The Landower Legacy Read Online Free PDF Page B

this as the beginning of a new existence when Olivia and I became our mother’s dearest friends; we accompanied her on expeditions such as this one which she and the Captain between them conspired to arrange for our delight.
    Crowds were beginning to gather in the streets below and now that the procession had passed the streets were no longer closed to traffic.
    “On the return journey from the Abbey to the Palace she will go via Whitehall and the Mall,” said the Captain, “so the rest of the day is ours.”
    “We must not be back too late,” said my mother.
    “My dear, the streets will be impassable just now and will be for some time. We’re safe in our eyrie.”
    We all laughed. Indeed, we were laughing a good deal and at nothing in particular which is perhaps the expression of real happiness.
    The sound of voices below was muted and remote—outside our magic circle. Captain Carmichael talked all the time and we laughed; he made us talk too, and even Olivia did … a little. Our mother seemed like a different person; every now and then she would say “Jock!” in a tone of mock reproof which even Olivia guessed was a form of endearment.
    Jock Carmichael told us about the Army and what it was like to serve in it. He had been overseas many times and expected to go to India. He looked at our mother and a faint sadness touched them both —but that was for the future and seemed too far away to worry about.
    He was an old friend of the family, he told us. “Why, I knew your mother before you were born.” He looked at me when he said that. “And then … I was sent to the Sudan, and I didn’t see any of you for a long time.” He smiled at my mother. “And when I came back it seemed as if I had never been away.”
    Olivia was having difficulty in keeping her eyes open. I felt the same. A dreamy contentment was creeping over me, but I fought hard against sleep, as I did not want to lose a moment of that enchanted afternoon.
    Then the street life burst forth. A hurdy-gurdy had appeared and was playing tunes from The Mikado and The Pirates of Penzance. People started singing and dancing; the hurdy-gurdy was rivalled by a one-man band, a versatile performer who carried pan-pipes fixed under his mouth, a drum on his back—to be beaten by a stick tied to his elbows; cymbals on his drum were clashed by a string attached to his knees; and he carried a triangle. The dexterity with which he performed won the great admiration of all, and the pennies rattled into the hat at his feet.
    There was one man selling pamphlets. “Fifty Glorious Years,” he called. “Read about the Life of Her Majesty the Queen.” There were two gipsy women, dark-skinned with big brass earrings and red bandanna handkerchiefs tied about their heads. “Read your fortune, ladies. Cross the palm with silver and a fine fortune will be yours.” Then came the clown on stilts—a comical figure who made the children scream with delight as he stumped through the crowds, so tall that he could bring his hat right up to the windows. We dropped coins into it; he grinned and bowed—no mean feat on stilts—and hobbled away.
    It was a happy scene—everyone intent on enjoying the day.
    “You see,” said Captain Carmichael, “how impossible it would be to get through the streets just yet.”
    Then the tragedy occurred.
    Two or three horsemen had made a way for themselves through the crowds who good-naturedly allowed them to pass through.
    At that moment another rider came into the square. I knew enough about horses to see at once that he was not in control of the animal. The horse paused a fraction of a second, his ear cocked, and I was sure that the masses of people in the square and the noise they were creating alarmed him.
    He lifted his front legs and swayed blindly; then he lowered his head and charged into the crowd. There was a shout; someone fell. I saw the rider desperately trying to maintain control before he was thrown into the air. There was a