The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 8

  ‘Is that what he told you?’ she challenged.

  ‘It’s common sense. This party tonight is for Maud Perry. She’s marrying a captain in the Indian Army. When he’s ready, Peter Smythe will look around the British posts as this fellow has, not the American Missions.’

  ‘Maud’s engaged. How wonderful.’ Determinedly, Angela ignored Theo’s final comment. The smile was prompted more by relief than by happiness for Maud. She would have sooner died than admit it, but she’d been worried by Maud Perry’s golden-curled, cherry-lipped beauty and elegant wardrobe. She couldn’t see how any man could fail to fall in love with Maud. And with Maud and Peter Smythe living in such close proximity …

  ‘Sis?’

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘About as far as the Basra mess?’ Conceding defeat, Theo stepped outside. ‘I hate to see you disappointed, Angela, but if you set your sights on marrying Peter Smythe, you will be.’

  ‘With this to wear?’ She picked up the dress. ‘I couldn’t possibly be disappointed with a single thing, Theo. Thank you.’

  Chapter Five

  Basra , Friday 3rd July 1914

  Half a dozen bottles of beer procured Peter a seat next to Angela at dinner but, intimidated by the presence of his fellow officers, the intimacy nurtured during discussions on art and literature at “mission socials” rapidly dissipated in a welter of self-conscious embarrassment. It was as much as Peter could do to reply to Angela’s gentle enquiries after his health in inarticulate monosyllables.

  It wasn’t only the disapproving glances Amey and the colonel sent his way; Angela herself was strangely altered. Dazzling, in a magnificent evening dress and complicated coiffure, she shone like royalty, beautiful and just as unattainable. Despondent, scarcely daring to raise his eyes to hers, he sank deeper into depression as the evening progressed.

  Angela was as overwhelmed as Peter, but more skilled at concealing her feelings. She smiled at him and the room in general, while ignoring the condescending glances bestowed on herself and the other Americans. John sat across the table from Theo, and the food grew cold on their plates as they discussed the merits of irrigating kidneys as a treatment for cholera, a topic that disgusted Maud.

  There weren’t enough ladies to “go round”, and the talk at the far end of the table where the bachelors were seated, Harry and Charles among them, was centred on the probability of war. Resolutely ignoring them, the ladies exchanged opinions on the competence, or otherwise, of the few tailors in Basra brave enough to try their hand at European fashions.

  While dessert was being served, Major Crabbe hit the table to emphasise a point, sending the crockery and cutlery rattling. Amused by Crabbe’s gaffe, Harry glanced at Charles and saw him watching Emily. He turned aside. Charles was playing a dangerous game. He knew exactly how dangerous. He had once looked at another man’s wife the way Charles was gazing at Emily and had paid for his infatuation with his career prospects. A price he suspected Charles would find too rich.

  The meal ended, the ladies retired to the small lounge for coffee. The chamber pots were passed around, then the brandy and cigars. The orderlies cleared the table, the ladies returned, and the padre’s wife obliged those who wanted to dance by playing waltzes on the mess piano.

  Harry and Charles burst out laughing when Peter fell over his own feet in his eagerness to reach Angela, only to lose out to Theo.

  ‘Better luck next time,’ Harry commiserated.

  ‘If there is a next time,’ Peter muttered. ‘She doesn’t know I exist.’

  ‘She does,’ Harry teased. ‘You dribbled gravy over her dress at dinner.’

  ‘I didn’t, did I? Oh God …’

  ‘Before you shoot yourself, I was joking. My God, Smythe, I’ve seen some hopeless cases, but you’re terminally afflicted.’ Opening the veranda windows, Harry stepped outside. The night air was no fresher and only marginally cooler than inside, and the mosquitoes were biting. Closing the windows behind him, he lit a cigar to keep the insects at bay, offering one to Peter when he joined him.

  ‘If I could be sure of my captaincy I’d ask Angela to marry me tonight,’ Peter confided. ‘But even if by some miracle she should say yes, I can’t keep myself, much less a wife on a lieutenant’s pay. Unlike you, I’ve no private means. My father was killed on active service in Africa when I was three, and my mother only has her widow’s pension. My father’s name got me a commission, but the vicar back home had to get up a subscription to pay for my uniform.’

  ‘Joking aside, Angela’s not used to our way of life. She might not be happy stuck on an Indian Army outpost miles from anywhere.’ Striking a match on the window frame, Harry lit Peter’s cigar.

  ‘She survived living in a mission in Kuwait.’

  ‘Then I stand corrected.’ Harry mused on the irony of him, of all the men, daring to advise Peter on a woman’s suitability as a wife. ‘If you can’t live without her, then don’t. You could ask her to get engaged on the understanding you’ll marry when you get your captaincy.’

  ‘That could take years.’

  ‘Not if there’s a war.’

  ‘You really think there will be one?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  The padre’s wife played the final notes of the waltz.

  Peter opened the window to the sound of polite applause. ‘Thanks for the chat, Harry, must dash.’ Tossing his half-smoked cigar over the rail, he charged in, hoping to waylay Angela before the next dance.

  Harry stared down at the lights in the Arab quarter. Was Furja awake? He’d told her he wouldn’t be back before tomorrow afternoon, but he was tempted to go to her now. Steal through the narrow streets, knock up Farik, slip into the bedroom they shared …

  ‘I take it you’re hiding from the nauseating sight of young love that abounds in this mess.’ Charles joined him.

  ‘Just wanted some peace and quiet.’ Harry offered his cigar box.

  ‘Smythe almost knocked me over. Does he always behave like an ass?’

  ‘Only when Americans are around. Or, to be more accurate, one American in particular.’

  ‘Just like John with Maud.’

  ‘Do I detect a note of jealousy?’

  ‘Probably,’ Charles conceded.

  ‘There are dozens of Mauds in England.’

  ‘It’s not a Maud I want.’

  ‘What do you want, Charles?’ Harry asked.

  ‘That night out you promised.’ Charles helped himself to a cigar. ‘Anywhere will do as long as Perry isn’t in the vicinity.’

  ‘He did come on a bit strong. “Got your promotion at Christmas, what?”’ Harry’s rendition of Perry’s voice was uncannily accurate.

  ‘And what the devil was all that nonsense about medical men getting promotion every time they dangle their stethoscope in front of a general?’ Charles demanded. ‘When I tried to tell him John was given his captaincy a full six months before me, the man wouldn’t even listen.’

  ‘Quiet!’ Harry pulled Charles along the veranda. Perry stood, swaying in a doorway six feet away from them. ‘It’s time we went to bed,’ Harry shouted in Perry’s direction before leading the way to his quarters. ‘I think Perry would have preferred you for a son-in-law,’ he revealed when they were safely within doors. ‘Your father’s a general. You’re a professional and therefore unlikely to do anything as iniquitous as return to civilian life. He wanted Maud to be an army wife.’

  ‘John has better prospects and a larger inheritance than me.’ Charles threw himself down on a rattan sofa.

  ‘Not in the regiment, and the regiment is the only thing that matters to Perry.’ Harry turned up the lamp. ‘All the comforts of home apart from my bearer. I’ve given him the night off. Brandy or whisky?’

  ‘Whisky, please.’ Charles pushed a cushion beneath his head.

  Harry poured two generous measures of whisky and handed one to Charles. ‘Do me a favour: as you’re determined to go home tomorrow, take some letters for me.’


  ‘Is there any point when you’ll be home yourself soon?’

  Harry stretched out on the second sofa. Swinging his feet on to one arm, his head on the other, he rested his glass on his chest. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back.’

  ‘I’m sorry I got het up this morning, exaggerating the problems and all that, but I don’t want to stay here …’

  ‘Whatever’s going on between you and Emily Perry, is your own affair – business,’ Harry corrected.

  ‘John told you.’

  ‘He didn’t have to. I saw you looking at her. I’ve had some experience. Christina …’

  ‘Emily’s not Christina!’ Charles exclaimed and, swinging his feet to the floor, he sat up. ‘We’re not having a sordid little affair. I love her and she loves me.’

  ‘Then God help the pair of you.’

  ‘I didn’t want it to happen.’ Charles reached for his whisky. ‘Not like this, not with another man’s wife.’

  ‘The problem is it never happens the way you imagined it would.’

  ‘What?’ John walked through the door.

  ‘Love, but then you wouldn’t know anything about love, would you?’ Charles taunted. ‘The party’s still going on and you’ve deserted the ladies.’

  ‘Maud’s having an early night.’ Sensing the atmosphere, John trod carefully.

  ‘Grab a chair and a glass and we’ll celebrate your last night of freedom,’ Harry offered.

  ‘The man can’t wait to fasten the ball and chain.’ Charles finished his whisky.

  ‘Who wouldn’t with a gaoler like Maud?’ John poured himself a small measure.

  ‘Bridegroom’s taking it easy.’ Charles winked at Harry as he took the bottle from John.

  ‘I don’t intend to crawl through tomorrow with a colossal hangover.’

  ‘Hangovers in this heat are no fun.’ Harry drained his glass. ‘Well, where do you want to go?’

  ‘No Rags, no native brothels, and no low-life bars,’ John said firmly. ‘I’ve seen what your sense of humour can do to a bachelor night. Johnny Leigh …’

  ‘Behaved like an ass,’ Charles snapped.

  ‘I’m not disputing that, Charles. But I remember the identity of the donkeys who led him to the whisky-filled trough.’

  ‘Don’t look at me, it was Harry’s doing,’ Charles protested.

  ‘I don’t mind taking the blame.’ Harry set his glass on a side table. ‘But that doesn’t solve the problem of tonight.’

  ‘A quiet little bar with a belly dancer for John.’

  ‘I don’t want a belly dancer,’ John demurred.

  ‘Basra isn’t India. You can drink in the mess or the Basra club; neither has dancing girls. For those, you have to visit the coffee shops, and the devout Moslems who own them won’t sell you alcohol for love or money, and the bars that are run by the non-devout Moslems or Armenians are rough, even for me.’

  ‘Are you saying you haven’t found a native bar worth visiting in Basra?’ Charles was incredulous.

  ‘I drink in the mess.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. John, did you hear? Harry’s trying to tell us he leads the quiet life of your average officer.’

  ‘I gamble occasionally in the bazaar.’

  ‘But you don’t visit bars.’

  ‘I’ve just spent the last five minutes telling you there are none.’ Harry clamped his hand over his glass to stop Charles refilling it.

  ‘My God, you’re serious.’ Charles stared at him.

  ‘About the non-existent bars, yes.’

  ‘It’s not just the bars. There was a time when you would have been on your second bottle by now.’

  ‘Looks like this posting’s done you good, Harry,’ John commented. ‘No bars, moderate drinking, and now you’re going into your father’s bank.’

  ‘I’ve decided against going into the bank.’

  ‘But this morning you said …’

  ‘I hadn’t thought it through this morning. I’ve decided to hang on to my commission. Stay here for a while.’

  ‘That’s great news,’ John congratulated him. ‘With that attitude you could even get posted back to HQ.’

  ‘I don’t want to. When I say, “stay here”, I mean it.’

  Charles frowned. ‘You like this fly-ridden hole enough to spend your leave here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who is she, Harry?’ Charles demanded. ‘And don’t insult us with that innocent look. We grew up with you. You disappeared this afternoon, went out before we slept, and didn’t reappear until after we woke up. And during that time, you decided to forget about home leave and your father’s bank. Come on, out with it. Who is she?’

  Perry’s warnings about keeping his marriage secret were to the forefront of Harry’s mind, but there was no way he could remain in Basra without telling John, Charles, and his family the reason why he wanted to stay. He faced Charles. ‘My wife.’

  The Perrys’ bungalow, Friday 3rd July 1914

  Emily sat before her dressing table, unpinning her hair. Strand after strand floated to her waist as the collection of hairpins on the Doulton tray grew thicker. After she removed the last pin, she ran her fingers over her scalp to make sure there were none left before she brushed out the heavy waves, counting the strokes as her Nanny had taught her in childhood.

  She was dreading George joining her. On their return from the mess, he’d slumped into a chair in the drawing room, and leered, ‘You go ahead, Emily, I won’t be long.’

  Bitter experience had taught her what that remark inevitably preceded.

  A knock at the door startled her. Her hand jerked and she banged the ivory hairbrush against her head. She cried out as the brush fell to the floor.

  ‘You all right?’

  She looked in the mirror. George was behind her, eyes glazed, brandy fumes heavy on his rancid breath. ‘Quite all right, thank you.’

  ‘Pity about that Mason chap, leaving the army.’ George fell on the bed and fiddled with his boots. ‘I hoped Maud would marry a serving soldier.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Whyever not?’ He looked at her, hurt, bewildered.

  ‘Because John will give her a settled home in England with friends and relatives within easy reach. She won’t have to put up with this heat, the filth, the rotting damp …’ Tears coursed down her cheeks.

  ‘Damn it all, Emily. Don’t you ever think of anyone other than yourself? You’ve been away for the best part of six months.’

  She struggled to regain her composure. ‘I’m tired. It’s probably the journey. Would you mind sleeping in your dressing room, just for tonight?’

  ‘Of course I bloody mind. Blast it, Emily; it’s not healthy for a man to live like a monk.’

  ‘Please, George, just give me a little time.’

  ‘I’ll give you as long as it takes Harriet to undress you, not one minute longer.’ He stormed out of the room.

  Emily stared into her glass. Only that morning she’d told Charles she wanted to resume her married life. To continue playing the part of the colonel’s wife. How could she have forgotten George’s piggy eyes, his fat, dimpled hands, his slack, wet lips …?

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Emily.’ Harriet, the Cockney girl who’d travelled out to India with Emily when she was a bride and remained to nurse her through the trials of her married life, bustled in. ‘I shouldn’t have stayed so long with Miss Maud. The colonel’s in a right tizz with me. But I told him straight, it’s Miss Maud. She’s that excited.’ Harriet unfastened the hooks at the back of Emily’s dress. ‘I don’t believe she’ll get a wink of sleep, but then –’ Harriet stared dreamily into space ‘– I wouldn’t if I were her. Captain Mason’s so handsome and kind. It’s not many that think of others, but he does. Why, when Mrs Major Cleck-Heaton’s ayah was doubled up with stomach pains, I told her straight, “Go to Captain Mason, he’ll see you right.” And he did. He might be a gentleman, but he’s not too much of a gentleman to forget there are others beneath him,
even heathens.’

  Harriet spread a sheet on the floor and guided Emily on the centre of it before sliding the gown over her shoulders and onto the sheet. ‘If you’ll step out, Miss Emily, I’ll hang it away.’ She lifted the mass of silk into her arms, running her fingers lightly over the silver- and-pearl beaded bodice to make sure none of the holding threads had worked loose. ‘This is a beautiful dress,’ she prattled, unperturbed by her mistress’s silence. ‘Not as stunning as Miss Maud’s wedding dress, of course. That really is something. I told Miss Maud, you’ll be a beautiful bride but your mother – well, I don’t think anyone could hold a candle to you, Miss Emily. Not on the day you married the colonel.’

  Emily placed the dress on a hanger, and folded a muslin cover over it before stowing it in the camphor wood wardrobe. ‘But what a bride Miss Maud will make for the captain tomorrow. It’s kind of you to ask me to the church. I’ll be that proud.’

  Emily slipped her corset’s straps from her shoulders and grasped the bedpost.

  ‘You’re going to have to breathe in more than that, Miss Emily; there, I’ve got it started. It’ll be downhill all the way now, as Captain Reid says. Lord, miss, this is soaking. Shall I wash it?’

  ‘Please, Harriet.’ Emily massaged her waist, cramped and aching from the pressure of the steel and whalebone stays. Harriet took a starched, white nightgown from inside the wardrobe and handed it to her mistress. Emily pulled it over her head, and allowed the empty sleeves and loose, un-waisted skirt to fall full length. Removing her chemise under cover of the gown, she kicked it aside. ‘You can wash that too, Harriet.’

  Perry barged in, the smell of brandy intensified by fresh stains on his shirtfront.

  ‘That’ll be all, Harriet.’

  ‘Very good, Miss Emily. Sir.’ Harriet bobbed a curtsy.

  ‘You give that girl too much latitude, Emily,’ he slurred as Harriet closed the door. ‘She takes advantage. We’d be better off with natives.’

  ‘Harriet has been with me for 19 years, George. I have no intention of giving her notice now.’