My Uncle Oswald(31)

“--and all of its eight beastly long tentacles were twined inextricably around her guts. They couldn’t untangle them. She died on the table.”

A. R. Woresley had stopped chewing his salmon.

“Now what’s so interesting about all this is how the octopus got there in the first place. I mean after all, how does an old lady come to find herself with a fully grown octopus in her stomach? It was far too big to have gone down her throat. It was like the problem of the ship in the bottle. How on earth did it get in?”

“I prefer not to know,” A. R. Woresley said.

“I’ll tell you how,” I said. “Every summer, my parents used to take Nanny and me to Beaulieu, in the south of France. And twice a day we used to go swimming in the sea. So obviously what happened was that Nanny, many years before, must have swallowed a tiny new-born baby octopus, and this little creature had somehow managed to fasten itself onto the wall of her stomach with its suckers. Nanny ate well, so the little octopus ate well. Nanny always ate with the family. Sometimes it would be liver and bacon for dinner, sometimes roast lamb or pork. And believe it or not, she was particularly fond of smoked salmon.”

A. R. Woresley put down his fork. There was one thin slice of salmon left on his plate. He let it stay there.

“So the little octopus grew and grew. It became a gourmet octopus. I can just see it, can’t you, down there in the dark caverns of the tummy, saying to itself, ‘Now I wonder what we’re going to have for supper tonight. I do hope it’s coq au yin. I feel like a bit of coq au vin tonight. And some crusty bread to go with it.’”

“You have an unsavoury predilection for the obscene, Cornelius.”

“That case made medical history,” I said.

“I find it repugnant,” A. R. Woresley said.

“I’m sorry about that. I’m only trying to make conversation.”

“I didn’t come here just to make conversation.”

“I’m going to turn you into a rich man,” I said.

“Then get on with it and tell me how.”

“I thought I’d leave that until the port is on the table. No good plans are ever made without a bottle of port.”

“Have you had enough, sir?” the waiter asked him, eyeing the rest of the smoked salmon.

“Take it away,” A. R. Woresley said.

We sat in silence for a while. The waiter brought the roast beef. The Volnay was opened. This was the month of March, so we had roast parsnips with our beef as well as roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. A. R. Woresley perked up a bit when he saw the beef. He drew his chair closer to the table and began to tuck in.

“Did you know my father was a keen student of naval history?” I asked.

“No, I didn’t.”

“He told me a stirring story once,” I said, “about the English captain who was mortally wounded on the deck of his ship in the American War of Independence. Would you like some horseradish with your beef?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Waiter,” I called. “Bring us a little fresh shredded horseradish. Now, as he lay dying, the captain--”

“Cornelius,” A. R. Woresley said, “I have had enough of your stories.”

“This isn’t my story. It’s my father’s. It’s not like the others. You’ll love it.”

He was attacking his roast beef and didn’t answer.

“So as he lay dying,” I said, “the captain extracted from his second-in-command a promise that his body would be taken home and buried in English soil. This created a bit of a problem because the ship was somewhere off the coast of Virginia at the time. It would take at least five weeks to sail back to Britain. So it was decided that the only way to get the body home in fair condition was to pickle it in a barrel of rum, and this was done. The barrel was lashed to the foremast and the ship set sail for England. Five weeks later, she dropped anchor in Plymouth Hoe, and the entire ship’s company was lined up to pay a last tribute to their captain as his body was lifted from the barrel into the coffin. But when the lid of the barrel was prized off, there came out a stench so appalling that strong men were seen rushing to the ship’s rail. Others fainted.

“Now this was a puzzler, for one can normally pickle anything in navy rum. So why, oh, why the appalling stench? You may well ask that question.”

“I don’t ask it,” A. R. Woresley snapped. His moustache was jumping about more than ever now.

“Let me tell you what had happened.”

“Don’t.”

“I must,” I said. “During the long voyage, some of the sailors had surreptitiously drilled a hole in the bottom of the barrel and had put a bung in it. Then over the weeks, they had drunk up all the rum.”