‘Use your intelligence, Ezra,’ said the elderly gentleman severely. ‘Did you not take note of the muffins and strawberry jam I brought back from town? You know my personal abhorrence of muffins and strawberry jam.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Ezra and left the room with a broad grin on his face.
‘Ezra’s mental processes are always somewhat slow on the morning after an evening’s visit to the Wheatsheaf,’ explained the elderly gentleman. ‘I trust you were not disturbed in the night? He has, I fear, this one regrettable failing. In all else he is the soul of rectitude.’
The children laid down their knives and forks and gazed at the elderly gentleman in astonishment. A failing? Did he consider it a failing to sing and dance in the moonlight? ‘It was grand in the night,’ said Timothy. ‘We sang and danced too. It was grand.’
It was the elderly gentleman’s turn to be astonished. ‘You danced in the night?’ he ejaculated. ‘What am I clasping to my bosom? Four young bacchanalians? It will be but a short period now before my grey hairs are brought with sorrow to the grave. It surprises me that your grandmother and the excellent Miss Bolt have survived so long. It does not surprise me that my suggestion of shouldering the burden in their place should have been received with such profound and touching gratitude. Never in my sixty-five years of mortal life have I seen my poor old mother so favourably impressed by a humble suggestion of my own. Ah, here comes Ezra with the rhubarb tart. Place it in front of Miss Nan, Ezra. If we are to have a mistress of this house, an infliction which by the mercy of God we have hitherto escaped, at least let her relieve us of some labour. What are you gaping at, Ezra? I have thought the strong family likeness between Miss Betsy and myself should have informed you that these young people are my relatives. They are my nephews and nieces, the children of my youngest brother. They are to live with us for the present. I feel for you, Ezra. I feel for myself. This has come upon us for our sins. Nan, my dear, why are you crying? If there is one thing I dislike more than a child it’s a crying child, and let me tell you, my dear…’
He got no further, for sobbing with joy Nan had flung herself into his arms. Betsy followed, scrambling up on his left knee, Nan being now settled on his right, held within the curve of his right arm. For a few moments there was pandemonium, the boys cheering, Ezra laughing and stamping his wooden leg on the floor, Absolom barking and Hector hooting and flapping his wings.
‘That will do,’ said the elderly gentleman sternly. ‘The rhubarb tart grows cold. I am partial to rhubarb tart. Nan, return to your duties. Betsy, get down. Boys, hold your tongues. Hector, hold your beak. Ezra, you may go. Down, Absolom.’
In a moment order was restored and they were all eating rhubarb tart in a wonderful golden silence, one of those musical silences rich with the chiming of unheard bells and the ring of silent laughter. When the tart was finished the elderly gentleman, now so marvellously transformed into Uncle Ambrose, got up and said, ‘Your joy, children, has been premature. I intend to impose conditions upon your sojourn with me. You will keep them or go to your Uncle Edgar, who lives in Birmingham and will dislike you even more than I do myself. Come into my study.’
He left the room with Hector on his shoulder and they followed him gravely, but with their joy no whit diminished. They were prepared to fulfil any conditions and they knew very well that Uncle Ambrose did not dislike them. Does a man buy muffins and strawberry jam for those whom he dislikes? In the study Uncle Ambrose stood with his back to the fire and motioned the children to sit down. He looked very awe-inspiring, he was so tall, and Hector on his shoulder made him look taller than ever, for Hector had a way of elongating himself when he wanted to look alarming. By stretching he could add five inches to his height, and when he did this on Uncle Ambrose’s shoulder, the feathers on the top of his head nearly touched the ceiling.
‘It appears,’ said Uncle Ambrose, ‘that you children wish to live with me. Why, I cannot imagine. It also appears that I am willing that you should do so, and that not only to relieve my poor old mother of the exhaustion of your society. I must tell you that I have a devouring passion, not for children themselves, for I abominate children, but for educating them. For thirty years I educated boys. When I retired from my labours I had caned more boys into bishoprics and the Cabinet, and on to the Woolsack, than any headmaster living. My boys lived to bless me for their sore backsides and I’ve lived to miss them. Yes, I’ve missed my boys these last five years. You live with your Uncle Ambrose only on condition that he educates you. Is that understood?’
Nan replied steadily, ‘You can do what you like with us so long as you let us stay with you and each other and Absolom. Grandmama was going to send me and Robert to boarding school, and give Absolom away because of fleas, and that’s partly why we ran away. We have to stay with each other.’
‘Nan to boarding school?’ ejaculated Uncle Ambrose. ‘By Hector, no! I don’t hold with boarding schools for girls. Home’s the place for girls, though they should have a classical education there. I have always maintained that women would not be the feather-headed fools they are, were they given a classical education from earliest infancy.’ He shot out a finger at Betsy. ‘Can she read?’
‘No,’ said Nan.
‘What’s her age?’
‘Six,’ said Nan.
‘Six and not read? I could read Homer at four. She’ll read him by eight. As for you, Robert, the excellent Miss Bolt tells me that you can read and write, but no more. Do you suppose I will send you to boarding school, to bring shame upon the name of Linnet, until I have given you a thorough grounding in at least the rudiments of a gentlemanly education? I shall not. Now, children, which is it to be? Education or your Uncle Edgar at Birmingham?’
They replied in unison, ‘Education,’ but they all looked a little pale and Timothy enquired in a brave but slightly wavering voice, ‘For how long every day are we to be educated?’
‘Nine till one,’ said Uncle Ambrose promptly.
‘Not nine till one for Betsy?’ asked Nan.
‘Certainly. Why not? She shall have milk and a ginger biscuit at eleven.’
‘Will there be homework?’ asked Robert, and he looked a bit miserable, for he hated learning anything.
‘For yourself and Nan, yes. It will be of an hour’s duration, 6 p.m. until 7 p.m., and will take place under my personal supervision, and if you do not come home in time for it you will go supperless to bed. For the rest of each day you will be free to go where you like and do what you like. Only don’t disturb me, for in the intervals between my parochial duties I am writing a book, a study of the Dialogues of Plato, and if you don’t know who he is you soon will. Your education will start tomorrow at nine sharp. Now we will each have a peppermint lozenge.’
Inserting finger and thumb into a waistcoat pocket, he produced a white package and handed it round. The peppermints were good, but a bit on the strong side and Absolom’s eyes watered before he could get his down. Hector did not try to swallow his. He said ‘Hick’, and sent it to the top of the grandfather clock.
‘I shall now take a short nap,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘Tea is at five, with muffins and strawberry jam. You may come to meals or not, just as you please, but if you do not come to meals you will go without them. Be off with you.’
They made off immediately. Nan, the last out, looked back as she closed the door. Uncle Ambrose had already disposed his great length in the biggest armchair and spread his large white silk handkerchief over his head. Hector had perched on the back of the chair and as Nan watched he slowly sank down and down into himself, his head sinking into his shoulders until he was nothing but a large round ball of feathers with two great eyes glaring out of it. Then one eye closed, but the other stayed open and winked at her. Then that closed too and Nan went out and shut the door softly behind her.
Emma Cobley’s Shop