Master Georgie

by Beryl Bainbridge

  I was fairly shouting now. He looked affronted, which was gratifying. ‘I suppose you have brought with you samples of building materials to show prospective buyers,’ I continued. ‘Brick … stone, etc. There are, as you know, very few roads in the region.’

  ‘I have not,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Mark my words,’ I said. ‘There’ll be a great call for bricks … none at all for violins … unless, perhaps, you intend Sebastopol to fall to the sounds of music.’

  I had thought I’d put him in his place and he’d stalk off and leave me in peace. Not so; he stuck to my side like a burr. It’s uncomfortable, being paced by a man one’s insulted. Just as I was almost reduced to commenting on the waves and the clouds, their particular bounce and shade of colour, etc., he said, ‘Dr Potter, what exactly is the situation of the young man Miss Hardy is to marry?’

  ‘Situation …?’

  ‘Position. What is his business?’

  ‘War,’ I said. ‘He’s a captain in the 11th Hussars.’

  Then he did leave me, for who could compete with a peacock of the dazzling Light Brigade, however imaginary?

  We sailed into Valletta harbour thirteen days on. Nothing would induce Beatrice to stay on board during the twenty-four hours required for the refuelling and restocking of the steamer. She was adamant that she must sleep on dry land, and failed to see the humour in my remark that, should she do so, she would find it somewhat strewn with boulders.

  ‘There isn’t a speck of soil on the whole island,’ I informed her.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said, pointing at the glowing fields above the harbour.

  ‘Not natural soil,’ I said. ‘It was carted in from Sicily and elsewhere. The Knights of Malta allowed ships into the harbour only if they could pay their dues in grit and dirt.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ she said again. ‘There is never any shortage of dirt, wherever one goes,’ and she insisted I find her and Annie an hotel.

  That afternoon our party wandered about the town, the women captivated by the jumble of peoples thronging the narrow thoroughfares. I found the place greatly altered since my visit two decades before. What, to a young man’s eyes, had appeared an ancient stronghold, full of quaint architecture and exotically attired Arabs, Nubians and Jesuit priests, now presented itself as decidedly modern and raffish, the English influence being much in evidence. Time and again the women were forced to gather up their skirts to avoid the careless splatterings of the numerous red-coats who staggered out of the wine-shops and relieved themselves in the streets. I found this alteration disconcerting, and felt the burden of my years.

  ‘When I first came here,’ I told Beatrice, ‘my hair was carroty—’

  ‘I know it,’ she replied. ‘There were vestiges when we first met. The grey is a great improvement.’

  We hired donkeys before dinner, plodding up the winding paths beside gardens splendid under foliage of date and palm, until we reached fields of barley winking gold in the sunlight. The children, lifted down, tottered round in the dust, swaying to the constant and pretty ringing of church bells floating up from the town. Their mother, safe from prying eyes, rained kisses on their baby cheeks and sang them nursery rhymes.

  I spent the night in the hotel with Beatrice and Annie. It was a needless expense, but I don’t sleep well without the warmth of Beatrice at my back.

  We sailed the following morning, the talk at breakfast being that war was unavoidable. In two days’ time no fewer than three French transports would enter the harbour en route for Gallipoli, their arrival to be greeted by a turn-out of the Guards and Rifle Brigade – this information from Naughton, who the night before had been up to the batteries for his supper. One of the engineers, whose word could be trusted, had confirmation that in our absence from England a siege train of eighty heavy guns had been assembled at Woolwich. Though to be expected, I found the news depressing; it is my belief that grim-grinning death is the only victor in war.

  I passed the third night of our voyage to Constantinople on deck, having bullied a reluctant Beatrice to keep me company. She grudgingly admitted, when I tickled her from sleep at dawn, that a mattress and covers beneath the stars were in many ways preferable to the cramped confines of our cabin.

  It was not a sudden longing to return to nature that caused me to shift us up-top, rather a desire to gaze once again upon the site of the hermit of Malea, a bearded solitary who, fifty years before, had built a shelter upon a promontory on the Cape, from which vantage point, cross-legged, he proceeded to contemplate the heave of the ocean. Twenty years ago it had been the practice of ships and yachts, after first blowing their whistles, to lower boats stocked with biscuits, salt and oil, and deposit such supplies, weather permitting, on the rocky outcrop below his dwelling.

  ‘Legend has it,’ I further informed Beatrice, ‘that he came from Athens, where he was once a wealthy ship owner. Rather like yourself, his love of the sea’ – here she flashed me one of her looks, of the sort guaranteed to turn a lesser man to jelly – ‘was so great that he always commanded a ship of his fleet. On three occasions, the vessel he steered spun off course … due to vagaries of the wind … and foundered on the rocks off Cape Malea.’

  ‘What rocks?’ she said. ‘I don’t see any rocks.’

  ‘They’re out there somewhere,’ I assured her. ‘In despair, and to do penance for his drowned men, he vowed to retreat from the world.’

  ‘Why the whistles?’ she asked. ‘If he does nothing but stare at the horizon, surely he can see the ships.’

  ‘The word hermit,’ I reproved, ‘from the Latin eremita, defines a secluded place, a desert. He needs time to hide himself. A hermit cannot be forever hob-nobbing.’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly in retreat now,’ observed my impatient wife, shivering at the rail and squinting out across the misty waters. Shortly after, she complained the salt spray stung her lips, and made to go below.

  ‘Do stay,’ I implored her. ‘It gives me pleasure to have you stand at my side.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she retorted crossly. ‘I’m thinking of becoming a hermit,’ and with that parting shot, she left me.

  I never caught so much as a glimpse of land, though I stayed at my post for an hour or more, watching the racing sea and dwelling nostalgically on my long-gone bachelor days.

  There are many things in this life capable of throwing people off course – the death of someone close, the loss of income or health, the realisation that cherished hopes cannot always be fulfilled. With regard to myself, nothing has affected me quite so brutally as that manifesto of the new sciences, Principles of Geology by Mr Lyell. I was twenty-two years old when I first read it. Result – I have not been the same man since. Echoing the sentiments of Mr Ruskin, I have often lamented to Beatrice, ‘Those dreadful Hammers! I hear the clink of them through every cadence of the Bible verses.’

  It was not so much Lyell’s shattering of the fairy tale of Creation that plunged me into mental turmoil, rather his assertion that the interchange of land and sea is perpetual. Thus, our northern hemisphere, once a vast ocean sprinkled with islands, must, he argued, return to its original state, albeit in the remote future. It is not a comforting notion. Man himself is so buffeted by shifts of thought and mood, not knowing from one day to the next what he truly feels, that a shifting earth is well-nigh the last straw.

  I was never more conscious of my tenuous hold on the ground beneath my feet than during our first weeks in Constantinople, for nothing would satisfy the women other than to engage in a constant round of expeditions, luncheon parties and late night suppers. I exclude Myrtle, of course, who was diligent in taking the children to the sea-shore morning and afternoon, though this may not have been as good for them as she imagined. When we sailed into port it was Beatrice who noted the murkiness of the atmosphere. I was told that the Sultan had issued orders for all steamers to consume their own smoke – if true, its effect was negligible. ‘One is reminded of Liverpool,’ is how Beatrice put it, ‘seen
from the opposite side of the Mersey.’

  It was astonishing how quickly the women adapted to their unusual surroundings. Conditions which would have had them in a faint at home produced no more than a reference to quaintness. Once it was established that the shrill humming which heralded each sunrise was not, as feared, the persistent whine of a giant mosquito but merely the muezzin’s call to prayer, Beatrice was all for opening the windows, the better to take in the sound. ‘How melodious,’ she murmured, though indeed the reverse was the case. Even the hotel, which was no more than a large house, considerably deficient in comforts, drew no complaints.

  It helped, I suppose, that we were all in the same boat, so to speak, for the town was swarming with English folk and we were never alone in our feverish activities. Casual acquaintances, of the sort who, in the sensible confines of our own country, would scarcely have rated a nod, leapt overnight into the category of bosom friend.

  ‘He’s surely a rogue,’ I complained to George, when he brought to our table in the Messieri Hotel a young man transparently disreputable. ‘You would have shunned him at home.’

  ‘We are not at home,’ George countered. ‘And I find him amusing.’

  ‘She has a reputation,’ I warned Beatrice, who, taking a lead from George, soon became on intimate terms with a Mrs Yardley, travelled out from England in the company of a colonel of the Guards. ‘She is plainly connected to that gentleman without the benefit of marriage vows.’ To which Beatrice tartly replied we were hardly in a position to throw the first stone. I confess she had me there.

  The military news was confusing. On our arrival we had been told of a glorious Turkish victory and assured that the danger of conflict was past, only to learn the following day that the Duke of Cambridge and Lord Raglan were at this moment on their way to Malta to make a declaration of war. There were many among us, profiteers all, Mr Naughton being a choice example, who hoped the latter story was the truth. Meanwhile, we continued on our merry round.

  Of all our numerous outings, the spectacle of the dancing dervishes remains most vividly in the mind, their performance being ridiculous in the extreme. It took place at Pera, in a small mosque adjacent to a harem. We were given seats in the gallery, from which we looked down on a circle of men garbed in long coats and wearing the sort of conical hats believed to be common to witches. In the centre sat a high priest, eyes closed as though he slept – and who could blame him? In the gallery opposite, a stout individual wearing a long beard and a silk dress decidedly feminine in design – Beatrice whispered she thought it divine – shook a tambourine and emitted a fierce howl whenever the fancy took him. For an hour or more we were subjected to a monotonous gabbling of prayers. Just as I was near swooning from boredom, the dervishes rose to their feet – they were immensely tall – cast off their outer garments and shoes and walked about, bowing ceremoniously to the priest and to each other. Then, at no apparent signal, they began spinning round and round. A more absurd sight could not be imagined, for they wore white petticoats and held their arms raised above their hats, so that they resembled huge revolving extinguishers. Efforts to suppress the hilarity raging through the gallery were far from successful.

  Afterwards, Annie, Beatrice and Mrs Yardley gained admittance to the harem, where they were received by a Madame Kiasim whose raven locks were dyed buttercup yellow and who was reported to have read a French novel throughout. No other women were visible. A slave shortly brought in glasses of water and a plate of sweetmeats, Madame Kiasim later demanding payment for this refreshment without once looking up from her book.

  In all this relentless gadding, this reckless bonhomie, I detected something of the hectic gaiety which must have prevailed during the last days of Rome. Like dervishes, we twirled from one diversion to another. At yet another picnic in the hills outside the town, the women’s chatter rising like the twitterings of starlings, a premonition of impending disaster took such a strong hold of me that I was forced to leave the group and walk to a pinnacle some distance off. As I gazed below, to where the domes and slender minarets glittered amidst the cypress trees, a quotation came unbidden to my thoughts – We have run this morning twenty-four miles, and could run forty-eight more. But who can run the race with death? In the distance, beneath an azure sky, the narrow arms of the Bosphorus and Golden Horn, that perfect blending of land and water, pointed at the Black Sea.

  That evening, when we returned to the hotel, we were met with two items of dreadful news; the first – depending on whether one considers things personal rather than universal to be of paramount importance – concerned Myrtle. In our absence the children had pined for a sight of their collie pup, housed down by the port. Sent for and let loose on the mosaic tiles of the forecourt, and no doubt terrified by reverberating footsteps, it had turned tail and lolloped back through the open doors, where it was immediately pounced upon by dogs, of which there are innumerable fierce packs roaming the streets, and torn to bloody shreds. Fortunately, the children, one toddling, the other in its nursemaid’s arms, were too far behind to see the shocking assault.

  Myrtle, in swift pursuit and coming in full view of the butchery, fainted clear away. Those who knew of her strength and singularity of character would have found her collapse hard to credit were it not for the testimony of the keeper of the hotel who had followed her abrupt departure from the premises. Restored, she had been helped from the scene of carnage by Mr Naughton and an unknown gentleman in military uniform.

  The second piece of news, days out of date, was that England had declared war on Russia.

  For a full week following this momentous announcement, we witnessed the most nauseating display of patriotic fervour. Cannons were fired by those ships of the fleet already returned to harbour after the supposed destruction of Sebastopol. The Messieri Hotel became a focal point for gatherings of English residents, all gesticulating like foreigners. It had seldom been safe to venture into the streets after dark, unless one cared to be jostled by drunken troopers, and now it became positively dangerous. Many a night we were woken by the gurgling screams of some poor wretch having his throat cut. Forced to stay indoors, we were subjected most evenings to the carollings of Mrs Yardley, who, accompanied at the piano by a haberdasher from Yorkshire, sang such sentimental ballads as ‘The Soldier’s Tear’ and ‘Yes, Let Me Like a Soldier Fall’. Mercifully, she appeared not to know that one time family favourite, ‘Mother Dear, I am Fading Fast’.

  George too was affected by the atmosphere, though he was touched by something more resonant than the trillings of the Messieri songbird. Before leaving for Constantinople he had sought an interview with the Army Medical Board in Manchester, and offered his services. In spite of possessing the right qualifications and having spent in excess of five years on the surgical wards of the Liverpool Infirmary, he was deemed unsuitable on account of his marital status. No objection was raised to his travelling out as a civilian, nor to his procuring a post for himself at the General Hospitals of Scutari or Gallipoli, but attachment to a regiment was out of the question. Since our arrival in the East he had made no attempt to make enquiries of either such place; when not on the sea-shore with Myrtle, he had busied himself with photography or else disappeared into the Greek quarter of the town with new-found friends. To be fair, he had practised his trade when called upon, and without charge – treating an elderly Greek lady for dropsy, dressing a burn on Mrs Yardley’s arm, lancing a child’s boil, etc.

  Now, he surprised me, for he lost no time in making preparations to visit Scutari. His cause was helped by his recent medical attentions to Mrs Yardley, her gentleman friend, the colonel in the Guards, going out of his way to assist him. It took longer than expected to arrange matters and George fretted under the delay. Again he surprised me, for he gave up his patronage of the Duke of Wellington public house and scarcely wetted his lips at dinner. I found this change of heart touching. He wrote long letters, many to his mother, and even took the trouble to pen a few lines to Mrs O’Gorman.


  One evening, when we were sitting on the veranda of the hotel watching the sun go down and waiting for the ladies to join us, he turned to me and said he hoped I would always be his friend. I replied indeed I heartily wished it so – and he mine.

  ‘You have always looked after me, Potter,’ he said. ‘And I have not always taken your advice.’

  ‘My dear boy—’ I began.

  ‘I would like you to know that in the event of something happening … something untoward … to me, that is, I have appointed you my executor. I trust you’re agreeable.’

  ‘Come, come,’ I said. ‘What has brought this about?’ I felt uncomfortable.

  As a man without resources – in terms of money – I have always relied heavily on George’s generosity. It had been my dream that some bright day I might be able to repay him – through my writings; alas, it has remained a dream.

  ‘Should I obtain a post at Scutari,’ he said, ‘it would give me great peace of mind if you would stay here and arrange passage home for Annie and the children.’

  I agreed, of course. How could I refuse? He then began a rambling discourse to do with his past life, regrets, wasted opportunities, lack of application, etc., and how he felt, in some mysterious way, that the war would at last provide him with the prop he needed.

  ‘Prop?’ I said.

  ‘Crutch, even,’ he said. ‘A man like me needs something to hold him upright. Beyond Myrtle, that is. There are things I have done that were not right.’

  ‘In a hundred years,’ I assured him, ‘we shall all have forgotten the things that trouble us now.’

  ‘I shall need a thousand years,’ he said, and I swear he had tears in his eyes. His words made me uneasy; it is not generally a good sign when people like George lean towards introspection.

  Just then Naughton came up and was no doubt taken aback at the warmth of my welcome. After much beating about the bush he asked George if the gentleman to whom his sister was betrothed had yet been called to active duty. George looked puzzled.