The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  As they ascended the steep curving road towards the hill station, the scent of pines and the cooler air greeted them. The road was busy with tongas bringing visitors to Murree and dotted around the hillside were the bleached canvas tents of the summer camps that would soon fill up with army contingents. The population of the Himalayan town swelled from around two thousand in the cold season to nearer ten thousand in the monsoon season, as the British, bringing their servants with them, escaped the heat of the plains to Murree or travelled on to Kashmir. Shops and boarding houses, closed half the year, opened up to cater for the influx.

  Tom, in a sweat of anticipation, hardly noticed the drop in temperature as they gained Pindi Point at one end of the saddle-shaped ridge and entered the town. Driving as carefully but swiftly as he could through the busy streets of the cantonment, they passed the hospital, manse and cricket ground and on to the Mall. Tom wondered if he should have stopped at the hospital to see if Lydia was there but Geraldine had said his wife was still at home.

  Passing Trinity Church and the post office, Tom steeled himself to pass the Birchwood Hotel where long ago he had stayed with Mary on a late summer leave. They had stood on its elevated veranda and he had pointed out the snow-covered mountains of Kashmir where they were travelling on to. He told her she would never see a more heavenly place. ‘I’m in heaven now, Tom, just being here with you.’

  Tom’s gritty eyes stung as he remembered her tender words. How he had failed her! Forcing Mary from his mind, Tom took one of the meandering tracks that burrowed into the wooded hillside of Pinnacle Point, where the villas of the British nestled among the trees.

  Arriving outside Linnet Cottage, Tom cut the engine, scrambled from the car and leapt up the veranda steps, calling to Bijal to take care of the luggage. To his surprise, Geraldine was sitting in a cane chair, smoking. He’d never seen her smoking before. She quickly stubbed out the cigarette and stood to greet him.

  ‘Tom, dear. I didn’t expect you this quickly. How was your journey?’

  Distractedly, Tom bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Fine thanks. How is Lydia?’

  Geraldine gave a tentative smile. ‘Bearing up well. It all started yesterday—’

  ‘Yesterday?’ Tom exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you send for me sooner?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘it was just a few twinges. Didn’t really get going till this morning.’

  ‘I see.’ Tom moved towards the inner door but Geraldine put out a hand to stop him.

  ‘Come and sit down. I’ll order tea. You must be tired. Such a hot drive. Then you can wash and change.’

  Tom curbed his irritation at her high-handed manner. Geraldine had obviously assumed control of his wife and bungalow since his last visit over a week ago.

  ‘I want to see Lydia first,’ Tom said.

  She looked scandalised. ‘Certainly not. Poor dear girl is in the middle of labour. She won’t want you seeing her like that. No, the less fuss the better.’ She waved him into a chair. ‘Nurse Jones is with her – I sent for her myself – and Lydia’s ayah is helping too.’

  She clapped for a servant and ordered tea and cake. Catching sight of Bijal, she commanded him to take Tom’s suitcase to the spare bedroom. ‘Just for now.’

  Tom refused to sit down. ‘How long has the nurse been here?’

  Geraldine gave a vague smile. ‘Oh, sometime after breakfast.’

  Tom’s gut tightened. ‘But that’s hours ago. Shouldn’t things have happened by now?’

  ‘Oh, it can go on for ages. My first son, Roland Junior, took thirty-six hours. I was like a wrung-out dishcloth by the end, I can tell you. Now, stop worrying and put your feet up.’ She took his arm in a pincer-like grip and steered him towards a long chair.

  Tom shook her off. ‘I just want to see for myself – to let her know I’m here if she wants me.’

  ‘Now, Tom, don’t be difficult. Lydia really won’t want you there. But I’ll go in and tell her you’ve arrived.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Maybe that will spur her on.’

  In frustration, Tom watched her retreat into the house. He punched the doorframe. He knew it was usual for men to be kept away from women during labour, but he wanted to know that Lydia was all right. His biggest fear was that she would not survive the ordeal – or that the baby would not. Fear clawed inside as he tried to hear what was happening in the house beyond.

  A door opened and closed. There was a murmur of hushed voices in the corridor, and then the door opened again. He thought he heard moaning before the door closed once more. Tom felt nauseated, hardly able to bear the waiting. He fumbled for his cigarette case and fishing out a cigarette, tapped it hard on the case before lighting up. He took a long drag and inhaled deeply, feeling the welcome tingle and an instant sense of calm spread through him. This wasn’t unusual; giving birth was a long process, wasn’t it?

  He clenched his jaw. How would he know? He hadn’t been there when Mary had been fighting for her life . . . A wave of anxiety swept through him once more. He mustn’t think of it; he mustn’t tempt fate with his dark thoughts of the past.

  For a moment he thought he heard a cry as a door opened again. Geraldine was saying something placating but in a brisk voice. Moments later, she re-emerged from inside the gloomy bungalow.

  ‘All’s well,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Lydia is pleased to know you are here but she doesn’t want you in the bedroom on any account.’

  Tom’s spirits plunged. He’d hoped his wife would have defied Geraldine and demanded to see him.

  A servant appeared with tea and set about serving it to Tom and Geraldine. Reluctantly, Tom sat and half-listened to the garrulous brewery manager’s wife talking about the new arrivals in town since his last visit. All the time, his thoughts were on Lydia and how the birth was progressing. Was she in great pain? Was the baby in danger? How he wished he knew what was happening! If only he could help in some way. Talk to her through the door, perhaps.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Geraldine demanded.

  Tom was halfway across the veranda before he realised what he was doing.

  ‘I just want to listen at the door,’ he said. ‘Say something encouraging.’

  Geraldine was on her feet. ‘You mustn’t! She doesn’t want you there. Tom, you must bear this like a man. Shall I get Roland to come over and take you to the club?’

  Tom halted, grinding his teeth. Roland would be preferable to having to wait out here being bossed by Geraldine. He nodded.

  ‘I’d appreciate Roland’s company but I don’t want to go to the club. He could come here.’

  Geraldine considered this for a moment. ‘Very well. Your servant can run over with a message. I’ll tell Cook we’ll have an extra one for dinner.’

  Tom was relieved as Lydia’s friend bustled off to make arrangements. He was tempted to stride into the house and barge into the bedroom where Lydia lay but his nerve failed him. She knew he was here but didn’t want him anywhere near her while in labour. Tom sighed and lit another cigarette.

  Roland arrived as the sun was setting over the trees. The men drank gin and limes as the sky turned green and then indigo. The stars came out. Dinner was served. The time crawled. The Hopkirks chattered. Tom kept glancing into the house. The waiting was pure torture.

  ‘Go and see what’s happening,’ Tom begged Geraldine every twenty minutes.

  She would disappear, leaving Tom on tenterhooks, and return with a little shrug. ‘She’s resting’ or ‘it won’t be long now’ or ‘you really mustn’t worry; these things take time.’

  Tom couldn’t sit still. He began pacing the veranda, smoking one cigarette after another while the Hopkirks finished their dinner. They made indulgent comments.

  ‘You’re bound to be anxious with the first one,’ said Geraldine.

  ‘You just have to leave it to the women,’ Roland said, motioning the khidmatgar to pour Tom a brandy. ‘They’re the experts.’

  By ten o’clock, with dinner over and no progress r
eported by Geraldine, Tom asked in agitation. ‘Should we send for a doctor?’

  He saw a look pass between the Hopkirks. Fear choked him.

  ‘She should be in hospital, shouldn’t she?’ he cried. ‘I knew it. I wanted her to have it there!’

  Geraldine stood up. ‘Now stop it, Tom. You’re making yourself ill. We need you to be strong, not go to pieces. What good will it do Lydia if she hears you shouting?’

  Tom ran his hands through his hair. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, trying to calm down.

  ‘Drink your brandy, Lomax,’ Roland encouraged.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Geraldine as Tom sat down again. ‘I’ll go and see what’s what.’

  As midnight approached, Tom could hear Lydia’s cries ringing around the bungalow. The nurse must have opened the window to let in the night air, for Lydia’s shrieks came louder now. He ground his teeth at the animal noise of distress. It was echoed by the constant screams of nocturnal birds and animals in the surrounding forests.

  Two hours earlier, the middle-aged Nurse Jones had come out to reassure him that she’d delivered countless babies and that this one was just being lazy but would come soon.

  ‘Mrs Lomax is a strong lady. There’s no need for concern.’

  For the past hour Geraldine had stayed in the room with Lydia while an inebriated Roland worked his way through the decanter of brandy. Tom’s cigarette case was empty. His throat was raw with tobacco smoke.

  ‘Not long now, Lomass,’ Roland slurred.

  Tom’s head was fuzzy with drink and worry. He no longer knew what to do. Should he demand a doctor to attend his wife? He had a sudden desire for Harold and Esmie to be there with him. Only they could give him the reassurance he craved. They would not be fobbing him off with platitudes and treating him like a petulant child. They would be telling him exactly what was going on – and Esmie would be a soothing, encouraging presence for Lydia – not like the thin-faced Nurse Jones whom he could hear shouting at his exhausted wife to push, push.

  All at once, there was a prolonged scream from the far bedroom. Tom’s blood froze in his veins. He started for the door. A dozing Roland was roused by the cry.

  ‘What— What?’ he asked, sitting up groggily.

  Abruptly, all went quiet. Tom stopped. His heart was hammering so hard that he thought it would burst out of him. He could hear nothing. Bile rose in his throat.

  ‘Lydia?’ His voice sounded a ragged whisper. Please make a noise; let me know you’re alive. He could hear his own breathing; it sounded like he was running uphill.

  Just then, he heard it. The tremulous cry of a baby. His heart missed a beat. He strained to hear, not trusting what he’d heard. It came again, louder this time.

  Roland said. ‘At last, Lomax.’

  Tom lurched forward and clattered into the shadowed interior. The passageway was dimly lit by a kerosene lamp hanging overhead. He stood outside the closed bedroom door, breathing hard, his hand hovering over the handle. He could hear women’s voices; the nurse being brusque, Geraldine’s excited. The baby was bleating but he couldn’t hear Lydia. Tom stood in indecision for several moments more, then threw open the door and barged in. It smelt sickly sweet, a stifling aroma of blood, sweat and long hours of exertion.

  ‘Lydia?’ he cried in concern.

  ‘Mr Lomax!’ the nurse cried.

  ‘You can’t be in here,’ Geraldine gasped.

  Tom ignored them both, rushing to the bedside and peering down at his wife. Her hair was stuck to her temples. Her eyes were closed.

  ‘Lydia!’ he shouted.

  Suddenly her lids fluttered open. She stared at him in alarm, then her confusion vanished.

  ‘Tom,’ she said. She sounded relieved but looked utterly spent.

  ‘My darling.’ He took her limp, damp hand and pressed it to his lips. He gripped her warm fingers, proof that she was alive. His eyes prickled.

  ‘Come now, Mr Lomax,’ chivvied the nurse. ‘Out of the lady’s bedroom. Your wife needs to rest.’

  Lydia had already closed her eyes again. Tom stood up straight, his legs still wobbly with relief. As he turned, the young ayah stepped forward and held a cloth bundle towards him. For a moment he was nonplussed. Then he saw the tiny crinkled face in the folds. Shock went through him. He was too overcome to move.

  ‘You have a baby boy,’ said Geraldine, looking pleased. ‘Isn’t that marvellous? I’ll carry him outside if you like, so you can show him off to Roland.’

  She stepped in front of the ayah but Tom reached out quickly. ‘No, let me.’

  The young nanny smiled up at him as she carefully pressed the swaddled baby into his arms. As Tom felt the weight of him – heavier than he’d expected – he felt a surge of possessive love. He had a son; a living, breathing baby in his arms. The newborn stared myopically as if searching for him in the lamplight. Tom was shaking so much he feared he might drop him. He held him closer and tentatively kissed his pinkish forehead. He smelt of the womb. The baby’s mewling subsided.

  ‘Lydia,’ he said, turning back towards the bed with his precious bundle. ‘We have a son.’ As he said the words aloud, his throat constricted.

  Lydia gave out a soft groan of acknowledgement but was too tired to open her eyes. Geraldine put a hand on his back and steered him away.

  ‘Let’s leave her be. You can have a celebratory nightcap with Roland.’

  Tom, heart bursting with pride, returned to the veranda clutching his son. He stood in the night air, grinning foolishly.

  ‘Lomax!’ Roland cried, getting to his feet.

  ‘Tell him the good news,’ said Geraldine.

  ‘I have a . . .’

  All at once, Tom’s chest and throat went tight. He couldn’t get the words out. His eyes flooded with tears. He gripped the baby harder, clenching his teeth together to stop himself breaking down in front of the Hopkirks. But he couldn’t control the emotion rising inside. It was just as he had experienced it when Lydia had first told him he was to be a father. Relief and joy. And pain.

  Tom sank into a chair. Still clutching the infant, he bent over him and let out a howl. He wept and shook while the Hopkirks made futile attempts to chivvy him to stop.

  Eventually Geraldine turned to the ayah. ‘Take the baby from Lomax Sahib, will you? Give him a wipe down and put him in his cradle. There’s a good girl.’

  Tom allowed the ayah to prise his son from his arms. A moment later, Roland was thrusting a large whisky into his hand instead.

  ‘Cheers, to you and baby Lomax! What’s he to be called?’

  ‘Andrew,’ Tom said hoarsely as he wiped his eyes with his sleeve, mortified at his loss of control in front of Lydia’s friends. Lydia would be very embarrassed when she heard about it – and he didn’t doubt that Geraldine would tell her. By tomorrow, the whole of Murree would know about the former captain of the Peshawar Rifles who had wept like a girl over the birth of his first child.

  Tom took a gulp of whisky. Except it wasn’t his first. The image of the forlorn infant grave in Peshawar was seared on his mind. He had buried all thought of his dead baby daughter until Lydia’s pregnancy, almost convincing himself that she had never existed. He’d told himself it no longer gave him pain to think of her – how could he grieve for a baby he had never held in his arms? She had been a slight weight in a tiny coffin.

  But holding his new son, Tom’s sense of loss for Mary’s daughter – his daughter – had erupted inside again. His euphoria at the arrival of his son was mixed with the return of grief for baby Amelia.

  Tom took another long slurp of his drink to try and staunch the pain.

  Chapter 29

  Taha, July

  Esmie had never known heat like it. The sun beat down relentlessly, day after day. It hung overhead, a ball of fire in a dazzling sky, burning the lawns of the cantonment yellow and sending the glass thermometer soaring to over 100 degrees. By breakfast time, the bungalow was already too hot. The punkah-wallah’s best attempts to pull
on the large cloth fan merely wafted around the hot stifling air.

  Harold said it was the hottest summer he had ever experienced in India. There was an outbreak of typhoid fever. Esmie was quick to spot the symptoms, having seen it rage through the armies in central Europe. She worked long hours on the isolation ward at the hospital. Remembering the lessons taught by Dr Inglis, she was strict on cleanliness and encouraged recovery with a soft diet of rice with curds, stewed apple and custard.

  The fierce heat took its toll in the barracks too. After long months of fighting on the Frontier, the soldiers billeted in Taha were still being sent out on manoeuvres under the broiling sun.

  The hospital filled up with men suffering from heat exhaustion; cramps, vomiting and severe headaches, their skin red and burning to the touch. Esmie and the orderlies fought to bring down their temperature, wrapping them in damp sheets and giving them fluids. But some were already delirious and lapsed into comas. By the end of July, ten men had died of heatstroke.

  Harold took on the grim task of writing to their families, trying to convey some words of comfort about the bravery of their sons or husbands. Esmie, upset by such deaths, railed against the futility. As he sat at his desk late one evening, sweat dripping off his brow, Esmie let out her frustration.

  ‘They shouldn’t be sending the men out in such conditions. Even in the shade it’s like an oven. They’re being overexerted – and they’re not drinking enough. By the time they get to us it’s too late.’

  Harold, sitting at his desk, looked up with tired eyes. ‘They’re soldiers doing their duty. It’s not for us to interfere in army strategy.’

  Esmie’s eyes stung. ‘But it’s such a criminal waste of life. Imagine being a parent and hearing that your boy has died of sunstroke.’

  Harold gave her a long sorrowful look. ‘Esmie, whether they die on the battlefield or in the barracks, the grief will be just as acute.’

  Esmie was shame-faced at his gentle rebuke. She had no right to harangue him. He was only trying to bring solace to the bereaved. Life was tough on the Frontier and was just as likely to be snatched away by disease or accident as through combat.