Master Georgie by Beryl Bainbridge Page B

poor company when forced outside. His frequent quotations concerning death, first spouted in a dead language and then laboriously translated, become wearisome. They’re interesting as far as words go, and if we were sitting in a drawing room among fools I’d be the first to think him clever. Here, in the midst of the newly dead, his references to ancient massacres merely irritate. I suppose he scuttles into the past to escape the awful present.
    ‘Mrs Yardley has agreed to ride with me,’ I told him. ‘And besides, you’re not comfortable in the heat.’
    True, true,’ he said, though he looked put out.
    The sun being particularly fierce that morning, I begged to borrow his hat - to mollify him. Which it did. Take it, my dear girl,’ he cried, tearing it from his head. I had no intention of wearing it longer than it took him to reach the shade of his tent.
    Mrs Yardley and her colonel are billeted in the town, but spend their days in camp. I’ve grown to like her. Sometimes she swears, especially when newly bitten. She has several flea bites on her face, one on the end of her nose, yet remains good-humoured. She was on the stage, posing in operatic tableaux, and makes no secret of it, any more than she disguises the nature of her liaison with the colonel. I doubt she knows how much we have in common, although, owing to the incident with silly Mr Naughton, she has tried several times to sound me out in regard to background. As yet, I haven’t taken her into my confidence, but may do so when I know her better.
    We both do what we can in the way of relieving hardship and agree that the wives and followers of the ordinary soldiers, some with children howling at their skirts, are more capable of fending for themselves than the ‘ladies’ among us. I keep telling Master...keep telling Georgie...that it’s foolish to question the common soldier as to the looseness of his bowels, the condition being quite normal among those accustomed to eating food gone bad. I reminded him of Mrs O’Gorman’s tale of her sister’s family in Liverpool, who, finding the carcass of a long-drowned pig in the estuary mud, dragged it home and devoured it half raw. Result - as Dr Potter might say - full bellies for once.
    Quite early on into our trek to the hills, Mrs Yardley began to probe; I reckon the colonel was behind it, he being acquainted with military gossip.
    ‘Miss Hardy,’ she said, ‘I hear that Mr Naughton, on returning home, took to his bed. Apparently news of his exploits had run before him. He’s now in financial trouble, due to neglect of his business.’
    ‘I didn’t know him very well,’ I replied, ‘but I’m sorry to hear it. Being without money is painful.’
    ‘I thought you knew him in Liverpool,’ she said.
    ‘Not at all. We met on board ship...and again in Constantinople. He was kind enough to help me back to the hotel after I’d turned faint in the street.’
    ‘On account of the heat,’ she said, still probing.
    ‘Certainly not. It was the fault of the dogs -’
    ‘Of course,’ she cried. ‘Beatrice told me. You were set upon -’
    ‘I wasn’t,’ I said. ‘A pet belonging to my...my brother’s children was torn apart in front of me.’ Just the mention of my darlings brought tears to my eyes.
    ‘How distressing,’ Mrs Yardley wailed, and sounded as if she meant it.
    We skirted the river and passed a number of women washing clothes, their arms burnt brown from the sun. Close by, the Bulgarian provision men who supply the camp with meat were hacking at slaughtered sheep and flinging the bloody guts into the water. The women seemed happy enough, laughing and shouting as they rub-a-dub-dubbed. A small boy lay on his stomach, dipping a bucket. When full it was too heavy to heave out and he was forced to tip it sideways. After dashing some of the contents to his lips, he staggered off in the direction of the tents.
    ‘I have never felt the need for children,’ Mrs Yardley said. ‘Which is