Bigot Hall

SKELETON CREW

Uncle Burst was no uncle but a tin-eared buffoon who quietly considered our table and food a sacrament to his grandeur. His presence was permanent and no one recalled how it had begun.

God alone knows what slobbering fiends inhabited the unexplored planet of his head — long silences obscured this aspect of his personality. But on occasion he would look up, his face displaying a wily and distorted power. With the best will in the world we could not ignore Burst’s remarks at these times. His notions were as inconspicuous as underpants on a bayonet.

‘This chops of mine,’ he said one day as we were sat in the garden. He rubbed his chin as though considering a shave. ‘Jowls, forehead, eyes — the whole dismal jamboree. Made of pasta, all of it.’

We sat absolutely still. Even Snapper, who was wont to go bonkers at the sigh of an ant, froze in the act of polishing his gun. There was a pause during which the summer hum approached a deafening pitch.

‘Isn’t it a free world?’ Burst shouted suddenly, as if we had spoken. ‘Aren’t I entitled like everyone else?’

‘It’s not quite a matter of entitlement,’ said Father carefully. ‘Pasta, you say?’

‘Flour and water, yes,’ said Burst curtly.

Struggling, Father attempted a judicial expression. ‘I’m sure there must be a precedent for this business, Burst,’ he said. ‘What does history teach us —’

‘That I’m the cat’s pyjamas,’ stated Burst, and stared at him with a wall-eyed, brutal face.

‘He’s due for the laughing academy, that’s what we all know!’ yelled Uncle Snapper, and ran as Burst stood.

Burst tackled him by the legs, spilling him onto the lawn and yapping like a dog in a cyclone cellar. ‘Shoot him,’ Snapper shrieked, pointing at the rifle.

‘No good, Snapper,’ said Father mildly, pouring another scotch. ‘Can’t kill a man who isn’t flesh and blood.’

That evening Snapper sneaked into Burst’s bedroom with a fork. ‘We’ll soon see who’s made of pasta and who isn’t,’ he said, and woke Burst with his laughter.

The next morning Snapper was lying tense and motionless in a hammock which I now know to have been an enormous sling, and passing the study I heard Father’s wise voice through the thick oak door. ‘There are certain places, Burst, where pasta is neither needed nor desired, such as in an otherwise authentic salad. Take my good advice sir, and put aside this facial obsession — you are scaring my son and daughter.’

I did not linger to hear Burst’s response, but he remained bashful and withdrawn for several weeks.

It was my misfortune to be alone with Burst when he perked up at the dinner table and announced he was beyond analysis. The others were in the hills trying to bury Nan and, seeming to have no choice in the matter, I listened in silence. He stated the opinion that there was a front part of him and a back part, and that this rendered him intangible to the common man. ‘No observation of me from any one angle,’ he muttered gruffly, spooning gravy into his gob, ‘can provide a complete picture. Only over time, after viewing me from many bearings, can a full mental image be generated.’

He sopped the gravy dregs with a crust.

‘And even that idea of my appearance,’ he continued, ‘leaves so much to be desired.’

To illustrate the point he instructed me to make four sketches of him standing by the lake. On rifling through the results and finding that front, back, left and right were correct in every detail, he bellowed with annoyance and tore them to pieces.

‘Boy,’ he said later, still flustered, ‘do not tell your father or anyone about that experiment. Nobody would care or understand.’

Weeks after the household’s despondent return from the hills with Nan, we were striving to eat the evening meal. All was silent save for the clink of cutlery and an occasional, frantic prayer — until Burst nailed his colours to the mast.

‘My skeleton,’ he announced, with meaning, ‘is all it should be.’ Then he looked sharply at all present as though daring us to challenge him.

It became clear that Burst considered his skeleton the eighth wonder. He spoke of it until we could barely see, boasting that it was fantastic. With the arrogance of a monarch he claimed that it formed the Japanese pictogram for ‘public telephone’ when exposed to X-ray.

This cavalier attitude to endostructure was the last straw as far as Father was concerned and he hissed chapter and verse to Burst as we crept into the hospital. It has occurred to me since that the X-ray machine in the storeroom may not have been in working order but at the time we were bewildered to find that Burst’s chest contained nothing in the way of dense tissue or anything else — the image was as blank as a winter sky.

‘Stand aside,’ shouted Father, shoving Burst away and standing at the exposure plate. To his complete dismay the result showed a priceless Penny Black at the juncture of his sternum. Startled, the Verger punched him aside. His own chest seemed to bear the landplan of a flyover which would obliterate the natural and historic beauty of the local area. Professor Leap could detect an ongoing Napoleonic sea confrontation in his image, and disturbingly visible in Nanny Jack’s was the shadow of a giant praying mantis. Adrienne’s entire torso housed a daguerreotype of Ezra Pound being forcibly restrained by psychiatric nurses. Examining my own X-ray I could discern only a church steeple, a Hinton hypercube and a convulsing apache. We had to wrestle Uncle Snapper against the plate and the combined effect of the entire group struggling within the frame produced a kaleidoscopic montage of the 50,000 American GIs who went AWOL in Second World War Europe.

Leaning in a corner with smugly folded arms, Burst asked us rhetorically whether these were the musculoskeletal systems appropriate to civilized men.

Gathering our wits with litter-spikes, we went home and resolved never to think about our skeletons again — naively forgetting that our skeletons would make their presence felt whether we liked it or not.