well.’
She was sorry to intrude on my unhappy state with more sad tidings, but she thought I would wish to know. Word had come from the office of the Secretary for War to say that Alex had been killed in a skirmish outside Kabul.
I paused and looked into the candle flame.
They had described the manner of his death. Alex’s commanding officer had become stranded between enemy lines when he fell beneath a lame horse. My brother took it upon himself to lead his own mount into no-man’s-land. He lifted the injured officer on to the saddle and began walking back to the British side, but was struck in the back of the head by a jezail bullet and died at once. His body was later retrieved and buried with full honours. The officer survived.
I wondered if Cecilia wrote to Alex about my conviction before his death. Even if she didn’t, my trial was mentioned in The Times of London , and I knew editions were sent out to regiments in the field, though they took weeks to arrive. I pictured him in a dust-blown tent, being handed the paper by some companion, who’d point to the article and say, ‘Don’t you have a brother called John?’
On a happier note, Cecilia was with child. She had asked Captain Dickenson if she could name the baby Alexander if it was a boy, and he had said he would consider it.
She ended by saying she prayed for me every night. ‘I shall always remember the kindness you showed me, and the gentle side of your nature. In your final hours I hope you find peace. I am, yours ever, Cecilia.’
Our old nursery in Fitzwilliam Street was up four sheer flights, and consisted of two small bedrooms with low ceilings and tall windows. When we were young, Cecilia and I would often lean on a sill and observe the street life below: carriages skittering on an icy road, or barefoot children chasing a dog, or a rag-and-bone man pushing his barrow. I remember once she nudged me and pointed at a figure walking from the direction of Fitzwilliam Square. He wore the clothes and grime of a tradesman, but he carried what looked like a bird-cage in the crook of his arm, and another slung on his back. Inside, several black, sleek forms scrambled and writhed. A short-legged terrier followed behind his master, the rat-catcher, though the dog probably had better claim to that title. Secure in our room, we watched the sinister figure pass below and out of sight, then resumed our idle vigil. Foreheads pressed against cold panes; foggy breaths obscuring the view.
I shared a room with Alex, our sparse belongings separated by an imagined boundary between his portion of the room and mine. His was larger to reflect his age; an arrangement I never thought unfair. Cecilia slept in the room next door with a parlourmaid named Ruth, who also acted as nanny. She was a Catholic girl from Wicklow, who seemed very grown up when I was little, but was probably still in her teens. Cecilia considered her a great friend, and Ruth was a playful, lively spirit in the house. She would often hide behind a curtain and pounce on Cecilia as she entered a room, resulting in shrieks and loud laughter.
Our bedroom was near the top of a deep stairwell, from which one could peer down vertically past each flight to the flagstones in the hallway below. Tall handrails meant there was no real danger, but Alex liked to slide down the top banister. I was anxious every time I watched him do so. He would grab the rail and haul himself up, so he sat as if riding sidesaddle, his back to the void. It only took a moment for him to sweep down the railing, briefly become airborne and hit the landing with a few thumping steps. He never so much as stumbled. I always feared he would lean back too far while gliding down, and he mocked my unwillingness to try it myself.
Cecilia told Ruth what he was doing, and she in turn informed my father. Information, it seems, must always work up through a chain. Fearing that Alex would suffer a catastrophic fall, he had a stout net fixed in
She was sorry to intrude on my unhappy state with more sad tidings, but she thought I would wish to know. Word had come from the office of the Secretary for War to say that Alex had been killed in a skirmish outside Kabul.
I paused and looked into the candle flame.
They had described the manner of his death. Alex’s commanding officer had become stranded between enemy lines when he fell beneath a lame horse. My brother took it upon himself to lead his own mount into no-man’s-land. He lifted the injured officer on to the saddle and began walking back to the British side, but was struck in the back of the head by a jezail bullet and died at once. His body was later retrieved and buried with full honours. The officer survived.
I wondered if Cecilia wrote to Alex about my conviction before his death. Even if she didn’t, my trial was mentioned in The Times of London , and I knew editions were sent out to regiments in the field, though they took weeks to arrive. I pictured him in a dust-blown tent, being handed the paper by some companion, who’d point to the article and say, ‘Don’t you have a brother called John?’
On a happier note, Cecilia was with child. She had asked Captain Dickenson if she could name the baby Alexander if it was a boy, and he had said he would consider it.
She ended by saying she prayed for me every night. ‘I shall always remember the kindness you showed me, and the gentle side of your nature. In your final hours I hope you find peace. I am, yours ever, Cecilia.’
Our old nursery in Fitzwilliam Street was up four sheer flights, and consisted of two small bedrooms with low ceilings and tall windows. When we were young, Cecilia and I would often lean on a sill and observe the street life below: carriages skittering on an icy road, or barefoot children chasing a dog, or a rag-and-bone man pushing his barrow. I remember once she nudged me and pointed at a figure walking from the direction of Fitzwilliam Square. He wore the clothes and grime of a tradesman, but he carried what looked like a bird-cage in the crook of his arm, and another slung on his back. Inside, several black, sleek forms scrambled and writhed. A short-legged terrier followed behind his master, the rat-catcher, though the dog probably had better claim to that title. Secure in our room, we watched the sinister figure pass below and out of sight, then resumed our idle vigil. Foreheads pressed against cold panes; foggy breaths obscuring the view.
I shared a room with Alex, our sparse belongings separated by an imagined boundary between his portion of the room and mine. His was larger to reflect his age; an arrangement I never thought unfair. Cecilia slept in the room next door with a parlourmaid named Ruth, who also acted as nanny. She was a Catholic girl from Wicklow, who seemed very grown up when I was little, but was probably still in her teens. Cecilia considered her a great friend, and Ruth was a playful, lively spirit in the house. She would often hide behind a curtain and pounce on Cecilia as she entered a room, resulting in shrieks and loud laughter.
Our bedroom was near the top of a deep stairwell, from which one could peer down vertically past each flight to the flagstones in the hallway below. Tall handrails meant there was no real danger, but Alex liked to slide down the top banister. I was anxious every time I watched him do so. He would grab the rail and haul himself up, so he sat as if riding sidesaddle, his back to the void. It only took a moment for him to sweep down the railing, briefly become airborne and hit the landing with a few thumping steps. He never so much as stumbled. I always feared he would lean back too far while gliding down, and he mocked my unwillingness to try it myself.
Cecilia told Ruth what he was doing, and she in turn informed my father. Information, it seems, must always work up through a chain. Fearing that Alex would suffer a catastrophic fall, he had a stout net fixed in
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