Auntie gave a snort that might have indicated disbelief, but followed Hercules without further question. The two Alsatians now busily chewing up the carpet looked at her anxiously and half rose to their feet, but she waved them away.
“All right, boys,” she ordered gruffly. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Hercules thought this unlikely.
It was a dark evening, and the lights in the conservatory were off. As they entered, Auntie snorted, “Gad, Hercules the place smells like a slaughterhouse. Haven’t met such a stink since I shot that elephant in Bulawayo and we couldn’t find it for a week.”
“Sorry, Auntie,” apologized Hercules, propelling her forward through the gloom. “It’s a new fertilizer I’m using. It produces the most stunning results. Go on—another couple of yards. I want this to be a real surprise.”
“I hope this isn’t a joke,” said Auntie suspiciously, as she stomped forward.
“I can promise you it’s no joke,” replied Hercules, standing with his hand on the light switch. He could just see the looming bulk of the orchid: Auntie was now within ten feet of it. He waited until she was well inside the danger zone, and threw the switch.
There was a frozen moment while the scene was transfixed with light. Then Aunt Henrietta ground to a halt and stood, arms akimbo, in front of the giant orchid. For a moment Hercules was afraid she would retreat before the plant could get into action: then he saw that she was calmly scrutinizing it, unable to make up her mind what the devil it was.
It was a full five seconds before the orchid moved. Then the dangling tentacles flashed into action—but not in the way that Hercules had expected. The plant clutched them tightly, protectively, around itself—and at the same time it gave a high-pitched scream of pure terror. In a moment of sickening disillusionment, Hercules realized the awful truth.
His orchid was an utter coward. It might be able to cope with the wild life of the Amazon jungle, but coming suddenly upon Aunt Henrietta had completely broken its nerve.
As for its proposed victim, she stood watching the creature with an astonishment which swiftly changed to another emotion. She spun around on her heels and pointed an accusing finger at her nephew.
“Hercules!” she roared. The poor thing’s scared to death. Have you been bullying it?”
Hercules could only stand with his head hanging low in shame and frustration.
“N-no, Auntie,” he quavered. “I guess it’s naturally nervous.”
“Well, I’m used to animals. You should have called me before. You must treat them firmly—but gently. Kindness always works, as long as you show them you’re the master. There, there, did-dums—don’t be frightened of Auntie—she won’t hurt you…”
It was, thought Hercules in his blank despair, a revolting sight. With surprising gentleness, Aunt Henrietta fussed over the beast, patting and stroking it until the tentacles relaxed and the shrill, whistling scream died away. After a few minutes of this pandering, it appeared to get over its fright. Hercules finally fled with a muffled sob when one of the tentacles crept forward and began to stroke Henrietta’s gnarled fingers…
From that day, he was a broken man. What was worse, he could never escape from the consequences of his intended crime. Henrietta had acquired a new pet, and was liable to call not only at week-ends but two or three times in between as well. It was obvious she did not trust Hercules to treat the orchid properly, and still suspected him of bullying it. She would bring tasty tidbits that even her dogs had rejected, but which the orchid accepted with delight. The smell, which had, so far been confined to the conservatory, began to creep into the house…
And there, concluded Harry Purvis, as he brought this improbable narrative to a close, the matter rests—to the satisfaction of two, at any rate, of the parties concerned. The orchid is happy, and Aunt Henrietta has something (query, someone?) else to dominate. From time to time the creature has a nervous breakdown when a mouse gets loose in the conservatory, and she rushes to console it.
As for Hercules, there is no chance that he will ever give any more trouble to either of them. He seems to have sunk into a kind of vegetable sloth: indeed, said Harry thoughtfully, every day he becomes more and more like an orchid himself.
The harmless variety, of course…