“Has there been an accident? I do hope none of the poor oxen are hurt.”
The trouble seemed to be coming from the front of the procession, where bodies of men had pushed through from the side streets and were endeavouring to head the procession back. The brass band stopped, faltered and broke off, scattering before the assault and feebly defending their heads with trombones and kettle drums.
“Quick, Sarah, your camera. I don’t know what in the world is happening but I must get a snap of it. Of course the sun would be in the wrong place.”
“Try with the very small stop.”
“I do pray they come out; I had such bad luck with those very interesting films of Cape Town that the wretched man ruined on the boat. You know it looks like quite a serious riot. Where are the po-lice?”
The attackers having swept the band out of the road and underfoot, were making easy work of the High School Orphans; they were serious young men armed with dubs, the athletic group, as the ladies learned later, of Nestorian Catholic Action, muscu-lar Christians who for many weeks now had been impatiently biding their time to have a whack at the modernists and Jews who were behind the new movement.
Down went the embroidered banner as the girls in their pinafores ran for safety between the legs of the onlookers.
The main focus of the assault was now the triumphal car immediately in front of the Hotel de I’Empereur Seth. At the first sign of disturbance the members of the tableau had abandoned their poses and huddled together in alarm; now without hesitation they forsook their properties and bundled out of the waggon into the street. The Christian party swarmed onto it and one of them began addressing the crowd. Dame Mildred snapped him happily as he turned in their direction, arms spread, mouth wide open, in all the fervour of democratic leadership.
Hitherto except for a few jabs with trumpets and drumsticks, the attackers had met with no opposition. Now however the crowd began to take sides; individual scuffles broke out among them and a party of tribesmen from up country, happily welcoming this new diversion in a crowded day, began a concerted charge to the triumphal car round which there was soon raging a contest of I’m-king-of-the- castle game. The Nestorian orator was thrown over-board and a fine savage in lion skins began doing a jig in his place. The patient oxen stood unmoved by the tumult.
“Quick, Sarah, another roll of films. What can the police be thinking of?”
Then authority asserted itself.
From the direction of the royal box flashed out a ragged volley of rifle shots. A bullet struck the parapet with a burst of splintered concrete and ricochetted, droning, over the ladies’ heads. Another volley and something slapped on to the iron roof a few yards from where they sat. Half comprehending, Dame Mildred picked up and examined the irregular disc of hot lead. Shrill wails of terror rose from the street below and then a clattering of horses and oxen. Without a word spoken Dame Mildred and Miss Tin rolled to cover.
The parapet was a low one and the ladies were obliged to lie full length in positions of extreme discomfort. Dame Mildred slid out her arm for a cushion and hastily withdrew it as a third burst of firing broke out as though on purpose to frustrate her action. Presently silence fell, more frightening than the tumult. Dame Mildred spoke in an awed whisper.
“Sarah, that was a bullet.”
“I know. Do be quiet or they’ll start again.”
For twenty minutes by Miss Tin’s wrist watch the two ladies lay in the gutter, their faces almost touching the hot, tarnished iron of the roof. Dame Mildred shifted onto her side.
“Oh, what is it, Mildred?”
“Pins and needles in my left leg. I don’t care if I am shot.”
Dim recollections of some scouting game played peaceably in what different circumstances among Girl Guides in the bracken of Epping, prompted Dame Mildred to remove her topee and, holding it at arm’s length, expose it over the edge of their rampart. The silence of the stricken field was unbroken. Slowly, with infinite caution, she raised her head.
“For heaven’s sake, take care, Mildred. Snipers-.”
But everything was quiet. At length she sat up and looked over. From end to end the street was silent and utterly deserted. The strings of flags hung limp in the afternoon heat. The banner of the Amurath High School lay spread across the way, dis-hevelled and dusty from a thousand footsteps but still flaunting its message bravely to the heavens, WOMEN OF TOMORROW DEMAND AN EMPTY CRADLE. The other banner lay crumpled in the gutter. Only one word was visible in the empty street. STERILITY pleaded in orange and green silk to an unseeing people.
“I think it is all over.”
The ladies sat up and stretched their cramped legs, dusted themselves a little, straightened their hats and breathed deeply of the fresh air. Dame Mildred retrieved her camera and wound on the film. Miss Tin shook out the pillows and looked for food. The olives were dry and dull skinned, the bread crisp as biscuit and gritted with dust.
“Now what are we going to do? I’m thirsty and I think one of my headaches is coming on.’
Regular steps of marching troops in the street below.
“Look out. They’re coming again.”
The two ladies slid back under cover. They heard the grounding of rifle butts, some unintelligible or-ders, marching steps proceeding down the street. Inch by inch they emerged again.
“Some of them are still there. But I think it’s all right.”
A picket of Guards squatted round a machine gun on the pavement opposite.
“I’m going down to find something to drink.”
They rolled back the stone from the trap door and descended into the silent hotel. The sightseers had left their bedrooms. There was no one about on either floor.
