She wasn’t a bit like what I’d imagined her! To begin with, she was very fair. She wasn’t a Swede, like her husband, but she might have been as far as looks went. She had that blonde Scandinavian fairness that you don’t very often see. She wasn’t a young woman. Midway between thirty and forty, I should say. Her face was rather haggard, and there was some grey hair mingled with the fairness. Her eyes, though, were lovely. They were the only eyes I’ve ever come across that you might truly describe as violet. They were very large, and there were faint shadows underneath them. She was very thin and fragile-looking, and if I say that she had an air of intense weariness and was at the same time very much alive, it sounds like nonsense – but that’s the feeling I got. I felt, too, that she was a lady through and through. And that means something – even nowadays.
She put out her hand and smiled. Her voice was low and soft with an American drawl in it.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come, nurse. Will you have some tea? Or would you like to go to your room first?’
I said I’d have tea, and she introduced me to the people sitting round the table.
‘This is Miss Johnson – and Mr Reiter. Mrs Mercado. Mr Emmott. Father Lavigny. My husband will be in presently. Sit down here between Father Lavigny and Miss Johnson.’
I did as I was bid and Miss Johnson began talking to me, asking about my journey and so on.
I liked her. She reminded me of a matron I’d had in my probationer days whom we had all admired and worked hard for.
She was getting on for fifty, I should judge, and rather mannish in appearance, with iron-grey hair cropped short. She had an abrupt, pleasant voice, rather deep in tone. She had an ugly rugged face with an almost laughably turned-up nose which she was in the habit of rubbing irritably when anything troubled or perplexed her. She wore a tweed coat and skirt made rather like a man’s. She told me presently that she was a native of Yorkshire.
Father Lavigny I found just a bit alarming. He was a tall man with a great black beard and pince-nez. I had heard Mrs Kelsey say that there was a French monk there, and I now saw that Father Lavigny was wearing a monk’s robe of some white woollen material. It surprised me rather, because I always understood that monks went into monasteries and didn’t come out again.
Mrs Leidner talked to him mostly in French, but he spoke to me in quite fair English. I noticed that he had shrewd, observant eyes which darted about from face to face.
Opposite me were the other three. Mr Reiter was a stout, fair young man with glasses. His hair was rather long and curly, and he had very round blue eyes. I should think he must have been a lovely baby, but he wasn’t much to look at now! In fact he was just a little like a pig. The other young man had very short hair cropped close to his head. He had a long, rather humorous face and very good teeth, and he looked very attractive when he smiled. He said very little, though, just nodded if spoken to or answered in monosyllables. He, like Mr Reiter, was an American. The last person was Mrs Mercado, and I couldn’t have a good look at her because whenever I glanced in her direction I always found her staring at me with a kind of hungry stare that was a bit disconcerting to say the least of it. You might have thought a hospital nurse was a strange animal the way she was looking at me. No manners at all!
She was quite young – not more than about twenty-five – and sort of dark and slinky-looking, if you know what I mean. Quite nice-looking in a kind of way, but rather as though she might have what my mother used to call ‘a touch of the tar-brush’. She had on a very vivid pullover and her nails matched it in colour. She had a thin bird-like eager face with big eyes and rather a tight, suspicious mouth.
The tea was very good – a nice strong blend – not like the weak China stuff that Mrs Kelsey always had and that had been a sore trial to me.
There was toast and jam and a plate of rock buns and a cutting cake. Mr Emmott was very polite passing me things. Quiet as he was he always seemed to notice when my plate was empty.
Presently Mr Coleman bustled in and took the place beyond Miss Johnson. There didn’t seem to be anything the matter withhis nerves. He talked away nineteen to the dozen.
Mrs Leidner sighed once and cast a wearied look in his direction but it didn’t have any effect. Nor did the fact that Mrs Mercado, to whom he was addressing most of his conversation, was far too busy watching me to do more than make perfunctory replies.
Just as we were finishing, Dr Leidner and Mr Mercado came in from the dig.
Dr Leidner greeted me in his nice kind manner. I saw his eyes go quickly and anxiously to his wife’s face and he seemed to be relieved by what he saw there. Then he sat down at the other end of the table, and Mr Mercado sat down in the vacant place by Mrs Leidner. He was a tall, thin, melancholy man, a good deal older than his wife, with a sallow complexion and a queer, soft, shapeless-looking beard. I was glad when he came in, for his wife stopped staring at me and transferred her attention to him, watching him with a kind of anxious impatience that I found rather odd. He himself stirred his tea dreamily and said nothing at all. A piece of cake lay untasted on his plate.
There was still one vacant place, and presently the door opened and a man came in.
The moment I saw Richard Carey I felt he was one of the handsomest men I’d seen for a long time – and yet I doubt if that were really so. To say a man is handsome and at the same time to say he looks like a death’s head sounds a rank contradiction, and yet it was true. His head gave the effect of having the skin stretched unusually tight over the bones – but they were beautiful bones. The lean line of jaw and temple and forehead was so sharply outlined that he reminded me of a bronze statue. Out of this lean brown face looked two of the brightest and most intensely blue eyes I have ever seen. He stood about six foot and was, I should imagine, a little under forty years of age.
Dr Leidner said: ‘This is Mr Carey, our architect, nurse.’
He murmured something in a pleasant, inaudible English voice and sat down by Mrs Mercado.
Mrs Leidner said: ‘I’m afraid the tea is a little cold, Mr Carey.’
He said: ‘Oh, that’s quite all right, Mrs Leidner. My fault for being late. I wanted to finish plotting those walls.’
Mrs Mercado said, ‘Jam, Mr Carey?’
Mr Reiter pushed forward the toast.
And I remembered Major Pennyman saying: ‘I can explain best what I mean by saying that they all passed the butter to each other a shade too politely.’
Yes, there was something a little odd about it…
A shade formal…
You’d have said it was a party of strangers – not people who had known each other – some of them – for quite a number of years.
Chapter 6. First Evening
After tea Mrs Leidner took me to show me my room.
Perhaps here I had better give a short description of the arrangement of the rooms. This was very simple and can easily be understood by a reference to the plan.
On either side of the big open porch were doors leading into the two principal rooms. That on the right led into the dining-room, where we had tea. The one on the other side led into an exactly similar room (I have called it the living-room) which was used as a sitting-room and kind of informal workroom – that is, a certain amount of drawing (other than the strictly architectural) was done there, and the more delicate pieces of pottery were brought there to be pieced together. Through the living-room one passed into the antiquities-room where all the finds from the dig were brought in and stored on shelves and in pigeon-holes, and also laid out on big benches and tables. From the antika-room there was no exit save through the living-room.
Beyond the antika-room, but reached through a door which gave on the courtyard, was Mrs Leidner’s bedroom. This, like the other rooms on that side of the house, had a couple of barred windows looking out over the ploughed countryside. Round the corner next to Mrs Leidner’s room, but with no actual communicating door, was Dr Leidner’s room. This was the first of the rooms on the east side of the
building. Next to it was the room that was to be mine. Next to me was Miss Johnson’s, with Mr and Mrs Mercado’s beyond. After that came two so-called bathrooms.
(When I once used that last term in the hearing of Dr Reilly he laughed at me and said a bathroom was either a bathroom or not a bathroom! All the same, when you’ve got used to taps and proper plumbing, it seems strange to call a couple of mud-rooms with a tin hip-bath in each of them, and muddy water brought in kerosene tins, bathrooms!)
All this side of the building had been added by Dr Leidner to the original Arab house. The bedrooms were all the same, each with a window and a door giving on to the courtyard. Along the north side were the drawing-office, the laboratory and the photographic rooms.
To return to the verandah, the arrangement of rooms was much the same on the other side. There was the dining-room leading into the office where the files were kept and the cataloguing and typing was done. Corresponding to Mrs Leidner’s room was that of Father Lavigny, who was given the largest bedroom; he used it also for the decoding – or whatever you call it – of tablets.
In the south-west corner was the staircase running up to the roof. On the west side were first the kitchen quarters and then four small bedrooms used by the young men – Carey, Emmott, Reiter and Coleman.
At the north-west corner was the photographic-room with the dark-room leading out of it. Next to that the laboratory. Then came the only entrance – the big arched doorway through which we had entered. Outside were sleeping quarters for the native servants, the guard-house for the soldiers, and stables, etc., for the water horses. The drawing-office was to the right of the archway occupying the rest of the north side.
I have gone into the arrangements of the house rather fully here because I don’t want to have to go over them again later.
As I say, Mrs Leidner herself took me round the building and finally established me in my bedroom, hoping that I should be comfortable and have everything I wanted.
The room was nicely though plainly furnished – a bed, a chest of drawers, a washstand and a chair.
‘The boys will bring you hot water before lunch and dinner – and in the morning, of course. If you want it any other time, go outside and clap your hands, and when the boy comes say, ‘jib mai’ har’. Do you think you can remember that?’
I said I thought so and repeated it a little haltingly.
‘That’s right. And be sure and shout it. Arabs don’t understand anything said in an ordinary “English” voice.’
‘Languages are funny things,’ I said. ‘It seems odd there should be such a lot of different ones.’
Mrs Leidner smiled.
‘There is a church in Palestine in which the Lord’s Prayer is written up in – ninety, I think it is – different languages.’
‘Well!’ I said. ‘I must write and tell my old aunt that. She will be interested.’
Mrs Leidner fingered the jug and basin absently and shifted the soap-dish an inch or two.’
‘I do hope you’ll be happy here,’ she said, ‘and not get too bored.’
‘I’m not often bored,’ I assured her. ‘Life’s not long enough for that.’
She did not answer. She continued to toy with the washstand as though abstractedly.
Suddenly she fixed her dark violet eyes on my face.
‘What exactly did my husband tell you, nurse?’
Well, one usually says the same thing to a question of that kind.
‘I gathered you were a bit run-down and all that, Mrs Leidner,’ I said glibly. ‘And that you just wanted someone to look after you and take any worries off your hands.’
She bent her head slowly and thoughtfully.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes – that will do very well.’
That was just a little bit enigmatic, but I wasn’t going to question it. Instead I said: ‘I hope you’ll let me help you with anything there is to do in the house. You mustn’t let me be idle.’
She smiled a little.
‘Thank you, nurse.’
Then she sat down on the bed and, rather to my surprise, began to cross-question me rather closely. I say rather to my surprise because, from the moment I set eyes on her, I felt sure that Mrs Leidner was a lady. And a lady, in my experience, very seldom displays curiosity about one’s private affairs.
But Mrs Leidner seemed anxious to know everything there was to know about me. Where I’d trained and how long ago. What had brought me out to the East. How it had come about that Dr Reilly had recommended me. She even asked me if I had ever been in America or had any relations in America. One or two other questions she asked me that seemed quite purposeless at the time, but of which I saw the significance later.
Then, suddenly, her manner changed. She smiled – a warm sunny smile – and she said, very sweetly, that she was very glad I had come and that she was sure I was going to be a comfort to her.
She got up from the bed and said: ‘Would you like to come up to the roof and see the sunset? It’s usually very lovely about this time.’
I agreed willingly.
As we went out of the room she asked: ‘Were there many other people on the train from Baghdad? Any men?’
I said that I hadn’t noticed anybody in particular. There had been two Frenchmen in the restaurant-car the night before. And a party of three men whom I gathered from their conversation had to do with the Pipeline.
She nodded and a faint sound escaped her. It sounded like a small sigh of relief.
We went up to the roof together.
Mrs Mercado was there, sitting on the parapet, and Dr Leidner was bending over looking at a lot of stones and broken pottery that were laid in rows. There were big things he called querns, and pestles and celts and stone axes, and more broken bits of pottery with queer patterns on them than I’ve ever seen all at once.
‘Come over here,’ called out Mrs Mercado. ‘Isn’t it too too beautiful?’
It certainly was a beautiful sunset. Hassanieh in the distance looked quite fairy-like with the setting sun behind it, and the River Tigris flowing between its wide banks looked like a dream river rather than a real one.
‘Isn’t it lovely, Eric?’ said Mrs Leidner.
The doctor looked up with abstracted eyes, murmured, ‘Lovely, lovely,’ perfunctorily and went on sorting potsherds.
Mrs Leidner smiled and said: ‘Archaeologists only look at what lies beneath their feet. The sky and the heavens don’t exist for them.’
Mrs Mercado giggled.
‘Oh, they’re very queer people – you’ll soon find that out, nurse,’ she said.
She paused and then added: ‘We are all so glad you’ve come. We’ve been so very worried about dear Mrs Leidner, haven’t we, Louise?’
‘Have you?’
Her voice was not encouraging.
‘Oh, yes. She really has been very bad, nurse. All sorts of alarms and excursions. You know when anybody says to me of someone, “It’s just nerves,” I always say: but what could be worse? Nerves are the core and centre of one’s being, aren’t they?’
‘Puss, puss,’ I thought to myself.
Mrs Leidner said dryly: ‘Well, you needn’t be worried about me any more, Marie. Nurse is going to look after me.’
‘Certainly I am,’ I said cheerfully.
‘I’m sure that will make all the difference,’ said Mrs Mercado. ‘We’ve all felt that she ought to see a doctor or do something. Her nerves have really been all to pieces, haven’t they, Louise dear?’
‘So much so that I seem to have got on your nerves with them,’ said Mrs Leidner. ‘Shall we talk about something more interesting than my wretched ailments?’
I understood then that Mrs Leidner was the sort of woman who could easily make enemies. There was a cool rudeness in her tone (not that I blamed her for it) which brought a flush to Mrs Mercado’s rather sallow cheeks. She stammered out something, but Mrs Leidner had risen and had joined her husband at the other end of the roof. I doubt if he heard her coming till sh
e laid her hand on his shoulder, then he looked up quickly. There was affection and a kind of eager questioning in his face.
Mrs Leidner nodded her head gently. Presently, her arm through his, they wandered to the far parapet and finally down the steps together.
‘He’s devoted to her, isn’t he?’ said Mrs Mercado.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s very nice to see.’
She was looking at me with a queer, rather eager sidelong glance.
‘What do you think is really the matter with her, nurse?’ she asked, lowering her voice a little.
‘Oh, I don’t suppose it’s much,’ I said cheerfully.
‘Just a bit run-down, I expect.’
Her eyes still bored into me as they had done at tea. She said abruptly: ‘Are you a mental nurse?’
‘Oh, dear, no!’ I said. ‘What made you think that?’
She was silent for a moment, then she said: ‘Do you know how queer she’s been? Did Dr Leidner tell you?’
I don’t hold with gossiping about my cases. On the other hand, it’s my experience that it’s often very hard to get the truth out of relatives, and until you know the truth you’re often working in the dark and doing no good. Of course, when there’s a doctor in charge, it’s different. He tells you what it’s necessary for you to know. But in this case there wasn’t a doctor in charge. Dr Reilly had never been called in professionally. And in my own mind I wasn’t at all sure that Dr Leidner had told me all he could have done. It’s often the husband’s instinct to be reticent – and more honour to him, I must say. But all the same, the more I knew the better I could tell which line to take. Mrs Mercado (whom I put down in my own mind as a thoroughly spiteful little cat) was clearly dying to talk. And frankly, on the human side as well as the professional, I wanted to hear what she had to say. You can put it that I was just everyday curious if you like.
I said, ‘I gather Mrs Leidner’s not been quite her normal self lately?’
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