The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 9

  ‘You’ll have it your own way, I suppose. You always do.’

  Turning her back, she rested her foot on a stool, reached beneath her nightgown and unfastened her velvet-grip stocking supporter. ‘Another thing, George, don’t ever walk in here again when Harriet’s undressing me. Not without knocking.’

  ‘You had enough time.’

  ‘If I’d had enough time would I still be taking my stockings off?’ She glared at him, intending to freeze his temper, until she saw the light of brandy-spawned madness in his eyes. The last time he’d been like this was when the Rag in India had closed during a typhoid scare. She shouldn’t have argued back. Not without ascertaining his mood. Charles had spoiled her, led her to expect the same level of intelligence and humanity from every man.

  ‘You’ve forgotten your wifely duties.’ The slur disappeared with the advent of anger.

  Frozen by guilt, she wondered if she or Charles had done something to arouse George’s suspicions.

  ‘Lost your tongue?’ he goaded in his parade-ground voice.

  She rolled the silk stockings from her legs with unsteady hands. When he went into his dressing room, she pulled down her drawers, and folded them onto a stool. She heard him fumbling in his wardrobe and wondered what he was doing. His bearer usually saw to his uniform in the morning. Wrapping her arms around herself, she closed her eyes. Perhaps if she tried to pretend he was Charles …

  ‘Lie down.’ He stood beside the bed, his hairy stomach bulging above his spindly legs. She slid between the crisp, linen sheets, holding the hem of her nightdress down with her toes, clinging to the forlorn hope that he’d fall into a brandy-induced stupor the moment his head touched the pillow. The bedsprings groaned as he sat beside her; there was an ominous plop when he shifted his weight and tossed his drawers to the floor.

  Clenching her fists, she tensed herself. It would soon be over. Not long and he’d sleep. Leaving her alone in the darkness. Alone with her thoughts of Charles – no, she had to forget Charles. Forget he was close, that if she cried out he would hear her.

  George’s fingers, wet, fumbling, pawed at the lace collar of her nightgown. She lifted her hands, but too impatient to wait, he wrenched it open, snapping the lace and sending pearl buttons flying. One landed on her neck, bruising her. She cried out, and he thrust his hand against her mouth.

  ‘No noise, old girl. You know I hate noise.’

  She nodded dumbly, gagging at the salt taste of his sweat on her lips.

  ‘Your nightdress.’

  ‘Can we have the light out?’ she begged.

  ‘Down, not out. Have to see what we’re doing.’ He reached for the oil lamp on the side table. The light dimmed as he lowered the wick. ‘Your nightdress,’ he repeated.

  She sat up; he pulled it over her head and threw it on to the bedpost before pressing her on her back. She complied. It was her duty. Her mother had stressed that on the eve of her wedding. The wife submitted to the husband. It was what was expected of her, the natural result of feminine weakness. In return, the wife was cared for in every sense of the word. Until India, and Charles, she’d not only believed it, she’d lived by it. But now it was so very, very hard.

  George heaved himself on top of her. She gasped as his weight pressed the breath from her lungs. He pinched her nipples before his fingers travelled downwards, prodding and poking at her tense body. She tried to divorce herself from what was happening by closing her eyes and concentrating on Charles – India – rides in the brittle, sun-bleached countryside. Dances in perfumed, humid ballrooms. Dinner parties held in sweltering heat. The images barely formed before fading until only the memory of their love remained. She’d been fortunate. Some women went through their entire lives without experiencing what she’d shared with Charles.

  ‘Have to show the ranks who’s in command.’

  She opened her eyes. George’s face bulged above her own, his skin purple, the whites of his eyes yellowed, veined with red. Saliva drooled from his lips onto her breasts. Relief coursed through her aching limbs when he rolled off her. He’d finished using her. She could go to the bathroom. Wash away the sweat and smell …

  He swung alarmingly back into her line of vision. Her eyes widened in terror when she saw what he was holding. She moved quickly, but not quickly enough. Catching the back of her neck, he forced her face down into the bed. The feather bolster cloyed around her eyes, nose, and mouth. She tried to scream but, muffled by the pillows, the sound faded to a whimper. The first of the pains came, its edge dulled a little by pre-knowledge.

  Tears started in her eyes and she struggled, but George was sitting astride her, his bulk pinning her to the mattress. There was nothing she could do but grit her teeth and bear it. She could bear it! Just until morning.

  The heat had driven George insane. No one would blame her for leaving an insane husband. Charles would take her back to England. To cool, calm sanity. Green fields – damp autumns – gloomy grey stone churches … She didn’t have money for the fare. George held her inheritance; he paid her accounts. Even in India, she’d only handled enough cash to tip the stewards. George would never buy her a ticket home. Charles would have to support her. Would he? He’d told her he wanted to live with her …

  A searing stroke on broken skin drove all thoughts from her mind. Closing her teeth into the pillow, she bit down hard. Charles – blond, wavy hair; clear, tanned skin. She imagined touching him, running the tips of her fingers along his cheekbone. His eyes, deep blue, crinkling at the corners as he smiled … His image receded faster than she could conjure. She was thrust deeper into a red-tinged world of brutality and pain that offered no respite. No escape.

  Harry’s bungalow, Basra, Friday 3rd July 1914

  ‘Charles packs quite a punch.’ Harry rubbed his jaw.

  ‘You shouldn’t have taken a swing at him,’ John reproached him.

  ‘He shouldn’t have laughed when I told him about my wife.’

  ‘This is the craziest thing you’ve done, Harry. A Bedouin girl …’

  Harry picked up the whisky bottle, refilled his glass, and offered it to John who shook his head. ‘I admit I was forced to marry the girl, but I like her. We get on, and I intend to stay with her. For the present.’

  ‘Have you considered the consequences of this latest lunacy? Charles …’

  ‘Still want that night out?’

  ‘No.’ John gave up. As a child, Harry had been stubborn. As a young man, impossible, and Charles’s antagonism had only served to entrench his attitude. ‘It might be as well if the groom and best man have an early night.’

  Harry looked towards the Arab quarter. ‘I’m happy for you. Maud is a nice girl.’

  ‘I think so,’ John agreed.

  ‘Sure you won’t have a nightcap?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Sleep well, and don’t worry about waking Charles.’ Harry nodded towards the bedroom where Charles had retreated in umbrage. ‘I’ll call him at four.’

  ‘It might be better if I do that.’

  ‘He’ll be in such a foul mood at that hour it won’t make any difference if the Queen of Sheba or I wake him.’

  John hesitated, decided there was nothing more to be said, and left the room.

  Harry went to the table and opened the mahogany and hide portable desk that had been a parting gift from his mother. ‘Wishful thinking,’ Georgiana had said at the time. She’d been wrong. He’d written some letters. Not many, but some. He took out two envelopes and addressed them in his distinctive, upright hand.

  Colonel and Mrs H Downe, Clyneswood, Dorset. Georgiana and Michael Downe, Clyneswood Dorset .

  Propping them against the brass base of the oil lamp, he took a clean white sheet of paper. Dipping his pen into the inkwell he began to write.

  Dear Mother and Father,

  I’ve decided not to come home this leave because I’ve married an Arab girl and I’d like to spend some time with her. I’ll see you both on my next leave. I hope you ar
e well. I am well.

  Your loving son, Harry.

  Resting his pen on the stand, he blotted and read what he’d written. It looked ridiculous. He pushed the note to the edge of the table and took another sheet.

  Dearest Georgie and Dear Michael,

  He held his pen poised over the paper until a blob of ink fell from the nib. He wouldn’t have believed it could be so difficult to write to two people he was so close to. He stared at an empty chair. Imagined Georgie sitting in it, her mousy hair scraped in a bun, her face fixed in the stern expression she habitually wore in the ridiculous belief it made her look older. Her rimless glasses would be perched on the end of her nose, and she’d be dressed like a Sunday school teacher in a plain, high-necked, linen blouse and grey serge skirt. What would hard-working, intellectual Georgiana make of a sister-in-law as exotic and lively as Furja?

  Perhaps the new socialism Georgiana had recently adopted and written at length to him about would enable her to accept his wife. But then there was Michael. Dear, self-effacing Michael, the younger brother who’d hero-worshipped him all his life, even after he’d repeatedly told him he simply wasn’t worth admiring, let alone emulating.

  This letter would put an end to Michael’s adulation, he realised with a pang of remorse. He’d hurt his family often enough in the past to predict their reaction to the news of his marriage. His mother, American roots forgotten, now more English than the English, would have hysterics. His father’s fury would turn to sullen anger. Georgiana alone would try to defend him; just as she’d done through all his scrapes, from the time he’d hidden frogs in the cook’s flour bins, to his expulsion from medical college. Michael would try to join forces with her but, unable to withstand parental pressure, he would ultimately toe the line dictated by their mother. Georgiana never would.

  With Georgiana’s exception, his family’s attitude would be the same as Charles. Any Englishman crazy enough to wed a native and take the heathen marriage seriously deserved to be ostracised. Until the day he divorced Furja, he would be persona non grata in the Downe household. He looked at the ink-stained sheet of paper, and threw it to the floor. Taking another, he began to write quickly, without giving too much thought as to what he was putting down.

  Dear Twinnie and Mikey,

  This is not the easiest letter I’ve ever had to write, and I’m writing it in a hurry, which doesn’t help. It’s after midnight and I want to finish it so Charles can take it when he leaves at four to catch the morning tide. I won’t be home because I’m married and spending my leave with my wife, Furja. She’s Bedouin. I didn’t want to marry her, I didn’t even see her before the ceremony, but all things considered, it’s worked out fairly well between us.

  He chewed the end of his pen and stared at the ceiling. How could he begin to tell them about his wife: her laugh – her dark eyes? The way she made him feel – when they weren’t quarrelling …

  That’s enough about me. I’m going to congratulate you now, Twinnie, on passing your finals and becoming a doctor. I know you’ll do it. No one deserves success more than you. You’ve always had better staying power than me, and you’ll make a good doctor, but must you work in the East End? I read your last letter and I agree they need someone to help them, but I’m sure you’d be more comfortable working with Uncle John in Dorset. There’s no law that says you have to work in miserable conditions. I’m glad there’ll be a Dr Downe for Papa and Mama’s sake; perhaps it will make up for their disappointment in me. Hope you’re happy in the bank, Mikey. I might not be coming home, but I think of you, all the time …

  Leaving the table, he went to the window. He’d hardly thought of his family since he’d sailed for India. For the first time, he realised why. He missed their presence with a physical intensity akin to pain. He imagined himself in Clyneswood. Hiding in the smoking room with Michael, listening as the skinnier, curlier-headed version of himself recounted the grim story of a tedious day in the bank. He saw himself teasing Georgiana at dinner, affecting loud, innocent conversation as he tweaked the hair out of the ludicrous bun at the nape of her neck.

  To his surprise, he realised he missed his father too. The colonel’s exasperation with him had never entirely reached the level of complete despair. That had been left to his mother, who’d been exasperated, despairing and disapproving of him since the day he’d been born. From her point of view, it was probably just as well he’d decided to forgo his home leave. Or had he?

  He took out the pocket watch that had been his parents’ gift on his coming of age, and flicked the case open. There was still time to change his mind. It wouldn’t take long to pack. All he had to do was notify Perry he was leaving. He could send his goodbyes to Furja via Mitkhal. Furja – her guttural whisper echoed huskily,

  ‘You have to learn, Harry, the Bedawi have more ways of answering questions than with words.’

  It took all his powers of concentration to remember she loved another.

  Chapter Six

  Basra , Saturday 4th July 1914

  Emily crawled out from beneath the snoring, jellied mass of her husband. His snoring became a snuffle. He moved. She froze.

  Heart pounding, her lips mouthed a silent prayer that he wouldn’t wake. He rolled on his back. The snuffle deepened. After an eternity, it steadied back to a snore. She was safe – for the moment.

  She stole cautiously along the bed. The lamp had flickered to an end hours ago. The only illumination came from the moon, its waxy light muted by the lace at the windows. The familiar outlines of the furniture loomed, acquiring new and terrifying shapes. She waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Her nightdress gleamed, a splash of white at the foot of the bed.

  She stooped to retrieve it; thrusting her hand into her mouth to stifle the pain the movement cost her. Holding the gown close, she staggered into the bathroom. Closing the door, she turned the key. She was secure. George couldn’t get to her without battering down the door and he would never risk waking the servants.

  She fumbled with the candle and box of safety matches that were kept on a rattan shelf below the mirror. At the third attempt, she managed to light it. The jugs on the washstand were full, ready for the morning baths. She strained to lift the enormous pitchers, tipping their contents into the slipper bath. When she laid her nightdress on the linen basket, she saw the gown was stained with great streaks of crimson. Glancing down, she stifled a cry at the damage George had inflicted. Bloody weals curved around from her back, ending in gaping, jagged wounds that bordered her breasts and abdomen. She glanced in the mirror. Her face was white; her lips swollen where she’d sunk her teeth into them.

  The wreckage of her body triggered emotions George had failed to whip into being. Sinking on the side of the bath, she sobbed uncontrollably. For years, she’d fought against debilitating heat and hostile climate to retain the remnants of her beauty. Now she was scarred, repulsive. How could she go to Charles and ask him to help her looking like this?

  She heard the distant boots of sentries marching. She had no idea how long it would be before dawn broke, but she couldn’t stay locked in the bathroom. She had to leave before George woke. She looked into the bath. Rivulets of blood had coursed into the water while she’d sat, clouding the surface like flowers opening into bloom. She had to wash, cover her wounds, get away.

  Stepping gingerly into the tepid water, she reached for the soap and loofah. Gritting her teeth, she scrubbed at her raw skin, trying to cleanse herself of the foul taint of George. Why hadn’t she listened to Charles? If they’d remained on the Egra this would never have happened.

  Misery and humiliation rose on an acrid tide of bile. She leant over the side of the bath and vomited her disgust on the floor. The one thing she was certain of was that she couldn’t stay with George. She never wanted to see him again. But would Charles help her? Would he still want her, looking the way she did? She had to reach him to find out. Without waiting to bind her wounds or dry herself, she slipped on the bloodstained
nightgown. Unlocking the bathroom door, she crept out.

  George was still snoring. Emily inched past the door into the drawing room. Heart pounding, mouth dry, she fought with the bolts on the French windows. Two of her nails broke, splitting to the quick. When the rusted catch gave way, she stumbled on to the veranda. There was a light burning in Harry’s bungalow. Someone was up – Charles?

  She fell down the steps onto the ground. Pain pierced her foot, one more unpleasant sensation among many. She staggered over the warm, compacted earth. A black fog wavered between her and Harry’s window. Thinking only of Charles, she walked into it. The sound of buzzing insects filled her ears. She reached for the rail that enclosed Harry’s veranda. Her hands closed on air. She fell – screamed “Charles”, but no sound issued from her lips.

  She crawled forward, the hem of her gown entangling her feet. Grasping the foot of a wooden rail, she heaved herself up to her knees. One more effort, a few more steps, and she’d be in Charles’s arms.

  Basra, Saturday July 4th 1914

  Harry whistled the chorus from The Sunshine Girl, the big hit of 1912, and the last musical he’d seen at the Gaiety before sailing for India. He and Charles had reconciled their differences on the drive to the wharf and the warmth of his friend’s parting handshake said what neither of them put into words.

  They would remain friends, no matter what. He could breakfast with John with a clear conscience, and after the wedding, he’d leave John and Maud to their happiness and see to his own. Book his leave, effective from that day. Pack a couple of cases of brandy and take them to Shalan’s house for six uninterrupted months of Furja and the pleasures of marriage.

  Abandoning his whistling, he sang a resounding refrain of Come into the Garden, Maud. He turned the corner that led to the officers’ bungalows. If John wasn’t awake, he soon would be.

  He stopped singing when he saw the flies. A teeming layer of metallic greenish-black blanketing a mass slumped below his veranda. He didn’t see the white gown until he crouched down. He shouted to John, pulled the topee from his head, and waved it over the seething, parasitic swarm. As fast as he knocked the flies away, others crawled in to take their place. John’s bare feet slapped across the wooden boards.