TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE XLIII

S T A V E

XLIII

She looked out the window like a maid in a tower. Drifts to the shoulder and the city Shut Down. So it appeared. Would Dalrymple come? And why should he? Did she even want him to? A reprieve? An obtrusion from on high?

The storm was the kind to scrap a day, a set piece forcing heads out of windows to Marvel, to hem in adults and pull children out to play. A day one thinks they might never see again, though through a lifetime, they'd see it again and again with unabashed wonder. For the Lucky Ones, the Privileged Ones who had, it was a day to make of it what they will, for the Unlucky who had not – a day to do them in.

Obedience would not be done in.

He was to take her to church. On this they'd agreed, an offering to ease a tension when together for more than an hour, one that had built in the guise of friendly banter, until Obedience, for one, took it all too seriously. "From Molly to Diva," Dalrymple would quip. "Tis a duet at Mount Morris, not the Theatre Royal, Mrs. MacEachran. I doubt Von Knyphausen will notice a particular sweep of the hand." And mimic her gesture. "Is this how she effects a Come?" He'd smirk to Tildon and launch into the bawdy Walking In A Meadowe Greene.

Obedience without response, but would sing over him in the duet. Dalrymple would not have it and she sang all the louder until he would stop and laugh. Tildon became Referee, but more on Dalrymple's side she thought. "Mrs. MacEachran, tis a duet, not a competition – you are supposed to be lovers. You've already won him and need not throttle him with the song. You are his conquest, not the other way 'round." "Yes, Obedience," Dalrymple would add, "do try to quiver." "I will try, Captain, although it will require a deal of acting." "Yes, it will – How fortunate you're pretty. At least you have that." She could've trounced him, but to her chagrin, he Undo her. "Why Mrs. MacEachran don't know Latin? 'Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centrum, deinde usque altera mille, deinde centrum.' (Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then straight on to another thousand, then a hundred)." She'd flush, hearing her lame response . . . whatever it was . . . come out of her like a bystander. "'Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo'," his retort. (I'll bugger you and make you fuck this). She turned to Tildon fuming. "What's he saying?" Tildon would shrug, "Catullus." "Catullus? What's Catullus? Some filthy Latin act?" And then to Dalrymple, "Very smart, you sneering Spark."

Make peace Tildon warned or he'd report it to Colonel Howard. To her surprise Dalrymple stepped in. "No need for that, Maestro. Mrs. MacEachran and I can mend our differences. I cannot battle her all this time to see her punished. I'm as culpable."

So she agreed – Sabbath and church as neutral ground – Truce of God the Medievals called it. But now with the storm she doubted it happening.

She waited. Would he even try to make it? Or forget? Or never intended upon coming? That would be like him. A planned offense . . . "He hasn't the skill," she thought aloud. His is one of blundering – male preoccupation with no mal intent – all the more irritating. A toad. A stone. A clod. And no one seems to mind. I mind, every bit – his intrusions, his observations, the manner in which he kidnaps a room . . . I'll break off his coaching. If he comes, I shall do it. Today, after church, when I'm calmer. Thank God she'd insisted the Italian coaching occur downstairs and always within G's hearing. He'll be surprised and offended . . . Will he care?

An object appeared, coming down the lane like a Cóiste Bodhar. She pressed the window, the cold pane needling her cheek, a horse and sleigh with bells jingling, pushing the children out of the way as they laughed and tossed handfuls of snow at the driver. The snow drifts burst from the horse's churning legs and filled the air with a fine light powder.