from the village down the hill.’
‘We don’t want them up here,’ Harkaway said sharply.
‘Why not?’
He gestured at the crates of food and weapons and she was silent for a moment. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘In that case we must take it in turns.’
‘Where shall we hang the chintz curtains?’ Harkaway asked sarcastically.
Unwillingly they started to tidy the place while Bronwen Ortton-Daniells poked about among the boxes.
‘There are primus stoves,’ she said. ‘And plenty of food.’
‘Not enough for a banquet,’ Harkaway pointed out. ‘There are four of us. Five now. Same with paraffin. It’s dark up here at night without a lamp. That’s why we use fires instead of primus stoves.’
‘I see,’ she said again. ‘Are there many guns?’
‘Two Vickers. Two Brens. Four old Lewises. Two hundred rifles.’ He glanced at Gooch and Tully. ‘Slightly less now. They’re mostly old Martinis intended for native levies with a bullet as big as your finger. Relics of old South African wars, I expect. There are still a lot about. The rest are Lee Enfields.’
‘How about water?’
‘We get it from Eil Dif.’
‘Have we got enough for me to wash my hair and have a bath?’
Tully looked up quickly. Gooch stopped what he was doing and Grobelaar fumbled the twigs he was trying to tie round the end of a pole he had cut from a stunted tree to make a broom.
Harkaway smiled. ‘It’ll have to be a stand-up affair with a bucket,’ he pointed out. ‘I expect we can cut the top off one of the petrol cans for you. You’ll look like that picture, “Morning” - girl stripped to the buff shoving her toe in a pond.’
She looked round, not in the slightest put out. ‘I expect I shall manage,’ she said. ‘I’ve had bucket baths before. I think also, for the sake of hygiene and good sense, I’ll cut my hair short.’
Grobelaar finished tying the twigs. ‘I know how to cut hair,’ he said.
She dragged up a box, found a pair of scissors in her baggage and handed them to him. Half an hour later, watched all the time by the others, she emerged with her hair cropped.
‘It’s all right,’ Tully said approvingly. ‘I once had a girl in Widnes who had her hair cut like that.’
Even Harkaway was impressed. Bronwen Ortton-Daniells was a good-looking woman with a splendid figure, like the Somali women lean as a gazelle but far from lacking in shape.
She ran her fingers over the stubble on her neck. She was well aware that they were all watching her silently and it was a new experience. The men she’d been used to working with were on the whole men whom, she realized now, she hadn’t greatly admired, men who prayed a great deal, talked a lot about Jesus and were largely dull. There had been an Italian doctor who’d arrived with the Italian army whose advances had troubled her, because he was strikingly handsome like so many Italians, but her hatred of them after the butchery of the Ethiopians during the Abyssinian War and the massacre of the Abyssinian intelligentsia following an attempt to assassinate the Governor, Graziani, had been so heartfelt she’d been unable to bring herself to reply when he spoke to her. These men were different. They were British and they were frankly admiring, in a virile, manly way that she found disturbed her.
She turned away abruptly, her face pink.
‘I shall now wash it,’ she announced.
9
When Tully rose the following morning, Bronwen Ortton-Daniells, her glasses gleaming in the sunshine, was using a towel on her neck. The bucket they’d made for her was full of dirty water and she was obviously bathed and clean.
Tully looked at her, his eyes full of disappointment. The previous night she had washed her hair with a cake of scented soap she possessed and Tully had hung around for ages in the hope that she’d take a bath. But she’d been as crafty as he was and had bided her time.
‘You’ve had it!’ he said indignantly.
Yes, Paddy,’ she said
‘We don’t want them up here,’ Harkaway said sharply.
‘Why not?’
He gestured at the crates of food and weapons and she was silent for a moment. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘In that case we must take it in turns.’
‘Where shall we hang the chintz curtains?’ Harkaway asked sarcastically.
Unwillingly they started to tidy the place while Bronwen Ortton-Daniells poked about among the boxes.
‘There are primus stoves,’ she said. ‘And plenty of food.’
‘Not enough for a banquet,’ Harkaway pointed out. ‘There are four of us. Five now. Same with paraffin. It’s dark up here at night without a lamp. That’s why we use fires instead of primus stoves.’
‘I see,’ she said again. ‘Are there many guns?’
‘Two Vickers. Two Brens. Four old Lewises. Two hundred rifles.’ He glanced at Gooch and Tully. ‘Slightly less now. They’re mostly old Martinis intended for native levies with a bullet as big as your finger. Relics of old South African wars, I expect. There are still a lot about. The rest are Lee Enfields.’
‘How about water?’
‘We get it from Eil Dif.’
‘Have we got enough for me to wash my hair and have a bath?’
Tully looked up quickly. Gooch stopped what he was doing and Grobelaar fumbled the twigs he was trying to tie round the end of a pole he had cut from a stunted tree to make a broom.
Harkaway smiled. ‘It’ll have to be a stand-up affair with a bucket,’ he pointed out. ‘I expect we can cut the top off one of the petrol cans for you. You’ll look like that picture, “Morning” - girl stripped to the buff shoving her toe in a pond.’
She looked round, not in the slightest put out. ‘I expect I shall manage,’ she said. ‘I’ve had bucket baths before. I think also, for the sake of hygiene and good sense, I’ll cut my hair short.’
Grobelaar finished tying the twigs. ‘I know how to cut hair,’ he said.
She dragged up a box, found a pair of scissors in her baggage and handed them to him. Half an hour later, watched all the time by the others, she emerged with her hair cropped.
‘It’s all right,’ Tully said approvingly. ‘I once had a girl in Widnes who had her hair cut like that.’
Even Harkaway was impressed. Bronwen Ortton-Daniells was a good-looking woman with a splendid figure, like the Somali women lean as a gazelle but far from lacking in shape.
She ran her fingers over the stubble on her neck. She was well aware that they were all watching her silently and it was a new experience. The men she’d been used to working with were on the whole men whom, she realized now, she hadn’t greatly admired, men who prayed a great deal, talked a lot about Jesus and were largely dull. There had been an Italian doctor who’d arrived with the Italian army whose advances had troubled her, because he was strikingly handsome like so many Italians, but her hatred of them after the butchery of the Ethiopians during the Abyssinian War and the massacre of the Abyssinian intelligentsia following an attempt to assassinate the Governor, Graziani, had been so heartfelt she’d been unable to bring herself to reply when he spoke to her. These men were different. They were British and they were frankly admiring, in a virile, manly way that she found disturbed her.
She turned away abruptly, her face pink.
‘I shall now wash it,’ she announced.
9
When Tully rose the following morning, Bronwen Ortton-Daniells, her glasses gleaming in the sunshine, was using a towel on her neck. The bucket they’d made for her was full of dirty water and she was obviously bathed and clean.
Tully looked at her, his eyes full of disappointment. The previous night she had washed her hair with a cake of scented soap she possessed and Tully had hung around for ages in the hope that she’d take a bath. But she’d been as crafty as he was and had bided her time.
‘You’ve had it!’ he said indignantly.
Yes, Paddy,’ she said
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