Fortunes of War

by Olivia Manning

  ‘Then let’s take him to Shafik at the American Hospital. Shafik is a good doctor; he’ll set your mind at rest.’

  ‘You’ll come with me?’

  ‘Of course I’ll come with you. Get him dressed and I’ll be round by the time you’re ready to go.’

  Harriet was uneasy, less for Castlebar who might not be very ill, than for Angela who had known despair and could not face it again. Harriet had seen her in a state of anxiety that was near frenzy and knew that at such moments she was, as Guy maintained, crazy. It was important to get Castlebar’s illness diagnosed before Angela again lost control of her reason.

  She took a taxi to the hotel and waited in the hall. As Castlebar came from the lift, she was shocked by the sight of him. He could walk, but with the shuffle of an old man, leaning on Angela who was maintaining a precarious calm. He looked weary beyond endurance. The sweat of exhaustion beaded his face and when Harriet spoke to him, he could scarcely lift the lids from his sunken eyes. He smiled at her but it was a weak and frightened smile.

  The porter took his arm and helped him to the taxi. Angela, following behind, whispered to Harriet: ‘His temperature’s up again. It’s 102°.’

  Harriet said: ‘That’s not bad,’ but she knew it was bad enough.

  The white hospital building and the avenue of gum trees glimmering in the afternoon sun gave them the sense that all would now be well. There would be no more doubts and confusion of hope and dread. Help was at hand. Castlebar’s ailment, whatever it was, would be treated and cured.

  The hospital porter, opening the taxi door, insisted that the patient must stay where he was till a wheel-chair was brought for him. Then, with the sympathy that the Egyptian poor show to the sick, three male nurses came out to lift him into the chair. Castlebar tried to grin, suggesting that all this attention was a joke, and inside the hospital, took out his cigarettes but did not try to light one.

  Harriet sent her name up to Dr Shafik. Shafik came down at once, his handsome face beaming with astonished delight: ‘How is it you are here, Mrs Pringle? Have you been so quickly to England and back again? Or did you decide you could not leave your Dr Shafik after all?’ He was eager to renew their past flirtatious relationship but Harriet was too worried to respond to him. She said: ‘Dr Shafik, I’ve brought my friends to you because they need your help.’

  Shafik turned to observe Harriet’s friends and his manner changed at once. He crossed to Castlebar, stared at him and asked: ‘How long has he been like this?’

  Angela said: ‘About ten days.’

  ‘He should have been brought here sooner.’

  ‘What is it?’ Angela’s voice was shrill with alarm: ‘What is the matter? What can you do for him?’

  ‘That, madam, I do not know.’ Shafik had reverted to the ironical formality that was his professional manner. ‘We must make tests. May I ask: are you his wife? No? I understand. Well, it is necessary that he remain here and when his malady is known, we will do what we can.’

  ‘May I stay with him?’

  ‘No, no. Impossible. He must be alone. He needs rest and quiet.’

  Castlebar, languishing in his chair, showed no awareness of what was being said. He did not open his eyes or move as Angela clung to him for some moments before he was wheeled away. The chair was put into a lift. Angela stood so long, staring as the lift rose up out of sight, that Harriet put an arm round her shoulder: ‘Angela dear, I think we should go.’

  ‘Go? Go where?’

  ‘We could have tea at Groppi’s and then come back and ask if there’s any news!’

  ‘No, I can’t leave here. I must stay until I know what is wrong with him.’ She looked round for Shafik but Shafik had left them.

  ‘Stay with me,’ she said to Harriet.

  At the farther end of the hall there was a waiting area where french windows opened on to the hospital grounds. The grounds joined up with the Gezira polo fields and they sat and stared out at the great vista of grassland that floated and wavered in the haze of heat. Angela, by nature a restless woman, was so still that no creak came from the basket chair in which she sat.

  Harriet, remembering how long she had had to wait for the result of her own tests, said: ‘You probably won’t hear anything until tomorrow or even the day after.’

  Angela turned her head slowly and looked at Harriet, her eyes glazed and uncomprehending. So they sat on. Sister Metrebian, who had nursed Harriet through amoebic dysentery, came down to speak with her: ‘But you are looking very well!’

  Harriet, rising and leading the nurse away from Angela, whispered: ‘The new patient — is he as ill as he looks?’

  ‘Yes, he is ill, but it is for Dr Shafik to say. He must first make the diagnosis.’

  ‘What do you think yourself?’

  Sister Metrebian shook her head and was soon gone, unwilling to talk. Angela and Harriet sat in silence until six o’clock when the porter told Angela she might go to Castlebar’s room. While she was away, Shafik came and spoke to Harriet in a subdued voice: ‘Mrs Pringle, you must look after your friend. She is, I think, of an hysterical temperament and will need support. I have allowed her to see the patient but I cannot let you go up. You have been ill too recently. You must not risk an infection.’

  ‘What infection? What is wrong with him?’

  ‘I cannot say yet. He has what is called the “typhoid” state. That is: he has a fever, rapid pulse, low blood pressure and other symptoms we will, not speak of.’

  Harriet could guess that the other symptoms were, in Shafik’s opinion, either too distasteful or too profound for the female mind. Cutting through his constraint, she said: ‘So he has typhoid?’

  ‘I did not say so. He has been ill only ten days. It is the second week which is critical.’

  ‘Poor Angela, what can I do for her? She will be beside herself.’

  ‘I will prescribe sedatives. I have told her nothing but if she suspects, you can say that typhoid is endemic here and we know how to treat it. Tell me, do you know, has Mr Castlebar been injected against typhoid?’

  ‘He probably was when he first came out. We’re supposed to have a booster each year but I’m afraid most of us forget.’

  ‘So I feared. Mrs Pringle, you and your friend must go today to the Out Patients’ Department and be given an anti-typhoid injection. You, please, go now and I will send your friend to join you.’

  Angela, sedated, remained as though benumbed until the end of the second week when she telephoned Harriet and begged her in a frantic whisper: ‘Come, Harriet, come at once.’

  It was nine in the morning and Harriet asked: ‘Come where?’

  ‘To the hospital.’

  ‘What has happened?’

  ‘You will see when you come.’

  Harriet, her taxi delayed again and again by the early morning traffic, was taut with apprehension. Shafik had said the second week was critical but typhoid, notorious for its long fever, was not necessarily fatal. In spite of Angela’s entreating tone, she could not believe that Castlebar was dead. As she entered the main hospital door, Angela rushed at her and said hoarsely: ‘That woman! That terrible woman!’ She pointed to the waiting area where a woman was sitting, upright and purposeful, her massive, tubular legs planted so she could rise in an instant.

  Harriet recognized the red hair that accentuated the clammy pallor of the face: ‘Mona Castlebar! How long has she been here?’

  ‘She was here when I came this morning. As soon as she saw me, she bawled: “Clear out, you bitch, you’re nothing better than a whore.” She tried to push me out through the door but I fought back and the porter went to fetch Shafik. Shafik ordered us both out. She said she’d fetch the consul to prove that she’s Bill’s legal wife and Shafik said he didn’t care what she was, she must go. But she wouldn’t go and I wouldn’t go, either. Bill needs me. He’s mine. I can’t be kept from him. Harriet, Shafik’s your friend. He’ll listen to you. Please, Harriet, please go and explain that Bill left that
woman months ago. She has no right to claim him. He never wants to see her again.’

  ‘But is he well enough to see anyone?’

  ‘The sister says he’s a bit better today. I know if that woman forces her way in on him, he’ll have a relapse. Oh, Harriet, please go.’

  Harriet found Shafik still indignant at the uproar caused by the two women. Before she could speak, he shouted at her: ‘So Mr Castlebar has two wives! That is nothing to me. He can have three. If he is rich enough, he can have all the prophet allows, but he is a sick man. I will not allow these ladies to come and disturb him.’

  ‘Is he very sick?’

  ‘Yes, he is very sick. He is now entering the third week and any day there will come the crisis. There could be perforation, peritonitis, pneumonia, cardiac failure — all such things are brought on by shock. These ladies must be kept from him.’

  ‘But his wife! Can she be kept out — legally, I mean? She has threatened to call the British Consul to establish her rights.’

  Dr Shafik, angry that the consul or anyone else might try to broach his authority, brought his hand down on his desk: ‘In a case of life or death, the doctor’s decision is final.’

  ‘Dr Shafik, I’d be grateful if you’d let Lady Hooper just look in on him. She will be quiet, I promise you. They love one another. The sight of her will help him.’

  Shafik, placated as Arabs usually were by a suggestion of romance, reflected for a moment then said: ‘Very well. If you take her to the back entrance, I will send the porter to show her to his room. She will have five minutes, no more.’

  Returning to the hall, Harriet said: ‘Come, Angela, there is no point in staying here.’ Angela, realizing that this summons meant more than was said, followed Harriet out to the porch and gazed hopefully at her.

  ‘Back entrance. He’s letting you see Bill for five minutes.’

  Angela held on to Harriet’s hand as they went up the staff staircase and were led to the door of Castlebar’s room. As the door opened, Harriet had a glimpse of the patient propped up with pillows, ice bags on his head and brow, his eyes shut, his skin yellow, his face drawn. A low muttering was coming from his lips that hung open, swollen, cracked and dark with fever.

  The door was shut behind Angela and Sister Metrebian stood guard before it.

  Harriet said: ‘Lady Hooper told me he is a little better today.’

  ‘Not much better. His temperature will not come down. That is bad.’

  ‘Is he in pain?’

  Sister Metrebian put her thin little hand on to her abdomen: ‘He is . . .pouf!’ She moved her hand out to show how Castlebar’s middle was distended: ‘Here is discomfort.’

  ‘Poor Bill!’ Harriet said, thinking of his gentle compliance with Angela’s demands, his kindness and his sympathy: ‘Will he recover?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  Angela came out, too perturbed to weep, and Harriet led her down to the taxi. Put to bed in the Royal Suite, she lay so long silent that Harriet thought she was asleep and began to leave. Alert at once, she said: ‘Don’t go, Harriet, don’t go.’ She rang down for smoked salmon and a bottle of white wine. When it was brought up, she refused to eat.

  ‘No, Harriet, it is for you.’

  She lay as before until late in the afternoon when the telephone rang. The hospital porter had promised to keep in touch with her. After a few words, she replaced the receiver with a sigh.

  ‘How is he, Angela?’

  ‘No change.’ After another period of silence, she raised herself on her elbow and said in a firm, clear voice: ‘He will get better. I have faith. They say if you have faith, you can move mountains. I have profound faith.’

  Angela was not allowed in to see Castlebar again. The porter, who rang two or three times a day, told her that Mrs Castlebar was always at the hospital but excluded from the sick room. Three days after Angela’s profession of faith, it seemed that faith had prevailed. The porter told Angela that the patient’s temperature had fallen at last. It was under 100°.

  Angela, in a state of euphoria, telephoned Harriet, who was at breakfast, and told her to come at once to the hotel. She was to bring a taxi and together they would enter the hospital by the back door and, unknown to Shafik and unseen by Mona, make their way to Castlebar’s room.

  As soon as she saw Harriet, Angela began to talk at manic speed, and went on talking all the way to the hospital, planning Castlebar’s convalescence. They would go back to Cyprus and stay at Kyrenia in the Dome, or perhaps he would prefer to remain in Famagusta where the sands were perfect and white lilies grew on the dunes. Or they might go to Paphos where Venus rose from the sea.

  When they reached the corridor that led to Castlebar’s room, Angela came to a stop. Mona Castlebar was stationed outside the door. Angela, pulling Harriet round a corner, out of sight, said: ‘Get her away somehow. Tell her Shafik wants her in his office.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she wonder what I was doing here?’

  ‘You can tell her you were a patient here once. You’ve come in for a check-up. Go on, do!’

  ‘She wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘She would. Oh, Harriet, get rid of her. Flatter her, charm her, fool her for my sake.’

  ‘For your sake, then . . .’

  Harriet approached Mona with a smiling attempt at friendliness: ‘I hear Bill is improving. I’m so glad.’

  ‘I don’t know who told you that.’ There was cold aggression in Mona’s tone but before anything more could be said, Sister Metrebian came from the room.

  Harriet asked her: ‘How is Mr Castlebar?’

  Sister Metrebian answered gravely: ‘He is in the operating theatre. The bowel perforated. He was in much pain. I heard him cry out and went at once to Dr Shafik. Now they perform the laparotomy.’

  ‘So he has a chance?’

  ‘A chance, yes. There was no delay.’

  Mona, asserting her position as Castlebar’s wife, said: ‘I was allowed in for a minute but he did not recognize me.’

  Which was as well, Harriet thought. Aloud she said for the sake of saying something: ‘Do you think he’ll get better?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Mona’s manner was suitably serious but she could not suppress a hint of triumph, a twitch of satisfaction that Angela should lose out in this way.

  Harriet returned to Angela who was avid for news of her lover: ‘He’s not in his room.’

  ‘Why? Where is he? He’s not dead, is he?’

  ‘No. We can’t talk here. Mona is full of suspicion. I’ll tell you outside.’

  Standing under the gum trees that shivered and glistened in the early sunlight, Harriet said: ‘They’re having to operate. There was no delay — Sister Metrebian says he stands a chance . . .’ As Angela’s lips trembled, Harriet added: ‘A good chance.’

  ‘What shall I do? What can I do?’

  ‘Angela dear, you can’t do anything. Only wait.’

  ‘Stay with me, Harriet.’

  ‘Of course I will stay,’ Harriet said.

  Castlebar died just after three a.m. the following morning.

  The porter, when he telephoned Angela the previous evening, said: ‘Mis’ Castlebar not so well,’ and Angela, going at once to the hospital, was told that Mona had been admitted to the sick room. Angela herself was refused entry. Prepared for any contingency, Mona had obtained from the consul written confirmation that she was Castlebar’s legal wife. She must be permitted to visit him and in the event of his death, she alone had the right to dispose of his remains. Angela, having no rights at all, walked back to her hotel.

  Dobson, as usual the first to hear whatever news there was, received from the consul an entertaining account of ‘the whole damn fool imbroglio — two women squabbling over a dying man. And one of them no less a person than Lady Hooper. Now that he’s gone, he’s eluded both of them but Mrs C will be awarded the cadaver.’

  Harriet felt it unlikely that the porter, with the Arab dislike of conveying bad news, had
told Angela that Castlebar was dead. Harriet went at once to the Royal Suite and found Angela lying, fully dressed and awake, on the bed.

  ‘What have you come to tell me, Harriet?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve guessed right.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  Harriet nodded. Angela stared at her with an expression of distraught vacancy bereft, it seemed, of anything that made life possible. Knowing there could be no comfort in anything she might say, Harriet sat on the edge of the bed and held out her arms. Angela collapsed against her.

  Harriet remained with her till late in the evening. For most of the time Angela lay as though in a stupor but twice she started to talk, rapidly, almost vivaciously, going over the details of Castlebar’s illness and its possible cause.

  ‘The shellfish! If I had been with him, he would be alive now. But, who knows, it may not have been the shellfish. Yet I’m sure it was the shellfish . . .’

  When she lapsed into silence the second time, Harriet persuaded her to undress and take her sedative tablets. Leaving her sleeping, Harriet walked to Garden City by the river and was astonished to find Mona Castlebar with Dobson in the living-room. She had a drink in her hand and from her manner, seemed to see it as a gala occasion. Having no one else on whom to impose herself, she had come to the flat, ostensibly seeking advice about the funeral.

  Had Castlebar died anywhere but in the American Hospital, he would have been already buried. The hospital, with all its modern equipment, had a refrigerated mortuary cabinet and there the dead man could stay till Mona claimed him.

  This, she said, was very satisfactory. She would have time to arrange a funeral befitting a well-known poet and university lecturer.

  ‘The service will be in the cathedral, of course. Fully choral. I’m having invitations printed but these will only go out to a select few. If other people want to attend, they can sit at the back. Now, as to timing, I suggest we have the coffin carried in about mid-day then allow an interval of, say, fifteen minutes, after which I’ll walk slowly up the aisle. There should be someone for me to lean on,’ Mona glanced at Harriet, ‘Guy would do.’