‘Everything’s so uncertain. We’ve been warned that if we’re needed in Egypt or Africa we could be diverted. And, we have to go to India en route. Something about thinning our blood in readiness for the heat. Even if I’d written to tell Tom I was on my way, I wouldn’t have been able to give him any idea what month, let alone week, I can expect to land.’
‘I’d give a year’s pay to see Tom’s face when you finally catch up with him.’
‘You think he’ll be pleased to see me?’
‘Of course.’
Clarissa picked up on a momentary hesitation. ‘You’re not sure?’
‘He’ll be shocked, but when he’s had time to recover, he’ll be delighted.’ Georgiana gave her a hug. ‘You’ve finished your packing?’
‘The one small case I’m allowed to take beside the kit I’ve been issued.’
‘I’m going to miss you, Clary. The late-night suppers, after afternoon shifts. The teas before the night shifts. The outings on our days off, but most of all having you to confide in and listen to my moans.’ They reached the steps that led up to the nurses’ hostel. Georgiana stopped and embraced her.
Clarissa shook her head when Georgiana tried to hand over the umbrella. ‘Keep it. If you don’t, I’ll only have to leave it behind in the hostel.’
‘Harry wrote that it doesn’t rain cats and dogs in Mesopotamia but camels and elephants.’
‘In which case this poor thing would break under the strain.’
Georgiana took it. ‘Thank you. I’ll think of you whenever I use it, which given this weather will be pretty much every day. We’ll have a huge celebration when you get back. You, me, Helen, Tom, Mike – and,’ she hesitated before determinedly adding, ‘Harry. Tea in Claridges followed by dinner in Kettner’s, and from there dancing until dawn wherever’s open.’
‘I doubt we’ll all be together until after the war is over.’
‘Precisely, then we can start living again, and making plans for a future without interference from the War Office or anyone else.’
Clarissa almost said ‘if we survive’ but kept the thought to herself. She crossed her fingers superstitiously. ‘Do you want me to give Tom your love?’
‘Only a reminder to look after you. But you can give Michael and …’ It was Georgiana’s turn to cross her fingers. ‘… Harry my love. What time are you leaving?’
‘Six o’clock boat train from Victoria tomorrow morning.’
‘Something for you to read on the way.’ Georgiana took a pocketbook from her bag. ‘A collection of Saki’s short stories. They never fail to make me smile.’
‘Georgie …’
‘Nothing more to be said, Clary. I hate goodbyes.’ Georgiana walked away quickly.
When she reached her front door she saw a man standing on the step, holding an umbrella so low it obscured his face. He turned when she approached, lifted his umbrella and raised his hat.
‘Good evening, Dr Downe.’
She recognised him as the man who’d joined her and her godfather for lunch in the club. ‘Good evening, Mr Smith. Are you visiting someone in this building?’
‘You, if you’ll allow me to, Dr Downe.’
Georgiana unlocked the door. ‘My rooms are on the third floor, Mr Smith. Apologies for the climb.’
‘It will be worth it if you can offer me tea. Earl Grey would be very acceptable.’
‘You sound just like my godfather. Do they teach the direct approach in the War Office?’
‘Encourage, not teach, Dr Downe. Polite niceties consume valuable time.’
Georgiana led the way up the stairs to her rooms and unlocked the door. ‘My sitting room.’ She showed him into a small room, furnished with a sofa, two upright chairs, and table. After lighting an electric standard lamp, she pulled aside a curtain to reveal a sink, cupboard, and shelf that held an electric chafing dish and hotplate.
‘I have Earl Grey tea, but no milk. I do however have a lemon.’
‘I prefer my tea black with lemon and no sugar, thank you.’
She filled the kettle and placed it on the hotplate. ‘Please sit down.’
He sat on one of the upright chairs. She knelt in the hearth, struck a match, and held it to her temperamental gas fire. It blew out almost instantly and she had to strike another four before she succeeded in lighting it.
‘A wet Sunday evening is an odd time to visit someone you’ve met only once, in the hope of receiving a cup of Earl Grey, Mr Smith?’ She left the hearth, washed her hands, set out a tray with cutlery and crockery and sliced the lemon.
‘I see it’s not just the staff of the War Office who can be accused of the direct approach, Dr Downe.’
‘As you said, it saves time. Something I’ve discovered for myself, especially when a patient haemorrhages during surgery.’
‘Very well, let’s cut to the chase, as they say in hunting circles. Would you be interested in a surgical post in a charitable institution?’
‘Thank you for bringing the post to my attention, Mr Smith, but I am anxious to contribute more, not less to the war effort. I doubt any charitable institution, admirable as it might be, would further that aim.’
‘The charitable institution is in Basra.’
Georgiana stared at the kettle. It was beginning to steam. She tried to think beyond the mention of Basra. ‘The military would never allow a female doctor into any hospital that treats army personnel, even a charitable one.’
‘They wouldn’t,’ he agreed. ‘At least not British military personnel, but there are other facilities in need of physicians. Have you heard of the Lansing Memorial Hospital?’
‘Harry mentioned the Lansing Memorial in one of his letters. Isn’t it a charity operated by Americans?’
‘It is. They run a school, a Baptist church and have set up various committees in Basra with the aim of alleviating distress among the poorest inhabitants of the town. They also fund a hospital the Indian Medical Service has found invaluable. The Lansing Memorial not only caters for locals but also cares for wounded Turkish prisoners of war that we haven’t the staff or resources to treat. Two doctors work there, one American, one French, and four trained nurses. They also welcome the services of volunteers.’
‘You think they’d employ me as a doctor? I have independent means so they wouldn’t have to pay my passage or my salary …’
‘Should you accept the post, your passage and salary would be paid, Dr Downe, but not by American Baptists,’ he interrupted. ‘As I said, the Indian Medical Service has reason to be grateful to the Lansing Memorial. Your salary would be paid by the War Office in reparation for the Lansing Memorial’s services in caring for our Turkish POWs and aiding our war effort.’
‘So I would be employed by the War Office?’
‘Not directly.’ He didn’t elucidate. ‘After meeting you in the club, I took the liberty of telegraphing Lieutenant Colonel Cox, the Chief Political Officer with the Indian Expeditionary Force.’
‘He was my brother Harry’s immediate superior.’
‘So I understand. I informed him of your determination to travel to Mesopotamia to look for your brother. It was Lieutenant Colonel Cox who suggested we offer your services to the Lansing. We are indebted to them, not only because in caring for the enemy wounded they free our resources but because their doctors work in close collaboration with the Indian Medical Service and supply drugs and medical supplies when our facilities run short.’
The kettle began to whistle but Georgiana made no move towards it. ‘You’re certain the Lansing Memorial would employ a female doctor?’
‘They would welcome you, Dr Downe. They rely on donations, therefore the gift of a doctor, female or male, salary-free would be considered a bonus. Lieutenant Colonel Cox spoke to Dr Picard, who runs the hospital, personally. The Reverend and Mrs Butler who oversee the mission have offered you food and accommodation should you decide to take the post.’ The whistle escalated to screaming pitch.
Georgiana walked over to t
he hotplate, filled the teapot, and carried it to the table.
‘You did want to go to Mesopotamia, Dr Downe?’ Mr Smith checked.
‘More than anything.’
‘I’m offering you an opportunity to do so.’
‘I accept, Mr Smith.’
‘If you need time to discuss the matter with your parents or your godfather …’
‘I don’t, Mr Smith, because I know what their reaction will be.’
‘They would attempt to dissuade you?’
‘When it come to my father that’s an understatement.’ She poured the tea and offered him the saucer of lemon slices. He took one and dropped it into his cup.
‘Transport to Mesopotamia has been arranged for you with a convoy of nurses. The train leaves Victoria at six o’clock tomorrow morning. I regret you won’t have much time to prepare for the journey.’
Mesopotamia! She was really going to Mesopotamia – and Harry! ‘I need to write letters, to my parents, godfather, and the hospital board, and to pack.’ She looked around. ‘I’ll have to vacate these rooms but I have a friend who will store my things and settle up with the landlord. I’ll telephone her now.’
‘You don’t have to contact her or the board. I will make all the necessary arrangements with the hospital and your landlord.’
‘Thank you, but in case you need assistance, I’ll give you the address of my friend, Dr Helen Stroud. She has a spare room and will take my books, reading lamp, and personal items.’
‘Your tropical kit will be on board the train.’
‘The correct size?’
‘The size of your hospital garments. You can take only one small case with personal items. I will be here tomorrow morning at five o’clock with a cab to convey you to the station.’
‘Thank you.’ She picked up her teacup.
‘There is something that you could do for your country, while you’re in Basra, Dr Downe.’
All Georgiana could think about was Harry. She didn’t have to rely on Clarissa to look for her brother. If Harry was alive and still in Mesopotamia she’d find him … ‘What’s that, Mr Smith?’
‘We’d like you to keep a log of visitors to the mission.’
‘You want me to spy on my hosts?’
‘Spy is a strong word, Dr Downe. We’re at war. As your brother well knew and understood. The British Empire has … how can I put this … certain interests in Mesopotamia.’
‘Like the Anglo-Persian Oil Company?’
‘That is certainly one of them, but there are others that are exciting interest not only among our enemies but our allies. We’re not alone in the area. There are French emissaries, Americans, Dutch …’
‘You would like me to report on any visitors to the mission from those countries.’
‘We would like you to report every visitor, Dr Downe.’ He sensed her reluctance. ‘It would not be onerous. Basra is a small town. You will meet many of our military officers socially, including Lieutenant Colonel Cox. All that would be required of you is a little conversation.’
‘Nothing written?’
‘Nothing so formal, Dr Downe.’ He finished his tea, and rose to his feet. ‘I knew the Empire could reply on you. Until tomorrow morning, Dr Downe.’
Chapter Sixteen
Basra, early morning, Monday 3rd January 1916
Michael woke with a start. Disorientated, uncertain of his surroundings, he sat up and looked around. He’d left a small oil lamp burning in a niche beside the door. Its glow cast his shadow large, looming like a theatrical ghost on the lime-washed wall.
His luggage was piled high in the corner, reminding him that in a few hours he’d be travelling upstream. He heard someone breathing beside him, and looked down on Kalla.
Even asleep she was beautiful. Her long black eyelashes grazed her sleep-flushed cheeks. Her mouth, wide-lipped, sensuous, appeared to be smiling. If she was dreaming, it was a happy one.
She’d taught him more about the pleasures of the body in a few days than he would have believed possible. She’d also brought the comforting realisation that the failure of his marriage wasn’t entirely down to him and his ‘unreasonable demands’, as Lucy would have had him believe. In fact his ‘unreasonable demands’ had been accepted gratefully and graciously without shame or false modesty by Kalla who had no compunction about requesting more of the same.
He was tempted to rouse her but he heard the sound that had woken him again. Footsteps padding lightly along the wooden floor of the landing.
He reached for his pocket watch and opened it. Three a.m. He crept from the bed, pulled on his trousers, and opened the door to Adjabi’s cubicle.
His bearer was stretched out on his divan under a pile of camel-hair blankets. Michael whispered his name. When Adjabi didn’t stir, he went to the door that opened into the corridor, muffling the latch with his fingers, he opened it a crack and peered out.
The door to Harry’s room was open. A figure emerged swathed in a black cloak and headdress. Whoever it was paused to lock the door with a key and turned. Michael stepped back smartly lest he be seen.
He returned to his own room, picked up his multi-purpose ‘tool’ from the table where he’d left it, and lifted the lamp from the niche. He heard footsteps again. This time heading down the stairs.
He opened his door gingerly. The landing was deserted. Shading the lamp’s flame with his hand he crept to the top of the stairs in time to see the cloaked figure acknowledge Abdul who was sitting at his customary table with a waiter, the inevitable backgammon board between them. The front door opened and closed. The only sounds that broke the silence were the bubble of the hookah and the backgammon tiles clicking on the board.
Careful to continue shading the lamp, Michael stole along the corridor to the door of Harry’s room. It was locked but the lock was simpler than the one on his brother’s trunk. He picked it in a few seconds, slipped inside the room, set the lamp on the floor and closed the door. The room appeared to be unchanged from his last visit.
He opened the trunk that had contained Harry’s clothes. It was as he’d expected after Cox had taken the native dress to his room, empty. He set about picking the lock on the second chest. It didn’t take him as long as it had the first time. When he’d done, he opened the lid and removed the two boxes. The one that had held two hundred sovereigns by Tom’s estimate was empty. Not a single coin remained.
He examined the second box that had held the key to the safety deposit box. The key was buttoned into his wallet but he checked to see if the box held any other secrets. After ten minutes of poking and pressing he decided if it did, he couldn’t find them.
He replaced everything as he’d found it. Sat for a moment and imagined his brother in the room. Harry had a wife that, everyone agreed, never visited him here. Was this simply an ‘office’? A place Harry conducted ‘business’ away from the home he shared with his wife and children.
What kind of business did political officers undertake that required clandestine meetings? Was the mysterious figure he’d seen Harry’s wife or his elusive friend Mitkhal? The disappearance of the sovereigns suggested one or the other needed money. Money he could give them if he knew where they were.
Then he remembered the five thousand sovereigns that remained in the safety deposit box. They didn’t need his money when they had Harry’s to draw on. He was too tired to think straight. He glanced around the room to make sure he hadn’t disturbed anything, checked the corridor to make sure it was empty and spent a moment locking the door before returning to his own room.
Kalla was sitting up in bed. ‘I missed you. Where have you been?’
‘I thought I heard a noise.’
‘Many people live in this house. They all make noises.’
‘As I’ve discovered.’ He stripped off his trousers and climbed back into bed. She moved close to him, her skin cool as silk against his. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close until her breasts nestled against his chest.
>
‘Do you have to go up the river today?’ she whispered.
‘I’m a war correspondent. My editor will be wondering whether I’m ever going to get to the front.’
‘Take me with you?’ she pleaded.
‘To the front?’
‘Yes, to the front.’
‘I can’t. No women are allowed at the front.’
‘Other officers take their mistresses with them. They call them cooks and maids.’
‘Believe me, there will be no women where I’m going.’
‘Please, Michael,’ she wheedled. ‘It’s been good for me to have a kind man like you to look after me.’ She slipped her hand between his thighs.
He was tired, he needed sleep, but he was enjoying her caresses too much to stop her.
‘You’ve been good to me too, Kalla, but I can’t take you with me.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Will you be here when I get back?’
‘That is up to my mistress.’
‘Your mistress? I thought you worked for Abdul.’
‘She loaned me to Abdul because I speak English.’
‘Loaned you … this mistress owns you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are a slave?’
‘Of course.’
He was shocked but the more he thought about it the more it he realised how naïve he’d been. Kalla was obviously practised in the arts of sex, but he doubted many women would willingly opt for the life of a whore if they had a comfortable alternative.
‘Why did your mistress loan you to Abdul?’
‘Because he wanted a girl who could speak English.’
‘Why?’
She made no attempt to answer him.’
‘Tell me?’
‘I’ve already said too much.’
‘You are here to spy on me?’ Given the brief he’d received from Cox he could see irony in the situation.
‘All Arabs, including Abdul and my mistress, want to know what the British intend to do with Mesopotamia if you should win the war.’
‘They think I know the secrets of government!’ he laughed.
‘You are a writer, for the newspapers, they think you know everything.’
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