Uncle Reuben

And How Fortune Enabled Him to Play Santa Claus

THOMAS BURKE

OLD Reuben Housego stood in the Victoria Square of Stewpony Heath, and nodded at it and chuckled. It was a deep throaty chuckle; a chuckle not of amusement or good-humour but of intense self-satisfaction; a real Santa Claus chuckle. A chuckle that marked Uncle Reuben as a man who lived in love and charity with all men, and found Stewpony Heath a fair prize-packet. He rubbed his hands. His shoulders shook. Across his grizzled face flitted dry smiles. He had the air of the happy schemer. He seemed to nudge invisible comrades to share the joke. He mumbled to himself.

"Jes' about the same. Might a-bin yes'day. Woolingford chimney still there. Scollick's kilns still there. Cleemput's little shop still there—knew 'e'd never get on. Well, well . . . Wonder what they'll say . . . . "

They are rare spirits whom Stewpony Heath can move to chuckles. It neither charms nor shocks. It has no grace and no fine flaunt of ugliness. Its sable bulk and bald outlines are as gloomy and bitter as spent tea-leaves. From the Victoria Square side-streets open upon vistas of malicious deformity—companies of chimneys, many-coloured smoke-shapes, leaping furnaces and enormities of engines.

BUT Uncle Reuben had secret alliance with it. It was a setting for delicious adventure. Time, place, and weather were in perfect accord with his mood and occasion—Christmas Eve, keen air, streets glittering after cold rain.

He was glad that it was about the same— just as dirty, just as dim, just as indecisive. Nothing had been quite achieved. No street was quite what it was meant to be. No architectural schemes quite came off. The imposing Town Hall did not quite impose. The black statue of a Mayor of the 'sixties fell many points short of civic dignity. But he liked it so. He found something heartsome in its subdued tones. Its dinge did not sit upon it as an oppression, but belonged to it. The wail of the gramophone from hidden windows in by-streets was music to him. The accumulated noise of whippets and terriers was like a welcoming band. Human shapes crossed and re-crossed the Square with the aimless movements of supers crossing a stage. Around the stalls moved the Christmas shopping crowd, heavy-footed and cumbersome. In their dour Midland way they made of this high feast a sort of muffled carnival.

And Uncle Reuben chuckled. The forlorn aspect, the acrid smells, the maladroit manners and infelicitous voices pleased him. He understood them. After many years he was again among his own people. He had come to the city of his dreams.

"Well, now fer ole Fred. Wonder 'ow 'e'll look. ..."

IN the kitchen of his three-room home in A Diprose Street, Fred Housego sat by the fire with his young daughter. A smell of boiled pork and hot iron came from the tiny scullery where mother was preparing an eight o'clock tea. Fred sat hunched, staring into the skimpy fire with the sluggishness of the out-of-work man. Maggie sat listless, bored; wistful for marvellous Christmas revelry. They drew thick breaths of greasy air.

When Joe, the son, came in, stout and radiant with much eating, they stirred a little. Father looked up heavily. Maggie looked up keenly and snapped a question. "What did y'ave, Joe? Was it good?"

"Ey, I wish ya'd all bin there. Bes' Works dinner we've 'ad since I bin there."

"Ar."

"Ey. Firs' there was soop."

"Ar."

"Then two roasts— beef and mootton."

Maggie beamed, and saw beef and mutton, rich and brown.

"An' boiled beef and dumplings. An' then a dom big plum-pudden wi' yaller sauce."

"Ar." Maggie ogled an invisible plumpudden.

"Ey, I wish ya' all bin there an' 'ad some. I wish I could a-brought some away."

Father roused himself. "Ey, but what's good o' wishin'? We gotter be thankful fer what we bin able t'gat. That dom lock-eout . . . But none of us never 'ad no luck. On'y one who ever broke eout were yer Uncle Reuben—an' what's 'appened t'im nobody knows. 'E did well, though, they say. . . ."

A mild pop in the scullery announced the turning-off of the gas and the dishing-up of the one meal of the day. Father and Maggie made movements of anticipation. Joe was indifferent; replete with the Works dinner. Then, as mother clattered with enamel plates, came a peremtory flourish on the door-knocker. They started and looked at each other. "Whoever can that—

A knock at the door is always dramatic in side-streets; especially dramatic at Christmastime. Maggie gave her fancy Christmas license. "What a lark if 'twere Uncle Reuben —wi' a big hamper, an'—"

And of course, it was Uncle Reuben. From the street door those in the kitchen heard mumbles and chuckles. Then Joe, who had gone to answer, was pushed aside, and there came in to them a small stout figure, in thick Ulster and fur-lined gloves, grey and red-faced. He peered round the room, and fastened on father.

"Well, Fred!"

Father looked up. At once the domestic quiet of the kitchen was shattered and fell into little jumping pieces of surprise and wonder. "Well, ah'm dommed . . . Well, now . . . Ey . . . There! Moother-leuk 'ere—Reub come back! An' us jus' talkin' abeout ya. . . . Well ..."

Mother raised hands and head. "Why— Reuben—Uncle Reuben!" They shook hands all around. Maggie and Joe stood open-eyed and receptive of the dramatic thrill. Mother's mind flustered between this brilliant upheaval and the now lustreless boiled pork. Uncle Reuben stood in their midst, handsomely receiving their candid stares. They saw a stocky little figure radiating well-being. His clothes were loose, but of fine quality. They stood as though struck, eyeing the wondrous rich cloth of the ulster, the soft boots, the quiet elegance of the gloves. He wore them all casually, not with the quiet assurance of the man who is getting-on, but as one so used to riches as to be completely unconscious of their dignity; one who would be just as happy in corduroys and cotton scarf. Wealth and success never refine your Stewpony man: all his life he is a shirt-sleeves man.

He threw back his overcoat and thrust his hands in his trousers pocket in the brazen Midland manner. "Well, well ... So y'avene't fergotten me. And this is—what's their names—ah, Joe. And the gel—ah, yes, Maggie. Kiss yer ole uncle, Maggie—seein' it's Christmas an' all —eh?"

The room went warm with grins. Under them Uncle Reuben glowed, and he grew in height and bulk. He nodded and smiled back and rubbed his hands, and said "Well, well . . . Ah, well." And his brother said "Well, Reub. . . . Well, who'd a-thought it. Well ..."

Mother said "Y'are leukin' fine, Reuben. I'll say that. I'd 'ardly know ya. It's nice of ya to come to see us folks, though."

"An' where else would I go—eh? Look 'ere, I got a lot to tell ya. Let's sit down an' 'ave a talk over things—eh? S'pose Joe goes and gets a bottl' o' whisky. What about that— eh?"

He pulled a pound-note from his trousers pocket and tossed it to the table. Father stared at this magnificence, speechless beyond a stillborn "Well, well. . . ." Mother was abashed by her splendid visitor. With a worried hand she dusted a chair, and Maggie beamingly proffered it. She was not abashed; for her the air of the room was stimulated with expectating of agreeable events.

They sat; and when Joe brought in the whisky Uncle opened up. "Well, Fred, I dessay you bin wonderin' what's 'appened to me; and I dessay I ought 'ave written. But— you know—times goes on, an' one thing an' another. However . . . 'ere I am. An' I think I can say I bin doin' pretty well. I got back from Canada last year with a tidy bit, an' since then I done one or two good deals in the City, and ... Well, I begins to look round, and I thinks to meself—'ere I am wi' money—more'n I want. An' I says, suddenly —Wonder'ow they're goin' on down at Stewpony, I says. An' then I thought again pr'aps I'd come down an' look y'all up, an' pr'aps look round f'r a little place in me ole town. An' 'ere I am. See? "

Father nodded. " Ar." He was a little uncomfortable at his brother's success, but hopeful of what it might mean for the family. He remained brotherly and non-committal.

"Got down 'ere 'sevenin. Took a room at the Imperial, an' come right round."

Joe and Maggie exchanged glances. Their mouths were roundly expressive. A relation of theirs staying at the Imperial. . . . But Uncle Reuben turned to the table and looked at the cloth. "Ey, th'old tea-time—eh? Well, what about a bit o' tea?"

Mother went awkward with shame at being reminded of hospitality and with shame of the hospitality she had to offer. " Why—Reuben— there—I 'ardly like to—you'll be 'avin' such a champion supper at that hotel, I 'ardly like. . . . Things ain't very good, y'see, and all we got's a bit o' boiled pork—our Chris'mas joint. I 'ardly. ..."

He waved her aside. " Ey, gel, stop worryin'. This is like old times. A bit o' boiled pork— why, ya couldn't offer me nothin' better. I don't mind a swell dinner nows and thens, but I'm a plain man, still. Boiled pork ..."

HIS eyes twinkled. He washed his hands in the air. He was magnanimous. They were delighted with him. He put the thing so politely that the boiled pork became again lustrous, and Mother brought it in if not with self-acclamation at least without shame. They sat down to it. . . .

"Yew mus' tek us as we are, Uncle Reuben. We . . ."

"Ey, gel, when ah'm in Stewpony ah'm Stewpony laad."

His attitude to the boiled pork was expressive of prodigal enthusiasm. Before Mother had served herself he had cleared his plate. and passed it up. "I'll come again, my gel. That's a rare bit o' stuff, an' all."

Mother, pious in hospitality, cut lavishly. The small joint began to wither and wilt. Maggie's eyes were on it and on Uncle's plate. She and Father ate rapidly, but even then Uncle was too quick for them. He passed his plate for a third serving. Maggie forgot her manners and looked openly dismayed. The bone was now visible. Mother frowned at Maggie and pressed Uncle to make a good tea and apologised for the meal. Of course, in his position he wouldn't understand what these things meant to a family suffering under the lock-out.

He certainly made a good tea; and when he had done he pushed away his plate and pushed back his chair, and said "Ah!" and "Ey!" He lit a cigar and relapsed into deep thought. Then he rubbed hands again and smiled.

"Well, I didn't come down at Chris'mastime fer nothing. I 'eard about the lock-out 'ere, an' I says to meself—they may a-got on, or they may be like they was. If they ain't got on, they'll be feelin' it a bit. An' I see 'ow things are with ya. So I'm gointer ask ya to let this be Uncle Reuben's Chris'mas." He looked round. Clearly his resolution was passed. "Well, now—if it ain't too late, there's a job fer mother an' Maggie. To get the biggest Chris'mas dinner y'ever got. See?" He caught Maggie's twitching lips. "Ey, young lady, Uncle Reuben'll show ya. What about this, now. First—a nice goose or chicken. Eh? An' a bit o' beef fer supper. An' fruit. Oranges an' apples an' nuts—Brazil nuts. An' sausages. An' bacon. An' a good big plumduff."

Mother grew interested but fidgety under this lavishness. " But Reuben—"

"I 'aven't finished yet. A bottle o' port fer Mother. An' another bottle o' whisky for Dad an' me. A bottle of ginger-wine fer these two. An' some mince-pies—they use to make champion ones at Affleck's in the Square. . . . An' what about coals. Must 'ave a good fire. An' a good big cake an' some jam tarts. An' we ain't too old f'r a box o' crackers, are we?"

"Why, Unc-le Reu-ben! I must say . . . Well, I don't know— 'ow we'll thank you. Why. . . ."

Uncle's eyes twinkled. His face grew luminous with the grace of giving. " I 'aven't finished yet. You're the on'y folks I've got, an' I can see 'ow things are with ya. All this money's nothin' t'me. I couldn't be 'appy among them 'igh-up folk, in big 'ouses and that ... so I'll spend it among me own. Now I reckon a noo dress wouldn't do Mother no 'arm—eh? An' Maggie—a noo Sunday costume. An' I dessay Joe could do with a rig-out."

Their eyes became hot and wide. The spirit of all fairy princes and Santa Clauses rustled about that kitchen. It was as though the Bank of England had thrown open its doors and asked them to help themselves. Frocks . . . Hats . . . Boots . . . Costumes . . . Suits . . . The vision made them limp. Uncle sat erect and masterful. A little nimbus of chuckles danced about his grizzled head. He tossed three crumpled pound-notes on the table. "Theie y'are, mother. That'll see to the dinner t'morrer. After Boxing Day'll do fer the other things. Now—ow're the youngsters gcin' on at work, Fred?"

"Ey, so-so, Reuben. So-so."

"Ah. Satisfied?" He turned to Joe and Magsrie.

"Well, I—"

"Why, I—"

"Ey, I see. . . . Well, I was wonder in' whether a bit of a lift-up were wanted. Yew know. . . Means a lot t'young fellers sometimes. Eh?"

"Well ..." Father deputised for Joe. "Joe, 'e's mad on motors. Wants t'get into the business an' start a repair shop an' all. But

"Ar. Well, well. If 'e's got 'is 'eart in it, I don't reckon there need be any trouble about that. An' Maggie—what's she want t'do. Must look after 'er. Uncle Reuben always looks after the little ladies."

They laughed excessively. Uncle Reuben was a wag. Riches hadn't spoilt him a bit. Just the same as ever. He still elided his aspirates. He still talked as they talked, ate as they ate, thought as they thought. Still hearty and homely.

HE unfolded bright schemes for them. He discussed the details of that repair shop. He listened to Maggie's stories cf the Business Training School and the fees required for its various courses, and he nodded and "Ah'd." Joe caught his habit and rubbed hands at his prospects. Maggie checked an incipient dance and rubbed her elbow instead.

"Well, yew make enquiries, and then come an' talk t'me. I'll see ya settled in something. It's the sort o' thing I've alwis wantedt'do. I don't know a better use fer money than settin' up the young fellers. I bin young meself, wanting to do things, an' not able t'start fer want of a bit o' capital. So I know what it means. I alwis said if ever I made money I'd look after the beginners."

"Ey, Reuben, if ther were more like yew . . . Dom sight better than subscribin' to charities."

"Ey, it is, an' all. If all the money given to missionaries was given to start the youngsters, it'd be a better country. I bin through it, y'know."

"Well, I'm sure we must think ourselves very lucky. I dunno 'ow we shall thank ya."

"Uncle don't want no thanks. It's a pleasure t'be able to do it. It's a treat t'see your 'appy faces, that it is . . . Well, well. I'll be gettin' along to the hotel. I've 'ad a tirin' day. But I'll be round sharp an' early t'morrer. Air 'appen me an' Dad'll take a walk to the Fox & Goose, 'fore dinner, if it's still there."

They cluttered round him in ministration as he put on his coat and buttoned up. It took five foaming minutes to see him off; then they came back to the kitchen and looked at each other, and grinned in amazement, and looked at the money on the table, and said "Well. ."

"'Nother knock," said Maggie. "P'raps 'e's sent somethin' reound fer us."

This time she beat Joe to the door. It was Uncle Reuben back again, but he was followed by another man, who pushed his way in. He looked keenly at the family and the kitchen. He looked at the money on the table, and turned to Uncle Reuben.

" Is that some of it? "

Uncle Reuben nodded. The other man took the notes, folded them, and put them in his pocket. Mother and Father started forward. "Ey . . . 'ere . . . Ey . . ."

THE other man spoke. "I am a policeofficer. I hold a warrant for the arrest of this man for a burglary in Tottenham Court Road and the theft of a complete outfit of clothes, and the sum of six pounds. In what way is he known to you?"

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(Continued from page 40)

"Known to me? 'E's ma brother. Yew made a mistake. Yew can't tek 'im That's my brother, Reuben Housego. From Canada. What's arl this?"

The officer was formal and precise. He did not smile or express concern at Father's charge. He said: "No mistake. I know this man well. We—"

"But Reuben's a rich man. He wouldn't wanta do a thing like that. Ya makin' a silly mistake."

"Look at him," said the officer. "Ask him."

They looked at him, then. He was suddenly limp and abject. He had the appearance of one who has slept all night in his clothes in the open. They were two sizes too big for him. He stood bowed, dumb, and ludicrous, dividing his attitude between respect for the officer and dismay at his present situation. He quavered and cringed. He was very old.

"Mean t'say Reuben's a burglar, then? That's 'ow 'e got rich? "

"Reuben Housego never was rich, and never was a burglar—till last night. Reuben Housego has been known to the police of Covent Garden for ten years as a licensed street-hawker."

There was a blot of silence. They stood in a foolish staring group. Crash went the Christmas dinner. Away flew the motor garage. Down the wind went the Business Training. Out of sight went the new frock, the new suit, the new costume, and the coals. Mother fell into a chair and sobbed into her apron. Father's face was thick with rage. Joe was truculent with mortification. Maggie's eyes went tearful, and she bent over the table, weeping and staring at the beastly old hoaxer. Then they went for him.

"Urr—ya wicked old blaggard!"

"Urr—ya dirty ole ippacrit, yew!"

"Urr—ya sneakin' 'umbug. Ya liar!"

"Come 'ere stuffin' us up wi' yer lies— laughin' up yer sleeve at us—stuffin' us wi' yer fine promises—makin' fools of us all. Wod ya du it for, y'ole liar, yew? Eh? Wot devil put y'up to it—spoilin' our Chris'mas—eatin' our dinner—leadin' us on-an'—an'—an'—raisin' our 'opes —an' all lies. Wodya du it fer?"

He waved a limp hand in protest. "I'm sorry, lad. I'm sorry. I dunno what come over me. I d'n mean t'go as far as promisin' all them things. I dunno what come over me. But—"

"But wodya du it fer?"

He looked round beseechingly. "Why, ya see, I'm an ole man. A silly ole man. All me life I bin poor and no good to nobody. An' somethin' come over me last night— I wonnid t'see—just fer once— what it felt like t'be rich an' able to make people 'appy. ..."