The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 5

  He reached a square that fronted a wharf on the Shatt. The stalls in the bazaar were shuttered, but a group of turbaned waiters stood outside a coffee house, cups in hand, watching fishermen offload their nets. He looked at the fish, picked out half a dozen, and offered to buy them; the boatman argued the price. He repeated his first offer. When it wasn’t taken, he walked away. A fisherman ran after him and Harry beat the price down even further. He handed over a few coins and told the man to deliver the fish to Shalan’s house. The fisherman bowed effusively at the mention of his father-in-law’s name. Bored by the proceedings, Harry turned up the comparatively broad street that led to the palm-fringed European quarter that housed the barracks and consulate.

  The sentry jack-knifed to attention when he reached the gates. ‘Lieutenant Downe, sir. Lieutenant Smythe left orders that he be informed the minute you came in, sir.’

  Peter Smythe wandered out of the duty office when he heard the sentry, an orange in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. His vivid red-gold hair was standing on end despite the vigorous brushing he’d subjected it to that morning.

  ‘Harry.’ He shook his head at the sight of his fellow subaltern in native dress. ‘The old man’s been shouting for you for over a week. Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Here and there.’

  ‘Gambling in the bazaar?’ Peter grinned. ‘Lose a lot this time?’

  ‘Don’t I always?’

  ‘No. You’d better get up to your bungalow and change. Can’t visit the old man looking like that. And watch out for Crabface. He’s on duty. You know his views on Arab skirts. He’d shoot the natives for wearing them, let alone British military personnel.’

  ‘Dress uniform wasn’t the order of the day in the social circle I’ve just left.’

  ‘Dare say, but you can’t get the locals to respect you unless you stick to your own traditions, and that means your own, decent clothes. Understood?’ Peter barked in a fair parody of Crabbe.

  ‘What’s the flap about?’

  ‘Mrs and Miss Perry are returning today and the colonel’s ordered a ladies’ dinner to be served in the mess tonight. He’s invited the usual outsiders, and told the chaplain to prepare for a wedding.’

  ‘Maud’s?’

  ‘Can’t think of anyone else who’d be getting married, can you?’

  ‘Who’s the lucky man?’ Harry asked.

  ‘No one knows.’

  ‘Thank heavens it’s not you.’ Stephen Amey, the youngest subaltern on the post, stuck his head around the door.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Peter bristled.

  ‘That frightful colonial you persist in mooning over.’ Stephen rolled his eyes.

  ‘Americans are not colonials.’

  ‘They’re worse. Rebellious colonials who didn’t know how to behave, and as if her country’s not enough, she’s a missionary to boot. Smythe, where’s your taste?’

  ‘My taste is none of your concern. And Angela – Miss Wallace,’ Peter corrected swiftly, ‘is not a missionary.’

  ‘She lives with missionaries. That amounts to the same thing. Can you imagine what will happen if you do marry her? She’ll want to socialise with other missionaries. The colonel’s lady will call to take tea and your bungalow will be full of Bible-carrying Presbyterians.’

  ‘I find their company preferable to yours.’

  ‘Then you should ask for a transfer. I suggest a remote outpost on the North-west Frontier. No decent European society to speak of, so she won’t disgrace you. Plus an abundance of hostile natives for her to convert.’

  Peter smashed his fist into Stephen’s jaw.

  Harry pushed past the gaping sentry and pulled the two men apart. ‘In the office,’ he hissed. ‘Before Crabface gets wind of this and you’re both put on report.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything that wouldn’t be said in the mess in India.’ Stephen rubbed his jaw after Harry closed the door behind them. ‘That time Johnny Leigh was engaged to a tradesman’s daughter from Liverpool, the whole mess told him he couldn’t marry the girl.’

  ‘If I remember rightly, they told him every day for six months and he didn’t marry her,’ Harry agreed. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Someone has to do the same for Smythe. Everyone falls for an unsuitable female at some time but no one in their right mind marries them. Look at Leigh: he married Captain Bull’s daughter and he’s a happy man.’

  ‘Is he? I always thought Ida Bull …’

  ‘You know the rules, Smythe,’ Harry warned. ‘No talking about a brother officer’s wife.’

  ‘Amey has insulted a girl I admire.’

  ‘For which he’s going to apologise, aren’t you, Amey?’

  Peter and Stephen glared at one another.

  ‘If you want to dine in the mess tonight, bury your differences. You know what a nose Crabface has for sniffing out trouble. There aren’t so many ladies’ dinners you can afford to miss one.’

  ‘Sorry, old man.’ Stephen extended his hand. ‘Spoke out of turn.’

  ‘Accepted, on condition you give your word not to mention Miss Wallace again.’ Peter massaged his aching knuckles and waited for a nod before taking Stephen’s hand.

  Stephen stroked his jaw. ‘If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll put an ice pack on this.’

  ‘Thank you, Harry.’ Peter shook Harry’s hand after Stephen left.

  ‘You pair of idiots. You make me feel 80 years old. Eighteen months of seniority has turned me into a father figure.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Peter fingered Harry’s Arab robes.

  ‘Pay a visit to the office,’ Harry suggested. ‘There’ll be invitations for the Reverend and Mrs Butler and the Wallaces. If you volunteer to deliver them, you might see your lady love.’

  ‘Don’t you start on me.’ Peter threw an orange at Harry.

  Harry ducked and it squelched against the wall. ‘Temper. If you want to survive in this man’s army you must learn forbearance.’

  ‘And how to take insults?’ Peter countered.

  ‘Part of an officer’s training, like drinking. God bless Maud’s fiancé, whoever he is, for giving us an excuse tonight.’

  ‘As if you’ve ever needed one.’ Peter picked up another orange as Harry vanished through the door.

  Attired to his bearer’s satisfaction, Harry presented himself at the door of Colonel Perry’s large, whitewashed office 15 minutes later.

  ‘About time,’ Perry barked as Harry was ushered in. ‘Where’ve you been, Downe?’

  ‘On honeymoon, sir.’

  ‘You being facetious?’ The colonel glared at him over the paper he was reading.

  ‘Don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘You just got into Basra?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You weren’t in your bungalow last night.’

  ‘No, sir, my wife and I …’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘My wife and I, sir. We’ve moved into Sheikh Aziz Ibn Shalan’s house in the Arab quarter, sir.’

  Dropping his paper, the colonel pushed his chair away from his desk. ‘Don’t misunderstand what I’m about to say.’

  ‘I won’t, sir,’ Harry interrupted.

  ‘We’re all exceedingly grateful to you.’ Perry stared at him through pink-rimmed, beady brown eyes. ‘Your tame Arab mentioned Shalan, cunning bastard that he is, forced you to marry his daughter. I realise it couldn’t have been easy. Going native out here is worse than India. The women haven’t the saving graces of the Hindus. Put camel piss on their hair from what I’ve heard. And the country’s not like India. The desert’s a hostile place.’

  ‘I noticed, sir.’ The remark was one too many.

  Perry thumped his desk. ‘I know you had to stay with this woman, this …’

  ‘Furja bin Shalan, sir.’

  ‘As I said, “this woman”. But Shalan has his weapons; you’ve completed your mission. It’s time to leave her. That’s an order, Lieutenant Downe.’

  Harry s
tared at Perry obstinately, and in silence.

  ‘Damn it all, man, there isn’t an officer in the Indian Army who hasn’t enjoyed a fling with a native woman. Only natural and healthy in this bloody climate. Regrettably, you were forced to go one step further and marry this one, but I shouldn’t need to remind that you it is a native marriage. It doesn’t mean a damn thing to the church, or –’ he gave Harry another telling look ‘– the British Government. Now we’ve paid Shalan to do our dirty work, finish the thing off. No sense in hanging about. Do it tonight. You don’t want any loose ends dangling with your leave coming up.’

  ‘Sir,’ Harry murmured.

  ‘Glad we understand one another. Just one more thing before we close the subject. There’s no need to mention this “marriage” to anyone. On the base or back home. Don’t want word to get out that a British chap was forced to tie himself to a heathen. Might be misunderstood. High Command can be touchy about that kind of thing. Not your father, he’s a good chap. Served under him in Bengal. He’d understand why it had to be done, but I doubt your mother would. Ladies can be finicky. Know my wife would.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Well, now that’s over with, we’ll move on. Ah, just what the doctor ordered. Breakfast.’ He turned to the orderly who wheeled in a trolley laden with silverware. ‘Brought two servings?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel Perry, sir. Bacon, eggs, fish, toast, butter, marmalade and tea, as ordered, sir.’

  ‘We’ll serve ourselves. Close the door on the way out.’

  Harry prepared to follow the orderly, but Perry forestalled him.

  ‘Join me, Downe. We can talk more informally here than at the mess. Well, sit down, man,’ he added when Harry hesitated.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Bewildered by the privilege, Harry sat uneasily in the chair the colonel indicated. Perry pushed the trolley between them and handed him a napkin.

  ‘Fact is, wanted to talk to you about a personal matter. Well, come on, man, don’t be shy,’ the colonel shouted, in a noisy attempt at camaraderie. ‘Help yourself.’

  Harry lifted the lid on the dish closest to him and saw eggs. Pungent Mesopotamian eggs, he realised with distaste. He ladled the smallest possible portion onto his plate.

  ‘Had a wire from my wife. She’s arriving with Miss Perry today. Appears the girl has got herself engaged to a chap you know. My wife’s given her approval. Nothing I could do, I was here, she was there, and the fellow’s a captain, so he can’t be a bad sort. Name of Mason, John Mason.’

  Harry almost choked on his eggs. ‘He’s my cousin.’

  ‘Your cousin!’ Perry’s disapproval was evident.

  ‘This is informal, sir? Off the record?’

  ‘I said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘He’s all right, sir. Never been any scandal about John. Not like me.’

  ‘Hmm. Sandhurst-trained?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Your cousin. Is he Sandhurst-trained?’

  ‘No, he’s a doctor with the Indian Medical Service.’

  The colonel’s face fell. ‘Not a professional, then.’

  ‘Not a professional soldier, no,’ Harry confirmed. ‘He studied medicine at Guy’s.’

  ‘His father a professional?’

  Harry helped himself to toast. He was beginning to enjoy his breakfast. He wondered why Perry didn’t come out with the questions he really wanted answered; questions about the financial and social status of the Mason family.

  ‘My uncle, John’s father, was never in the army but he is a physician of some standing. He’s been consulted by the royal family.’

  ‘Is he Sir John Mason?’ Perry asked with sudden interest.

  ‘He was honoured with a life peerage a few years ago.’

  ‘I had no idea his son was in India.’ The colonel managed a smile. Evidently a peer’s son, even that of a life peer, was the next best thing to a professional soldier when it came to prospective sons-in-law. ‘What’s the relationship between your father and Sir John Mason?’

  Harry continued to butter his toast. ‘My father and John’s mother are brother and sister.’

  ‘Your mother’s American, isn’t she?’

  Harry knew that, to the colonel, American was synonymous with “native”. ‘Yes. John’s parents introduced my father to my mother. Uncle John bought Stouthall; it’s a sizeable property not far from my father’s place at Clyneswood. When Father returned from India, Mother was staying with Aunt Elizabeth …’

  ‘How big is this place of your uncle’s?’ the colonel interrupted, unable to contain his curiosity.

  ‘The house is quite large.’

  ‘How large?’

  ‘Forty or so bedrooms, and there’s farm tenancies amounting to some 2000 acres. There’s also a sanatorium two miles from the house, but my uncle’s main interest lies in his London practice. He also sits on the boards of several hospitals.’ Harry pushed aside his eggs and helped himself to bacon.

  ‘Glad to see the prospect of a modest inheritance didn’t stop your cousin from making a career for himself in the Indian Medical Service.’

  ‘John’s resigned his commission.’ Harry regretted the words the instant they left his mouth.

  ‘Why would the fool do that?’ Perry thundered.

  ‘My uncle’s over 70,’ Harry mumbled through a mouthful of toast. ‘And he always hoped John would take over his practice.’

  ‘How old is this cousin of yours?’

  ‘Twenty-five; we’re the same age. Grew up together, John, Charles Reid, and myself. Took our commissions the same year and sailed out to India on the same boat.’

  ‘Charles Reid. General Reid’s boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tragic about his mother,’ the colonel mused, lost in a past of which Harry knew nothing. ‘Upset the entire regiment at the time. The general behaved impeccably. I remember him packing the boy off to England. Good of your father to see to his education.’

  ‘Charles lived with us until his father retired and returned to England,’ Harry volunteered, glad of an opportunity to steer the conversation away from John’s civilian life.

  ‘Is Captain Mason Sir John’s only child?’

  ‘No, but he is the eldest,’ Harry reassured him. ‘He has a younger brother, Thomas, who is a final year medical student at Guy’s. And John’s sister, Lucy, is 20. She came out three years ago.’

  ‘I hoped my daughter would become an army wife. The life has so much to offer.’

  Harry remained tactfully silent.

  ‘I trust Maud’s thought the matter through. Personally, I can’t help wondering at the credentials of a man who embarks on a military career knowing it’s going to be curtailed to suit family requirements.’

  ‘Perhaps John thought a short military career better than none. He wanted to make a study of tropical fevers and diseases. India is the best place.’

  ‘Quite.’ The colonel refused to be mollified. ‘No doubt he’ll take Miss Perry back to England after the wedding. She’ll find it difficult to adjust. She’s lived all her life in the East, you know.’

  ‘Sir.’ Harry crumpled his napkin and threw it over the debris on his plate. He’d done what he could. The rest was up to John, and he’d rather wait out his arrival in the more congenial atmosphere of the mess.

  ‘Steam launch is due in at the jetty in two hours, fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I’ll be there, sir.’ Harry felt he hadn’t done John justice, but the news of Maud’s engagement had destroyed what little humour the colonel possessed.

  ‘One more thing, Downe.’

  ‘Sir?’ He left his chair and stood to attention.

  ‘As you’re acquainted with Captains Mason and Reid, see to their quarters.’

  Harry left the office and bumped into Crabbe. He saluted the thickset, bullet-headed major and walked on. Crabbe was a “ranker”. Feared by the men and distrusted by his fellow officers, especially Harry, who figured in Crabbe’s reports as the epitome of the slovenly, undisciplined junior
officer.

  Back in the shrouded mists of time, Crabbe had left a slum family of dubious, if not downright criminal, tendencies to join the regiment as a private. Hard work and immaculate soldiering gained him rapid promotion. As Regimental Sergeant-Major, he’d led a charge at the battle of Paardeberg in the Boer War. His men had gained glory, the regiment honours, and he the doubtful privilege of promotion to second lieutenant. At the time, he’d wondered who in command hated him enough to recommend he be commissioned. RSMs received good pay and had their uniform and mess bills found for them. Newly-created second lieutenants had to pay their own tailors’ and mess bills, and his first year in the officers’ mess would have been his last if he hadn’t been a reasonable card player. He survived, and continued to survive during subsequent promotions, proving to the delight of the War Office recruiting department and the popular press that the British Army was truly democratic in its selection of officers.

  ‘Ah, Crabbe.’ Perry greeted Crabbe with the bluff enthusiasm he used to conceal his dislike of the man.

  ‘Sir.’ Crabbe snapped to attention. ‘Duty officer’s report, sir.’

  Perry flicked through the pages. ‘What’s this about Downe?’ he asked, seeing Harry’s name on a charge sheet.

  ‘Lieutenant Downe was seen crossing the parade ground in native dress this morning, sir.’

  ‘I gave Lieutenant Downe permission to wear native dress, Major. He was returning from a secret mission.’

  ‘If you had seen fit to inform me of your dispensation, sir, I would not have put Lieutenant Downe’s name on the sheet.’

  ‘Secret missions have to be kept secret, Crabbe, that’s the point of them.’

  ‘May I remind the colonel that only last March, Lieutenant Downe was confined to barracks for wearing a gumbaz and abba on duty?’

  ‘Crabbe.’ Perry swallowed his annoyance and tried the friendly approach. ‘Can we talk about this off the record?’

  ‘Sir.’ Crabbe remained rigidly at attention.

  ‘Basra isn’t India, and sometimes these Johnnies who dress up and go native succeed in dealing with the locals on a more – shall we say productive level, than those of us in uniform.’