back seat oor Kornies
back seat
en
Any of the seats in the rear of an automobile.
Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies
esedh geyn
Geskatte vertalings
Vertoon algoritmies gegenereerde vertalings
Prenteboek
voorbeelde
Advanced filtering
Voorbeelde moet herlaai word.
back seat
Kas yw genev an dra na.langbot langbot
The Sergeant vaulted into the driver’s side of the jeep and took the wheel. He took off with a chirp of tyres on concrete. The dishevelled Ingrid sat beside him and another jeep followed us. Ingrid leaned over the back of the seat and yelled at me: “We’re gonna need you for this next bit. We’re gonna try to retrieve David from the cells.” Yes! My adrenalin kicked right in. The Sergeant leaned over his own seat and also yelled at me, as if to emphasise what Ingrid had just said: “And no more of this chicken-shit falling-over garbage neither!” “Yessir! Er, no sir!” I replied in my best available military fashion. My legs would definitely work next time I needed them. The military prison was only a short jeep-drive away from the infirmary. It was a modest but sturdy wooden structure, circa 1940. It never housed more than a few prisoners, mostly guys who’d gotten drunk in town and needed to cool off – or soldiers who had ‘lost track of the time’ and gone AWOL (absent without leave). The prison had never previously held a zombie – or a zombie’s brother, for that matter. It was neither fortified nor particularly secure – and had never needed to be. The two jeeps arrived in a cloud of dust and screeched to a halt. The driver of the second jeep stayed put. The Sergeant, driver of the first jeep, leapt from his seat and ran to the guards standing at the door of the prison building. “Stand down, men,” he barked, as they started to salute him. “This is urgent security business.” They both looked straight ahead and snapped to attention, rifles at the ready. The more senior of them (a corporal) said: “Sorry, sir. We’re not permitted to take orders from any of the U.S. NCO’s (non-commissioned officers).”
An re ma yw teg.langbot langbot
CHARLES AND PAUL “Well, at the very least, old chap, your brother’s table manners are appalling.” This, in Charlespeak, was a dire insult, the worst he could summon in the circumstances. “Sorry, Charles, there was nothing personal, you understand. He just thought you were lunch,” said I as apologetically as I could. David loitered in the background and repeated the ‘disgust-grunt’ at the suggestion of eating Charles (which, fortunately, Charles did not understand.) “Very well, Oliver, Our Royal Majesty shall overlook this most egregious insult to our person,” said Charles, adopting his most haughty manner. “We shall speak no more of it.” “And really, Oliver,” Charles continued. “Your Roundheads have been behaving in the most beastly way ...” My Roundheads? “...Yfaith, my fine young Cavaliers have been treated very poorly, very poorly indeed.” His Cavaliers? I looked to Paul (whom I now recognised). Paul had emerged from the crypt once he realised David’s attack was over. “You would be Oliver Cromwell?” he asked tentatively. I shrugged. That’s what Charles had always called me. “And, may I take it that your brother has naturally become a general in the Roundhead army?” Behind Charles’ back, Paul nodded and smiled in an exaggerated fashion, suggesting that I ‘play along’. He pointed to Charles, now seated and recovering from his ordeal at David’s hands.
Res yw dhymm dybri yn lent.langbot langbot
It was, like all the vehicles, already pointed towards the entrance gate. I presumed this was so that the soldiers, like firemen, could spring into action at a moment’s notice. In any event, this meant that no backing and turning was required. We just needed to push forwards and gain speed. As we neared the gate, David jumped into the passenger seat at my command – and I slid into the driver’s seat, leaving the door ajar. We were travelling at around 15 kph and I could see the guard, still slumped in his chair as we cruised past. The ignition was on. I was ready to slip the clutch to start the motor whenever necessary. We bumped over the apron of the driveway, turned right and were fifty metres down College Crescent before I needed to do so. As the engine coughed into life, I glanced in the rear-view mirror – the guard had not moved. He was still slumped at his post. We had needed this stroke of luck because, according to my figuring, we were now behind schedule – and we still had a train to catch.
Yma’n losow ow tevi.langbot langbot
I realised immediately that I’d been overly optimistic – I had thought he might remember, in the deep recesses of his ‘mind’ that he had once been the family’s resident card-sharp. Apparently not – poker was out of the question. Maybe ‘snap’? No, I thought, I would start at an even more basic level than that – just as you would start with a small child. I would spread the cards out in front of him, grouping them in their suits and lining them up according to their numbers and images. Did David still have the capacity for pattern recognition with his degraded sight and his degraded mind? David and I sat cross-legged on the floor, facing each other in the semi- darkness of the crypt. He seemed to be watching me carefully as I lay out the four rows of cards in front of him: all the diamonds, all the hearts, all the spades and all the clubs in numerical order. What did he see? I sat silently as he seemed to move his head slowly in order to scan across the rows of cards – and back again. He started to make little grunting noises and then, with a roar and a violent sweep of his hand, scattered the deck across the floor. He put his face up close to mine and roared angrily once more – and then retreated to his makeshift bed and turned his back on me. “That went well,” I thought to myself, believing the opposite. I remained seated (and stunned) on the floor – but, within a short time, started to reconsider what had just happened. “If the cards truly meant nothing to him,” I wondered, “why the sudden display of anger?” Why the pointed retreat from me? That was not mere boredom or irritation. Had the cards triggered some painful memory? Was he suddenly aware of what he had now lost? I would have to wait and see. I was not going to get any more out of him today.
A wodhes neuvya?langbot langbot
He seemed offended. He walked with me back to the front of the office. When we reached the reception area, he passed his eyes over the numerous zombies which were seated there. “Mr Tremelling?” he called. An elderly zombie stood and walked towards his office. But I caught his arm before he left the area himself. “But, sir, all your staff are dead. They’re rotting on the floor.” “Nonsense!” he retorted. “Staff morale in this office has never been higher.” “And, as I’ve said, all your clients are zombies.” He was incensed. “Young man, please leave. You’re upsetting my clients.” I looked towards the other zombies, still seated. Were they upset? Difficult to say. Certainly, David seemed very happy. The solicitor left, walked along the corridor with his client and closed his office door behind him. I decided to leave as well and called David to come with me. He was reluctant to go. Why would we leave all these lovely people? Then, I heard singing from the rear of building. Another survivor. The singing was loud and out of tune. The words were poorly enunciated. I decided to go back down the corridor to investigate – and to leave David to his new friends for the moment. The singing stopped and a racist tirade began. The subjects of the tirade seemed to be anyone who was not white. Australian aboriginals were especially ‘favoured’ by the speaker. I arrived at this other survivor’s office. He sat amongst huge piles of legal files and empty wine bottles. He saw me and started singing again. Then he stopped abruptly. “Are you Jewish?” he shouted. “No,” I answered quietly.
My a skrifas lyther dhe Jim.langbot langbot
I consulted David on the choice of movie to watch. There were five cans of 35mm reels held in the projection room – all of them current or near current movies. I was not particularly attracted to any of them. David seemed untroubled and, apparently, was happy to leave the choice to me. So, I went back down the narrow stairs and hunted around in the manager’s office – to see if there were any other cans of film lying about. Yes, there were indeed two other cans of film, lurking there under a layer of dust. One was a 1950’s movie called “The Man Who Never Was”. I’d never heard of it – then. So, I rejected it out of hand. The other was a real relic from the 30’s: “The White Zombie”. I’d never heard of that one either but, hey, with a name like that, what choice did I have? Synchronicity! I seated David in the theatre – in the rarefied heights of the ‘Dress Circle’, of course – though, in truth, it was just as shabby as the rest of the theatre. (The red velour seating had taken a real pounding at the hands of the students – they did tend to get a bit boisterous in the action scenes.) Then I ducked back into the projection room to start up the first reel. Okay, it was a pretty corny, old movie but it passed the time – and it was a lot better than either being besieged by zombies in the Baillieu or living with them (and their rotten cat) in the basement of the Union building. By the end of the movie, David had lapsed into a catatonic state – voluntarily, I think. What a critic! So, I left him to his Dress Circle catatonia (if that’s the right word) and grabbed one of the other movies and watched that one, too. Hey! A double feature (with a large packet of jaffas stolen from the snack bar.) Who could ask for more?
Ple’th os ta trigys lemmyn?langbot langbot
But this was not the case – and I was perfectly capable of driving this thing, at low speed and in low gears, for the required distance. For you see, during my previous Summer holidays, I had worked in the yard at IPEC (a now-defunct trucking firm). I was, of course, only paid to load trucks but, from time to time, I was called upon to shift trucks in the yard to get them out of the way of essential operations. Shit! I knew quite enough to shift this baby – at 5 mph or so. Having moved the somewhat tattered driver’s seat (the driver must have been a much bigger man than I was – and tough on the fabric) and then, having re- acquainted myself with the basic controls, I crunched the gears loudly and we were off – at a crawl. I had time to try the radio – still no broadcasts worth listening to. No news. No information. What were ‘the authorities’ up to and why weren’t they here, rescuing us? After an uncommonly long time, we reached the intersection of Lygon Street and Princes Street. I executed a right-hand turn, taking down a traffic sign in the process – no matter. Then, after a further crawl towards College Crescent, I decided to abandon the idea of actually entering the cemetery. (Perhaps I wasn’t quite as good at driving trucks as I had thought.) Meantime, I caught David, in the (much less shabby) passenger seat, waving at the numerous zombies who had stopped at the side of the road to observe the spectacle of my miserable driving. Cheeky bastard! None of them waved back – I guess waving isn’t a regular zombie-thing. (And David was, and is, no regular zombie.) I pulled the truck up outside the main entrance of the cemetery and ‘parked’ in the middle of the road. (There was, of course, no other traffic to be obstructed.) I left it idling. “Come on, Dave,” I said. “We’re going to get Paul and Charles.”
I eth dhe byskessa.langbot langbot
David and I were sitting towards the rear – we were not so studious. David abruptly turned and looked to the rear exits: both open and both so far unblocked by the things. “Get out the rear,” he yelled. “The back doors are open.” It was a good call, a very good call. And enough of the students heard it above the screaming and mayhem that, almost as one, they surged towards the rear of the auditorium. Hitherto unathletic students literally leapt over the seats and desks and fled, without a backward glance, while the beasts busied themselves, feasting on their victims in the front rows. But not Dave. One of the students, a mature-age student, had left a guitar behind in his haste to escape. David seized it and threw it to me. “Here! You know what to do.” I didn’t, of course – but I soon learned, once David himself seized a hockey stick, similarly left by one of the girls. (Yes, strange but true: a guitar and a hockey stick in a French lecture.) David raised the hockey stick and brought it down hard on the head of one of those creatures as it rushed at him. It didn’t get up again. I did likewise with the guitar as another one ran at me. This one also went down but the guitar shattered on impact with a sickening twang. I would not be taking any of the others out with this particular ‘axe’. David’s hockey stick was, however, not so fragile. He wielded it again and again. I’m not sure how many he felled but, by the time he struck his last beast with the now-bloodied hockey stick, there was only one other left in the lecture theatre. The problem was that this remaining creature was, at the time, engaged in hand-to-hand combat with me – and I was rapidly losing the contest. Dead people are so enormously strong, aren’t they? David did not have a clear shot at him because my body was between him and the beast. So, he tried to push me aside to create an opportunity to strike at it. As he pushed me, it lunged forward – and, momentarily, its teeth sank into his left forearm.
Fatel yw an gewer ena?langbot langbot
AN OFFICIOUS MAJOR I arranged some of the other pieces of luggage that were in the van and propped myself up against the coffin. I could hear David’s continuous grumbling but was not particularly troubled. The baggage car was extremely noisy and we were sharing it with no-one else. “So, my dear brother, grumble away!” I thought – but didn’t say so. The train was typical of the time – some of this type are still running on Victoria’s country rail-lines. A diesel locomotive with a string of faded red passenger carriages but only one allocated to ‘First Class’ (bigger, comfier seats, a bit quieter overall). The train was slow, lumbering and the carriages swayed from side to side as they made their way along tracks that had (then) not been upgraded since the Great Depression of the 1930’s. Excellent ‘Susso’ work back then, redoing the train tracks – almost as good as working on the Great Ocean Road or the Ivanhoe Boulevard. But I digress! I’m showing my age now. Confabulation is such a curse – to everyone but the confabulator! Anyway, from my personal point of view, everything was going swimmingly – until we reached Kyneton station, about an hour out of the City. “Stow my luggage in that car, Private – and be snappy about it!” These were the first words I heard come from the Major. The door of the baggage car slid open and a timorous private entered, weighed down by numerous pieces of luggage – obviously not his own. He did his best to place them inside the carriage but managed to drop one case, hitherto held under his arm. It fell to the floor with a loud thud. “You imbecile! I’ll have you court-martialled ...” And so on, in that vein, for a full two minutes – the exact time of the scheduled stop at the station. The private stood to attention and absorbed the vile invective that came from his superior officer: terrified and silent. “Get off, you fool!” he yelled at the private – who did so immediately and without question, as the train started to move. However, it was too late for the Major himself to alight from the baggage car and take his place among the other passengers (presumably, in the first-class section of the train.)
Ny allav vy redya.langbot langbot
10 sinne gevind in 3 ms. Hulle kom uit baie bronne en word nie nagegaan nie.