well have been a fatal accident.
Once or twice, as the minutes ticked by, Dot fell into a light slumber, but she was awoken, fully, by The noise of the front door crashing open. Heartbeat quickening, she pulled her blanket up as far as she could. The fact that her uncle was so late must mean he was even more drunk than usual and, though he always ignored her, you could never tell for certain what would happen. It was best to play safe and keep as out of sight as possible. Dot heard stumbling footsteps approaching and heard, also, the mumble of voices. Uncle Rupert must be drunk indeed if his friends were having to bring him home; she just hoped they would not accompany him right into the kitchen, though she realised this was a strong possibility. After all, they could scarcely abandon him and would assume his wife would be in the kitchen, waiting for him.
The door opened; it would not have been fair to say it crashed open, but it certainly swung pretty wide, knocking into the bottom of the sofa upon which Dot lay. Uncle Rupert’s voice, thick with drink, muttered: ‘You’re welcome as the flowers in May, so you are, and why don’t one of you pour us all a li’l d-d-drink, ’cos it’s a well know fac’ . . . fac’ . . . fac’ that a hair of a dog is the best cure for . . . aaargh! Aargh!’
Dot’s nose wrinkled with distaste; Uncle Rupert was clearly vomiting. She just hoped to God he’d managed to reach the sink because it would be a lot easier to swill it away once he had staggered off if he had done so. If he had been sick on the floor, it would be a mop and bucket job, and even the thought of getting out of her bed to do the work made her tired bones ache.
‘You dirty old . . . Look, Rupe, if you’re goin’ to be sick again . . .’
There were some more ghastly, gurgling noises and Dot heard the scrape of a tin mug as it was lifted off the table. ‘Clean out your gob with this,’ a man’s voice said commandingly. ‘My God, what a couple of glasses of gin can do on top of a bellyful of porter! Look out, Archie – he’s going to keel over an’ we can’t leave ‘im face down in that.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ the other man’s voice grumbled. ‘We didn’t ask him to get drunk as a bleedin’ pig. Still, we’ll dump him on the sofa, purrout the lamp an’ leave ’im to it. I wonder why his missus ain’t up, waitin’ for ’im?’
The reply was brief and coarse but Dot scarcely heard it. When the man had mentioned the sofa, she had taken a squint at them and was now frozen with horror, unable to move a muscle. Even in her wildest nightmares, she had never dreamed that Butcher Rathbone would visit No. 6, Lavender Court, but here he was, actually suggesting that they should dump Uncle Rupert upon the sofa on which she lay. And the other man . . . ? Desperate though her fear was, she still tried to get a look at him, but he was between her and the lamp, simply a dark shadow bending over her uncle.
‘C’mon, get your hands under his armpits, and we’ll heave him to his feet,’ Archie Rathbone said authoritatively.
But whilst Dot was still wondering whether they would notice her and move away, or simply sling the drunken man on top of her, she heard another voice. ‘What the devil’s goin’ on here? Oh my Gawd, don’t say the silly old bugger’s been and gone and fallen under a tram. Or is it just the drink, as usual?’ It was Aunt Myrtle, who must have heard the racket the men were making and, realising that there were strangers in her home, had come down to sort things out.
Dot burrowed under her covers once more, but listened, with a wild and bumping heart, to Mr Rathbone’s explanation. ‘It were just the drink,’ Mr Rathbone said. ‘The fact is, me and a couple of me pals were celebrating a – a – birthday and old Rupert here joined us and took one over the eight, as they say. Being pals, we brought him home, but we expected his good lady to see to him. So since
Once or twice, as the minutes ticked by, Dot fell into a light slumber, but she was awoken, fully, by The noise of the front door crashing open. Heartbeat quickening, she pulled her blanket up as far as she could. The fact that her uncle was so late must mean he was even more drunk than usual and, though he always ignored her, you could never tell for certain what would happen. It was best to play safe and keep as out of sight as possible. Dot heard stumbling footsteps approaching and heard, also, the mumble of voices. Uncle Rupert must be drunk indeed if his friends were having to bring him home; she just hoped they would not accompany him right into the kitchen, though she realised this was a strong possibility. After all, they could scarcely abandon him and would assume his wife would be in the kitchen, waiting for him.
The door opened; it would not have been fair to say it crashed open, but it certainly swung pretty wide, knocking into the bottom of the sofa upon which Dot lay. Uncle Rupert’s voice, thick with drink, muttered: ‘You’re welcome as the flowers in May, so you are, and why don’t one of you pour us all a li’l d-d-drink, ’cos it’s a well know fac’ . . . fac’ . . . fac’ that a hair of a dog is the best cure for . . . aaargh! Aargh!’
Dot’s nose wrinkled with distaste; Uncle Rupert was clearly vomiting. She just hoped to God he’d managed to reach the sink because it would be a lot easier to swill it away once he had staggered off if he had done so. If he had been sick on the floor, it would be a mop and bucket job, and even the thought of getting out of her bed to do the work made her tired bones ache.
‘You dirty old . . . Look, Rupe, if you’re goin’ to be sick again . . .’
There were some more ghastly, gurgling noises and Dot heard the scrape of a tin mug as it was lifted off the table. ‘Clean out your gob with this,’ a man’s voice said commandingly. ‘My God, what a couple of glasses of gin can do on top of a bellyful of porter! Look out, Archie – he’s going to keel over an’ we can’t leave ‘im face down in that.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ the other man’s voice grumbled. ‘We didn’t ask him to get drunk as a bleedin’ pig. Still, we’ll dump him on the sofa, purrout the lamp an’ leave ’im to it. I wonder why his missus ain’t up, waitin’ for ’im?’
The reply was brief and coarse but Dot scarcely heard it. When the man had mentioned the sofa, she had taken a squint at them and was now frozen with horror, unable to move a muscle. Even in her wildest nightmares, she had never dreamed that Butcher Rathbone would visit No. 6, Lavender Court, but here he was, actually suggesting that they should dump Uncle Rupert upon the sofa on which she lay. And the other man . . . ? Desperate though her fear was, she still tried to get a look at him, but he was between her and the lamp, simply a dark shadow bending over her uncle.
‘C’mon, get your hands under his armpits, and we’ll heave him to his feet,’ Archie Rathbone said authoritatively.
But whilst Dot was still wondering whether they would notice her and move away, or simply sling the drunken man on top of her, she heard another voice. ‘What the devil’s goin’ on here? Oh my Gawd, don’t say the silly old bugger’s been and gone and fallen under a tram. Or is it just the drink, as usual?’ It was Aunt Myrtle, who must have heard the racket the men were making and, realising that there were strangers in her home, had come down to sort things out.
Dot burrowed under her covers once more, but listened, with a wild and bumping heart, to Mr Rathbone’s explanation. ‘It were just the drink,’ Mr Rathbone said. ‘The fact is, me and a couple of me pals were celebrating a – a – birthday and old Rupert here joined us and took one over the eight, as they say. Being pals, we brought him home, but we expected his good lady to see to him. So since
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