Nose Uncle

  JASPAR UTLEY

  Nose Uncle

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Copyright Page

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  NOSE UNCLE

  Jaspar Utley was Director of the British Council in Chennai from 1995 to 2001. Before that he worked in Hong Kong, Thailand, Ghana, Greece, China and Namibia. He has written five books previously, and is currently writing another adventure of Nose Uncle.

  He lives in the south of England, but visits Chennai every year.

  For Aysha Rau, Jayraj Rau, Rohini Rau

  and Ajay Rau,

  and Supriya Cheriyan

  Chapter 1

  No one ever used Nose Uncle’s real name, including the villagers. He did not mind. Indeed, at times he insisted on it.

  ‘Call me Nose Uncle,’ he would growl. ‘That’s a name to remember. Forget anything else.’

  He was the much older brother of Nisha and Ram’s father. They had been sent to stay with him while their parents were in England. They were not very happy about it.

  ‘We’ve never met him,’ complained Nisha.

  ‘He’s very old,’ said Ram.

  ‘It won’t be much fun,’ declared Nisha.

  ‘You never know,’ said their father, smiling secretly, fully aware of his brother’s nature. Until then, Nisha and Ram had only heard about him, but their father had described him so clearly that they would surely recognize him when they saw him. They would look out for the nearly bald head and the half-moon glasses but above all, his nose. Father had told them all about the nose.

  ‘There is no nose like it in south India,’ he had said, ‘and, possibly, in the whole world.’ The first time they saw it, when they got off the train, they both gasped in awe and admiration.

  It was not just a prince or a king among noses, but a mighty emperor, a magnificent organ that would have been the envy of Julius Caesar or Chief Sitting Bull. In shape it was not swollen or ugly, but looked like the proud beak of an eagle, or, better, the prow of a mighty battleship. It stood out on Uncle’s face, but did not make you ignore his other features. Instead, it made them shine all the more in such wonderful company. Even his bald head, with only a few wisps of white hair remaining around his ears, managed to look hugely impressive.

  Nose Uncle’s nose was also likely to change colour according to his mood.

  ‘Just like a chameleon,’ he would say, ‘only smarter. If I’m on the track of something and suddenly I get close to the heart of things, then my friend,’ he always called his nose my friend—‘glows the colour of a bougainvillea flower, a wonderful deep magenta. That, children, is the colour of truth.’ And this was true; it was a clever nose, as if with a brain of its own. It was a most useful nose, as it helped Nose Uncle make his living. He was an archaeologist by profession and a detective by chance; both involved, he would say, smelling out things.

  ‘Ancient ruins or modern criminals, it’s all the same to us,’ he said. ‘Me and my friend can find ’em out and track ’em down. We make a grand team.’

  They did, too, and never more so than in the Case of the Roman Dig.

  It all began soon after Nisha and Ram arrived at his little house, set in a mango grove not far from the sea. This would be no ordinary holiday.

  Nose Uncle had begun by examining their faces, like a stern school principal looking at new arrivals. He had taken in Nisha’s pigtails and the braces on her teeth. He had gazed at her little brother’s bright eyes behind his large spectacles. Then he had come to a decision.

  ‘You can help me with my work,’ he said, peeling a mango. He must have seen the expression on their faces. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to clean the house or weed the plants, nor do the cooking and washing up.’ He paused and licked his fingers. ‘We’re going to dig,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’ said Nisha.

  ‘Are we going to look for buried treasure?’ asked Ram.

  ‘In a way,’ said Nose Uncle. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  They walked through the mango orchard. Each tree had been neatly planted at an exact distance from the next, and lovingly watered and weeded, according to Nose Uncle’s instructions. They turned off down a small track that led round the village, from which the smoke of a score of cooking fires drifted up into the sky, and into a large open space. It was like a field, but mostly sand, though there were lots of small plants and a few coconut palms. The sea was not far away, and they could hear the roar of waves breaking on the shore.

  ‘We’re going to dig here,’ said Nose Uncle.

  The children looked round the empty field.

  ‘For treasure? Here?’ said Ram.

  ‘Yes, here,’ said Nose Uncle. And he explained. ‘This was once a Roman port,’ he said. ‘I discovered it myself.’

  The children looked again at the open space. All they could see was sand.

  ‘A port?’ said Nisha.

  Nose Uncle looked at her over his half-moon spectacles. ‘What did you expect?’ he said. ‘Streets, docks, houses? No, of course not. They all vanished, hundreds of years ago. But their ghosts are still here.’

  ‘Ghosts?’ said Ram and moved closer to his sister.

  ‘Look again,’ said Uncle. ‘Is the land flat? No, it’s covered with bumps and lumps, and it is bumps and lumps that are all that is left of the past. However, for us archaeologists, it’s more than enough. We uncover them and, in so doing, uncover the secrets of what went on all those years ago. These lumps and bumps are all that is left of a Roman port.’

  ‘How did you find it?’ asked Nisha.

  Nose Uncle smiled. ‘It was simple, really,’ he said. ‘I just read the old texts from the West and those from our own Sangam literature. I then added local folklore that I had heard from the people around here. Then we got to work.’

  ‘We?’ said Ram.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nose Uncle impatiently. ‘Nose and me. We soon found out where the port might have been and then started looking around. It wasn’t long before we found lots of bumps and lumps in this piece of land. And when we asked local farmers if they had found any old bits of pottery, well, you should have seen what they brought us—loads of stuff and most of it Roman! So I started having a closer look and, lo and behold, I found what we had been looking for. How long are you two here?’

  Ram looked at Nisha. She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ram said. ‘Mama and Papa are visiting Britain on business …’

  Nose Uncle snorted. ‘Say no more,’ he commanded. ‘Business makes its own time. That’s no problem. You can stay as long as you like, provided you make yourselves useful. All right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. Good. Now here’s what you can do.’

  Nose Uncle asked Nisha and Ram to help with clearing the ground. A few villagers also helped, but most of them were busy looking after their fields or working in the salt ponds. It was February, so the weather was quite cool, but all the same, they were soon sweating heavily. They had to stop frequently for a drink of water and to wipe th
eir faces. All day long, they could hear the surf breaking on the beach and taste the salt hanging in the air. It was not easy work. They could do nothing about the few palm trees, but were forced to bend low to pull thorn bushes out by their roots in the sandy soil. Then they had to use spades to dig out the tufts of thick grass. Every now and then they stopped, while a snake or a scorpion slithered out of the way, often to be then grabbed by one of the cattle egrets on watch in the thorn trees, marking the field’s edge. By the second day, all was going well and Nose Uncle was already using his nose to sniff out where they should start what he called proper digging.

  ‘Over there, I think,’ he said, pointing to a corner of the field as his nose glowed a little. ‘They’d have built a warehouse there. You see that ditch? I am guessing that it was once full of water and led directly to the sea. The boats would have unloaded their goods right there. Let’s see if I’m right. Bring your shovels, both of you.’

  But before they had a chance even to dig the first hole, trouble arrived. A small group of people was making its way towards them across the field.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Hullo,’ said Uncle. ‘I might have known that that old Lentil Brain would show up sooner or later.’

  ‘Lentil Brain?’ Ram said. ‘Which one is he?’

  ‘Is he the thin one, with the droopy moustache?’ asked Nisha.

  ‘That’s him. He’s the official busybody. It’s his job to interfere with anyone who’s doing a decent day’s work. You wait and see.’

  By now the group had come closer and they could see that there were four of them altogether. They included not only Lentil Brain but also a small round sweaty man holding a briefcase and behind him were two foreigners. One of them was a tall muscular man with hair pulled back into a pigtail. The other was a blonde woman wearing sunglasses. She said nothing while they were there. Possibly, she did not speak English.

  Nose Uncle did not look up and, instead, fell on to his knees and began examining the ground. His magnificent nose was dangerously close to a small thorn bush that had not yet been uprooted. Nisha and Ram did the same, aware of the group that was now no more than a foot or two away.

  ‘Professor,’ said Lentil Brain in a surprisingly deep voice. ‘Please stop what you are doing.’

  Uncle sat back on his heels while Nisha and Ram looked at each other. Professor? Since when had Uncle been a professor? Was there something he had not told them? If so, why?

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Chandrasekar,’ said Nose Uncle, looking up. ‘What’s the matter, lost your way? Not for the first time, if memory serves me right. Well, take the path over there; it’ll lead you straight to the village.’

  The thin man, who the children would always think of as Lentil Brain, smiled weakly.

  ‘Very funny, Professor,’ he said. ‘Now kindly tell me what you are doing.’

  Nose Uncle stood up, brushing the dust from his trousers.

  ‘If you must know,’ he said, ‘I am investigating this field.’

  ‘Do you think it is of archaeological interest?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  During this exchange, Nisha glanced sideways at the other three visitors. She guessed that the small sweaty man was assistant to Lentil Brain. The tall foreigner was more interesting and, when he saw her looking at him, he winked and smiled, revealing a brilliant white set of teeth. The blonde woman took a sun hat out of her bag and put it on, but said nothing.

  ‘Do you have permission to dig here?’ asked Lentil Brain.

  ‘Why don’t you ask the owner?’ replied Nose Uncle. ‘I did.’

  ‘But do you have permission from my Department?’

  Nose Uncle sniffed.

  ‘Permission to do what?’

  Lentil Brain sighed.

  ‘Look, Professor, you know very well that any search for archaeological remains must not take place until permission has been granted by my Department. We must protect sites of interest from treasure seekers and other unauthorized persons.’

  Uncle glared, and his nose turned a shade of purple.

  ‘Are you calling me a treasure seeker? I am, as you very well know, a professor of archaeology. Tell me, who is better qualified to conduct an archaeological dig?’

  ‘I am,’ announced the foreigner with the ponytail, stepping forward.

  ‘Permit me to introduce to you,’ said Lentil Brain, ‘Professor Andre Rigolet, of the Free University of Central Quebec.’

  ‘No need to introduce the professor!’ exclaimed Rigolet, stretching out his hand. ‘I am well acquainted with his work, particularly on Roman trade routes in southern India. I am honoured to meet him. And this is my colleague, Ms LaCroix, who is the site artist.’ The woman nodded silently.

  Uncle growled a greeting and shook Rigolet’s hand.

  ‘Professor Rigolet and his university have an agreement with the State government,’ said Lentil Brain. ‘They have permission to dig anywhere in the State on suspected Roman sites.’

  ‘Who said this was a Roman site?’

  ‘You did,’ said Lentil Brain.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The fact that you are here,’ said Rigolet, still smiling, ‘tells me what this place might be. You are famous for discovering such places. I have read all your scientific papers and I know that you have a gift for identifying Roman remains.’

  ‘Never mind all that,’ piped up Lentil Brain. ‘I must insist that you stop digging and leave the rest to Professor Rigolet.’

  Uncle looked round the area we had cleared. It was the size of a cricket field.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘I hope you find what you are looking for. And what about the owner of this land? Does he know what you are about to do?’

  ‘Of course’ said Rigolet. ‘He has given us his full permission. And we shall begin right away. My university has sent me a large amount of the latest electronic and other equipment. That will help me find any remains that might be here. If it’s here, we’ll find it. Right, let’s go. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Professor …’

  ‘Come on, you two,’ said Nose Uncle. ‘We’d best go. There’s a smell around here and I don’t think it has anything to do with cows.’

  ‘I don’t like that foreigner,’ announced Nisha as they walked back across the field, towards the village. ‘He shows his teeth too much when he smiles.’

  ‘I don’t think his teeth are real,’ Ram said. ‘They are far too even.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Uncle. ‘I don’t like him much, either. His name is also a strange one.’

  ‘How?’ Ram asked.

  ‘Rigolet. In French it means a joker.’ His nose quivered. ‘But I don’t think Monsieur Rigolet is going to give us many laughs. Funnily enough, I’ve a feeling I have seen him somewhere before. If only I could remember … but don’t worry it’ll come back to me. It always does, eventually. Now just take a look at that.’

  The children stopped and looked back. A small truck carrying a group of about a dozen labourers was bumping its way into the field. With them was a mass of impressive-looking equipment. Following close behind them was a small bulldozer.

  ‘They’re not wasting any time,’ said Uncle. ‘But in this line of work, the last thing you should do is rush at it. Patience, that’s what’s required. And, of course, a nose for it, which I don’t think they have. Come on, I’m ready for my lunch.’

  Chapter 3

  Uncle’s country cottage was amazing. He had bought the place a long time ago in order to grow mangoes. Over the years, as the trees had matured and more and more fruit had been collected, he had set up a successful business. He had used some of the profit from the orchard to start a village school and had seen a whole generation of village children grow up knowing how to read and write and do mathematics.

  ‘And with good manners,’ he would add. ‘That’s the whole foundation of education.’

  The village people often brought him gifts of rice, vegetables and milk, so he never went short.

&nb
sp; From the outside, the cottage looked brick-built and plain. But its inside was completely different.

  Books. There were thousands of them, lining every wall, from floor to ceiling. Not neatly stacked books, as in a library, but piled any old how. There were books piled on the floor with little pieces of paper to mark the place where Nose Uncle had stopped reading. Yet the overall feeling they gave was not one of untidiness but of loving use.

  ‘They’re my best friends,’ Nose Uncle said with a smile, touching them gently. ‘We’ve known each other for years.’

  The rest of the house was neat and tidy. A woman from the village, Meena, whose son was now in college thanks to Uncle, insisted on coming in every day to do the dusting and cleaning, despite Nose Uncle’s grumbling.

  On the table waiting for them, and covered with a cloth against flies, was a lunch of soup and mangoes.

  ‘Would you please heat up the soup? It’s dal and spinach,’ said Nose Uncle. ‘I’ll join you in a moment. There’s something I want to look up.’

  By the time the soup was ready, Nose Uncle had found what he was looking for.

  ‘As I thought,’ he smiled, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. He took off his glasses and, to the surprise of Ram and Nisha, began laughing, his shoulders shaking. ‘Oh my goodness,’ he said at last. ‘This is going to be more fun than I thought. Ha! Now, where’s that soup?’

  But the children had lost interest in their soup.

  ‘What have you been looking up?’ asked Nisha.

  ‘Is it a treasure map?’ enquired Ram.

  Nose Uncle began laughing again. ‘Oh, it’s worth far more than a treasure map,’ he chuckled. ‘Much more. Wait till I tell old Lentil Brain.’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  Nose Uncle picked up his spoon, blew on the soup and began to slurp. ‘Well,’ he said, after the first spoonful. ‘There are two things that excite my curiosity. First, according to my reference books, there is no such institution as the Free University of Central Quebec and so, it is understood, no Professor Rigolet. Neither of them exists.’