The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  Just as the sun was waning, they entered a valley with a thin fertile strip of crops and clumps of trees whose dying leaves shimmered golden in the soft light.

  ‘Kanki-Khel!’ Harold said in hushed excitement.

  His gladness turned swiftly to apprehension when he saw the charred ruins of the former clinic. Its blackened stone and scorched timbers were a stark reminder that the village had come under attack just months ago by invading Afghans.

  It was too hazardous for them to stay in the village and a billet had been found for them in a nearby fortified farmhouse which served as a police outpost. From its elevated position, the police guard could survey the whole valley and watch for raiders from the north – Otmanzai country – and beyond. The arid mountains of the borderland looked closer and more defined, their peaks already dusted with the first snow of winter.

  The sleeping quarters were ranged around a small, high-walled courtyard. Harold and Esmie were given a room with an earthen floor, bare of furniture except for a charpoy – a simple wooden bedframe crisscrossed with string – on which to sleep. But it was cleanly swept and the walls had been washed in lime and someone had put two small handwoven rugs on either side of the bed.

  They left their clothing packed – there was nowhere to put it – and Esmie unrolled both their bedrolls on the charpoy. Harold looked on in alarm.

  ‘You’re not sleeping on the floor,’ she told him firmly. ‘It’s far too cold and I could do with your body heat beside me.’

  He flushed but nodded in agreement.

  With darkness, the temperature plummeted. Esmie wondered if they had left it too late in the year for such an expedition. What if they should get cut off by the snow? Once it came, the road back to Taha might become too hazardous for a motor vehicle, even a sturdy truck. She dismissed her fears. Harold was adamant they should re-establish the clinic before the year was out. He would have gone without her if necessary. She would rather be marooned here with her husband than left alone in Taha for weeks without him.

  That evening they shared a simple meal of vegetable curry and flat nan breads with the Indian policemen. Sergeant Baz wiped his greying moustache, belched in appreciation and sat back to smoke. He had been reluctant to bring them but had volunteered when the army had refused. Harold had explained to Esmie, ‘It would be seen as inflammatory for the army to send in a presence after the trouble with the Afghans. The Waziris already suspect that we British are intending handing over the border territory to the Afghans to keep the peace between us.’

  ‘And are we?’ Esmie had asked.

  Harold hadn’t known. ‘It’s possible. Brigadier McCabe says it’s easier to deal with one strong power than a myriad of independent ones. Anyway, he’s been ordered to keep a low profile in the hills for now. So we must be thankful for Baz and his men – they don’t scare easily.’

  Esmie sat and listened while Harold and the sergeant talked quietly about the current situation.

  ‘Is there any truth in the rumour that there’s been fresh unrest in southern Waziristan?’ Harold asked. ‘McCabe dismissed it as bazaar gossip.’

  Esmie felt her pulse increase as she awaited the answer.

  ‘Yesterday there was an unconfirmed report that a police post had been attacked at Razmak,’ Baz confided.

  ‘Does that alarm you, Sergeant?’ Harold asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Probably a couple of excitable Waziri youths throwing firecrackers.’

  ‘So you’re not worried?’ Esmie asked.

  He glanced at her and shook his head. ‘Even if it’s true, it doesn’t mean that the Waziris are taking up where the Afghans left off. You can sleep well tonight. We border police are more than a match for the local riff-raff.’ He gave her a wide grin as he extinguished his aromatic cigarette with a pinch of his large thumb and forefinger.

  After that, Malik and the men who were not on guard duty began to settle down to sleep around the fire. Rather reluctantly, Harold and Esmie retreated to their small chilly room with Harold bearing a candle and leading the way. They quickly changed into their night clothes – Harold turned away and didn’t look – and then scrambled into their bedrolls which were already lined with sheets and pillows. Harold blew out the candle and the room filled with the smell of burnt tallow. It was pitch black but some small creature was scuttling around in the dark. The charpoy dipped in the middle and forced them together. Esmie snuggled against her husband, slipping an arm around his warm body. She could feel the rise and fall of his broad chest.

  ‘Put your arms round me, please,’ she whispered, ‘and warm me up.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Harold did so, pulling her closer and rubbing her back. Her cheek lay on his chest and she breathed in his male smell. Her heart began a slow thudding. Was he feeling any kindling of desire too? It was so hard to know what Harold was thinking. Perhaps now that they were lying so close he might take the opportunity to kiss her goodnight. It felt so right that they were in bed together; this was what they should have been doing all along.

  Esmie waited a few minutes but Harold just seemed content to hold her. She reached up and kissed him on the lips. She felt him tense.

  ‘Are you warm enough, my dear?’ he asked.

  ‘Umm, yes.’

  ‘Good,’ he said and kissed the top of her head.

  Then he disengaged and turned away from her. Esmie’s insides twisted in disappointment. She huddled against his back. At least she could feel his warmth in the night. Perhaps the following night, when he had grown used to the situation, Harold might become more demonstrative.

  As she was drifting off to sleep, Esmie thought she heard someone cry out. She came wide awake again, listening. She could hear distant sobbing. A guard shouted and the crying stopped. It suddenly occurred to Esmie that there might be prisoners held here. It unnerved her to think they might be housed in the adjoining rooms. Perhaps this very bedroom might have been used as a cell too. Whoever it was had fallen silent for now. Esmie squeezed herself against Harold and fell asleep, comforted by his presence.

  The next day, a makeshift clinic was set up in two surplus army tents outside the police post. Word soon went round and a steady stream of people trekked up from the village. All day, Harold diagnosed ailments and dispensed medicines while Esmie and Malik cleaned infected wounds and dressed them. One moment they were binding up a dislocated shoulder and the next would be dealing with a baby’s conjunctivitis. Esmie was struck once again by the stoicism of these agrarian people, some of whom had walked miles to carry their children to be seen by the feringhi doctor and his wife.

  The women, in particular, impressed her. They gathered together in the purdah tent, chattering, sharing scraps of bread and fussing over each other’s children. They reminded her of Karo in their fierce, scolding protective love for their infants. Occasionally there would be a burst of raucous laughter and Esmie would look up to see a group of young women glancing in her direction. She suspected they were sharing ribald comments about her, for she overheard them speculating on whether she was with child.

  For the first time she experienced a rush of envy for the women who cradled their babies. Their love for their children seemed so natural and uncomplicated. They lived tough, precarious lives and yet seldom complained, jollying one another along. She was reminded of the comradeship of the Scottish nurses who had learnt to live each day to the full because there was no knowing what the morrow would bring. Observing the Waziri women with their offspring, Esmie wondered why she had spent so much time worrying over having children in such an inhospitable place. These farmers’ wives showed no such cowardliness.

  Harold and Esmie worked until sundown and then hurriedly packed up and retreated to the fortified tower. Exhausted by the non-stop day’s work, they fell into bed as soon as the evening meal was over. She was asleep almost instantly and heard no strange noises in the night.

  The next few days were just as hectic. Word was spreading quickly that the mission clinic was o
pen again and Waziris were travelling from further afield.

  Malik told Esmie, ‘They know about you giving refuge to Karo and Gabina. They think you have special powers to stop babies dying.’

  ‘But saving Gabina was just pure luck,’ Esmie exclaimed.

  Malik looked at her in surprise. ‘Surely you believe it was God’s will?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

  Malik smiled. ‘That is why so many are bringing their children here.’

  Esmie was touched to hear this but also dismayed. If they believed she had some sort of divine power, then sooner or later they would be bitterly disappointed.

  That night Esmie was once again woken by a man crying out. This time he kept up a wailing protest despite the shouts of the guard. Oblivious, Harold slept on. She was amazed at how deeply and untroubled he could be in sleep. Esmie left the warmth of her bedroll and, pulling a blanket around her shoulders, went out to see what was happening.

  The guard was banging on a door across the courtyard and shouting at the inmate to be quiet. Esmie couldn’t understand the babbling response from inside but she could hear the distress in the man’s voice.

  Baz appeared, turban-less, his hair shorn.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she gasped.

  ‘There is no need to worry,’ said Baz. ‘The man is mad but harmless. Please, Guthrie Memsahib, go back to bed.’

  ‘Is he a prisoner?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘So why is he here?’

  Baz rubbed a hand over tired eyes. ‘He was found running around – he’d torn all his clothes off – and was cutting himself with a dagger. All we know is that he’s an Otmanzai. The locals were afraid of him and wouldn’t take him in. So he stays here until his family come to claim him.’

  Esmie felt a flutter of nerves at the mention of the tribe who had rejected and abused Karo.

  ‘Do his family know he is here?’ asked Esmie.

  Baz shrugged. ‘The previous officer-in-charge sent word to the Otmanzai but no one has come to fetch him yet.’

  ‘Can I see him? Perhaps I can help him,’ Esmie suggested.

  Baz shook his head. ‘There is nothing you can do at this hour. Please, memsahib,’ he appealed, ‘go back to sleep.’

  Esmie returned to her room and lay in distress listening to the deranged man. She was reminded of her former patient, Tommy Grey, whose nightly screaming used to keep the other inmates awake. After a while the shouting stopped. Esmie determined she would press to be allowed to see the man in the morning.

  It was late the next day before Esmie had a chance to ask about the man in captivity, by which time she had talked to Harold about him. Harold persuaded Baz to let Esmie assess the man as she had dealt with the mentally ill.

  Heart drumming at what she might find, Esmie, accompanied by Harold, was led into the darkened room by a guard holding up a lamp. The room stank of rotting food and excrement. Esmie was aghast to see how young the inmate was – his hair was long and straggly but his chin was smooth as a boy’s. His hands and feet were shackled and chained to the wall. He stared back at them in terror.

  When Esmie approached him, the youth shrank back and started whimpering. She tried to reassure him in faltering Pashto.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I am Guthrie Memsahib, the doctor’s wife. What’s your name?’

  The young man stared at her uncomprehendingly. The guard said, ‘His name is Zakir. At least that’s what he shouts out when he talks to himself.’

  She crouched down. Zakir shook his chains in agitation. The guard warned, ‘Don’t get too close – he will lash out like a mule.’

  Esmie ignored this and, trying not to gag at the smell of him, drew closer.

  ‘Zakir,’ she said gently, ‘peace be with you.’

  He went still. Something in his look altered; a spark of understanding in his wild eyes. She carried on talking to him in a soft voice. It didn’t seem to matter what she said, just the sound of her words seemed to calm him. She turned to the guard.

  ‘Please can you fetch me some water and a clean cloth? And a plate of food.’

  ‘I can’t leave you alone with him,’ he replied.

  ‘What can he do tied up like an animal?’ Esmie chided.

  Harold said swiftly, ‘I’ll protect my wife while you get what she asks.’

  Reluctantly the guard went, returning minutes later.

  Esmie asked Zakir, ‘Will you let me wash you?’

  The man said nothing so Esmie dipped the cloth in the water and tentatively began to wipe his face. As she did so, she hummed a Gaelic tune. Zakir stared back with pain-filled eyes but did not try and push her away.

  ‘Please unlock the chains so he can eat,’ she said.

  The guard shook his head. ‘Sorry, memsahib. My orders are to keep him tied up. It’s for his own safety. He tries to cause harm to himself.’

  ‘Just while he eats,’ Esmie pleaded.

  But the policeman would not be swayed. So Esmie broke off a piece of flat bread and, scooping food onto it, raised it to Zakir’s lips. ‘Eat this,’ she encouraged. ‘It’s very tasty and will make you feel better.’

  He found it hard to swallow and Esmie wondered how long he had been refusing to eat. In between small mouthfuls, she coaxed him to drink water. After a few minutes, he sank back exhausted from the effort. Soon afterwards, they left him, Esmie promising to come again in the morning. Later she heard him crying out and rattling his chains again.

  ‘We must do something,’ she urged Harold. ‘Go and speak to Baz, man to man. He’s more likely to listen to you than me. At least get the poor boy unchained. I can’t bear another night of his crying.’

  Harold went to find Baz in the guard room. Esmie followed him but held back and listened at the door.

  ‘My wife thinks Zakir is suffering from shell shock. She’s treated such cases before. The young man has obviously been affected by the violence of the Afghan war.’

  ‘The boy is a lunatic,’ said Baz. ‘I don’t want to keep him here but what else can I do? If I let him go he will kill himself or someone else.’

  ‘Let us look after him while we are here,’ Harold suggested.

  Baz sounded unconvinced. ‘Sahib, you have enough to do at the clinic without bothering about that wild boy.’

  Esmie nearly cried out in frustration but bit back her words hoping that Harold would put her case to the Pathan officer.

  ‘My wife thinks she can help him,’ said Harold. ‘And we can ask around our patients to see if he is known to anyone. If Mrs Guthrie manages to calm him down and we locate his family, then that solves your problem too.’

  Baz scratched his beard. ‘Very well. But he stays in his cell.’

  ‘We agree to that as long as you unchain him from the wall,’ Harold bargained.

  The sergeant frowned. ‘This is most irregular.’

  ‘I’ll take full responsibility for my wife and Zakir,’ said Harold.

  With a heavy sigh, Baz reluctantly agreed. Esmie felt a surge of triumph and slipped away before she was noticed.

  That evening, after the clinic had closed, Malik and Harold helped Esmie bathe and dress Zakir in clean clothes while a servant sluiced out his cell. The emaciated Otmanzai had cuts and welts to his wrists and ankles where the chain cuffs had chaffed his skin. As the men tended to his wounds, Esmie combed out his matted black hair and talked soothingly to him. Zakir trembled and mumbled under his breath but did not resist their administrations.

  At Esmie’s request, Baz provided fresh straw for the youth to sleep on, a thick blanket and a bucket in which to relieve himself, even though Baz said Zakir wouldn’t use it. Esmie and Harold took food into the cell and sat and ate with the prisoner. Zakir watched them suspiciously but after a few minutes he allowed Esmie to feed him a few mouthfuls like she’d done the night before.

  ‘It’s as if he’s forgotten how to do the simplest things,’ Esmie said to Harold as they settled into bed. ‘
But I sense intelligence behind all the fear, don’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Harold. ‘He certainly seems to trust you, my dear.’

  ‘Oh, Harold, the poor boy has no one else to care for him,’ she fretted. ‘What terrible things do you think he’s witnessed?’

  ‘We must try and find his kin,’ said Harold.

  ‘But what if he has no family left? Perhaps they were wiped out in the recent war? We can’t just leave him here to rot.’

  ‘Esmie,’ Harold said wearily, ‘we can’t take in every waif and stray you come across.’

  ‘I know . . .’

  ‘We’ll find someone to take him in before we leave,’ Harold said. He kissed her on the forehead and turning, blew out the candle.

  Esmie lay staring into the darkness, listening out for Zakir. She knew what it was like to lose those most dear and to carry around that leaden weight of loss in the pit of her stomach. The grief she had experienced in childhood had dulled to a faint ache when she thought of her parents but occasionally some incident caused it to flare up like an inflammation. Seeing Zakir in such a wretched condition and all alone made her remember the pain of bereavement anew. She would do everything she could for the youth.

  Esmie thought of the brave women who came to the clinic and knew, despite the losses she had endured, how lucky she was to be living the life she had chosen. She must live every moment of her life to the full.

  ‘Harold,’ she whispered. ‘Are you still awake?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  She shuffled close and slipped an arm inside his bedroll. ‘I want you to love me.’

  She felt him tense yet he didn’t pull away. ‘I do love you, my dearest.’

  ‘Not in the way I want,’ she said. She couldn’t see his expression but she put a hand to his face and rubbed her thumb across his lips. ‘Please, Harold. I’m tired of feeling alone in our marriage. I want us to make love.’

  ‘But we’ve discussed this,’ he said. ‘We don’t want children – not yet.’

  ‘I feel differently now. I think I do want a child.’