He waited until she looked him fully in the eye. ‘I forgive you everything except the pain you leave behind.’
She swallowed. ‘Pain?’
‘The memory of my son,’ he quickly said, covering the treachery of that inner voice again. ‘But even as I say that I will be eternally grateful that you brought me something of him that he considered most precious. And when I touch that bullet hole, I will think of you and hope you are blissfully happy with the man whose life it saved.’
She held out her hand, clearly unsure of the protocol.
Later he would analyse his response but right now he reacted purely on instinct. It was a dangerous decision but Rifki closed his hand around hers and pulled her into the shadows where he knew they would not be seen. He kissed her cheek gently and fleetingly before twisting his head to her left side and, just for a heartbeat, lingering next to her soft skin, inhaling the soap’s scent of roses and everything that was Claire Nightingale. They were apart almost as soon as he had brought her close. ‘I wish you happiness,’ he murmured and stepped back fully into the darkness of the hallway.
________
Jamie Wren was resurfacing. His thoughts had felt like they were pushing through dark treacle. It was a strange sensation of limbo; he could see people but not properly work out their features; these seemed to shift and slide from their faces. He could hear them talking but their voices seemed to be coming from the bottom of the sea – distant, gulpy, words indecipherable. Smiles turned to grimaces, hands reaching out seemed to turn into rifles and bayonets.
‘Scrambled egg, James Wren,’ his mother used to accuse when he was a teenager and would forget a simple instruction moments after it was given.
Yes, that’s how it seemed, but he was emerging. He could feel things now. He could certainly experience pain again, which up until now had been numbed or distant. His head felt as though it was bleeding inside. Maybe it was . . .
How long had he been lost in this murky place of his mind? How long since he’d had a drink, more to the point? He was parched. He turned his head sideways and saw the beaker and jug. He thought he reached for it but his arm barely moved and the pain was like bright light in his mind even though it was dark wherever he was.
‘Ooh, wait up there,’ a smiling voice said in an accent he loved. An Aussie woman, much older than him and in a nurse’s uniform hovered into view with a lamp. Claire! Not Claire. Claire sounded English.
‘Welcome back!’ the woman said, delighted. ‘I’m Jane.’
He tried to talk, but croaked. She was already reaching for the water and he swallowed greedily as she held the beaker for him. He tried again. ‘Where am I?’
She smiled beatifically. ‘You’re in Dartford Hospital in England.’
‘England,’ he murmured, but his spirits lifted like a spring butterfly flapping off joyfully. ‘That’s good.’
‘Oh, I’m glad. Most of our lads headed the other way . . . back to Australia.’
‘I’m sorry, I feel so useless.’ He tried to push the unruly hair from his eyes but nothing happened. He looked down at his arm and realised although he could feel it, his sleeve appeared empty. He regarded Nurse Jane with a comical expression. ‘Where have you put it?’
It really was a joke – he’d get it moving in a moment – but she wasn’t smiling any more.
‘What’s your name, Trooper?’
‘James Wren.’
She sighed and he saw relief flash in her gaze. ‘Oh, well done. That’s so good to learn. Um, listen, James. You were badly wounded in the Middle East. I gather you were part of a major repulse attack in Jordan towards the end of the war.’
‘End of the war? What, you mean it’s over?’
He saw her eyes glaze with a sheen of water. ‘Yes, sweetheart. Peace has finally arrived. But it cost you.’ He nodded, sensing something dark shrouding him. ‘We had to amputate your arm, James. It was really badly smashed up and you’d already injured it previously. It was a mess. The matron from the hospital you were last at argued for your dispatch to this Australian Auxiliary Hospital in Dartford because – well, because you were a bit lost for a while – but we also needed to decide on the best treatment for your arm. The decision wasn’t reached lightly.’
He stared down at the empty sleeve. It really was empty this time, not like that day when he got out of his hospital cot in Cairo to marry Claire.
Claire! He frowned. ‘What’s the date?’
She looked perplexed by his question. ‘It’s March the twenty-second.’ Her patient went to rise. ‘Wait, James! You can’t go anywhere yet. Your leg.’
He toppled over, yelping with the pain shooting through his body.
________
Claire fled, her emotions on edge and thoughts scrambling with confusion. She was grateful to be distracted by the rounds of farewells from the women, who took turns to embrace her, and she began to feel she should never wonder if she had family. It felt as though she belonged with Açar’s kin, although his closest relative she dared not look at again. There was something intensively dangerous about the way Rifki’s presence unnerved her. The way he looked at her, behaved around her . . . even his mellow voice put each follicle of hair on alert. If she described this to a stranger she knew they would likely suggest she didn’t like this man, but Claire suspected the opposite: everything about him was unhelpfully attractive to her. They had only formally been within the same few feet of each other twice but to her dismay Claire believed she could close her eyes and describe everything from the way his hair curled behind his ears and the spare symmetry of features, with eyelashes so dark she could swear his sisters had got to him with the kohl, to the bony shape of the knuckles on his long fingers and even the modulated pitch of his voice. What made this frighteningly vivid recall so disturbing for her was that she didn’t believe she could describe Jamie’s characteristics with the same clarity. And so she needed to get away. Be alone in her thoughts to find Jamie’s face and voice, his hair, his smile. To remember his kiss and his promise but all she could hear was her acclamation and Rifki’s careful words in response.
I have to believe he will come.
And if he does not?
‘My eldest sister and her husband will accompany you back to the hospital,’ Kashifa intruded on her rising panic. ‘Neither speaks English so don’t be embarrassed.’ She smiled. ‘Promise me we shall see you before you leave Istanbul.’
Claire couldn’t make that promise but gave Rifki’s sister a final hug before she turned and smiled at the couple waiting for her. At the sound of a dull shriek coming from the house, their trio paused.
It was Amina who appeared at the doorway, her expression showing relief that they hadn’t yet disappeared. ‘Claire, I’m sorry to stop you but can you help, please? It’s Uncle Rifki.’
‘Rifki? What’s happened?’ She pushed back through the house and into the courtyard where she saw people clustered around and recognised the grey of Rifki’s robe in their midst. Claire had no idea what Rifki was saying but even in the lowering light of dusk she could see droplets of blood splattered where he stood. ‘What’s happened?’ she said crisply and Kashifa appeared beside her, her expression concerned.
‘Look at him!’
People parted and Claire saw him holding his hand, with linen wrapped around it. He looked up at her in irritation mixed with despair. ‘This is nothing,’ he tried.
‘Let me see.’
‘It’s just a cut.’
She didn’t stop to consider the many customs she was trampling on as she pushed him to sit down and unwrapped the fabric that he’d wrapped several times around his hand to hide the severity of the wound. Those standing closest sucked in a collective breath at the sight of the gash and Claire gave a sheepish, lopsided smile.
‘Just a cut, eh?’
Rifki lifted a shoulder slightly. ‘As you see.’
‘How did it happen?’
He blinked. ‘An edge on the iron railing.’ He nodded toward
s where they had been standing.
‘This wound has to be stitched.’ He started to pull away, making sounds of disdain, but she didn’t let his arm go. ‘And washed out properly with antiseptic.’
‘Claire, please.’
‘Rifki, this is deep and made by something rusty so the chances of tetanus infection are high.’
‘Tetanus?’ his sister repeated.
‘It usually begins here,’ she said, defying social acceptance and reaching toward his jaw, his surprisingly soft beard lightly grazing her careful fingertips. ‘You could suffer spasms. We call it lockjaw and those muscle contractions can quickly spread to your neck, your shoulders, your spine, until you will lose control completely.’
‘Claire,’ he muttered.
She knew only a few others understood her words. ‘Have I painted a vivid enough picture?’
‘What is to be done?’ Kashifa demanded.
Claire sighed. ‘The blood flow is not yielding to pressure. Rifki must accompany me back to the hospital.’
‘You will go with Claire,’ Kashifa instructed and her tone to her brother and the implacable expression she directed his way brooked no defiance.
The hospital wasn’t far away but it was up a steep hill and Claire apologised to the elderly couple as best she could before she used the eighteenth-century Camondo Stairs to climb the hill.
‘Tell them to take their time,’ she urged him to repeat. ‘I have to get that blood staunched.’
Claire barely waited for his translation before she began harrying her patient to climb the famous hexagonal-shaped steps.
‘Thank heavens for the Jewish banker who donated these stairs,’ she remarked.
‘Do you know why he built them?’
‘Is it important?’
Rifki laughed. ‘No, but it helps pass the time as we climb.’
‘Tell me then,’ she said, wanting to shove him along faster from behind, ‘but keep moving.’
‘The banker lived near the Galata Tower – you know this is the financial district of the Ottomans?’
‘I didn’t, but go on.’
‘Camondo’s children went to school nearby and it cut the time immeasurably if they could access the way down the hill via these steps, but he designed them in such a way that should any child fall, they would not topple a dangerously long way but simply roll down only a couple of shallow stairs. Hence the odd but pleasing shape.’
‘Lovely story. Where is your house, by the way?’
‘In the neighbourhood at the top of the stairs and not far from the Galata Tower.’
Claire knew them to be expensive and fashionable. ‘So even the rich and famous could use the stairs to nip down to do their banking?’
‘Or to the docks, yes.’ He was puffing.
‘Are you all right?’
He called back over his shoulder in Turkish. ‘I was just telling my family members to come slowly.’
‘I can send a hospital porter for them.’
‘No. They’ll be fine.’ He breathed out loudly as they reached the top of the steps.
‘I can see you don’t use the stairs that often,’ she quipped.
‘I will from now on. No more ponies and carriages!’
Claire moved him quickly through the narrow street that led to the Galata Tower and made for the hospital that looked like a monastery, peaceful in its quiet grey stone in this whisper-quiet part of Istanbul. Together they leaned into each other as they moved beneath the stone arch and up four shallow half crescents of marble stairs to reach the pretty mosaic path of grey and black pebbles. The double doors at the entrance were illuminated by flickering lamps that hung off scrolled iron cressets and these cast a ghostly light across the lower balconies that overlooked the small gardens filled with citrus and mulberry.
There were four floors, which covered an entire square. The hospital had become a central part of this community, attracting vendors and street sellers around its perimeter and in fact a lemon and aubergine seller was still packing up. Once inside the main doors, she sat Rifki in a chair.
‘Wait here, please. I shall find a male member of staff. Keep the pressure on the wound.’
Rifki gave her a sad half smile, said nothing and by the time she returned alone his family had arrived.
‘The only staff I can find working tonight are female and I realise that your culture would require a male to attend to you.’
She watched Rifki mumble to his eldest sister and husband.
‘Did you explain?’
‘I said we could have gone to a local healer.’
‘Yes, you could have but I’m relieved you listened to me. I want to be absolutely certain that someone I trust is in charge of cleaning it thoroughly. Give me one more minute,’ she promised and skipped off again.
Claire searched all the main wards but there was no surgeon available. It might as well be her, she decided; Rifki was not going to let another nurse that close, and besides, she had the fastest, deftest touch when it came to stitching. How best to handle this delicate situation, though, without giving offence to Rifki’s people?
Claire returned to the waiting area. ‘I’ve found the right person.’ She beamed and as Rifki stood and his elders followed suit, she held a hand up. ‘Forgive me. Can you ask your relatives to wait here, please?’
Rifki frowned.
‘It’s hospital rules. Only the patient. They can come in shortly and in fact you shouldn’t be too long. I shall send out a coffee for them. We have some here.’ He spoke in rapid Turkish. She smiled to reassure them while he explained. ‘Come with me please, Rifki.’
He followed obediently, keeping the pressure on his wound as she’d instructed. Claire led him to one of the day clinic rooms. They would have privacy here, although she wished the hospital wasn’t as quiet as it was this evening. A few more Turkish orderlies scurrying around, or some brightly chatting nurses would have made her feel more comfortable than she did at this moment to be found alone with a Turkish man – and of all Turks, this one who made her feel the stirring of interest for another man, which she hadn’t felt possible. She had no intention of exploring that awakening – not until she was sure that Jamie wasn’t coming back for her.
‘Have a seat,’ she gestured, dragging a tray trolley on its casters next to him.
‘Where’s the doctor?’
She took a breath and regarded him. ‘I lied, I’m afraid.’ She nodded in the direction of his relatives. ‘They don’t have to know but we do have to get that seen to.’
‘So you are going to take care of me?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t meet his gaze. ‘There are no men available. Now, I have to scrub my hands. Don’t move. Keep the pressure on.’
When she returned she felt more in control because she was back in her familiar domain, its smells and equipment, and busied herself assembling her tools and dressings.
‘Are you going to tell me how that really happened?’ she wondered aloud.
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want you to feel responsible.’
Claire saw that his chameleon-like eyes reflected the shiny metallic surfaces of where they sat. Flinty and troubled, they regarded her far too tenderly.
‘It was a rusted nail,’ he finally answered. ‘I banged my fist down in anger at myself when you left.’
She seated herself alongside him and placed his arm so it rested on the towel she had laid on the small rolling table between them. Claire gently pushed up the loose sleeve of his robe and as she did so her fingertips unwittingly traced against the soft hairs on his long, slender arm.
To cover that forbidden touch, she deflected his attention. ‘What is it you want?’
His shoulders drooped at her question and he let go of the pressure on his wound. Fresh blood oozed through the linen and Claire immediately began to unwrap his hand. ‘You,’ he said, sounding miserable.
‘Rifki,’ she murmured, reaching for the syrin
ge of Dakin’s fluid like a lifeline. When she worked, she was strong, calm, in control. It was like the war again, having to flush a wound. She noticed he didn’t wince despite the hefty sting of the antiseptic and spoke to distract him from it. ‘This is a highly emotional time for you. You have a new boy in the family and I’ve arrived to stir up all your memories and perhaps regrets. It is possible even —’
‘Please . . . do not —’ He paused. ‘It cannot be neatly rationalised into a comfortable explanation. It is irrational and thus chaotic. My feelings towards you bear no relation to my son, or my family. They belong to me alone. My chaos. In maths terminology we call this ergodic theory.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘It is connected with a point – let’s call it X – possessing a sensitivity to initial or present conditions with potential for a different trajectory depending on those conditions.’
She fixed him with a smile. ‘You are X, I take it.’
‘Yes, and you present the condition I am sensitive to and my future is thus uncertain.’
Claire took a silent breath. ‘Do you reduce everything to mathematics?’
‘If I can, yes; I appreciate its reliable simplicity, for to understand is to have control.’
‘Yes, but people can’t be controlled like numbers, Rifki. One day we behave this way, tomorrow another. The heart can act in complete opposition to the mind, too . . .’
‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘And that’s where chaos occurs. But as I say, the chaos is mine . . . and does not belong to anyone else.’
She blinked at his abstract view and cursed herself inwardly for finding his curious and naive approach to life helplessly attractive. She could almost feel the bullet tip burning in her pocket, though, reminding her who her heart was waiting for, impressing that Rifki’s attention was flattering but not to be acted upon. ‘Is this hurting?’ she asked, knowing the answer but wanting to change the topic. Her face was close enough to smell the clove on his breath from the spiced celebration pastries they’d all eaten, and suddenly she could taste the spice, as though they’d kissed, and with that notion arrived a discomfiting warmth of shame.
Nightingale Page 28
