Let's Kill Uncle Read Online Free PDF

also confided in Mr Rice-Hope. The Reverend Mr Rice-Hope’s attitude, like Albert’s, had not been encouraging. Meek though he generally was, their minister had stated firmly that they lacked faith, and difficult as he knew it was, they must bear Dickie’s loss as a test of their belief in life everlasting, as decreed by the church.
    Only parents bereaved could understand fully that it was impossible for Dickie to leave them forever. They had had faith, of their own kind, and now their prayers had been answered.
    As they blew out the lamp and tucked the covers about the sleeping child, they realised that the resemblance was uncanny. Nothing so commonplace or tangible as mere physical resemblance, but rather an indefinable aura, so unmistakable that to suppose the contrary would be absurd. Let Albert scoff; it could not be explained to the earth-bound Sergeant Coulters of the world. Only those with extrasensory instincts could appreciate the likeness.
    When Christie came down the ladder on the second morning she found another steaming platter waiting at her place.
    Neither tea nor cornflakes were in evidence, but there was one new addition. Barnaby Gaunt sat contentedly in the rocking chair.
    Seating herself, Christie smiled brightly at the goat-lady.
    ‘Good morning. May I have my breakfast now, please?’
    The goat-lady smiled back.
    ‘You certainly may.’
    Serene, Christie stared out at her fir tree.
    The goat-lady poured herself a cup of coffee, and standing in the open doorway stirring it, she remarked on what a lovely morning it was.
    Christie’s face tightened.
    ‘I’d like my tea and cornflakes now, please.’
    ‘No tea. No cornflakes,’ said the goat-lady. ‘How is Mrs Brooks today, Barnaby?’
    ‘Fine.’ He eyed Christie’s breakfast and licked his lips.
    ‘Are you hungry?’
    He nodded.
    The goat-lady pointed to the table.
    Leaning over, she placed Christie’s plate before him.
    ‘Oh, boy!’
    The goat-lady noticed his table manners were curiously delicate for a child.
    Every drop of canny Scots blood in her boiling, Christie watched him with narrowed eyes. Had not the goat-lady reminded her only yesterday that her poor overworked mother was paying for her board?
    Unable to bear watching that boy putting her food into his mouth, she sprang to her feet.
    ‘That’s
my
breakfast!’
    The goat-lady sat in the rocking chair that Barnaby had vacated and picked up her knitting.
    ‘Oh, no. You only eat cornflakes and tea. Well, it’s too good to throw to the dog, isn’t it, Barnaby? And Christie doesn’t want it.’
    ‘I want it now,’ said Christie, biting her lips.
    ‘Too late.’ She turned to Barnaby. ‘What nice table manners you have.’
    He looked up, surprised.
    ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘my uncle is strict about table manners.’
    ‘Well, as long as you enjoy your food.’
    He looked surprised again. ‘You mean I don’t have to eat this way? You mean I can eat any way I like?’
    ‘As long as you eat it, I don’t care.’
    Barnaby shovelled the ham and potatoes into his mouth. He finished them and the tomatoes and he drank the milk. Then, with an engaging grin, he turned to the goat-lady.
    ‘Can I have the bread and jam too?’
    ‘Certainly. More milk?’
    His mouth was too full to answer, but he nodded.
    When he had finished everything on the table, the goat-lady pulled a speckled blue coffeepot to the front of the stove.
    ‘Like a cup of coffee?’
    He smiled and nodded again.
    It was too much for Christie.
    ‘How come he gets coffee like a grown-up, and I can’t even have my tea!’
    ‘Because he likes my cooking.’ The goat-lady paused and rewound the yarn which the cat had pulled askew. ‘I used to be a cook, you know. It’s nice to have someone to cook for again.’
    A very sulky Christie watched Barnaby drink his coffee.
    ‘I’m hungry.’
    ‘Well,’ said the goat-lady, ‘it’s only twenty-four hours till tomorrow morning.’
    Christie glowered.
    ‘I want some