Read Online Let's Kill Uncle by Rohan O’Grady - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rohan O’Grady
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perspiring faces, Barnaby and Christie took a rest, sitting on the wobbly fence and gazing at the deserted tombstones.
And from the underbrush, a puzzled One-ear lay watching them.
‘Well, come on,’ sighed Barnaby, jumping down. ‘We’ll never get Lydia Buckingham done today if we don’t get busy.’
Sergeant Coulter checked their work religiously any time he passed the graveyard, and sent them back for an extra stint if he thought they were shirking.
‘Whew!’ said Christie, looking at the task ahead of them.
They worked like coolies in the broiling sun. Barnaby took off his shirt and wrapped it about his hands to tug out the wild blackberry vines, while Christie pulled and carried armfuls of grass and ferns to the roadside.
It was hard work but finally they had Mrs Buckingham as neatly weeded as the day she was buried forty years past.
Christie sat on a tombstone, panting in the heat and looked proudly at their handiwork.
‘That looks really good,’ she said. ‘I bet even Sergeant Coulter can’t find anything the matter with that one. Let’s quit now. My back’s aching and it’s too hot to do any more.’
‘You better get up,’ said Barnaby, ‘you’re sitting on Major-General Sir Adrian Syddyns.’
Christie leaped to her feet.
‘I keep forgetting there are people under there.’
‘Look, Christie!’
Barnaby was pulling ferns from a small white object.
‘It’s a little marble angel!’
They pushed the moss away and spelled out,
TO THE MEMORY OF OUR DARLING BABY
John Townsend
TAKEN TO JESUS, JULY 8TH , 1903
With his parents long buried on either side of him, there was no one left to tend or mourn little John Townsend. Saddened, the children knelt and stroked the angel’s head.
‘It seems funny to think of a baby dying, it’s almost as hard to believe as that kids can die,’ said Christie.
‘Kids can die all right,’ said Barnaby, ‘but I can’t understand a baby being born at all - if it’s got to die it - I mean, it never got a chance to play or anything.’
Christie sighed. ‘Well, he did die. Let’s go. It’s too hot to do any more today.’
‘Oh, let’s just finish the baby. I hate to leave him half done.’
‘We can do him tomorrow. Come on, I’m cooking.’
But Barnaby stubbornly refused to go until he had finished.
As Christie sat watching him, her expression changed.
‘You know,’ she said in a very small voice, ‘somebody’s watching us.’
‘There you are, John Townsend, your little angel looks much nicer now.’ Barnaby patted the angel’s head and turned to her. ‘Who?’
Christie pointed to the large tombstone at the head of Sir Adrian Syddyns’s grave.
‘Behind there.’
A black-tipped tail flicked nervously at the edge of the tombstone.
Rushing over, the children found themselves looking into the large, cool green eyes of One-ear.
Like all cats, he was insatiably curious. What
were
they doing here? Believing the graveyard to be deserted, he often used it for sunbathing.
They were just as curious.
‘It’s a great big cat!’ said Christie. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘It’s a cougar, stupid,’ whispered Barnaby. ‘Isn’t he beautiful? Don’t frighten him.’
One-ear backed away from them. He had seen quite enough.
Christie stood rooted to the spot, but Barnaby advanced a step. One-ear gave a warning snarl, and turning, fled. With the stiff, high-rumped lope of the cougar, he cleared the graveyard in ten-foot bounds and disappeared through a hole in the thicket.
Barnaby turned to Christie.
‘Come on!’ he cried, and ran after the cougar. ‘Hurry up or we’ll lose him.’
Christie followed, but when they reached the dark tunneled break in the bushes, she stopped.
‘Well, are you coming?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Christie. ‘What if he bites?’
‘All right, stay here then!’
Without another glance at her, he dropped to his knees and began crawling through the hole. Christie took a deep breath
And from the underbrush, a puzzled One-ear lay watching them.
‘Well, come on,’ sighed Barnaby, jumping down. ‘We’ll never get Lydia Buckingham done today if we don’t get busy.’
Sergeant Coulter checked their work religiously any time he passed the graveyard, and sent them back for an extra stint if he thought they were shirking.
‘Whew!’ said Christie, looking at the task ahead of them.
They worked like coolies in the broiling sun. Barnaby took off his shirt and wrapped it about his hands to tug out the wild blackberry vines, while Christie pulled and carried armfuls of grass and ferns to the roadside.
It was hard work but finally they had Mrs Buckingham as neatly weeded as the day she was buried forty years past.
Christie sat on a tombstone, panting in the heat and looked proudly at their handiwork.
‘That looks really good,’ she said. ‘I bet even Sergeant Coulter can’t find anything the matter with that one. Let’s quit now. My back’s aching and it’s too hot to do any more.’
‘You better get up,’ said Barnaby, ‘you’re sitting on Major-General Sir Adrian Syddyns.’
Christie leaped to her feet.
‘I keep forgetting there are people under there.’
‘Look, Christie!’
Barnaby was pulling ferns from a small white object.
‘It’s a little marble angel!’
They pushed the moss away and spelled out,
TO THE MEMORY OF OUR DARLING BABY
John Townsend
TAKEN TO JESUS, JULY 8TH , 1903
With his parents long buried on either side of him, there was no one left to tend or mourn little John Townsend. Saddened, the children knelt and stroked the angel’s head.
‘It seems funny to think of a baby dying, it’s almost as hard to believe as that kids can die,’ said Christie.
‘Kids can die all right,’ said Barnaby, ‘but I can’t understand a baby being born at all - if it’s got to die it - I mean, it never got a chance to play or anything.’
Christie sighed. ‘Well, he did die. Let’s go. It’s too hot to do any more today.’
‘Oh, let’s just finish the baby. I hate to leave him half done.’
‘We can do him tomorrow. Come on, I’m cooking.’
But Barnaby stubbornly refused to go until he had finished.
As Christie sat watching him, her expression changed.
‘You know,’ she said in a very small voice, ‘somebody’s watching us.’
‘There you are, John Townsend, your little angel looks much nicer now.’ Barnaby patted the angel’s head and turned to her. ‘Who?’
Christie pointed to the large tombstone at the head of Sir Adrian Syddyns’s grave.
‘Behind there.’
A black-tipped tail flicked nervously at the edge of the tombstone.
Rushing over, the children found themselves looking into the large, cool green eyes of One-ear.
Like all cats, he was insatiably curious. What
were
they doing here? Believing the graveyard to be deserted, he often used it for sunbathing.
They were just as curious.
‘It’s a great big cat!’ said Christie. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘It’s a cougar, stupid,’ whispered Barnaby. ‘Isn’t he beautiful? Don’t frighten him.’
One-ear backed away from them. He had seen quite enough.
Christie stood rooted to the spot, but Barnaby advanced a step. One-ear gave a warning snarl, and turning, fled. With the stiff, high-rumped lope of the cougar, he cleared the graveyard in ten-foot bounds and disappeared through a hole in the thicket.
Barnaby turned to Christie.
‘Come on!’ he cried, and ran after the cougar. ‘Hurry up or we’ll lose him.’
Christie followed, but when they reached the dark tunneled break in the bushes, she stopped.
‘Well, are you coming?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Christie. ‘What if he bites?’
‘All right, stay here then!’
Without another glance at her, he dropped to his knees and began crawling through the hole. Christie took a deep breath
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