by Gill Paul
All the nurses urged Lucy to eat. She had no appetite and her already bird-like figure grew skinnier, but Mrs Roberts brought items from the stores to tempt her: jellied fruits, sugared almonds, gingerbread and a local delicacy called Turkish delight. She could usually manage to nibble a sweet treat even if she could not contemplate eating the more filling stews served in the staff dining room. Just the smell of them made her stomach turn.
Many treatments were prescribed for Murad: warm poultices were wrapped around his head and Spanish fly was used to blister the back of his neck to draw out impurities. He did not flinch and it was obvious he could feel no pain. Lucy wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing. The nurses showed her how to wash and shave him, and she was glad to take over those duties herself, glad there were services she could perform for him.
It was hard to remain optimistic but Lucy tried, telling herself that God would not be so cruel as to take a husband and a lover from her within a year. No one should have to suffer so much. And then one morning, while she was staring at his face, Murad’s eyes suddenly opened and he gazed up at her.
Her first reaction was to scream, making a nurse come rushing over, but immediately afterwards she was filled with overwhelming joy. ‘Murad!’ she cried, throwing her arms round his neck and kissing him. ‘My love, you are back!’ Tears streamed down her cheeks.
A little smile curled the corners of his mouth but he did not speak. ‘Murad, it’s me, your Lucy,’ she whispered urgently but his expression did not change, and after just a brief period of consciousness he fell asleep again. Lucy was disappointed but everyone agreed it was a very good sign. Even Miss Nightingale said as much, although she cautioned Lucy not to hope for too much progress straight away.
‘He is on the mend,’ she pronounced, ‘but the healing of the brain cannot be rushed. Keep faith and pray for him.’
There was a grin on Lucy’s face all day: Murad was recovering. When Mrs Roberts stopped by and was told the news, she clasped her hands in delight. ‘And he’s not a moment too soon in rejoining us, is he, my dear?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because of the baby.’
Lucy stared at her blankly.
‘You do know you’re with child, don’t you?’ She smiled at Lucy’s obvious shock. ‘We’ve all known since you arrived, from the nausea and your pallor. Your beloved Murad is going to be a father.’
Lucy had had no idea. She had assumed Murad would take precautions. Wasn’t that the man’s job? For the time being it was too much to take in. He had to get well again before she could even think about having his baby. They would have to marry now.
She decided she would not celebrate yet; she would wait until they could share the news.
Murad didn’t waken again that first day, but the following morning he opened his eyes and smiled at Lucy as she arrived on the ward. She took his hand and kissed it, then whispered in his ear: ‘I’m expecting a baby, darling. I’ve only just found out.’ She peered into his eyes for a sign that he had understood and was sure she saw a flicker of recognition. Just a flicker.
The nurses pulled him up to sitting position and gave Lucy a bowl of beef broth to feed him. He let her spoon it between his lips and seemed to relish the flavour, smacking his lips together. ‘Would you like some more?’ she asked and waited, but there was no response.
‘Don’t rush him,’ a nurse laughed. ‘He’s only just come round. It will be a while before he talks. One step at a time.’
Still, Lucy was impatient. She held his hand and urged him to squeeze her fingers, but got no response apart from a blank stare. She kissed his lips, trying to discern whether he was kissing her back. She was heartened when a nurse fed him a spoonful of foul-smelling medicine and Murad shuddered and screwed up his face. It seemed his sense of taste was unaffected. She knew he could hear, because he jumped when she dropped a stone darning egg on the floor. And he turned his head to watch movement, so that meant he could see. His brain was working; it just wasn’t ready for speech yet.
All that day and all the next, Lucy chattered to Murad about everything that entered her head, seeking signs that he understood her. ‘Do you see how poor my sewing is?’ She showed him a seam. ‘I hope you will not compare my work with your sisters’ embroidery.’ Miss Nightingale stopped to observe him, peering into his eyes and testing the reflexes in his legs. She pinched the skin on the back of his hand, and said it was a good sign that he grimaced, although he did not pull his hand away.
‘I think it might be best if you take him home to his family,’ she said. ‘He may be more responsive in familiar surroundings. Besides, we need the bed.’
Lucy panicked. How would she get him to Smyrna? She hadn’t written to his mother to tell her of Murad’s injury because she could not write in Turkish. Their arrival would come as a huge shock. Besides, she didn’t have money to pay for the trip.
Miss Nightingale had all the answers: ‘If you give me the address, I will write to his mother explaining what has happened to him and what needs to be done for his ongoing care, and I will have someone translate it into Turkish. Perhaps his family will arrange transportation for you. It is hardly the responsibility of the British army, after all.’
Lucy found the address on the letter from his mother, which was in the inside pocket of Murad’s uniform tunic, and a note was duly written and dispatched. Just over two weeks later, a messenger arrived with a reply explaining that Murad’s uncle had sent a boat to transport them round to Smyrna. The journey would be much safer and more comfortable by sea than attempting to cover the 350 miles overland and would take just two or three days, depending on the wind. All the arrangements were made and the boat, the Amasra, was already docked at Scutari awaiting instructions.
Lucy felt fluttery with nerves about leaving the hospital, where they had been so well looked after. How would Murad cope with the journey? How would his family receive her? They must wonder why an Englishwoman accompanied him. She would not be able to communicate with them except in the rudimentary Turkish Emir had taught her, consisting of single words like ‘bread’ or ‘fish’. She wished vehemently she had tried harder to learn the language. And what would they think when they learned she was expecting a baby outside wedlock? They would judge very ill of her, to be sure.
‘It’s natural to be nervous about meeting your new mother-in-law,’ Mrs Roberts told her, ‘but she will be grateful to you for looking after her son following his injury. And she will be delighted about her impending grandchild. Every mother yearns for grandchildren. I guarantee all will work out for the best.’
Lucy’s nerve failed her momentarily and she asked, ‘Can’t I just stay here?’
Mrs Roberts lowered her voice: ‘There is a cholera outbreak in the hospital. You must protect Murad, as he is not strong enough to survive infection.’ She spoke at normal volume again: ‘Besides, I expect he will recover much faster in his own surroundings. Miss Nightingale is right about that.’
And so, on 8th November, Lucy packed up the clothes she had been given and donned a white head veil Mrs Roberts had suggested she wear for the journey, just so the Turkish sailors would treat her with respect. Murad was transferred to a stretcher and carried across the lawn then down the rocky trail towards a quay, where the Amasra waited.
Chapter Forty
All through the journey down the Bosphorus, across the Sea of Marmara, through the Dardanelles then round the rocky coast of western Turkey, Lucy was sick to her stomach. Murad lay in a cabin below deck but when she spent more than half an hour with him, the stale air and the rocking motion of the ship made her retch convulsively and she had to rush up to the fresher air on deck. The captain gave her a drink made of ginger, which helped a little, but all in all it was a miserable journey. Murad seemed uncomfortable too, spending most of the time asleep but often screwing up his face as if having bad dreams.
As the ship pulled in to the busy port of Smyrna, Lucy felt faint with worry about the recept
ion she might expect. A messenger was sent ashore to ask the family to dispatch a coach, and Lucy washed her face and arranged her veil neatly, making sure Murad was clean and presentable. He tended to dribble so she used a handkerchief to wipe his mouth, and she straightened the bandage around his head, which had slid down over one eye.
As Murad’s stretcher was lifted off the ship, Lucy looked around her. There were several dozen tall-masted ships in the harbour, bobbing on iridescent blue-green water with sunbeams twinkling on the surface. White-painted buildings were clustered at the foot of a hill, pierced with minarets and domes, and on the hilltop there was an old castle. Trees surrounded the town, their foliage like plush green velvet draped over the rocky shores. It seemed a pretty place.
As they drove slowly through the narrow streets to avoid jolting Murad, Lucy formed an impression of tall white buildings, plump cats sunning themselves on walls, and a sense of wealth. The houses and gardens were well-kept and there was no sign of beggars. Within ten minutes, they were pulling into a driveway and, rigid with nerves, Lucy wiped Murad’s mouth again.
As soon as they drew to a halt, she heard footsteps running towards the coach and the door was flung open. A Turkish woman in a veil looked inside then extended a hand to help Lucy climb down.
‘Wel-come!’ she cried, in a heavy foreign accent, her voice full of emotion. Lucy was enveloped in a cloud of exotic scent, her face pressed against a pink and gold silk gown. She looked up and saw the woman embracing her had Murad’s dark, gentle eyes.
Instantly, Lucy knew she was safe.
After greeting Lucy, Murad’s mother climbed into the coach and embraced her son. If she was shocked by his appearance, she didn’t show it. Perhaps Miss Nightingale’s letter had prepared her. A young man dressed in a white tunic and trousers went round to the other side of the coach and took Murad’s pulse, lifted his eyelids to check his pupils, then motioned to the driver that they would carry the stretcher into the house together.
Murad’s mother’s returned to Lucy’s side, pointed at herself and said the name, ‘Hafza’. She repeated it until she was sure Lucy understood, and Lucy gave her own name the same way.
‘Do you speak any English?’ Lucy asked, and Hafza shook her head apologetically. Someone must have taught her the word ‘welcome’ especially for the occasion.
They followed as Murad’s stretcher was carried into the house and taken to a room on the ground floor, with huge windows looking out to the garden. Lucy noticed they even had a chair with wheels on it sitting by the bedside, and she looked forward to wheeling him around in it. Murad was lifted into bed for now and opened his eyes to regard them with a docile expression.
‘Hello, darling. We’re here. At your home. I’ve met your mother and she is charming. Are you comfortable, my love?’ Lucy used a coaxing tone. She was full of hope that being in the bosom of his family, in familiar surroundings, would cure Murad.
There was no reply. His mother spoke to him in Turkish and was met with the same blank gaze. The man in white indicated that he wanted to wash and change Murad and Hafza motioned for Lucy to come with her. She was exhausted after the voyage and glad to share the burden of Murad’s care, but at the same time she felt a little possessive. She had learned what he needed and worried that others would not anticipate his needs so well. Would they realise he often choked and could only have liquid foods? Would they wipe his dribble?
Hafza led Lucy up a marble staircase to a room on the first floor and indicated it was to be hers. It was cool and airy, with a low divan bed covered in multi-coloured silk cushions. A little balcony had a view over the gardens, which were every bit as glorious as Murad had described, full of fruit trees, huge flowers creeping over trellises, and a pond with a waterfall. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Lucy said, smiling and extending her arms to encompass the view, and Hafza seemed pleased. Murad’s four teenage sisters came to introduce themselves, smiling shyly and trying out phrases in hesitant English.
‘How-do-you-do-we-are-pleased-to-meet-you.’
Lucy repeated their names one by one, determined to remember them, and they giggled at her pronunciations.
After they left, Lucy washed then lay on the bed and tried to rest. There were stunning tiles on one wall, patterned with terracotta, blue and green tulips, and she guessed these must be the Iznik tiles for which Smyrna was famous. She traced the intricate patterns drowsily but couldn’t sleep. It felt wrong not to be with Murad.
After a while, she rose and wandered out into the corridor, then down the stairs to Murad’s room. Hearing a muffled sound, she glanced through the doorway and saw Hafza sitting by her son’s bedside, holding his hand and sobbing with abandon, as though her heart had shattered into millions of tiny pieces.
Chapter Forty-one
Although it was mid-November, the weather was warm as an English summer’s day. Murad’s sisters brought gowns for Lucy to wear, lighter than the heavy serge ones she’d been given in Scutari, in shades of delicate shell pink, lilac and leaf green. Their Eastern fashion was to wear bloomers beneath a trim-waisted dress that fell to just below the knee. Lucy liked the style, although she was self-conscious that it emphasised the slight bump of her belly. If only she had grabbed her corset that morning when she left the dacha, she could have disguised her changing shape.
It seemed to be accepted from the start that she was a member of the family, eating meals with them in the large airy dining room, where they sat on cushions around a circular silver tray on the floor and helped themselves from the communal dishes of food. She strolled in the garden with Hafza or Murad’s sisters and tried to make conversation in a combination of mime and the few words of Turkish she could remember plus the rudimentary English they had learned. The girls’ governess, who came to give them lessons every morning, spoke good English and was able to translate if necessary. When Lucy asked about the strange fruits hanging on the trees, which looked like pinky-brown apples made of wood, the governess was able to tell her they were pomegranates and she cut one open to show the ruby seeds. When an elegant white bird with a long neck waded into the pond in search of fish, the governess told Lucy it was an egret.
Murad’s sisters showed her some of his works of calligraphy, in inks of terracotta, amber, jade, deep turquoise, black and gold, and she was moved beyond words at the stunning artistry but at the same time tears pricked her eyes that a man of such talent should for now be so reduced.
While the orderly took over the job of washing, feeding and dressing Murad and massaging his muscles so they did not cramp, Hafza and Lucy took turns to sit by his bedside, whispering to him, urging him to open his eyes. Still he had not spoken but he smiled and seemed pleased when they entered the room. Lucy sang for him, hoping to trigger a response, and Hafza clapped her hands in delight at the sound of her pretty voice. Still Murad had just three expressions: blank, a smile and a grimace when he didn’t like something. Lucy kept reminding herself of Miss Nightingale’s words that healing of the brain could take time. Patience had never been one of her virtues – Dorothea used to chide her for wanting everything to happen immediately – but she decided that this time she would simply wait as long as it took.
One day as they sat together by his bedside, Hafza turned to Lucy with a gentle smile. She curved her arms together and rocked them as if rocking a baby, then she pointed at Lucy’s belly. Lucy blushed deep scarlet. Her secret was exposed.
‘Murad?’ Hafza asked gently, pointing at him, then back at Lucy’s belly.
Lucy screwed up her face, wondering whether to lie, to say it was her late husband’s baby, but it didn’t seem fair to deny Hafza the right to be a grandmother to her son’s child. ‘Yes,’ she nodded, waiting for the condemnation she knew she deserved.
Hafza considered the news for a while, then she kissed the tips of her fingers and laid them gently on Lucy’s stomach. Her eyes filled with tears but she kept smiling. ‘Is good,’ she said.
Lucy settled into the rhythm of life in the hou
se in Smyrna. No men were admitted, apart from servants, and the women spent their days within the garden walls but they always seemed busy. She admired the charming miniatures painted by Murad’s sister Fatma, the cushion covers embroidered by Safiye and the rugs woven by all of them together. They were curious to test their English, asking Lucy about life in London, although seeming horrified to learn that she went out on her own in a carriage to call upon friends and sometimes even walked in the streets from shop to shop, buying gloves or boots.
As November turned to December, Murad appeared to be making slow progress. Many times Lucy sensed he was trying to form a word, moving his lips and forcing sounds from his throat. She strained to listen and asked, ‘What is it, my darling?’ but frustratingly could not decipher the meaning. She wondered if he were speaking Turkish but Hafza did not seem to understand either. They could sense his moods, though. When he was lifted into the wheelchair and taken out into the garden to sit in the shade of a plane tree, he was obviously more content. Lucy believed he could hear the birdsong and feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, perhaps even smell the fragrant plants. He hated having medical procedures carried out, and sometimes after the doctor had been to bleed him, or after the orderly had washed him and changed his clothes, Murad was out of sorts, thrashing in bed and grimacing. Perhaps he was frustrated at not being able to do anything for himself, Lucy speculated. She could usually calm him by singing for him. He stopped still and appeared to be listening to the sound of her voice. He liked her to stroke his hand and kiss his face, and would gaze at her with a benign expression.
One late afternoon, she was sitting with Murad in the garden. A buzzing insect that looked like a double-bodied wasp was hovering around and she was watching to make sure it did not attempt to sting him. She vaguely heard the bell ring in the background but assumed it would be a delivery of fish. Murad’s uncle always sent some of the day’s catch for their evening meal.