The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 39

  Angela struggled with the food, but a lump in her throat prevented her from swallowing. Every time she looked up, Peter seemed to be too preoccupied with eating to talk. It was a relief when John and the others returned as Dira was serving coffee. They joined her and Peter, but she sensed from the strained politeness that her presence was inhibiting the men. Making her excuses, she rose from the table.

  ‘Would you be kind enough to spare me a few minutes, Mrs Smythe?’ John asked. He caught Dira’s eye. ‘Take Mrs Smythe’s and my coffee onto the veranda. You don’t mind, do you, Peter? I’d like to catch up on the Basra news.’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Peter reached for the brandy Dira had brought with the coffee.

  John and Angela went outside. Half a dozen camp chairs were grouped around a travelling table next to a plot that should have been a flowerbed. Dira brought them a pot of coffee, a large, fruit-filled pastry, and brandy.

  Angela picked up the coffee pot. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘No, thank you. After campaigning, I’m not used to life’s refinements.’

  Angela poured out the coffee and cut two slices from the cake. ‘I know I shouldn’t have come. But I’ve been worried about Peter. His letters have been strange. I had to see him to find out what was wrong.’

  ‘Have you found out?’ He pulled out his cigarette case.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head as he offered her one. ‘But he’s changed.’

  ‘War does things to men. I don’t think anyone can understand what’s it’s like until they’ve been through it.’

  ‘Then tell me what it’s like. I need to understand what’s made Peter this way.’

  John lit a cigarette and hunched over his coffee. ‘Peter went missing for a while after he was wounded. The men with him were all killed.’ John recounted the bare facts, but his colourless account only served to accentuate the horror for Angela. ‘I’m not sure how he survived the massacre because he’s never talked about it. When Harry found him in a native village, he was in shock. Later – he wasn’t himself for a while, then –’ John picked up the brandy Dira had poured for him and drank it. ‘There are two options open to a man in war. He can either become a killer or be killed. Those of us who’ve become killers have lost something of ourselves in the process.’

  ‘Are you saying Peter’s become a killer?’ Angela was obviously horrified by the thought.

  ‘He’s better at it than most. But, if I may be immodest, we all are, or we wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Has he killed many men?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ John took out his brandy flask and refilled his glass.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Have you killed anyone?’

  ‘Not intentionally, but probably more than most. Being a doctor’s a different kind of nightmare. I stand around, scalpel in hand, while shells fly, deciding which one of half a dozen severely wounded men is the most likely candidate to benefit from surgery.’

  ‘You choose who’s to live and who’s to die?’

  ‘Constantly.’ He tossed back the brandy.

  ‘But the others, Harry – Major Crabbe – none of them are like Peter.’

  ‘We all have our own way of dealing with war. Some –’ he refilled his glass ‘– turn to drink, like Leigh and myself. Others, like Harry, treat it as all a huge joke; a few, like Peter, build shells around themselves and pretend to be tougher than they are. But none of us is the same man we were at the beginning of this mess. I’m sorry. I’m probably not making much sense. As you see, I’ve had more of this –’ he picked up his glass ‘– than is good for me.’

  ‘At least you’ve talked to me. It’s more than Peter did.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Angela; this war can’t go on for ever. Sooner or later it will end, and then we can all get back to normal.’

  She sipped her coffee and wondered if Peter would ever become “normal” again. Then she looked at John slumped in his chair, and debated whether to mention Maud. Maud never spoke of John, or the baby Theo had told her in confidence was the result of rape. He’d checked Colonel Hale’s records. Colonel Hale had noted the treatment he’d given Maud after an attack by an unknown man.

  It was tragic. John and Maud were such nice people; she was fond of them both. And she couldn’t help wondering why John wouldn’t even try to come to terms with what had happened.

  ‘How’s Maud?’ John asked, making her start guiltily.

  ‘Keeping well. She did a little teaching in the school, but not any longer.’

  ‘Has she told you we’re divorcing?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. You seemed so happy …’

  ‘We were, now we’re not,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m glad Maud has a friend like you to turn to.’ He heard the sound of laughter and wished Peter would whisk Angela away.

  ‘I hate to see you both so unhappy,’ she ventured.

  ‘Surely Maud isn’t unhappy. She must have lots of friends calling on her.’

  ‘No one calls on her. She spends most of her time rolling bandages for the hospital, or sewing for the baby.’ She wondered if she was doing the right thing in telling John as much. ‘But I don’t think she’s lonely. There’s always someone to talk to at the mission. People are always calling in for something. Maud’s become good at dealing with their requests for help.’

  The picture Angela painted was very different from the existence John had imagined Maud leading. He decided the father of her child had to be in Amara or Nasiriyeh.

  ‘She must spend a lot of time writing letters.’

  ‘She wrote to Mrs Harrap in India the other day.’

  ‘Is her maid, Harriet, taking care of her?’

  ‘Harriet calls on Maud several times a week, but she hasn’t moved into the mission. She’s living in rooms with several other non-commissioned officers’ wives.’

  ‘But she’ll look after Maud and the baby?’

  ‘After the baby’s born. Yes, she says she will.’ Angela had sensed friction between the maid and the mistress, but saw no point in mentioning it to John.

  ‘Maud’s written to no one besides Mrs Harrap?’

  ‘No one I know of.’ Angela was unnerved by the intense expression on John’s face.

  ‘It is possible Maud could have sent letters without your knowledge?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I write to Peter every day and as, a result, pick up and forward all the mission’s mail from the post office.’

  Peter joined them. He spoke briefly to John, then escorted Angela to their room.

  John sat alone on the veranda for a long time afterwards. He didn’t reach for the brandy bottle again. Instead he reflected on his own and Maud’s loneliness. Could he accept Maud’s child; forgive her for betraying him with a permanent reminder of her infidelity living under his roof?

  He conjured an image of the English village he had dreamed of. The home he’d wanted for Maud, himself and their children. The image seemed tarnished, spoilt. Like the apples that had grown on a diseased tree. They looked fine until you bit into them and tasted the brown, rotting cores.

  Peter undressed and climbed into bed as soon he and Angela reached their room. Closing his eyes, he turned his back on Angela and relaxed within minutes into sleep. Disturbed by the day’s events, Angela lingered over her nightly task of brushing out and plaiting her hair. An hour later, she undressed and slipped on her nightgown. Holding up the bedclothes, she slid into the narrow bed and lay beside her husband.

  Sleep did not come easily. Peter tossed and turned, lashing out with hands and feet, pounding, kicking, forcing her to cling to a few inches on the edge of the cot until her fingers ached from the strain. She heard Major Crabbe and Johnny Leigh shout goodnight to John before walking across the courtyard. The quiet shuffle of Dira’s feet when he collected their glasses.

  Peter shifted; she rolled into the hollow behind his back and laid her hand around his waist. His breathing slowed to a deep, regular rhythm. Gradually her thoughts grew less cohere
nt, her limbs heavier until she too slept.

  Angela woke to shouting, confusion, and pain. Her throat was constricted, preventing her from breathing. She opened her eyes. Peter was kneeling on her, screaming. His voice vicious, alien …

  ‘I’ll kill you, you Turkish bastard. I’ll kill you …’

  She tried to cry out but the sound died in her mouth. She struggled desperately, attempted to prise his hands from her neck; dug her nails in with all the strength she possessed. But his grip was too fast, too strong.

  ‘Thought you could sneak up on me. You bloody murdering Turk …’

  Her heart pounded as she fought for her life. His shouting grew louder. Her fingers sank into the soft skin at his neck. He relaxed his hold for an instant. Tearing herself away, clutching her neck, she ran from the bed to the grey outline of the door. Peter followed and reached it the same time as her. He pressed his hand on one of the panels. Holding it shut.

  Panic-stricken, she hammered wildly with her fists and cried out for help.

  Picking her up by the shoulders, Peter hurled her aside. She slammed across the room into the stone wall.

  ‘You can’t hide from me you, murdering bastard.’ He lumbered away from the door, fumbling towards in her in the darkness.

  ‘Angela!’ She recognised John’s voice, then the sound of the door handle scraping up and down. ‘Angela,’ he repeated urgently.

  She couldn’t move her jaw to call back to him. Peter was still blundering in the darkness, cursing and swearing.

  The door shuddered on its hinges when something heavy slammed against it from the outside. John’s voice was joined by others. She cowered in the corner furthest from Peter’s shadow.

  ‘If anyone’s behind the door, stand back.’ A pistol shot blasted. The door shattered inwards in a welter of splintering wood. Torch and candle light flooded the room. John and Major Crabbe burst in, Alf Grace behind them. Disorientated, blinking, Peter stared at them. He looked at Angela. At the blood on his hands. Sobbing, he sank to his knees.

  Leaving Peter with Crabbe, John carried Angela to his room. Laying her on his bed, he explored her battered face with lightly probing fingers. ‘You’re going to have two beautiful black eyes,’ he diagnosed calmly. ‘If I hurt you, scream.’

  She waited for the pain to intensify; when it didn’t she breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘As you probably guessed, that means your nose isn’t broken.’ John pulled his bag closer to the bed and removed a bottle of surgical spirit. ‘I’m going to clean up these cuts. There’s not a lot I can do for the bruising. Can you talk?’

  She winced when she tried to move her jaw. He touched her face below her ears. ‘I’m sorry, I know that hurt. Your jaw is dislocated. I’ll push it back in a moment. It’s not going to be as bad as it sounds.’ He held her face firmly in his hands then moved quickly.

  She screamed.

  ‘All over.’

  She saw tears in his eyes. ‘You’re too sensitive to be a doctor,’ she croaked.

  ‘Only where ladies are concerned. It’s not fair to ask you this after what I’ve just done, but can you open your mouth so I can check your throat?’

  She did as he asked.

  ‘That’s fine.’ After bathing her face, he tied a bandage from the jaw to the top of her head. ‘That’s just a precaution; you can take it off in the morning. There.’ He fastened the knot. ‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’ he questioned delicately.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. Footsteps sounded outside the door.

  ‘I don’t want to see Peter. Please.’ She clutched at John’s hands. ‘Please …’

  ‘Mason, it’s Crabbe, can I come in?’

  John looked to Angela; she nodded.

  ‘Yes. Will you ask Dira to bring a shot of brandy, please?’

  ‘I’m holding one.’

  He opened the door. Crabbe was on the threshold. ‘How are you feeling, Mrs Smythe?’ he asked, clearly embarrassed at the sight of her lying on the bed.

  ‘She’s going to be fine.’ John took the glass from him.

  ‘I left Smythe with Grace. He needs something to calm him.’

  ‘Give him a couple of these.’ Placing the brandy on the bedside table, John dug into his bag and produced a bottle of pills. Shaking out four, he handed two to Crabbe, and kept two back. ‘I’ll be along in a minute.’

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ Angela pleaded. ‘Please, I don’t want to be alone.’

  ‘I won’t leave until you’re asleep,’ John promised.

  ‘Please.’ Clutching at his arm, she pulled herself upright. ‘Please …’

  ‘Take these.’ He gave her the pills and the brandy.

  ‘You’ll stay with me until morning,’ she begged.

  ‘I can’t do that. Think of your reputation.’

  ‘Please …’ She flung herself into his arms and Crabbe rescued the brandy and pills.

  ‘Mrs Smythe, Major Mason and I can’t sleep in your room, but we can move our beds outside your door. Will that be all right?’

  ‘We won’t leave the veranda,’ John promised. ‘Now will you take these?’ He pressed the pills into her hand. She put them into her mouth and washed them down with the brandy.

  ‘I’ll find Dira, and see about moving the beds,’ Crabbe closed the door.

  ‘You promise not to leave the veranda?’

  ‘You can talk to us through the door.’ John helped her back onto the pillows. ‘But I warn you, Major Crabbe snores. I know because I shared a tent with him in the desert. Now, try to relax. You’ve had a blow to your head, and the only way to heal those bruises is by taking plenty of rest.’

  Her eyelids drooped as the drug he’d given her took effect. ‘Whatever you’ve given me is strong,’ she murmured.

  He walked onto the veranda. Dira had carried out two cots and was fastening mosquito nets over them. Crabbe was smoking.

  ‘Is she going to be all right?’ Crabbe asked.

  ‘There’s no permanent damage. Cuts, bruising, shock, and a dislocated jaw.’

  ‘I didn’t realise Smythe was so close to the edge.’

  ‘None of us did. Did he take the pills?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll look in on him. With luck, he should sleep until morning. By himself. After this, no one should sleep in the same area as him.’

  ‘That could be difficult when we go upstream. Can’t you get the man sent to India? He’s certifiable.’

  ‘You’d have to be dribbling at the mouth to pass that selection board. Poor Smythe.’

  ‘Poor us having to live with him.’ Crabbe turned back the blanket on his cot.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Basra, Friday, 20th August 1915

  Maud left her bed at the first scream but Theo was at Angela’s door before her. He opened the door and turned up the lamp.

  ‘Another nightmare?’ he enquired, his voice thick with sleep.

  Trembling, Angela swallowed her tears and sat up in bed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’d rather you told me the truth of what happened in Qurna instead of endless apologies and that absurd story about falling against a carriage wheel.’

  ‘I …’ Angela shook uncontrollably.

  Maud gathered her into her arms.

  ‘Please, stay with me, just for tonight,’ she begged.

  ‘Of course,’ Maud murmured.

  ‘I’ll get you a sedative.’ Theo looked at Maud and jerked his head towards the door.

  ‘I’ll get my slippers and dressing gown,’ Maud said tactfully.

  ‘Leave the door open,’ Angela pleaded.

  Theo did as Angela asked before following Maud to her room. ‘Do you know what happened to her?’ he demanded, when she lifted her dressing gown from a hook on the back of the door.

  ‘She told me the same story she told you.’

  ‘If I find out that Smythe …’

  ‘Until Angela tells us any different, we have to believe her.’

  ‘You don’t mind
staying with her?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I could get the servants to carry your bed into her room.’

  ‘It’s not worth waking them at this time of night. If Angela wants me to stay with her again, they can do it tomorrow,’ Maud suggested.

  ‘You were here when Angela returned. Were there any signs that she’d been attacked?

  ‘If you mean raped, Dr Wallace,’ Maud answered bluntly, ‘I saw no evidence of it.’

  ‘Why do strangers find it so easy to talk to me about their problems, and not my own sister?’ He left and returned a few moments later with a couple of pills. ‘I hope you both get some sleep.’

  Maud took them, her slippers and gown, and returned to Angela’s room.

  ‘I’m being a nuisance. Theo is furious …’

  ‘Not angry,’ Maud reassured her, ‘but worried. He doesn’t believe the carriage story.’

  Angela swallowed the pills. ‘Theo thinks Peter attacked me?’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Promise you won’t tell Theo?’

  ‘I won’t,’ Maud agreed solemnly.

  ‘He did, but not in the way Theo thinks. Peter was having a nightmare. John said he wasn’t even awake. The next morning, Peter was dreadfully upset. He couldn’t bear to face me and I couldn’t bear to sit in the same room as him. That’s why I asked John to arrange passage back here.’ She gazed at Maud with frightened eyes. ‘You have a wonderful husband.’

  ‘Had a wonderful husband.’ Maud turned down the lamp.

  ‘Lock the door.’

  ‘I’m here …’

  ‘Please, lock it,’ Angela implored hysterically.

  Maud turned the key before slipping between the sheets.

  ‘I wish I’d never gone to Qurna. I should have realised from Peter’s letters he didn’t want me.’

  ‘Of course he wants you.’

  ‘John said after the war the men will return to normal but I don’t think any of them will be able to. It’s not just the beating … It’s what happened before. Peter was always so gentle and …’

  ‘He forced himself on you?’

  ‘Not exactly, but he was rough.’ Angela searched for words that would explain what had happened in Qurna. ‘It was as if I didn’t exist. As if I was just something for him to use.’