Free Master Georgie by Beryl Bainbridge Page B

minarets glittered amidst the cypress trees, a quotation came unbidden to my thoughts - We have run this morning twenty-four miles, and could run forty-eight more. But who can run the race with death? In the distance, beneath an azure sky, the narrow arms of the Bosphorus and Golden Horn, that perfect blending of land and water, pointed at the Black Sea.
    That evening, when we returned to the hotel, we were met with two items of dreadful news; the first - depending on whether one considers things personal rather than universal to be of paramount importance - concerned Myrtle. In our absence the children had pined for a sight of their collie pup, housed down by the port. Sent for and let loose on the mosaic tiles of the forecourt, and no doubt terrified by reverberating footsteps, it had turned tail and lolloped back through the open doors, where it was immediately pounced upon by dogs, of which there are innumerable fierce packs roaming the streets, and torn to bloody shreds. Fortunately, the children, one toddling, the other in its nursemaid’s arms, were too far behind to see the shocking assault.
     
    Myrtle, in swift pursuit and coming in full view of the butchery, fainted clear away. Those who knew of her strength and singularity of character would have found her collapse hard to credit were it not for the testimony of the keeper of the hotel who had followed her abrupt departure from the premises. Restored, she had been helped from the scene of carnage by Mr Naughton and an unknown gentleman in military uniform.
    The second piece of news, days out of date, was that England had declared war on Russia.
    For a full week following this momentous announcement, we witnessed the most nauseating display of patriotic fervour. Cannons were fired by those ships of the fleet already returned to harbour after the supposed destruction of Sebastopol. The Messieri Hotel became a focal point for gatherings of English residents, all gesticulating like foreigners. It had seldom been safe to venture into the streets after dark, unless one cared to be jostled by drunken troopers, and now it became positively dangerous. Many a night we were woken by the gurgling screams of some poor wretch having his throat cut. Forced to stay indoors, we were subjected most evenings to the carollings of Mrs Yardley, who, accompanied at the piano by a haberdasher from Yorkshire, sang such sentimental ballads as ‘The Soldier’s Tear’ and ‘Yes, Let Me Like a Soldier Fall’. Mercifully, she appeared not to know that one time family favourite, ‘Mother Dear, I am Fading Fast’.
    George too was affected by the atmosphere, though he was touched by something more resonant than the trillings of the Messieri songbird. Before leaving for Constantinople he had sought an interview with the Army Medical Board in Manchester, and offered his services. In spite of possessing the right qualifications and having spent in excess of five years on the surgical wards of the Liverpool Infirmary, he was deemed unsuitable on account of his marital status. No objection was raised to his travelling out as a civilian, nor to his procuring a post for himself at the General Hospitals of Scutari or Gallipoli, but attachment to a regiment was out of the question. Since our arrival in the East he had made no attempt to make enquiries of either such place; when not on the sea-shore with Myrtle, he had busied himself with photography or else disappeared into the Greek quarter of the town with new-found friends. To be fair, he had practised his trade when called upon, and without charge - treating an elderly Greek lady for dropsy, dressing a burn on Mrs Yardley’s arm, lancing a child’s boil, etc.
    Now, he surprised me, for he lost no time in making preparations to visit Scutari. His cause was helped by his recent medical attentions to Mrs Yardley, her gentleman friend, the colonel in the Guards, going out of his way to assist him. It took longer than expected to arrange matters