The Baghdad Railway Club(46)

‘What’ll it be,’ asked Major Findlay, ‘the railways at Babylon?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Are there any railways at Babylon?’ he said.

Stevens was next to me. He’d lately been eating spiced meat – by the smell of his breath.

‘What’s the name of our brigadier general?’ I asked him.

‘Barney or Barnes or something. I think it’s Barnes.’

Of course: it was his assistant who’d written to me to confirm my engagement with Shepherd. All he’d done, perhaps, was sign the letter. Barnes worked in the office of Coxus himself, and he was most likely the fellow who’d invited Shepherd out to Mespot in the first place.

‘And who exactly is she?’ I said, indicating the lady.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Harriet Bailey. She’s spoken for, by the way,’ he added, unexpectedly. ‘Married, I mean.’

‘But everyone calls her “Miss”.’

‘Even so.’

‘Who’s she married to?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Professor at Oxford. Or Cambridge.’

‘Is he out here?’

Stevens shook his head. ‘He’s in Oxford . . . Or Cambridge.’

‘Why does she talk to the Arabs?’

‘Search me,’ he said.

Ferry was alongside us. The pipe stem now protruded from his tunic pocket. He held a plate. With his long, clean fingers he was dabbing bread into a pink paste.

‘She’s an . . .’

I waited.

‘. . . archaeologist.’

‘Do you know her?’

‘Oh. She’s . . . famous.’

‘One thing,’ said Stevens, who’d found himself some more wine, ‘. . . she does speak Arabic, which is a big help if you’re – y’know – actually speaking to the bloody Arabs. I wouldn’t bother myself.’

‘Wouldn’t bother what?’ I said.

‘Speaking to them. I know imshi galla – go away – and igri or something – hurry up. Hurry up and go away. I don’t like them myself. Deceitful people. I like him though,’ he said, nodding to our Arab waiter. ‘He’s rather bold with the wine. I believe he thinks it’s strawberry juice.’

‘And what about Findlay?’ I said, indicating that blond-headed officer who was so obviously stuck on Harriet Bailey.

‘Cavalry,’ said Stevens. ‘If you want a horse ride in the park, he’s your man.’

I said, ‘Well he plainly doesn’t come here for his interest in railways.’

‘No,’ said Bob Ferry. He was cleaning the bowl of his pipe with a beautiful penknife with mother-of-pearl handle.

Shepherd came in through the door. He looked flushed. I knew what he’d been up to – he’d been in the vicinity of the square chasing Arabs. I heard him muttering something to the brigadier by way of explanation. Something about ‘Bit of trouble . . . Setting a few fires . . . Tried to roust them out . . .’

When Brigadier Barnes had done with Shepherd, Stevens moved in, and the two of them began a quiet conflab. How thick were they with each other? Perhaps they were just discussing the practicalities of the run up to Samarrah.

I watched the faces moving under the soft, coloured illumination. They were mostly young people – in the late twenties or early thirties – but made to look older by the sun, by being the conquerors of a nation; or by worry they were not up to the mark. I watched Harriet Bailey sipping wine under the gaze of Findlay. Strange that she was Shepherd’s guest of honour. She was pro-Arab, after all. She spoke the language fluently and called Mesopotamia ‘Iraq’. Well, perhaps Shepherd agreed with her. What made me think he was pro-Turkish? He had seemed to defend the Turks when at the London Railway Club; he smoked Turkish-looking cigarettes, and according to the report of Captain Boyd, he was in league with the Turks as a result of the deal supposedly done at the railway station. In addition, he seemed quite thick with Stevens, who was certainly anti-Arab.

But what did it all amount to?

I turned around and saw Bob Ferry. He inclined his head somewhat, but he’d been eyeing me carefully, no question of it.

*

Entering the main room of my quarters, I found the oil lamp lit, and the single sheet on my bed turned down. There were four flies in the room; the flytrap – restored to its place under the bed – clicked, but there was also another sound. I walked quickly through to the scullery where I saw Ahmad setting a pitcher of water into what I thought of as the pantry – a half-underground cupboard, like a clean coal hole. One oil lamp burned. He turned and contemplated me for a while. He walked over to the stone sink.