Hello
Here is Part 3 of the story.
Please read Part One Here and Part Two Here to make sense of things.
Once again Eunice sheathed the present and returned to 1926 and the scented alchemy of steam, tobacco and heavily polished wood. Her mind’s eye retrieved the sight of locomotives arriving and departing, producing great plumes of steam in their imperious wake. Scurrying porters moved luggage, eager for healthy tips from grateful customers. Men touched the brim of their hats as a mark of respect and women wore great dollops of headwear, nestling on lavender scented hair.
Two boys, of a similar age to her were selling newspapers. “General Strike imminent. Mine owners refuse to back down. Troops placed on standby.” People hand over a penny to the boys for a paper, reading the headlines as they walked away.
Her father spoke, “Come along Euni, we don’t want to miss our train now do we?” She felt his powerful grip clasp her dainty, gloved fingers guiding her to the Platform. It was the same grip that had provided so much comfort in those long nights fighting the Polio. She was sure that it was only Father’s strength, seeping into her that kept her from death.
Now after a slow, painful rehabilitation, where she had inhabited a world of darkened rooms with only the slow languid mechanical language of clocks for company, the trip to Scotland was to be her first engagement with the outside world. The calliper attached to her right leg to support her weakened limb, was the only visible trace of her illness.
The endured isolation and calliper had made her self-conscious, leading to a diffident manner in company, anxious to prevent her lameness drawing attention to herself.
“Look at the cripple!” one of newspaper sellers shouted after Eunice. In an instant both boys began a chorus of, “Cripple, Cripple!”
There was a malevolence etched on the boys faces, deepened by the shadows cast by the gloomy station lighting. Salty tears of shame welled in her eyes.
“Cripple! Cripple!”
The Policeman was a burly creation. Probably a veteran of the trenches, Passchendaele or the Somme – she would never know. But she was grateful for the summary justice he meted out to the boys in the form of swift clips round the back of their heads, applied with a ferocity that knocked both boys’ caps from their heads. She saw the policeman mouth admonishment but didn’t hear the words.
Her father nodded to the Copper who touched the brim of his helmet. Neither men spoke.
“Don’t listen to them Euni.” Her father said as he bent down to comfort her.
“But why are they so cruel Daddy?”
A look of stale anger ran across his face, “I do not know my dear. A war has been fought and brave men sacrificed their lives so that these cruelties should persist. By rights I should be entitled to thrash the little beggars but alas there are laws preventing me from doing so now. So much death for so little gain -”
She was startled back to the present by a drunk’s basted features appearing before her, “You haven’t got ten pence for a cup of tea have you?”
“Certainly not, my advice to you is to get a haircut and wear a tie. That will stand you in far better stead when seeking gainful employment!”
Francis, still struggling with the luggage also turned down the beggar, but wondered if begging could be a useful source of additional income.
“Thanks for nothing!” the drunk shouted as he returned to a companion, who was arguing with a nearby waste bin. “No fuckin manners these days.” He took a deep slug from his can of cider before continuing with his soliciting.
The noise and movement on the Station concourse surprised Eunice. The sight of so many foreign people unnerved her. She had read of the growth in the ethnic population and had warmed to Enoch Powell’s words in his famous speech. But this?
She wondered how Great Uncle Percy, the man responsible for so much of the D’aubisson family fortune through his mining interests in The Cape, Botswana and Tobacco in Rhodesia, would have considered talking to a black person on an equal footing. A large oil painting of Percy dating from the 1880’s hung in Eunice’s dining room. He was dressed in the garb of a great hunter. Slung across his right shoulder was the Martini Henry rifle he used in the Zulu wars and as a further reminder of his military days, a Royal Engineers lanyard lay across his right breast. He stood on the pelt of a Lion and rested his left foot on its head, staring into the distance with a proud confident swagger, every inch the son of Empire. A young black boy stood in the foreground proffering him a plain wooden beaker. In the background numerous scenes of Great Game hunting were depicted with brave Victorian gentlemen taking aim at a variety of wildlife.
To this day Eunice remained fearful of the painting as it hung over her during mealtimes. Its dark hue and bloodthirsty subject matter she found disturbing and the great black mutton chops Percy sported in the canvas raised in her a sense of bafflement and inexplicable dread. That and the surprise still evident on the long dead Lion’s face.
