The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Read online

  ‘What I’m trying to say is Shalan won’t set a high bride price. He’ll probably take whatever you offer.’

  ‘You’re forgetting I’m a tribeless bastard. This is my chance to buy my way into a tribe. To belong. To have sons who can set their sights higher than the Ferenghi gutters of Basra. I wanted that money for my unborn children as well as Gutne. She places no value on herself because the tribe regard her as a whore. I know what that can do to a woman. I watched my mother live with the same shame. If I had gone to Shalan with a bagful of sovereigns – oh, what’s the use?’ He thrust his face into the water.

  Harry left the couch and went to a chest screwed to the floorboards beneath the window. He pulled out a key he kept tied to a cord around his neck and opened it. Removing a heavy linen bag, he tossed it to Mitkhal. ‘Three hundred gold sovereigns. Bribe money I’ve been given to buy the goodwill of the desert tribes. Ibn Shalan’s brother-in-law is worth that much baksheesh.’

  ‘Harry, I couldn’t …’

  ‘Before you rush headlong up the Karun, go to the barracks. Tell the stable sepoy to saddle Devon and Norfolk. Devon’s my wedding present to you. Norfolk I suggest you give to Shalan. There were times when I thought he’d kill me to lay his hands on Dorset, so the gift should please him. If you mate Devon with one of Shalan’s stallions you may have the beginnings of a herd of your own.’

  ‘They are your polo ponies.’

  ‘I doubt I’ll be playing much polo for a while. Take them, but make sure it is Devon and Norfolk. If I find you’ve taken Dorset or Somerset I’ll stab you myself.’

  The silence in the room grew unbearable.

  ‘Harry …’

  ‘Meet me in Ahwaz after your wedding.’ Harry slammed the lid on the chest and snapped the lock shut. ‘Keep an eye on her for me.’ He didn’t mention Furja’s name; he didn’t have to. ‘Send a message when the child is born.’

  ‘I will, Harry.’

  ‘Now get out of here.’ Harry returned to the couch. ‘Quickly, before I change my mind about Devon and Norfolk.’

  ‘I’ll be in Ahwaz in one month. Try to stay out of Turkish camps.’ Mitkhal thrust the bag of coins into his gumbaz.

  ‘You too,’ Harry called after him. ‘And be happy.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘For both of us.’

  Basra, 1 a.m., Friday 29th January 1915

  ‘Here, Knight. Quick. My eyes are playing tricks.’

  ‘They’re not.’ David Knight slapped John on the back. ‘By God, they’re not. It’s absolute proof that High Command has taken leave of its senses.’

  ‘Knock it off.’ Harry walked into the bungalow John and David shared.

  ‘When did this momentous promotion take place?’ John picked up a bottle of brandy from beside his chair.

  ‘This afternoon. You two drink too much.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Knight snapped to attention. ‘He does, sir. Not me, sir. I’m on duty in five minutes, sir.’

  ‘Not a word to anyone about this, Knight.’

  ‘You’re right to keep it quiet. The news could start a riot among us common, hardworking officers.’

  ‘It’s temporary.’ Harry sat on the chair next to John’s, but kept his coat on. Despite the stove in the corner, the room was freezing. ‘They’ll chop me down to size the minute my services are no longer required.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘One more “sir”, Knight, and I swear I’ll punch you on the nose.’

  ‘Promotion makes him violent.’ Knight winked at John. ‘You’d better watch him; he might not be safe to drink with. Harry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Permission to leave.’ David ran down the veranda, his laughter echoing above the sound of the rain.

  ‘Brandy?’ John offered.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Harry? You’ve been like a wet blanket since you got back.’

  ‘Nothing.’ Unbuttoning his greatcoat, Harry lifted his feet on to a chair. ‘Everything – this place – the weather – the war. Take your pick?’

  John poured another measure of brandy into his tumbler.

  ‘I meant what I said about you drinking too much.’

  ‘I’m the doctor.’

  ‘That’s what concerns me. I might get wounded.’

  ‘I only drink when I’ve a clear eight hours ahead of me to sleep it off.’ John lifted his tumbler and made a wry face as he swallowed a mouthful.

  ‘I could ask you, what’s the matter?’

  ‘My cousin’s made major and I’m only a captain.’ John handed Harry a cigarette. ‘Whatever happened to captain, major? Or is it the fashion now to jump two ranks? If it is, could you possibly put a word in for me? If I make lieutenant-colonel I promise to use my influence to negotiate an immediate truce, followed by the evacuation and repatriation of all troops engaged in the Mesopotamian conflict.’

  ‘Some idiot in the propaganda department heard about my little holiday with the Turks, and Cox congratulated me on persuading the Bakhtairi Khans to attack a Turkish column on the Karun when the idea was entirely their own. So, as a reward for things I didn’t do, they made me a major. When I told them I didn’t deserve or want the promotion, they said as my duties included alliance bargaining with the local Sheiks, a major’s uniform would be more impressive than a lieutenant’s. “Must show the wogs who’s in command, old boy”,’ Harry aped a staff officer’s accent. ‘As if any of the Sheiks know or care what bloody rank they’re talking to. To them, a Ferenghi’s a Ferenghi. An untrustworthy infidel, whether he’s a private or general.’ Harry reached for the brandy.

  ‘Changed your mind?’ John gave him a metal tumbler.

  ‘Every mouthful I drink means one less for you. Half a bottle of brandy is as much as any man should consume in one evening. Medically speaking that is.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Downe – and speaking of Georgiana …’ John unbuttoned his top pocket. ‘The mail arrived this morning. I knew I’d be seeing you, so I took the liberty of signing for yours.’ He handed Harry three flimsy folded sheets of paper, with “opened by the censor” stamped on the outside.

  Harry glanced at the writing.

  ‘Here.’ John pushed the oil lamp towards him.

  ‘I’ll read them later.’ All three letters bore English postmarks. He’d hoped for something from Furja, although he didn’t know whether she could write Arabic let alone English. He also knew the likelihood of a letter from her turning up in a military mailbag was negligible, but logic hadn’t stopped him wishing for the impossible. ‘So, what’s new?’ he asked.

  ‘There was a riot in the Arab quarter last night.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Obviously not the kind that concerns political officers. A couple of dozen sepoys were admitted with broken heads and bruises. A few buildings were burned down and some locals locked up. Apparently, the Arabs were peeved when they were ordered to hand over their houses to the military authorities.’

  ‘That’s understandable.’

  ‘We’re here to protect them from the Turks and with the whole countryside from here to Nasiriyeh under three feet of water, billeting’s a problem. We’ve pulled back so many troops from Qurna; Basra’s bursting at the seams. It’s not as if we’re requisitioning houses without paying for them. Abdul told me he’s made over a thousand rupees this month from renting houses to the military authorities.’

  ‘Unlike Abdul, some of the locals may not have a whorehouse to retreat to.’ Harry made a mental note to check Shalan’s house in the morning. He blanched at the thought of hobnailed boots scarring the tiled floors, the garden flattened and muddied by stacks of rifles and boxes of supplies and, worst of all, rows of sepoys’ pallets in the bedroom he’d shared with Furja.

  ‘Smythe’s overseeing the evacuation of the garrison from Qurna.’

  ‘We fought hard for that ground.’

  ‘We’re leaving a skeletal force. The Turks aren’t likely to mount a counter attack whil
e the plain is flooded – are they?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ Harry replied.

  ‘You should have seen Smythe’s platoon. He taught them to punt, Oxford-fashion. They moved the troops down in those flat-bottomed native boats.’

  ‘Bellums.’ Harry refilled his tumbler.

  ‘We could hear the sergeant from the hospital veranda. “Begging your pardon, Mr Smythe, sir, we’re bloody infantry, not bloody marines.” But you must know about the flooding. You sailed down the Karun.’

  Harry refilled John’s tumbler. ‘I did just that, sail down the Karun. From what I saw there is no more Tigris and Euphrates. Just one lake.’

  John had seen Harry in many moods. Wild, careless, reckless and, on occasion, downright stupid, but he’d never seen his cousin morose and withdrawn before. ‘So, is it true this is the wettest winter Mesopotamia’s had in 30 years?’ he ventured, making a final attempt at conversation.

  ‘I wasn’t here 30 years ago.’

  John propped his feet on a table. Oblivious to everything except his own misery, Harry continued to stare bleakly at the curtained veranda windows. When he emptied his tumbler, John handed him the bottle.

  ‘I suppose you heard Shakespear’s dead.’ Harry replenished their drinks and lifted his tumbler. ‘To old soldiers. I never met him, but he must have been quite a man. Admired by the brass, and loved and respected by the Arabs. He must have walked on bloody water. For a Ferenghi to gain Bedouin respect is nothing short of miraculous.’

  John heard the bitterness in Harry’s voice and said nothing.

  ‘Terrible way to die, alone in the Empty Quarter.’

  ‘I heard he was with Ibn Saud’s men,’ John commented.

  ‘He was. But he didn’t understand the Arab way of fighting. Hit and run. Hit and run. He hit and stood his ground. Bloody fool! What a waste of a life.’

  ‘The Viceroy’s visiting next week. Inspection of the troops, evaluation of the Expeditionary Force, and last, but by no means least, complete and thorough inspection of the Force’s hospitals and field medical service. I volunteered to go upstream tomorrow to get out of it.’

  ‘On the Comet?’

  ‘Yes, are you …?’

  ‘You do realise there’s going to be a show up there? The natives were restless enough last month. According to the latest intelligence reports, the Jihad is well and truly under way. For Ferenghis that means –’ Harry drew his finger across his throat.

  ‘Good God, you don’t actually believe intelligence reports, do you?’

  ‘On occasion I even write them. Just this once the reports are right. Ahwaz is no place for a married man with responsibilities. By the way, how is Maud?’

  ‘All right, I suppose.’

  ‘Aren’t the mail boats getting through from India? She is still in India?’

  ‘Yes.’ John drained his tumbler.

  ‘You’re going to regret that in the morning,’ Harry warned when John shared the last of the bottle between their tumblers.

  ‘Very possibly, but at this moment the morning is a long way off.’

  ‘And Maud?’

  John lurched unsteadily to the corner of the room and opened a travelling desk. He tossed the slim bundle of letters it contained to Harry. ‘Read for yourself.’

  ‘Not likely.’

  ‘Go ahead. There’s not one personal or private word.’ John returned clumsily to his seat. ‘In fact, I doubt there’s anything personal or private left in my married life.’

  ‘You’re drunk.’ Guilt stung Harry’s conscience; immersed in his own misery, he’d become selfish. Rather than ask for his help, Mitkhal had tried to solve his problems in Abdul’s gambling rooms and almost succeeded in getting himself killed. Now John was convinced his marriage was over. Solid, dependable John, who’d always been there to give him a hand out of whatever mess he’d climbed into.

  ‘Dear John,’ John slurred from memory. ‘ I am well. I trust you are well. This morning I attended a garden party at the Club with Marjorie Harrap. I’ve joined the Ladies’ Committee, and we’re raising funds for the hospital. I must run now to catch the post. Love, Maud. ’ It reads like a court circular, and that’s the most intimate one.’

  ‘It’s difficult to put your feelings into words when you’re with someone. When you have to write them it can be impossible, especially when you know the censor’s going to read every word.’

  ‘If the war finished tomorrow, and it won’t – it will be months before I’ll be posted near her. What chance does our marriage stand when she doesn’t seem to be able to remember me, let alone what we were to one another?’

  ‘You’re talking about Maud. You were blissfully happy not that long ago.’

  ‘We were, weren’t we?’ John asked pathetically.

  ‘You were,’ Harry asserted.

  ‘The trouble is I’ve been too bloody clever for my own good. I told Maud about birth control, insisting we wait before starting a family because I thought there’d be time enough for children when we were settled in England. I even had a mental picture of the house I wanted. Eighteenth-century, rambling, red-brick, with a paddock at the side, and stables at the back. I thought when everything was absolutely perfect – absolutely perfect,’ he derided, looking around the shabby room. ‘Maud would have been better off with a baby to look after. A baby would have reminded her of me. Given her something to do other than attend garden parties.’

  ‘Babies create problems, not solve them.’

  ‘Furja’s pregnant?’ John guessed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ John wasn’t sure he meant it. Harry and Furja in isolation away from polite English society was one thing. A brown child with the name of Downe quite another.

  ‘She made me divorce her.’

  ‘Why on earth would she do that?’

  ‘The British are riding roughshod over the country and the Bedouin don’t like it. A Ferenghi in the family is a liability. Shalan wanted me out, so Furja got rid of me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ John muttered, unequal to dealing with Harry’s problems as well as his own.

  ‘It’s probably for the best.’ Harry pocketed his letters, took his drink, and walked to the door. He opened it and gazed at the line of oil lamps that threw shadowy pools of light on the verandas of the bungalows. ‘She fell in love years ago with a Sherif. Ours was a marriage of convenience, nothing more.’

  John called for Dira, his sepoy batman. Five minutes later, the man crept into the room rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘A fresh bottle of brandy,’ John ordered. ‘And food for Major Downe and myself.’

  ‘There’s only stale bread and a few dates, Sahib. The prices in the market are scandalous. They …’

  ‘Go to Abdul’s, you know Abdul’s coffee house?’

  ‘Better still, we’ll go to Abdul’s,’ Harry roused himself. ‘We’ve had enough brandy for one night. Coffee and a hot meal is what I prescribe for you, Dr Mason.’

  ‘Go back to bed, Dira.’ John picked up his greatcoat.

  ‘We could hire a couple of girls,’ Harry suggested. ‘Abdul bought some new ones yesterday.’

  ‘I checked them out, along with the old hands,’ John stuffed his cigarettes into his pockets. ‘There were six cases of gonorrhoea 24 hours ago. They could have all picked up the clap by now. The place is a nightmare.’

  ‘In that case we’ll have to find you a nice little virgin; one who has been schooled in the arts of the harem by older, wiser women.’

  ‘Schooled?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t be disappointed.’ Harry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes as he stepped into the cold, rain-filled night.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Basra , 2 a.m. Friday 29th January 1915

  ‘They are widows. Fakhri Pasha hung their husbands before you entered Basra and their husbands’ families couldn’t support them. Times are hard. Food is scarce. They haven’t been bred for the work but they are good girls and n
o one has touched them since you examined them, Effendi.’ Abdul bowed to John. ‘You would honour me and my house by accepting them with my compliments.’ He pushed two girls from the line. The shortest, a plump, doe-eyed beauty, glanced slyly at John and giggled.

  ‘Which one would you like, Harry?’ John asked, embarrassed by the proceedings.

  ‘I think they’ve done the choosing for us.’ Harry lit the cigarette clamped between his teeth and spoke to the second girl. ‘You know my room?’

  ‘Yes, Effendi.’ She preceded him up the stairs. She was tall, heavier than Furja, not as graceful – he had to stop thinking about Furja. The memory of her was eating into him, poisoning his life. He had to accept he would never see her again. Never …

  ‘Shall I undress, Effendi?’

  He nodded. She averted her eyes when she began to divest herself of her robes. For once, Abdul might have spoken the truth. She wasn’t used to the life – not yet. He watched layer upon layer join the mounting pile on the floor. He wondered if Abdul had laid his hands on an illustrated edition of the Arabian Nights. The girl wouldn’t have looked out of place in a pantomime of Aladdin. She stripped down to transparent harem pants and a bolero top that left her breasts uncovered. She hesitated, her cheeks scarlet.

  ‘Those off as well. When you’ve finished, lie on the bed.’

  She did as he asked but he remained in his chair, the end of his cigarette a glowing tip of fairy light that arced through the air as he smoked. He could hear John’s girl, still giggling through the partition wall. Stubbing out his cigarette, he left the chair. He heard the girl breathe quickly and tremulously when he removed his own clothes. He didn’t ask her name before he heaved himself on top of her.

  The whole thing was curiously impersonal. Not unpleasant, but clinical. He needed relief. He used her. When he looked at her afterwards, her eyes were closed, her dark hair fanned out on the pillow – like, yet unlike Furja. He left the bed.

  ‘I don’t please you, Effendi?’

  ‘I need to be alone.’ Pulling his gumbaz over his head, he dug into his uniform pockets for change and handed her a few coins. ‘They’re for you, not Abdul.’