The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Read online

Chapter Twenty-six

  Basra, Tuesday 15th June 1915

  Peter Smythe was waiting for Harry when he left the hospital. His uniform had been cleaned and he couldn’t stop smiling.

  ‘When are you bolting on the shackles?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Not till 11, when the Reverend returns from Qurna. Maud’s helping Angela dress. She sent a message to say she’s sorry but she can’t make dinner. If you’re free, I’d like you to be best man. There isn’t anyone else around to do the honours.’

  ‘Put like that, how can I refuse?’

  ‘I was hoping we could dine together. I’ve been ordered out of the mission until half past ten. Something about bridegrooms getting in the way.’

  ‘Abdul does a nice line in roast chickens, or did the last time I was here.’

  ‘Angela and I had a hard time persuading her brother to hold the ceremony so late.’ Peter followed Harry down an alley. ‘Theo wanted to postpone it until tomorrow but I told him I couldn’t be sure I’d be in Basra tomorrow. Having no official leave makes it impossible to forecast how long I’ll be here.’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Peter’s grin widened.

  ‘I’ve been given until the 23rd to deliver dispatches to the Karun. As my aide you should come with me, but I dare say I can find pressing duties which necessitate your presence here.’

  ‘I’ll never forget you for this, Harry.’

  ‘Afterwards you can remain my aide or return to your unit but I won’t be returning to Amara. I’ve been ordered to the Euphrates.’

  ‘There’s likely to be more action on the Euphrates. I’d rather stay with you.’

  ‘Haven’t you had enough of fighting?’

  ‘I’ve hardly seen any action. Amara fell like a ripe plum. And it’s not action I’m after, it’s promotion. A married man has to look to the future.’

  ‘Dear God, if this is what you’re like before you tie the knot, what are you going to be like after?’

  An hour later, with a chicken apiece under their belts, Harry and Peter made their way to Harry’s room in Abdul’s. Harry closed the door and produced a couple of bottles of Chianti.

  ‘Sorry about having to drink in here but, lack of wine aside, you have to admit the meal was better than anything we could have got in the mess.’

  ‘How much longer do we have to wait?’ Peter sat on the only chair.

  ‘Bridegroom getting nervous?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘That’s why bridegrooms have a best man. To do the worrying for them.’ Harry uncorked a bottle and filled a couple of porcelain coffee cups. ‘To the bride and groom, Mrs and Mrs Smythe, in –’ he opened his pocket watch ‘– two hours. If you give me the ring, I promise to deliver you almost sober and on time.’

  ‘The ring!’

  ‘You haven’t bought one?’

  ‘I gave Angela an engagement ring but I haven’t even thought about a wedding ring.’

  ‘We’ll walk to the mission via the bazaar. You have her ring size?’

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘We’ll just have to hazard a guess. Where are you honeymooning?’

  ‘In the mission.’

  ‘In heaven’s name, man, no one honeymoons in a mission.’

  ‘There isn’t anywhere else,’ Peter protested.

  Harry produced a key. ‘Would you believe that acting lieutenant-colonels are entitled to their own bungalow? I’m comfortable here, but I thought a certain captain might find a use for it.’

  ‘Harry, I’m your slave for life.’ Peter reached for the key, but Harry held it back.

  ‘It’s yours for a consideration. Call in on John every day until I get back. Get him whatever he wants within reason after taking medical advice.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘For someone on honeymoon, that’s more than enough.’ Harry handed over the key.

  The Mission, Basra, Tuesday 15th June 1915

  The ceremony passed so swiftly for Angela she didn’t feel married when it was over. Maud and Mrs Butler kissed her and offered their congratulations. Harry, Peter, and Theo shook hands. Angela stood for a moment, then looked down at her hand.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Angela.’ Maud admired the ring Peter had placed on her finger.

  ‘I didn’t even know he’d bought a wedding ring until Harry took it from his pocket.’ Angela fingered the plain gold band.

  ‘Is it too big?’ Peter asked, concerned that she might not be happy with his choice.

  ‘It’s beautiful and fits perfectly.’ Angela stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

  ‘Photographs,’ Doctor Picard called.

  Harry offered Maud his arm.

  The doctor was an exacting photographer. After an hour spent posing in front of the camera, thoughts turned towards the half-dozen bottles of champagne Harry had provided. Corks popped, toasts were drunk, then, on the stroke of midnight, Harry heard the sound he’d been waiting for.

  ‘The honeymoon chariot. Twenty minutes late.’ Harry returned his watch to his pocket. ‘Which means the stable sepoy has been using it to ferry customers to Abdul’s again. If you find some rice, Maud, we can wave goodbye to the happy couple before everyone falls asleep.’

  ‘Aren’t you staying here?’ Theo asked Peter.

  ‘Harry found us a bungalow and arranged a week’s leave for me. It’s amazing the difference a lieutenant-colonel’s rank pulling can make to a humble captain.’

  ‘You darling.’ Angela hugged Harry.

  ‘Steady, Downe, that’s my wife.’

  ‘Then take her from me. If the bride would care to pack we can break up the party.’

  After Angela and Maud had disappeared, Harry picked up the last bottle of champagne and carried it over to Peter.

  ‘I’ve asked an Arab I know to sort things in the bungalow. He’ll call every day, but he won’t be there until midday tomorrow. I thought you’d appreciate a lie-in after all this.’

  Peter turned crimson above his collar.

  Harry had difficulty concealing his amusement at Peter’s blushes. ‘He’ll do your shopping, cooking, cleaning and washing. He’s discreet and he’ll clear off when he’s not wanted, which is an advantage when you only have a week to get acquainted with your wife. He also has a pass for the barracks so you don’t have to bother about that. I’ve paid his wages in advance so don’t go tipping him or he’ll expect double rate next time I want him to work for me.’

  ‘How can I ever repay you?’

  ‘Call it a wedding present. You won’t forget about John?’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Harry held out his hand. ‘See you in a week.’

  Angela and Peter drove off in a shower of rice and shouted congratulations. When the carriage rounded the corner, Harry waylaid Maud.

  ‘Can I take you home?’

  ‘This is home. I moved in here when Mrs Hale sailed for England.’

  Harry glanced around the garden. The Reverend, Mrs Butler, and Doctor Picard were walking back inside. A servant was sweeping the rice from the path. Theo was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you, Maud, and I’m leaving in the morning.’

  Maud led Harry into Angela’s classroom. She left the door open; the light from the hallway would be illumination enough for what she sensed he had to say.

  ‘I spoke to John. I’m sorry; he doesn’t want to see you. Not for a while.’

  ‘It’s all right, Harry. You don’t have to embarrass yourself. I can imagine the message John asked you to deliver.’

  ‘He’s sick, Maud. Sick and tired. He’ll feel differently when he’s recovered.’

  She toyed with her wedding ring, pulling it on and off her finger. ‘Unfortunately, whatever John told you about me is true. He has every right to shut me out of his life.’

  ‘He’s so ill he doesn’t know what he wants. He loved you, and whatever you’ve done, I’m sure he will again. Perhaps in time …’

  ‘Time won�
�t make a difference.’ She gripped his hand. ‘John gave you a foul job and you’ve done it tactfully. Will you take a message back? Tell him if he wants a divorce, I won’t put any obstacles in his way, and if it will make things easier, I’ll return the letters I wrote to Geoffrey Brooke. They should provide evidence enough for any judge.’

  ‘Maud …’

  ‘Please, don’t make things worse by offering hope where there is none, Harry. Give him the message and if he’ll listen, tell him I love him. I always loved him but didn’t discover how much until it was too late. And it is too late, Harry. For both of us.’ She pressed something into his hand and walked away. When he opened his fingers, he was holding her wedding ring.

  Base, Basra, early hours Wednesday 16th June 1915

  ‘Are you sure this is the bungalow?’ Angela asked. ‘There’s a light burning.’

  ‘It’s the right bungalow. Harry’s engaged a servant for us.’ Peter handed the key to the sepoy who’d driven the landau and asked him to carry Angela’s bags inside. He waited until the sepoy returned, then slipped him a couple of coins.

  ‘Right, Mrs Smythe.’ He swung Angela into his arms. ‘I’m going to carry you over the threshold.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Ssh, you’ll disturb the neighbours. Captains aren’t supposed to be in bungalows. Harry’s relying on us to stay indoors for the week. And, Mrs Smythe, I’ll have you know there’s nothing ridiculous about tradition. It’s unlucky for brides to trip as they enter their new home. Even if it is only home for a week.’

  ‘But it’s fine for bridegrooms to trip on their way to the altar.’

  ‘I wish Maud hadn’t told you that.’ Peter carried her up the veranda steps and through the front door. Kicking the door shut behind him, he kissed her when he lowered her to the floor. A lamp burned on a side table next to a bucket containing an extravagant amount of ice and a bottle of champagne. A note was pinned to the cork.

  You’ve only a week, so make the most of it.

  He opened the bottle and the cork flew, hitting the ceiling. ‘That’s a sign of good luck.’ He filled the glasses, and handed her one. ‘It’s very late.’ He turned aside when he realised the implication of what he’d said.

  ‘We could take the champagne into the bedroom.’

  He picked up the bucket and lamp and carried them through. A vase containing a single red flower stood next to the bed.

  Angela lifted the lace from her hair and laid it over a chair. ‘Would you unfasten my dress, please?’

  Peter had never felt so ham-fisted when he eased the rounded buttons from their tiny loops. After he freed the last one, he averted his eyes from the chemise of ivory satin and lace he’d uncovered. ‘I’ll go into the other room.’

  Angela laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Please stay, we can undress together.’

  He turned his back to her and unbuckled his belt. The rustle of silk resounded in the stillness. Angela opened her valise, the door closed, and he realised she’d gone into the bathroom. He rummaged in his kitbag for his nightshirt. Tearing off all his clothes except his drawers, he managed to pull it over his head before she returned. When he went into the bathroom, he heard the creak of bedsprings as she slid between the sheets.

  He washed, cleaned his teeth, and debated whether to drink more champagne. Until Angela, he’d never been much of one for the ladies. Now he wished he’d been more like Harry or Charles. Neither of them would waste time in the bathroom while their brides waited.

  Deciding against the champagne, he returned to the bedroom. Turning out the lamp, he fumbled his way to the bed. Folding back the sheets, he sat on the mattress. Angela wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. The gesture gave him the courage he needed to lay beside her.

  ‘I’ve never done anything like this before,’ she whispered, snuggling close. ‘So if I make a hash of it, you’ll give me a second chance to put things right, won’t you?’

  ‘I love you, Mrs Smythe.’

  ‘It’s just as well you do, Captain Smythe, because I intend to be around to torment you for many, many years to come.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  A cooling wind from the north blows across the broiling desert and steaming marshlands of Mesopotamia in the third week of June. The Shamal lasts for 40 days and nights. Without it, the summer would be even more unbearable for those forced to swelter through its suffocating hot, humid days and nights. For two months before, the land simmers beneath a relentless sun; in the final weeks the heat is so intense even the flies shrivel and die.

  The men in the Expeditionary Force watched the flies depart with envy. If they’d been offered cast-iron proof of an afterlife furnished with cool breezes, running water, ice, and female company, there’d have been a frenzied dash to meet their maker.

  A sense of anticipation hung in the searing air. For John, confined to a cot, the anticipation carried the hope of a return to health, if not spirits. For Charles, who’d been given the thankless task of dispensing justice in Amara until a British system could be introduced to replace the Ottoman courts, the advent of cooler weather promised a return to action. Maud waited for the Shamal in the hope it would cut the death rate that had grown alarmingly high in the hospital.

  Wounds she fought to keep clean grew green and gangrenous. Theo and Doctor Picard operated day and night, cutting out infection and amputating limbs, and still patients died like the flies around them. She lost weight, sickened by the heat, the sights, the smells, and the waiting. Along with everyone else in Basra, the phrase on her lips was, ‘When the Shamal comes.’

  Only Peter and Angela dreaded its onset.

  Their days had never passed more sweetly or quickly. Peter’s imminent departure added poignancy to their honeymoon, making it all the more precious. At night, when they dined with the windows open and the fly-screens drawn, Angela gazed into her husband’s eyes by candlelight that flickered low from lack of oxygen, knowing the whole of Basra waited for the wind, except them. For when the Shamal came, Peter would leave, and she could no longer imagine life without him.

  The Karun Valley, Saturday 19th June 1915

  Harry rode through the valley in temperatures of over 130 degrees, and grew increasingly disillusioned with his capability to live like a native. Devon and Dorset, rested after their boat trip, bore the heat better than he did.

  The river was low, the waters thick and murky, but both horses drank it and suffered no ill-effects. He travelled by night and rested during the day, although he rarely found shade. The sunlight shimmering over the land played tricks on his scorched eyes. Wizened bushes became Turkish squadrons; clumps of thorn, Arabs; the skin around his eyes reddened and blistered, cracking into sores that wept blood. His mind wavered with tides of heat that blurred his vision and roasted his body. He became preoccupied with finding Furja and wove elaborate, unworkable plots to take her from Shalan.

  The second day out from Ahwaz, he fell in with a party of Bakhtairi Khans. They accorded him a traveller’s rights; in return, he gave them passports. They asked if he knew a Ferenghi. The question pleased and disturbed him.

  Had he become more Arab than British? Thanks to Mitkhal’s tuition, Arab ways were now second nature and he felt more comfortable riding in silence with the natives than he did making small talk to stiff-necked officers like Cleck-Heaton.

  The more he saw of the desert Arabs the more he admired them. The Bedouin, with their small bags of dates, skins of sour camel milk, and rusted rifles, could outride, outshoot, and outfight the best cavalry officers in any regiment.

  He recalled what he had said to Charles in Amara. ‘After the war. A reunion at Clyneswood.’

  Would he ever live there again? The house in Basra and the tent he’d shared with Furja had been more home to him than Clyneswood ever had. Life with the Bedouin had stripped away the superfluous trappings of civilisation he’d fought against all his life. For the first time he knew exactly what he wanted. Yet he was pow
erless to do anything about it.

  After two days, he parted company from the Khans. The plain stretched unbroken around him. Somewhere out there were his wife and daughters. If Shalan gave him the choice he would never leave them again, even at the cost of deserting the army and the war. Mounting Dorset, he picked up Devon’s rein and swam the horses across the river. Mounting a bank, he saw the black dots on the horizon that he’d been searching for.

  Kicking his heels into Dorset’s flanks, he galloped forward. A mile from the camp, Shalan’s men moved in. He slowed his pace and lifted his hands away from his weapons. A dozen warriors rode across his path, forcing him to halt.

  ‘I’ve come to return Mitkhal’s horse.’ He pointed to Devon.

  ‘Mitkhal left for Basra five days ago. His wife will take it.’ Shalan reined in Devon.

  Harry damned the impulse that had led Mitkhal to seek him as he was travelling through the desert, but Mitkhal’s absence didn’t deter him from attempting to bridge the estrangement between Shalan and himself. ‘I’ve also brought passports.’ He opened his saddlebag and pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘All the friends of my government are being given papers.’

  Shalan drew his sword and speared one. ‘They give us permission to live in our own land.’

  ‘Not permission. They guarantee the holder safe passage through British lines.’ Harry thrust a wad towards Shalan. ‘I’ve signed them. All that needs to be done is for the name of the bearer to be written at the top. In English, or Arabic, either will suffice.’

  ‘The last time you entered my village, I warned you were not welcome.’ Shalan tore the passports and scattered the fragments. They drifted to the ground and lay curling in the heat. ‘Your papers buy you nothing here. Why do you persist in returning when your presence offends me?’

  ‘I came to see Mitkhal.’

  ‘I told you he is not here.’

  Harry was conscious that some of Shalan’s men had dismounted and were closing in behind him, but weariness made him reckless.

  ‘I would like to see my daughters and Furja.’

  ‘Furja has married a Bedawi. She is no longer your concern, and nor are her daughters.’