Rosy Is My Relative

  ‘Hello, boy,’ he said jovially, ‘got your acrobat?’

  ‘Mr Pucklehammer,’ said Adrian in a low, controlled voice, ‘you’ve got to help me. You are, indeed, the only person I can turn to in what is rapidly becoming a nightmare.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened, boy?’

  ‘She . . . it . . . has arrived,’ said Adrian.

  ‘What’s she like?’ enquired Mr Pucklehammer with interest.

  ‘She . . . Rosy,’ said Adrian, ‘is an elephant.’

  ‘An elephant? said Mr Pucklehammer, and whistled. ‘That’s a bit of a problem for you.’

  ‘You could put it that way,’ said Adrian coldly.

  ‘An elephant,’ repeated Mr Pucklehammer thoughtfully. ‘Well, well. That is a bit of a facer.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you’ said Adrian. ‘What I’m to do with her I just don’t know, but all I do know is that the wretched man who brought her, not unnaturally wants to get rid of her. She won’t fit in Mrs Dredge’s garden, so I’ve had to bring her here. Will you let me keep her in your yard for a bit, until I decide what to do?’

  ‘Yes, yes, boy, of course,’ said Mr Pucklehammer readily, ‘plenty of room here. Never had an elephant here, come to think of it. It’ll make a bit of a change.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Adrian fervently, ‘I’m most grateful to you.’ He went back into the road where the carter appeared to be melting steadily into his handkerchief.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Adrian, ‘she can come in here.’

  The carter threw open the doors of the dray, and Rosy uttered a pleased squeal at the sight of her friends.

  ‘’Ere’s the keys,’ said the carter, handing them to Adrian. ‘One for each padlock.’

  ‘Is she tame?’ asked Adrian nervously, realising that up until that moment he had had no experience with elephants. ‘I think so,’ said the carter. ‘You’ll soon find out though, won’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps I ought to get it something to eat,’ said Adrian, ‘to keep it occupied. What do they eat?’

  ‘Buns,’ said Mr Pucklehammer, who was peering at Rosy with interest.

  ‘Do be sensible,’ said Adrian irritably. ‘Where am I going to find a bun at this time of the day?’

  ‘’Ow about oats?’ suggested the carter.

  ‘No, no, it’s buns they eat,’ said Mr Pucklehammer.

  ‘I do wish you’d stop gassing on about buns,’ said Adrian in exasperation, ‘we haven’t got any buns.’

  ‘How about a cheese sandwich?’ said Mr Pucklehammer. ‘I’ll go and get one and we’ll try.’

  He returned presently with a large cheese sandwich, which he handed to Adrian. Very cautiously, holding the sandwich in front of him as though it were a weapon, Adrian approached Rosy’s vast grey bulk.

  ‘Here you are then, Rosy,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Nice cheese sandwich . . . good girl.’

  Rosy stopped swaying and watched his approach with twinkling eyes. When he was within range she stretched out her trunk and, with the utmost speed and delicacy, removed Adrian’s bowler hat and placed it on her own massive domed head. Alarmed, Adrian jumped back, dropped the sandwich and trod heavily on the carter’s foot. This did not improve the carter’s already frayed temper. Picking up the sandwich Adrian approached Rosy again. ‘Here you are, Rosy,’ he said in a trembling voice, ‘nice sandwich.’ Languidly Rosy reached out her trunk again, took the sandwich from Adrian’s shaking fingers, and inserted it into her mouth which looked – to Adrian’s startled gaze – the size of a large barrel. Faint grinding and slushing noises indicated that the elephant did eat cheese sandwiches. Hastily, while her mouth was full, Adrian went down on his knees, undid the padlocks and removed the shackles from Rosy’s legs.

  ‘There we are,’ he said, backing out of the dray. ‘Come along then . . . good girl.’

  Rosy sighed deeply, took off the bowler hat and fanned herself with it, but apart from this gave no indication that she intended to, vacate the dray.

  ‘I’m normally a patient man,’ said the carter untruthfully, ‘but I would like to point out, while you’re stamping about all over me feet and stuffing that elephant on sandwiches, that I ’aven’t ’ad so much as a bite to eat this morning.’

  ‘Well, I’m trying to get her out,’ said Adrian aggrievedly, ‘you can’t force a thing that size.’

  ‘Would you care for a sandwich and a pint of beer?’ Mr Pucklehammer asked the carter.

  ‘That’s very obliging of you,’ said the carter, brightening perceptibly, ‘very obliging indeed.’

  While the carter and Adrian stood there staring at Rosy, who was now swaying to and fro and uttering heart-rending sighs, Mr Pucklehammer went into the house and soon reappeared carrying a sandwich with a brimming pint of beer. The carter’s delight at seeing these victuals was nothing compared to Rosy’s enthusiasm when she saw the tankard. She uttered a loud and prolonged trumpeting that made Adrian jump, and lumbered out of the dray into the road. Mr Pucklehammer stood rooted to the spot while Rosy, still, trumpeting, seized the tankard in her trunk and proceeded to pour the contents into her cavernous mouth.

  ‘Well, that’s solved one problem,’ said the carter, ‘but what about me beer?’

  ‘At least we know she’ll eat sandwiches and drink beer,’ said Adrian, ‘though I can’t see her existing for ever on that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to think me unfeeling,’ said the carter, breathing through his nose, ‘but I’m more concerned with me own stomach than with ’ers.’

  Rosy handed the empty tankard back to Mr Pucklehammer and followed him hopefully as he retreated into the yard. Having found an intelligent human being who appeared to recognise her needs, she was not going to let him out of her sight. She had a slow, stately, if slightly inebriated walk, and her ears flapped and cracked against the sides of her head as she moved. She uttered pleased little squeals, and as she entered the yard hot on Mr Pucklehammer’s heels, Adrian slammed the great double doors behind her, leant against them and mopped his face. That was the first step.

  Although Rosy was intrigued by the drifts of curly white-wood shavings, the piles of wood and the serried ranks of newly completed coffins, she still kept an eye on Mr Pucklehammer, for he was obviously the dowser who was going to lead her to the master spring of beer. But at last they managed to creep into the house without her noticing. Once in the house Mr Pucklehammer produced more beer and cheese sandwiches, and under the soothing influence of food and drink even the carter became almost benign.

  ‘Funny sort of thing for your uncle to leave you,’ he said to Adrian.

  ‘I wouldn’t describe it as funny,’ said Adrian bitterly. ‘What I’m supposed to do with her, the Lord only knows.’

  ‘Sell ’er,’ advised the carter, pouring out more beer, ‘Sell ’er to a circus. That’s what I’d do.’

  ‘I can’t,’ explained Adrian, ‘that’s the awful part. I’ve been left five hundred pounds to look after her.’

  ‘I wonder ’ow many buns that’ll buy,’ said the carter with interest.

  ‘They must eat something else besides buns,’ said Adrian plaintively. ‘You know, cabbages and things. Anyway, we’ll just have to experiment later.’

  ‘Don’t you go fretting yourself, boy,’ said Mr Pucklehammer. ‘She can stay here for two or three days until you decide what’s best to be done. I’ll look after her.’

  It was at this juncture that Rosy decided that the coffins – though fascinating in their way – were not sustaining enough. She approached the house and peered through the window. To her delight she discovered her friends gathered together in the room, consuming some of her favourite beverage. There was an air of relaxed conviviality, an air of good fellowship about the group, that Rosy found irresistible. It stimulated her. She was sure that they would want her to join them so she tapped delicately on the window with the tip of her trunk. It was a dainty, lady-like hint that she, too, would like to join in whatever celebrations were afoot. But
her friends were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not notice. This, Rosy felt, was unfair. After all, she had had a long and tiring journey with only one pint of beer to sustain her, and there they were, guzzling away in the room without inviting her in. Normally, Rosy was an extremely patient elephant, but the sight of the carter pouring himself out yet another pint was too much for her. She inserted the tip of her trunk under the sash of the window and pulled. The entire window came away with a splendid crackling and tinkling noise, and Rosy, delighted with the success of her experiment, put her trunk through the window and trumpeted loudly.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ exclaimed Adrian, his nerves completely shattered, ‘give her some more beer, Mr Pucklehammer, and shut her up.’

  ‘At this rate,’ said the carter helpfully, ‘you’ll be spending most of your five ’undred quid on beer and repairs.’

  Mr Pucklehammer went into the kitchen and found a large tin basin which he filled to the brim with beer. This he carried out into the yard, and Rosy’s piercing squeals of delight were positively deafening. She dipped her trunk into the lovely brown liquid, sucked it up and then shot it into her mouth with a noise like a miniature waterfall. Very soon the basin was empty and Rosy, uttering small, self-satisfied belches to herself, wandered over to the shady side of the yard and lay down for a rest.

  ‘Well, I must be on me way,’ said the carter. ‘Thanks very much for your ’ospitality.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mr Pucklehammer.

  And you, sir,’ said the carter, turning to Adrian, ‘I wishes you the very best of luck. I ’ave a feeling with that little bundle of joy you’re going to need it.’

  4. The Open Road

  Mr Pucklehammer saw the carter safely out of the yard and came back into the house, where he found Adrian, his head in his hands, contemplating an empty beer mug gloomily.

  ‘I simply can’t think straight,’ said Adrian miserably, ‘I just can’t think what to do.’

  ‘Have some more beer,’ suggested Mr Pucklehammer, whose philosophy in life was simple and direct. ‘Stop fretting yourself. . . we’ll think of something.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to keep soothing me,’ said Adrian irritably, ‘but I’m the one that’s got the elephant. We don’t even know what she eats yet.’

  ‘Buns,’ said Mr Pucklehammer, clinging to his original premise. ‘You mark my words, she’ll do well on buns.’

  ‘I wonder if the carter was right?’ said Adrian thoughtfully. ‘If I could find a circus where she’d be happy and gave the owner the five hundred to look after her, I wonder if that would be legal?’

  ‘I don’t know if it would be legal,’ said Mr Pucklehammer, pursing his lips thoughtfully, ‘but it’s one solution.’

  ‘But where d’you find a circus?’ said Adrian. ‘I haven’t seen one since I was seven or eight.’

  ‘The seaside,’ said Mr Pucklehammer promptly. ‘There’s always circuses and fairs and such at the seaside.’

  ‘But we’re fifty miles from the sea,’ said Adrian. ‘How would I get her there?’

  ‘Walk her,’ said Mr Pucklehammer, ‘the exercise will probably do her a power of good. One thing’s for sure, you can’t keep her here indefinitely. I don’t mind having her, mind, but an elephant isn’t the sort of thing you can keep in your yard without getting talk from the neighbours. Nosey lot, round here.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing for it,’ said Adrian. ‘I’ll have to tell Mrs Dredge and the shop that my uncle’s dying and that I have to go away for a bit. I don’t think the shop will mind – I’m due for a holiday, anyway. How long do you think it will take me to get her down to the coast?’

  ‘Rather depends,’ said Mr Pucklehammer.

  ‘Depends on what?’ asked Adrian. ‘How many miles a day an elephant can walk?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t thinking about that,’ said Mr Pucklehammer, ‘I was thinking about the number of pubs you might have to pass on the way.’

  ‘Yes,’ Adrian groaned, ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ suggested Mr Pucklehammer. ‘You know that little old pony trap I’ve got in the shed out there? Well, if we did that up and made a sort of harness thing, Rosy could pull it. You could put all your clothes and some beer and stuff in the back. . .

  ‘Not beer,’ said Adrian hastily. ‘I’m not having any beer next to that creature.’

  ‘Well, food then,’ said Mr Pucklehammer, ‘and then when you’re all loaded up, off you go, eh?’

  In spite of his anxiety Adrian felt a faint stirring of enthusiasm in his heart. He had always craved for adventure, hadn’t he? Well, what could be more adventurous than setting off on a journey accompanied by an elephant? For the first time since receiving his uncle’s letter he began to feel that things were not quite as bad as he thought. He was almost excited at the prospect of walking Rosy down to the coast.

  ‘If I can make the coast in three days,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘it’ll take me another couple of days to find a circus, I should think. Well, let’s say ten days to a fortnight, to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Pucklehammer, ‘you should be able to do it in that time, if all goes well.’

  ‘Right!’ said Adrian, leaping to his feet and becoming once again (for a brief moment) the best swordsman outside France. ‘I’ll do it!’

  ‘Good lad!’ said Mr Pucklehammer. ‘I’d come with you, only I can’t leave the yard. I bet you’ll have a rare old time. Now, let’s get organised. I’ll get the trap out and give it a wash down and a lick of paint and it’ll be all ready for you tomorrow.’

  Adrian went and peered through the window. Rosy was lying peacefully asleep, her ears twitching occasionally and her stomach rumbling with a sound like distant thunder.

  ‘She’ll need something to eat,’ he said worriedly. ‘Just listen to the poor thing’s stomach.’

  ‘Now stop fussing,’ said Mr Pucklehammer. ‘I’ll attend to that.’

  He and Adrian went out into the yard and, careful not to wake Rosy, pulled the somewhat dilapidated pony trap from inside the shed.

  ‘There you are,’ said Mr Pucklehammer, gazing at it admiringly. ‘With a lick of paint she’ll be as good as new. Now, you give her a wash down, boy, while I go and get some food for Rosy.’

  Adrian went and fetched a couple of buckets of warm water and a scrubbing brush, and was soon hard at work washing the trap down, whistling softly to himself. He was so absorbed in his work that it gave him a shock when a warm, grey trunk smelling strongly of beer suddenly curled round his neck in an affectionate manner. He was not yet used to the fact that elephants, for all their bulk, can move when they want to with considerably less noise than a house mouse. Rosy was standing behind him, staring down at him benignly. She blew a thoughtful blast of beer-laden breath into his ear and uttered a tiny squeak of greeting.

  ‘Now look,’ said Adrian sharply, unwinding her trunk from his neck, ‘you’ve got to stop messing about. You’ve been enough trouble already, heaven knows. You just go on back over there and sleep it off, there’s a good girl.’

  By way of an answer, Rosy dipped her trunk into one of the buckets and noisily sucked up a good supply. Then, taking careful aim, she squirted the water over the sides of the pony trap. She refilled her trunk and repeated the process, while Adrian watched her in amazement.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘if you’re going to be helpful, that’s different.’

  He soon found that if he indicated the area of the trap he wanted cleaned, Rosy would stand there and squirt water on it until further notice. All he had to do was keep replenishing the buckets. The force with which she could expel the water from her trunk greatly aided the cleaning process, and in next to no time the grime and cobwebs were washed away and the pony trap was beginning to look quite different. At this point Mr Pucklehammer returned, carrying a bulging sack on his back.

  ‘I couldn’t get any buns,’ he said, obviously disappointed that he was no
t going to be able to prove his point, ‘but I managed to get some stale bread.’

  They opened the sack and extracted two large brown loaves, Adrian held them out towards Rosy, not at all convinced that she would accept this somewhat worn largesse, but Rosy uttered a squeal of pleasure and engulfed both loaves, devouring them with a speed and enthusiasm that had to be seen to be believed.

  ‘There you are,’ said Adrian, ‘that’s the feeding problem solved.’ He tipped the rest of the bread out of the sack and Rosy fell to like a glutton.

  ‘My word,’ said Mr Pucklehammer admiringly, ‘you have made a difference to that trap.’

  ‘It was mainly Rosy’s work,’ said Adrian.

  ‘Rosy?’ asked Mr Pucklehammer. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, she helped me. She squirted water over it . . . we had it clean in half the time.’

  ‘Would you believe it!’ said Mr Pucklehammer. ‘I wonder if she knows any more tricks?’

  ‘I don’t think we ought to start her off on tricks now,’ said Adrian hastily. ‘For one thing, I’d better go down to the bank and fix up about the money, hadn’t I?’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Mr Pucklehammer. ‘You leave Rosy and me here. We’ll be all right. I’ll paint the trap while you’re gone.’

  When Adrian returned to the yard some hours later, he was greeted by the sound of Mr Pucklehammer’s voice raised in song, accompanied by a periodical friendly squeal from Rosy. He went into the yard and there he found Rosy lying down, with Mr Pucklehammer leaning against her shoulder, singing a serenade in her left ear. They were both bedaubed with splashes of paint, and an empty basin with traces of froth at the bottom and a pint tankard told Adrian that Mr Pucklehammer and Rosy had cemented their friendship in no uncertain manner. Rather to his surprise – considering the condition of the two workers – the trap looked magnificent. Mr Pucklehammer had obviously allowed all his latent artistic genius to come to the fore. The body of the trap was a bright clean daffodil yellow, and the shafts a brave scarlet. The spokes of the wheels had been cunningly picked out in blue and gold, and the whole thing shone like a jewel.