Boddaert's Magic

"Yes sir?" a pretentious voice enquired. 

"Turn the car around. I want ter go back." 

The driver's tone abruptly changed to an indignant squeak. "But I'm only being paid to drive you to the..." 

"Stop yer bleedin' arguing man!" Uncle Hobart interrupted. "We've just passed a pub and the youngster 'ere wants ter stop fer a wet." 

"But..." 

"What's the matter with yer? Don't yer know we've just been ter a funeral? Fer God's sake man, I fought a war fer the likes o' yer." 

The driver held up a hand in submission. "Okay, okay. I'll go back to the pub, granddad. But it's going to cost you a drink!" 

The chauffeur struggled to turn the limousine around in the narrow country lane, keeping up a steady flow of profanities. Uncle Hobart just sat back in the tooled leather seat with a smile on his thin lips. 

A little later we glided to a stop outside the pub and when I trotted around to open the car door, I was met with a withering look and muttered comments about the bloody impudence of young people these days. Shrugging at the driver I followed my uncle's disappearing back into the dim interior of the pub. So much for being helpful, I thought. 

Uncle Hobart slipped the chauffeur a five-pound note and pointed at the bar. "'Ere, get yerself a drink," he instructed, "and wait fer us 'ere. We'll be through the back. in the snug." 

The barmaid looked up and smiled as we approached. "Yes luv?" 

"Two whiskeys, with chasers," Uncle Hobart ordered, slapping down some loose change on the counter. 

Not waiting to be served, he headed for a table beside the roaring log fire. I shrugged at the barmaid and followed him like a loyal puppy. After poking at the fire, Uncle Hobart sat back in his seat, ignoring the obnoxious smell now wafting across the room as the rubber feral on the end of his walking stick began to smoulder. The barmaid came over and placed a bent metal tray on the table between us, giving Uncle Hobart a withering look. 

"Thanks," I acknowledged, smiling broadly. Uncle Hobart just grunted. 

Hooking the still smoking walking stick onto the back of his chair, Uncle Hobart took a hefty pull at his beer, then downed the whisky in one gulp. Sighing contentedly, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, belching loudly. "God, I needed that." Cocking his head to one side, he gave me a quizzical look. "Yer've no idea 'ow much I 'ate bleedin' funerals. It ain't right ter 'ave ter go ter them things at my age, yer know." 

I sipped at my drink, studying the barmaid's swinging hips as she sauntered between the tables, clearing the glasses. 

"Talkative bugger, ain't yer?" 

I shrugged, finishing my beer with a flourish. "So why did they call him Jonah, then?" I asked, stumped for something to say. 

Uncle Hobart settled back in his chair and I could tell I was in for a long session. 

"It were right queer, that," he began. "It goes back ter when 'e were in the navy." 

"I thought he was in the army," I interrupted. Not that I was that interested, I just enjoyed winding him up whenever I got the chance. 

"Yer don't know nothin' about 'im, so 'ow come yer think 'e were in the bleedin' army!" He gulped at his beer and shook his head. "Nah, he were in the navy. Midshipman far as I remember. Any'ow, 'e got sunk like." 

"Sunk?" 

Uncle Hobart nodded, eyes glazing as his mind drifted back through the years. "Aye, torpedoed 'e were."