Read Online Ormerod's Landing by Leslie Thomas - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Thomas
Tags: Fiction
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Because he was a town man, used to living in streets, Ormerod had never noticed much of the country. Now he saw it lying brilliantly all about him, the most vivid autumn after a hot summer, miles of yellow trees, copper trees, vermilion trees, unrolling as they journeyed.
'Nice time of the year this,' ventured Ormerod to the driver.
'Lovely,' said the man, a Cockney. 'Does a treat, don't it sir.' He nodded out of the window. 'Just like miles of wallpaper.'
'What's this place Ashridge, anyway?' asked Ormerod, now he knew the man was allowed to talk.
'Ashridge Park, sir?' said the driver. They were going through Windsor with the Thames blue with the deep reflection of the sky. Ormerod gave a nod of acknowledgement towards the castle. 'Well, sir, they've got the Public Records Office at Ashridge. Brought it from London, tons and tons of books and papers, like a blinking salvage drive. They had to get it out in case it got bombed. Make a very nasty fire all them papers.'
Ormerod wondered why his briefing was being held at the Public Records Office, but did not press the matter. They arrived after just over an hour's drive, turning into parkland so full of bright leaves it hurt the eyes. In the centre of the park was a fine, grave house, and adjacent to the house, under covering trees, rows of prefabricated, asbestos buildings, an affront to the surroundings. The car stopped at one of these and an ATS girl came out and showed Ormerod into a stark waiting room. He sat down, the melancholy of the place sett ling quickly on him. After a while the oldest man he had ever seen, wearing the oldest clothes he had ever seen, striped
47
trousers and black jacket almost grey with age and dust, came in and began intently to sharpen a white quill with a miniature penknife. He looked up at Ormerod and smiled beatifically. 'Lovely, isn't it?' he said, nodding at the autumn extravagance outside the imprisoning window. 'The sun on all the trees. Part of nature's war effort, I suppose. She's trying to make up for some of the discomforts.'
'She's probably doing it for the Germans as well,' pointed out Ormerod. The old man considered both Ormerod's point and that of the quill; he nodded philosophically. 'Very true, I imagine,' he agreed. He dropped his voice conspiratorially. 'I don't believe this rubbish about God only being on our side, you know. It's propaganda, sheer government propaganda.'
He was trimming his quill with a great art. Ormerod watched him carefully for he had never seen anyone who used a quill before. A serene smile touched the man's face at his interest. 'Great shortage, of course,' he said, holding up the feather. 'The war again. Although why we can't get goose feathers is beyond me. Surely the geese still grow them.'
Ormerod could not believe that the ancient man was any thing to do with his own presence there. 'Public Records Office are you?' he asked.
'Indeed, indeed,' nodded the man benignly. 'All transported from London. Quite a miracle, I suppose, although our work ing conditions are hardly in keeping, as you might judge.' He looked around caustically at the almost derelict waiting room. 'You'd think a jam-jar of flowers would not be too much to ask for wouldn't you?' he said. 'And perhaps a few decent pictures on the walls.'
Ormerod nodded. 'Certainly make it look less ... formal,' he said. The man had finished sharpening his quill but he was not in a hurry to depart. "We have the entire history of our great country in this building, you know,' he said. 'Even Magna Carta. We had to bring that of course. It's quite priceless. And if the Germans do come and conquer us it will be reassuring to be able to read it and know what we fought for, even if we lost.' He paused as if wondering whether to impart some secret information. I myself,' he said eventually, 'am working on documents appertaining to the battles of 1899 in South Africa.'
48
'You're a couple of wars behind then,' said Ormerod.
'For the rest of the
'Nice time of the year this,' ventured Ormerod to the driver.
'Lovely,' said the man, a Cockney. 'Does a treat, don't it sir.' He nodded out of the window. 'Just like miles of wallpaper.'
'What's this place Ashridge, anyway?' asked Ormerod, now he knew the man was allowed to talk.
'Ashridge Park, sir?' said the driver. They were going through Windsor with the Thames blue with the deep reflection of the sky. Ormerod gave a nod of acknowledgement towards the castle. 'Well, sir, they've got the Public Records Office at Ashridge. Brought it from London, tons and tons of books and papers, like a blinking salvage drive. They had to get it out in case it got bombed. Make a very nasty fire all them papers.'
Ormerod wondered why his briefing was being held at the Public Records Office, but did not press the matter. They arrived after just over an hour's drive, turning into parkland so full of bright leaves it hurt the eyes. In the centre of the park was a fine, grave house, and adjacent to the house, under covering trees, rows of prefabricated, asbestos buildings, an affront to the surroundings. The car stopped at one of these and an ATS girl came out and showed Ormerod into a stark waiting room. He sat down, the melancholy of the place sett ling quickly on him. After a while the oldest man he had ever seen, wearing the oldest clothes he had ever seen, striped
47
trousers and black jacket almost grey with age and dust, came in and began intently to sharpen a white quill with a miniature penknife. He looked up at Ormerod and smiled beatifically. 'Lovely, isn't it?' he said, nodding at the autumn extravagance outside the imprisoning window. 'The sun on all the trees. Part of nature's war effort, I suppose. She's trying to make up for some of the discomforts.'
'She's probably doing it for the Germans as well,' pointed out Ormerod. The old man considered both Ormerod's point and that of the quill; he nodded philosophically. 'Very true, I imagine,' he agreed. He dropped his voice conspiratorially. 'I don't believe this rubbish about God only being on our side, you know. It's propaganda, sheer government propaganda.'
He was trimming his quill with a great art. Ormerod watched him carefully for he had never seen anyone who used a quill before. A serene smile touched the man's face at his interest. 'Great shortage, of course,' he said, holding up the feather. 'The war again. Although why we can't get goose feathers is beyond me. Surely the geese still grow them.'
Ormerod could not believe that the ancient man was any thing to do with his own presence there. 'Public Records Office are you?' he asked.
'Indeed, indeed,' nodded the man benignly. 'All transported from London. Quite a miracle, I suppose, although our work ing conditions are hardly in keeping, as you might judge.' He looked around caustically at the almost derelict waiting room. 'You'd think a jam-jar of flowers would not be too much to ask for wouldn't you?' he said. 'And perhaps a few decent pictures on the walls.'
Ormerod nodded. 'Certainly make it look less ... formal,' he said. The man had finished sharpening his quill but he was not in a hurry to depart. "We have the entire history of our great country in this building, you know,' he said. 'Even Magna Carta. We had to bring that of course. It's quite priceless. And if the Germans do come and conquer us it will be reassuring to be able to read it and know what we fought for, even if we lost.' He paused as if wondering whether to impart some secret information. I myself,' he said eventually, 'am working on documents appertaining to the battles of 1899 in South Africa.'
48
'You're a couple of wars behind then,' said Ormerod.
'For the rest of the
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