The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Read online

  ‘Can I write more than one letter?’

  ‘Command will look sympathetically on any letter to your immediate family. I’ve been asked to enquire if you have any last requests.’

  ‘Only time to write to my parents, my wife and brother, Tom. He’s my executor.’ John sensed Perry might be swayed by the necessity of leaving Maud adequately provided for. ‘There’s one more thing. Harry Downe left a parcel with me. Mainly letters to be forwarded to his family and a few personal things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘His pocket watch, photographs.’ Hatred burned for the first time in months as John was forced to itemise what remained of Harry’s life.

  ‘As they belong to Lieutenant-Colonel Downe they won’t be confiscated. What do you want me to do with them?’

  ‘Give them to Smythe.’ John glared at Perry. ‘Will my effects be confiscated?’

  ‘Confiscated and scrutinised by the censor. They may or may not be forwarded to your family at the senior duty officer’s discretion.’

  ‘Your discretion, Perry?’ John dropped the veneer of politeness. ‘I give you my word as an officer that there’s no mention in my papers of Emily or the way she died. The only people who knew the details were Harry Downe, you, and me. Now Harry’s dead and I’m about to be shot, I think you can consider your sordid secret safe.’

  Perry left, slamming the door behind him. John picked up the paper and pen Perry had set down beside the candle. He suppressed an irrational desire to communicate with Harry or Charles. If the church was right, he would be doing that soon enough.

  Dear Maud.

  I haven’t long to live.

  His handwriting looked suspiciously firm for a man at death’s door. He toyed with the idea of mentioning fever but decided against embellishing his last letter with lies. Besides, it wasn’t as though Maud would care. She’d hardly be a conventional widow.

  I hope you get this. I trust you won’t waste time grieving for me. I’m not in pain and now Charles and Harry have gone there doesn’t seem a great deal left to live for. Write to my brother, Tom, care of my father. He has the authority to administer my estate and will arrange payment of the annuity I set up for you. If it will help, you may name the child after me.

  He hoped she’d understand the significance of the last sentence. He dare not be more explicit because of the censor.

  Thank you for the happy times. There were some.

  John Mason.

  He looked at the paper that was left. Only two more sheets. He’d have to be brief.

  Dear Mother, Father, Tom and Lucy.

  If you are reading this, I will be dead. Please don’t grieve on my account. Thank you for all the love and happiness you have given me over the years …

  Memories flooded back, of picnics in the woods at Clyneswood and Stouthall. His mother supervising a train of small children and nannies while his father gaily led the way through mud and mire.

  Holidays from school. His father taking him to the library and suggesting books he might read. His father giving him his first official glass of brandy, not knowing Harry had upstaged him years earlier. His first cigar, his first …

  ‘John?’ Crabbe stood in the doorway. They’d opened the door and he hadn’t even heard it being unlocked. ‘The verdict stands. But the sentence has been postponed.’

  ‘Why?’ John felt cheated. All this preparation for a delay. He wanted it over with.

  ‘Knight and the senior MO argued without you the number of deaths will soar. They pointed out you’re the most experienced surgeon and they couldn’t cope with the existing casualties with one less doctor, let alone treat any more. You’re to be escorted to the hospital every day by Sergeant Greening and he’ll remain with you at all times. When you’re not working, you’ll be kept here, under guard.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Until the casualties stop rolling in or the Turks break through. Whichever comes first. They’ve issued orders that you’re to be shot as soon as it’s expedient.’ Crabbe moved closer. ‘If you want to make a run for it I’d be glad to help.’

  ‘Leave the wounded to take my chances on getting through the Turkish lines?’ John smiled. ‘Thank you. I appreciate the offer and all you’ve done for me, but, no.’ He looked at his unfinished letter. ‘I suppose I’d better get on with this.’

  ‘If it’s your last letter home, that would be wise. A couple of ghulams are going through the lines tonight and if I know Perry, he’ll put your letters in their bag. Given their chances, it might be as well if you make copies and leave them with me. If I get out of this I promise to deliver them.’

  ‘Thank you. If you get me more paper I’ll do that.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, stop thanking me …’

  ‘You did all you could, Crabbe. You couldn’t have won. Perry has it in for me. It’s nothing to do with you. It’s personal.’

  ‘We all know he was angry with you for marrying his daughter on the day his wife died.’

  John smiled wryly at the way gossip had woven a story out of so little known fact.

  Crabbe retreated. ‘I’ll leave you to finish your letters. Is there anything you want?’

  ‘More paper if you can scrounge it. I’d like to write to Charles’s father and Harry’s family.’

  Crabbe hesitated. ‘I can’t help thinking none of this would have happened if Harry had been around. He’d have found some way to get the charges against you dismissed.’

  ‘How? By murdering Cleck-Heaton or Perry?’

  ‘Knowing Harry, both if he had to.’

  ‘Then it’s just as well he’s not around or we’d both be facing a firing squad.’

  Harry, Charles, and him. Three, two, one. Soon there’d be none. Just like the nursery rhyme.

  Crabbe noticed the mould on the wall. It was just as well they were going to shoot John soon. No one could survive a Mesopotamian winter sleeping in these conditions.

  ‘Will there be a little time at the end?’ John touched the amulet Furja had given him, which he kept in his breast pocket next to Harry’s box of pearls and gold. ‘I have some things …’

  ‘Keep them. When it happens I’ll be there.’

  ‘Just in case you’re not, send the contents of my pockets to Harry’s Arab wife. Mitkhal will know where to reach her. And tell her “thank you, but it didn’t work for a Ferenghi”. She’ll understand. I can’t write. I don’t think she can read English.’

  ‘I’ll see you later.’ Turning his head so John wouldn’t see his face, Crabbe banged on the door. When it opened, he walked away.

  ‘Major Mason, sir.’ Sergeant Greening hovered in the doorway. ‘I’m right sorry about the verdict. We – all the non-coms, that is – think it’s wrong.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Greening, but for your own sake you shouldn’t be talking this way. Not even to me.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he answered defiantly. ‘When the verdict was announced they asked if I’d like to stand down but I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I stayed.’

  ‘You volunteered for this duty?’ John asked.

  ‘To stay with you, yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s uncommonly kind of you, Sergeant.’

  ‘My wife thinks highly of you. That’s Harriet, sir. She was Mrs Perry’s maid.’

  ‘Major Reid told me she’d married a sergeant. I’m very pleased for you. Harriet deserved a good man. Congratulations, I hope you both have a long and happy life together when this is over.’

  ‘It’s good of you to say so.’ The sergeant fumbled in his pocket. ‘I got this for you, sir. It will keep the cold at bay.’ He pulled a small bottle of brandy from his pocket. John was touched. Brandy prices were sky-high amongst the troops. He dreaded to think what Greening had traded for it.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant, but I daren’t take it in case I’m searched. Would you keep it for me, please?’

  ‘I’d be honoured, sir. There’s still hope, isn’t there? I mean, Major Crabbe can do something to
stop it, can’t he?’

  ‘Afraid not.’ John found himself comforting the man who’d been ordered to shoot him. ‘We’ll have a drink together later, after I’ve got these letters out of the way.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Greening shut the door. John picked up the pen. It was strange; for the first time in months, he actually didn’t want a drink.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The Mission, Basra, Friday December 24th 1915

  Maud straightened the crepe paper crackers she’d made, rearranged the bowls of salted almonds, and checked the carafe of red wine was “breathing” on the sideboard. Since typhoid fever had broken out among the Turkish POWs in the Lansing, the Reverend and Mrs Butler had joined Doctor Picard, Theo, and Angela in working long hours at the hospital. But that morning they’d all been determined to return in time to join her for Christmas Eve supper before attending the midnight service.

  She studied her handiwork. The table looked attractive and the chicken broth smelled appetising. She hoped the roast beef would live up to the cook’s promise. It was difficult to buy good-quality beef in Basra.

  ‘Ma’am Mason, there’s a gentleman to see you, an officer gentleman.’

  ‘Show him into the sitting room, Aiyesha.’ She checked her reflection in the oval mirror set in the sideboard and wondered what the officer wanted. Christmas greetings from her father, perhaps? So little news had come from upstream the past month. She went to the door. The officer was standing with his back to her in front of the fire.

  ‘Merry Christmas –’ she discreetly checked his uniform ‘– Colonel …’

  ‘Allan, Edward Allan, Mrs Mason. I knew your husband in India.’

  ‘Thank you for calling, Colonel Allan, but my husband is with General Townsend.’ Suddenly she knew exactly why he had called.

  Faint, she sank down on the nearest chair.

  ‘Is there anyone besides the maid in the house with you, Mrs Mason?’

  ‘No, the Reverend and Mrs Butler and the rest of the staff are in the Lansing.’ The words tumbled out. If she kept talking, he wouldn’t be able to tell her. And until someone actually said the words, John still lived. ‘Typhus has broken out among the Turks. The regular staff are nursing those in quarantine, so of course extra people …’ A sharp pain shot through her stomach. She clenched the arm of the chair and cried out as a gush of water spurted from between her legs. Her face flamed when she saw the puddle spreading over the rug.

  ‘If I’d known you were pregnant and alone in the house, I wouldn’t have come.’

  A second pain gripped Maud. She clutched her swollen stomach.

  ‘Are these the first pains?’ he asked.

  ‘My back has been aching all day. But it’s been aching a great deal lately.’ She moaned when another pain came. He opened the door and called to the maid.

  ‘We have to get Mrs Mason to bed. Quickly! Can you walk, Mrs Mason?’

  Maud rose unsteadily from the chair, only to fall back at the onset of another pain. Colonel Allan scooped her into his arms and carried her into the passage. The maid ran ahead to Maud’s room, flinging the door wide.

  ‘We’ll need plenty of hot water, old sheets, newspapers, some strong cord or twine, and a pair of scissors. Are there any other servants in the house?’

  ‘The cook, sir.’

  ‘Tell him to get the things and bring them here. I need you to help me.’

  ‘The baby isn’t due for another two months,’ Maud protested.

  ‘Are you sure of your dates?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘You would be, I suppose, with leave being the way it is. Oh well, it can’t be helped. It looks as though this one’s in a hurry to get here.’

  ‘It will be all right?’

  ‘No reason why not.’ He looked around as he lowered her into a cane chair.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve soaked your uniform,’ Maud apologised, mortified that any man should see her like this.

  ‘After some of the things that have been spilt on it recently, amniotic fluid is a welcome change.’

  ‘You’re a doctor.’ She gripped the arms of the chair when another pain took hold.

  ‘I am.’ He stripped the bed back to the mattress and threw the covers into the passage. Taking off his jacket, he hung it on the back of the door. Turning up the oil lamp, he asked, ‘Where did the water in the jug come from?’

  ‘The mission well. It’s clean.’

  Filling the bowl on the washstand, he scrubbed his hands. ‘Have you anything waterproof I can cover the bed with. A rubber sheet, tarpaulin?’

  ‘Angela – Mrs Smythe – put a parcel in my wardrobe last month. She said …’ Her voice tailed in pain. He opened the wardrobe. A brown paper parcel prevented the hems of her dresses from hanging straight. He lifted it out and tore it open. The first thing that fell out was a rubber sheet. He carried it to the bed.

  ‘Close the door and the curtains,’ he ordered Aiyesha when she returned. Pulling a sheet from the parcel, he spread it over the rubber. ‘I’m going to lift you onto the bed, Mrs Mason. Then we’re going to undress you.’

  He laid Maud on the bed. She gagged at the smell of rubber. He lifted the chamber pot from beneath the bed and held it until she finished retching, then, with the help of Aiyesha, he undressed her. He removed everything, but by the time he’d finished, the pains were so strong Maud no longer cared. Aiyesha sponged her legs while he washed his hands again. He helped Aiyesha pull a fresh nightgown over Maud’s head, keeping the hem above her waist.

  ‘I’m going to insert my fingers into you. I’ll try not to hurt you but I need to know how much longer we have before the baby puts in an appearance.’

  Maud gripped the bedhead and stared at the ceiling.

  ‘I thought so.’ He removed his hands and washed them again. ‘It’s going to be over very soon. That’s it, lie back. It’s quite warm in this room, but a baby likes it warmer. Stoke up the fire, Aiyesha.’

  He took charge, issuing commands as if the Arab girl was one of his orderlies. His voice was soft, his manner gentle.

  The cook knocked on the door, bringing the things he’d asked for. The pains ebbed and flowed with increasing frequency. Maud felt as though she were being torn in two but the colonel was there, holding her hand, smoothing her hair away from her face – reminding her of John. She wondered if the manner was the result of medical training, then remembered what Marjorie Harrap had said when she’d become engaged.

  “You can have no idea how gentle your fiancé was. He brought my son out with considerably less pain and embarrassment than Major Harrap inflicted putting him in.”

  She closed her eyes, imagining it was John caring for her. The colonel told her about Cambridgeshire in spring, Cambridgeshire in summer, in autumn; by the time he reached winter, the pains were horrendous and she was screaming.

  ‘Push, Mrs Mason. Bear down, push … Aiyesha, hold her shoulders. Push, Mrs Mason.’ His voice grew insistent. A flood of water and blood gushed as something tore inside her. ‘Wait!’ he commanded, and she stopped pushing. ‘When the next pain comes, another push.’ She did as he asked. He lifted his hands. A baby was in them. A wriggling, screaming baby with a down of fair hair covering his head.

  ‘Congratulations, Mrs Mason. You have a son. He’s small, but all there, very much alive, and judging by his colouring, he takes after his mother.’ He wrapped the slippery, squalling bundle in a towel, checked his mouth for debris, and laid him on Maud’s nightdress.

  She cradled the baby in her arms. Still screaming, he opened his eyes. They were blue. Blue and fierce.

  ‘He’s so furious, so alive,’ she murmured, totally unprepared for the feelings he engendered.

  ‘We’ll have one more push when you’re ready.’ He dealt with the afterbirth and cut the cord. While Aiyesha washed and dressed her in a clean nightdress, he took the baby and bathed him in warm water, talking softly until gradually the baby quietened, only to start up again when
he wrapped him in a towel and laid him on a chair.

  ‘You’re going to have to watch that one.’ He lifted Maud in his arms so Aiyesha could remake the bed with clean sheets and blankets. ‘He likes attention.’

  ‘I’ll try to give it to him.’

  The colonel laid Maud in the bed, picked up the child, and handed him to her. Aiyesha carried out the rubber sheets and bundles of newspapers.

  After the maid left, the colonel pulled a chair close to the bed. ‘John didn’t suffer. He died of fever. The report said the end was painless.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two weeks ago, at Kut.’ He went to his jacket and extracted some papers. ‘These are his last letters. Some of them are addressed to his family but I thought you’d be the best person to send them on.’

  Tears streamed down her cheeks and fell on the baby’s towel. John was dead. She’d never see him again, never be able to convince him that, despite everything she’d done, she’d loved him. Really loved him.

  ‘John wouldn’t have wanted you to cry, Mrs Mason. He’d have wanted you to think of yourself and his son.’ He pushed his index finger into the minute palm of the baby’s hand. ‘Are you going to name him after his father?’

  Choking back her tears, she shook her head mutely.

  ‘He may grow to look more like John. Fair babies often turn into dark children.’

  ‘He looks just like his father now.’

  He glanced at her. Her eyes were closed. Perhaps he’d imagined the bitterness in her voice. A door banged, and someone ran down the passage. He smiled as he shrugged his arms into the sleeves of his tunic. He hadn’t wanted to deliver the news of Mason’s death but he’d felt obligated. And it hadn’t turned out too badly. After the all the deaths, a birth had been just what he’d needed.

  Basra Hospital, Tuesday December 28th 1915

  Angela carried a tin of homemade biscuits and cake through the packed aisles of beds in the officers’ convalescent ward. After the Lansing, she’d believed herself immune to the sight of wounds and suffering, but there were so many men here she’d seen in the barracks, officers Peter had introduced her to.