My Lords, Ladies and Marjorie by Beaton M. C

Author:Beaton, M. C. [Beaton, M. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781472101396
Publisher: Constable and Robinson
Published: 1981-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

Of the party that set out for Gospel Oak the next day, Marjorie was the only one who was out of spirits. Charlie-the-coachman had a new coat and so did Charlie-the-horse. Both seemed overjoyed to see her. Marjorie felt miserable. She slumped in the corner of the growler and stared out with unseeing eyes as they jolted and rattled and rumbled.

The sad fact was that Marjorie was still deeply in love with Lord Philip with all her emotions although her brain screamed at her that she was being silly.

He did not care for her at all. Worse than that, he must think her fast. The terrible tyranny of the class barrier reared itself in Marjorie’s head. Perhaps to him it had been like philandering with a servant girl. And she had thought he had meant to marry her! And, horrors, he knew it! He had backed away from her like a shying horse.

Number 14 Burnham Road, Gospel Oak, was little better than Peter Street. It lay in that section of north London near the bottom end of Hampstead Heath. The anarchists’ flat proved to be in the basement this time. Phyllis had seen her arriving and popped her greasy head up the area steps to hail her. Phyllis did not seemed thrilled to see Marjorie but led the way into a damp room whose walls had inexpertly been painted a flaming red.

There was a certain tension in the air and the anarchists did not seem as harmless as they had before.

There were even chairs to sit on.

Tony pulled forward one of these and motioned Marjorie to sit down.

He turned to face the room. “Brothers and sisters,” he said in a loud voice, “Rosie has proved she is worthy of belonging to our fellowship.” With the exception of Phyllis, the others nodded. Phyllis thought sourly that Marjorie was much too finely dressed for a parlormaid. Her skirt and blouse were very plain but they were of expensive material and her jaunty little felt hat was a miracle of the milliner’s art.

There was a rickety gate-legged table in the middle of the room, covered with a shabby velvet cloth. Tony walked solemnly toward it. “Rose, before we tell you our plans, we will show you our prize.”

With the air of a painter unveiling his masterpiece, he whipped back the cloth.

Marjorie stared.

At first sight it looked like a cheap metal cashbox with the lid open. Marjorie rose to her feet and walked to the table and looked down. She had never seen a bomb before but somehow she knew exactly what it was.

Packed as neatly as a Fortnum and Mason picnic hamper were a cheap alarm clock, a pistol, several detonators. Cakes of dynamite were neatly arranged round the sides.

Hoping against hope that she might be wrong, she asked, “What is it?”

“A bomb, you eeejit,” sneered Phyllis.

“Joseph made it,” said Tony proudly. “Did his training in Ireland, he did.”

Everyone except Marjorie began to clap and Joseph stood up and made them a bow.

“So you have a bomb,” said Marjorie, trying to speak calmly.

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