Part 16 (2/2)
”The Tuesday,” said Tom unhappily, ”but it could have been after post on Monday. I thought he was going back to Vienna on Monday afternoon. If he didn't go to Scotland, that is.”
But Uncle Jack didn't seem to hear because he was talking about Greece again, playing what the two of them called report writing about this weedy fellow with a moustache who had shown up at the cricket ground in Corfu.
”I expect you were worried about him, weren't you, son? You thought he was up to no good with your dad, I expect, although he was so friendly. I mean, if they knew each other that well, why didn't your dad ask him home to meet your mum? I can see that would have bothered you on reflection. You didn't think it very nice your dad should have a secret life on Mum's doorstep.”
”I suppose I didn't,” Tom admitted, marvelling as ever at Uncle Jack's omniscience. ”He held Dad's arm.”
They had returned to the Digby. In the great joy of his release from worry, Tom had rediscovered his appet.i.te and was having a steak and chips to fill the gap. Brotherhood had ordered himself a whisky.
”Height?” said Brotherhood, back at their special game.
”Six foot.”
”All right, well done. Six foot exactly is correct. Colour of hair?”
Tom hesitated. ”Sort of mousy fawny with stripes,” he said.
”What the h.e.l.l's that supposed to mean?”
”He wore a straw hat. It was hard to see.”
”I know he wore a straw hat. That's why I'm asking you. Colour of hair?”
”Brown,” said Tom finally. ”Brown with the sun on it. And a big forehead like a genius.”
”Now how the h.e.l.l does the sun get under the brim of a hat?”
”Grey brown,” said Tom.
”Then say so. Two points only. Hatband?”
”Red.”
”Oh dear.”
”It was red.”
”Keep trying.”
”It was red, red, red!”
”Three points. Colour of beard?”
”He hasn't got a beard. He's got a s.h.a.ggy moustache and thick eyebrows like yours but not so bushy, and crinkly eyes.”
”Three points. Build?”
”Stoopy and hobbly.”
”What the h.e.l.l's hobbly?”
”Like chumpy. Chumpy's when the sea is choppy and b.u.mpy. Hobbly is when he walks fast and hobbles.”
”You mean limps.”
”Yes”
”Say so. Which leg?”
”Left.”
”One more try?” ”Left.” ”Certain?” ”Left!”
”Three points. Age?” ”Seventy.”
”Don't be d.a.m.n stupid.” ”He's old!”
”He's not seventy. I'm not seventy. I'm not sixty. Well only just. Is he older than me?” ”The same.” ”Carry anything?”
”A briefcase. A grey thing like elephant skin. And he was stringy like Mr. Toombs.”
”Who's Toombs?”
”Our gym master. He teaches aikido and geography. He's killed people with his feet, though he's not supposed to.”
”All right, stringy like Mr. Toombs, carried an elephant skin briefcase. Two points. Another time, omit the subjective reference.”
”What's that?”
”Mr. Toombs. You know him, I don't. Don't compare one person I don't know with another I don't know.”
”You said you knew him,” said Tom, very excited to catch Uncle Jack out.
”I do. I'm fooling. Did he have a car, your man?”
”Volvo. Hired from Mr. Kaloumenos.”
”How do you know that?””He hires it to everyone. He goes down to the harbour and hangs about and if anyone wants to hire a car Mr. Kaloumenos gives them his Volvo.”
”Colour?”
”Green. And it's got a bashed wing and a Corfu registration and a fox's tail from the aerial and a--”
”It's red.”
”It's green!”
<script>