Allington has not been seen these two days.’
‘No, he’s in his rooms. He’s ill, if you can believe that. They call it a megrim but we know about megrims, a fanciful thing for women. It’s not the ague. He will be drunk.’ Arthur began to rush distractedly about. ‘I shall demand to see him. I have a right. Parkes was my friend.’
‘I beg you not to,’ Rampton said, alarmed. ‘You’re not in a fit state of mind. Besides, it’s rather a crowd at your door.’
Arthur remembered he was in danger of being arrested if he left his rooms. He subsided into a chair and wept some more.
‘There’ll be an inquest and some futile enquiry. I must attend to my own affairs. Emile must book me a place on the mail and I shall go down to Salisbury or they will put me in the King’s Bench. I dare say my friends will still visit me, those that are not dead or gone to France, but I cling to my liberty. Last night I had five thousand pounds in my hands and this morning I have twelve guineas.’
‘A clever man such as yourself would surely do better at the whist table, where your fate, much of the time, would be in your own hands.’
‘It’s true, it’s true, but it doesn’t have the allure. Why, I do play it from time to time and win quite a little money. Even Allington says I could win regularly if I paid attention, and that’s a compliment from him, though I think I hate a compliment from Allington. One day I shall trounce him at his own game, I shall be one jump ahead of him and it will be my turn to say “checkmate” in those quiet, dismissive tones, which I am sure I shall mimic to a nicety at the time. Now, Rampton, I shall bet you the twelve guineas I won last night that I shall beat Allington at chess before the year is out.’
Rampton said he would like to oblige Arthur in any way he could, but he demurred when it came to a bet on a matter on which he could have no opinion. Arthur, who saw little relationship between a bet and an opinion, began to think Rampton a bore, but he was too much distracted by the death of his friend and his own precarious pecuniary state to do more than suppose Rampton still might be useful to him now and again. The lure of the Quarter Day rents eventually taking precedence in the rag-bag of his mind, he announced decisively, ‘I shall leave for Castle Orchard, even if I die getting there.’
Rampton was puzzled. He thought there would have to be some catastrophic accident to the coach that travelled so regularly and reliably between London and Salisbury for Arthur to lose his life on the road.
The rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat of the drum meant charge, and charge little Frankie Conway did. He charged and cheered and screamed and ran and waved his arms, bounding through the copse at Castle Orchard, slithering on mud, on the wild ransom, the dog’s mercury, the brambles catching his clothes, the hazel slashing his face; and to him, as to the others, it was never only a game.
Robert had a real soldier’s coat, not the smart one that had belonged to their uncle, but a raggedy old coat from the rank and file with the lace torn off and a patch on the elbow. It was a rusty brown, but once, once it had been a glowing scarlet: its glory had to live in the mind’s eye. It was not very much too big for Robert and he, despite his coat not being an officer’s coat, would always be the officer. Stephen carried the drum and he beat it well, even when he was running along. Frankie only had a stick, but that was all he and the little ones had.
Phil ran through the wood as hard as he could go and his breath hurt as it struggled in and out of his chest. Though it was only a game he was always afraid and they, in the end, always caught him. He could never run fast enough, though he ran and ran and ran.
‘I don’t want to be the French any more.’
He lay on the ground and the Conway boys stood round him with their sticks, even the twins, only six years old.
‘You have to be the
‘No, he’s in his rooms. He’s ill, if you can believe that. They call it a megrim but we know about megrims, a fanciful thing for women. It’s not the ague. He will be drunk.’ Arthur began to rush distractedly about. ‘I shall demand to see him. I have a right. Parkes was my friend.’
‘I beg you not to,’ Rampton said, alarmed. ‘You’re not in a fit state of mind. Besides, it’s rather a crowd at your door.’
Arthur remembered he was in danger of being arrested if he left his rooms. He subsided into a chair and wept some more.
‘There’ll be an inquest and some futile enquiry. I must attend to my own affairs. Emile must book me a place on the mail and I shall go down to Salisbury or they will put me in the King’s Bench. I dare say my friends will still visit me, those that are not dead or gone to France, but I cling to my liberty. Last night I had five thousand pounds in my hands and this morning I have twelve guineas.’
‘A clever man such as yourself would surely do better at the whist table, where your fate, much of the time, would be in your own hands.’
‘It’s true, it’s true, but it doesn’t have the allure. Why, I do play it from time to time and win quite a little money. Even Allington says I could win regularly if I paid attention, and that’s a compliment from him, though I think I hate a compliment from Allington. One day I shall trounce him at his own game, I shall be one jump ahead of him and it will be my turn to say “checkmate” in those quiet, dismissive tones, which I am sure I shall mimic to a nicety at the time. Now, Rampton, I shall bet you the twelve guineas I won last night that I shall beat Allington at chess before the year is out.’
Rampton said he would like to oblige Arthur in any way he could, but he demurred when it came to a bet on a matter on which he could have no opinion. Arthur, who saw little relationship between a bet and an opinion, began to think Rampton a bore, but he was too much distracted by the death of his friend and his own precarious pecuniary state to do more than suppose Rampton still might be useful to him now and again. The lure of the Quarter Day rents eventually taking precedence in the rag-bag of his mind, he announced decisively, ‘I shall leave for Castle Orchard, even if I die getting there.’
Rampton was puzzled. He thought there would have to be some catastrophic accident to the coach that travelled so regularly and reliably between London and Salisbury for Arthur to lose his life on the road.
The rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat of the drum meant charge, and charge little Frankie Conway did. He charged and cheered and screamed and ran and waved his arms, bounding through the copse at Castle Orchard, slithering on mud, on the wild ransom, the dog’s mercury, the brambles catching his clothes, the hazel slashing his face; and to him, as to the others, it was never only a game.
Robert had a real soldier’s coat, not the smart one that had belonged to their uncle, but a raggedy old coat from the rank and file with the lace torn off and a patch on the elbow. It was a rusty brown, but once, once it had been a glowing scarlet: its glory had to live in the mind’s eye. It was not very much too big for Robert and he, despite his coat not being an officer’s coat, would always be the officer. Stephen carried the drum and he beat it well, even when he was running along. Frankie only had a stick, but that was all he and the little ones had.
Phil ran through the wood as hard as he could go and his breath hurt as it struggled in and out of his chest. Though it was only a game he was always afraid and they, in the end, always caught him. He could never run fast enough, though he ran and ran and ran.
‘I don’t want to be the French any more.’
He lay on the ground and the Conway boys stood round him with their sticks, even the twins, only six years old.
‘You have to be the
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