Hot Buttered Rum

“I don’t understand why you have to go now,” Timothy said in exasperation.  “What on earth could be in your sister’s letter that’s so urgent?”  A thought occurred to him, and he added quickly, “It’s not a death in the family, is it?  Or one of those ‘Rush home now if you want to—’”  Before he could finish with “say good-bye”, he was cut off by a vigorous shake of Jim Turner’s head.

“No, no.  No disaster.  It’s simply,” Jim looked a bit embarrassed, “well, it looks as though the lake is going to freeze over.”

They were at that moment in a coastal town in equatorial Brazil, where hell would freeze over before a local lake.  It was positively sweltering, even in January, at least from the perspective of any Briton.

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Timothy, puzzled.  “You did say that you wouldn’t be going home for Christmas.”  He hesitated, and then ventured to add, “I had wondered if you would, though. I  mean, on the one hand you do seem to be rather a world-wanderer, but on the other hand you talk a fair bit about family.  Fond of your sister, I rather thought.  And she’s a widow; so you’re practically all the family she has, except for her daughters.”  He raised a brow.  “Who you call hellions, often enough.”

Jim’s face lit up.  “Oh, they’re all right most of the time, those girls.  I’m their beloved uncle.  They’re best taken in small doses, mind you—but I’m away a lot, so that’s all right.  They’ve been taking a piratical turn the last few years, and call me Captain Flint.”

As Treasure Island was pretty well compulsory reading for any British schoolboy, Timothy had no trouble getting the reference.  “Do you threaten to keelhaul them when they misbehave?” he asked, amused.  “Note I say ‘when’ they misbehave, not ‘if’.”

“Oh, it’s definitely ‘when-not-if’,” the beloved uncle agreed.  “I’m not sure what they’re up to right now.  They sail all summer, rain or shine; but the winter hols are a bit more iffy.  And, of course, if my sister’s prediction comes true, there’ll be no sailing at all till it thaws.”

Timothy shook his head a bit doubtfully, asked if Jim would like another beer, and then got up from their table to head for the bar.  “My round next,” Jim called after him, getting a quick nod in answer.  The beer was, of course, rather more than warm; but neither of them was much of a whisky man.  Or brandy, for that matter; or whatever hard liquor was on offer in this not-quite-dive.  Rum, most like, Timothy thought as he waited to catch the barman’s eye.  With Jim’s talk of pirates (if only in girls’ play), rum seemed very appropriate, actually.

“Would you prefer rum?” he asked as he brought their glasses back to the table.

“Where’d that come from?” said Jim, looking rather startled.

“Oh, your talk of pirates.”

“God, man, don’t talk of pirates in a place like this.  Inviting trouble.”

“No, I mean your nieces.”

“Ah.”  Jim nodded.  “A bit young to drink, both of them; but they’re hardened to their role … or would like us all to think so.”  He smiled broadly.  “Oh, they feign all the piratical idiom they can glean from books.  Off the top of my head, I can’t recall if they’ve dubbed something ‘rum’, or not.  Could be their word for hot cocoa for all I know.  They certainly get in the spirit of things.  Nice girls at heart, but they do run a bit wild.  Then again, I suppose, back in the days of our youth, Molly and I did a fair bit of mountaineering.  Climbed the Matterhorn, as I recall.  In the hills around the lake, you understand:  not the real one.”

“I was a boy myself once,” Timothy told him kindly.  “I do have a few fond memories.  Later events have rather tarnished them; but if I rub off the dross I can still see somewhat of a gleam.”

“Sorry,” said Jim, who had picked up enough around the edges to guess that Timothy’s reason for leaving England for foreign shores was probably not so far off his own.  “Nix on the rum, if that was an offer; but thank you kindly, if it was meant that way.  On the whole, I’d rather stay sober.”

Timothy case an eye round the clientele of the boteco and silently concurred.

“So,” he said after taking a long draught of his beer, “what’s the attraction of a frozen lake?”

“Skating!” said Jim, astonished, putting down his own glass.  “Not to mention sledging, since I imagine there’ll be plenty of snow.”  Animated, he went on, “Seriously, this is the sort of once-in-a-century event that people talk of for the rest of their lives.  There’s always some ice round the edges, though it can be treacherous.  If you want proper skating, you’re better off on farmers’ ponds.  They freeze through.  For the whole lake to freeze over…!  We’re talking about a very deep lake, Timothy.  Very deep.  It simply never happens—well, not normally, that is.  If Molly’s right, though, this year is going to be something seriously special.  Practically a fête on ice.  I wonder…,” he trailed off thoughtfully.  “Once upon a time, my … grand­father, I think … he even had an ice yacht.  No,” he shook his head, “I’ve never seen such a thing put up in storage.  If he did have one, it’s long gone.  But, if the lake does freeze over—shore to shore its whole length—then, now I come to think of it, there will be sailing in the winter, this winter.”  He sighed.  “You see, Timothy, old man … I really do want to go home … right now!  I can’t just wait:  there’s no saying when this will happen again, if ever.  If Molly’s right, if the lake really does freeze over, it’s something I can’t bear the thought of missing!  Staying here for Christmas is one thing.  There’ll be another Christmas next year, after all.”  He looked across the table, straight into Timothy’s eyes.  “I had a reason to stay here this year.  Christmas be damned for once!  I had a better reason to…”  He hesitated, flushing slightly.  “…reason to stay.  Here.”

Timothy was also looking a tad embarrassed.  Which did not mean that he didn’t understand what he thought Jim was saying.  Just that it was a bit more open than expected.

“I’ll miss you,” he ventured.

“Would you like to come to England with me?” Jim asked.  He looked rather hopeful … and very nervous.

Timothy hesitated.  On the one hand, yes.  (Of course!)  On the other hand….  “Where will you be staying?” he asked.  “On that houseboat you mentioned?  Can you, in winter?”

“Probably,” said Jim uncertainly.  “I’ve not actually tried it, not overnight.  It gets frozen in, you know, being near shore in a cove.  You need to use a sledge to get provisions, since you can’t sail the dinghy in.  On the other hand, you need the dinghy to get across the open water.  Anyway, when I go home in winter, it’s usually for Christmas; and, of course, with the holiday festivities and all that, Molly wants me to stay at Beckfoot, and so do the girls.”

“But Jim,” Timothy began, and then reached boldly out to put one hand over the other man’s.  “Jim, it’s not that I wouldn’t love—enjoy very much, I mean—your company.  And … well, the holiday you talk about.  Enjoy it.”  He flushed, knowing he was stammering even more than usual.  “Skating I could try … learn, that is, I never have … skated, I mean.  Would like to learn, I suppose.”  He pulled his hand back suddenly, dropped his eyes to his glass, bit his lip, and shut up.

“You don’t feel comfortable visiting Beckfoot,” Jim translated.  “Well, yes, it might be a bit awkward.  Obviously, Molly isn’t expecting me to bring a guest.”

“Quite.”

“Not that she’d be unwelcoming,” Jim added quickly.  “And there is a guest room.”

Timothy took a deep breath.  “Appreciate that.  Yes, quite … guest room, of course.  Certainly.”

“I’m sorry?” Jim ventured.

“No, no.  Quite proper.  Guests stay in the guest room—what it’s for, after all.  On the other hand, as you point out, your sister is not expecting me.  You don’t know … I mean, perhaps she already has a guest staying.  You mentioned a great-aunt once?  Raised you after your parents’ … I mean, when it was just you and Molly, and you were both children.  She could have been invited, right?  Unless she’s dead, of course, being old?”

Jim shook his head:  Maria Turner was all too alive.

“Well, just after Christmas, family, all that.  Awkward, you see.  Better if I stay here.”  Timothy hesitated, and then dared, “Will you be back?”

Jim looked at him kindly.  “Isn’t the usual question, ‘When will you be back’?”

“Don’t know if you will be,” Timothy confessed.  “Hope so.”  He lifted his glass and hid behind it.

“Yes,” said Jim, looking at him thoughtfully.  “Yes, I’ll go on my winter holiday, if you don’t mind; alone, if you prefer.  If you will wait for me, though…?”  He raised a querying brow.

“I’d like that,” Timothy mumbled.  He lowered the glass to meet Jim’s eyes.  “All a bit rum, though, you must admit.  You and me both, really.”

“Well, we should drink to that, don’t you think?” said Jim.  “Talking about rum.”

Notes:

“Hot Buttered Rum” is set in January during the events of Winter Holiday, before Uncle Jim arrives in the middle of the book.