There Was an Uncle of Incredible Antiquity

Personally, I’ve never managed to make it past the six month mark. Once, I was only able to hold out for a fortnight. That, I can assure you, was a dreadful mistake. I’d had high hopes for Madeleine and I. We were over two days after that ill-fated weekend on her father’s estate. I could have kicked myself. With a bit of effort and some stubbornness, the two of us might have lasted for another month. The truth is, it’s utterly inevitable. At some point in every relationship, the girl will look at you demurely -doe eyed, half smiling, you know the look I’m speaking of- and insist it’s time to meet her folks. “Come down for the weekend, Darling,” she’ll say. Or, “Mother’s throwing a dinner party.” Or, “Cousin Mildred’s getting married.” And unless you’ve got a very good excuse up your sleeve, shortly thereafter you’ll find yourself stuffed into your most decent suit, being introduced to a stern-looking woman of a certain age and a man who clearly hates you on sight.

Alice’s parents were no different from Clemmy’s or Helen’s or even Anne-Marie’s. Alice’s mother was tightly permed and poured into an A-line shift. Her father, ex-army with a brutal handshake. They had an estate on the edge of Berkshire and a villa in the South of Spain. It was the Berkshire estate she dragged me down to, pointing out the stables and tennis courts as the taxi drove us through the grounds. I got on decently with the father. I had a Silver Duke of Ed award and, though this hardly counted as military service, used the experience as common ground. Her mother was one of those women who enjoys the attention of younger men. I offered her a barrage of compliments and, by the time we were sitting down to dinner, had her eating out of my hands. When the butler was pouring the wine, I took the opportunity to lean over and whisper in Alice’s ear, “I think your family quite likes me.” She smiled and patted me gently on the knee. “You haven’t met Uncle Roger yet,” she said.

Uncle Roger was one hundred and thirteen years old. Her mother told me this over pudding. He was, she hastened to point out, actually Alice’s Great, Great, Great Uncle and, as of last November, the third oldest person in the UK. I could tell she was rather proud of this. “We have to be careful with Uncle Roger,” she continued. “We don’t want anything to happen to him. If he can make it to the end of the year, there’s every chance he might get the top slot for a while.” Alice’s father nodded gravely. “Oldest person in the UK,” he clarified. “We’ve heard the Queen would come and visit herself.” All three of them looked at me expectantly. It was not clear how they wanted me to react. “That’s great,” I said. “I hope the old boy makes it.” Obviously, this wasn’t the response her father was looking for. “Don’t you want to meet Uncle Roger yourself?” Alice prompted and, taking my lead from her, I said, with forced enthusiasm, that nothing would thrill me more.

Uncle Roger lived in a kind of greenhouse down in the basement. I suppose it functioned as an oxygen tent. He was laid out behind the glass on one of those beds you find in intensive care units, the sort which raise and dip at the touch of a button. Various liquids were being pumped into him. Other substances were being drained off. If anything, he looked older than his age. Wizened and hammy in colour, he’d already begun to transition into a corpse. “Go on,” said Alice, pushing me gently towards Uncle Roger, “introduce yourself.” I tapped the glass and waved at the old boy, stated my name and my reason for visiting, added with a touch of humour, that my intentions with Alice were honourable. Uncle Roger neither smiled nor laughed. Perhaps he did not find this funny. More likely he was too old to find anything funny. He did not make any movement or attempt to respond. I wondered if, whilst we were eating dinner, he might have passed away.

“You have to speak up,” said Alice’s mother. “Uncle Roger’s terribly deaf.” She gave the glass a vicious rattle and, almost shouting, announced, “this is Alice’s latest beau, Roger. He’s popped down to say hello.” Something in her voice roused the old man and his eyes were suddenly wide and bloodshot. His head turned slowly on his wizened neck, moving like an elderly tortoise, until he was looking me straight in the eye. He opened his mouth and cleared his throat, loosening a mouthful of phlegmy spit. “What’s your name boy?” he said. I told him, raising my voice to be heard through the glass. “And you’ve been stepping out with Alice here?” I nodded. Yes, I was Alice’s fella, lucky me. I could tell that Uncle Roger liked me. This was going better than planned. “I suppose you’re here to ask for my blessing.” Yes, I said, it was nice to know her family approved. Uncle Roger gave me a last long look, up and down. “Well, you have my blessing, for what it’s worth,” he finally muttered. “You can go ahead and propose.”

I had no intention of proposing. We’d only been together for two or three months. But Alice’s father was glaring at me and Alice’s mother was on the verge of tears and Alice herself, though smiling, was also hissing through gritted teeth, “get down on your knee. Do it properly. Uncle Roger’s expecting it.” “We can’t risk upsetting him,” her mother added. “He’s very elderly,” said her father, “any shock might finish him off.” So I asked Alice to marry me. And she said yes. And that was that. We were married before the end of the year. At the wedding reception, her sister’s husband took me aside. “Did they set Uncle Roger on to you too?” he asked. I denied everything. I was mortified and further embarrassed to discover, I was the fifth suitor they’d tricked into proposing and the only daft fool who’d gone through with it.

Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1966 novel, Third Girl