The Putting Away (1)

of Uncle Quaggin *

Erza Quaggin died in June 1897. Before be died he had told Tom-Billy Teare, who was married to the old man's niece, that he had made his will and left it in a black box on top of the kitchen dresser. Tom-Billy was happy: the man had left the farm itself. But on the day of the funeral there appeared Ezra Quaggin's cousin called Lawyer Quaggin. When dinner was served Tom-Billy noticed that Lawyer Quaggin's place was empty.

Once the door was safely shut behind him, he ran the few steps to the kitchen. He pulled a stool up beside the dresser, climbed on to it, and clutched the tin deed-box down from its place. A bead of sweat fogged his eye as he opened the lid.

The-heart folded up inside him, and he grasped a shelf for support.

Ezra's will had gone!

He stumbled down, and scattered across the table all the contents of the box. The loose papers, the prayer-book, the letters. He swayed as the empty black bottom of the tin stared back at him. A moment later an old chair's wicker seat split under his sudden weight.

Like scalding steam, a stream of explosive hissing curses reddened his face. Then the remembered need for silence bottled up his fury, and drove it into his head and muddled his thoughts. They took several minutes to clear.

It was Lawyer all right! He must have found out the will's hiding-place by spying through the kitchen window during the funeral. And now he had stolen it; the guilt was there on his face when he sneaked back into the parlour just now.

Tom-Billy sat trying to control himself and picture the next move.

The other room was full of Quaggins waiting to hear the thing read. If he showed the empty box, they would rend him, the keeper of it. Useless to protest that Sallie had been left everything; each man jack of them would fancy himself cheated out of a huge legacy.

Go in there and denounce the thief? No, that was as bad. Lawyer would be ready, knowing the Quaggins distrusted him nearly as much as they did Tom-Billy. He would have the will hidden somewhere, and brazenly deny everything. And later, in his own crafty time, he would tell the Quaggins in secret what it said.

Either way, the will would never be seen again. The farm would be divided amongst the whole brood.

Tom-Billy groaned with anguish.

Something must be done immediately; he had no idea what. Often he bad wondered what a fattened beast felt when it sniffed the smell of slaughter. Now he knew, it prayed for the neighbourhood to be struck with catastrophe, to give it a chance of escape.

An earthquake. At least a whirlwind.

Words were dancing in front of his eyes. «All your problems solved,» they read. He tried to blink them away like liver-spots, but they persisted. They seemed to be printed on a packet lying by the wall. A little more cold sweat formed on his face.

He rose. He approached the improbable packet.

«Vesuvius Brand Lighters (2)». All your firelighting problems solved!» he read. So he still had his senses. His pulse slackened. He had been tricked by the crumpled label.

A bag of patent things that Sallie must have bought; old Quaggin would have died of cold before spending money on them. «Vesuvius Brand.» There was a clumsy little picture of people in long nightshirts running about clutching bundles and boxes, and a flaming mountain in the background. He slowly picked up the smelly packet. A desperate idea was coming. The most desperate he had ever had.

He pulled the split wicker-chair into the middle of the room and stacked the firelighters carefully upon it. Five of them the packet held. Quickly he added crushed newspapers, some greasy cleaning rags he found in a cupboard, and two meal sacks. The old stool and table he arranged close to the chair, in natural positions. A jarful of rendered fat completed the preparations.

He replaced the scattered papers in their tin box, and put it exactly where it belonged, up on top of the dresser. In fearful haste now, dreading that somebody would come to look for him, Tom-Billy struck a match and put it to the tarry shavings. The flame crept over the problem-solving lighters.

As he closed the kitchen door behind him, he began to count slowly.

One, two, three...

He wiped the sweat from his face. At about a hundred it should be safe to raise the alarm.

* Kneale, N. The Putting Away of Uncle Quaggin: Stories by Modern English Authors. Moscow, 1961, pp. 86-88.

Notes

(1) putting away - funeral (dial.).

(2) Vesuvius Brand - the trade-mark of lighters.