‘The same, but I’ve been writing to him a couple of times a week. To be honest it was either that or start keeping a diary. John’s always been a brilliant listener. I thought reading my letters might give him something to do. Apart from the news about Charles and the paternity of Maud’s baby I’ve tried to keep them fairly light. From what we’ve heard in the Lansing and seen of the Turks, the British POWs taken at Kut have had a foul time.’
‘I’ve heard that too,’ Michael murmured.
‘From the Arabs?’ When Michael didn’t confirm her suspicions she said, ‘Don’t look so surprised. I know exactly how you spend your days. I’ve read the articles you’ve written in the paper – granted often weeks after you’ve penned them – but it’s obvious, even without what you’ve said tonight, that you spend a great deal of time with the locals. I’ve also heard rumours that you’re a political officer.’
‘Like Harry I sympathise with the natives. We may be fighting their hated overlords, the Ottomans, but nothing can alter the fact that we’re doing it by invading their country. Like the average Tommy I have absolutely no bloody idea why we’re here. Apart from trying to steal the oil the Arabs have chosen not to exploit.’
‘Have you talked to any Arabs who’ve seen the Kut POWs?’ she asked.
‘A few. Apparently the Turks and their Arab auxiliaries marched the captives into the desert at the height of summer without food, water, or sufficient protective clothing. Tribesmen stole everything they had of any value including their boots. Hundreds if not thousands have died en route to Turkey.’
‘Do you think John is safe now?’
‘You can’t get much information from a postcard. He’s alive at the moment but I doubt the Turks will keep the POWs in one place for long. They’ll move them around to prevent them from building a network of contacts to help them escape. I only hope John doesn’t end up in the hands of a group of sadists. Every army has a few and the ones that are wounded and invalided into prison guard duty can be among the worst, or so I’ve been told.’
‘Do you know why Mitkhal sent for you?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘But you’ll see him?’
‘Hopefully.’
‘Will you ask him if I can see Harry?’ she pleaded.
‘I’ll ask, Georgie, but you saw Harry as well as me. He obviously wants to live as an Arab with his Bedouin wife and children. And, from the state of him I wouldn’t blame him for turning his back on the army or England.’
‘And us?’
‘We haven’t been part of his life for a very long time, Georgie.’
‘I know he’s made his choice but I’d still like to see him one more time and meet his wife and children. We were so close …’
‘When he wasn’t teasing you and driving you to distraction,’ Michael smiled.
The maid brought in fruit and cheese and Angela reappeared. ‘I’m sorry, Michael, I don’t know what’s the matter with me these days. I just can’t seem to stop crying.’
‘Given what’s happening in the world, it’s a wonder we haven’t all drowned in tears,’ Georgiana commented. ‘How are you coping upstream, Michael?’
‘You know what men are like, especially soldiers.’
‘You’re pretending it’s a Boy Scout camping trip.’
‘The supply of alcohol helps.’
‘Georgie told me that you’ve written to Charles’s father about Robin. I take it you haven’t had a reply from him?’ Angela asked.
‘It’s too soon for letters to have gone both ways, but even if General Reid wanted the boy to live with him, there’s no way we could get Robin to England at the moment. No military ship heading for Blighty would take a baby, and there are precious few civilian vessels prepared to risk sailing with German U-boats patrolling the Med.’
‘Have you discussed Robin’s inheritance with Peter?’
‘He knows Charles recognised the boy as his son and left him a legacy.’
‘Did Peter say anything about my looking after him?’
‘Only that he hoped you won’t get too fond of the boy because General Reid might claim him.’
‘Do you think Charles’s father will want him?’ Angela’s hand shook as she poured the coffee.
‘Difficult to say. What do you think, Georgie?’ Michael turned to his sister.
‘As I’ve already said to Angela, it’s impossible to predict how Uncle Reid will react. Especially after losing Charles. But I can’t see a seventy-year-old man wanting a small child running around his house. And by the time this war is over, Robin will be at the handful stage.’
‘The situation is a mess. It must be dreadful for John to know that one of his closest friends fathered his wife’s child but a part of me can’t help feeling glad that Charles has left a son.’ Michael rose from the table.
‘Thinking of having a family, Michael?’ Georgie asked, surprised by his attitude.
‘Not until after the war.’
‘Everyone says that about everything these days,’ Angela left her chair.
‘Please don’t get up, Angela. I’m beat and I have no doubt you want to read your letters.’ He indicated the letters he’d placed on Angela’s desk.
‘You’ll call again before you go back upstream?’
‘I’ll try, Georgie, but I make no promises. If you want to send replies to your letters …’
‘We will,’ Angela assured him.
‘I’ll send Daoud to pick them up tomorrow evening if I can’t come myself.’ He left the table and Angela and Georgie followed him to the door. He kissed Angela’s cheek then Georgie’s.
‘You’ll give Peter my love?’ Angela begged.
‘I will. Goodnight to both of you.’
It was only when he went outside that Michael realised Angela had sat through the entire evening with her shawl pulled around her shoulders although the stove was lit and the bungalow warm. He hoped she wasn’t sickening for something.
Turkish Prisoner of War Camp
December 1916
Mrs Gulbenkian was woken by the sound of someone sobbing as though their heart was breaking. She left her bed and checked Hasmik in her low cot. The child was sleeping soundly. She opened the door and tiptoed into the small adjoining room where Rebeka lay face down on her bed.
She sat beside her and stroked her hair. ‘Whatever’s the matter, Rebeka?’
Rebeka reached into her pocket for the scrap of bandage she’d put there. She turned and dried her eyes but kept them averted from Mrs Gulbenkian.’
‘Are you crying for your parents and sisters?’
‘I cry inside me every day for them.’
‘As I do for Mr Gulbenkian.’ Mrs Gulbenkian made the sign of the cross and lowered her eyes for a few minutes. ‘If you’re concerned for the future,’ she said, ‘don’t be. My cousin will send money enough for passage for all of us to go to America. And wherever I go I will take you and Hasmik. I promise you. After what we have suffered together we are closer than a family.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Gulbenkian …’ Rebeka shook her head and more tears fell from her eyes.
‘You’re crying because of Major Mason, aren’t you?’
Rebeka finally looked at her.
‘You’ve fallen in love with him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rebeka whispered.
‘You don’t know? Whenever he comes into the room you are in, you can’t stop looking at him. And now you tell me don’t know whether you love him or not. Well, I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s hopeless for me to love any man. I was never pretty and no man would want or love me, not after what the Turkish gendarmes did to me.’
Mrs Gulbenkian wrapped her arms around her. ‘You’re no different from any Armenian girl the Turks laid their hands on. They dishonoured thousands of us.’
‘Knowing that I have company doesn’t make it any easier to bear.’
‘No, it doesn’t, but you must learn to accept that when the Turks dishonoured us
they made less in the eyes of the world, and to any man who is aware that we have been dishonoured. Major Mason knows what the Turks did to you and although he is kind no man wants a wife without honour. And have you spared a thought for Major Mason? A man like him would have a wife and children.’
‘If he has, he’s never spoken about them.’
‘Probably he finds it too painful because he misses them so much.’ She stroked Rebeka’s hair. ‘The best thing you can do is forget about Major Mason, Rebeka, concentrate on your work here as a nurse. If we don’t make trouble and work hard perhaps the Turks will allow us to stay here until the end of the war. Then, when the ships start sailing again, we can go to America. Once we are there we won’t tell anyone what happened to us and we can start our lives afresh.’
‘By lying?’
‘By not telling anyone what the Turks did to us.’
‘I must look for Mariam before we leave Turkey. I am all she has left. If it wasn’t for her I would want to be with Veronika and Anusha and our parents …’
‘Of course.’
Rebeka could tell from Mrs Gulbenkian’s tone of voice that she didn’t really expect her to find Mariam.
‘But you have to remember, Rebeka, that when we start our new life in America, you are not to tell anyone, not a soul, what the Turks did to us and the others.’
‘They will have heard about it from others.’
‘What others, Rebeka? Everyone except us is dead.’
‘There were other groups from other towns,’ Rebeka pointed out.
‘Which is nothing to do with us.’
‘A man will know whether or not his bride has been dishonoured.’
‘Once married, a decent man won’t ask his bride any awkward questions.’
‘I was happy living without a husband. I don’t want a husband …’
‘Just Major Mason?’
Rebeka nodded wretchedly.
‘A man like Major Mason can have any girl he wants. He is an Englishman, a gentleman. We are Armenians, simple farmers. We have not been taught to understand the English or their ways. They are complicated people with their kings and queens, lords and ladies. You only have to see them here. This is a prison, every man who is a prisoner should be equal to every other, yet the colonels do not speak to the captains or the captains to the lieutenants.’
‘That is the same in every army, even the Turkish.’
‘Rebeka, Major Mason is a nice, kind man. You have lost your family, you trust him, and that is why you have fallen in love with him. You are mistaking his kindness towards you for love.’
‘Kindness – that’s all you think it is?’
‘After what’s happened to you, Rebeka, I don’t think you can expect any more from any man. But my cousin will welcome us and we will go to America together.’
‘But first I must look for Mariam.’
‘We will go after you have found Mariam.’ Mrs Gulbenkian didn’t sound convincing but she embraced her and held her close. Rebeka didn’t enjoy the sensation. Mrs Gulbenkian smelled of onions, goose grease, and oatmeal, the ingredients they mixed to make poultices for patients’ ulcers that were proving difficult to heal.
All she wanted was to be left alone to try and imagine what her future would be like in a country where the only familiar faces she would see from her past life were Mrs Gulbenkian and Hasmik – and no one else.
Basra
December 1916
After spending the best part of three days travelling downstream cooped on an overcrowded boat, Michael decided to walk back to Abdul’s from the Smythes’ bungalow. The air was cold but the night crisp and clear and he stepped up his pace to keep warm.
When he left the narrow street that connected the British compound to the wharf, a figure emerged from the shadows and blocked his path.
‘The boat you ordered is up ahead on the left, sir.’ The man’s English was heavily accented but there was no trace of any dialect that Michael recognised. He wasn’t tall but he was broad and well-built and had a vicious-looking dagger tucked into his brown cloth belt. His face and head were swathed in a kafieh he’d pulled over his nose and mouth to conceal his features. His gumbaz and abba were clean, well made, and a nondescript beige that was worn by half the working men in Basra.
Michael had a gun in his pocket but he knew it would take him longer to retrieve it than it would for his companion to pull a dagger and slice into him.
‘Thank you.’ Michael headed towards the vessel.
The man grabbed the mooring rope, pulled the boat against the quayside, and held it steady. Michael glanced at him before boarding.
The man followed. ‘The river air is cold tonight. You will be warmer beneath the awning.’
Michael picked his way carefully over the planking of the low-slung native barge towards the curtain that separated a makeshift cabin from the rest of the boat. An unseen hand moved the cloth aside.
‘Thank you for joining me, Michael.’ The language was Arabic, the voice, soft, low.
‘Mitkhal, good to see you.’ Like Mitkhal, Michael whispered. He ducked his head and entered the ‘cabin’. An oil lamp hung from the rafters. It burned low, sending eerie shadows dancing over the camel hair cloth walls, throwing Mitkhal’s features into sharp relief.
‘I came downstream as quickly as I could after receiving your message, Mitkhal.’
‘Thank you.’ Mitkhal called out to the boatman.
There was a splash as the man untied the painter and dropped the rope into the water, swiftly followed by the thud of wood knocking on wood when he pushed the boat away from the wharf with an oar. The boat rocked and they moved out into mid-stream.
‘Don’t,’ Mitkhal warned when Michael reached for the curtain.
‘We’re going to Shalan’s house?’
‘We’re going where we won’t be seen or overheard.’
Michael took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered Mitkhal one.
Mitkhal shook his head. ‘I saw John.’
‘Where? When?’
‘Keep your voice down.
‘Sorry. I’ve just left Angela Smythe and my sister. We’re all worried about him.’
‘With good reason as he’s in Turkish hands. He was coping when I last saw him. Many British troops died on the march from Kut into Turkey. There would have been far more fatalities if it wasn’t for John Mason. I left him on the border between Turkey and Mesopotamia over a month ago.’
Voices drifted in from outside and Mitkhal held his finger to his lips. Knowing how every sound magnified on water Michael remained quiet. Mitkhal called to the boatman. Moments later the harsh grating of metal on metal filled the air. The boat stopped then moved forward and thudded against a bank.
‘We’re here.’ Mitkhal moved back the curtain and stepped out on to a small dock. Michael followed and came face to face with the tall, hawk-nosed, commanding figure of Ibn Shalan.
British Relief Force Camp
December 1916
David cradled his glass of whisky, sat forward on his camp chair and watched the flames dance in the fire his bearer had lit in front of his tent. Deep in thought, he was barely aware of the camp noises beyond the fire. The sounds of men conversing in loud, alcohol-fuelled conversation. Camels, mules, and horses snorting in protest as the syces tethered them for the night. The cries of the sepoys manning the canteen offering last orders of food.
Peter and Boris walked up carrying their own chairs.
‘Any whisky going spare?’ Boris asked.
‘Help yourself. I sent my bearer to bed. I’ve just finished a twenty-hour shift and he was with me every step of the way, fetching, carrying and keeping me awake when all I wanted to do was sleep. Now, when I can sleep, I’m past it.’ David handed Boris the bottle.
‘There’ve been more sniper victims?’ Boris took a glass from his pocket, filled it, and handed the bottle on to Peter.
‘Four sepoys, poor beggars, and five Arab auxiliaries, which made
for a busy day on top of the dysentery and fever cases, and two of the Eton wet bob subalterns decided to crack open one another’s skulls. I hope Maude’s takes stock of our strength before we move on. He needs to cut the useless dead weight loose, especially the youngest idiots, and send them back downstream.’
‘We came here to be cheered up,’ Boris complained, ‘not listen to you moaning. Whatever happened to diverting David?’
‘Diverting David has been transformed into depressing David. Do you two realise we’re now well into the third year of this damned war?’
‘I don’t need reminding.’ Peter finished his drink and refilled his glass.
‘The best years of our lives are slipping by.’ David looked up from the fire. ‘But not for you, Smythe. You’ve a pretty wife waiting for you in Basra.’
‘What’s this, Knight? The bachelor life palling on you all of sudden?’ Boris teased.
‘Some bachelor life here. Not an available woman in sight.’
‘Just not one you fancy. What’s brought on this fit of maudlin introspection?’ Peter queried.
‘Just wondering what life’s all about.’
‘Drink some more of this,’ Peter topped up David’s glass, ‘and you won’t need to wonder.’
David tried to focus on Peter. ‘Is that what it’s all about? A search for oblivion?’
Peter opened his watch, not to tell the time but to look at the photograph of Angela he tucked under the glass plate in the lid. ‘I hate to say it, but until we march into Baghdad and get victory leave long enough to go home, it probably is.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Ibn Shalan’s house, Basra
December 1916
The message Michael had received upstream implied that Mitkhal wanted to meet him urgently, but whatever the reason, it wasn’t urgent enough for Ibn Shalan to dispense with the lengthy ceremony that marked every visit to a Bedouin household. Michael was shown into a small, exquisitely decorated room and offered coffee, sugar, and pastries while male servants laid out trays of sweetmeats, dates, and almond cakes.
The room was warm, heated by an iron stove and comfortably furnished with low divans and carved tables. Michael sat on a divan, his host sat opposite him and after receiving and making polite enquiries about their respective health, they were joined by Mitkhal.
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