The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  At her side, Malik kept alert with his rifle at the ready. Esmie’s trepidation returned as she gazed at every rocky outcrop, wondering if a gunman lurked behind it ready to pick them off. Here she was, finally travelling through the infamous North-West Frontier; she could hardly believe it. But the only people she saw were occasional small boys tending a handful of skinny cows or old men with sun-cracked faces riding mules. Apart from the distant lowing of cattle and the cawing of a large bird, the rugged landscape was ominously silent.

  The conversation between the men had ceased as Alec concentrated on avoiding ruts and large stones. They stopped briefly for Alec to go and relieve himself behind a large rock. He urged them to eat from the tiffin basket but Esmie, feeling queasy from the gruelling drive and apprehensive about what they would find at Taha, couldn’t face egg sandwiches. They didn’t linger.

  Esmie must have dozed for she woke with a jolt as Harold cried out, ‘There it is! Taha at last!’

  Her stomach lurched. Peering through gritty eyes, Esmie saw that they had entered a broad valley with a meandering, half-dried-up riverbed. They were still surrounded by scrub and rocky mounds with the chain of arid mountains to the north, but in the distance she could see patches of golden wheat fields and green trees clustered around a settlement.

  She sat up as they skirted a wider stretch of riverbed.

  ‘This is where I come to fish,’ said Harold, excitement in his voice. ‘Taha Khel.’

  Esmie looked at the muddy grey sand and flat stony banks with sparse clumps of rushes and wondered how any fish could survive there.

  ‘But there’s hardly any water,’ she said.

  ‘Different in the cold season. We get torrents in January and decent fishing.’

  As they drove closer to Taha, the indistinct blur of beige walls and rooftops became more defined and the land around more irrigated. Date palms and tall feathery trees shaded fields of crops that were being harvested by hand. Men in grubby white shirts were scything corn and bundling it into sheaves. The lush green of small orchards and vegetable gardens seemed all the more vivid in contrast to the last hours of bald rock and thorny bushes. Piles of thin, oblong pinkish bricks were drying in the sun.

  Her pulse hammered in anticipation as they drove up to the walled and gated town and trundled under a large archway where Indian soldiers saluted them. All about them were narrow streets of one- and two-storeyed houses, some with prettily carved window screens and doors. They passed an arcaded market with open stalls selling bright cloth and mounds of spices.

  ‘This is the native quarter,’ Alec explained. ‘Mostly Waziris but some Hindu traders too.’

  The customers appeared to be mainly bearded men in the same baggy clothing that Malik wore, some with neat white caps instead of turbans. They stared at the motor car with its topee-wearing passengers, their expressions phlegmatic. Barefoot boys chased after them, giggling and waving.

  Alec slowed down to inch his way around a flock of goats and a group of men in dispute over a split sack of yellow powder that had fallen off a trolley. Aromatic yellow dust was settling over them all. Minutes later, the streets opened up and they passed a sentry post to enter the white-washed compound of the cantonment. Here the streets were wider and planted with trees to give shade. Long, low buildings stretched down one side of a central road while one-storey square bungalows lined the other. While the native town had been busy with people, the cantonment was almost deserted, save for two officers exercising their horses and a listless tonga driver swatting at flies while he waited for custom. Esmie imagined the British stayed indoors until the strength of the fierce sun waned.

  Alec nodded at the shed-like buildings. ‘We usually just have a garrison of one mountain battery and a few native infantry,’ he said. ‘But since the troubles in May we’ve a cavalry regiment stationed here too. Probably won’t stay long. Some of the young officers are new to all this and are feeling pretty homesick. We try and give them hospitality and get them to church too.’

  ‘Where is the mission hospital?’ Esmie asked.

  Harold pointed south. ‘Over there. We’ll go and see it later.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that tomorrow,’ advised Alec. ‘You need to settle your new bride into Number Ten, The Lines first.’

  Esmie’s insides knotted. She wondered if Harold was feeling the same mix of expectation and nervousness as they approached their new married quarters. Except it was different for Harold; this was already dearly familiar to him. But would he find it difficult sharing his home with her? He would be used to doing as he wanted.

  ‘Do you live close by, Reverend Bannerman?’ she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  ‘Just down the street at Number Fifteen,’ he answered. ‘And you don’t have to be so formal, my dear. People just call me Padre, even though I’m retired from the army.’

  They drew up outside one of the box-like bungalows, set back from the street and enclosed by a low brick wall. Esmie was pleased to see that there was shade from a medium-sized mulberry tree.

  ‘I sent my mali round to water your grass,’ said Alec. ‘And your luggage trunks turned up yesterday. Your bearer, Draman, should have everything under control in the house. But if there’s anything you need, just shout.’

  ‘Thank you, Alec,’ said Harold. ‘You’ve been very thoughtful.’

  Harold climbed stiffly from the car and opened the door for Esmie. It was a relief to get out. Every bone in her body ached from the jarring car ride and her head was fuzzy from the constant glare and dust. As Malik unstrapped their travel bags from the car, a youth came running from the house to snatch the bags from him.

  ‘Ali!’ Harold greeted him. ‘So good to see you.’

  The boy grinned and heaved the cases onto his head.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Alec said, tooting and waving as he drove off with Malik.

  ‘Come, my dear, and see your new home,’ said Harold, smiling broadly for the first time that day.

  The house was smaller than Esmie had imagined, though its gloomy central room was high-ceilinged and kept relatively cool by damp grass matting at the windows that subdued the light. No pictures hung on the walls, the wooden floors were bare of rugs and the furniture looked functional rather than comfortable. But she was just thankful to be there at last. She still felt car sick and her legs were wobbly from the journey.

  A small bearded man wearing a black waistcoat over his long shirt welcomed them in with a toothy smile and a bow.

  ‘This is Draman, my bearer,’ said Harold. ‘He’s been with me since I first came to India. He’s from near Rawalpindi and speaks good English.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Esmie greeted him with a smile and a nod. ‘Dr Guthrie has already told me how well you run his household.’

  Draman gave a deprecating smile and began issuing rapid orders to Ali. Minutes later, Ali returned with a tray of refreshments: black tea with slices of lemon and small dry-looking cakes. Esmie perched on a hard chair and took sips of the strong hot tea, realising how parched she was.

  Harold hovered behind her, wolfing down a cake and talking to Draman in words that Esmie didn’t follow. Perhaps they were talking in Urdu or Hindustani. Esmie wondered why Harold didn’t address him in English. Closing her eyes, she could still feel the sickening movement of the motor car, so she quickly opened them again. A few moments later, she saw Ali and another servant appear from an adjoining room, carrying her trunk.

  ‘That will be your room, my dear,’ said Harold, nodding towards the room where the young men were taking her possessions.

  Reddening with embarrassment, Esmie realised that Harold had instructed her things to be transferred out of his bedroom to the spare one. They would not be sharing a room let alone a bed. Her husband was going to carry out his vow of avoiding sex with her. She was suddenly dejected.

  Without protest she followed Ali into the room, trying not to show how upset she was. There was a single bed, a cupboard for storage
, a table with a pedestal mirror and chair. Off the room was a dingy closet with a boxed privy and a tin bath. Two bedframes with canvas webbing stood propped against one wall, reminding Esmie that until recently this house had been an overflow for army personnel. She thought fleetingly of her time in Serbia and the crowded room she had shared with half a dozen other nurses. Loneliness engulfed her. How she wished for that camaraderie now.

  She sat down on the narrow bed, its springs creaking as she did so. Harold glanced in.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get unpacked and settled. I’m just going to pop down to the hospital and see for myself what’s going on.’

  Esmie sprang up. ‘Let me come too.’

  Harold looked awkward. ‘You look exhausted. I won’t be long. Tomorrow I’ll show you round properly.’

  With that he dashed away. Esmie sat down again, fighting back tears and trying to stem the panic rising inside. She thought she might be sick. She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. What on earth was she doing here? She took deep calming breaths. It was bound to be strange and unnerving to start with until she grew used to the place and the people – and once she started to work. She could understand why Harold was itching to get back to his job and see for himself how the mission had been coping without him.

  Esmie forced herself up again. The last thing she should do was give in to self-pity that might lead to listlessness and melancholia. She was here to help others, not become ill and be a burden. She must keep busy. She would begin by arranging her room.

  Esmie began unpacking and putting her clothes away. On the makeshift dressing table, she placed her hairbrush and comb, the box containing her hairpins and her mother’s silver brooch, and her most treasured possession, a framed photograph. It showed her youthful parents sitting in a Highland garden next to a young Isobel Carruthers who was clasping an infant Esmie on her knee. Esmie smiled and kissed the photograph and felt a surge of courage.

  ‘Your parents would be so very proud of you.’ Isobel’s tender words came back to her. ‘You are marrying a man of principle. I know you will make a success of whatever you are called to do.’

  Chapter 15

  The next day, Esmie stood open-mouthed at the chaotic scenes at the mission hospital. The long verandas outside the wards were crammed with beds for those who couldn’t be accommodated inside. Waziris lay with old gunshot wounds going gangrenous from being bound in sheepskin dressings, waiting stoically to be seen.

  ‘They’ve been brought in from the outlying hills now that things are calmer,’ Harold explained. He looked tired but full of purpose and Esmie realised now why he’d come home so late their first night in Taha. It had been after curfew and she’d been pacing the steps looking out for him. He had silenced her fretting by telling her that he’d already done three operations to save the limbs of two men and a boy of six.

  This morning, a new queue of men squatted in the dusty courtyard, smoking, or lay on filthy blankets, their eyes glassy with pain. On the other side of the yard, cordoned off by makeshift curtains, a line of women hidden in voluminous veiled cloaks waited too, some of them clutching sickly children or trying to pacify wailing babies. Esmie was aghast at the scene. She hadn’t witnessed such suffering since her time in Southern Russia two years ago.

  ‘Can’t we get the families out of the sun?’ Esmie asked.

  ‘The women’s ward has been commandeered by the army since July,’ Harold said, his look apologetic. ‘We’ve set up a temporary theatre in one of the storerooms but there’s nowhere else for them to sit.’

  ‘Harold!’ Esmie looked at him in disbelief. ‘They’re sitting in the dirt trying to feed their babies – no wonder so many have dysentery.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said distractedly. ‘But I’m needed in theatre. Can you help Malik this morning?’

  ‘Of course,’ Esmie agreed, curbing her impatience.

  For the next few hours, she joined Malik and the other male orderlies helping to process the outpatients, deciding who should see a doctor, and then cleaning and dressing wounds. Esmie was impressed by how dextrous and efficient Malik was in his work, talking gently to the younger patients and respectfully to his elders. He was far more than a rifle-bearing guard.

  A tall and willowy woman with a sallow complexion and a shrewd assessing look in her dark-brown eyes introduced herself as Rupa Desai.

  Esmie shook her hand. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mrs Desai,’ she said.

  This was the widow Harold had told her about, whose doctor husband had been shot in a raid three years previously dispensing medicines in the remote outpost of Kanki-Khel – the same mountain village where the clinic had been burnt to the ground earlier in the summer.

  Rupa was trained as a pharmacist, ran the dispensary and had worked on the women’s ward before the recent crisis. Now she helped out in the dressing station. Esmie was keen to know more about her but Rupa said little apart from questioning patients and issuing instructions to the orderlies.

  As the day grew hotter and the stench of bodies became overbearing, Esmie thought she would faint. Rupa worked on calmly, her manner detached but professional.

  ‘Go and get something to eat and drink,’ she told Esmie. ‘You’ll be no use this afternoon if you don’t.’

  ‘I’m really not hungry,’ Esmie said. ‘And there’s so much to do.’

  At that moment, a woman tore into the dressing station cradling a bundle and shrieking incoherently. As Rupa steered her to the side and tried to calm her, Esmie took the bundle of rags. With a gasp she realised she was holding a baby. Its eyes were closed and it made no sound. Alarmed, she bent to the baby’s mouth but felt no breath.

  Rapidly, she placed it on a table and pulled frantically at the dirty swaddling clothes that stank of liquid excrement. Esmie hid her fear that this might be cholera. The baby was a girl. Behind her, she could hear the mother wailing and beseeching. Esmie felt for a pulse. Her hope leapt as she found a tiny beat.

  ‘Tell her she’s still alive,’ she cried.

  Bending over the infant, Esmie covered her tiny mouth and nose with her own mouth and gently breathed into her. She massaged the baby’s chest. Moments later, the baby exhaled and her eyes opened. She took one look at Emsie bending over her in her white cap and let out a whimper.

  Esmie’s eyes stung with tears of relief. The woman began babbling her thanks. She snatched at the child and as she did so, her veil slipped from her face. Esmie stared in horror. She was young but horribly disfigured; below her pretty almond-shaped eyes, her nose had been partially mutilated as if someone had hacked at it with a sharp blade. The skin was raw and puckered.

  Quickly, Rupa steered the woman away from the stares of the male orderlies to a corner of the veranda that was curtained off. Esmie followed, swallowing down the bile in her throat. Behind the curtain, there was just enough room for a bedroll and Esmie wondered if this was where Rupa snatched moments of rest during hectic working hours. The woman crumpled to the floor, weeping and cradling her baby who was now mewling constantly.

  Rupa talked to her in a low reassuring voice and examined the wound. She called for Malik. He came bearing ointment and bandages, anticipating what she would need, and then withdrew. While Rupa dealt with her patient, Esmie went to fetch a bowl of water, soap and a clean cotton cloth in which to wrap the baby. She set about bathing the infant, whose cries lessened as Esmie gently washed her in the tepid water. The baby’s dark eyes fixed on hers in trusting puzzlement and Esmie felt a surge of protectiveness. She thought of Jeanie at Vaullay and her determination that no one was going to part her from her precious son, Norrie, and wondered if this was how she had felt.

  ‘Can we keep the woman here at the hospital?’ Esmie asked. ‘I’d like Harold to check the baby over and make sure she doesn’t have some underlying problem. I worried it might be a fever but I think she is just malnourished.’

  ‘We can let her sleep here,’ said Rupa. ‘I just use this as a private
space during the day – but she probably won’t stay.’

  Esmie turned to the young woman and in faltering Pashto asked what her name was and the baby’s.

  She looked at Esmie warily but with a glint of defiance. ‘I am Karo and my daughter is Gabina.’

  Esmie smiled. ‘Gabina – pretty name. It means honey?’

  Karo nodded.

  ‘Yes, Gabina is sweet as honey,’ said Esmie. Turning to Rupa she said, ‘Can you ask her to stay and let the doctor see the baby?’

  Rupa spoke to Karo in fluent Pashto. The Waziri, looking anxious, answered her questions.

  ‘She says she’ll stay for the baby’s sake but she’s frightened. She’s run away from her village,’ Rupa explained. ‘Her husband came back from the fighting and accused her of adultery – just because she gave him a daughter.’

  Esmie was appalled. ‘So was he the one who tried to cut off her nose?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a way of punishing women and keeping them cowed. I’ve seen a woman who had her breast severed for adultery. Karo must be very worried for her baby to have come here and risked the shame of people seeing her mutilated.’

  Esmie was sickened. ‘Tell her she can stay in here and feed her baby – it’ll be safe,’ she said.

  As the sun was dipping, Harold came to seek her out. He looked as drained and exhausted as she felt. Earlier, Rupa had sent for food and made Esmie eat a simple bowl of rice and dahl, and share a flask of tea. But Esmie had hardly stopped working all day, except to dash along the veranda to make sure Karo was still there and that Gabina was breathing.

  As they closed up the out-patients dressing station, Esmie knew that those they hadn’t dealt with would have to find somewhere to curl up under a blanket and join the queue again in the morning.