ONION SKINS: Chapter 2
August 19th 2008 16:09
"Tommy Tickle Tail" was not some weird, perverted old relative hiding in the attic of the gracious old home mother now resided in, but a woven wire switch, a horse whip in fact, that had a nice decorative collar at the handle and came to a fine point at the striking end.
I saw "Tommy Tickle Tail" myself, as a young chap, mother would bring it out in fun, to scare us with it when we were being particularly cheeky, usually after she had had an aperitif or two on special occasions, like Christmas Day.
One time she accidentally caught my eldest brother on the bare leg, he was not at all amused, as it was capable of drawing blood, or at least leaving a considerable welt. That day I saw his eyes well with tears, an unusual occurrence for my eldest brother, normally he was the one making others produce tears! That day, "Tommy Tickle Tail" had his last 'tickle', as my brother grabbed it out of my mother's hand and broke it in two.
Pity really, as it would have made a fine conversation piece today. However, in my mother's childhood, it was the tool of choice for corporal punishment; the swishing noise it made, flicking back and forth through the air, as Uncle Robert's mother searched for the naughty children, always alerted them to its imminent presence, the children would then flee out the nearest window, no matter which level they were on and scamper away through the maze of vines covering the outside of the house and lose themselves in the wilds of the sprawling and unruly garden.
Together, they spent many days exploring; sitting in the old American limousine abandoned in the disused stables while pretending to be driving through Hollywood, sitting on Great Aunt Maggie's side saddle, playing golf on the dusty three hole course out the back of the house, playing dusty tennis on the clay tennis court and most exciting of all, scouring the earth around the family crypt, seeking the old large jam tin, filled to the brim with the gold coins, that Robert's Great Grand Aunt had buried there many years before, as a keepsake for when times turned bad. Times had turned bad, but they never found it.
Probably it was buried in the crypt, but even they were not brave enough to open it up and descend into the chamber of the dead! That place was built over, many years later, after the land had been donated to the Church by Great Aunt Maggie. Not even the Church knows what riches may lurk beneath their sacred altar, nor do they know a crypt, filled with our relatives, slumbers quietly under the new Church's foundations! It was thought bad taste to tell the Bishop of the crypt's existence and there was a small fear that the rellies may have been dug up and sent off to a public graveyard, heaven forbid!
As mother settled slowly into her new environment, and had become good friends with her new 'brother', her attention turned to the other inhabitants of this large old home, one of whom was a character second to none; he was loving of the children, told them interesting stories, but was also a sufferer, of alcoholism.
He maintained his dignity, publicly at least, and only occasionally did he have severe bouts of delirium tremens. He had a series of rooms under the house; they were cool and dark, the walls covered by bookcases, the floors covered with old worn Persian rugs, the air scented with the odour of rich tobacco, the sofa and chairs heavy and deeply padded, lit in dull pools of light by an eclectic mix of lamps, it was the epitome of a bachelor haven, where he could escape the societal rigour of his mother, and entertain his rather colourful gentleman friends, in private.
One day, while secretly exploring his upstairs bedroom, for he had one in the above ground part of the house as well, Robert found a small silver pistol, with a beautiful pearl handle. It was exquisite in its craftsmanship and since mother and Robert played all sorts of games, and as mother was standing on the Uncle's bed, leaning against the headboard, Robert decided to play target practise, aimed and fired. The bullet crashed into the wall three inches to the left, of mother's head.
He threw the gun into the drawer, where he had found it, mother helped cover the hole in the wallpaper, and before an enquiring voice called for them, they were out the window again, gasping with fear, then giggling with glee, as they realized they had gotten away with it, or so they thought! That gun had an interesting history, besides nearly killing my mother, it was given to my Great Uncle as a gift, by a man in America, named Al Capone!
Photo Credits: Capone shots in Public Domain
A side saddle whip similar to Tommy
I saw "Tommy Tickle Tail" myself, as a young chap, mother would bring it out in fun, to scare us with it when we were being particularly cheeky, usually after she had had an aperitif or two on special occasions, like Christmas Day.
One time she accidentally caught my eldest brother on the bare leg, he was not at all amused, as it was capable of drawing blood, or at least leaving a considerable welt. That day I saw his eyes well with tears, an unusual occurrence for my eldest brother, normally he was the one making others produce tears! That day, "Tommy Tickle Tail" had his last 'tickle', as my brother grabbed it out of my mother's hand and broke it in two.
Pity really, as it would have made a fine conversation piece today. However, in my mother's childhood, it was the tool of choice for corporal punishment; the swishing noise it made, flicking back and forth through the air, as Uncle Robert's mother searched for the naughty children, always alerted them to its imminent presence, the children would then flee out the nearest window, no matter which level they were on and scamper away through the maze of vines covering the outside of the house and lose themselves in the wilds of the sprawling and unruly garden.
Together, they spent many days exploring; sitting in the old American limousine abandoned in the disused stables while pretending to be driving through Hollywood, sitting on Great Aunt Maggie's side saddle, playing golf on the dusty three hole course out the back of the house, playing dusty tennis on the clay tennis court and most exciting of all, scouring the earth around the family crypt, seeking the old large jam tin, filled to the brim with the gold coins, that Robert's Great Grand Aunt had buried there many years before, as a keepsake for when times turned bad. Times had turned bad, but they never found it.
Probably it was buried in the crypt, but even they were not brave enough to open it up and descend into the chamber of the dead! That place was built over, many years later, after the land had been donated to the Church by Great Aunt Maggie. Not even the Church knows what riches may lurk beneath their sacred altar, nor do they know a crypt, filled with our relatives, slumbers quietly under the new Church's foundations! It was thought bad taste to tell the Bishop of the crypt's existence and there was a small fear that the rellies may have been dug up and sent off to a public graveyard, heaven forbid!
As mother settled slowly into her new environment, and had become good friends with her new 'brother', her attention turned to the other inhabitants of this large old home, one of whom was a character second to none; he was loving of the children, told them interesting stories, but was also a sufferer, of alcoholism.
He maintained his dignity, publicly at least, and only occasionally did he have severe bouts of delirium tremens. He had a series of rooms under the house; they were cool and dark, the walls covered by bookcases, the floors covered with old worn Persian rugs, the air scented with the odour of rich tobacco, the sofa and chairs heavy and deeply padded, lit in dull pools of light by an eclectic mix of lamps, it was the epitome of a bachelor haven, where he could escape the societal rigour of his mother, and entertain his rather colourful gentleman friends, in private.
One day, while secretly exploring his upstairs bedroom, for he had one in the above ground part of the house as well, Robert found a small silver pistol, with a beautiful pearl handle. It was exquisite in its craftsmanship and since mother and Robert played all sorts of games, and as mother was standing on the Uncle's bed, leaning against the headboard, Robert decided to play target practise, aimed and fired. The bullet crashed into the wall three inches to the left, of mother's head.
Derringer pistol: Photo courtesy adamsguns.com
He threw the gun into the drawer, where he had found it, mother helped cover the hole in the wallpaper, and before an enquiring voice called for them, they were out the window again, gasping with fear, then giggling with glee, as they realized they had gotten away with it, or so they thought! That gun had an interesting history, besides nearly killing my mother, it was given to my Great Uncle as a gift, by a man in America, named Al Capone!
Al Capone: Chicago Police mug shot
Capone's idea of a happy Valentine's Day!
Photo Credits: Capone shots in Public Domain
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Comment by Ash
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
ahhhh to have a room like that had under the house? It sounds HEAVENLY! Just escape from the turmoil of the real world into a Bohemian style getaway.... BLISS!
And a gun from Al Capone? WOW! Now that`s some family history there. What colourful relatives you have Fog.
I love your writing - very enchanting... moving on to the next chapter....
Ash
Comment by Mountain Fog
Infognito
QUOTE ME NO QUOTES!
yes colourful rellies indeed!!
I wish I had gotten to know my great Uncle better, but I was a little too young I am sorry to say.
And wouldn't be great to have your own suite of underground rooms!!
cheers
fog