‘We are,’ she replied, ‘but I didn’t agree to take a vow of celibacy. I’m your wife and I want our marriage to be a loving one – physically as well as spiritually. Isn’t that what you want – a loving relationship?’
His look was almost forlorn as he nodded.
Esmie grinned. ‘Good. Then why don’t we start before dinner? Work up an appetite?’
‘Now?’ he said, panic in his voice.
‘Yes, now,’ said Esmie, already beginning to unbutton her dress.
He stared at her as she discarded her clothes, unclipping her stockings and rolling them down her legs. With just her corset on, she leaned towards him and kissed him again, pulling at his shirt. He fumbled at his buttons while she covered his face with kisses. He tasted salty with sweat and his breathing was ragged.
Esmie felt excitement mount as Harold took off his shirt and she saw the thick growth of hair on his chest. She ran her hands over it and across his clammy shoulders. His body was pale and softer to the touch than she’d expected.
‘Shall we get under the covers?’ he asked, his voice husky.
Esmie wanted to lie naked on top. ‘It’s too hot,’ she said.
‘I’d rather,’ said Harold, already reaching to turn down the bedclothes.
He climbed under the sheet and removed his trousers and drawers out of view.
Esmie pulled off her knickers and began to remove her corset when he stopped her.
‘Please leave it on.’
‘Why?’
‘I find it more . . . alluring,’ he said.
Baffled, Esmie did as he asked and climbed in beside him.
They lay on their sides facing each other and kissed; small darting kisses that left Esmie craving longer ones. But every time she opened her lips for a deeper kiss, Harold turned his mouth from hers and kissed her cheek.
She ran her hands up and down his body, her fingertips exploring his chest and thighs, the firmness of his buttocks.
‘Touch me too,’ she whispered, guiding his hands to where she wanted to be pleasured.
He fumbled with sweaty hands and she let out small sighs of delight. She waited for him to become aroused, impatient for the final consummation. Harold’s breathing grew more rapid but nothing happened. Esmie tried to help excite him. He groaned and moved on top of her. Esmie closed her eyes in anticipation. Then abruptly, he was rolling away.
Esmie opened her eyes. She lay in confusion and almost certain that they hadn’t made love. She felt choked with unsatisfied desire. Then she heard Harold let go a sob. Her disappointment turned quickly to pity. He was turned away from her. She leaned over him and rested her chin on his shoulder.
‘I’m s-sorry,’ he croaked.
‘Don’t be.’
‘It’s not you,’ he said. ‘I’m just overwrought about Taha and what we’ll find.’
She kissed his shoulder. ‘I know you are and I understand.’ Swallowing her own frustration, she tried to reassure him. ‘It doesn’t matter. Next time it’ll be better.’
Harold turned and faced her, his look hard to fathom in the near dark.
‘Yes, God willing.’
Esmie thought it a strange thing to say but let it go. She felt abruptly drained and weary. Perhaps they could just stay in bed and skip the evening meal, fall asleep in each other’s arms.
But Harold was already getting out of bed and pulling on his clothes.
‘I wonder what’s for dinner?’ he said, brightening.
Esmie stifled a sigh. ‘Smells like overcooked vegetables.’
Harold gave a grunt of amusement. ‘Yes. Home from home.’
As she swung her legs out of bed, he turned and made for the door. ‘I’ll let you get dressed, my dear, and meet you downstairs.’
To the delight of them both, Esmie and Harold found themselves on the same train to Lahore as Bernie Hudson, still doggedly wearing his deer-stalker hat. He had a first-class ticket in a carriage next to theirs. When Esmie had queried why they were travelling first class, Harold had said, ‘In second class we’d run the risk of having to share with Indians. I travel that way on my own but the mission wouldn’t allow it for a British lady.’
Esmie wasn’t sure if he was joking. It turned out that the train wasn’t full – at least not the carriages for Europeans – as it was still the monsoon season and, months ago, the majority of British had decamped to the hill stations where the climate was more bearable. Despite the suffocating heat, Esmie pleaded with Harold to keep the slatted window shutters open so that she didn’t miss any of the sights on her first journey in India.
Sitting with a handkerchief pressed to her mouth and nose to keep out the dust, she gazed for hours on end at the passing countryside as the train trundled across baked plains and scrubland. The mesmerising, monotonous miles were relieved by occasional villages of mud houses and shimmering oases of trees. She would disturb Harold from his reading or dozing with exclamations and questions.
‘What are those long, thin chimneys for?’ she asked. ‘They’re everywhere. Are they some sort of mill?’
‘Brickworks,’ Harold answered. ‘Everything in village India is made from mud bricks – at least in this region.’
At stations, Esmie was agog at the sudden frantic activity and noise as families disembarked or scrambled for seats, carrying bed rolls and cooking pots, while vendors weaved through the throngs calling out their wares. Harold allowed them off to stretch their legs but cautioned her not to wander off on her own. At first she found the pungent aromas overpowering; wafts of oily cooking, human effluence and acrid dung fires. But soon her fascination with the lively commerce on the platform made her forget the noxious smells.
‘What are those?’ Esmie pointed at mounds of garish pink and green sweets. ‘I’ve never seen such brightly coloured food.’
‘Sweetmeats,’ said Harold. ‘Like fudge but even more sickly sweet.’
‘Can we buy some?’ she enthused.
‘Certainly not! They’re covered in flies.’ Then he softened at her disappointed expression. ‘I’ll get Cook to make you some in Taha.’
Sometimes, when the train idled in a station, Bernie would join them from the next-door carriage, bringing his servant who would make them tea. In a vain attempt to keep the first-class passengers cool, menial servants – whom Harold called bhistis – came on to replace the melted blocks of ice with frozen ones in the centre of the compartments. At one stop, a waiter appeared and took their order for tiffin, which Harold explained was a light lunch. He suggested mutton chops. The order was sent ahead and at the next station another waiter appeared and led them to the first-class buffet where tiffin was served.
Electric fans whirred overhead and the high-ceilinged shaded room was deliciously cool compared to the oven-like temperature outside. Esmie, who thought the heat had robbed her of an appetite, polished off a bowl of chicken soup, a plateful of mutton, peas and potatoes, followed by banana and custard. Back on the train she fell asleep and didn’t wake until it was dark and an attendant boarded to convert the seats into bunk beds.
As the train rattled on towards Lahore, she lay awake, lulled by its rhythm but too excited to sleep. Harold, in the bunk above, snored and babbled incomprehensible words. She knew he was still anxious about what they would find at the far end of the journey, even though he had received a telegram from Bannerman to confirm that he would meet them at Kohat. Esmie was encouraged by this and had told Harold so.
‘If there was any danger he would be telling us not to come.’
Her mind raced ahead to their onward journey. The next train would take them north through the Punjab and would stop at Rawalpindi. But Harold had decided that they would not delay reaching Taha by breaking their journey with the Lomaxes. Esmie had quickly agreed. She regretted not seeing Lydia but wanted to be more established – both in India and as Harold’s wife – before she was faced with Tom and Lydia’s idyllic marriage.
Since the unsatisfactory attempt to consummate h
er own marriage, Esmie had hesitated in being demonstrative towards Harold. She waited for him to make the first gesture – a pat on the shoulder or her forehead brushed with his lips – before she gave him a tentative kiss on the cheek. She knew that what had passed between them in the mission guest house bedroom did not constitute consummation. She felt hot with embarrassment thinking about their failed attempt at love-making. What would she tell Lydia when they finally met up? Her friend was bound to demand details.
Suddenly Esmie was struck with a disturbing thought. Harold’s haste to bypass Rawalpindi and head straight for Taha must be because he was as reluctant to see Lydia as she was to see Tom. Her chest constricted in panic. What if his lack of performance in bed had nothing to do with his anxiety over Taha and everything to do with still being in love with Lydia? He couldn’t bring himself to make love to her, Esmie, because he felt no attraction towards her. Perhaps that was why he’d leapt at the idea of abstinence; it was just an excuse not to be intimate with her.
When Harold had said that Esmie was an answer to his prayers he had meant not as a wife, but as a nurse who could minister to the Pathan women where he could not. Harold might never like her enough to want to make love to her. The thought of years of barren marriage stretching ahead appalled her. But then whose fault was that? She had rushed into this marriage because it gave her the respectability she needed to live and work in a world of patriarchal men. She was using Harold as much as he was using her. She had known all this from the start; his letter of proposal had been little more than the offer of a job.
Yet, sometime in the last few weeks, Esmie’s liking for Harold as a friend had grown into something stronger. She found him endearing – his thirst for literature, his eagerness to teach her Pashto and his touching concern for her welfare – but it was also more than that. By subtle degrees, she was finding him more and more physically attractive. He was solid, with a robust strength, lively hazel eyes and a diffident smile. She enjoyed waking up in the same bedroom as him and taking his arm when they walked in public. He was all the more attractive because he obviously thought that he wasn’t.
Restless, Esmie crawled to the end of her bed and peered out of the slatted blind. It was pitch black. Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she saw that the sky was littered with stars so bright they sparkled like diamonds. The thrill of being in India returned. She rebuked herself for her self-indulgent thoughts about her bodily yearnings. It was up to her to make the most of this marriage to Harold. Tomorrow they would reach Lahore and the day after that she would see the North-West Frontier for the first time.
Chapter 14
North-West Frontier Province
The Reverend Alec Bannerman was a tall, thin, white-haired man with a beaky nose and a booming laugh. He wore a clerical collar and an old-fashioned black suit that smelt of curry and mothballs. His only concession to the heat was a battered panama hat worn so low on his head that it made his ears stick out. Under a dazzling blue sky and on a dusty platform, he greeted Esmie with a crushing handshake, a broad smile and a welcome in Gaelic. Esmie liked him at once. Greeting Harold with the same firm handshake, he quickly assured his friend that Taha and the region was now quiet and that he would tell him in more detail on the car journey south.
‘Motor car’s at the entrance,’ he said, leading the way out of the small station at Kohat. ‘Malik is guarding it. Are you hungry? I’ve packed a tiffin basket but we can eat in the cantonment before leaving town if you like.’
‘We seem to have done nothing but eat since we got on the train at Bombay,’ said Esmie, her stomach twisting with nervous excitement. ‘But Harold hasn’t eaten much.’
Harold shook his head. ‘I’m not hungry either. I want to hear all the news from Taha. You’re absolutely sure it’s safe for me to bring my wife there?’
‘Taha is peaceful,’ Alec assured him. ‘I wouldn’t have let you travel if it wasn’t. There are more troops there than usual – which makes it safer for us . . .’ He paused.
‘But?’ Harold queried.
‘They’ve been taking up the lion’s share of the hospital,’ said Alec, ‘which means that locals have been turned away.’
‘They can’t do that,’ Harold protested. ‘It’s not supposed to be for the army – they have their own hospitals here in Kohat and up in Peshawar.’
‘They do,’ Alec agreed. ‘But they’ve had need of us these past few months. The garrison at Taha has swelled to twice its normal size and there was an outbreak of cholera which the Brigadier blamed on Waziris from Kanki-Khel. It’s all under control now but that’s why the army aren’t keen to have natives pouring in from the hills to be treated.’
‘Cholera?’ Harold said, aghast. ‘And what of Kanki-Khel? Have you been able to visit since the peace treaty?’
Alec shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. We’ve had enough on our hands in Taha and we’re not allowed to go into the hills without an armed escort. Up till now the army haven’t been able to spare any troops but I’m sure that will change now the Afghans have been pacified.’
Esmie’s insides twisted with nerves. Was the situation at Taha and the surrounding area very much worse than Harold had thought?
‘You should have called me back sooner,’ Harold said, his face creased in worry. ‘I’ve been frittering away my time in Scotland when I should have been back here helping—’
‘Nonsense,’ Alec interrupted. ‘As I said, it’s all under control now. Besides, you deserved every minute of your furlough after your stint in Mesopotamia – not to mention the years of work you put in here beforehand without taking home leave.’ He clapped a hand on Harold’s shoulder. ‘But I must say I’m glad to have you back, Harold. And’ – he added, with a smile at Esmie – ‘you have brought a delightful young wife.’
Harold’s frown disappeared. ‘Yes, I have,’ he said. ‘Esmie is going to be a marvellous addition to the mission.’
Alec laughed. ‘Mrs Guthrie, I hope you realise that Harold is a tiger for work. But I shall do my best to make sure he spends some of his time with you.’
Esmie, trying to hide her anxiety, smiled. ‘That’s kind – but I too can’t wait to begin work at the mission.’
‘Excellent!’
As they passed from the shade of the station archways into the compound, Esmie had to shade her eyes from the glare. Beyond the town, a range of jagged grey mountains shimmered in the midday heat.
‘That way lies Afghanistan,’ Alec said. ‘But there’s no need to be nervous. We’ve signed a peace treaty and they’ve no wish to have our RAF boys flying over them again.’
As if to illustrate his point, she became aware of a low buzzing noise growing louder as a plane came into view and passed overhead.
Alec waved to the pilot and then pointed out to Esmie. ‘He’s heading for the aerodrome over there.’
At the car, Harold greeted a young man standing guard with a rifle at the ready, whose slim face was swamped by a large white turban.
‘This is Malik, he’s one of our orderlies,’ he told Esmie. Then switching back to Pashto, he said, ‘Malik, this is Guthrie Memsahib, my wife.’
Esmie was touched by the pride in Harold’s voice. She greeted the young guard in Pashto and his stern face broke into a smile as he saluted her. She thought how his baggy olive-green shirt and pantaloons looked cool and comfortable. Her dress was already damp and clinging to her.
‘Are you sure you don’t want lunch at the club before we travel on?’ asked Alec.
‘I’d rather get to Taha as soon as possible,’ Harold said, glancing at Esmie. ‘If that’s all right with you, my dear?’
Dismissing the tempting thought of a cool interior and one of those thirst-quenching lime drinks, nimbu-pani, that she was developing a taste for, Esmie nodded. She too was keen to get to her new home. It was only sixty miles away but Harold had told her it was a four-hour drive over bumpy terrain.
Esmie sat in the back of the mission’s open-topped Ford
with Malik, while Alec drove and Harold sat in front, peppering his colleague with questions about the current situation at the mission. Despite Alec’s previous assurances, he admitted that wards were full and the locum doctor who had been filling in for Harold had succumbed to enteric fever and been sent to Murree to recuperate. Esmie wondered if the loss of Harold’s replacement was the reason Alec Bannerman was so keen to encourage Harold back. She hoped he wasn’t down-playing the risks at Taha. She had seen cases of cholera when working for the Scottish Women’s Hospitals – acute diarrhoea leading to dehydration and death within hours – and it could rage through an army. Cleanliness had been the key and Dr Inglis had been rigorous about hygiene on the wards.
As they swung away from the narrow-gauge railway line and drove through the cantonment, Alec broke off his conversation with an anxious Harold to give Esmie information.
‘That’s the Governor of Kohat’s residence,’ he said, pointing at a large two-storey building with an arched veranda and high windows set in immaculately lawned gardens. On either side of the Mall were neat bungalows and the low-lying buildings of the barracks.
‘This is an important army outpost,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Railway was laid at the turn of the century to help transport troops more quickly to the unsettled tribal areas – but it’s made it a lot easier for missionaries too, hasn’t it, Harold?’
Harold nodded. ‘Apparently, it was a four-day ride from Rawalpindi when the mission first came to Taha.’
‘Was Kohat built by the army?’ Esmie asked.
‘No,’ said Alec. ‘It’s always been a trading town. They come from far and wide to its emporium – for cloth and grain and tobacco. Far busier than any market day you’ll see at home.’
Soon they were leaving the cantonment and skirting the town. Through the rising dust, Esmie glimpsed a warren of sun-baked mud walls and open stalls. A simple unadorned mosque gleamed white against a cluster of palms and the vivid blue sky. Her excitement at being in India reignited.
As the car rattled onto unmetalled roads, Esmie had to cover her face with her scarf to stop her coughing in the dust. Through stinging eyes she saw the oasis of Kohat recede and the land grow more barren as they were jostled over stony tracks that twisted through low hills. Occasionally, she saw a splash of green in the distance where walled villages nestled beside streams.
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