The boy had never liked his uncle.
He was never particularly nice to him when he visited and it was made worse because he often smelt of whisky. He had a feeling that his mum and dad didn’t really think highly of him either. He was a rude man and sometimes quite vulgar. He knew that this behaviour, together with his bad language, would often offend his mother. His dislike of the man came to a head the day he had got him alone in the garden while his parents were busy getting tea and laying the table. It started with him saying that it was about time they had a man-to-man talk about the birds and the bees. His uncle’s lurid and detailed descriptions, along with his unpleasant sniggering at the boy’s reactions had been a truly dreadful experience.
It was just a few months later, when coming home from school, his father said that he would talk to him later because he needed to have a man-to-man talk with him. Needless to say, the boy didn’t enjoy the prospect of going through all that business again. When the time came, his father sat him down with a serious look on his face. His father said, “Son, I have to tell you that your uncle passed away this morning.”
The boy found it extremely hard to hide his mixed feelings of surprise and relief.