The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 3

  ‘Save the jokes, Mitkhal.’

  ‘Shalan is afraid if he postpones the wedding until the bride price is delivered he’ll have no bride. Apparently, Furja can be headstrong and is quite capable of running off. There’s no shortage of suitors who’d be delighted to run off with her.’

  ‘That’s just what a reluctant bridegroom needs to hear on the eve of his wedding.’

  ‘There won’t be a long ceremony. You and Shalan will sign an agreement in his tent. Afterwards, you mount your horse, lift the bride onto the saddle behind you, and ride around the camp until the whole tribe has been formally advised of your marriage. Then, you enter the bridal booth …’

  He gave Harry a significant look.

  ‘And?’ Harry prompted.

  ‘Begin married life.’ Mitkhal pointed to a small tent being erected on the perimeter of the camp by the light of a thorn bush fire. ‘You’ll live there until I deliver the bridal price.’

  ‘If I last that long.’

  ‘With your leave coming up, you’ll last. As I have some hard riding to do tomorrow, I’ll get some sleep while I can.’

  Harry dozed fitfully beneath the crowded canopy of Shalan’s tent. He spent half the night watching the fleas that lived in great colonies among the mattresses and rugs hop huge distances from one sleeping figure to the next. Mitkhal was right: he had no option other than to fall in with Shalan’s scheming and marry the girl, but he’d remain with her as short a time as possible. He’d use the excuse of pressing Ferenghi business. Shalan wouldn’t be able to contest that. The moment the bride price was delivered, he’d offer the goods as compensation for his poor performance as bridegroom, and pray Shalan could accept the guns and livestock without losing the peculiar Arab notion of “face”.

  His cousin, John Mason, and friend, Charles Reid, were due to sail from India at the end of June. As soon as his business with Shalan was settled, he’d bolt back to Basra, pick up his ticket of leave, and meet their ship when it berthed in the Gulf. They’d travel home together, get drunk, play cards, talk trivia – God, how he missed the small things he’d taken for granted, like daily baths, clean clothes, and well-cooked food.

  He’d spend a token week with his parents, then persuade John, or Charles, or both, to go climbing with him. North Wales possibly; Switzerland would be better. But before he went, he’d resign his commission. A year in India followed by 18 months in Mesopotamia had been enough to convince him that the poky little office his father had offered him in Allan and Downe’s Bank was infinitely preferable to soldiering in the wastelands of the world. Anything had to be better, he decided, surveying the shadowy interior of Shalan’s tent. Even a drawing room full of giggling Lucies.

  *……*……*

  Mitkhal woke him before dawn. Outside, they began the irritating practice of washing in sand. The sun rose as they finished. They had begun to dress when a veiled woman left the harem and extinguished the lamps that had burned throughout the night.

  The sun was high before Mitkhal was satisfied with Harry’s appearance. Harry was by no means as grand as Mitkhal would have liked, but his gumbaz and kafieh were clean. Made from white, finely woven linen, he’d been saving them for the return journey. The feel of fresh clothes against his skin was a luxury he’d almost forgotten and helped ease the anguish of his fleabites. His abba had been brushed and re-brushed by Mitkhal with an arm of thorn until he was convinced the cloth would tear. Round his waist, he wore his officer’s sword. Mitkhal eyed it deprecatingly, as he commented on the lack of jewels in the hilt.

  ‘Can you imagine the stir I’d create if I walked into the mess with a jewelled scimitar hanging from my belt?’

  ‘I can imagine what Shalan’s warriors are going to say about the absence of jewels. You need a token to give the bride. Gold, or at a push silver.’

  ‘Shall we take a hundred-mile trip to the bazaar to pick up something suitable?’

  ‘Give her some sovereigns. She can weave them into her necklaces.’

  Harry felt for the purse he kept strung around his neck. He tipped the contents into his hand. ‘There’s 20 here.’

  ‘They’ll have to do.’

  ‘Twelve will have to do.’ Harry returned eight to his pouch.

  ‘Bridegrooms don’t have time to gamble.’

  ‘Arab bridegrooms don’t have time to gamble. I’m a Ferenghi.’

  ‘The idea is to make everyone forget your faults.’

  ‘It’s time.’ Dalhour materialised at Harry’s side.

  ‘I’ll get Dorset.’ Mitkhal pushed Harry forward.

  ‘Come with me. I need a best man.’

  ‘The Bedawi don’t have best men,’ Mitkhal replied in English as he left for the wadi.

  The wedding, as Mitkhal had prophesied, was simple. Harry entered Shalan’s tent and found himself facing a silent, red-veiled figure the same height as him. The Imam handed him a quill and he signed his name on a scroll beneath that of his new father-in-law. Free to look at his bride, he studied the only feature he could see above her veil: her eyes, dark, almond-shaped. Was it his imagination, or were they glittering with hostility?

  At Shalan’s prompting, they left the tent. The tribe had gathered to watch, Mitkhal in the forefront with Dorset. Harry lifted his surprisingly light bride onto the saddle before mounting. Mitkhal tugged on the rein and led them around the camp before halting outside the booth they’d watched Shalan’s women erect the night before. A black-veiled matron opened the tent flap. Dismounting, Harry lifted his bride from Dorset’s back. She preceded him into the tent. Mitkhal gave him a final look of encouragement and Harry followed her; the flap swung down behind them and the crowd roared approval.

  ‘Hello, I’m Harry,’ he ventured in Arabic.

  His bride tore off her veil and threw it to the ground. ‘You did not want to marry me, Ferenghi?’

  ‘I am only a humble lieutenant in my King’s army. You are the daughter of a great Sheikh. I am unworthy of you.’

  She stared at him frostily. ‘Save the diplomacy and lies for the divan. I am your wife and this –’ she waved her hand around the lavishly hung interior of the bridal booth ‘– is our home until I decide to leave you, or you decide to divorce me. Here I expect honesty.’

  ‘Of course.’ Despite his misgivings, he’d half hoped for the subservient slave girl of Arabian legend. Instead, he found himself confronting a slim, olive-skinned girl, whose unprepossessing looks were marred by a stern expression, not unlike Shalan’s. He had an uncomfortable feeling that, given sufficient provocation, the daughter might prove even more dangerous and unpredictable than the father.

  ‘Now, my husband …’ She sank onto a pile of rugs and patted the ground beside her. ‘You will sit here, and we will discuss this “marriage” of ours.’

  Chapter Two

  SS Egra, the Persian Gulf, Thursday 2nd July 1914

  ‘Don’t they look as though they were made for one another?’ Emily Perry whispered to Charles Reid when they walked out of the salon on to the first class section of the deck. Blinded by the gloom after the electric lights of the interior, Charles narrowed his eyes. He made out the tall, well-set-up figure of John Mason standing next to the slight, glittering figure of Maud Perry. Her gold lace evening dress was set with myriads of tiny amber beads that caught and reflected the light from the portholes, and her laughter, light and silvery, echoed through the warm air.

  ‘If by that you mean they’re oblivious to the existence of everyone else on board, I’ll agree with you.’

  ‘Charles, please,’ Emily clung to his arm. ‘Don’t begrudge them their happiness.’

  ‘I don’t … It’s – damn it, Emily, you know what I mean.’ Leaning on the rail, he stared at the white-crested blue-black shadows swirling in the sea below.

  ‘Isn’t it enough I feel the same way as you?’

  ‘Not when I have to leave you in Basra and go on to England alone.’ He reached for her hand; the salon door opened and he dropped it. �
��Leave him, Emily,’ he pleaded when no one appeared. ‘It’s not as if you love him. We can sail on to England together.’

  ‘My dear boy, I’m old.’

  ‘Barely ten years older than me. What’s ten years?’

  ‘In four years you’ll be a young man of 30, and I’ll be 40.’

  ‘It won’t matter.’

  ‘There’d be a scandal. Your career would be ruined.’

  ‘I’ll resign my commission.’

  ‘And then what would you do?’

  ‘Live off my father. Work? What does it matter as long as we’re together?’

  ‘You’re a soldier, Charles. After living with the army for 20 years, I know what that means. You might cope with ostracism from society, but you couldn’t bear the loss of the regiment. In time you’d hate me for taking you away from the life you love.’

  ‘It’s you I love. Without you I’m nothing.’

  ‘Please, this is our last night together. Don’t spoil it by arguing.’ She started as the door opened again. Charles nodded to the ship’s officers who left the salon.

  ‘Bowditch, Grace,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Mrs Perry, Captain Reid. Marvellous night, isn’t it?’ Lieutenant Grace stood on his heels and breathed in deeply.

  ‘Marvellous,’ Charles echoed.

  ‘Time is creeping on, it’s after 10.30.’ The lights went out in the salon as Lieutenant Bowditch spoke. ‘All unaccompanied ladies to their cabins and men to the smoking room. See you there, Reid?’

  ‘If I’m not too tired.’

  ‘It’s time I said goodnight to Maud and John,’ Emily murmured beside him. ‘It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.’

  ‘Half an hour?’ Charles mouthed silently. She inclined her head. He offered her his arm. Together, they walked along the deck.

  *……*……*

  ‘I wonder if I’d be swept up by Lieutenant Grace if I didn’t have you to protect me.’ Mischief glowed luminously in Maud’s deep blue eyes as she smiled up at John.

  ‘Alf Grace would be more likely to take my place. You’re beautiful in this light.’ He stared, captivated by her pretty face and shining abundance of golden hair. Ever since he’d seen Romeo and Juliet on his 15th birthday he’d been longing to fall in love, but never in his wildest imaginings had he foreseen the advent of anyone like Maud sweeping into his life. She looked like an angel – the Pre-Raphaelite copies of the Botticelli angels that decorated the chapel at Clyneswood. Slender figure, perfectly-formed red lips, cherubic cheeks, long, curling blonde hair, enormous, innocent eyes – but that’s where the resemblance ended. Maud looked like an angel but frequently behaved like a devil, particularly when the strait-laced and pompous were around.

  ‘Stop looking at me like that.’ Maud pursed her lips, inviting a kiss.

  ‘Have I told you that I love you?’ he whispered huskily.

  ‘Not for at least five minutes.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘You could kiss me. We’re the only ones here.’

  ‘You’re shameless.’

  ‘Only where you’re concerned.’

  Despite her assurance, John glanced over his shoulder. ‘Your mother and Charles are walking towards us.’

  ‘They don’t count.’

  ‘Why, you …’

  ‘Lover’s tiff?’ Charles enquired sourly.

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Maud replied with confidence.

  ‘I dare say.’ Charles lightened his tone in response to the pressure of Emily’s hand on his arm. ‘But look at the result of your handling. John hasn’t got drunk, played cards, or visited the “men only” sections of this ship once since we sailed. He’s your lap dog, Maud. How can I face Harry with a lap dog in tow?’

  ‘I’ll tell Harry it’s my fault.’

  ‘I keep forgetting you’ve met him.’

  ‘Harry was the reason I was sent to India.’

  ‘Maud!’

  ‘It’s true, Mother. I’ve told John all about it, not that there’s much other than Father’s imaginings, but given Harry’s reputation …’

  ‘Maud, that’s enough. Don’t keep her up, John. We’ve a long day tomorrow.’ Emily kissed her daughter.

  ‘I won’t, Emily. Goodnight.’

  ‘Think I’ll go to bed too.’ Charles yawned. ‘Don’t disturb me when you come in.’

  ‘I won’t,’ John replied. ‘Goodnight.’

  Maud waited until her mother and Charles had disappeared through the door that led to the deck cabins. ‘Now we’re really alone.’

  John checked. The deck was deserted. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her close. Bending his head to hers, he finally kissed her.

  ‘I adore you, Captain Mason.’ Lifting her arms, she pulled his head to hers once more. The thin silk of her evening gown fluttered in the breeze and her bare arm brushed against his cheek.

  ‘You’re cold. Here –’ He arranged her shawl around her shoulders. ‘And I’m not Captain Mason any longer. Just plain John Mason, civilian.’

  ‘Doctor John Mason.’

  ‘A very undistinguished doctor with no ambitions beyond marrying you.’

  ‘And living happily ever after?’

  ‘I’m not a prince.’

  ‘Then you must be a knight. A knight who’s rescued me from a fate worse than death.’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Most certainly not Harry. He’s fun. You’ve rescued me from life in Basra. You’ve no idea how bad it can be. Heat, flies – ugh, you can’t even begin to imagine the flies.’

  ‘Now I’ve rescued you, you can forget Basra and the flies. I intend to carry you off to the depths of the English countryside and find a sleepy little village …’

  ‘What will we do in a sleepy little village?’ she broke in.

  ‘Be happy. I’ll cure the natives of their mumps and measles, and you, my beautiful wife, will make a home for us. We’ll fill it full of lovely things. Furniture, books, friends, and children. Dozens of children.’

  Maud held him at arm’s length. ‘Dozens of children are not a part of any “happily ever after” I’ve read about.’

  ‘Don’t you want children?’ he asked seriously.

  ‘In moderation.’

  ‘Then I’ll amend our future to include children in moderation.’

  ‘There’s someone behind us.’

  John glanced over his shoulder and saw an Indian steward peering around the door. ‘We’re holding up the workers. They need to clean the decks for tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t we keep them waiting a little longer?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be fair. They have to get up horribly early; besides, I promised your mother we wouldn’t be late.’

  ‘But I want to stay with you,’ she protested petulantly.

  ‘There’s nowhere for us to go, my darling. The lounge is closed. I can hardly take you into the men’s smoking room. If you so much as stood outside the door you’d create a sensation.’

  ‘I could live with a sensation if you could.’

  ‘I like the quiet life. How about I walk you to your cabin?’

  ‘Whatever my lord and master decrees.’

  ‘I won’t be that legally for a few more days, and knowing you, my love, I doubt you’ll take notice of anything I decree.’

  ‘You could teach me subservience.’

  ‘God help the man who tried.’ He pulled her into an alcove, then, after glancing up and down to make sure they weren’t in view of the small army of hands swarming over the deck, cleaning, and straightening chairs and cushions, he kissed her. On the forehead.

  ‘Is that all I get?’

  ‘On account. Full payment comes on our wedding night.’

  ‘If you came to my cabin we could forget about accounts.’

  ‘What would people say if we were seen? Your reputation – your mother.’ Taken aback by her suggestion, John failed to notice the effort it had cost her to make it.

  ‘Mother wouldn’t be able to say anything c
onsidering Charles has spent every night in her cabin since we sailed.’

  ‘Maud!’

  ‘There’s no use pretending you’re shocked. You must know, seeing as how you and Charles are supposed to be sharing a cabin.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you knew.’ The secret was Charles and Emily’s. John would rather not have been a party to it but, as Maud reminded him, he and Charles were supposed to be sharing a cabin and that made him a conspirator, albeit an unwilling one.

  ‘I found out the morning after we left India. Our maid slept late; hardly surprising if a tenth of what I heard really went on in the third-class lounge the night before. Anyway, I went to see Mother early; I’d lost a button from my grey silk, and hoped she’d have a replacement. When I opened my door I saw Charles sneak out of her cabin.’

  ‘Did you tell your mother?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You don’t intend to?’

  ‘No.’ Encircling his waist with her arms, she laid her head against his chest. ‘I’m pleased for them. If I hadn’t seen Charles leaving, I might not have realised that he and Mother were actually – but I would have to be blind not to notice the difference in her. All she talked about in India was love. How the right man could make a woman happy. It wasn’t only her maternal interest in us. She smiled more when Charles was around and although she tried using our happiness as an excuse, it fell flat when you were on duty and Charles visited us alone. They managed to make me feel like a middle-aged chaperone. Wouldn’t it be marvellous if they ran off together?’

  ‘They’d become social lepers.’

  ‘Nothing would matter if they had one another. You wouldn’t mind if they lived together, would you?’

  ‘Your mother will always be welcome in our house, when we get one. But I don’t think either your mother or Charles would be happy. Charles would have to resign his commission, and outside of us, no one would receive your mother.’

  ‘Surely, once everyone saw how well-suited they are …’

  ‘Whatever we think is irrelevant,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s none of our business.’

  ‘It is mine. You haven’t met my father. Don’t misunderstand me,’ she qualified. ‘He’s a good father and husband in the provider sense. Mother and I have always had most of the things we’ve wanted: clothes, jewellery, things for the house. But he’s so – wooden. Grade one British Army, officer material for the use of – wooden.’