The following morning the front doorbell rang when the Mariners were still at breakfast. Vivien, who had finished her toast, left the table and forestalled Hilda in the hall.
‘That’s all right, Hilda, I’ll answer it.’
Ashe was on the doorstep, hatless, facing in the other direction. He turned a fraction more slowly than was respectful. She remembered the contract.
‘Mr Ashe.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Mariner.’
‘We wondered where you’d got to,’ she said, but he ignored this.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘No, no—we were just having—you’re not disturbing us.’
‘I wonder if I could have a word with Mr Mariner.’
‘I’ll see. Come in.’
He stepped past her into the hall, in silence, and watched her as she closed the door. She looked up once, quickly, into his face.
‘Wait there, I shan’t be a moment.’
He nodded.
She went back into the dining room. Saxon, who was reading the newspaper, didn’t look up.
‘Who is that?’
‘John Ashe.’
‘Ah.’ Saxon folded the paper with one snap, then again. ‘Right.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Sit down and have some more coffee—with sugar perhaps.’
Saxon went out, closing the door behind him. Trembling, Vivien returned to her chair and poured some black coffee into her cup. She swallowed it down quickly, like medicine, and poured another, the cold, tarry dregs this time which she sipped with distaste. Her nerves began to steady; her hand had almost stopped shaking.
The front door opened and closed. There was a pause. Then Saxon’s footsteps approached, and he came in.
‘All settled,’ he said. ‘He’ll start here full-time on Monday morning—’ He looked at her more closely. ‘Vivien?’
‘I heard. Good.’ She put down her cup. It rattled slightly on the saucer. ‘I wonder, would you mind if I took the car out?’
She had no idea where she would go, only that she needed to be out of the vicarage. There was no one to whom she could talk; no woman friend in whom to confide even the partial truth of what she was feeling.
In a mood of desperation, she turned east, and pointed the car up Fort Hill, in the direction of Eaden Place.
Saxon had a parish council meeting later that day and once Vivien had left and he was in his study he took from his desk drawer the agenda, the minutes of the last meeting and papers concerning various matters arising. But it was dry stuff and he found it hard to concentrate. Sitting there staring dully at the handwritten sheets he heard the desultory clicking of the dog’s paws on the hall floor, and it occurred to him that at last he had a perfectly respectable pretext for leaving his desk and going out of the house, alone.
Lady Delamayne was about to go out herself when the Mariners’ car pulled into the drive. But her outing wasn’t urgent—a visit to the outfitter’s in Bridgford to buy socks and vests for Sidney—and she replaced her hat and gloves on the hall table and went to welcome her visitor.
‘Vivien, my dear, how nice. Is this a philanthropic call, or a social one?’
‘I don’t know—a bit of both, I suppose.’
Felicity noted first the girl’s pallor, then the scuffed shoes, the frayed cuff, the disarrayed hair—the lack, in fact, of any of the toilette which would in her own book precede the making of a call. On the other hand, she reflected, in Vivien Mariner’s case one need not read too much into this laissez-faire.
‘Would you care for some coffee? I can assure you I’m gasping for one.’
‘No, no thank you.’
‘A cold drink? Lemon barley?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘I’m going to suggest we hide from the sun just this once. We’ve had so much of it I think we can afford to behave like foreigners and take it for granted.’
She led the way to that part of the house which for the time being constituted their private apartments. In the ‘small drawing room’ (twice the size of the one at the vicarage) she rang the bell for their drinks.
‘Sit down, do.’
Vivien lowered herself on to a pink brocade armchair, but almost at once got up again and stood by the fireplace, presently filled by a huge arrangement of tea roses in a Josiah Wedgwood urn. She was still wearing her glasses, and it didn’t seem to bother her. Felicity, who herself wore glasses for reading these days, nonetheless regarded them as the symbol of a shameful weakness and would never have dreamed of keeping them on a moment longer than was necessary. Still, she knew that Vivien’s poor sight was congenital rather than the concomitant of advancing years, so perhaps she should be given the benefit of the doubt . . .
‘How are you?’ she asked in her blunt, keen way, narrowing her eyes as if the answer would be visible, whatever the reply.
‘Oh—you know.’
‘No, I don’t. Or I shouldn’t ask.’
Now Vivien did take the glasses off, but only so that she could rub her eyes and face vigorously and then replace them.
‘I’m awfully tired at the moment. And so . . . restless.’
Here was something with which Felicity could thoroughly identify, but the tray arrived and she waited until it was set down and the butler had withdrawn before responding.
‘You poor thing. That is terribly trying.’
‘I expect it sounds pretty silly to you.’
‘Not at all . . .’ Felicity poured lemon barley for Vivien and coffee for herself. ‘I’ve been restless my entire life, my entire married life, but fortunately I’ve always had a good deal of room, and latitude, in which to operate, so it hasn’t been too uncomfortable for me or anyone else.’
‘How is Saxon?’ Felicity went on, stirring sugar into her own cup. ‘We both think he’s been in particularly good sermonising form recently.’
‘He has been.’
‘Sad to say,’ observed Felicity, ‘I don’t think most of the village appreciates how fortunate we are to have him.’ She sipped, looking at Vivien over the rim of her cup. ‘How is his latest book doing?’
‘Pretty well, I think. He went up to London to do a reading, his publisher persuaded him—’
‘No! We had no idea. How simply splendid, we’d have gone if we’d known.’
‘He said there were quite a few there—readers, of course. And other writers. Poets.’
‘Mm . . . Probably better not to have people one knows, first time out.’ The language of the turf came naturally to Felicity. ‘Cigarette?’ She proffered the silver box and Vivien took one. She put her own in an ivory holder, and held the lighter for both of them before settling back. Smoking conveyed an air of greater equality between the two women; the possibility, Felicity hoped, of an exchange of confidences.
‘He should do more,’ she said. ‘In Bridgeford, for instance, the locals would adore it, I’m sure.’
‘He is thinking about that. I’ll tell him what you said.’
‘Excellent.’ Felicity put down her cup and cocked her head slightly, like a gun dog awaiting instruction. ‘So what are we going to do—about this restlessness of yours?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You could start by sitting down, my dear.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Vivien sank down once more on to the plump, pink brocade, but remained poised nervously on the edge of the seat, puffing on her cigarette like a working man.
Felicity, on the other hand, leaned back in her chair as if there were all the time in the world.
‘Don’t be.’ She tapped ash into the glass ashtray and crossed her fine, strong legs with a whisper of silk. ‘As I say, I’ve been fortunate in having the right circumstances. I don’t mind admitting that yours would have driven me stark, staring mad.’
‘Really?’ Now she had got Vivien’s undivided attention. ‘Why?’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, where to start? Being a
clergy wife, living in that gloomy place, having to consider village opinion the entire time—I should simply loathe it. And don’t think I don’t know how difficult it must be to be married to a clever, discontented man—’ she heard Vivien’s hissed intake of breath—‘because of course he is, though not with you, my dear. But a man like that shouldn’t be stuck away in Eadenford. He’s a poet. A scholar. The constraints must be appalling.’
‘You may be right about that,’ said Vivien in a small, humble voice.
‘So all things considered,’ Felicity gave her short, barking laugh, ‘you both do terrifically well.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But that doesn’t solve the problem, does it?’
‘No.’
There followed a long silence during which Felicity did not take her eyes off Vivien. She sensed that there was more to say, and that a little frankness on her part had gone a long way to create an opening. But as far as she herself was concerned nosiness was by far the greater part of philanthropy, and nosiness won out.
‘We’re so pleased that you have your dog back.’
‘How did you hear about that?’
‘My dear, the whole village rejoiced! How wonderful that Mr Ashe found him.’
‘Yes—yes, it was.’
Felicity’s antennae detected something there. Ah! ‘He’s rather a remarkable chap, isn’t he? Breezes in from nowhere and makes his presence felt in no time.’
‘Yes. Actually—’
‘Mm?’
‘He’s coming to work for us full time. Starting on Monday. Saxon asked him,’ she added, as if that needed saying.
‘He took my advice!’ declared Felicity, ‘good show!’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Vivien defensively.
‘Only that if you hadn’t taken him on I probably would have done.’
‘I see.’
‘Because I believe,’ said Felicity, leaning forward confidingly, ‘that you and I know he is someone it’s good to have on one’s side!’
MESOPOTAMIA
At Laji I’m lucky getting a place on one of the two hospital ships. Too lucky, according to some of the other blokes who make their feelings plain as I help Jarvis up the gangplank. They think I’m swinging the lead. The truth is, Jarvis has got feverish and can hardly walk, and we benefit from being among the last to arrive on the quay: they’re filling up the corners, they see an officer in a bad way, and a chap in a position to help out, and they wave us on. There’s a second wave arriving from Ctesiphon, worse off than us, and they’re having to cram them aboard whatever boats and barges they can lay their hands on. Some of these boats are having cargo and animals taken off so the wounded can be piled on in their place—no preparations of any sort.
So at the time, yes, it feels lucky. We’ve already spent the night on the outskirts of Laji and the last couple of hours on the quayside, and it’s mayhem, what with the backwash of the battle and several hundred stinking, jabbering, shoving locals like jackals round a kill. I’m glad I’ve got Jarvis draped over me for a bit of protection. This isn’t something I’d say often but if my hands were free and my head was up I’d be tempted to take a swing. I swear I hate these people more than I hate the Turks. My opinion for what it’s worth is: the Turks are just the opposition; these bastards are the enemy.
As I say, we’re among the last. It’s absolutely jam-packed on board, but I manage to push through a little way, and then stand between Jarvis and the rail, so he can slither down on to the deck without getting trampled.
I crouch down for a moment. ‘How’s it going, sir?’
His mouth’s all dry and cracked and I have to bend over and put my ear up against it before I can hear him say: ‘Thirsty.’ Now there’s a surprise.
‘I’ll see what I can do, sir. Once we’re under way.’
He nods. No fuss. He’s a patient patient.
The fact is I’ve got a little water left in my bottle, but it’s going to be like gold dust on this trip and there will be plenty of men on board this tub a lot more desperate than Jarvis. An opportunity to do favours never does any harm. Canny does it, Ashe.
When we cast off—that’s a good moment, a real relief. When the big old rope falls into the water, I can’t hear the splash because of the hubbub, but the ripples spread out and we can feel the boat come to life; the engine starting to drone, the plates creaking, the swell of the murky river underneath us. The last thing I notice on that crowded quay is an Arab wearing a Sam Browne round his middle over his djellaba, and holding a pith helmet upside down in the crook of his arm. I don’t suppose he can see me, not separately, we’re one big floating audience to him, but as we’re pulling away he hawks and spits into the helmet, a great big gob. Then he holds the helmet up above his head like a trophy—him and his pals think that’s very funny, they’re cackling fit to bust, and he offers it round so the toe-rags can all can have a good spit.
What I don’t know is that leaving Laji is going to be the best thing about our river cruise, by a long chalk. Less than an hour later and I’m thinking come back, Laji, all is forgiven. Give me a go at that spittoon.
If I ever thought I was fortunate getting on to this floating midden, I don’t now. Those blokes who were barracking earlier would be laughing like drains if they could see this lot.
I don’t know who was doing the sums, but they got them wrong, as usual. They threw thousands of us at the Turks, but they never reckoned on the Turks being any good. This all goes to show how wrong they were. Ours is the second boat, so it’s probably the worst crowded. I hope so, or the other one—let alone all the small craft—doesn’t bear thinking about.
They must have started by putting the really bad cases below decks, and run out of room. Just glancing round where we are, aside from what you might call the regulation stuff, I can see a man with his guts on show, one with the top of his head missing like a soft-boiled egg, and another with a leg that’s just pulp from the knee down. There’s no cover up here, it’s white-hot, the flies are feasting. The stench is enough to make you vomit now, plenty of men are. And the rest. With no room to move, the poor sods have to get rid of whatever it is exactly where they are. All that stuff that comes out of us, that usually stays hidden . . . Jarvis is a fastidious bloke, and there’s nothing to lie on. I weaken, and give him a mouthful of water, but hiding it as best I can.
It’s like a tonic, he comes round almost at once, and says: ‘Help me up, Ashe, can you?’
‘Sir.’
I get an arm under his armpit and he staggers to his feet, using his other hand to prop him up on the rails. He’s green at the gills, but he steadies.
‘Thank you,’ he says. Always such a gent. Does he remember what happened out on that desert? I can’t tell. It’ll be our little secret for now.
I decide to make conversation. Besides, there’s something I need to know.
‘How far to Basra, sir—any idea?’
‘Let’s see . . .’ He closes his eyes. His eyelids are white as a woman’s, so white they’re nearly transparent.
When he opens them, though, there’s a glint there. Even he can see the joke.
‘Not that far, Ashe. About four hundred miles.’
Word comes round that the trip’s going to take five days or thereabouts. It finishes up being twice that and seems like three times.
The first night on board ship we get the first rains of the season—solid, like being under a waterfall. We, that’s a couple of the medical orderlies and me, manage to rig up a few awnings out of old tents and what have you, but five minutes of Mesopotamian rain and they’re flattened, or the rain’s collected on the canvas and starts pouring through. One thing, it rains so hard that the water gets down between the bodies and washes some of the filth away, but it doesn’t do sick and wounded men any good getting soaking wet, and by the morning when the rain eases a bit the situation’s worse than ever. The few men who still give a tinker’s fuck about the niceties, and who can scramble that far, stic
k their heads or their arses through the railings and pollute the water supply for our Arab friends. The railing’s soon crusted with the stuff, and we’re right next to it. But if we move, we’ll be in the thick of it, with even less air.
‘Better the devil you know,’ says Jarvis, with a grim little smile. By the standards of the other passengers he’s in clover. His foot’s not looking too bad, I’ve kept it clean and poured a bit of rum on it.
‘You’d make a lovely nurse, Ashe,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about me, you make yourself useful.’
I do what I can, with some advice here and there from the orderlies. They tell me there’s six of them, and three doctors. For what—five hundred or more of us? They don’t care who helps, if you’ve got the use of your legs and hands you can do something. A lot of the dressings are alive with maggots, but it’s a fine judgement who gets their dressing changed. Is it worth it, for a start? And if it is, are there any dressings? To my knowledge most of the men near us never got their wounds looked at, let alone changed, for the whole ten days. Besides, I’m no Florence Nightingale, it turns me up after a while and I go back to Jarvis, who’s sitting down again, bunched up sideways against the rail like a monkey in a zoo.
‘Not good, eh?’ he asks. Or rather says.
‘No, sir.’
There’s nothing to eat, either, or nothing that I can find, and almost no water, which is worse. Plenty of the men on the deck are delirious. On the second night it gets a lot noisier before it gets quieter. We put in at Kut the following day to offload the corpses, and take on another load of wounded so the small craft can go back for more. More! It beggars belief. More screaming and yelling, more insults from the docks, but one of the orderlies and I brave the crowd and go in search of some water. We come back with two oil cans full that’s been stashed away for the military vehicles. It should be boiled, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Off we set again, and I’m not feeling too chipper myself now. I’ve got the runs and my arms, legs and head hurt like hell. What it must be like to have this and half your stomach missing I don’t know . . . better, perhaps.
A Spell of Swallows Page 24