Angus Remembers Uncle B

They were seated around the table of a cramped London kitchen. In a tomato jumper, Uncle B was laughing and serving up spaghetti Bolognese. Angus was a small child, caught in a world of Simon and Garfunkel, colour and cigarette smoke, with his parents to one side. Another, shorter man in flared trousers was humming Sound of Silence and flicking through LPs in the background. Carlos – that was his name.

On the night drive back to Suffolk, Angus’ father had argued with his mother’s green corduroy hat while he slid around in the back. No seatbelts.

The temerity of it! Can you imagine the bloody fool? Their voices lashed the heated air. Who wouldn’t blackmail? Good riddance. Let him and his fairy friends bugger off and sink the bloody lot.

Oh no. Uncle B, Carlos and their friends wrapped up in overcoats and scarves, sinking to the bottom of the ocean, tiaras tangling with fronds of seaweed.

A postcard had arrived with a picture of a date palm and, on the large brown stamp, a curly dagger. Uncle B’s jumper would be too hot for him now. Angus recognised his own name in the exciting black hand-writing and there was something else, about forgiveness.

He snuck the card into his bible. He imagined Uncle B descending the steps of an aeroplane into a sandy desert. Carlos was behind him, clutching a smart suitcase. A smiling air hostess held out a tray of drinks. They would all disappear.

BGR Buckley is a London-based writer working on a second novel.