Days with Uncle Bob
written by: Michael Graeme
I didn’t know Uncle Bob, until the day I was ill. At family gatherings, he rarely spoke and always had this vacant look about him, like he wasn’t all there. He was pleasant when spoken to, but never seemed to join in the fun, and seemed a bit, well,… embarrassed. Dad said he was odd, but Mum, Uncle Bob’s sister, said he was just a bit quiet, and always had been. Dad, being more of an outgoing sort, said that being quiet amounted to the same thing: odd. He seemed to forget I was a bit on the quiet side, too.
I can’t tell you what was wrong with me that day. Some mornings I couldn’t face things, so I’d invent tummy aches. I had a lot of problems when I went up to big school. I’d been to a rubbish primary, one where they taught more Bible than Maths and English. But at big school I discovered Maths and English were the things they wanted, while the Bible didn’t feature at all. I’d a feeling Maths and English were what I needed to get myself off the ground, but it was a bit late to be starting from scratch, so I was feeling like I would never be any good at anything that was really wanted in the world. All I know is I hated school, and couldn’t work out how best to fit in, given the backward place I’d come from.
But anyway, this particular morning I’m quivering like a jelly outside the school office, and some poor teacher is told to drive me home. Dad’s at work, which is just as well, because he’d’ve hit the roof, but Mum’s on the way out to work as well, and with a look of disbelief on her face as we draw up. And I’m guessing there was no one else who could look after me except, maybe,… Uncle Bob.
I’d never been in Uncle Bob’s house before. Dad would never go round. It wasn’t like our place. We lived in a newish semi on the edge of town – all mod cons. We’d even got some of that plastic grass for the garden, so Dad didn’t have to mow it. Meanwhile, Uncle Bob lived in this old place up by the moors. Dad said it hadn’t been touched in a hundred years, that it looked neglected, and creepy.
There was no TV, not even a black and white one, and no telephone. You might wonder how anyone could manage like that, but in those days you could do everything you needed to do by letter. They were slower times, and no one expected an answer straight away. It had electricity and water, but Dad joked that Uncle Bob used very little, and either lit candles or went to bed when it was dark. I don’t know if this was true.
So anyway, Mum can’t ring Uncle Bob to ask if he can look after me. She has to drive round on the off chance he’s in. She’s getting agitated because it’s so far out of her way, and she’s already running late. I’m feeling like a burden, and dreading the thought of a day with my odd uncle Bob.
He looks surprised when he opens the door, me and Mum on the doorstep, and me unable to meet his eyes.
“Hello, Sandra,” he says.
I’d never heard him say mum’s name before. He spoke it warmly, like there was a person inside of him, a warm person, with feelings. But I could sense Mum was uncomfortable. I suppose it was living with Dad. Bob was her brother, but Dad was her husband, and though he never said anything rude to Bob’s face, he said plenty that was rude behind his back, and I guess some of that had rubbed off on Mum.
Bob was only a little older than Mum, but already retired by then, or at least he wasn’t working. When I asked Mum about it, she said it was complicated, while Dad said that Bob was just a layabout. I learned later on Mum and Bob had inherited quite a bit of money, when Granddad died. Mum and Dad had used their share moving to a bigger house, changing their cars for newer ones, and going to Spain a couple of times. Bob had banked the money and given up his job instead. He’d calculated that, if he lived frugally, he could make it to pension age without having to do another shift down the pit.
Anyway, from what Mum and Dad said, I expected Uncle Bob’s house to be falling apart, even a bit dirty, but it was all right. It was just a bit different, that’s all. He had a lot of books, walls and walls of them. There were story books and books that told you about stuff, and then lots of notebooks that he wrote in. Most surprising of all to me, he had a table set up in the back lean-to, where the light was good, and in there he used to paint little post-card sized pictures of trees and flowers, and chestnuts and leaves,… but not to sell or anything. When he’d done, he just kept them all in a shoe-box.
We made a bit of a prickly start, that day, both of us being of a reticent sort of nature, and then me with my head full of the things Dad had said about him. I wondered if I was being punished, actually. I’d caused such a fuss, coming home from school like that, I imagined the grown-ups had decided to make sure I wouldn’t be doing it again, and how better to do that than have me spend the day with Uncle Bob. I heard Mum’s car disappearing down the road, and my heart sank. He stood there for a bit, staring at me, like he’d not a clue what to do, and then he says:
“Well,…. do you like drawing?”
And I say: “I’m no good at drawing.” Because, like I told you, I felt I wasn’t good at anything, and it was too late to be starting.
And Uncle Bob says: “That’s not what I asked.”
No. It wasn’t. And I did like it, actually. Drawing I mean. But it seemed the world needed you to be a genius at everything right away, or it wasn’t interested. And it didn’t want you being quiet, either. It just thought you were odd and turned its back on you. “Well,… I like it, but,…”
Uncle Bob cracks a grin. “Liking it’s a start,” he says. “Liking it’s a good start. The best start. As for being good at it,” He shrugs. “Who cares? But that’s something we can sort out, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
He nods. “Follow me.”
He leads me to that old table in the lean-to, where the light’s pouring in, and the moors beautiful all around in the sunshine. Then he sets a piece of paper in front of me, hands me a pencil, freshly sharpened and sweetly wood scented. Then, he pulls up a chair and begins sketching something on a pad himself, with quick and easy strokes.
“Go on then,” he says.
I hesitate, my hand feeling suddenly so big and clumsy I can barely grip the pencil. Meanwhile my head’s full of everything I’m thinking I can never be, and how I’m only going to spoil that blank sheet of paper with my useless scribble, and then Uncle Bob’s going to be cross with me. I glance at his pad. He’s sketching a bunch of wildflowers in a jar, simple really but every petal soft and precise, like it might tumble out of the paper and onto the table. It’s beautiful.
“Well they’re not perfect,” he says, noticing me looking. “Doesn’t matter. It’s about having a go. Not like we’re aiming at an exhibition is it? Go on. Just have a go, lad.”
I stare down at my own blank page, force myself to press the pencil to it, and make a start – a line here, a curve there, a leaf, a stem, not quite right but not completely wrong either.
Uncle Bob doesn’t say any more, but through his occasional nods and winks, I can feel a quiet encouragement. When I’ve finished he holds up my drawing, studies it for a moment, during which I hold my breath. Then he nods.
“That’s a keeper, that one,” he says.
I smile at that, a small thing, but it’s the first time in ages I’ve felt a little rush of satisfaction. And as we tuck our sketches into that shoebox with all the others, I realise Uncle Bob’s right, that liking something really is the best way to start at thing. And it’s never too late to be starting.
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