a quite different persona when the occasion demanded.
When the pageant was over, the children gathered on the little stage to take their bows and everyone joined in a spirited singing of the national anthem – or at least the first verse, which was all that most people could remember. There was much applause as Virginia handed out bags of sweets to each child and a half-crown to the boy who had impersonated Admiral Nelson with another to ‘Lady Hamilton’.
Edward whispered to Verity that it was only right that they should have won first prize as Lady Hamilton had often amused Nelson with similar tableaux which she called ‘attitudes’.
‘I wonder where they got that sword?’ Verity asked of no one in particular.
‘It belongs to me,’ replied Colonel Heron who happened to be standing behind her. ‘An ancestor of mine brought it back from Ramillies. It hangs over the mantelpiece in my library but I always lend it for the pageant. Rather splendid, isn’t it? I’d better go and rescue it before someone cuts themselves.’
‘Yes, it looks quite lethal,’ Edward remarked.
‘Who’s Ramillies when he’s at home?’ Verity demanded when Heron had gone.
‘I’ve just been reading about it, as a matter of fact. You remember? I showed you Mr Churchill’s biography of the Duke of Marlborough. He sent it to me with that very kind inscription. There was a picture in it of the Duke on his horse pointing at the enemy.’
‘Oh, so it was a battle?’
‘Ramillies? Yes, 1706 – fought on a Sunday. One of “Corporal John’s” greatest victories. Did you know the Duke suffered from very bad migraines during or after the battle?’ A thought struck Edward. ‘I wonder if that could be Paul’s problem? He seems to have that white, strained look . . .’
‘Hold on a minute, I think Paul’s going to make a speech.’
The vicar clambered on to the stage and thanked Mrs Woolf for judging the pageant and God for the good weather, and then the fête was over. Stallholders started packing up and the pig was led off squealing by its proud owner.
‘Come back with me and have a chota peg,’ Colonel Heron commanded Edward. ‘It’s hardly out of your way.’
Edward would have given a lot to be able to go straight home but he saw that the Colonel would take mortal offence if they refused.
‘Delighted, but we mustn’t be long. Mrs Brendel, our housekeeper, promised something special for dinner and we mustn’t be late.’
Heron looked at him like a hungry dog but Edward absolutely refused to ask him to join them.
His house – Seringapatam – was a ten-minute walk away. It was a mid-Victorian monstrosity and much too large, Edward thought, for a single man.
‘You called your house Seringapatam after the battle, I suppose?’ he said, to make conversation.
‘Yes, the last battle of the Mysore War. It was either that or Dhundia Wagh,’ Heron laughed, ‘and that would have been a bit of a mouthful.’
‘Now remind me – who or what was he?’
‘He was a robber chief who escaped from prison in Seringapatam and raised an army. Wellington defeated him but, in the battle, he fell off his horse and one of my ancestors defended him until he was able to get up and remount. Of course, he wasn’t the Duke then, just plain Arthur Wellesley or Wesley, I can’t quite remember.’
‘Gosh!’ Verity said. ‘Wasn’t he – I mean your ancestor – made a duke or something?’
‘’Fraid not, but he ended up a general.’
‘Good heavens!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘How interesting – worth a tableau, I should have thought. So your family have always had this connection with India?’
‘Indeed. In fact, I was born in Calcutta where my father was stationed. I served in the Indian Army at the beginning of the last shindig. I was with the India Corps on the Western Front in 1914. They coped magnificently with the rain and mud – a continual monsoon, it seemed – but the butcher’s bill was terrible. Khudadad Khan,
When the pageant was over, the children gathered on the little stage to take their bows and everyone joined in a spirited singing of the national anthem – or at least the first verse, which was all that most people could remember. There was much applause as Virginia handed out bags of sweets to each child and a half-crown to the boy who had impersonated Admiral Nelson with another to ‘Lady Hamilton’.
Edward whispered to Verity that it was only right that they should have won first prize as Lady Hamilton had often amused Nelson with similar tableaux which she called ‘attitudes’.
‘I wonder where they got that sword?’ Verity asked of no one in particular.
‘It belongs to me,’ replied Colonel Heron who happened to be standing behind her. ‘An ancestor of mine brought it back from Ramillies. It hangs over the mantelpiece in my library but I always lend it for the pageant. Rather splendid, isn’t it? I’d better go and rescue it before someone cuts themselves.’
‘Yes, it looks quite lethal,’ Edward remarked.
‘Who’s Ramillies when he’s at home?’ Verity demanded when Heron had gone.
‘I’ve just been reading about it, as a matter of fact. You remember? I showed you Mr Churchill’s biography of the Duke of Marlborough. He sent it to me with that very kind inscription. There was a picture in it of the Duke on his horse pointing at the enemy.’
‘Oh, so it was a battle?’
‘Ramillies? Yes, 1706 – fought on a Sunday. One of “Corporal John’s” greatest victories. Did you know the Duke suffered from very bad migraines during or after the battle?’ A thought struck Edward. ‘I wonder if that could be Paul’s problem? He seems to have that white, strained look . . .’
‘Hold on a minute, I think Paul’s going to make a speech.’
The vicar clambered on to the stage and thanked Mrs Woolf for judging the pageant and God for the good weather, and then the fête was over. Stallholders started packing up and the pig was led off squealing by its proud owner.
‘Come back with me and have a chota peg,’ Colonel Heron commanded Edward. ‘It’s hardly out of your way.’
Edward would have given a lot to be able to go straight home but he saw that the Colonel would take mortal offence if they refused.
‘Delighted, but we mustn’t be long. Mrs Brendel, our housekeeper, promised something special for dinner and we mustn’t be late.’
Heron looked at him like a hungry dog but Edward absolutely refused to ask him to join them.
His house – Seringapatam – was a ten-minute walk away. It was a mid-Victorian monstrosity and much too large, Edward thought, for a single man.
‘You called your house Seringapatam after the battle, I suppose?’ he said, to make conversation.
‘Yes, the last battle of the Mysore War. It was either that or Dhundia Wagh,’ Heron laughed, ‘and that would have been a bit of a mouthful.’
‘Now remind me – who or what was he?’
‘He was a robber chief who escaped from prison in Seringapatam and raised an army. Wellington defeated him but, in the battle, he fell off his horse and one of my ancestors defended him until he was able to get up and remount. Of course, he wasn’t the Duke then, just plain Arthur Wellesley or Wesley, I can’t quite remember.’
‘Gosh!’ Verity said. ‘Wasn’t he – I mean your ancestor – made a duke or something?’
‘’Fraid not, but he ended up a general.’
‘Good heavens!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘How interesting – worth a tableau, I should have thought. So your family have always had this connection with India?’
‘Indeed. In fact, I was born in Calcutta where my father was stationed. I served in the Indian Army at the beginning of the last shindig. I was with the India Corps on the Western Front in 1914. They coped magnificently with the rain and mud – a continual monsoon, it seemed – but the butcher’s bill was terrible. Khudadad Khan,
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