“I got to the larder. I fished it out. I set it on the table. I found
knife and fork. I collected salt, mustard, and pepper. There were
some cold potatoes. I added those. And I was about to pitch in when
I heard a sound behind me, and there was your aunt at the door. In a
blue-and-yellow dressing gown.”
“Embarrassing.”
“Most.”
“I suppose you didn’t know where to look.”
“I looked at Angela.”
“She came in with my aunt?”
“No. With your uncle, a minute or two later. He was wearing mauve
pyjamas and carried a pistol. Have you ever seen your uncle in pyjamas
and a pistol?”
“Never.”
“You haven’t missed much.”
“Tell me, Tuppy,” I asked, for I was anxious to ascertain this, “about
Angela. Was there any momentary softening in her gaze as she fixed it
on you?”
“She didn’t fix it on me. She fixed it on the pie.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Not right away. Your uncle was the first to speak. He said to your
aunt, ‘God bless my soul, Dahlia, what are you doing here?’ To which
she replied, ‘Well, if it comes to that, my merry somnambulist, what
are you?’ Your uncle then said that he thought there must be burglars
in the house, as he had heard noises.”
I nodded again. I could follow the trend. Ever since the scullery
window was found open the year Shining Light was disqualified in the
Cesarewitch for boring, Uncle Tom has had a marked complex about
burglars. I can still recall my emotions when, paying my first visit
after he had bars put on all the windows and attempting to thrust the
head out in order to get a sniff of country air, I nearly fractured
my skull on a sort of iron grille, as worn by the tougher kinds of
mediaeval prison.
“‘What sort of noises?’ said your aunt. ‘Funny noises,’ said your
uncle. Whereupon Angela--with a nasty, steely tinkle in her voice, the
little buzzard--observed, ‘I expect it was Mr. Glossop eating.’ And
then she did give me a look. It was the sort of wondering, revolted
look a very spiritual woman would give a fat man gulping soup in a
restaurant. The kind of look that makes a fellow feel he’s forty-six
round the waist and has great rolls of superfluous flesh pouring down
over the back of his collar. And, still speaking in the same unpleasant
tone, she added, ‘I ought to have told you, father, that Mr. Glossop
always likes to have a good meal three or four times during the night.
It helps to keep him going till breakfast. He has the most amazing
appetite. See, he has practically finished a large steak-and-kidney pie
already’.”
As he spoke these words, a feverish animation swept over Tuppy. His
eyes glittered with a strange light, and he thumped the bed violently
with his fist, nearly catching me a juicy one on the leg.
“That was what hurt, Bertie. That was what stung. I hadn’t so much as
started on that pie. But that’s a woman all over.”
“The eternal feminine.”
“She continued her remarks. ‘You’ve no idea,’ she said, ‘how Mr.
Glossop loves food. He just lives for it. He always eats six or seven
meals a day, and then starts in again after bedtime. I think it’s
rather wonderful.’ Your aunt seemed interested, and said it reminded
her of a boa constrictor. Angela said, didn’t she mean a python? And
then they argued as to which of the two it was. Your uncle, meanwhile,
poking about with that damned pistol of his till human life wasn’t safe
in the vicinity. And the pie lying there on the table, and me unable to
touch it. You begin to understand why I said I had been through hell.”
“Quite. Can’t have been at all pleasant.”
“Presently your aunt and Angela settled their discussion, deciding that
Angela was right and that it was a python that I reminded them of. And
shortly after that we all pushed back to bed, Angela warning me in a
motherly voice not to take the stairs too quickly. After seven or eight
solid meals, she said, a man of my build ought to be very careful,
because of the danger of apoplectic fits. She said it was the same with
dogs. When they became very fat and overfed, you had to see that they
didn’t hurry upstairs, as it made them puff and pant, and that was
bad for their hearts. She asked your aunt if she remembered the late
spaniel, Ambrose; and your aunt said, ‘Poor old Ambrose, you couldn’t
keep him away from the garbage pail’; and Angela said, ‘Exactly, so do
please be careful, Mr. Glossop.’ And you tell me she loves me still!”