Free A Postillion Struck by Lightning by Dirk Bogarde

peeled some moss off the word “resteth” with a bit of twig and Angelica did her cross and bob and came out too and squinted into the sunlight.
    â€œI don’t think it’s really true, that story,” she said, sitting down beside me. “I expect it is just a legend or something, don’t you?”
    I said I didn’t know but it was true anyway, and we’d heard it lots of times and that when they got the bodies out of the church they were just ashes and they put them into a box together and took them down in a cart to the village, all mixed together like Hundreds and Thousands, and Angelica laughed a barking laugh meaning I was silly. So I shut up. But my sister came out and lay in the grass. “Now what shall we do?” she asked crossly. No one spoke. The day was very still. Not even a little breeze to make the poppies nod. Grasshoppers were clicking away and a pigeon was cooing up in one of the elms. It was the sort of morning for doing nothing on … so we just sat still. I went on picking away at “resteth” and found “in” under a lump of yellow lichen. My sister sat up, put her face to the sun.
    â€œLally said the murder was just passion. The vicar was so angry, he just hit the man with the candlestick without even thinking. He was so angry. Like when He …,” nodding her closed eyes towards me, “stuck a knife in my back last Easter.”
    Angelica looked at me with her mouth open, and her eyebrows went up into her fringe.
    â€œYou didn’t!”
    â€œHe jolly well did. Ask him.”
    â€œYou didn’t?”
    I went on scratching at “in” and moved on to “for”.
    â€œYes he did. You tell her or I’ll show her the place.”
    â€œYes I did,” I said. “I did and I’m glad. It taught her a lesson.”
    â€œHumph,” said my sister and opened her eyes.
    â€œBut why did you?” said Angelica.
    â€œBecause I was reading his silly old ‘Larks’ before he did.”
    â€œAnd it was brand new and no one had looked at it before,” I said.
    â€œBut that wasn’t a terrible thing to do.”
    â€œIt was to him,” said my sister. “He stuck the knife right in, just here,” and she twisted about to show the place on her back.
    â€œOnly I can look at my ‘Larks’ for the first time. I saved it up all the way from Bakers and then when we got home I had to go and get some water and while I was gone she pinched it from the table and started to read it, and she scrunched it all up.” I was shaking with anger at the thought of it and the bit of twig snapped in two.
    My sister snorted with laughter and lay down on her back.
    â€œHe ran away, didn’t you?” she said. “He just ran away and hid all night under the bridge down by the river while I was practically dying.”
    â€œYou were not dying, it was a titchy little scratch. I’ve seen it,” I said.
    Angelica suddenly got up and stood looking at us with her beaky nose. “My mother said that you can’t believe a word you say in your family. You all tell terrible stories because you are too romantic. She says it’s because your mother was an actress and your father is a journalist and you just don’t know what is real and what isn’t.”
    We both looked at her very slowly. My sister sat up. And I said, “Well this part is true, and she has got a scar and you can ask Lally and I got a thrashing with a paint brush from my father, because actually he is an Artist, and the story about the murder is true because everyone knows it is … and so that’s that.”
    My sister got up and pulled her socks out of her sandals where they had got all ruckled. “It’s all true,” she said. “And if youdon’t watch out, he might stick a knife into you too. He can do anything! … He once made Betty Engles climb a ladder and lit a bonfire