For Kingdom and Country (34 page)

Lock hated parties. He just felt so out of place and uncomfortable. He’d rather be with Singh and the others. But orders were orders and, besides, Amy was to be in attendance. Singh had told him so when he’d left Ross and trudged up to the barracks, the same barracks where he’d recently taken the surrender of the regiment of the Constantinople Fire Brigade. That’s where he’d found his men, in their new digs, all sat around cleaning their rifles, reading letters, dozing, and all under the stern, watchful eye of Underhill.

‘Back is ya’, sah?’ was all the greeting he got from the sergeant major.

But the others were all there, Elsworth, Pritchard, Ram Lal and the rest of the sepoys, Jawad Saleem, and even the dog. And they were, at least, pleased to seem him. But, more than that, Lock was delighted to find that Green Platoon had suffered not one casualty during the advance up the Tigris from Qurna. Apart from Harrington-Brown, of course.

After a welcome meal of chicken and flat bread washed down with strong coffee, Lock had retired to the room Singh had made up for him. He’d slept on the small bunk there for six hours solid and following a hot bath, had shaved and dressed in his own uniform. It had been waiting for him, hanging on the back of the door, cleaned and pressed. There was even a fresh pair of leather riding boots at the foot of the bed.

‘An Australian pilot dropped your uniform off, sahib, along with the battalion mail,’ Singh said.

‘Good old Petre,’ Lock said.

‘I managed to find the boots, sahib, in the stores. I think they are German. And this carton of cigarettes, sahib.’

Lock grinned at Singh and gave him a friendly whack on the arm. He tore open a fresh pack of Fatimas. ‘Pass the rest around the lads.’ He gave the carton back to Singh and lit himself a cigarette.

‘How are the ribs, Sid?’

‘They are fine, sahib. They only hurt when I laugh now.’

Lock then checked himself over once more in the grubby, spotted mirror that was propped up against the wall. Satisfied, he pulled on his slouch hat.

‘How do I look, Sid?’

Singh nodded his approval. ‘Very fine and smart, sahib. She will not be able to resist you.’

‘She?’

‘Memsahib Amy, sahib,’ Singh said. ‘She is here. Arrived on the hospital ship with many, many nurses, sahib, and the Memsahib Lady Townshend.’

‘Bugger. Then they’ll both be there tonight,’ Lock said, straightening his tie. How he hated wearing the things.

‘Sahib?’

‘At this bloody party, Sid. It’s the last thing I want to do. But …’

‘Orders is orders, sahib,’ Singh grinned.

It was a more intimate affair than the last party he’d attended of Townshend’s, and was being held outside in the courtyard garden of the Customs House. The sun had gone down and the sky above was clear and full of bright stars. It was a warm, but comfortable evening. There was a buzz of insects, but thankfully the mosquitoes were few and far between.
Light was spilling out from the open French windows of Townshend’s office, and there were candles dotted about amongst the potted plants and around the edge of the water fountain. An unseen gramophone was playing light classical music. The whole set-up looked eerily similar to Feyzi’s office back in Nasiriyeh, down to the murmur of conversation and the gentle tinkle of glasses. Four or five marines in white jackets were acting as waiters, weaving in and out of the guests with trays of drinks and canapés in their hands.

The guests were mostly high-ranking officers, those men who had led the various attacks from Qurna, and a few senior nurses. Godwinson was there, deep in conversation with the artillery commander, Brigadier General Smith, and the commander of the 22nd Punjabis, Lieutenant Colonel Blois Johnson. Captain Nunn and a portly lieutenant colonel, whom Lock didn’t recognise, were standing at the far end of the garden, near to a wrought iron gate that was set into the high wall. Lock could see the stableyard beyond. The officers were sharing a joke with Lady Townshend, who was dressed in her Sister’s uniform, and another middle-aged matron. Nunn caught Lock’s eye and gave him a brief nod of recognition. Lock’s gaze passed over the rest of the guests and eventually fell on Amy. She was in her nurse’s uniform, too, and was standing over by the water fountain. Bingham-Smith was at her side, his hand resting on the small of her back. The couple were talking with Major Winsloe of the Engineers, and Lock’s former company commander, Major Carver.

‘Pink gin, sir?’

A waiter was offering out a tray of drinks.

‘Thank you.’ Lock took a glass. He sniffed the contents and had a wary sip. He grimaced at the spicy taste. ‘Christ, I’d rather drink my own piss.’

‘My sentiments, exactly.’ Ross had come up alongside him. ‘I have some decent whisky in my pocket if you’d rather, laddie.’

Lock dumped his pink gin out into a nearby plant pot without hesitation, and held his now empty glass out. Ross poured him a good measure of whisky from a hip flask.

‘Hello, handsome.’

Lock turned to see Betty sauntering over, looking very smart in her white uniform.

‘Father,’ she nodded to Ross.

The major cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

‘You made it, then?’ Betty said to Lock.

Lock was about to offer some witty response, when another familiar voice called out from across the garden.

‘There you are, Lock.’ It was General Townshend.

Lock nodded affably at the general as he approached and was then suddenly rather taken aback. Townshend was as white as a sheet and had dark rings under his eyes, and there was a thin film of sweat across his brow that glistened in the candlelight.

‘Good evening, sir,’ Lock said.

‘It appears I … we all’ – Townshend said, raising his voice slightly above the general murmur of conversation – ‘owe you an apology, my boy.’

‘That’s really not necessary, sir,’ Lock said, knocking back his whisky.

‘Nonsense. You’ve been treated in the most ghastly manner,’ Townshend said. ‘So please, accept my hand in gratitude and respect. I am sorry to have doubted you.’

Lock took the general’s hand in his. ‘Just glad to be of help, sir.’

‘You’re a good sport, Lock,’ Townshend smiled, ‘a good sport. I …’ The general broke into a coughing fit.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Lock said, putting a reassuring hand on the general’s shoulder.

Townshend waved his hand as if to say he was fine, but the coughing
continued, and then suddenly his legs gave way and he collapsed to the floor. There was a gasp of concern from those nearest, and Lock knelt down immediately, pulling the general over onto his side. He was alive, but unconscious, and the breath was rasping in his chest.

‘Charles! Charles!’ Lady Townshend came rushing over. ‘
Mon dieu!
Charles.’

‘He just collapsed, Lady Alice,’ Lock said.

Lady Townshend felt her husband’s pulse and then put her hand to his forehead. ‘We must get him to the hospital.’

Ross clicked his fingers and two of the waiters put down their trays and hurried over.

‘Carry the general outside and summon his staff car,’ Ross said. ‘Get him to the hospital at once.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I will come with you,’ Lock said, getting to his feet.

‘That will not be necessary,’ Lady Townshend snapped.

But Lock wasn’t to be brushed off so easily. He stood above her, and after a moment’s hesitation, Lady Townshend reluctantly took his hand in hers and let him help her up.

‘
Maman
, qu’est-ce qui se passe? Qu’est-ce qu’il a?
’ Amy said, pushing through the concerned guests. She glared at Lock as if it was his fault.

‘It is a fever,’ Lady Townshend said. ‘Do not worry child. I shall take care of your father. You must stay and attend to our guests.’

‘
Mais
, maman
…’

‘
Non
,’ Lady Townshend snapped. Then she smiled and put her hand lightly to her daughter’s cheek. ‘He will be all right,
ma fille
.’

The two waiters lifted the general between them, and the guests parted to let them carry the stricken commander out of the garden and back through the French windows. Lady Townshend gave a curt nod to Lock and hurried after the waiters. The music had stopped, and there was now
just the click-whirr-click of the gramophone needle caught in the final groove of the record drifting out from the office.

Once Lady Townshend had disappeared into the depths of the Customs House, the garden became a sudden buzz of excited and concerned conversation.

‘Gentlemen, ladies,’ Ross said, holding his hand up, and raising his voice above the chatter. ‘Please don’t concern yourselves. The general has taken ill. A touch of the Mesop Trot, I fear.’

There was a titter and murmur of understanding, followed by knowing nods.

‘Lady Townshend has requested that you carry on with your drinks,’ Ross added. ‘She will return shortly.’

‘Thank you, Major,’ Amy said.

‘He’ll be fine, miss. Just overdoing things. You know your father.’

‘I hope you are right, Major,’ Amy said, glancing back through the French windows. Captain Nunn was inside the office turning the handle of the gramophone. Music started up again, this time a Billy Murray ragtime tune.

‘What the bloody hell are you up to now, Lock?’ Bingham-Smith said as he strode over to Amy’s side. ‘Upsetting my fiancée are you?’

‘Smith, what a great displeasure it is to see you again,’ Lock said.

‘I’ve a good mind to knock you out, Lock,’ Bingham-Smith said, puffing his chest out. ‘What the devil did you do to the general?’

‘Stop it, Casper,’ Amy said, pulling at Bingham-Smith’s sleeve. ‘Father has taken ill. A fever.
Maman
has gone with him to the hospital.’

‘Rot!’ Bingham-Smith said. ‘It’s this bothersome colonial oik, I’ll wager.’

‘You lookin’ for a bust in the chops?’ Betty suddenly interjected, stepping forward.

Bingham-Smith stared down his nose at Betty, a look of distaste
written across his face. ‘And who the dickens are you?’

‘I’m with him,’ Betty glared back, throwing a thumb at Lock.

‘Enough, Casper. Please,’ Amy said. ‘Come along.’ She pulled Bingham-Smith away, glancing from Lock to Betty and back again with a frown. There was a look of confused hurt in her eyes.

‘You wanna learn some manners, bud,’ Betty called after them.

‘And you want to learn to speak the King’s Eng—’

But Amy had dragged Bingham-Smith off before he could finish his sentence.

‘What a heel,’ Betty said, turning away and putting a cigarette between her lips.

Ross pulled out the lighter Lock had given him and passed it to Betty.

‘When I was spying on Feyzi and his military guests, Amy’s name was mentioned in conversation, sir,’ Lock said. ‘As to what context,’ he shrugged, ‘I couldn’t make out. But I think she’s still in danger.’

Betty scoffed. ‘Boy, she’s in danger all right, hanging out with that goof. Does he always get so steamed up?’ She lit her cigarette, handed it to Lock, and lit a second for herself.

Lock nodded his thanks. ‘Always.’

‘We’ll keep an eye on her, laddie,’ Ross said, taking a sip of his whisky.

Lock was still staring after Amy, watching her engaged in a heated conversation with a clearly still agitated Bingham-Smith.

‘She’s a doll, I’ll give you that,’ Betty said through a cloud of tobacco smoke. ‘You got the blues over her, Kingdom?’

Lock gave a thin smile. ‘No. I did. But not any more. They’re getting married soon. She’s having a baby.’ He let out a sigh of smoke. ‘She knows what she’s doing.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Betty said, with a gentle nod. ‘Not his, I’ll bet.’

Lock glanced at Betty’s profile, but she didn’t turn to look at him.

‘I’ve got a fine single malt back at my digs,’ Ross said, as he drained
his glass and put it on the tray of a passing waiter. He took his pipe and tobacco pouch out of his pocket and began to fill the bowl. ‘What say you both that we, in the words of Elizabeth here, “blow this joint”?’

‘Now you’re talkin’, Pops,’ Betty said with her customary lopsided grin.

Lock glanced over at Amy one final time, then followed Ross and Betty as they pushed their way through the guests towards the wrought iron gate at the end of the garden.

Godwinson stepped out from the small group of officers he was chatting with, blocking Lock’s path.

Lock paused and ran his eyes over the colonel’s face.

Godwinson’s nose twitched and he rubbed nervously at his moustache, before clearing his throat. ‘Lock, glad I caught you. I … er … That is to say … I owe you an … er … apology, too, Lock. Er … the general informed me of … er … what you did. Nailing the … er … spy … and capturing this traitor chap …’ His words dried up and he stood staring back at Lock waiting for some response.

Lock glanced over the colonel’s shoulder to see Betty and Ross open the garden gate and step out into the stableyard. Godwinson held his hand out in offering.

‘So does this mean I get a Company? Sir.’

Godwinson’s face fell and he spluttered and mumbled something incoherent about procedure and dates.

Lock stared back at the colonel, but he knew he wouldn’t get an answer, not yet. He drew on his cigarette and blew a slow trail of tobacco smoke out of the side of his mouth. Then he gripped the colonel’s hand in his. It was limp, but he shook it all the same.

‘Good of you, Lock. Well, no hard feelings,’ Godwinson nodded, and without another word, he returned to the group he’d been talking with.

Lock glared at the colonel’s back for a moment, already regretting
having accepted his apology, then he walked over to the gate. He paused, turned to face the garden once more.

‘The net’s tightening,’ he said loudly.

A number of bemused faces broke from their conversations and looked over towards him.

‘What? What was that?’ Godwinson said, brow furrowed.

‘Traitors,’ Lock said. ‘They’re always where you least expect them.’

‘What the deuce is that fellow going on about, Godwinson?’ the portly lieutenant colonel standing nearby said. ‘Who the devil are you, sir?’