Uncle Gabor

“Come in.” Minty Symes stubbed out her Balkan Sobranie in a cut glass ashtray large enough for a family trifle. She tutted irritably. Not even in the Suite Française of the George V in Paris could a girl be left in peace.

As no one entered, Minty walked over to the door and opened it herself. She was half-expecting Dougie Barraclough, who said he’d call for her this afternoon. She opened the door to see a little man with a bushy moustache clutching a large ornate clock.

“The Honourable Miss Araminta Symes?” His accent wasn’t French but more guttural.

Minty nodded.

“Please may I deliver you this clock?”

Minty stepped back into the room to allow him through the door. “Are you from the hotel staff?” she asked.

He shook his head. “When I have placed this clock I shall introduce myself. Please allow me…” He carried the clock over to the largest flat surface in the room, a glass-topped table behind the bulbous curves of the settee.

He put the clock on the table then turned to Minty and removed his hat with a flourish. “Gabor Soma,” he said with a slight bow. “I am your uncle, being married to your late aunt.”

“Really? So you’re my uncle. How exciting!”

 The man coughed politely. “The clock was your aunt’s, you know. She wanted you to have it and who was there to deliver it but I myself? I have brought it for you from Budapest.”

Minty looked horrified. “Budapest? But that’s miles and miles away!” She leaned over to the ashtray to tap the ash off her cigarette. “Yes, I do remember Aunt Mabel. I must have been about ten when I last saw her. Before the war, of course. She came to stay with Mummy and Daddy for Ascot and she and I got on frightfully well. She said I was just like her when she was a girl.”

The man nodded.

“I’m afraid I know nothing about clocks. Mummy had a large collection of French ones, but they got put away when the war started and no one’s bothered to get them out since. I remember as a little girl all that striking and noises like little bells ringing.”

The man smiled. “Yes, your mother was a great collector, I’ve heard. But your aunt had the piece de la resistance, and that,” he motioned towards the clock with a wave of his hand, “is him. This is a gilded bronze mantel clock designed in 1780 by Robert Osmund, the master bronze caster and chaser.” He paused. “It was the child your aunt never had.”

Minty felt obliged to show some interest in the child her aunt never had and walked over to the clock and ran her finger over the top of it and down to the leafy scrolls.

She discretely glanced at her Longines watch. God! Dougie might be here at any moment and she hadn’t made even the slightest move towards getting dressed for dinner. She just hoped Uncle Gabor What’s-his-name wasn’t going to stay too long.

The man saw her looking at her watch and Minty felt guilty, but Gosh, you couldn’t spend all day looking at dreadful old antiques, could you?

“I must return now,” he said, standing up and putting on his hat. “I have delivered the clock as your aunt wished, and no more can I do.” After bowing slightly in Minty’s direction he walked to the door, opened it, and was gone.

At that very moment the clock began to strike five o’clock in a very tinny and extremely irritating way. Minty looked at it nervously. What on earth was she going to do with it?

As the last chime sounded the door opened and there stood Dougie Barraclough in a pale cream linen suit and white open-neck shirt. His hair looked delightfully ruffled as he took off his Panama and threw it on the table.

“Hello, old bean!” He kissed Minty’s cheek, took a Sobranie from her box and lit it with his gold Zippo lighter. Then he saw the clock. “Gosh, Minty. The jolly old George V really has gone overboard with their furnishings!”

Minty pouted. “Oh, Dougie, you’ll never believe it. A funny little man from Budapest just gave this to me. It’s the child my aunt never had.”

“Good Lord!” Dougie Barraclough rubbed his chin as he regarded the clock from all angles. “Looks expensive though. But just not quite one’s taste, is it?”

“No, it jolly well isn’t.”

“The man who brought it, do you know him?” Dougie suddenly looked concerned. “I mean, all sorts of rum things are going on now the war’s over. People are smuggling…”

“Smuggling?” Minty looked aghast. “Do you thing it’s some sort of contraband?”

Dougie shook his head. “Might be spoils of war or something like that though.”

Minty felt her throat go dry. “You know, Dougie, no one ever mentioned my aunt had married a…a…”

“Foreigner?”

“Yes. I mean, no. We knew she was involved with refugees and that sort of thing. Helping them not to be stateless or something. But I had no idea she – er - married one.”

“Could have been the only way to save him. How did your aunt die, incidentally?”

“The door of the cable car on the Piz Gloria somehow got loose and poor old Aunt Mabel was bucketed down the side of the Schilthorn at about a hundred miles an hour. They never found her, you know. Terribly sad.”

Dougie nodded his sympathy as he bounced round the room examining the accoutrements. “Gosh, it’s donkey’s years since I stayed here. I used to stay in the English Suite. Don’t know this one at all.”

“Well, there’s a nice view,” said Minty, cheering up a bit. “But Mummy said everywhere’s crummy now, what with it being post-war and not being able to get decent staff.”

Dougie took another of her Sobranies. “Look, about this clock. I can see you’re not exactly enamoured of it, Minty. What about if I take it and get it valued? Might be worth something and you don’t want to cart it all the way back to Sloane Square, do you?”

Minty felt suddenly relieved. “Gosh, Dougie, that’s a super idea! I can sell it and buy a motor! Did I tell you I got my driving licence last month?”

“Congrats old bean! Well done. Yes, a motor would be terrific. We can all go down to Juan les Pins. Did I tell you Nigel Parmentier’s got a house in Juan? Terrific fun! Nothing like Antibes, I say!”  He was already grasping the clock and lifting it from the table. “Open the door for me, would you, old thing? Oh, yes, and my hat. Look, stuff it in my pocket, will you?”

“But what about dinner?” Minty stood forlornly holding the door open. “We were going to the Boul’ Mich’.”

“Still time, old girl.” Dougie was panting a bit as the clock was heavier than he thought. “I’ll give you a buzz in a bit. Got to get rid of this terrible timepiece first.”

Minty watched as Dougie lugged the clock to the doors of the lift. Just then the chambermaid came along to deliver a belated copy of The Times.

Minty went back in her suite and suddenly felt her blood run cold. There on the front page was a headline: Spate of Bombs in Paris Concealed in Antique Clocks.

She threw the paper onto the settee. People were always scaremongering. After all, this clock had been given to her by her uncle.

Just then she heard an enormous explosion outside. She rushed to the window and peered down just in time to see Dougie being blown to smithereens as he left the hotel lobby. Minty lurched across the room to the table and quickly lit a cigarette with Dougie’s Zippo that he’d left behind, before rushing out of the room and dashing down the stairs two at a time.