The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Now, he shrugged deeper under the blanket, like a small boy hiding from the dark, and switched his gaze from ceiling to wall. He had always been certain that he was not in love with Alice; there was a huge well of affection for her within him, but it was not love. Yet as he lay and traced with a finger the crusty mud pattern on the wall, he realised in a rare moment of truth that he had always regarded Alice as being part of his long-term future: that, without being precise, somehow, somewhere, she would be a close part of his life. Impotence, however, had crushed that dream completely. No woman would want a man who could not . . . Damn! He clenched his fist and rammed it hard into the wall, making blood spurt from the knuckles.

  Alice came back that evening, although Simon did not see her. He had remained in his bed, churlishly refusing to eat and drinking only a little milk. Jenkins was sitting in the outer room, despondently darning a shirt, when Alice slipped through the door. She put a finger to her lips and beckoned the Welshman to follow her out into the corridor.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, miss,’ said Jenkins, his face cracking into a beam that brought his moustache almost up to his ears. ‘I hope you’ve come to cheer ’im up, ’cos ’e needs it, look you.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I saw him earlier.’ She pulled Jenkins away from a group of soldiers who walked by, gazing curiously at them. ‘Can we go somewhere where we can talk quietly? No, not in your room. I don’t want Simon to hear.’

  Jenkins frowned. ‘It had better be in the compound then, miss. I’ll get me coat.’

  Once outside, Alice thrust her arm companionably through that of Jenkins and they walked in the semi-darkness, their breath rising like steam. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I know, 352, that you are his very best friend, so I want you to tell me exactly what happened to him when he was captured and why it seems to affect him so.’

  Jenkins sucked in his moustache and looked at his feet. ‘Well, miss,’ he said. ‘It’s not very nice, like. In fact, it’s a bit embarrassing and not exactly for a young lady to know about, if you see what I mean. Anyway, I’m not sure that the Captain would want me to—’

  ‘To hell with that.’ Jenkins’s eyes widened at her vehemence. Alice frowned and then smiled at him. ‘Sorry about that. But you know, I’m not a schoolgirl, Mr Jenkins. I have been with the army throughout the Zulu campaign, I was at Ulundi and saw what our cavalry did to surrendering natives; I have travelled through India and half of Afghanistan to get here. I know that the world is not a pretty place. Please tell me what happened to Simon. You see ...’ She stopped, and gently pulled Jenkins round so that she could look directly into his eyes. ‘Perhaps - I don’t know, but perhaps - I can help him. But I can’t do that until I know what happened to him.’

  Jenkins held her gaze. It was a long time - a very long time - since he had looked into so fair a face. Alice had wrapped a woollen scarf around her head to keep out the cold, but her hair peeped out to frame her face, and this softened the hint of masculinity that came from the square jaw. The grey eyes which looked so coolly into his displayed the kind of self-confidence and breeding with which he was familiar from people of her class. He had grown up with it as a boy in Wales, grooming the horses for the family at the manor, and he had seen it so many times displayed by officers in the British Army. He knew it came with money and education. But this combination of determination and beauty, presented to him in this savage place, so closely and personally, was a new experience, and he found it disconcerting.

  ‘All right, then. But don’t tell the Captain it was me who told you.’

  Alice nodded and they recommenced their walk. Slowly, but then with growing volubility, Jenkins related all that had happened to them since their arrival in India. When it came to Simon’s capture, he paused for a moment, took a deep breath and related Simon’s ordeal in a matter-of-fact way, looking straight ahead so that he picked up no reaction from Alice. But she did not speak, merely gripping his arm a little tighter.

  ‘So there you are, see. ’E got better all right, physically that is, though ’e’s as thin as a rake. But I know ’e thinks ’e’s’urt permanently down there, look you.’ For the first time, Jenkins sounded embarrassed. ‘You see, ’e doesn’t talk about it, but I know ’e thinks ’e can’t produce babies an’ that. So ’e thinks ’e’s only ’alf a man.’

  ‘And what do the doctors say?’

  Jenkins sucked in his moustache. ‘I’ve ’ad a word with the doctor who’s treatin’ ’im - a nice Scottish bloke - but ’e doesn’t seem to know. Says the Captain will ’ave to wait until’e gets back ’ome to find out. It’s depressing ’im, see.’

  Alice nodded her head and spoke slowly. ‘Yes, I do see. I thought it might be something like that, but I couldn’t be sure.’

  They walked ahead in silence for a while, their feet crunching on the frozen snow. Then she stopped. ‘Can’t he find out? Aren’t there any women here?’

  Jenkins’s jaw dropped. ‘What? Blimey, no, miss. The General’s made it a court-martial offence to go into the bazaar and ’ave it off, so to speak, with the women there. An’ anyway,’ his voice took on a note of scorn, ‘the Captain’s not that sort of bloke, see. No, miss, not ’im.’

  Alice smiled. ‘Don’t be offended, Mr Jenkins. I know it happens. But thank you for telling me. I am very grateful. Now perhaps you had better get back before he misses you.’

  Alice retraced her steps to the Bala Hissar, where the press were quartered with Gough’s brigade. She was glad of the walk through the dark night, for she had much to think about. Jenkins’s story was remarkable in itself. Could she use it for the Morning Post? The journalist in her weighed the issues coolly. It was magnificent copy: a first-hand, eye-witness account of the massacre at the Residency; the escape across the rooftops; Simon’s deliberate sacrifice in putting himself into the hands of the mullah; the . . . No. She could not use it. For Simon’s sake. Anyway, it would probably be censored by Roberts. The General was already proving himself to be no friend of the correspondents with him. All copy had to be sent by government telegraph to London via Tehran, and Roberts had insisted that stories filed had to be read by him personally and approved before dispatch. She could not - she would not - expose Simon’s story, his very personal story, to the Commander-in-Chief’s pen.

  Alice turned her mind to Simon himself, for whom she felt such warm affection and maternal concern. Was he hurt irrevocably? Was he to be another casualty of this heartless piece of colonial adventuring - just as much a victim as those homeless villagers Gladstone had spoken of and whom she had now seen for herself? There had been too many broken men left behind in this campaign as the banners and the drums had moved on. She damned the empire-builders once again, and pulled her cloak more tightly around her and shivered, not entirely from the coldness of the air.

  Twenty minutes later, as she acknowledged the greeting of the sentry at the partly ruined entrance to the Bala Hissar, she had made a decision.

  The next evening Alice returned to Sherpur and to Simon’s quarters. This time she found W.G. on duty in the anteroom and she immediately endeared herself to the Sikh by stretching out a hand and enveloping him in a warm smile. ‘You must be W.G.,’ she said. ‘I have heard all about you from Sergeant Jenkins and I am so grateful for all that you have done for Captain Fonthill.’

  Awkwardly, the Sikh took her hand - it was the first time he had touched a European woman. ‘It was nothing, memsahib. Nothing at all.’ Gravely, he bowed, the end of his long beard brushing the back of her hand.

  ‘W.G. W.G.,’ Alice mused, retaining his hand. ‘Do you know, I saw him play once, at Gloucester.’

  W.G.’s eyes widened. ‘You saw the great Dr Grace play, miss?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Not so long ago. It was so disappointing. He was out second ball - and he made a great fuss about it.’ She laughed. ‘Grumbled all the way to the pavilion. Not a good sport at all, I fear.’

  The Sikh relinquished her hand and straightened up, his face shocked. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I
am sure that the miss is mistaken. Dr Grace is great sportsman who always plays with a very straight bat.’

  ‘Well, he missed the ball that time. Bowled middle stump, I fear. Now, is the Captain inside there?’

  Speechless, W.G. nodded. ‘Good,’ said Alice, feeling her colour heightening. ‘I want to have a long talk with him, so perhaps you would be so kind as to see that we are not disturbed? Thank you.’ She gave him another radiant smile, knocked on Simon’s door and stepped into his room.

  Simon rose from where he had been sitting on the edge of his bed and smiled, in embarrassment as much as welcome. ‘Oh, Alice, it’s you. I heard voices.’ He was wearing only his nightshirt, and he gestured at it deprecatingly. ‘I am sorry, I am still not quite ready to receive visitors, you see.’ He looked round the room. ‘Still in a bit of a mess, I am afraid, though I was going to tidy up and get out tomorrow. The doctor said that the fever has gone and I can report for duty again then. But do sit down. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No thank you.’ There were two bright spots of colour on Alice’s cheeks as she shook her head, unwound her scarf and slipped off her cloak. Turning her back on Simon, she hung the cloak on a hook on the door and, under cover of doing so, quietly slipped the bolt across. ‘Now,’ she turned back with a smile and pulled up the only chair in the room, ‘how are you really feeling?’

  Simon ran a hand through his tousled hair and sat back on the bed. ‘Oh, I am much better now, thanks. Jenkins and W.G. are really taking care of me. I have made up my mind that I must report to Covington tomorrow. I’m a bit surprised he hasn’t been after me by now. It’s time we all went back to work.’

  Alice tossed her head and slowly began unbuttoning her dress. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about him. He’s got enough to do getting to know Roberts. He doesn’t really like him, you know. He’s a Wolseley man.’

  ‘Er . . . is he? Alice, what . . . what are you doing?’ Simon watched as though hypnotised as Alice stepped out of her dress, pulled her slip up over her head, unhooked her bodice and threw it to one side, then sat down and unrolled her stockings. She slowly wriggled her light blue knickers to the floor and stood, quite naked, facing Simon as she ran her hands over her body. The room was lit only by an oil lamp, which sent darting shadows across her skin and made it seem golden in that half-light. She cupped her breasts unselfconsciously, and turned to see her shadow on the wall. Her nipples, enlarged by the projection, stood out clearly, and she moved slightly so that they protruded more provocatively. To Simon’s astonished gaze she seemed an apparition: some houri, perhaps, summoned from the mystical past of this strange sub-continent by his fever, conjured up to taunt him about his departed manhood.

  Then the apparition spoke: ‘Golly, it’s cold in here. Come on. Move over.’ And it pushed Simon quite hard, so that he rolled against the wall. Alice slipped into the bed, pulling away the rough blankets and throwing them over both of them.

  From a distance of four inches, Simon found himself looking into the greyest and most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. He gulped as Alice ran her fingers through his hair. ‘Alice,’ he began. She kissed him softly on the lips. He tried again. ‘Alice. Don’t, don’t do this. You don’t understand. Whatever it is . . . What are you doing? Please, please. You see, I can’t.’

  Alice kissed his broken nose. ‘You know, Simon, I think this new nose suits you.’ She kissed it again. ‘It’s got a sort of hook to it now. Makes your face seem thinner. I quite like it.’ She stroked his ear. ‘But my dear, your hair is filthy. I don’t think you need to have gone quite as native as this, you know.’

  Simon closed his eyes and breathed deeply. ‘Alice, I am not going to . . . Oh, Alice. Please ...’ She quietened him by kissing him again, then gently inserting her tongue into his mouth and running her hand down his back so that she pressed his body against hers. He pulled back.

  ‘I don’t know why you are doing this,’ he said. ‘But you should know that I have been hurt and I cannot—’

  Alice put her hand on his mouth. ‘I am doing this, my dear, because I want to. And, anyway, how do you know that you cannot until you try . . . eh?’ She slipped her hand down the bed, pulled up his nightshirt and, with infinite care, touched him. ‘There, there . . . how’s that? Yes. Ah, good. Now, kiss me again.’

  ‘No. That will hurt. Oh . . .!’ His voice became softer. ‘Oh God!’

  Slowly, gently, Alice stroked and encouraged until the body arched close to her gradually lost its rigidity and began to writhe rhythmically in response to her caresses. She gently kissed her way to his ear, inserted her tongue there for a moment and then whispered to him, ‘There, there, my dear. That seems fine now, doesn’t it?’

  He groaned in incoherent acquiescence.

  ‘Yes, well then. Now, Simon. Listen to me. We have no form of contraception here and I have no desire to become pregnant. So we must try something else. Something perhaps . . . er . . . a little softer. So just you lie quietly. I shall be very, very gentle.’

  Kissing his ear again, Alice moved her lips down his neck and on until she reached her destination. A minute later she withdrew, inched her way back until her head was once again on the pillow and reached for a handkerchief. She wiped her lips and then, tenderly, mopped the perspiration from Simon’s forehead as he lay, his breast heaving, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ she murmured, ‘that’s the first time I’ve ever done that, so I’m no expert. But I would say, with absolute certainty, that you are not impotent.’

  Simon turned his head and looked into her eyes. ‘My darling Alice,’ he breathed. ‘I . . . I . . . I just don’t know what to say to you. I thought I could never—’

  ‘Well,’ Alice sat up, ‘you can, so that’s that. So stop feeling sorry for yourself.’ She sprang out of bed and pulled on her knickers.

  Simon sat up too. ‘But darling . . .’

  ‘Don’t darling me, Simon.’ Alice continued to struggle into her clothing. Her voice came now from underneath her slip as she pulled it over her head. ‘What has just happened doesn’t mean that I love you or that you have to love me.’ Her head, hair tousled, appeared from the slip. ‘And it doesn’t mean that I have to marry you. As a matter of fact, my dear, I don’t love anyone and I am not getting married to you or to anyone else. I am far too busy.’ She thrust a toe into her stocking and began to roll it on.

  ‘Alice.’

  She caught his anguished eye and relented, leaning across the bed and kissing him lightly on the mouth. Stroking his cheek for a moment she whispered: ‘Simon, I am and always will be your friend. Your very dear friend, but that’s all.’ She brushed her lips against his cheek and sat back on the chair. ‘We had something to prove, you and I, and we have just proved it, and I am glad we did.’ She began buttoning up her dress and smiled at him, a little roguishly. ‘As a matter of fact, if you must know, I quite enjoyed it.’

  Then she frowned and looked into his eyes with that old intensity. ‘But I am not a whore. I thought about all this carefully before I came to you and it seemed the only thing I could do to help you. I am glad we were successful. But I shan’t be cavorting around the regimental messes here, I assure you. What I did, I did to help my dear friend, who is now . . .’ she swept a hand through her hair, ‘quite whole again, I am glad to say.’

  Simon lay back on the bed and summoned up a smile. ‘Alice, I don’t quite know what to say to you.’

  She pouted. ‘Well, you could try thank you, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ She came and sat beside him on the bed for a moment and took his hand. For the first time since she had entered the room she looked at him uncertainly, and what could have been a flush came to her cheek. ‘In fact, my dear, I don’t think either of us should ever mention it to anyone, if you don’t mind.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Of course not.’ He spoke quietly. ‘Alice, you will hate me saying this, but I think I shall love you
always.’

  ‘No you won’t. Life’s far too short. Good night, my dear.’

  She slid back the bolt noiselessly and stepped into the anteroom. Thankfully, it was deserted. She closed the door behind her and, for a moment, leaned against it, closed her eyes and sighed. Then she blew her nose, swung her cloak tightly around her and strode away, down the corridor and out into the compound, crunching the ice underfoot.

  The next morning Simon - a new Simon, a man who astonished and delighted Jenkins and W.G. with his clearness of eye and his energy - rose early and donned the best clothes he could find in his very depleted Afghan wardrobe (they all still lacked formal uniform) to find Lieutenant Colonel Covington and report for duty. But Covington was nowhere to be found. Neither were the Commander-in-Chief, Brigadier Lamb or any of the senior officers. For that day, Simon learned, Roberts was hanging forty-nine Afghans.

  They had all been named by the military court set up under the presidency of Brigadier Massey as being the ringleaders of the attack on the mission, and the executions were to be public and to take place, within the hour, outside the ruins of the Residency - a typical piece of Roberts symbolism. The whole garrison was ordered to be there, and Simon decided that Jenkins, W.G. and he must attend. They could not stay hidden, so to speak, for ever. Accordingly, they walked the mile to the city and joined the edge of the silent crowd which filled the square and lined every wall, balcony and vantage point overlooking it.

  Facing the Residency was a grim row of gallows, under which, closely guarded, stood the prisoners, their hands bound, their heads hanging down. They made no attempt to protest. They merely stood, studying the ground, accepting their fate. Simon turned his head to see the windows from which he and his companions had fired on the day of the attack, and wondered how many of these bound men had fired back at them. He looked at Jenkins. The Welshman wrinkled his nose in distaste and slowly shook his head. W.G. was expressionless, his eyes fixed on the doomed men.