The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Read online

  John saw a letter on his blanket. Avoiding Harry, he threw himself onto his cot. Stretching out, he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped off. He held the letter to the light as Crabbe began to snore.

  ‘If you don’t open it, you’ll never know what’s in it.’

  John looked down; Harry’s eyes were still closed. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

  He rummaged under John’s cot for his discarded abba and cigarettes. ‘Smythe gave it to me at Amara.’ He offered the information although John hadn’t asked for it. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me I’ll finish this smoke, then try to sleep. Even talking requires more energy than I possess.’

  John didn’t open the envelope until he was sure Harry was asleep. Removing the single sheet of paper, he began to read.

  Dear John,

  I hope this letter finds you well, my darling, I think of you all the time …

  He couldn’t read any more. Brooke was dead so Maud was thinking of him.

  But for how long – until the next officer tipped her the wink? She could be taking her clothes off now in a bedroom in Basra. Would she undress as slowly as she’d done during the brief time they’d spent together? Her fingers had always lingered over the pearl buttons on her chemise. She’d never known how close he’d come to tearing the clothes off her. But perhaps adultery was different. There could be constraints on time. Rooms rented by the hour. He – whoever “he” was – might have to rush because he was on duty in a few hours.

  Would he laugh with her when it was over? Slap her lightly on the buttocks and say, ‘Thank you, Mrs Mason. Same time next week?’ After all, it would be cheaper than the Rag.

  He picked up Harry’s matches. Holding Maud’s letter by the corner, he set it alight, watching the flame lick higher, turning the paper to powder. When only the fragment between his fingers remained, he blew out the fire. There was nothing left. The small square he held was clean. Taking the envelope, he peeled it apart. Paper was at a premium, envelopes luxuries, and he needed an envelope for what he was going to send Maud.

  Removing a security box from his pack, he unlocked it with a key threaded alongside his ID discs. Pushing aside the parcel of pearls and gold Harry had given him he lifted out Brooke’s letters, and laid them on the envelope. Taking a stub of pencil from his shirt pocket, he scribbled, The effects of Sub-Lieutenant Geoffrey Brooke killed in action at Ahwaz. John Mason.

  Tying the bundle together, he addressed it to Maud. If the Force was moving out, advance parties would leave tonight. Someone would take it for him. Maud should get it in the next couple of weeks, and if she had any conscience left, he wouldn’t be the only miserable one locked into their marriage.

  Amara, Monday 14th June 1915

  ‘Be careful with this one. He has a spinal injury …’

  ‘Don’t you ever give up, John? There are doctors here who can take over, even from you.’ Charles laid a hand on the shoulder of John’s dust and fly-spattered shirt. It was difficult to keep the shock from registering on his face. John was still broad, but gaunt and skeletal. Even his face had altered. The cheeks beneath the layer of stubble had sunk, throwing his skull bones into unnerving prominence. Charles had seen many unburied corpses on the Western Front. It required very little imagination to place John among them.

  ‘It’s good to see you.’ John held out his hand, cutting a swathe through the flies that hovered in dense clouds above the wounded. Overcome by emotion, Charles clasped it. He’d been dreading this reunion with the knowledge of what he and Maud had done on his conscience. Now he was actually with John, it wasn’t too difficult. John turned aside to check the pulse of a sapper.

  ‘John, you’re incorrigible.’

  ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve handed these men over to whoever’s in charge of the hospital.’

  ‘That, Captain Mason, is now. Would you like to book a bed for yourself?’

  ‘Knight, I thought you were in Basra.’

  ‘When the CO asked Base Command to set up a hospital here, they sent the best man they had.’ Knight fingered his major’s insignia.

  ‘Congratulations, Knight. Couldn’t have happened to a more modest fellow. How’s Hale? Is it as disgustingly hot downstream as it is here?’

  ‘I thought you’d have heard.’ Knight shuffled past two orderlies carrying a stretcher. ‘Hale died a month back. Heart attack was the cause on the death certificate, but in my opinion it was heat exhaustion due to overwork.’

  ‘He was a good commander. Good man.’ The news was too much for John in his present state. He propped himself against the hospital wall.

  ‘Maud told me she’d written to you. Even allowing for the idiosyncrasies of Gulf mail you should have received the letter by now.’

  ‘Her letter was probably thrown in the wrong bag.’ John’s face was ashen.

  ‘We’re not short of doctors, so in the interests of hygiene I suggest you go hose yourself down.’

  ‘I can organise something better than a hose.’ Charles led John across the street. ‘Harry came in with the advance column in his Arab skirts. He begged a bath and a spare uniform and since then he’s been closeted with the POs, which translates as pilfering or political officers depending on your point of view. They hold the reputation of being the best scroungers on the Persian front.’

  ‘Harry didn’t need a posting to learn how to scrounge.’

  ‘He taught the others.’ Charles ran up a flight of stairs and opened a door. ‘Here it is. Home. I’ll send my bearer to look for your kit.’

  ‘It’s in the same state as this.’ John indicated his filthy uniform. ‘Kerkha water doesn’t remove dirt. It only adds to what’s already there.’

  ‘I’ll ask my bearer to forage. Here’s the bathroom.’ Charles showed John a room that held a tinned slipper bath, cane commode, and a table stacked with Turkish towels. ‘I had the bath cleaned after Harry used it, the lord knows why. Common sense should have told me you’d be in the same disgusting state. There’s water in the jugs. It’s not cold but it’s clean. Soap’s in the dish.’

  John picked it up. ‘Kay’s, wherever did you get it?’

  ‘Harry. I live in fear of what he’s going to pull out of his pockets next.’

  John tipped the lukewarm water into the bath. Where he’d held the jug, he left black finger marks. When the bath was half full, he threw in the soap and peeled off his clothes.

  ‘You look as though you could do with a drink.’ Charles went into the living room. ‘Not coming down with anything, are you? Doctors always seem to catch every damn bug going.’ The words were out before Charles remembered Hale.

  ‘So it would appear.’ John tossed his clothes into a corner.

  ‘I can organise a meal to be brought up here if you’re too tired to face the mess tonight.’ Charles carried a decanter of whisky and glasses into the bathroom.

  ‘I’d like to eat in the mess. See who else is here.’

  ‘Leigh, Smythe, Amey, Grace, Bowditch – you may remember them from the Egra.’

  ‘I remember. Grace was after Maud.’ John lowered himself into the water. As Charles had prophesied, it was warm, but after the searing heat of the desert, it flowed soothingly around his raw and aching body.

  ‘Your father-in-law’s here too.’ Charles handed him a glass.

  ‘Good whisky,’ John commented as he sipped.

  ‘Don’t you get on with Perry?’

  ‘No.’

  Charles couldn’t resist asking. ‘Anything to do with Emily’s death?’

  John closed his eyes and ducked his head under the water; he glanced at Charles as he surfaced. ‘Perry got blind drunk after Emily’s funeral. He was in no state to look after Maud. I felt the best thing I could do was marry her and get her away from him as quickly as possible. He disagreed. I haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘If he was drunk, he’s probably forgotten the incident.’

  ‘Probably.’ John drank half of his whisky, before beginning to soap himself. Char
les pulled a chair into the bathroom and sat down.

  ‘Did you see Maud when you were in Basra?’

  ‘She was fine.’ Charles tried to sound casual as he topped up their glasses. ‘She can’t wait to see you. You are going downstream?’

  ‘Haven’t received my orders yet.’

  ‘Surely you’ve put in for leave on compassionate grounds?’

  ‘Didn’t think it would be fair.’

  ‘You’re too damned fair for words, John. There’s no other officer here with a wife within travelling distance.’

  ‘There’s Harry.’

  ‘Harry doesn’t have a wife, he has a native concubine. If you ask for leave, you’ll get it, and they’ll probably want you to stay on in base hospital afterwards. I know Basra’s packed, but you should get a bungalow.’

  ‘I’ll wait and see where they send me.’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous. When have the brass done anything logical like post a husband to the same town his wife is in?’ Charles demanded. ‘If you leave the decision to them you’ll get posted to the Western Front and Maud will be offered a return ticket to India.’

  ‘You’ve no idea how heavenly this is.’ John bent his knees, lay back in the bath, and stood his glass on his chest. ‘A bath, the prospect of clean clothes – good whisky …’

  ‘Was it that rough out there?’ Charles followed John’s lead on to safer topics of conversation.

  ‘The heat and flies were the worst. The shortage of tents and medicines caused a lot of sickness. But you’re the real heroes. Was it really as easy as everyone says to take this town?’

  ‘It was.’ Charles tipped more whisky into John’s glass.

  ‘Steady, that went in the water.’

  Charles picked up the last jug of water and tipped it over John’s face. John retaliated by throwing the bar of soap at him. By the time they’d finished play fighting, the floorboards were saturated and they were both laughing. Charles tossed a towel at John and left him to dry himself.

  Despite the jocularity, Charles sensed a new reserve. He would have given everything he owned to turn the clock back so he could throw Maud out of his room the night she’d visited.

  No woman was worth risking the friendship he and John had shared since childhood. And no woman was worth the guilt he was feeling now. Not even one as beautiful and sensual as Maud.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Ibn Shalan’s camp, evening, Monday 14th June 1915

  The atmosphere in Shalan’s harem constricted Furja like a shroud. She sat in the airless half of the tent that was never opened, and nursed her daughters while her father’s wives regaled her with contradictory advice on how to bring up modest girls who would command good bridal prices.

  She paid them little attention. Her problems were more immediate. Many seasons would pass before her daughters would be of an age to marry. She wondered if those seasons would see an end to the fighting. Whenever and wherever they travelled, she saw unburied dead. Sun-bleached bundles of skin and bones that had been living, breathing men. Turk. Bedouin, and occasionally skeletons with scalps of light brown or blond hair that sent her heart racing.

  Was Harry lying in some corner of the desert now, his sightless eye sockets staring up at the sky? She gripped Aza so hard the baby whimpered. She looked down. There was no denying her daughters’ Ferenghi blood; their eyes were still blue, their hair fair. Characteristics that had strangled any love her father might have borne for a granddaughter named Aza.

  Harri turned from her breast, yawned, closed her mouth, and slept. Furja looked for the girl who helped her. As usual, she wasn’t there when needed.

  ‘Shall I lay the little one down for you?’ Dari, her father’s youngest wife, asked.

  ‘Thank you.’ Furja moved her arm so Dari could take the child from her.

  ‘She is content, this little one. She will have a placid and happy life. But that one –’ Dari looked to Aza, who was sucking vigorously, pounding Furja’s breast with her small fists ‘– if she cannot have what she wants she will take it.’

  ‘Her father has a strong will.’

  ‘As does her grandfather.’ Fatima, her father’s eldest wife, interposed. ‘You agreed to forget your unfortunate connection with the infidel invaders.’

  ‘It was my unfortunate connection that gave us guns to defend ourselves.’

  ‘And they –’ Fatima pointed to the babies ‘– along with the deaths of our warriors are the price we continue to pay for those guns.’

  Furja fell silent. Fatima continually goaded her, and always within her father’s earshot. The argument would never be resolved. The first casualty at the pipeline had been Fatima’s favourite brother. His widows and the other widows blamed her for the deaths of their menfolk. If she had not married a Ferenghi, their men would be alive, and she was never allowed to forget that fact.

  ‘When you have finished feeding Aza your father wants to see you.’ Shalan’s second wife returned from the booth where her father slept. Furja handed Aza, now plump and sleepy, over to Dari. She went to the corner where the bowls and water for washing were stored. Tipping a little water into a bowl, she washed her face, hands, and breasts, refastened her outer robe, and combed her hair. Plaiting it into a single strand, she covered it with her veils. Emptying the water outside, she cleaned the area, determined to give Fatima little cause for complaint, as they had to share the same cramped space.

  After checking both her daughters were sleeping alongside Dari, she walked through the curtain of goat hair.

  Her father was squatting in front of a low table, smoking and gazing thoughtfully at a rug hanging on the tent wall. It was the last one her mother had woven. He rose to his feet as she entered.

  ‘Walk with me.’

  She followed him into the cool evening air. The moon had risen. Huge, golden, it brought memories of the times she and Harry had gazed upon its pitted face from their bedroom in Basra.

  ‘Fatima has reminded me your daughters are of an age when you can think of marrying again.’

  ‘We take up too much room in a crowded harem.’

  ‘Then I will find you a husband. Do you wish to remain with the tribe, or would you like me to look among your mother’s people?’

  ‘My happiness depends on the man I marry, not the tribe.’

  ‘Ali Mansur has asked for you again.’

  ‘I refused to marry him two years ago. Nothing has changed.’

  ‘Two years ago you were a simpering virgin with romantic ideas. Now you’re a woman looking for a second husband. You have daughters. Ali Mansur is willing to care for you and your children. It is no easy thing for a man to take the children of another. In your case it will be doubly hard, for your husband will be taking the daughters of a Ferenghi.’

  ‘There is another within the tribe who will give me the position of second wife and take my children.’

  ‘Who?’ Shalan stared back at her. Furja saw he already knew.

  ‘Mitkhal.’

  ‘The man is a tribeless bastard. He has no family – no friends except the Ferenghis.’

  ‘You allowed him to marry your sister.’

  ‘He was the only man who ever asked for her. I allowed the marriage for her sake. She is damaged and soiled.’

  ‘Not by her own doing.’

  ‘It is enough she lived through that life,’ Shalan said dismissively.

  ‘I have lived with a Ferenghi.’

  ‘A Ferenghi who lived as one of us. You were not exposed to their ways.’

  ‘Only their love.’

  ‘That part of your life is over. Ali or a Sirdieh. Which is it to be?’ he demanded.

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘You will take one or the other. You have property sufficient to buy you a position as a second or third wife and redress your daughters’ parentage. In time, the tribe will forget your first husband.’

  ‘I never will. If you do not allow me to marry Mitkhal I will walk out into the desert as my
mother did before me,’ she threatened.

  All he could see were her eyes – dark, enigmatic, the same eyes as her mother. ‘I told you when you married the Ferenghi, the marriage was to last no longer than a week. Most women would have left the bridal tent the day after the wedding. You chose to ignore my wishes then, as you do now.’

  ‘I didn’t want to marry Harry; you forced me. I didn’t want to love him but it happened. We did not want to divorce but you insisted.’

  ‘It was a marriage between a camel and an ass.’

  ‘The camel and the ass were happy. But, as you said, I must look to my future. I will be happiest with Mitkhal.’

  ‘Because he will allow you to sleep on the Ferenghi’s mattress?’

  ‘A man may do with his wife as he wishes.’

  ‘Which is why you will marry Ali,’ he said forcefully.

  ‘Then you leave me no choice.’

  ‘Take your children with you. It will save me the trouble of killing them.’

  ‘They are your grandchildren.’

  ‘Their throats will be slit one hour after you leave my tent.’

  ‘You would slaughter children of your own blood?’

  ‘Not if you marry Ali. You should be grateful he still wants you. I will have my answer in the morning. Ali, the Sirdieh, or your and your children’s deaths.’

  Furja looked back at the camp. The lamps glowed, it was time for the evening meal, but she was not hungry. Her father was right. She had no choice, not when she carried Harry’s son within her. He deserved the little she could give him – life. What if he was fair like the girls? Would Ali suspect the truth? The punishment for adultery was set, and her father would not hesitate to carry out the sentence. He would see her stoned to death. And her children?

  She looked up at the moon. If she married Ali, it would give her time. A few months for Mitkhal to recover, find Harry, and ask him to take his daughters, and hopefully his son. If she succeeded in handing over her children to their father, she’d die content.

  Basra, the evening of Monday 14th June 1915

  ‘That’s the last of your clothes.’ Maud laid a calico-sheathed evening dress on the bed.