to have a chat with the Gyppo there. It’s his camel.’
The officer’s already crimson face became like a glowing beacon. He pointed his stick angrily at the Arab. ‘You. Get him down off there immediately.’
The camel’s minder began to jabber incomprehensibly, his thin brown arms flailing like a demented windmill as he pointed his long, almost black, finger firstly at the officer and the camel, then generally in the area. ‘Perhaps, sir, he’s explaining that officers only travel by first class camel,’ a soldier seated on the animal behind suggested helpfully. ‘These for the ranks do tend to whiff a bit.’
The men around began to laugh, adding their own less-than-helpful contributions to the rapidly expanding debate. The officer, trembling with anger, waved his stick threateningly at the Arab.
A European dressed in a pale linen suit and white trilby stepped forward from the waiting crowd. ‘Excuse me. If I may be of assistance.’ He smiled placatingly at the irate British officer. ‘I think that the minder is pointing out that there is a queue and that you might like to join it along with the rest of us who are waiting for a ride.’ He smiled again and nodded his head towards the back of the line.
The officer, eyes bulging and fists clenching and unclenching, erupted into a pneumatic, sweating frenzy. ‘I am a Major in his Majesty’s British Army and I will not have some filthy native telling me what to do,’ he fumed. ‘I am not queuing with this working class rabble. I have important duties at Headquarters to get back to.’
The Arab tried to ignore the bawling Englishman but the camel, clearly discomfited by the antics of this sweaty, twitching object jumping around in front of him, felt less generously disposed. It turned its massive head, curled back its thick, rubbery lips to reveal great, slab like, brown teeth and spat in the Major’s face.
The soldier on the camel managed to keep his face fairly straight but others in the queue were less restrained. One man, seeing the officer attempting to wipe his face with the cuff of his sleeve, was heard to shout that it was nice to see the Major doing a bit of spit and polish, another informed him that the camel must have taken the hump with him, whilst a third suggested that the concert party, of which the Major was a woefully inadequate director, should be renamed as Fosdyke’s Follies.
‘It’s a pity it didn’t bite the little bastard’s head off his stupid fat shoulders,’ Liam muttered almost inaudibly. Edward turned and was surprised to see the burning hate in his friend’s face.
‘Why, who is it?’ he enquired. ‘Can’t say I have come across him before.’
‘No you won’t have. The only action he gets involved in is emptying whisky bottles.’
The officer, now turning from crimson into an unpleasant puce, was retreating down the dusty road and threatening to put everybody on a charge. His spluttering progress was accompanied by raucous jibes and loud laughter.
‘Where do you know him from?’
‘His name’s Fforbes-Fosdyke. His dad was a General and now owns a lot of property round Salford and Hulme. That little sod thinks that’s what entitles him to behave like an absolute dog’s dick.’
Edward heard a rumbling growl and saw Big Charlie lumbering to his feet. For a moment he stood frowning at the comic figure before turning away and finding a seat under a palm tree a few yards away. His chin rested on his knees, his arms grasping round his calves as he stared fixedly at the retreating figure.
‘What is it with this Fforbes-Fosdyke, Liam?’ Edward asked. ‘He’s obviously an unpleasant character but you and Big Charlie both seem really put out by seeing him.’
‘Aye, he’s the sort that would make rats seem like nice company. Anyway, least said soonest mended.’
***
29 Myrtle Street
Cross Lane
Salford 5
Great Britain
4th January 1915
Dear Dad,
Thank you for the Bible that you sent me
The officer’s already crimson face became like a glowing beacon. He pointed his stick angrily at the Arab. ‘You. Get him down off there immediately.’
The camel’s minder began to jabber incomprehensibly, his thin brown arms flailing like a demented windmill as he pointed his long, almost black, finger firstly at the officer and the camel, then generally in the area. ‘Perhaps, sir, he’s explaining that officers only travel by first class camel,’ a soldier seated on the animal behind suggested helpfully. ‘These for the ranks do tend to whiff a bit.’
The men around began to laugh, adding their own less-than-helpful contributions to the rapidly expanding debate. The officer, trembling with anger, waved his stick threateningly at the Arab.
A European dressed in a pale linen suit and white trilby stepped forward from the waiting crowd. ‘Excuse me. If I may be of assistance.’ He smiled placatingly at the irate British officer. ‘I think that the minder is pointing out that there is a queue and that you might like to join it along with the rest of us who are waiting for a ride.’ He smiled again and nodded his head towards the back of the line.
The officer, eyes bulging and fists clenching and unclenching, erupted into a pneumatic, sweating frenzy. ‘I am a Major in his Majesty’s British Army and I will not have some filthy native telling me what to do,’ he fumed. ‘I am not queuing with this working class rabble. I have important duties at Headquarters to get back to.’
The Arab tried to ignore the bawling Englishman but the camel, clearly discomfited by the antics of this sweaty, twitching object jumping around in front of him, felt less generously disposed. It turned its massive head, curled back its thick, rubbery lips to reveal great, slab like, brown teeth and spat in the Major’s face.
The soldier on the camel managed to keep his face fairly straight but others in the queue were less restrained. One man, seeing the officer attempting to wipe his face with the cuff of his sleeve, was heard to shout that it was nice to see the Major doing a bit of spit and polish, another informed him that the camel must have taken the hump with him, whilst a third suggested that the concert party, of which the Major was a woefully inadequate director, should be renamed as Fosdyke’s Follies.
‘It’s a pity it didn’t bite the little bastard’s head off his stupid fat shoulders,’ Liam muttered almost inaudibly. Edward turned and was surprised to see the burning hate in his friend’s face.
‘Why, who is it?’ he enquired. ‘Can’t say I have come across him before.’
‘No you won’t have. The only action he gets involved in is emptying whisky bottles.’
The officer, now turning from crimson into an unpleasant puce, was retreating down the dusty road and threatening to put everybody on a charge. His spluttering progress was accompanied by raucous jibes and loud laughter.
‘Where do you know him from?’
‘His name’s Fforbes-Fosdyke. His dad was a General and now owns a lot of property round Salford and Hulme. That little sod thinks that’s what entitles him to behave like an absolute dog’s dick.’
Edward heard a rumbling growl and saw Big Charlie lumbering to his feet. For a moment he stood frowning at the comic figure before turning away and finding a seat under a palm tree a few yards away. His chin rested on his knees, his arms grasping round his calves as he stared fixedly at the retreating figure.
‘What is it with this Fforbes-Fosdyke, Liam?’ Edward asked. ‘He’s obviously an unpleasant character but you and Big Charlie both seem really put out by seeing him.’
‘Aye, he’s the sort that would make rats seem like nice company. Anyway, least said soonest mended.’
***
29 Myrtle Street
Cross Lane
Salford 5
Great Britain
4th January 1915
Dear Dad,
Thank you for the Bible that you sent me
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