The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Read online

  ‘What would he do if he found out about your mother and Charles?’

  ‘The honourable thing, whatever that might be. Shoot Charles, throw out my mother. He’s not going to find out, is he, John?’

  ‘Not from me. And that’s enough for one night. It’s time you were in your cabin.’

  Sensing John’s disapproval of Charles and her mother’s affair, Maud was in emotional turmoil as she led the way to her cabin. She’d lived all her life in army quarters among healthy young men. According to her father, the proximity had led to the development of a coarse, unfeminine streak. If Emily’s health had been stronger, he would have sent her to a girls’ school in England to be inculcated with mannerisms befitting a colonel’s daughter. He’d frequently warned her she’d overhear things no lady should if she persisted in wandering around the barracks. She had.

  Even before her 16th birthday she knew what “Rag” meant, and she’d caught sight of enough whores sidling in and out of the men’s quarters to realise sex was a saleable and, for men at least, enjoyable commodity, but she’d never considered any of her illicit discoveries relevant to her, until she’d met Captain John Mason.

  From the first moment she’d caught sight of him at the ladies’ dinner given in the officers’ mess in honour of her mother’s arrival, she was conscious of his dark good looks. It didn’t take her long to discover that he was as unaware of them as he was of the effect he had on his fellow officers’ wives. She discovered she liked being alone with him, teasing and, later, kissing him. And, during the whole of their courtship, hovering in the background, whispered, rarely openly spoken of, were the sexual mysteries, embellished and passed on at the claustrophobic, sweltering, all-female tea parties.

  Knowing winks and nods exchanged between the older matrons. Congratulations accompanied by blatantly envious looks from the younger wives. Major Harrap’s wife had unbent enough to follow her routine good wishes with the confidence that John had attended her during the long and difficult birth of her first child and throughout the whole undignified, painful, ordeal he had been a pillar of strength, gentleness, and comfort.

  ‘My dear.’ Marjorie had laid a damp, pale hand on her arm. ‘You can have no idea how kind your fiancé was. He brought my son out with considerably less pain and embarrassment than Major Harrap inflicted putting him in. You, my dear, Maud, have not only caught yourself the best-looking officer in the regiment but also the most considerate.’

  ‘Penny for them?’

  Maud realised they were outside her cabin door. ‘I was thinking of you.’ She gave him her key; he turned it in the lock. She grasped his hand. ‘Come in. Just for a little while.’

  Seeing no one in the corridor, he followed her. Closing the door behind him, he locked it.

  ‘I gave Harriet the evening off.’ Maud turned her back to him so he wouldn’t see the nervousness in her eyes. ‘Would you unhook my dress for me?

  ‘That’s him. The tall, fair one speaking to the waiter,’ the steward whispered.

  The sepoy pressed closer to the porthole.

  ‘In the name of Allah, get back. If you’re seen, we’ll both be done for. You know the rule about sticking to your own deck.’

  The Indian moved away from the porthole and slid into the shadows. ‘You’re sure that’s Captain Reid?’

  ‘I serve early morning tea to him and Captain Mason.’

  ‘He’s leaving the ship at Basra?’

  ‘I heard them talking. Captain Mason’s getting married there.’

  Chatta Ram pressed a few rupees into the steward’s hand. He closed his eyes, pictured the man he’d seen. Yes, he’d know him again. ‘You go first. I’ll find my own way.’

  The man needed no second bidding. He’d risked his job by taking the sepoy to the first-class deck. Chatta Ram took one last look. Captain Charles Reid, long legs crossed in front of him, whisky glass in hand, was laughing. Chatta wondered if he’d laugh as loud in the Spartan Indian section of the ship. There were no upholstered chairs, thick carpets, crystal glasses, or whisky there. Only thin sleeping pallets, canvas buckets and rough wooden stools. One day –

  Chatta Ram left the porthole and crept along the deck towards the stern.

  Basra , Friday early hours of Friday 3rd July 1914

  Harry woke to see the moon shining, a huge golden ball segmented by the carved stonework of the trellis windows. Turning on his side, he watched the shadows play across Furja’s cheek. Their first night together under a roof. Already he was regretting the ease with which he’d acceded to Shalan’s demands.

  ‘I know the Ferenghis, Hasan.’ It hadn’t taken Shalan long to Arabicise his name. ‘I know their ways. Their contempt.’ Shalan had spat into the dust. ‘You will not take my daughter among your people.’

  And he’d agreed. How readily he’d agreed, but that had been before he’d known Furja. The first three days after their wedding had resembled Tottenham Court Road at pub closing. Furja had fought like fury, taking respite only during the night when she’d retreated in high dudgeon to the side of the tiny booth she designated as “hers”, leaving him a single rug. He’d actually looked forward to the times when he could leave the booth for the dubious pleasures of the all-male coffee circle and evening meal. On the third evening after their wedding, Shalan had informed him it was past the time for proof of the consummation of their marriage to be displayed. Fuming, he’d returned to the bridal booth, and while Furja’d watched, cut his arm with his sword, staining the white cloth tradition decreed should be flown above their tent with his own blood. But before he had time to do anything with it, Furja had snatched the rag from his hands and torn it to shreds.

  ‘I will not permit any member of my tribe to believe this “marriage” holds any importance outside of the bride price you paid my father.’

  Weary of argument, he said nothing.

  The following morning, he left the tent while she slept. Taking Dorset, he rode into the desert. Before he’d travelled a mile, she’d caught up with him on one of Shalan’s black mares. Having nothing better to do, he’d followed her. When the sun reached the climax of its scorching heights, they’d halted at a well. He’d unsaddled and watered both horses. After tethering them in the shade of the only clump of palms that grew at the lonely spot, he’d stripped to his cotton trousers to wash the dust and sweat from his skin. Revelling in the feel of the first water to touch his body for nearly a month, he’d almost forgotten Furja.

  When he’d finished, he slipped on his abba without drying himself. She’d made a tiny, makeshift tent of her outer robe, pitching it in the minuscule shade of a large boulder. She’d beckoned and he’d walked warily towards her, expecting another outburst, but she’d held out her hands. In them were some dried dates and a gourd. He’d taken a date and eaten it while he filled the gourd at the well. The water was brackish, and contained some peculiar debris, but she strained it through her robe into his hands. After weeks of sour camel’s milk, it tasted like wine. She invited him to sit alongside her. Glad to get out of the sun’s unrelenting glare he’d accepted, but he was careful to leave as many inches between them as the covering allowed. Emotionally and physically drained, he’d wrapped himself in his abba, leant against Dorset’s saddle, and closed his eyes.

  He’d woken to the absolute silence of the desert. Furja was lying beside him, her head on his arm. He moved. She opened her eyes. He’d looked around and realised that for the first time they were truly alone. No one could see, or hear them. Perhaps the same thought had occurred to her, because she kissed him. A drawn-out, sensual kiss that marked the end of animosity and the beginning of a sensual sexual relationship that consigned his memories of Christina to oblivion.

  Furja was a virgin, but her knowledge spanned centuries. That moment of passion-filled, urgent action marked his initiation into the erotic secrets that had been passed from mother to daughter in the harems of the black tents. When they’d ridden away from the well at sunset, his eyes had been opened to a ma
gnificent and breath-taking new world.

  The two weeks it took Mitkhal to reach Shalan’s camp after that day passed in a frenzy of lovemaking that left little time for meals, or sleep. Much to Shalan’s chagrin, Harry ceased attending the coffee circle and evening meal. Furja’s aunt, Gutne, brought them what little they needed, including their food.

  Mitkhal rode in with a baggage train that carried the bridal price in full, along with a note from Perry extolling Harry as “a good chap”, the ultimate Perry accolade. He’d also brought fresh clothes for Harry, a flask of brandy small enough to hide from Shalan, a strict Moslem in all matters pertaining to alcohol, and a razor to replace the one Harry had blunted by trying to shave without soap or water.

  Five minutes’ conversation with Mitkhal made Harry realise how weary he was of fencing words with Shalan, all-male coffee circles, Islamic formality, Bedouin lies or truths, depending on which way you viewed them, grit, heat, washing in sand, fleas, flies, discomfort and, above all, the uncompromising harshness of the desert. He wanted to eat at a table, bathe in a bath, sleep in a bed – alongside his wife – and live with something more substantial than a strip of cloth between him and his neighbours. In short, he wanted to return to civilisation, or failing that, Basra, and he intended to take Furja with him because her absence would annoy Shalan – or so he snarled at Mitkhal when the Arab dared to comment on the success of his marriage.

  He left Mitkhal and returned to the booth to try out a new role on Furja, that of masterful husband. He informed her he wanted to follow the Ferenghi tradition of a honeymoon, one on which they could be truly alone, and ordered her to pack for his quarters in Basra. She said little in reply and he left the tent congratulating himself on his victory, but, within the hour, Shalan had reminded him forcefully of their agreement: no infidels near his daughter, and no infidel house in Basra. It had been left to Furja to settle the argument. Alternating between playing dutiful wife and dutiful daughter, she agreed to accompany her husband on a Ferenghi honeymoon. That, she told her father, infringed no Islamic rules, but as a devout daughter and a devout Moslem she refused to live among Ferenghi. Which was why they’d arrived at Shalan’s town house in Basra with Mitkhal, four of her male cousins, an aunt, and six of her women in tow.

  That, she informed him, was as alone as a Sheikh’s daughter could get.

  He’d surrendered with good grace and not entirely empty-handed, he mused, staring at the sleeping figure stretched out alongside him. Rolling on his back, he studied the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling. It was no use; he couldn’t sleep. Stealing from the bed, he pulled on his native cotton trousers, found a cigarette, lit it, and padded barefoot into the tiled courtyard. A fountain played in the centre of cultivated flowerbeds. The mixed perfumes of pomegranate, orange and almond blossoms hung in the still night air. He had to hand it to Shalan; the house was cooler, and more comfortable, than his bungalow next to the barracks. He wondered why the Sheikh spent his time travelling the desert in a never-ending search for fodder for his flocks, when he could live in style. The masters lived out a harsh life with their herds, while the slaves lived a life of ease, caring for town houses that were rarely visited. The situation was ridiculous.

  ‘You couldn’t sleep, Harry?’ Furja stood beside him, struggling to put on her robe.

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’ As he pulled the silk over her shoulder, his hand lingered on the curve of her naked breast. He couldn’t help contrasting her smile and the warmth of the embrace that followed with the reaction of another woman to whom he’d once done the same thing.

  It had happened during the ball his parents had given to celebrate his engagement to his cousin, Lucy Mason. He’d inveigled her into the depths of the conservatory, but when he’d plunged his hand down the neck of her low-cut evening gown, she’d closed her eyes and stiffened like a board. Rather than pursue the matter, he’d walked away. Shortly afterwards, he’d ended the engagement.

  ‘You’re thinking about tomorrow when the friends of your childhood arrive.’

  ‘John and Charles? Yes, they’ll be here in a few hours. It will be good to see them again.’ He sat on the tiled slab that edged the fountain and pulled her onto his lap. She locked her fingers around his neck and kissed his bare chest. ‘Furja?’

  ‘Yes, my husband,’ she whispered, preoccupied with her kisses.

  ‘Sail to England with me?’

  ‘No.’ She sat upright and glared at him.

  ‘You’re my wife.’

  ‘I’m also Bedouin.’

  ‘And I’m Ferenghi,’ he replied cryptically, ‘but that didn’t stop your father from forcing us to marry.’

  ‘Our marriage was necessary. My travelling to England is not.’

  ‘Forget I mentioned it.’ He retreated in the face of her temper.

  ‘I will.’ Her fingers moved skilfully, massaging the nape of his neck.

  ‘Have you ever loved anyone?’

  ‘The Bedawi teach that love follows marriage. It must be true. When I first saw you, I couldn’t bear for you to touch me, and now, I have learnt to like it.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for a lecture on the ways of the Bedawi,’ he replied abruptly. ‘I wanted to know if you’ve ever been in love.’

  She studied him gravely for a moment. ‘Once, I watched a prince ride into my father’s camp, but I only watched. We never spoke.’

  ‘You fell in love with him?’

  ‘I thought so at the time.’ She felt the muscles stiffen in his spine. ‘You’re jealous?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he snapped.

  ‘He was tall, and very handsome. With a little moustache.’ She ran her finger over Harry’s bare upper lip. ‘He was a Sherif. Descended from the house of the prophet.’

  ‘I do know what a Sherif is.’

  ‘There was gold thread in his agal, and at his belt he wore the gold-sheathed Sherifan dagger,’ she continued, seemingly oblivious to his mood. ‘He was a true son of the desert.’

  ‘If you felt that way about him, why didn’t you marry him?’ he demanded.

  ‘Because he had four wives, and a waiting list of 20 to fill the vacancies when he divorced them. My father’s tribe is a poor one. My position on that list would have been very low. I would have had to wait many years, perhaps until I was old and shrivelled.’

  ‘I doubt he’d have kept you waiting that long.’ Despite the jealousy that gathered destructively inside him, he smiled at the notion of her wracked in spinsterish old age.

  ‘But –’ she kissed the frown on his forehead ‘– none of that matters now. I am your wife until you divorce me, or I decide to leave you. Then you can marry a Ferenghi. Is it true Ferenghis have only one wife?’

  ‘Yes, and if marriage to you is anything to go by, one is enough.’

  ‘Then I am glad I am not Ferenghi, because marriage would be too much work. I would have to run the household alone, and bear all the children. I would grow old and ugly before my time.’

  ‘Most Ferenghi women cope. My mother bore all of my father’s children, and she is neither old nor ugly. At least she wasn’t the last time I saw her.’

  ‘Then your father cannot have many children.’

  ‘Not as many as yours.’ He opened her robe and teased her nipple with his tongue.

  ‘Do you think we’ll be married for any length of time?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Because if we are, I think you should take another wife. I would have an equal to talk to when you are away, someone to share the responsibilities of the household.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ He stopped what he was doing, and looked hard at her.

  ‘My Aunt Gutne is unmarried. She is lonely.’

  ‘She can remain lonely. The answer is no. No other wives. Absolutely categorically.’

  Without warning, she entwined her fingers in his hair, twisting his head until his mouth was close to hers. ‘There are advantages in having two wives; perhaps we should show you what they a
re.’

  ‘The answer is no,’ he warned sternly, wincing in pain.

  ‘I’m sorry I asked,’ she said in an unapologetic tone. She slid her hands down his chest to his waist. He grabbed them before they could travel any further.

  ‘I can’t think straight when you do that.’ He found it difficult to cope with her mood changes. Often while she purred loving nothings into his ears, he seethed with an anger she had stirred only moments before. Yet she could claw and bite him one minute and kiss him the next.

  ‘You wouldn’t need to think,’ she replied, speaking to him in English as she slid from his lap, knelt before him, and lowered her head between his thighs. ‘Not if we returned to our bed.’

  Chapter Three

  Basra , Friday 3rd July 1914

  Harry left the gardens of Shalan’s house as dawn crept over the muddied, sepia waters of the Shatt-el-Arab. He was bone-weary, already looking forward to the heat of the afternoon when he could return to bed. If he was going to survive until his leave, he’d either have to sleep apart from Furja, or forget going to the barracks this early in the morning. He stretched and breathed in deeply, shuddering when the cool morning air hit his lungs. He called to Farik, the slave on gate duty, to close the iron bolts behind him, slipped through the high wooden gates, and moved off, walking quickly, head low, voluminous native robes flapping at his heels, no different from any other native leaving the residential quarter for the business sector of the town.

  No one gave him a second glance as he made his way through the labyrinth of fetid lanes. Alleyways opened and closed behind him, each indistinguishable from the last. How could he ever have considered this place civilised? He only had to breathe the stench that was as much a part of the town as the sun-baked mud bricks that walled the inward-facing houses. It was enough to make a camel retch. Excrement, Turkish coffee, stagnant pools of liquid refuse, spices, and overriding all else, even at this unearthly hour, the acrid odour of human sweat.