‘We can hardly go into dinner in our tennis whites,’ Harold said. ‘Should we go home and change first?’
‘We don’t stand on ceremony here,’ said Jumbo.
‘You are quite acceptable as you are,’ Minnie agreed. ‘Unless you would feel happier changing for dinner?’
‘I’m perfectly happy as I am,’ said Tom, taking a large gulp of his whisky. ‘It’s a relief to find such refreshingly unstuffy attitudes. The Army would have you changing five times a day.’
‘Bit of an exaggeration, Lomax,’ laughed Harold.
‘Four times then.’ Tom grinned and drained off his whisky.
‘Well, Esmie and I hold to higher standards,’ said Lydia, standing up. ‘We shall certainly be changing for dinner.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Esmie murmured. As she made to follow her friend, she caught Tom’s amused expression.
‘Oh, by the way, Minnie dearest,’ said Jumbo. ‘As I was coming over from the kennels, I saw Ivy gathering up clothes from the bushes. Any idea why?’
Lydia and Esmie exchanged glances and burst into laughter.
‘We’ll explain later,’ said Lydia, pulling Esmie with her.
As they left, Esmie heard Minnie sigh happily and say, ‘Isn’t it fun having the girls back together again?’
The men chorused in agreement, and Jumbo ordered Baxter to refill their glasses.
All through dinner Esmie and Harold swapped stories about their work and experiences during the War and Esmie’s current work at the psychiatric hospital at Vaullay. She found his tales of the North-West Frontier fascinating, though the current situation was troubling the doctor. No sooner had he left on leave than the Afghans had started raiding over the border. All the time she was aware of raucous conversation at the other end of the table between Lydia and Tom but Harold monopolised her, eager to hear all about the Scottish Women’s Hospitals.
‘Tell me about your time in Serbia,’ Harold said. ‘You must have had such courage to endure that terrible retreat with the Serbian army over the mountains to Albania.’
He was surprisingly easy to talk to. Even though she had only ever spoken of it to Aunt Isobel, who had been in Serbia with her, Esmie found herself easily telling him about what had happened.
‘It wasn’t just the remnant of the army the Serbs were trying to save,’ she told him. ‘Belgrade had fallen and there were literally hundreds of thousands of people trying to escape – it was like a nation going into exile.’ She shuddered at the memory of the desperate hordes of people, their carts and horses mired in the mud, camping out each night as the temperatures plummeted. ‘And it was the worst time of year to be travelling. It took weeks to reach the mountains and when we did the snow had come and people were already starving. Some locals let us sleep in their barns and shared a little milk but others chased us away, too frightened for their own survival to help. We did what we could to save people – binding up their frostbitten feet with sacking and bartering for food with what few possessions we had left – but we were only thirty nurses and our efforts were futile.’
‘It must have been truly terrible,’ Harold sympathised. ‘But I don’t believe your work would have been in vain. You must have brought great comfort to those you helped.’
‘The Serbs were such spirited people,’ said Esmie, grateful for his kind words. ‘A small nation like us Scots and equally as proud. I saw soldiers kiss their cannons and roll them into icy rivers rather than surrender them to the enemy. And the young boy conscripts that they were trying to save – they suffered terribly – and most of them perished. It was all so heartbreaking.’
Esmie broke off, the memory of the dying children too harrowing to put into words. She quickly changed the subject and asked Harold more about India instead. It was only when the Templeton parents announced they were retiring to bed that Esmie was able to join the others. Lydia, in high spirits, got Tom to carry the gramophone out onto the terrace where she kicked off her shoes and showed them how to dance to ragtime.
Harold, baffled by the dance, collapsed panting into a wicker chair.
‘Enough,’ he cried, ‘it’s giving me indigestion.’
Esmie sat down too, exhausted by the long day. Lydia was laughing hysterically at Tom’s exaggerated moves. When the record finished, Lydia told Tom to wind up the gramophone and play it again. Instead, he fumbled for his cigarettes, swaying unsteadily as he lit a fresh one, and Esmie realised he was quite drunk. Lydia pinched the cigarette from him and took a long drag. Tom laughed and lit another one for himself.
Esmie turned to Harold.
‘Tell me more about India. Will you be returning soon?’
He hesitated. ‘I’m due back off furlough in September but this new conflict with the Afghans is very worrying. Our local Pathans might feel they have to join forces with their Afghan cousins.’
‘Your wily Pathans are the ones who are fuelling the fighting,’ Tom said, startling Esmie; she hadn’t realised he was listening in to their conversation. ‘Deserting their Indian regiments now that war is over and taking Indian Army weapons with them.’
‘That’s purely rumour,’ said Harold.
‘Ah, Guthrie, you are an incurable romantic when it comes to your Pathans – they’re all noble savages in your eyes.’
‘Not true, Lomax. But I do feel responsible for my people at Taha and worry about them.’
Esmie could see the subject was agitating Harold and wished she hadn’t raised it again. ‘I hope you’ll get reassuring news from the mission soon, Dr Guthrie.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Tom with a mirthless laugh, ‘we’ll drop a few bombs on Kabul and send in the Gurkhas to do our dirty work and it’ll all be over in a jiffy.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘Does it get very hot during the summer at the mission?’ Lydia surprised Harold with her sudden question. Esmie knew it was because Lydia didn’t want the evening spoilt with talk of the conflict in far-off Afghanistan.
Harold looked at her nonplussed and then recovered his poise.
‘Yes, scorching,’ he replied. ‘It’s semi-desert at Taha where I live. But sometimes I get away for some R & R to Murree in the hills when it gets unbearable.’
‘Don’t believe him,’ Tom said. ‘Guthrie hardly ever takes local leave. Works himself too hard – always has done. He was like that at school too.’
Lydia blew out smoke and arched her eyebrows in amusement. ‘And you weren’t, I suppose?’
‘I was a hopeless scholar,’ Tom admitted. ‘Harold wrote half my essays but I failed most of my exams. Father decided that only the Army and India would be the saving of me.’
‘Which it obviously was,’ said Lydia.
Tom gave a short laugh and reached for the half-empty whisky decanter. ‘Well, it got me out from under my father’s feet, which was a relief to both of us. Mind if I help myself to another nightcap?’
‘Of course not,’ said Lydia. ‘Pour me one too, will you?’
Esmie was surprised; Lydia had always dismissed whisky as an old man’s drink. Her friend clinked glasses with Tom, took a swig and tried not to grimace.
‘I bet you enjoy the soldier’s life,’ Lydia said with a coquettish smile. ‘All those mess dinners and playing polo and chasing tribesmen. A boy’s dream, isn’t it?’
‘You’re right, of course, Miss Templeton,’ he said. ‘It’s one long bloody good picnic.’ Tom raised his glass. ‘To the Army and all that’s left of it!’ Then he drained his drink.
Lydia laughed and copied his gesture. Esmie glanced at Harold and saw his look of concern. She didn’t think Tom had been joking and heard the suppressed anger in his words. He seemed to be spoiling for an argument.
Harold stood up. ‘Lydia; thank you so much for having us to dinner – it’s been splendid – but I think it’s time we left you in peace.’
‘Oh, but we haven’t finished dancing yet,’ Lydia cried.
‘Perhaps another evening,’ Harold said.
‘Don’t spoil the ladies’ fun,’ Tom protested.
Harold looked undecided. Esmie came to his aid.
‘I’m totally exhausted too – I had such an early start. Let’s leave more dancing till tomorrow.’
‘What a spoilsport you are,’ Lydia complained.
‘No, we must do what Nurse McBride orders,’ Tom said in mock obedience. ‘She’s the expert on what’s best for our health. Plenty of rest, isn’t that right?’
Esmie eyed him. ‘Yes, rest is essential.’
‘Rest and fresh air,’ said Tom. ‘I heard you over dinner. Do what the Boches do. Drink mineral water and chop wood, wasn’t it? Healthy outdoor activity is the key to a fit body and a sound mind.’
Esmie was irritated by his sarcastic tone. Why was he needling her? She had no idea Tom had overheard her talking about Isobel Carruthers’ enthusiasm for treating the mentally ill with Dr Lahmann’s Luftbad – ‘the Air Bath’ – a therapy popular in pre-war Germany.
‘Why should it matter that it’s a German idea?’ she challenged. ‘It seems to work for some patients and that’s what matters – especially for those suffering the effects of shell shock. They get relief from being outdoors and doing activities such as walking and swimming, and keeping occupied with physical tasks that also give them a sense of worth. Such as chopping wood.’
Tom was reaching for the decanter again. Harold put a hand on his arm.
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’
‘Just a wee one for the road,’ said Tom, shrugging him off. ‘This is the way simple soldiers like me get a good night’s sleep.’
He reminded Esmie of some of her patients who had turned to liquor to try and blot out their memories of war. She could only imagine what horrors he must have witnessed in four years of slaughter – and he had lost a young wife too before that. Yet no one mentioned Mary Lomax. She felt a pang of pity for the man.
‘Whisky’s more likely to keep you awake, Captain Lomax,’ Esmie said more gently. ‘I could recommend an elixir if you have trouble sleeping.’
He laughed. ‘There’s no need. I’m not one of your lame ducks, Nurse McBride.’
‘Not lame ducks,’ Esmie said, bristling. ‘They are men who are suffering deep mental pain – and they deserve just as much care and attention as if they had physical injuries. Given time, many of them will recover well. I’ve seen it happen.’
‘At The Anchorage no doubt?’
‘Yes, at The Anchorage.’
‘And how do you know they weren’t a bunch of cowardly shirkers?’ he demanded. ‘If we’d all decided to convalesce and go for nice walks, we’d have lost the War.’
Esmie sparked back. ‘You sound just like your father. He pooh-poohed what we were doing too but we nursed many back to health and active service.’
‘I’m nothing like my father!’ Tom snapped. ‘But the old man had a point. I knew men who claimed shell shock who were nowhere near the guns.’
‘It’s not just proximity to gunfire that causes mental stress – we know that now. Other things can trigger it like the death of a close comrade or bad news from home—’
‘Goodness, Esmie!’ interrupted Lydia. ‘What a grim topic of conversation. The poor captain won’t want to come back.’
Esmie bit back a retort; it was he who had provoked the argument. But she shouldn’t have allowed him to rile her – or compared him to his father knowing it would probably goad him.
‘I’m sorry, Captain Lomax,’ she said.
Tom’s stern look vanished. ‘No, it is I who should apologise. Forgive my boorish behaviour, Miss McBride.’ He turned to Harold. ‘Guthrie, take me home before I cause any more offence.’
‘No offence taken,’ said Lydia quickly. ‘And you will call again, won’t you? Bring your sister – I’d like to meet her.’
The men said their goodbyes and climbed into Harold’s car. Lydia waved them away. Esmie, tired out, longed for bed. She began clearing up the records.
‘Oh, leave all that,’ said Lydia. ‘The servants will see to it.’ She led them indoors.
Lydia, smelling of whisky and cigarette smoke, followed Esmie into her bedroom and threw herself down on the bed with a sigh. ‘It’s wonderful to have you here again. It’s just like old times, isn’t it?’
Esmie thought how it could never be like before – those innocent times were like a distant dream – and she had changed too much. But she nodded in agreement. ‘It’s wonderful to be here.’
‘And I’m so pleased to see you getting on well with Harold,’ said Lydia. ‘You’ve got so much in common with you being a nurse and him a doctor.’
‘He’s very fond of you though,’ Esmie pointed out.
‘And me of him,’ said Lydia. ‘But we’re not a good match – Harold is too serious and not very good-looking.’
Removing the neat pile of clothes retrieved by the maid, Esmie sat down and stifled a yawn, hoping that Lydia wasn’t embarking on one of her long midnight chats.
‘Whereas Tom Lomax is very handsome,’ Lydia continued. ‘And he makes me laugh. Do you think he likes me too?’
‘He seemed to be enjoying your company a lot,’ said Esmie.
‘Yes, he did, didn’t he?’ Lydia giggled and sat up. ‘I’ll send over an invitation tomorrow – and press him to bring that strange sister of his. Harold says the captain is very close to her; they’re twins, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know. From what I remember of Tibby, they don’t look alike.’
‘No, thank goodness,’ Lydia smirked. ‘If the weather holds we can go for a picnic or out in Daddy’s boat. You can keep Tibby in conversation while I get to know the captain better.’
Esmie laughed. ‘You’d do better inviting your mother along so she can talk about flowers to Miss Lomax.’
‘Certainly not. I don’t want Mother around while I set about seducing the captain.’
Esmie’s eyes widened. ‘Is that what you’re planning to do?’
‘Yes,’ Lydia said with a grin. ‘I decided the minute I saw him – I’m going to be the next Mrs Thomas Lomax.’
‘Lydia, you hardly know the man!’
‘I know him enough to like what I see,’ she retorted. ‘And I’m certainly not going to sit around Templeton Hall turning into an old maid like some pathetic Miss Havisham.’
Esmie was shocked by her friend’s calculating attitude and she was far from sure that Lydia would be good for the troubled captain – or he for her. But Esmie kept quiet. Lydia was tipsy and might have changed her mind by the morning; her whims came and went quickly.
‘You’re not to pick arguments with him,’ Lydia said. ‘And don’t be standoffish. You were quite rude when you were first introduced.’
Esmie blushed, remembering how her physical reaction to first setting eyes on Tom was like receiving an electrical shock. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be.’
‘I want us all to get on like a house on fire. Me with the captain and you with Harold.’
Esmie rolled her eyes. ‘When did you become such a matchmaker?’
‘Needs must,’ Lydia said with a wink.
Esmie was adamant. ‘I’m not going to marry Dr Guthrie just because you say so.’
‘Darling Esmie,’ Lydia said, her look suddenly concerned. ‘You can’t go on grieving for David forever – you deserve a little happiness and fun.’
Esmie’s insides clenched with guilt. She hadn’t been thinking of David.
‘It has nothing to do with David,’ she said. ‘I’m just not attracted to Harold Guthrie – nor he to me.’
‘Give it time,’ Lydia replied. ‘I think you’d be perfect for each other. Then when I go to India as the captain’s wife, my best friend will be there too.’ She grinned up at Esmie.
Esmie held out a hand and hauled Lydia to her feet, steering her out of the room. ‘I’m not going to marry Dr Guthrie. Now go to bed.’
‘Don’t be a spoilsport,’ said Lydia.
Esmie smiled and gently push
ed her into the next-door bedroom. ‘Good night, sleep tight.’
‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite,’ Lydia finished the phrase they had used as girls.
Esmie closed the door and padded back to her room.
She thought sleep would come quickly but her mind whirred with the events of the day. Lydia’s rash plans had shaken her. Marriage to Harold was a non-starter as far as Esmie was concerned. He was kind and attentive but a little bit too earnest. She admired the doctor for his dedication to his Pathan patients but she felt no attraction to him, unlike the darkly good-looking Tom Lomax.
Esmie’s pulse quickened as the captain intruded into her thoughts again. If Lydia had set her heart on winning the colonel’s son for her husband, then Esmie should leave well alone. Lydia was used to getting what she wanted. Besides, the captain was obviously as irritated by Esmie’s work and conversation as she was at his off-hand manner when drunk. They didn’t particularly like each other.
Sighing, Esmie kicked off the bedclothes and waited for sleep.
All about her was suffocating snow. The air was so cold it hurt to breathe it in. Beside her, the two boys she had tucked under the crook of her arm were sleeping, their uniforms in tatters and their soft hair encrusted in snow. A noise had woken her. A bird screeching. But when Esmie tried to sit up, she couldn’t. Her ears rang with the discordant sound until Esmie realised it wasn’t a bird but the screams of a woman.
‘My baby, my baby!’
Esmie struggled onto numb feet and reached out for the distraught woman. ‘Give her to me – I’ll warm her up.’
But as soon as she took the frozen bundle from the woman, Esmie realised with horror that the baby was dead. She staggered back to the sleeping boys. She must wake them up and get them moving so that they didn’t freeze to death too. They stared up at her with lifeless eyes, frost glinting on their lashes. Esmie tried to scream but no sound would come. All she could hear was the keening of the grief-stricken mother . . .
Esmie lurched awake, heart pounding. She stared around in panic. Where was she? It took a few terrifying moments to realise she was in the safety of her old bedroom in Templeton Hall. Relief engulfed her. The nightmare receded. It left her trembling and gulping for air. It was always the same bad dream; the horror of touching the dead baby, the screaming of the mother and the panic of trying in vain to revive the frozen boys.
The Emerald Affair Page 3