The Distant Kingdom

by Daphne Wright

  ‘Why not both come back with me?’ said James; and when they had agreed, he elbowed his way through the crowd towards their host to say goodbye in his newly acquired and very sketchy Persian. The three of them rode back together through the narrow, dirty streets of the bazaar to Thurleigh’s lodgings at the foot of the Bala Hissar.

  It was nearly three hours before Marcus put down his glass and picked up his coat.

  ‘I must go. I promised my wife I would ride with her.’

  James looked at his averted head:

  ‘Well, then, I shan’t see you for some time. I’m off to a the south in the morning and I suppose you will dine at home tonight.’

  ‘Yes. How long will you be gone?’

  ‘Only a few weeks, I expect.’

  ‘Come to the house when you get back. I know my wife will want to see you.’

  ‘I doubt that. And I …’

  ‘Don’t say it, please,’ Marcus interrupted. Then he said goodbye and left, calling for his horse.

  He found Perdita in the room she had allocated for the nursery, on her knees playing with his son while Aneila was concentratedly ringing a string of temple bells her father had given her. Perdita looked up as her husband came in, and he was struck by how happy she looked, a little dishevelled and panting from the boisterousness of Charlie’s favourite game. She picked herself up off her knees and said:

  ‘We shall play again tomorrow, Charlie, but now Papa and I are going to ride.’

  ‘Me too,’ he shouted, ‘me too.’

  ‘That is his new phrase,’ said Perdita, ‘that and “Mama I want it”, but I do think soon we should find him a quiet pony. Look how tall he is becoming.’

  ‘So I see. It is strange: he was just a baby when I left. And do you see how like Mama he is becoming in spite of his fair hair?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Perdita shortly, and then laughed as she caught sight of his quizzical smile. ‘And just as determined, I am afraid. Well, we shall leave him with ayah now,’ she added, smiling at the Indian woman who had been sitting in the corner out of the way until she was wanted.

  They walked away to the sounds of Charlie’s furious yells, punctuated by the sweet chiming of Annie’s Tibetan bells.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ asked Perdita.

  ‘I thought I would show you the town. I think you will find it interesting.’

  They rode off across the plain, crossing innumerable streams that irrigated the small square-sided orchards, towards the city, which was dominated by its medieval citadel and dwarfed by the mountains that reared a thousand feet up behind it.

  ‘That is the Bala Hissar,’ said Marcus, pointing to the battlemented walls, ‘where we were quartered when we first arrived.’

  ‘It looks menacing and rather uncomfortable.’

  ‘Not so bad, really. And more sensible for an invading force than open cantonments would have been. Until we could be sure that the country would not rise and reject Soojah, it would have been foolhardy to live in a place that would be so difficult to defend.’

  ‘But are you sure now?’ she asked, thinking of the children.

  ‘I do not think the Envoy would have sent for his wife if there were any risk, do you? Besides, we have found these fellows very friendly,’ he added, ignoring the evidence of hostility he had momentarily sensed at the cockfight. ‘We introduced them to racing, and some of the fellows have even tried to teach them cricket – though that was a bit of a failure. But I like them. They’ve far more pride than the Indians; you’d never catch an Afghan behaving like that grain bunnya last year at the Station. And they are splendid horsemen, and very strong. We turn right, up that alley there.’

  Perdita looked warily around her as they entered the city. It seemed very foreign, and sinister. The houses on either side of the narrow street presented blank mud walls, occasionally pierced by wooden rainwater pipes and small doorways projecting from under the first-floor eaves. When she asked why they were so small Marcus said:

  ‘I suspect so that the houses may be easily defended. These families are forever feuding, and their minds run rather on attack and defence. Their motto seems to be “blood for blood”.’

  The surface of the road had been worn away and would have been impossible to drive over. As it was, their horses had some trouble picking their way over the irregular ruts and loose stones, constantly impeded by the dense crowd. At one moment, Perdita looked back and was frightened to see that their grooms had been kept several yards behind them by the press of men wearing coarse turbans and stinking sheepskin coats over their long gowns, and she whispered to Marcus:

  ‘Isn’t this rather dangerous? Should we not go back?’

  He smiled reassuringly and said:

  ‘Good heavens no. The bazaar is not far now. You should not worry about the crowd: it is always like this.’

  He urged his horse forward, shouldering its way through the crowds, until they reached the great covered bazaar that was the pride of the city. Perdita had supposed that they would dismount and walk through the place, but Marcus rode on and she saw that other horses, as well as donkeys and even camels, were being ridden through the avenues of shops. They passed stalls of poshteens, the sheepskin coats that were so badly cured and smelly, and pottery, and tea houses and small caverns where armourers were sharpening their blades in a shower of sparks. Marcus told her at some length about the excellence of the swords, of how the steel of which they were forged was said to improve with age, and how they were tested for balance and purity with water. He saw Perdita’s expression of polite incomprehension and explained with pleasure:

  ‘You see, on a true blade the water falls straight, like a skein of silk. If the stream bends or turns, you can tell that there is a fault in the steel. And they are sharp. One day I shall get one of the men to test one for you. The two tests are that the blade should cut through bone but also through a silk handkerchief thrown up in the air.’

  Perdita shivered and, looking at the sea of unfamiliar dark faces all around and the shadowed, glittery shops, with their dangerous merchandise piled up to the roof behind their keepers, she longed to be outside again, riding towards the mountains where she knew she would find flowers and hear birds and breathe free air. Feeling foolish, she said breathlessly:

  ‘Marcus, please may we return? I find this place rather oppressive.’

  ‘We’ll have to ride on to the end of this lane, because we’d never be able to turn the horses here.’ She realized that he did not understand how frightened she was and so she twisted the reins in her coldly slippery fingers and concentrated on controlling her mare.

  At last they reached the further gateway and swung round to return through the town to the plain. The crowds were just as thick, and the blank outer walls of the houses seemed to press together, but at least she could see the sky if she tilted her head back, and occasionally she could see the top of a mulberry tree showing above the walls of some rich man’s house.

  At the junction of two of the filthy alleys they passed a group of women, quite hidden in their full-length white chadris, and nearly ran into a grass-seller, whose laden donkey took up most of the alleyway. They could not turn their horses and he refused to move. Perdita felt her knees trembling as she saw the fury on his face, but Marcus seemed unconcerned and shouted roughly for him to back his beast so that they could pass. The man yelled something as they forced their way past him and Perdita asked:

  ‘What was that he said?’

  ‘Roughly: “Is Dost Mohammed dead that there is no longer justice in the streets of Caubul?”‘

  ‘Doesn’t that worry you? Lady Macnaghten kept telling me on our march that all these people were glad to have Shah Soojah on the throne instead of the Dost.’

  ‘There are always some malcontents, but that phrase is one they have used for years, according to Burnes. He heard it first when he was here before, long before there was any question of the Dost’s removal.’

  ‘I see.’

  Event
ually they reached the city gate and as they rode out Perdita took a deep breath, enjoying the sight of the blossoming fruit trees and the sparkling irrigation canals that divided one man’s fields from another’s, and resolving never to set foot inside the city again.

  In fact she had to break her resolution several times over the next months, to attend dinners at Alexander Burnes’s house, but she avoided it at all other times. Instead she would ride out to the hills, sometimes with Marcus but more often with only her syce. After one expedition Marcus came back to the house to find her surrounded by sheets of blotting paper, arranging flowers for pressing. They seemed to be a mixture of tall spires of lily-like flowers and huge purple balls of blossoms that smelled oddly. He wrinkled his nose and said:

  ‘Those violet-coloured things smell exactly like onions.’

  Perdita looked up smiling:

  ‘Yes, well they are onions, I think: what the botanists call allium, but magnificent. This flower head must be six inches across. I hope Juliana will be pleased when she adds these to her collection.’

  ‘I am sure she will. How is she? I have had no letters from her since we left Simla.’

  ‘Well, I think, although she finds the life she has to lead rather unsympathetic. In fact your mother has written asking me not to encourage Juliana in her childish rebellions.’

  ‘Yes, Mama always wants everyone to do exactly as she wishes. And she never really understood any of us.’ He shook his head, as though to free himself from some constraint and seemed to change the subject:

  ‘Does that nice American still write to you? He rather formally asked my permission while we were all at Ferozepore and I told him I thought you’d be delighted to have letters from him.’

  Perdita laughed, a little ruefully.

  ‘Actually, yes, he does. But I had stopped replying to them because I thought you might not like it.’

  To her astonishment he touched her cheek with one of his fingers.

  ‘That was silly.’

  Emboldened by his tone, Perdita took the opportunity to air an anxiety that had been pressing on her.

  ‘In his last letter, he told me that he thought of coming back to Caubul soon.’

  ‘Yes, I believe he said something of the sort before we left the Punjab last year. I must go now, my dear, or I shall be late.’

  As he left, Perdita sighed in relief. She had been dreading the moment when Charles Byrd arrived and might have betrayed the fact that she had been corresponding with him, and yet to confess it to Marcus at that stage could have been to give unnecessary weight to an innocent pastime. Now she could look forward to Charles’s arrival unafraid.

  By July, with the temperature hovering around eighty degrees most days, almost all the married officers had brought up their wives from their Stations all over India, and life became the familiar round of calls, gossip, flirtation and dinners. One Friday afternoon, Perdita went to luncheon with Lady Sale, the wife of the commander of Marcus’s brigade under Sir Willoughby Cotton. Florentia Sale was a formidable woman, regarded with terrified awe by most of the junior wives, but Perdita rather liked her, and they shared an interest in horticulture.

  After the meal, Perdita was taken to admire the new garden the Sales had made. It seemed to her both surprising and admirable that Colonel Sale, who was considered to be the hero of the action at Ghazni, should care so much for gardening, and she said as much as she admired the neat rows of edible peas, potatoes, cauliflowers, artichokes and turnip radishes he had planted. His lady replied carelessly:

  ‘Sale has always had a shake for gardening, but he prefers to grow vegetables whilst I cultivate the flowers. Look at those geraniums; they have been much admired by the Afghan gentlemen who come to call.’

  ‘I too prefer flowers, but I must confess, I am more interested in those that grow wild in the hills. Unfortunately I came too late to see the tulips, which I heard are particularly fine.’

  ‘Well, we shall certainly be here next spring. Sale does not believe it will ever be possible to leave Shah Soojah here without a European garrison.’

  ‘I am resigned. Although I hate the city, I prefer this country to Beaminster’s old Station; the climate is infinitely to be preferred and the scenery splendid, don’t you think?’

  ‘I regret Agra, Lady Beaminster. We were comfortably situated there, with a fair garden and even a bathing pool. They tell me,’ she added abruptly, ‘that you are learning Pushtu.’

  ‘Yes; it gives me something to concentrate on so that my mind does not entirely atrophy, but in many ways it is more difficult even than Hindustani, and that was bad enough.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Lieutenant Sturt, who dined with us again yesterday, thinks it excellent that you should be making the attempt. He is worried that so few of us are employing Afghan servants and yet without Pushtu, or at least Persian, how could we ever make them understand an order? I myself shall be employing a man from the city, and Sturt promises to help me with him. I advise you to think about it, Lady Beaminster. We need to be on terms with the people here.’

  Perdita, thinking instead that gossip had not lied when it said that Emily Sale must be about to become affianced to Lieutenant Sturt, murmured:

  ‘I think we have all the servants we need at the moment, but I shall certainly remember your advice.’

  Perdita left soon after that, finding Lady Sale’s overwhelming manner tiring, and rode back to her own house, hoping that Marcus would be back from the racetrack. She had not accompanied him that day, partly because of the heat, but also because there were to be races for the Afghans, and they always tended to become violent and were not considered suitable for the English ladies.

  When her khitmagar opened the door for her, she asked him if her husband had returned. He nodded and told her that the lord-sahib was in the drawing room with another gentleman. Assuming that it was one of the politicals, Perdita went quickly into her room to titivate before going to them.

  They both rose when she came in, and Marcus said:

  ‘My dear, we have a visitor.’

  Perdita turned slowly and took Charles Byrd’s out-stretched hand, remembering the feel of his firm fingers as she shook it. She was trying to find something to say that would betray neither the intense sinking pleasure she felt at seeing him again nor the almost equally intense dismay it brought in its train. Still holding her hand, he said:

  ‘Lady Beaminster, it is a real pleasure to see you again.’ She had forgotten just how his deep slow voice used to affect her, and to hear it then was to be transported back to the happiness of their sunlit meetings in the valleys around Simla. She withdrew her hand gently.

  ‘How good of you to call. Are you staying long in Caubul?’

  ‘I am not sure. But it seems as good a place as any to get on with my writing, and I have several friends with your army.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘With Johnson, the paymaster, who lodges in a house next to Sir Alexander’s. It is a charming place, with a large compound and several shady trees. I hope Lord Beaminster will bring you to see it one day.’

  ‘You will find, Byrd, that my wife dislikes the city. She never goes there if she can help it. My dear, Mr Byrd has brought you this from Persia.’ He handed Perdita a package containing a superb shawl. She shook it out, saying:

  ‘It is quite lovely, but surely it is from Cashmere?’

  ‘I imagine so; but I found it in the bazaar at Teheran. I am glad you like it.’

  ‘Who could dislike it?’ she asked as she let its fine silky folds run through her fingers.

  She wore it when they next went to dine with the Macnaghtens, and was pleased with the compliments it won. The evening turned out to be far more enjoyable than she had expected, for Mr Byrd was a fellow-guest and had been placed on her left at the dinner table. Since Sir William, on her other side, was fully occupied with Lady Sale during the first course, she was free to talk to Charles Byrd. She asked some question about his travels, but
hardly listened to his answer, so happy was she to see him, hear his voice and to read the pleasure in his eyes.

  During his absence she had tried to make herself believe that their friendship had been nothing out of the ordinary, and that it was only the image of him built up in her lonely months at Simla that had made him seem so different from Marcus, so much easier to talk to and to know. But now she knew that it was not her memory that had lied, and after dinner when Lady Macnaghten as usual asked her to sing and he begged for ‘The Last Rose of Summer’, she recognized her feelings for what they were.

  So she smiled at him and said:

  ‘I don’t think so; it is far too sad.’ Instead she sang one of Marcus’s favourites and forced herself to sing it to him and not to Charles. Marcus seemed pleased, and Perdita tried to think it would have been better if Charles had not returned. She and her husband had been happy enough since she had arrived in Caubul, and she did not want to have to acknowledge how insignificant that quiet content now seemed.

  But there was no avoiding the knowledge. Charles called on her often, as he called on several of the others, and she could not escape meeting him out riding or at the races. Then, too, Marcus seemed to have a liking for him and was forever asking him to dine, sometimes with James Thurleigh, sometimes on his own. Unlike the early Simla days when Perdita had hoped every evening that he would have been invited to whichever house she was going to, now she wished that she could avoid him. He had only to smile at her or say in his irresistible voice: ‘What a pleasure, Lady B!’ when they met unexpectedly for her to feel irrationally, dangerously delighted.

  He helped her to teach Charlie to ride the small pony Marcus had found for him, and collect flowers for Juliana in the mountains. He seemed to have remembered everything she had ever said to him, and asked questions about her father, the Dowager and Juliana as though they were his own family too. He talked, when he was alone with Perdita, about things she had written to him, and seemed to make it clear by every word, every gesture, even every glance, that there was more between them than mere decorous friendship, and the more she tried to keep him at bay, the closer he seemed to come to her.