No Place For a Lady

by Gill Paul

  He regarded her with his dark eyes. ‘But I am worried about you. What will your family and friends be thinking?’

  ‘My family no longer want anything to do with me,’ she said, and explained about the rift caused by her marriage. ‘I’ve had no word from my father or my sister since I left England last April, although I have written several times.’

  ‘Letters often go missing in wartime.’

  ‘Possibly, but my friend Adelaide received several letters at every camp we stayed in. Why should I have none? I could understand if one or two went missing – but all of them?’ There was a tightness in her throat. She still couldn’t comprehend how Dorothea could have abandoned her so completely. The bonds formed during eighteen years of family life must have meant very little for her to cast them off so easily. It was strange, because usually her anger was short-lived.

  ‘And this friend, Adelaide? Could you not go to her now?’

  ‘She is in England. I have no friends in Crimea … Only you!’ Lucy gave a weak smile.

  He bowed his head. ‘I hope I will prove worthy of the honour. But still I am alarmed that you have not informed anyone of your whereabouts.’

  ‘Believe me, there is no one for me to inform. At least … I suppose I will write to my family in due course …’ She supposed she must go home to London eventually but for now she had decided to be on her own, to grieve in peace.

  After he left that evening, Lucy realised she had asked nothing of his own life. She didn’t know his background, or whether he was married or had children. She was selfishly wrapped up in her own problems and really it was most impolite. On his next visit, a few days later, she asked her questions.

  ‘My family live in a small town called Smyrna on the Aegean coast of Turkey, the Asian side,’ he told her.

  ‘What is your father’s line of business?’

  ‘My father is dead. He died when I was thirteen,’ he said, and Lucy interrupted.

  ‘Is that so? My mother died when I was the exact same age. Were you very close? My mother and I were exceedingly close.’

  ‘Yes, I loved my father very much. As the only son I had to look after my mother and sisters after his death, although my Uncle Cemal helped. He’s the one who paid for my commission in the army. He also insisted that I learned English, because it is the international language of business.’

  ‘Your English is flawless. Tell me, what will you do after the war? Will you remain in the army?’

  Murad shook his head emphatically. ‘My uncle has a business supplying fish to shops and restaurants. I expect to work there and perhaps become a partner one day. I must earn enough money to support my sisters until they marry, and to pay their dowries. It’s going to be expensive,’ – he grimaced comically – ‘as there are four of them.’

  What a burden for him, Lucy thought. ‘Few families pay dowries in England now.’

  ‘In Turkey, it is a matter of pride. The çeyiz – that’s what we call it – will include goods for the marital home, clothing, jewellery and money. If the family of the new husband is not happy with the dowry offered, they can call off the wedding.’

  Lucy had been looking for a tactful opening to ask about his own marital status and now she said, ‘I expect you will receive a substantial dowry from your own wife.’

  Suddenly he seemed embarrassed, looking at the ground as he answered. ‘I cannot marry until my sisters are settled, and until I am earning enough to support a wife and family.’

  ‘Of course not, no.’ She wished she hadn’t asked as it seemed to make him uncomfortable. Soon afterwards he announced he had to leave and she hoped it wasn’t because he wished to escape her line of questioning.

  ‘Is there anything you need?’ he asked. ‘I can’t promise to find it but I can try.’

  ‘No, thank you. I have everything I need right here.’

  Lucy felt a sense of peace descend when he had gone. She wanted the house to herself, to enjoy its spacious calm. As a child, she had been very sociable and had never liked solitude. She read few books because she would rather be in the kitchen making conversation with the cook, or in her mother’s room chatting about clothes and parties, or in the drawing room quizzing Dorothea on medical matters. But now she loved the stillness and silence because they let her feel close to Charlie. She could talk to him in her head and feel that he could hear. Perhaps he was watching over her as she wandered round this Russian family’s house – Murad had told her it was called a dacha, a word she liked very much. She didn’t feel lonely in the dacha. Solitude was her choice.

  Chapter Thirty

  Lucy didn’t count how long she had been at the dacha but she observed the gradual loosening of winter’s grip, the ripening of new vegetables in the garden she tended every morning, and the stealthy unfurling of leaves on the trees. In the afternoons she kept herself busy looking after the house: dusting surfaces and washing windows, beating rugs and cushions, even climbing on a chair perched atop a table to run a feather duster over the chandeliers, as she had seen their maid do at home. Every evening she played the pianoforte, grateful for the musical memory that allowed her to recall so many pieces. Activity kept her sadness at bay, for a while at least.

  One evening when Murad visited, she noticed he was scratching furiously at his neck and asked if he was all right.

  ‘I apologise,’ he said, shamefaced. ‘Tiny insects – I don’t know what you call them – lay their eggs in our clothing and it seems impossible to get rid of them, no matter how I try.’

  ‘They must be lice. Some had them in the British camp. Do you not have women to wash your clothes?’

  ‘We do our laundry ourselves, apart from the highest-ranking officers. Some are more fastidious than others.’ He made a face and smiled.

  ‘Please let me wash your clothes for you,’ Lucy offered. ‘I found soda crystals and carbolic soap in the cellar, which I’m sure will do the trick.’ He seemed about to refuse, so she added, ‘Please. I am looking for ways of occupying my time gainfully.’

  Murad was reluctant but eventually agreed and next time he visited he wore his spare uniform and brought the affected jacket and trousers. When Lucy looked closely she could see the minuscule black creatures crawling around in the seams and stepped back instinctively, hoping they would not leap across to her own clothing or hair.

  She was about to drop his jacket into a sinkful of boiling water when she noted a shape in one of the pockets and pulled out a little book bound in green leather. Inside there were pages and pages of elaborate pencil drawings: images of plants, birds, jugs, mosques with minarets, all formed from curly patterns. One image showed a sea of whorls in which swam strange sea creatures. The skill was extraordinary. Had Murad drawn these with his own hand? She put the book to one side to return to him.

  The most effective treatment for lice, she discovered, was to boil the garments in a big pot on the stove then scrub them with carbolic soap. No insect could survive that treatment. Finally she heated the heavy iron over the grate and pressed his uniform into shape on the kitchen table.

  When Murad returned, he seemed overwhelmed by her endeavours, expressing his gratitude over and over, to the point where she urged him to stop.

  ‘I found this book,’ she told him, holding it out. ‘You didn’t tell me you were an artist.’

  He shook his head bashfully. ‘I am no artist. Others are much more proficient, but I enjoy the pastime. It is a type of calligraphy in which all the images are formed from Arabic letters and in combination they have special meanings. They would normally be done in coloured inks but I have none with me. Really, these are but rough scribbles.’

  ‘And yet I can see you are very talented. They’re beautiful.’ As they ate their meal, she looked at Murad anew: he was an artist as well as an army officer. His art was of a strange foreign kind she had never encountered but no less skilful for that.

  Before he left she asked, ‘Might I not wash your bedding as well? And perhaps I could do washin
g for some of your fellow officers? Please give me some way to repay your kindness and feel that I am not totally useless in this area at war.’

  He protested: ‘Laundry is not a job for a lady. What of your beautiful hands?’

  She waggled her slender fingers in the air. ‘To worry about my hands in wartime would be vanity indeed. Believe me, I care not for such things any more.’

  She was glad when she had work to occupy her: the mornings were for gardening, the afternoons for laundry or cleaning, and the evenings at the pianoforte. It was good to be busy. She liked the routine, which kept her occupied but allowed thoughts of Charlie to come and go with her shifting mood. Often she dwelled on Susanna and the shocking accident that had destroyed his family. She could picture how it had happened, could see his bravado leading him to foolish extremes as he strove to entertain his beloved little sister. It was stupid but it was not evil, and it seemed desperately wrong that his grief and guilt should be compounded by banishment from the arms of his parents and brothers. She wished with all her heart Charlie had told her sooner, so she could have convinced him that her love for him did not diminish one iota when she heard the truth. She had handled his confession badly because of her confusion over the identity of Susanna, and he hadn’t let her speak of it again. If he believed she loved him less, perhaps it was one of the factors that had led him to give up hope. Lucy wished she had been more tender during those last awful weeks as the cold set in. If she had shown him unfailing love and unquestioning support, perhaps she could have persuaded him to stay alive.

  Most days she carried her sadness around, like an extra-heavy greatcoat that weighed her down and made it difficult to move. Occasionally the sight of a rabbit sniffing the grass with twitching nose, a pretty bunch of snowdrops hiding under a bush, or a particularly exhilarating passage in a sonata would lift the weight for a while and make her feel a whiff of something that resembled contentment. But more often her throat was tight with grief and tears were never far away. Was this what Adelaide was experiencing back in England? She was lucky to have Bill’s children; all Lucy had left of Charlie was his pocket watch and a year’s-worth of fading memories.

  One day she heard the front door open and emerged from the kitchen to find Murad staggering in with a teenage boy in his arms. His head was bandaged, his leg in a splint, and as Murad laid him on a settee in the drawing room he stared at Lucy with a look she recognised; it was terror, the same look she had seen on Charlie’s face the morning he wouldn’t go to battle with his company. The boy’s eyes weren’t focused on his surroundings, but instead were wide with horror at some scene in his mind that obviously felt more real to him than the damask cushions he lay upon.

  ‘I found him lying in a daze outside the Turkish camp at Kamara. He hasn’t spoken to me yet so I don’t know his name but he certainly doesn’t seem fit to return to his company. I imagine he is only about thirteen or fourteen, so he must have lied to enlist.’

  Lucy tried to think of something practical she could do to help. ‘I’ll get you both some soup.’

  She had at last discovered a small pot of salt and was experimenting with the dried herbs from the cellar so her soups had become slightly more palatable, but when she placed a bowl on the table in front of the boy, he jumped at the clattering sound and wouldn’t touch it. She lifted a spoonful towards him and he shrank, seeming petrified of her.

  ‘I think he has been caught in shellfire,’ Murad explained. ‘It rattles the brain inside the skull. I’ve seen grown men in the same state. But he is so young … I wondered if he might stay here with you for a short while, just until he recovers his wits?’

  Lucy didn’t want company, particularly not a stranger, but it would have been cruel to refuse this poor child, so she said, ‘Yes, of course. He can take one of the other bedrooms.’

  Murad moved round so he was within the boy’s line of vision, crouched down and spoke softly to him in Turkish. He pointed at Lucy and was obviously explaining that he would be safe here. All his movements were slow and gentle but even so, the boy jumped at the slightest gesture in his direction. He was deeply traumatised.

  ‘I know little of nursing,’ Lucy worried. ‘What care does he need? Should I cut up a sheet to make fresh bandages?’

  ‘Leave him alone for now. You can see how scared he is. I will carry him upstairs to a bedroom but after that I think you should let him be. If he comes into the kitchen when you are eating, you could offer him some food. But if he wants to be alone, leave him.’

  Lucy watched Murad’s serious, compassionate expression and realised how clever he was. Of course, he must be intelligent to speak English so fluently but this level of intuition required a refined brain. She agreed to proceed as he suggested.

  Once Murad left and the boy was in bed, she went to the pianoforte. Usually she played the first piece that came into her head but knowing the boy would be able to hear her, she sat for a while considering the choice. Nothing too cheerful; it had to be calming and beautiful. At last she picked Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata; its steady rhythm always spoke to her of the slow inevitable passing of time, the infinite nature of the sky full of stars, of matters much greater than the small concerns of human beings. There was no noise from upstairs but she hoped he took it for what it was: a little piece of good in the world as an antidote to the horror of war.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  For a few days, the boy did not venture from his bedroom. Lucy left bowls of soup at his door and was pleased to see they were being drunk, as the empty bowl and spoon were left for her to collect. She worried that his chamber pot must be getting rather full; there was an outside latrine around the side of the house, hidden from view, where she emptied her own pot, but she did not like to offer to take his. And then, one morning, he emerged from the kitchen door while she was in the garden weeding the vegetable patch, with the black cloak wrapped around her. She waved but did not try to approach him, only watching out of the corner of her eye as he explored. He limped past the well towards the servants’ wing alongside the kitchen, then back to the little courtyard that lay beneath the sitting room’s picture windows, and down through a stretch of pretty flower gardens. The house had been designed to take advantage of the sea views, with tall arched windows set into the whitewashed walls on both levels. The boy went down to the far end of the garden where a steep rocky slope dropped to the water’s edge, and disappeared from view.

  When Lucy went in to the kitchen to make her daily soup, he remained outside for a while then she heard him creeping upstairs again.

  The next day she saw him round the side of the house and guessed he had discovered the latrine. She noted that he no longer wore the bandage on his head. That evening Lucy heard a shuffling movement in the hall while she was playing the pianoforte and sensed he was standing listening, but she did not motion him to come in and sit down. Everything must be on his terms. She told Murad of the progress when he came by.

  ‘I didn’t know you played the piano,’ he said, surprised. ‘I wonder … might I ask you to play something for me?’

  Lucy tried to think of a piece he would like and chose the first of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words, opus 19, number 1 in E-major. It had a slightly melancholy but resigned air that perfectly suited her mood. Murad sat on a chair just behind her where he could see her fingers moving on the keys, and once again the boy stood in the hall. When she finished, Murad didn’t speak for a while.

  ‘Did you like it?’ she asked. ‘I am especially partial to Mendelssohn but perhaps you would prefer something else? I’m afraid I don’t know any Turkish music.’

  ‘That was the most beautiful music I have ever heard.’ He seemed overcome, almost speechless with emotion. ‘It is music for all time, for any place. You have the most exquisite talent.’

  ‘I didn’t write it!’ she exclaimed in case he had misunderstood.

  ‘No, but the expression you bring to the playing … every note was perfect.’

  ‘
Good. I’m glad you liked it. I shall play something for you every time you come to thank you for your kindness towards me. I think our friend’ – she gestured towards the hall – ‘enjoys listening as well.’

  The following day, while she boiled up soup in the kitchen, the door opened and the boy came in and sat on a chair at the opposite side of the room. Lucy turned and smiled at him. She hadn’t had a chance to look at his face properly before and now she saw that his skin was several shades paler than Murad’s and he was very thin. He had not yet started to grow whiskers so she imagined Murad was right in guessing he was around thirteen or fourteen. There was a gash on the side of his head over his right ear but it appeared at a glance to be healing well.

  When the soup was ready, she put a bowl on the table for him and he pressed his hands together in a gesture of thanks and began to eat. She sat down on the opposite side of the table and did the same. When they finished, he took both bowls to the sink and rinsed them. It felt odd not to talk, so Lucy put a hand on her breastbone and said, ‘Lucy’ then pointed at him, questioning. It was a step too far, though; he shook his head and ran away.

  Later that day she heard him down in the cellar where the provisions were stored, and then she heard a rhythmic thumping coming from the kitchen. She decided to steer clear as she didn’t want to risk scaring him again, so she went into the garden to wander in the dusk, listening to the birds tweet insistently as they expended their final energy of the day.

  When the air got cold, she walked back into the house and a delicious aroma reached her nostrils. She opened the kitchen door and there in the centre of the table was a freshly baked loaf of bread. The boy was at the sink washing up. He produced a knife and cut a hunk of steaming bread and pushed it towards her. Quid pro quo. As she took a bite, tears came to Lucy’s eyes. It was like the smell of the kitchen at home where their cook, Mrs Dunstan, baked bread. A wave of homesickness crashed over her. She missed Mrs Dunstan. She missed Papa. More than anything, she missed Dorothea. She didn’t want the boy to think she didn’t appreciate his effort so she licked her lips and said, ‘Mmm.’ Indeed it was very good. He seemed pleased that she liked it and watched as she gobbled down the whole piece.