Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror - Chris Priestley [27]
Robert was momentarily aware that he should have been upset to see his mother lying on the ground at his feet, her dying breath leaving her pale lips, her eyes still wide open, but he was not.
He looked up at his friend sitting on the wall and his friend's mouth broke into one of those remarkable, warm, generous smiles. And Robert, once more, smiled back.
A heavy silence followed the end of Uncle Montague's story, interrupted only by the ticking of the clock. I pulled my clammy hands apart and wiped them on my trouser legs as my uncle leaned forward out of the shadows, the rosy firelight warming his face.
'I trust I am still not frightening you, Edgar,.' he said, raising one eyebrow.
'No, Uncle,.' I said, my voice sounding surprisingly small. 'Of course not.'
Uncle Montague walked slowly to the window and pulled aside the curtain, the milky winter light throwing him into silhouette. I wandered over to the painting and peered into the murky depths behind the house. Was there something there? A boy? There did seem to be something, but what it was I could not have said for sure.
'It looks as though a fog is closing in, Edgar,.' he said.
'Really?' I said, going to join him by the window.
Sure enough, the wood and paddock had disappeared altogether and the garden was likewise being erased by lace-like swirls of fog, curling among the topiary and statues. It was strange to see the suddenness of its arrival, for there was not the least hint of such weather when I arrived. Then something seemed to move between the topiary bushes.
'What was that?' I said, pointing to the place I had seen it.
'What do you think it was?' said Uncle Montague.
'I could not say,.' I replied. 'It moved so quickly.'
'The fog is full of such phantasms,.' said my uncle as if that were an end to the matter. It was unclear whether he meant fog in general, or this fog in particular. Either way, I was not keen to venture out into it.
'I hope it clears before I go home,.' I said.
'Yes,.' said Uncle Montague. 'We would not want you getting lost.'
'That would never happen, Uncle,.' I said. I was sure I knew the journey blindfolded.
'Really?' he said, sounding surprised. 'There are many ways of getting lost, Edgar.' His face seemed suddenly touched with sadness and he patted me on the shoulder. 'Let us return to the fire. This damp air gets into my bones.'
I realised that I too felt a sudden chill gripping my body and I leaned forward and warmed my hands against the fire's welcome heat.
'Are you feeling cold, Edgar?' asked my uncle.
'Yes,.' I answered. 'A little.'
'The fog has crept in, I think,.' said Uncle Montague. 'And there is nothing like fog to chill the soul. I'll ring for Franz and he can bring us a fresh pot of tea. A hot drink should revive you.'
Franz was duly called and a new pot of tea was brought together with another plate of biscuits and a refilled sugar bowl. Uncle Montague put the tray on the table between us once more and poured us both a cup.
'This is no entertainment for a lively young fellow like yourself, Edgar. I'd warrant you would rather be climbing trees or playing rugby.'
'Not at all,.' I said. After Uncle Montague's story about the elm tree I rather thought I might never climb a tree again. As for rugby, it was a game I had always detested.
'Do you have no friends then among the local boys?' he asked. 'Would you not rather be getting up to mischief somewhere?'
'Mischief, Uncle?' I said. 'I am not very good at mischief, and besides, the local boys are rather childish. I would rather be here, sir.'
Uncle Montague smiled.
'Very well, then,.' he said.
'Were you mischievous, Uncle?' I asked, seeing a chance to glean some information about my enigmatic relative. 'When you were a boy?'
Uncle Montague raised an eyebrow. 'When I was a boy?' he asked. 'I should hope that I am not