The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Read online

  ‘The Espiegle …’

  ‘Oh yes, let’s not forget HMS Espiegle,’ Harry mocked. ‘The sole representative of His Majesty’s shipping in the Gulf, holed up and surrounded at the mouth of the Karun. The poor blighters on board received the message of “Please you leave the Shatt before 24 hours” when we marched out of Basra 12 days ago. And what orders did they get from the powers above? Wait! The ship is in a worse pigging mess than we are. The Turks could have wiped out the whole bloody countryside for all they or we know by now.’

  ‘The Turks wouldn’t dare attack Europeans or Americans. They’d risk bringing down …’

  ‘The whole of this magnificent Frontier Force on their heads?’ Harry jeered. ‘All 15 officers, and 200 native troops of us.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I bet the 10,000 Turkish troops in Basra are shaking in their boots at the threat we pose.’

  ‘But the Americans …’

  ‘Are neutral, God bless their democratic socks. Your Angela will be safe, which is more than can be said for most of the women in Basra.’

  Peter knew nothing of Harry’s native marriage and wondered which one of the European women Harry was concerned about.

  Lost in calculations as to how long Shalan with his 500 rifles could hold out against the Turks, Harry remained oblivious to Peter’s train of thought.

  Peter thrust a flask at Harry. ‘Brandy? You’ve been up too long to see straight, so you may as well get drunk.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Harry left his chair. ‘Wake me if anything comes up.’ He crossed the derrick-spattered, oil-puddled compound, walked past the sepoys’ barracks, and entered the six by six shed he and Peter shared. Exhausted, he sank down on his camp bed and unlaced his boots. Kicking them off, he stretched on top of the blanket and took a generous swig of brandy, before feeling in his top pocket for the last letter he’d received. The only letter that had reached him since Charles had arrived at Clyneswood and, with the Turkish blockade in place, the only mail he was likely to get for some time.

  Clyneswood, Sunday 9th August 1914

  Dearest Harry,

  Charles has delivered your letter. Congratulations on your marriage.

  He’d spent hours trying work out whether that comment was sarcastic or not.

  As you prophesied, I’ve qualified. You can now address me as Dr Downe, ma’am, instead of dear “Twinnie”, which you know I hate. See what you could have accomplished if you’d studied, instead of played. You can also forget the lectures about the East End. This war has messed up my plans, along with millions of others. People are behaving quite idiotically about the whole affair, especially Charles, who’s desperately trying to get himself assigned to a regiment under orders for France. He says he doesn’t want to “miss out on the fun”.

  I don’t know what fun he’s going to get acting as a target for German bullets. Personally, I won’t be sorry to see him go; he’s been like a bear with six sore heads since he returned. What happened out there to change him into a boor? If you come back in the same foul mood, I promise not to speak to you. Michael wants to join up but Lucy won’t let him. I suppose he has some excuse for wanting to go. Life in the bank must be dreadfully tedious. He and Lucy are getting married next week, much to the delight of Papa, Mama, Uncle John, and Aunt Margaret. I blame myself for not being here to stop it. I’ve tried to talk sense into him. I even asked him if he’s determined to copy every stupid mistake you’ve ever made, but the fool just went bright red and mumbled something about “Lucy wanting to marry quickly, before the war’s over”. Though what that has to do with anything escapes me.

  I wish you were here. You could always handle Michael. Of course, he’s heading for disaster. I don’t have to tell you what Lucy’s like, or how Michael’s jumping through hoops to try to please the silly girl.

  Papa, Uncle Reid, and Uncle John are frightfully busy touring the county trying to recruit “volunteers” for Kitchener’s New Army. I had the most fearful row with Papa when he threatened to sack any man on the estate who didn’t volunteer. He hasn’t done it yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Both Papa and Uncle Reid are carrying their roles of gallant ex-officers to the extreme. They’ve offered their services to the War Office, though what the War Office is supposed to do with a couple of garrulous geriatrics I don’t know. Mama, Aunt Margaret, and, of course, darling Lucy have put the war charities, and “collections for gallant little Belgium” at the top of their list of priorities. What are the “Sisters of the Abyss” and “Clothes for Naked African Savages” going to do without their patronage?

  You’re best off out of it, Harry. I’ll be glad when I leave Clyneswood next week for Charing Cross. I’m trying to go before the wedding, but I doubt Papa will let me. The only good thing about this war is the shortage of doctors it’s created. I’ve been appointed to the surgical staff. Me! A mere woman. That should tell you how desperate things are. The post was Tom’s, but the idiot’s already in the New Army, and as they’re unlikely to allow John to resign, that makes two Dr Masons out of the civilian medical circuit.

  Thank God you’re safe in Mesopotamia. That’s one less thing for me to worry about. Is Mesopotamia as biblical as it sounds? Give my regards to your wife, dear brother; she must be an exceptional woman to put up with you. Tell her, should she ever decide to visit Clyneswood; I for one (probably the only one) will be at the door to greet her. Take care, Harry.

  Your ever-loving sister Dr Downe (ma’am)

  P.S. Do write and tell me what John’s wife is like. All we can get out of Charles is she’s pretty.

  Refolding the letter, Harry replaced it in his pocket. Georgiana’s caustic humour shone through every line. She was right, of course, especially about Michael being a fool. What on earth had possessed him to ask Lucy to marry him? Or had the prompting come from Lucy? If she’d heard about Furja from Charles, she’d probably decided that the younger brother was better than no brother at all. And, if she was more politically astute than Georgiana, who’d never given a toss about anything global, she might be nurturing hopes that he’d die here in the desert, leaving her to assume the role of mistress apparent of Clyneswood. Something she’d been after since she’d left her dolls and short frocks behind in the nursery.

  And Charles? Was his boorishness due to the news of Emily’s death, or was that bombshell still in the post, waiting to be delivered? Harry turned restlessly on the cot. If only he knew whether Furja was safe. Mitkhal had promised to guard her with his life, but what could he do against a battalion of Turks. And to think he’d left her for this interminable, useless bloody waiting.

  Military convoy at sea out of India, Monday 19th October 1914

  ‘Mason!’ Billy Miles burst into the sick bay where John was lancing a boil on a rating’s backside. Billy stared at the pus-covered lesion and turned puce.

  ‘Not a pretty sight when you’re recovering from seasickness.’ John reached for an enamel bowl of swabs.

  ‘No …’

  ‘If you’re going to vomit, vomit in the slop bucket, there’s a good chap.’ John mopped up the blood-streaked pool of matter. ‘You wanted me, Miles?’

  ‘The old man’s just opened the sealed orders.’ Billy slid into a chair.

  ‘I didn’t know there were any.’

  ‘Where’ve you been? Everyone knew about them; they were marked “not to be opened until three days out from port”. Guess what?’

  ‘Suppose you tell me.’ John irrigated the site of the boil with salt water.

  ‘We’re not going to France.’

  ‘Then where are we going?’

  ‘East, as I suspected from the supplies that were loaded. Some ghastly hole called Bahrain. According to the ship’s captain, it’s an island, 300 miles from the mouth of the Shatt-el-Arab. The whole of Force D has been ordered there. Force A, lucky sods, really are sailing to France, and to think you got transferred at the last minute.’

  ‘What are we going to do in the Gulf?’

  ‘That’s the best part. We’r
e going to “wait for further orders”.’

  ‘Can I go, sir?’ the rating asked John.

  ‘When I’ve covered this.’ John slapped a plaster over the bloody hole where the boil had been. The man pulled up his trousers, buttoned his fly, slipped his braces over his shoulders, and ran out.

  ‘You’ve started a nice rumour there.’ John tossed the contents of the swab bowl into the bucket.

  ‘It’s all over the ship. You’re probably the last to know.’ Billy took out a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘No smoking in here.’

  ‘And no mademoiselles to look forward to.’ Billy thrust the cigarettes back into his pocket. ‘No Cognac, no chateaux, no French wine, and no home leave. Why did I have to be posted to this tail end of the King’s Army?’

  ‘When I heard all the officers on the reserve list were being recalled, I thought the quickest way home would be via India.’ John dumped his instruments into the sink and poured antiseptic over them.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself for making a bad move. The logical thing for the brass to have done was move the professionals out of India to the Western Front and ferry Kitchener’s amateurs to India for garrison duty. But the brass never do the logical thing. Tell me, what sense is there in dumping a division of crack troops in the middle of the Gulf?’

  ‘Maud and I could have been in England now,’ John murmured.

  ‘Look at it this way, old man.’ Billy Miles left his chair and slapped John across the back. ‘We’re chums together in our hour of boredom.’

  ‘I told my wife to take the first transport out of India bound for England. I thought she could live in my father’s London house and I’d see her when I got home leave. Belgium’s just across the Channel …’

  ‘If she does get there, she’ll be all right. You’ve been to this part of the world, haven’t you? Are the locals accommodating? Can they compare with, say, the Hindu girls in the Rag?’

  John didn’t hear him. All he could think of was Maud. And the irony of a fate that had driven them further apart than ever.

  India, Monday 19th October 1914

  ‘You’re Mason’s wife, aren’t you?’ Johnny Leigh leered at Maud.

  ‘Yes.’ Maud tried to be polite.

  ‘Old boy did well for himself.’

  Maud looked over Leigh’s shoulder, hoping to signal for help. There was none forthcoming, so she stuck her elbow into his ribs. ‘So sorry, must see Marjorie.’ She pushed past him.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  She gave him her frostiest glare, only to be greeted by an inane, loose-lipped grin. She hadn’t wanted to come to this party, but Marjorie had insisted. She was hating every minute. It wasn’t just Leigh’s drunken attentions. Although she knew most of the people in the drawing room, she felt lonelier than she had done in her bungalow. A surplus of elegantly gowned and perfumed chattering women flitted about, every one valiantly trying to pretend they were having a marvellous time, and not missing their husbands.

  She reached the group around Marjorie and began to breathe a little easier. Then the broad back of a khaki-clad figure in front of her reminded her of John – his breadth, his strength, the overt masculinity of his physical presence. Her limbs grew liquid with longing. She closed her eyes as an erotic image filled her mind. She and John were lying on the silk-covered divan in Furja’s house. John was kissing the inside of her thigh, and she was holding his pulsating erection …

  ‘May I apologise for Lieutenant Leigh?’ The cavalry officer whose back she had been studying pushed Leigh aside. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing what he said to you.’

  Maud looked blank. ‘I had no idea he’d said anything.’

  ‘Which only proves what a forgiving lady you are.’ The officer lifted two glasses of iced wine from an Indian waiter’s tray and handed her one. ‘Lieutenant Leigh’s been overdoing the celebrating. His wife – she’s …’ He turned scarlet.

  ‘Presented him with a son.’ Amused by his embarrassment, Maud smiled. ‘I heard. Thank you.’ Taking the glass, she drained it.

  ‘Another.’ He offered the drink he’d taken for himself. She was about to refuse, but there was something about his mouth that reminded her of John.

  She glanced at him over the rim of her glass as she sipped the second glass of wine. He appeared to be a pleasant young man. Tall, not as tall as John, or on inspection, as broad, straight brown hair, combed into a centre parting, deep brown eyes. Fair skin – too fair for him to have been in India long.

  He introduced himself. ‘Geoffrey Brooke, Second Lieutenant 33rd Cavalry, at your service, ma’am. As the new boy I’ve been left to mind the shop while the rest of the regiment’s away enjoying the war.’

  ‘Someone has to protect us ladies,’ Maud flirted mildly. This clean young man was a pleasant contrast to Johnny Leigh with his foul innuendos and even fouler breath.

  ‘That’s the first kind word that’s been said to me since I arrived. Your husband’s with the Indian Medical Service, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good chap. He was at school with my brother.’

  ‘How nice.’ Maud had heard too many schoolboy reminiscences to find them entertaining.

  ‘To be honest it wasn’t. Reggie, that’s my brother, said John used to hang round with this awful bounder, Harry Downe.’

  ‘I know Harry.’

  ‘You do.’ His blush returned in all its vermilion glory.

  ‘How old are you?’ Maud asked with all the confidence of her married status.

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘You look younger,’ she replied with unintentional cruelty.

  ‘I try not to.’

  Maud looked to the door. She’d spent enough time making small talk in the hot, overcrowded room; she wanted to let down her hair and take off her damp gown. She needed to be alone, to take time to remember and think of John. She missed him so much. She’d become accustomed to his strength, his lovemaking …

  ‘You’re not going,’ the lieutenant remonstrated when she retrieved her shawl.

  ‘It’s late and I’m tired.’

  ‘Leaving us already, Maud?’ Marjorie Harrap appeared; a pale, spiritual vision in purple silk, two attentive sub lieutenants in tow.

  ‘Yes, thank you for a lovely evening, Marjorie.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, darling. I won’t keep you because I know you want to go and mope for John. Don’t forget you’re lunching at the club with me tomorrow.’

  ‘I won’t forget. And thank you again for the party.’

  ‘You’re going to walk Mrs Mason home, Lieutenant Brooke,’ Marjorie prompted.

  ‘My bungalow’s only next door.’

  ‘Anything could happen between here and next door. If you’d seen the way some of the natives look at European women. Particularly blondes …’

  Geoffrey’s blush returned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see Mrs Mason safely inside her bungalow.’

  ‘Goodbye, Marjorie.’ Maud put an abrupt end to Marjorie’s dire warnings by leading the way out of the house.

  ‘It’s a lovely evening.’ Geoffrey stared up at the star-studded, navy sky.

  ‘It generally is in India at this time of year.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I’ve the most awful habit of offending ladies. Truth is I’m not used to being around girls. School, Sandhurst; you know how it is.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Maud’s irritation melted in the face of his honesty. She stopped at a gate set in the side fence of Marjorie’s garden. ‘You see, it really wasn’t necessary for you to accompany me. That’s my bungalow, or rather my temporary quarters until I can get a berth for England.’

  Geoffrey peered at the white wooden walls and shutters only just visible through a circle of mature banyan trees. ‘There’s no light. Surely you don’t live alone.’

  ‘I have a maid, but she’s dining in the sergeants’ mess tonight with a sergeant from the Signals Corps.’

  ‘I don’t want to impose, Mrs Mas
on, but I’d be happier if you’d let me look around. What Mrs Harrap said about natives is not all bunkum. I’ve heard …’

  ‘Haven’t we all.’ She tossed him her keys. He caught them and opened the gate. They walked up the path and onto the veranda. He unlocked the front door.

  ‘Electric light switch to the left.’

  He found it. ‘Everything appears to be in order.’ He looked around the sparsely furnished hall before opening the door to the drawing room. Pieces of the same good quality utility furniture as the hall were dotted around the spacious, high-ceilinged room. The bungalow had the makeshift atmosphere he was beginning to associate with army quarters, married as well as single.

  ‘As you see, it’s not much of a home. Most of our –’ Maud stressed “our” ‘– belongings are crated. Waiting for England.’

  ‘Would you like me to check the other rooms?’

  ‘You may as well, as you’re here,’ she replied ungraciously.

  ‘Only if you want me to.’

  His humility stung her conscience. It was hardly his fault that John was half an ocean away. ‘Hang your topee on the stand. John’s left some whisky if you’d like a drink.’

  ‘I’d love one.’ He disappeared to the back of the bungalow.

  Maud went to the cocktail tray. She poured Geoffrey a whisky, and took an apricot from the fruit bowl for herself.

  ‘All sound and secure.’ Geoffrey rubbed his hands nervously as he joined her.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Your drink is there. Sit down.’ It sounded like an order and he obeyed.

  ‘I suppose your husband’s been posted to the Western Front.’

  ‘As far as I can make out. You know how difficult it is to be sure of anything in the army.’

  ‘He’s lucky. I’d give my right arm to be on the front line. The whole thing’s going to be over by Christmas and I’m stuck here, out of it.’ When she didn’t reply, he finished his whisky. ‘Thanks most awfully for the drink. Most kind of you to ask me in.’