A Postillion Struck by Lightning

Author:Dirk Bogarde
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2014-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

“Well!” said Lally one evening while she was sewing Cashes labels into all my shirts. “Now we have a new brother and a new grandfather. Whatever next, I wonder! And you mark my words, things always go in threes. They always come in threes, you see if I lie.”

Because she absolutely never ever lied to us or evaded any question, we took her very seriously. One never knew when she might be right. Sometimes, like Ilfracombe, we found out that she was wrong, and that instead of Wales on which she insisted, it was in Devon, but those were very slight irregularities. We never got fobbed off with a non-answer. We always got a Fact. Even inaccurate was better than none at all or a “Don’t bother me now I’m busy” or “Look it up for yourself, it’s in a book.” Always an answer. Even if it did mean having to check from time to time, just for safety’s sake.

“Does a postillion blow his trumpet on a coach?” I asked my father. We were walking down the lane to the quarry-garage.

“Nonsense. He’s the rider on the near horse if you’ve only got two for the coach; he’s the driver.”

“What happens if he gets struck by lightning then?”

My father laughed. “I wouldn’t care to be in the coach, that’s all I can say. For God’s sake, turn your feet out, you walk like a penguin.”

These weren’t serious inaccuracies, easily checked after all, and as Lally said, Devon and Wales were both West so we were at least in the right direction.

She had our complete confidence whatever mistakes might be made, and therefore when she said about “coming in threes” I felt uneasy for what next might befall us. I had rather counted on the Scotland Trip as one of the three, but she seemed not to, so I worriedly awaited the final blow.

It came in the form of a letter to my father from the Aleford’s Estate Manager. The Alefords owned the Court Farm and all the land around it. They had decided to retire from farming and move away. The Cottage would be up for sale at the auction in December next. The house and one acre. As a separate lot.

We had no idea, Elizabeth and I, that we did not own the Cottage. No idea that we merely rented it by the year from the rather jolly family down at the Court. It was ours completely. We had, it seemed, had it for ever and ever, and every flint and tile belonged to us. The total shock of the truth was far worse than brothers or grandfathers or even a violent change of school. To think that the Cottage was no longer ours, that in fact it never had been except for a weekly payment of seven shillings, was unthinkable. We were struck dumb with horror and grief. A grief which was silent and therefore all the more irritating to our elders. Lally was gentle and patient. She didn’t

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