The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  Esmie was astonished at the speed of change at the hotel. Lydia got her wish to be installed in her new home by the end of the year and took possession of the rented bungalow on New Year’s Eve. The plans to attend the Hogmanay Ball at the Club and have dinner with the Hopkirks beforehand were abruptly dropped. Tom had sent a message to Geraldine to say Lydia was indisposed.

  From being dismayed at the idea of having a baby, Lydia now appeared to be relishing her new role as a cherished mother-to-be who must be treated with the utmost delicacy. The Lomaxes planned instead to have a small dinner party with just Esmie and Harold. A van was hired to take their possessions from the hotel flat to Buchanan Road.

  That morning Esmie and Lydia took breakfast together in the flat before the removal men arrived. Harold had yet to return from his morning walk and Tom was downstairs talking to the residents. Esmie had overheard him reassuring Hester that he would be constantly popping in from Buchanan Road to make sure everything was running smoothly.

  ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am to be leaving the hotel,’ Lydia said, tucking into a large helping of scrambled egg on toast. In the past few days she had bought a whole new wardrobe of looser-fitting dresses and was looking more comfortable. ‘Dubois can bring your luggage over later.’

  Esmie gave an awkward smile. ‘There’s no point us moving just for a couple of nights. We’re quite comfortable here in the hotel.’

  Lydia gave her a look of surprise. ‘What do you mean just a couple of nights?’

  ‘You knew we would be leaving after Hogmanay. Harold wants to get back to Taha as soon after New Year as possible. He’s arranged for us to stay with Bernie Hudson in Peshawar on the way home.’

  ‘Who on earth is Bernie Hudson?’

  ‘Remember I told you about him? He’s with the Agriculture Department. He and Harold became good friends on the ship out here. He’s been pressing us to visit for months.’

  Lydia looked put out. ‘So Harold would rather spend his last days of leave with some man he met on a ship than with his oldest friends? And he’s going to drag you with him. I didn’t think he could be so selfish. I’ve finally got a house to entertain my dearest friends in and you don’t even want to stay.’

  Esmie could see Lydia becoming upset. She put a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘We’re really looking forward to having dinner at the bungalow tonight and we’ve still got another couple of days together. So let’s make the most of it.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll just have to,’ Lydia said with a sniff. ‘It’s so hard when everyone I care about has to leave after such a short stay.’

  Esmie smiled in encouragement. ‘You’ve got Tom with you all the time – and in a few months you’ll have baby Lomax. I bet your parents will want to rush back out when he or she is born. Nineteen twenty is going to be such a wonderful year for you both, I’m sure of it.’

  Lydia let out a long sigh. ‘If it brings Mummy and Daddy back out to India then I suppose having this baby will be worth the effort.’ She pulled away and put her hands on her rounded stomach. ‘Do you know, I think I’ve felt it moving in the past few days? Is that possible?’

  Esmie gazed at Lydia’s bump and experienced a strange curdling inside. Lydia was carrying another life within her. She felt a mixture of trepidation and excitement for her friend – and a twinge of envy.

  ‘Yes, it’s very possible,’ Esmie said.

  ‘Oh, Lor’,’ Lydia exclaimed, ‘it’s really happening, isn’t it?’

  That evening Esmie and Harold took the fifteen-minute tonga ride to the new bungalow. The sitting room was already luxuriously appointed with Lydia’s beautiful maple furniture, richly coloured Persian rugs and Chinese vases filled with fresh flowers. A fire crackled brightly in the grate and brass ornaments reflected the warm glow.

  Tom welcomed them and his bearer Bijal handed around gin cocktails.

  Esmie saw a large watercolour hanging over the fireplace.

  ‘Is that one of yours?’ she asked, peering closer.

  ‘Yes, it’s of the ruins at Taxila,’ Tom said, smiling diffidently. ‘My wife has finally allowed it on display.’

  ‘It’s very striking,’ she said in admiration. She liked the semi-abstract style and bold colours; the piles of stones were purplish and the sky almost green.

  Tom looked pleased. ‘Perhaps I could run you and Harold out there? It’s well worth a visit.’

  ‘Too late,’ Lydia said, ‘they’re abandoning us the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you?’ Tom asked, catching Esmie’s eye.

  She couldn’t work out if he was relieved or disappointed at the news. She had assumed Harold would have told him.

  Esmie nodded. ‘You’ve been more than kind to us and we mustn’t outstay our welcome or you won’t ask us again.’

  Harold explained. ‘We’re taking the train back via Peshawar. Esmie hasn’t seen the city yet and I thought she’d find it interesting. Staying with a fascinating fellow called Hudson. He’s translating Dickens into Pashto.’

  Esmie saw Tom wince at the mention of Peshawar. Was it because it reminded him of his time with the army or was there a more personal reason? She now knew that Tom’s first wife had died there.

  After drinks they dined on the shuttered veranda at a candlelit table, the space warmed by two charcoal braziers. They reminisced about the previous summer in Scotland and the outings they’d enjoyed as a foursome. The mood was mellow and Lydia was back to her vivacious self, teasing each of them and making them laugh. Seeing how well they could all get along, Esmie felt a sudden rush of optimism for both their marriages. In different ways, each couple had had a shaky start but things were being resolved. Tom and Lydia were being brought together by the anticipation of their future son or daughter, while her and Harold’s partnership would strengthen as they continued in their shared work. Esmie prayed that, in time, the marriage would include a baby of their own.

  Sitting around the Lomaxes’ table, avoiding Tom’s look, Esmie could imagine that she was happy and that the future would bring fulfilment. They returned to the sitting room and played cards while Tom put records of Scottish songs on the gramophone. By the time they were seeing in the New Year with toasts of whisky and singing Auld Lang Syne, Esmie was impatient to escape back to Taha and for 1920 to begin.

  Chapter 26

  Peshawar, January 1920

  Icy rain whipped around Esmie’s face as she emerged from St John’s Church with Harold and Bernie. It was bitterly cold and the bare trees of the churchyard bent and swayed in the wind. The snow-capped mountains of the Khyber Hills had disappeared under a blanket of cloud and for a moment, huddling outside the gothic stone building, Esmie could imagine she was back in Scotland. Inside the church, they had sat on carved wooden pews under hanging gas lamps and Esmie had gazed at glinting brass plaques honouring the dead – mainly senior army officers and their families – and wondered about Mary Lomax.

  On which street in the cantonment had she and Tom lived? Perhaps Bernie’s neat bungalow was near it. How had Mary filled her days? Had she been as curious as Esmie to venture into the back lanes of the fortress town to watch the coppersmiths at work and bargain for brightly coloured Bokhara silks to make into clothes for the summer?

  Since arriving two days ago, the weather had been too inclement to do any sightseeing and Esmie had only managed a glimpse of the walled city on a brief tonga ride with Harold and his friend. In the rain, the low-lying buildings of the bazaars and caravanserais had looked drab and the sound of braying pack animals, forlorn. Esmie had been sorry for the marooned traders standing disconsolately in the narrow serai entrances, wrapped in damp blankets, waiting to continue their journeys with their restless mules and camels.

  Tomorrow she and Harold would return to Taha. Esmie was keen to go home and she chafed at these few days’ delay in Peshawar. She would rather have spent them at the Raj in the genial company of the Duboises and the residents but Harold had been eager to leave. The announcement of
the Lomax baby and the subsequent disruption to their visit seemed to have unnerved her husband. He’d hoped to go fishing again with Tom but his friend had been too busy seeing to the needs of his pregnant wife.

  Struggling to keep her umbrella from whipping inside-out in the squalls, Esmie glanced at Harold, who was in deep conversation with Bernie. He at least was enjoying their stay in Peshawar; long games of chess and discussing books with the erudite Bernie by a cosy fire. While time had hung heavily for Esmie, the men had stayed up late, talking about everything from Dickens to the origins of the game of polo. Esmie realised how much Harold must miss intellectual stimulation in their remote outpost. His mother and aunt had provided it at home and there were one or two in Taha, such as Bannerman, who could talk about religion and books. But with Bernie, he had found a kindred spirit and Esmie didn’t want to drag him away from these precious days of relaxation before they returned to the fray.

  She consoled herself with the thought that Harold was probably happier being married to her than if he had followed his heart and proposed to Lydia. Apart from sport, Harold and Lydia had nothing in common. But then there was no logic to whom one fell in love with, and the old adage that opposites attract was often true. How else could she explain the magnetism she felt towards Tom? He was impulsive, extrovert, charming, quickly riled and did not hide his emotions; whereas she was an observer who was slow to anger and held her emotions in check.

  What had Mary been like? Harold remembered her in childhood as kind-hearted and a little shy, a daydreamer who could entertain herself for hours playing with a pet rabbit or drawing pictures. Tom, grieving for his mother and constantly belittled by his strict father, had grabbed on to Mary’s friendship like a lifeline.

  ‘It seemed natural that the two of them would marry,’ Harold had said. ‘Mary adored Tom. I always thought it would happen even though they were temperamentally very different.’

  Even though Harold had been on furlough in Scotland when Mary had died, Esmie still found it astonishing that he had never found out where Mary had been buried. Tom had never spoken about it and Harold had thought it intrusive to ask.

  Bernie appeared at her side, offering his larger umbrella for shelter.

  ‘Did you find any inscriptions on the church walls of interest?’ he asked.

  Esmie dragged her thoughts back to the present.

  ‘Interesting but sad,’ she admitted. ‘Each one tells a story of love and loss.’

  Bernie nodded. ‘But so much endeavour too.’

  Esmie gave up on her own umbrella and allowed Bernie to steer her out of the church grounds under his.

  ‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘if you really want to get a feel of our past history in Peshawar then a trip to the British cemetery will tell you more than a dozen history books. So many gravestones and monuments detailing lives cut short, as well as their profession or regiment.’

  Esmie’s pulse quickened. Mary’s grave might be among them. ‘Are there graves belonging to the Peshawar Rifles and their families?’

  ‘The Rifles? Of course. They have an illustrious history in these parts.’

  ‘Is the cemetery far from here?’

  ‘No, not far at all. It’s this side of the cantonment – out on the Khyber Road.’

  ‘Do we have time to go there before lunch?’ Esmie asked.

  ‘In this weather?’ Bernie laughed. ‘Your dedication to historical research is very commendable, Mrs Guthrie, but perhaps we should leave it till after tiffin and see if the rain eases off.’

  Curbing her frustration, Esmie agreed. She didn’t know why she thought it so important to track down Mary’s last resting place, except that it made her feel closer to Tom. For some reason she couldn’t explain, she wanted to pay her respects to the woman who had shown a simple kindness and love to the young Tom, and had made him happy in their brief marriage. If she could find Mary’s grave, she might be able to better understand Tom’s troubled mind and do something to help him find peace.

  Or perhaps she was being fanciful. Tom didn’t need or want her help now that he was going to be a father. Lydia and her baby were his future. It would be months before she saw them again. She and Harold had promised to return and visit once the baby was born but Esmie was doubtful she would manage to get Harold to take another holiday so soon after their Christmas leave.

  She went over the last moments with Tom in her mind. He had driven her and Harold to the station after a tearful parting with Lydia. Lydia had howled at her going and Esmie had been emotional too, urging her to take care of herself and her unborn baby. As Harold was overseeing their luggage being carried onto the train, Tom had taken Esmie’s hands in his.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about your friend,’ he’d said. ‘I’m going to take excellent care of her.’

  Esmie had tensed at his touch, trying not to shake, and nodded. ‘I know you will.’

  He’d given her one of his intent looks. ‘Your turn will come, dear Esmie.’

  She’d felt her eyes sting with tears. She was about to ask him what he meant, when Harold had returned and told her it was time to climb aboard. Briefly, Tom had brushed her cheek with a kiss and she had swallowed down a sob of longing as he’d turned away and grasped Harold in a firm handshake. On the train ride she’d puzzled over his words and come to the conclusion he had meant that, one day, her turn to become a mother would come.

  Back at Bernie’s bungalow, all through a heavy lunch of mulligatawny soup, mutton cutlets, watery vegetables and rice pudding, Esmie kept glancing out of the window, hoping that the rain was lessening. Afterwards, they retired to the parlour where a fire had been lit since early morning and the men began to settle into chairs to read. Esmie looked anxiously out of the window; the light was already fading in the gloomy sky.

  ‘Perhaps now would be a good time to visit the cemetery,’ she suggested. ‘Before it gets dark. It seems to have stopped raining.’

  Harold stifled a yawn. ‘I thought I’d read my Bible for a bit. It’s really not an afternoon for going out. Perhaps we could go there on the way to the station tomorrow.’

  Esmie knew that if they didn’t go now, they never would. They had to catch a morning train and Harold would be fussing about them missing it.

  ‘It’s not on the way to the station,’ she pointed out. She gave a look of appeal to Bernie.

  He roused himself from his comfortable chair by the fire. ‘I did promise Mrs Guthrie we would go after lunch if the weather improved – and so it has. You can stay here, Harold, if you like. I can show your wife around the graves – I’m a bit of an expert after all these years.’

  Harold quickly changed his mind. ‘No, no, I’ll come too.’

  They entered the cemetery under a creeper-covered lychgate. Esmie was immediately struck by the serenity of the place, the orderly rows of well-tended graves under the bare dripping trees. The clouds were clearing and a pale golden light was spreading over the emerging hills to the west.

  ‘To the left we have the oldest graves,’ Bernie was explaining, as he ushered her down the muddy path. ‘Some of these date back to the 1860s. Mostly young soldiers far from home. Many of the tombstones are erected by fellow brothers-in-arms – their surrogate families out here.’

  Esmie was touched by the tender inscriptions and the beauty of the stones; many of them elaborately carved and decorated to make them unique to the loved one buried beneath. The most poignant were the graves of the cantonment’s children; sons and daughters carried off in infancy, presumably by violence or sudden disease. It reminded her painfully of Harold’s reason for them not embarking on parenthood.

  They walked around the site, stopping to read memorials to various regiments and for Bernie to give explanations.

  ‘See how many were buried in 1879? That was owing to an outbreak of cholera during the Afghan campaign.’ Then pointing to the western end of the cemetery, he said, ‘Sadly there’s a crop of new headstones from the end of the recent war – influenz
a, I’m afraid.’

  The light was leaching from the sky and darkness would soon be falling. Harold said, ‘I think we should be back in the cantonment before dark.’

  Esmie decided to ask the question that had been on her lips since arriving at the burial ground.

  ‘Is there a particular corner for the Peshawar Rifles and their families? It’s possible our good friend Captain Lomax’s first wife is buried here.’ She glanced at Harold. ‘We’d like to pay our respects.’

  Bernie nodded. ‘The Rifles are scattered about. It rather depends on the date.’

  Esmie said, ‘Just before the War, wasn’t it, Harold?’

  ‘End of 1912 or beginning of 1913,’ he replied, sadness clouding his face. ‘I was on furlough and didn’t get back until March so the funeral was long over. Poor old Lomax was away on picket when it happened. Still blames himself for not being there. Not that he could have done anything.’

  ‘What did she die of?’ asked Bernie.

  Harold reddened. ‘I don’t actually know. Some fever, I imagine. Tom has never wanted to talk about it.’

  They skirted a water tank as Bernie led them to the far corner behind a hedge and searched among the graves. The stones were still unweathered and their lettering clear. Abruptly, he stopped in front of a slender headstone of white marble shaped into a Celtic cross at the top.

  ‘Could this be it?’ Bernie asked.

  Esmie’s throat tightened as she surveyed the inscription.

  In loving memory of Mary Maxwell Lomax, dearly beloved wife of Captain T. Lomax of The Peshawar Rifles, born 2nd January 1888, died 5th January 1913. Erected by her sorrowing husband.

  ‘O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still.’