home. She lived in the nurses’ home while all the other juniors lived in town. She wasn’t very pretty or very clever and she had pimples, which she called her ‘terrible spots’, so she didn’t have any friends. I told her I was her friend and if she liked she could come into the hills with me. She seemed a bit worried about that and said girls weren’t supposed to go climbing hills, but she’d like to come anyway.
On the Monday evening she came into the ward and put a large brown paper bag on the bed. She brought a finger to her lips, signalling for me to say nothing. ‘Mrs Boxall brought it to the nurses’ home, she says it’s the latest on you know what,’ she whispered, thrilled to be part of the conspiracy but also frightened. Though later when she was feeding me, she said, ‘I did nothing wrong, did I? I just brought in this brown paper packet, that’s all. It’s only polite to do people a favour, isn’t it?’
I had looked into the paper bag which, at first glance, seemed to contain nothing but bananas, but under the bananas was a tightly folded newspaper and a letter from Mrs Boxall. After lights out I stuffed both into my pyjama jacket and walked down the corridor to the lavatories. Taking the letter out, I began to read. It was written in Mrs Boxall’s neat librarian’s hand.
I wondered what sort of test the judge would give me. What if I failed and let Doc down? What if the Lord didn’t give my mother permission for me to see the judge?
But the Lord, with a little help from Mr Andrews who came from one of the oldest and most important families in town, came out in favour of my being a witness at the hearing. The lawyer had pointed out that it was very much in my mother’s interests to clear our family name as the prattle tongues in town might well accuse her of neglect for having allowed me to roam the hills with a German spy.
I was released from hospital on Tuesday and on the following morning Mrs Boxall called round in Charlie, her little Austin Seven, to pick me up and take me down to the magistrates’ court where the military tribunal was to be held. Mr Andrews was waiting for us and so, to my surprise, was Marie.
‘She seems to be the only one who can understand you, Peekay, so we’ve brought her along as interpreter. It was my idea and a good one, even if I say so myself,’ Mrs Boxall declared. Marie was dressed in a freshly starched nurse’s uniform and looked even more scared than I felt.
Mr Andrews left us and we had to wait a long while, sitting on a bench in the waiting room. Finally, he came back and said the judge would see us privately in the magistrates’ chambers and, depending on how things went, I wouldn’t be required as a witness.
None of this made very much sense to me but we had to walk down a long corridor of cork lino that smelt of floor wax. A lady with a trolley full of teacups went rattling past us and she stared at me. I was not yet used to people seeing me with my jaw wired up. I looked into every open door in the hope that I might see Doc. We finally reached a door with Magistrate in gold lettering on a square of polished wood screwed to the door. Mr Andrews knocked on it softly and a voice said ‘Come!’ and we followed him in. Sitting behind a desk was a man wearing a proper uniform with a tie and polished leather Sam Browne belt. He stood up when we entered and I could see he wore long pants and a revolver at his side. Mr Andrews introduced him to us as Colonel de Villiers. There were four chairs arranged in front of the desk and we all sat down. My notes were on the desk on top of a file that was tied with purple tape. Colonel de Villiers put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles which slid down his nose as he looked up so he looked over the top of them as he spoke.
‘Well now, young man, Mr Andrews here tells me that you are bright enough to have written these notes.’ He tapped my notes with his forefinger. ‘How old are you?’
‘Seven, sir,’ I rasped at the back of my throat. The colonel, Mr Andrews and Mrs Boxall turned to look at Marie. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. Her whole face appeared to be frozen in terror, then two big tears squeezed out of her eyes. She tried again but still nothing came out. I held up seven fingers to the colonel who looked stern and cleared his throat.
‘I see, seven. Well, you write very well for a seven-year-old. I think someone must have helped you, don’t you?’ I looked at Marie who was sniffing into a hankie Mrs Boxall had handed her. I shook my head. ‘Umph!’ the colonel grunted and looked at Mr Andrews. ‘These alleged swear-words the sergeant is claimed to have said, they would seem an unlikely part of the vocabulary of a seven-year-old child who, you tell me, has a religious background. I am also a little surprised at his knowledge of Latin,
Mrs Boxall said, ‘The professor is an amateur botanist of considerable ability and the child has been trained by him to take punctilious notes. Besides, he has almost perfect recall.’
‘Hmm… a bit too perfect if you ask me, madam,’ the colonel said, as though talking to himself. I could see Mrs Boxall bristle.
‘He did it all himself, I seen him do it in the hospital,’ Marie said suddenly, her voice quaking with terror.’
‘Well that’s one good thing, little Miss Florence Nightingale has found her voice,’ the colonel said. ‘Perhaps we can get on with the interview now?’ He turned to me. ‘Son, I want you to tell me the whole story again, just as it happened.’ I repeated the story although Marie had no chance of pronouncing the Latin names of the two succulents which I then referred to as, ‘blue chalksticks and another succulent genus which I can write for you, if you want?’ The colonel pushed a piece of paper across the desk and I wrote the Latin names on it. ‘Extraordinary, it seems I owe you an apology, madam,’ he said dipping his head at Mrs Boxall. When we got to the swear-words Marie refused to say them. ‘Please, sir, I can’t say them words, I’ve never said words like that in my whole life,’ she said fearfully but with absolute resolve.
The colonel would cut in every once in a while and ask me questions such as, ‘What was the colour of the sergeant’s cap and belt?’ They were all questions which involved some minor piece of detailing, but I had no trouble answering them.
When I was finished, he told Marie that she had done an excellent job and she blushed crimson and the pimples stood out on her face. Then he turned to Mr Andrews.
‘The child’s statement coincides almost precisely with that of the prisoner. We have already determined that neither has been in a position to compare notes nor to have a third party co-ordinate a defence. Mrs Boxall did try to see him but was not allowed to do so. The prisoner has been visited and interviewed only by military personnel and I am satisfied that the incident took place as the boy has alleged. I am quite sure the court will find for the defendant in all matters except one. I will ask that the charges of assault to a minor and attempted escape be withdrawn. Quite obviously the striking of the Provost sergeant was under severe emotional provocation and the court is likely to look upon it as such. Both the army and the prison reports state that the prisoner smelt heavily of whisky but we can quite easily ascertain whether his coat sleeve is stained.’
He pulled at the purple tape on the file and opened it up. Inside were two folded copies of the
