Free Long Lankin by Lindsey Barraclough
Authors: Lindsey Barraclough
don’t blinkin’ like it, you can stop out here and wait for us!”
“How long you gonna be?” Mimi asked, wiping her nose on her sleeve. I noticed her glancing at the coffin-shaped grave near the church wall.
“All blinkin’ day if we want!” said Cora crossly, and dropped Mimi’s hand.
The three of us went through the big wooden door into the church, and I saw Cora look fleetingly back at her sister. Mimi seemed so small, a dark little figure against the light of the graveyard, framed by the shadowy arch of the porch.
“I’ll be back in a minute, all right?” said Cora. “Don’t move, d’you hear?”
“It stinks blimmin’ awful in here,” I said, screwing up my nose.
“Most probably the rain,” Roger whispered. “Feels really damp.”
“Blimey, I hope we didn’t bring this lot in the other day,” I said, pointing to a trail of earth soiling the tiles all the way to the altar.
“Crikey — look at that!”
Five of the huge silver candlesticks were lying on their sides, and the sixth was on the floor. The candles were missing.
“Funny,” I said. “There was candles here on Tuesday.”
“You sure?” said Roger.
“’Course I’m blinking sure. There was six of them. I counted because I’d never seen great big candles like that before. Where’ve they gone, then?”
“Perhaps a burglar’s been in,” said Pete.
“Flipping stupid burglar then,” said Roger. “Taking the candles and leaving the candlesticks. Fat chance he’d have of making a living.”
We picked up the candlesticks and put them all in a line at the back of the altar where they had been before, three on either side of the cross.
“I’m sure we didn’t have muddy shoes when we came in on Tuesday,” said Roger.
On the wall halfway down the church on the left was a huge stone memorial, carved with the names of seven young men of Bryers Guerdon who had been killed in the First World War. I’d never bothered to look at it before, but Cora called me over and we ran our eyes over the names. I recognized all the families. There was a Lieutenant Roland Guerdon, MC; a Campbell; a Holloway; and three Thorstons. I told Cora that Haldane Thorston was an old chap who lived in a cottage down in the Patches. They must have been his sons, three of them lost.
The last name on the stone was Captain James Eastfield, age twenty-two.
Ypres, April 1917
Two more weeks, only two more — less by the time you receive this — and we’ll dance again under the willows in the garden at North End. If they haven’t had the wretched spring mended in the gramophone yet, I’ll get Will to play the piano in the drawing room with the windows open.
I’m warning you, I’m going to ask you again, so don’t pretend to be surprised. Just so you know, I’m not in the least impressed with all that tosh you came out with last time. You don’t have to hang around forever in the ancient ancestral pile. It’s Roland who’s bagged that job, poor chap, not you. Then, after Gerald Foster caught it at Lesboeufs, I don’t suppose Agnes will be doing anything after this lot is over, and she and Roland are both in line before you, don’t forget. There’s nothing to hold you there, dearest Ida. I can help you fly free of it. Just let me. You have to let the old place go.
Some little kiddies came round yesterday trying to cadge chocolate. The younger ones will never have known a time without the sound of guns. . . .
His last letter. Roland said he waited for him to die for three hours, then lay next to him in the shell hole for another two until the light faded a little and he managed to drag his body back, still under fire.
Even if he had lived, he would never have danced again under the willows at North End.
An organ, with pipes painted with leaves and flowers, stood in its own small room beside the altar. A little mirror hung over the keys. I caught a movement — my face in the glass — and remembered the woman singing that horrid
“How long you gonna be?” Mimi asked, wiping her nose on her sleeve. I noticed her glancing at the coffin-shaped grave near the church wall.
“All blinkin’ day if we want!” said Cora crossly, and dropped Mimi’s hand.
The three of us went through the big wooden door into the church, and I saw Cora look fleetingly back at her sister. Mimi seemed so small, a dark little figure against the light of the graveyard, framed by the shadowy arch of the porch.
“I’ll be back in a minute, all right?” said Cora. “Don’t move, d’you hear?”
“It stinks blimmin’ awful in here,” I said, screwing up my nose.
“Most probably the rain,” Roger whispered. “Feels really damp.”
“Blimey, I hope we didn’t bring this lot in the other day,” I said, pointing to a trail of earth soiling the tiles all the way to the altar.
“Crikey — look at that!”
Five of the huge silver candlesticks were lying on their sides, and the sixth was on the floor. The candles were missing.
“Funny,” I said. “There was candles here on Tuesday.”
“You sure?” said Roger.
“’Course I’m blinking sure. There was six of them. I counted because I’d never seen great big candles like that before. Where’ve they gone, then?”
“Perhaps a burglar’s been in,” said Pete.
“Flipping stupid burglar then,” said Roger. “Taking the candles and leaving the candlesticks. Fat chance he’d have of making a living.”
We picked up the candlesticks and put them all in a line at the back of the altar where they had been before, three on either side of the cross.
“I’m sure we didn’t have muddy shoes when we came in on Tuesday,” said Roger.
On the wall halfway down the church on the left was a huge stone memorial, carved with the names of seven young men of Bryers Guerdon who had been killed in the First World War. I’d never bothered to look at it before, but Cora called me over and we ran our eyes over the names. I recognized all the families. There was a Lieutenant Roland Guerdon, MC; a Campbell; a Holloway; and three Thorstons. I told Cora that Haldane Thorston was an old chap who lived in a cottage down in the Patches. They must have been his sons, three of them lost.
The last name on the stone was Captain James Eastfield, age twenty-two.
Ypres, April 1917
Two more weeks, only two more — less by the time you receive this — and we’ll dance again under the willows in the garden at North End. If they haven’t had the wretched spring mended in the gramophone yet, I’ll get Will to play the piano in the drawing room with the windows open.
I’m warning you, I’m going to ask you again, so don’t pretend to be surprised. Just so you know, I’m not in the least impressed with all that tosh you came out with last time. You don’t have to hang around forever in the ancient ancestral pile. It’s Roland who’s bagged that job, poor chap, not you. Then, after Gerald Foster caught it at Lesboeufs, I don’t suppose Agnes will be doing anything after this lot is over, and she and Roland are both in line before you, don’t forget. There’s nothing to hold you there, dearest Ida. I can help you fly free of it. Just let me. You have to let the old place go.
Some little kiddies came round yesterday trying to cadge chocolate. The younger ones will never have known a time without the sound of guns. . . .
His last letter. Roland said he waited for him to die for three hours, then lay next to him in the shell hole for another two until the light faded a little and he managed to drag his body back, still under fire.
Even if he had lived, he would never have danced again under the willows at North End.
An organ, with pipes painted with leaves and flowers, stood in its own small room beside the altar. A little mirror hung over the keys. I caught a movement — my face in the glass — and remembered the woman singing that horrid