congratulate the ones that ’ave got married?” asked Mrs. Dredge, who liked to get things clear in her mind.
    “Yes,” said Adrian, “and the ones who have had babies, of course.”
    Mrs. Dredge sighed. This was not her idea of how to tell a story. If it had been her letter, now, she would have eked out the contents with miserly care and regaled Adrian for a week with snippets of information and speculation.
    “Well,” she said philosophically, surging to her feet, “it will give you something to do in the evenings, I suppose.”
    As rapidly as he could, his mind still reeling under the shock of his uncle’s letter, Adrian shovelled the unattractive remains of the black pudding into his mouth, washed it down with some tea, and rose from the table.
    “Going already?” said Mrs. Dredge in surprise. “Yes. I thought I would just call in on Mr. Pucklehammer on my way to work,” said Adrian.
    “Don’t you go spending too much time with ’im , now,” said Mrs. Dredge severely. “That