Winds of Eden (6 page)

‘Not me. Like Theo and Dr Picard, I'm a coward.' She reached for her gin and tonic. ‘There are a lot of officers here fresh off the boat. Would I be right in assuming the push upstream to relieve Kut is imminent?'

Charles lowered his voice. ‘I've heard we won't be going up to get Peter and the others out until we have sufficient manpower and arms to do the job properly.'

‘Too late for Harry and Captain Mason.'

Charles gripped his glass so tightly she thought it would shatter.

‘I'm sorry. I won't mention their names again.'

‘That would be worse. As though we were trying to deny they'd lived.' Charles swallowed his brandy and immediately felt light-headed. Given his weakened state he realised if he didn't slow up he'd soon be too drunk to stand. He wondered if that's what Colonel Allan had had in mind when he'd insisted on the wheelchair. ‘I received a letter this morning from one of Harry's friends, Major Warren Crabbe. This was enclosed for you.' He handed her a postcard. On one side was a sketch of a soldier lolling beneath a palm tree, glass in one hand, slice of cake in the other. Whoever had drawn the sketch, she knew it wasn't Peter. His artistic skills only extended as far as matchstick men. On the back, next to her name and address, Peter had scrawled,

Christmas Greetings from Kut. Am well and missing you, all my love as ever, Peter.

Angela stared at the postcard. It had been in Peter's hands only a few days ago. He'd written he loved her – she wished she could turn the clock back and accompany it on a return journey through the besieging lines of Turkish troops. Watch Peter write it, hug him. Tell him no matter what, they would survive the war somehow and build a good life together …

‘Do you know Major Warren Crabbe?' Charles's voice intruded on her thoughts.

‘I've met him. Like Peter and Harry he was stationed here before the war.' She didn't look up from the postcard but ran her fingers over the surface. She knew she was being ridiculous but she couldn't help feeling that in touching it, she was in some way reaching her husband.

‘The lieutenant who brought the letter to the hospital said Crabbe entrusted it to one of the ghulams who've been smuggling communications out of Kut. I dread to think how much he had to pay the man to carry it.'

‘Did Major Crabbe say anything about the conditions in Kut?' Angela asked.

‘Not really,' Charles fudged. ‘He wanted me to know that although Harry's posted “missing” there's no hope he's alive. Before the Turkish blockade was raised, Townshend sent the tanks and the cavalry south under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Leachman. Harry went out shortly afterwards. He was in native robes and accompanied by two Arab ghulams. Our sentries heard snipers in the Turk forward posts. One of the ghulams returned with Harry's bloodied robes. He told Crabbe Harry had been killed by the first volley.'

‘So there's absolutely no chance that Harry survived and was taken prisoner?'

‘None, I'm afraid,' Charles confirmed. ‘Crabbe asked me to write to Harry's family because he didn't want them to cling to false hope.'

‘Did he mention Captain Mason?' Angela asked.

‘No.'

‘Don't you think that's odd?'

‘The letter took some time to get to me. It was dated the second week of December. John died of fever. It's possible he hadn't even been taken ill when Crabbe wrote.'

‘In which case you think Captain Mason would have written to you about Harry, not Major Crabbe.'

‘John wouldn't have had time to breathe. No doctor would, once the wounded reached the aid stations inside Kut.'

She stared into her glass. ‘I can't believe I'll never see Harry or Captain Mason again.'

Charles downed his brandy in silence.

‘Reverend Butler asked me to enquire if you'd like him to organise a memorial service for Harry. He had so many friends in the town.'

Charles smiled at the thought of the gamblers and whores in Abdul's piling into the austere confines of the mission chapel. ‘Most of Harry's friends are too scurrilous for the Reverend and Mrs Butler to want in their chapel.'

‘Reverend Butler is broad-minded.'

‘Broad-minded enough to allow Mohammedans, Jews, Bedouin, and ladies of the night into his pews?'

‘Perhaps not,' Angela allowed. ‘But that was Harry. He made friends with everyone he met. Have you heard anything from his wife or his bearer, Mitkhal? The handsome Arab who looks like a bandit?'

‘I haven't heard from him. You know about Harry's wife?' Charles was surprised.

‘I know he married a Bedouin.'

‘He told you?'

‘Maud did. She said she and John honeymooned in Harry's father-in-law's house, here in Basra before the war. If you know where she is, Charles, I'd like to call on her.'

‘I've never met her but the fact that Harry kept her separate from the rest of the people in his life suggests he knows we wouldn't have mixed.'

‘Maud said she was a sheikh's daughter and her father made Harry promise he'd never ask her to live among Europeans. Harry had no choice but to keep her away from us.'

‘But not John and Maud, at least not after Maud's mother's death.' Charles had always sensed that Harry and John had not been entirely truthful about the death of Emily Perry.

Emily had died the night she, Maud, he, and John had arrived in Basra from India. They'd shared a wonderful and memorable summer. Emily and Maud had been sent to visit friends there by Maud's father, in the hope that Maud would find a suitable officer husband. John had fallen in love with Maud the first time he'd caught sight of her. He'd shocked John by falling in love with Maud's mother, Emily.

His love had been reciprocated but Emily had insisted on keeping their affair secret and returning to her husband in Basra. Having no choice but to comply with Emily's wishes, he'd left Basra for England the morning before John's wedding . When he'd heard that Emily had died from a scorpion bite shortly after his departure, he'd been suspicious. Especially when he'd discovered Emily's body had been found outside Harry's bungalow barely an hour after he'd left it.

Angela disturbed his train of thought. ‘Personally I can't understand this segregation between races. We're born equal …'

‘According to the American Declaration of Independence,' Charles broke in, ‘but the truth is some races don't want to mix. There's more animosity between the Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs than between Indian and Anglo-Saxon.' He felt uncomfortable even as he said it. His life had been saved after Ctesiphon by his Indian bearer. A bearer he'd since discovered was his half-brother.

‘An excuse Anglo-Saxons use to safeguard their superiority complex.'

‘Is that a repetition of American philosophy or do you really believe what you just said?'

‘I most definitely believe it,' Angela insisted.

‘Are you saying that Americans don't believe they outshine every other nationality?'

‘How can we, when you British constantly remind us that your education, history, and sense of fair play are vastly superior?'

‘Touché.' He touched his glass to hers. ‘Remind me to continue this discussion when my head isn't quite so fuzzy from brandy and painkillers.'

‘If you should see Harry's bearer, will you ask him to call on me at the mission please, Charles?'

‘If you want me to.'

‘Do you think he knows Harry's dead?'

‘Given how close they were, he either knows or was killed alongside him.' Needing to change the subject from Harry and John, he asked, ‘Has Maud settled on a name for her baby?'

‘She was undecided when I left this morning.'

‘She's not going to name him after John?'

‘Not when the whole of Basra knows the baby isn't John's child.'

‘Has the father appeared?'

‘Not that I've seen.' Maud had confided to Angela that her baby was the result of rape. Theo confirmed that Maud had reported a rape to an Indian Army doctor, but Angela didn't feel she should pass on the information, even to Charles. It was Maud's secret, not hers to tell. ‘Will you dine at the mission tonight? Reverend and Mrs Butler would love to see you.'

‘Thank you for the invitation but I invited Chalmers to dine with me here in return for offering to put me up. And here he is.'

‘Mrs Smythe, Reid. Good evening.' Richard Chalmers joined them.

Angela finished her drink. ‘If you'll excuse me, I must go. Given Mrs Butler's cook's temper, I dare not be late for dinner.'

‘I'll escort you,' Charles offered.

‘In your wheelchair?'

‘Tough luck, Charles. That prerogative falls to me.' Richard Chalmers offered Angela his arm.

‘Thank you, Major Chalmers, but my brother said he'd pick me up here at six and it's five past now. Thank you for the lovely drink, Charles.' Angela kissed his cheek. ‘Take care and visit us soon. You too, Major Chalmers. The Butlers would love to meet you.'

‘Reid gets a kiss and I don't,' Chalmers joked.

‘A small one, all I can spare from Peter's ration.' She brushed her lips across Major Chalmers's cheek and almost ran from the room.

Her marriage to Peter had been far from idyllic, but close proximity to any man in uniform who exuded authority and the unique British officer's scent of starch, leather oil, tooth powder, and shaving soap kindled memories, and the realisation just how much she missed Peter's presence in her life. 

Chapter Six

Lansing Memorial Mission, Basra, late evening Thursday 30th December 1915

Angela knocked on the door of Maud's bedroom, opening it at Maud's ‘Come'.

Maud was sitting in a chair, reading. The native nursemaid she'd employed to look after her child was feeding her six-day-old son from a glass baby's bottle.

Maud set her book aside. ‘Did you see Charles?' The last person Maud wanted to hear about was Charles Reid, but as Angela had told her she was meeting him in the Basra Club, she didn't want to risk exciting Angela's suspicions that something was amiss between her and John's childhood friend.

‘Yes.'

‘How is he?'

‘In a wheelchair, but well in himself considering what he's been through. He asked after you and the baby.'

‘Really?' Maud was surprised.

‘He asked if you'd named him.'

‘I have.' Maud glanced at the baby. His eyes had grown heavy and his body was relaxed. He lolled away from the bottle, his mouth still full of milk.

‘Would you like me to wind him and get him down so the nurse can wash the bottle?' Angela offered.

‘If you like.'

Angela spoke to the nursemaid in Arabic. The woman handed the baby over and left the room.

‘I thought I'd call him Robin after my mother's father. I never knew him. He died when Mother was twelve, but she spoke fondly of him.'

‘Robin John?' Angela suggested.

‘Just Robin. As John and I didn't live together for over a year before he was born I'm reverting to my maiden name. He'll be Robin Perry so the Masons won't have further cause to be angry with me.'

‘Have they written to you?'

‘Not since I received official notification of John's death. There hasn't been time for mail from England to reach here. John's parents and his sister wrote regularly after our marriage. It was hard to read the letters they sent after John was posted to the front. They assumed I was a perfect wife and John was a fortunate man. I've finally found the courage to tell them the truth.' She pointed to three envelopes on her travelling desk. ‘The third letter is for John's brother. I don't have his address but I've written to him care of his parents.'

‘You can't tell them the baby isn't John's,' Angela protested. ‘There's no point now John's dead.'

‘There's every point, Angela. I can't allow them to believe that my baby is their grandchild and nephew.'

Angela set the baby down in the crib and tucked the shawl around him. ‘Most women would.'

‘Not women people talk about. British military society is merciless towards those who've broken their rules. I'm not sure how long I can stay here when it's obvious the baby can't possibly be John's. There's gossip about me. Gossip that will, if it hasn't already, affect the reputation of the mission.'

‘No one in the mission takes any notice of gossip, Maud.'

‘You can't ignore the fact that Harriet agreed to look after me before the baby was born, only to change her mind after he arrived.' Maud had been hurt by Harriet's change of heart. Harriet had been her mother's maid in England, accompanied her to India after her marriage, and accepted the post of ladies' maid to her after her mother's death.

‘Harriet's pregnant,' Angela reminded her.

‘One or two months,' Maud dismissed the comment. ‘Nothing that would have prevented her from helping me.'

Harriet had married Sergeant Greening shortly after Charles had dragged Maud and Harriet to Basra from India in the hope of silencing rumours in the Indian army about Maud's adulterous exploits. Harriet hadn't remained with Maud long after their arrival, and Maud had wondered if Harriet's sudden marriage had more to do with distancing herself from her mistress's tainted reputation than love for Sergeant Greening.

‘I've heard Harriet is suffering badly from morning sickness.' Angela said in the maid's defence.

‘Face it, Angela, the only military wife to pay a call on me since Robin's birth is Colonel Allan's, and she felt duty bound as her husband had delivered him.'

‘The others are probably observing etiquette. Isn't it usual to wait ten days before visiting a new mother?'

‘They won't come,' Maud declared. ‘Reverend and Mrs Butler have been very kind but I can't continue to impose on their hospitality.'

‘Do you want to go back to England?'

‘ “Go back”? I've never set foot in the country and don't know a soul there.'

‘India?'

‘The gossip is bad here; it would be unbearable there. I'd be totally ostracised. Here at least I have you and the Butlers.'

‘You should talk to Reverend and Mrs Butler,' Angela advised. ‘They found your services in running the mission invaluable before the baby was born, so please don't make any decisions without consulting them.'

‘After all they've done for me and the baby, it would ill-mannered not to. Has Charles heard anything from Kut?'

Maud's father, Colonel George Perry, was with the beleaguered force and Angela assumed Maud was hoping for news of him. ‘Charles received a letter from Major Crabbe that was smuggled out, but the major only mentioned Harry. He wrote that a ghulam witnessed Harry's death and there was no hope.'

‘Poor Harry. I can't bear to think how many more will pay the ultimate price.'

‘Neither can I.' Angela shivered at the thought of Peter marooned in Kut. ‘Can I get you anything?'

‘No, thank you, Angela.' Maud left the chair and hugged her. ‘You've been very kind.'

Angela opened the door and hesitated. ‘Promise me you won't take any notice of the gossips, Maud?'

‘I can't promise that, Angela. I wouldn't mind if their poison was only directed at me, but their vicious tongues are hurting the Butlers, the mission, you, Theo, and Dr Picard, and that's hard to take.'

Angela had never been a good liar and she'd run out of comforting things to say. ‘See you in the morning, Maud. Sleep well.'

‘You too, Angela, and thank you.'

‘For what?'

‘Being a friend when I desperately need one.'

Basra, early morning, Friday 31st December 1915

The ranking Transport Officer, Major Perkins, faced Tom square on, blocking his exit from the gangplank. ‘I don't care how many brothers you have stationed with the Indian Expeditionary Force, Captain Mason. You have twelve hours. If you are on this wharf any later than six o'clock this evening you will be declared AWOL. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Perfectly, sir.' Tom paused just long enough after the ‘perfectly' and before the ‘sir' to let the officer know what he thought of him.

‘Do we know our destination, sir?' Michael enquired from behind Tom.

Major Perkins eyed Michael's civilian clothes. ‘And you are?'

‘War correspondent, sir.'

‘Which paper?'

‘
Daily Mirror
, sir.

‘Never read it. On a need-to-know basis, your destination is “upstream”.'

‘Thank you, sir.' Michael didn't pause between his words but he knew, from Harry's tutoring, the exact inflection to transform ‘sir' into an insult.

Distracted by a sepoy who'd unloaded officers' kits on to a cart destined for other use, Major Perkins left them.

‘Ten guineas says he was a civil servant in peacetime.' Tom stepped down from the gangplank of the shallow-draught vessel that had brought them up from the Shatt-al-Arab, where they'd had to leave the deep draught
Royal George
.

‘You'll get no takers.' A slim one-armed man joined them on the quayside. Tom and Michael had enjoyed the company of Edmund Candler, the official eye-witness and
Times
and
Manchester Guardian
correspondent on the voyage.

‘Do you think Major Perkins knows our destination any more than we do?' Tom enquired.

‘Upstream,' Candler repeated with a smile.

Michael looked along the wharf. A few clumps of palm broke the line of unprepossessing, low-built, mud brick buildings.

‘Dear God, Harry called Basra the Piccadilly of Mesopotamia. What the hell have we let ourselves in for?' He swatted ineffectually at a swarm of flies.

‘You know Harry's sense of humour.' Tom removed his topee and waved it in front of his face.

‘See you later, gentlemen.' Edmund Candler headed away from the wharf.

‘Upstream,' Tom shouted after him.

‘You have orders, sirs?' Adjabi and Sami appeared from the second gangplank where the bearers and sepoys were disembarking.

‘Our kit secure?' Tom checked.

‘All locked, sirs, in the secure hold,' Sami confirmed.

‘Then you can take the day off to look around Basra,' Tom said.

‘You too, Adjabi, but be back here at five thirty,' Michael warned.

The bearers bowed and ran off in the direction of the rooftops behind the quayside palms and buildings.

‘It's cooler than I expected,' Michael observed.

‘That's because it's winter. If you've any sense you'll get yourself posted out of Mesopotamia before summer.' Richard Chalmers climbed out of a carriage and introduced himself. ‘Welcome to Mesopotamia, even if you are a civilian,' he noted Michael's suit.'

‘Thank you.' Michael shook his hand.

‘I'm here to meet my cousin Boris Bell. You probably came in on the same boat. Do you know him?'

‘Of course they do.' Boris joined them ‘You look ten years older than when I last saw you a year ago, Richard.'

‘Nothing like a compliment from a cousin. You all bound for Ali Gharbi tonight?'

‘All we've been told is upstream,' Tom replied.

‘Good men. Someone's got to get Townshend out of Kut.'

‘Out of – he's trapped?' Michael asked.

‘Where've you been, man?'

‘On board a ship getting here for the last month,' Tom explained.

‘You weren't in radio contact?'

‘The captain was. He didn't believe in sharing information.' Michael dropped his attaché case. ‘When we left London, Townshend had just fallen back from Ctesiphon.'

‘He retired to Kut al Amara. The Turkish forces now under the command of a German,
Baron von der Goltz
, have him pinned down in the town.'

‘Any news on casualties?' Tom asked. ‘We both have brothers with Townshend.'

‘Officers?' Chalmers took a packet of Camel cigarettes from his pocket and offered them to Tom and Michael.

‘My brother, John Mason, is a major in the Medical Corps.'

‘My brother is a political officer, Lieutenant Colonel Harry Downe.'

Richard Chalmers was adept at concealing his emotions. ‘I'm bunking with a friend of theirs, or I will be when he's discharged from hospital: Major Charles Reid.'

‘Charles is here, not with Townshend?' Tom's spirits rose. His brother was so close to Charles and Harry he had sudden hopes of finding all three in Basra.

‘Charles was wounded at Ctesiphon. He's in hospital but on the mend.'

‘Where's the hospital?' Michael picked up his attaché case.

‘It's on the way to my quarters where I've had my bearer prepare a feast for Boris, not that he deserves it.'

‘After what I've been forced to eat to survive on voyage I deserve every ounce of sustenance you've scavenged. Hope there's a decent vintage to wash it down.'

‘You can hope.' Richard smiled at Boris's crestfallen expression. ‘Cousins!' he clapped his arm around Boris's shoulders. ‘Appears this sideshow is something of a family occasion for all of us.'

Military Hospital, Basra, morning, Friday 31st December 1915

Michael and Tom heard Charles's shouts even before they entered the hospital. A young medic backed out of the ward as they approached.

He nodded to Richard, said ‘I refused to discharge him,' and disappeared.

Richard strode into the ward. ‘Smile, best manners called for, Charles, you have visitors.'

Charles looked up, saw Michael, and murmured, ‘Harry'

‘Michael.' Michael held out his hand. ‘It's good to see you, Charles.'

Charles struggled to regain his composure. ‘It's good to see you, and Tom, too.' He turned to Tom. ‘You resemble John but not enough to be mistaken for him, whereas Michael … what the hell are you both doing here?'

‘We got in half an hour ago,' Tom revealed, ‘met Major Chalmers on the wharf and he kindly brought us here. Where are John and Harry? Are they in Basra too?'

Richard went to the door. ‘I can't leave my cousin in the carriage when he only has a day here. I'll leave you to your reunion, Charles. See you later.'

Charles didn't blame Richard for retreating. If the situation had been reversed he'd have done the same thing. He waved a goodbye and turned to Michael. ‘You're not in uniform?'

Michael pulled up a chair and lowered his voice so as not to disturb the other patients. ‘The army rejected me because of my leg. I'm war correspondent for the
Mirror
. We only just heard about Kut being besieged.'

‘When we left London they were calling it “General Townshend's strategic withdrawal”. Are John and Harry with him?'' Tom pulled up another chair.

‘Are John and Harry in Kut?' Michael reiterated when Charles didn't answer.

Charles gripped his metal bed head until his knuckles turned white. ‘They're dead.'

‘Dead!' Michael began to shake. ‘Both of them?'

‘Both of them,' Charles confirmed.

‘They can't be. Not Harry …'

Charles started talking. Once he began he couldn't stop. He knew exactly how Tom and Michael felt. He hadn't wanted to believe Harry and John were dead either. They'd been far more than friends. They'd been an integral part of him – his life – his childhood and the best part of him had died with them.