Oh Henry!

Chapter Three. Uncle Steve

Chapter Three 

Uncle Steve 

Leaving home wasn't so difficult. For months, ever since Mum found Marie under a bush, I had been spending a lot of time at my grandparents' house. Gran, as I called her, lived at the bottom of our street close to the entrance to Duck Lane. There were always toffees to eat at number sixty-four, and Gran baked her own bread, made scrumptious jams, and delicious pancakes. She even let me sprinkle sugar on the pancakes. Gran really knew how to treat a boy.  

Often Mum allowed me to sleep over at Gran's. One day I purposefully forgot to go home. No one complained. It was too easy. 

Three other men lived in the house but I hardly ever saw them. My grandfather, who I had named Grumps, must have had one of the hardest, dirtiest jobs in the world. He always seemed to be at work, even on Saturdays, and when he came home, he was blacker than the chimney back. It was quite a sight to watch him being scrubbed in the tin bath before a roaring fire. Uncle John, a sailor, was often at sea. In his absence, Gran would  let me sleep over in his bedroom. Not in his king-size bed, but in a pair of facing armchairs. It was so snug, and exactly the right size for a short, stubby five year old. The only problem was Uncle Steve. 

My first memory of Uncle Steve, a soldier, was when he came home for Christmas. My mother said that he had come home on a leaf. I found this difficult to believe. That year Santa Claus brought me a shiny red and black toy car. It was so powerful. When wound up it could travel across the full length of the flag-stoned kitchen floor. 

"You know Henry, I think your car's fast enough to do jumps. I bet if we set it up right it could clear Grump's bath tub," said Uncle Steve, who had been watching me play from the kitchen doorway. 

"You really think so?" 

"For sure. Look, I've got some planks of wood in my tool shed. I'll plane 'em down and make 'em smooth. You go and get the bath and fill it up." 

This seemed like fun, so off I dashed and asked Gran if I could have a hot bath in front of the fire. 

"Well knock me down with a feather. This is a first. I've never known you ask for a bath before." 

She was right. I hated baths. I loathed having to undress in front of everyone. I couldn't bear the sting of soap in my eyes, and the constant worry of hot coals spitting out of the fire. 

"Can I try and bath myself, Gran? I'm almost six you know." 

"I suppose so. I do have some baking to finish and it's about time you learned to fend for yourself. Now mind you don't go splashing and get the carpet all wet." 

When Uncle Steve returned, all was ready and I couldn't wait to see the car jump across the bathtub. Uncle Steve positioned two smooth planks of wood against the rim of the tub, exactly opposite each other. This way, if the car went in a straight line, it would mount the plank on one side, soar over the water, and run down the other plank. What if it didn't go in a straight line? What if it wasn't fast enough? The carpet might suffer. 

"That's quite a gap Henry. I'll have to wind the car up real tight to give it a chance." With those words, Uncle Steve took my favourite toy, put in the key, and started to turn, and turn, and turn... "That should do it." 

It didn't do it. When he put the car on the plank, nothing happened. That's not strictly true. The car slid down to the bottom of the plank and stayed there, wheels motionless. 

"Don't worry, Henry. I'm pretty good at fixing things. I'll just go and get my tool box." 

I spent the rest of the afternoon watching a wonderful toy car change into a pile of screws, springs, and other strange looking pieces of metal. Finally, Uncle Steve decided that the spring, the car's engine, was broken and needed to be replaced. It never was. Even worse, he never put the car back together again. He went back to the army, forgetting all about it.  

Then there was the incident with Gran's weird cat. Large chunks of its short rust coloured fur were missing, revealing patches of pink skin. It had also lost one eye and most of its tail. The cat, an obvious fighter, never entered the house and spent most of its time hunting mice or sleeping in Uncle Steve's tool shed. Uncle Steve was the only person who seemed to care about the animal. He told me the cat's name, Jimmy, that he was a Manx, and hadn't lost his tail in a fight.  

One winter's day I dragged my sledge up to the tool shed, hoping Uncle Steve would fix a runner that had broken loose. I found him sitting next to the pot-bellied stove, smoking his customary pipe, a worried look on his face. Jimmy, constantly mewing, lay flat out in the shavings on the floor. There was something wrong. His stomach looked as if it was about to burst at any moment. 

"Glad you popped by Henry. It looks like the cat's about to have kittens. Would you mind doing me a favour? Pop over to the Co-op and ask if they can give us an old cardboard box? I'll give you a penny." 

That seemed like a good deal to me. You could buy an Oxo cube with a penny, so off I ran. 

"Mister Hewitt, do you have an empty cardboard box to spare?" 

"What do you want it for my lad?" 

"It's for Jimmy to have kittens in." 

"For who?" 

"Jimmy." 

Suddenly everyone in the store started laughing. I could feel my face turning red, my ears burned, and tears were not far from my eyes. Discomfited, I ran empty-handed from the store. I was angry, and knew that I had made a fool of myself. Had Uncle Steve set me up? I wasn't sure, but another incident taught me to be always wary of my mother's brother. 

It happened one weekend that both my uncles were home. Under these circumstances, I always shared a bedroom with Uncle Steve. I loved to listen to his stories about the war and army life in general. On the Saturday night in question, I was still awake when he came home from the pub. He was in a really good mood, and offered to teach me an army song. Blessed with a reasonable singing voice and a good memory I mastered the song before falling asleep. 

Usually after tea on Sundays, we would congregate in the front parlour. This was the only time the room was used other than when Gran had important visitors. Normally we would sit and listen to records on the wind-up gramophone. I noticed that Uncle Steve never touched the machine. However when Uncle John was home the routine differed. He could play the piano, and led the family in a sing-along.  

Not all the family; Grumps refused to take his pipe out of his mouth and I just didn't know the words. Some of the songs made no sense to me. What was I supposed to make of something that sounded like "daisy dotes and dozy dotes and little lamsy divey"? I really enjoyed a song chosen later in the evening. It was all about rolling in the clover and I soon learned to warble, "Lay me down and do it again" at the appropriate time. 

"Just listen to him would you," said Uncle Steve. "Quite a voice, for a young fella hasn't he?" 

"Do you know any songs Henry?" 

"Just one, Gran." 

With that, I started into my best rendition of "The sexual life of the camel..." 

It was the Co-op all over again. Everyone started roaring with laughter. I turned crimson, started to cry, and ran from the room, looking for a place to hide. 

Leaving home was fine in many ways. I just had to learn how to deal with Uncle Steve.

A/N To keep the G rating for the story I have omitted the full lyrics of the bawdy song. Anyone interested in " the sexual life of the camel" should send me a private message.