Read Online A Medal For Murder by Frances Brody - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frances Brody
Tags: Crime Fiction
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West. The earlier racket and the sudden quiet made him hope that the Boer line gave way there. They travelled on through the early dawn, to where the smell of a burned-out camp fire told Lampton he was near some stopping place. Boer or British, who could tell? ‘Rest here,’ he said.
But the captain had a second wind. ‘On we go.’
The sergeant obeyed. The captain had a sixth sense for comfort, and he was right. There was a farmhouse on the horizon.
The Tommy on the gate said, ‘We broke through. Brother Boer’s done his vanishing trick.’ He helped the sergeant get the captain into the farmhouse. Sergeant Lampton willed himself to stay upright. ‘Who’s your officer in charge?’ he asked.
‘Major got it in the neck, sarge.’
So the captain was the highest ranking officer. Two highlanders lifted the captain onto the table. The back of the men’s legs bore ugly blisters from lying face down under a burning sun. They held the captain steady while Sergeant Lampton dislodged the bullet from the captain’s thigh.
When the general arrived, he shook the captain’s hand. ‘Brave man for fighting your way through. You’ll be mentioned for this.’
The captain smiled. ‘Saw a weakness in the enemy’s flank, sir. Led the charge through, scattered Boer to the winds.’
‘Don’t just stand there, sergeant,’ the general barked. ‘Make yourself useful. Find some food.’
The sergeant waited, half expecting some small acknowledgement from his captain. None came.
Too tired to sleep, I lay on Meriel’s narrow bed. The thin mattress was worn through to the springs. The discomfort took me back to my VAD days, when we took roughing it for granted much of the time.
Across the room, Meriel slept soundly on a chaise longue, snoring gently.
A weakness of mine is that people intrigue me, especially those with a story to tell. Meriel was just such a one. We met at the fancy-dress party held by a mutual friend. Our host had allocated characters. On arrival at the party, we were instructed to find our mate. I was Pierrot, the clown, dressed in a rather dull loose white tunic with a ruff at the neck and a boater perched on my head. It did not take long to find Pierrette, the lovable French pantomime figure. Meriel was elegantly dressed in ballet skirt, brightly coloured peasant waistcoat and cocked hat. We drank a little too much of some homemade concoction. Meriel held me in thrall as we sat on the stairs.
She was brought up in concert halls and theatres, travelling with her mother, an opera singer. She picked up several languages and was taught to play the violinand other instruments by various members of the orchestra. The violin was her first love and what she believed she excelled in. Her mother gave up singing when she re-married in Switzerland, just before the Great War. Her step-father was under the impression that the marriage gave him rights to Meriel too. She spent less and less time in their apartment and gravitated towards a Russian émigré theatre group. She fetched and carried, played walk-on parts or lying still parts as a corpse. She learned the ways of actors and directors. Unable to find work in an orchestra, she hovered on the edge of the theatre, sewing costumes, finding props, acting as prompt and understudy, writing up rehearsal schedules, and selling tickets. She made a living when and where she could.
Her story impressed me, hinting at far greater hardships. I felt I understood why she escaped into the theatre, and preferred it to real life. When she asked me would I take photographs for her planned production, I said yes. We clinked glasses and I gave her my address. That would teach me not to drink unidentified liquor in large quantities.
So it was thanks to a fancy-dress party that here I was exhausted, still seeing Mr Milner’s face when I closed my eyes. If I were at home, I would get up and go downstairs. But Meriel’s room was as far downstairs as you could go without
West. The earlier racket and the sudden quiet made him hope that the Boer line gave way there. They travelled on through the early dawn, to where the smell of a burned-out camp fire told Lampton he was near some stopping place. Boer or British, who could tell? ‘Rest here,’ he said.
But the captain had a second wind. ‘On we go.’
The sergeant obeyed. The captain had a sixth sense for comfort, and he was right. There was a farmhouse on the horizon.
The Tommy on the gate said, ‘We broke through. Brother Boer’s done his vanishing trick.’ He helped the sergeant get the captain into the farmhouse. Sergeant Lampton willed himself to stay upright. ‘Who’s your officer in charge?’ he asked.
‘Major got it in the neck, sarge.’
So the captain was the highest ranking officer. Two highlanders lifted the captain onto the table. The back of the men’s legs bore ugly blisters from lying face down under a burning sun. They held the captain steady while Sergeant Lampton dislodged the bullet from the captain’s thigh.
When the general arrived, he shook the captain’s hand. ‘Brave man for fighting your way through. You’ll be mentioned for this.’
The captain smiled. ‘Saw a weakness in the enemy’s flank, sir. Led the charge through, scattered Boer to the winds.’
‘Don’t just stand there, sergeant,’ the general barked. ‘Make yourself useful. Find some food.’
The sergeant waited, half expecting some small acknowledgement from his captain. None came.
Too tired to sleep, I lay on Meriel’s narrow bed. The thin mattress was worn through to the springs. The discomfort took me back to my VAD days, when we took roughing it for granted much of the time.
Across the room, Meriel slept soundly on a chaise longue, snoring gently.
A weakness of mine is that people intrigue me, especially those with a story to tell. Meriel was just such a one. We met at the fancy-dress party held by a mutual friend. Our host had allocated characters. On arrival at the party, we were instructed to find our mate. I was Pierrot, the clown, dressed in a rather dull loose white tunic with a ruff at the neck and a boater perched on my head. It did not take long to find Pierrette, the lovable French pantomime figure. Meriel was elegantly dressed in ballet skirt, brightly coloured peasant waistcoat and cocked hat. We drank a little too much of some homemade concoction. Meriel held me in thrall as we sat on the stairs.
She was brought up in concert halls and theatres, travelling with her mother, an opera singer. She picked up several languages and was taught to play the violinand other instruments by various members of the orchestra. The violin was her first love and what she believed she excelled in. Her mother gave up singing when she re-married in Switzerland, just before the Great War. Her step-father was under the impression that the marriage gave him rights to Meriel too. She spent less and less time in their apartment and gravitated towards a Russian émigré theatre group. She fetched and carried, played walk-on parts or lying still parts as a corpse. She learned the ways of actors and directors. Unable to find work in an orchestra, she hovered on the edge of the theatre, sewing costumes, finding props, acting as prompt and understudy, writing up rehearsal schedules, and selling tickets. She made a living when and where she could.
Her story impressed me, hinting at far greater hardships. I felt I understood why she escaped into the theatre, and preferred it to real life. When she asked me would I take photographs for her planned production, I said yes. We clinked glasses and I gave her my address. That would teach me not to drink unidentified liquor in large quantities.
So it was thanks to a fancy-dress party that here I was exhausted, still seeing Mr Milner’s face when I closed my eyes. If I were at home, I would get up and go downstairs. But Meriel’s room was as far downstairs as you could go without
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