The Challenging Heights (30 page)

The face of a large clock in the hall fell to pieces and the hospital stores were moved upstairs for safety in case the rebels forced an entry and started looting. Later in the evening a machine gun began to rake the walls, another window fell in, and a chair collapsed under the Transport Officer as its leg was shot away. Finally the lights went out.

As candles were brought, Dicken looked round for Nicola Aubrey but there was no sign of her and he grabbed Father O’Buhilly’s arm.

‘Where is she, Father?’

‘Steady, me boy. Steady. She was on her way up when the firing started and it was decided to keep the wives and children in the cellar. ’Tis the only really safe place.’

Bolting for the stairs, Dicken almost fell down them. The cellars were dimly lit and the women were sitting patiently with their children. The girl Dicken had seen was in the far corner, quietening a fretful small boy. As she looked up, somehow she looked different from how he remembered her, slimmer, with larger eyes, and incredibly young for a woman approaching thirty.

‘Hello, Dicken,’ she said, giving him a grin.

It was unbelievable. Eleven years before, while flying Camels in northern Italy, he had fallen heavily in love with Nicola Aubrey, and he found himself wondering what she was doing here in Ambul and what had happened to her religion. If her Catholicism, which had been such a stumbling block between them, hadn’t allowed her to marry him as they’d both wished, what was she doing in the household of a man who was quite obviously an Anglican?

‘I did see you then,’ he said. ‘That first night. Where have you been?’

‘There’s been a lot of shooting going on,’ she replied calmly. ‘Most of my time’s been spent with the children. They’re not quite as unafraid as their father.’

‘You must have known I was here.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t be going away. None of us are. At least not until the Minister decides we can do it without letting down the British Empire.’

‘But Nicola–!’

She shook her head. ‘Not Nicola!’

Dicken stopped dead. ‘You
are
Nicola Aubrey?’ he said. ‘Right?’

She grinned. ‘Wrong,’ she replied. ‘I’m Marie-Gabrielle.’

For a long moment, Dicken stared at her, understanding at last the differences he had noticed, the bigger eyes, the apparently everlasting youth. Like all the Aubreys she was good-looking, beautiful even, and it was little wonder he’d mistaken her identity because her parents, also both blessed with fine features, had looked like brother and sister, and their children were almost identical in looks, colouring and stature.

‘Marie-Gabrielle,’ he said slowly. ‘The youngest in the family!’

‘We all looked so alike, you remember,’ she laughed. ‘People said mother and father didn’t make us in the usual manner, but had us stamped out by a machine.’

A slow smile began to spread across Dicken’s face and he was just about to bombard her with questions when there was a tremendous double crash and the place was filled with dust. As the women began to shriek, he leapt for her and, pulling her down, crouched on the floor with his arm across her.

The rebel artillery had started to fire over the Legation but their aim was bad and within minutes every member of the staff was in the cellar, because the shells were reducing the upper rooms to rubble. Babington crouched nearby, talking to a stout turbanned Indian official, while MacAllister seemed to be conferring in the corner with all the handsome young men of his staff at once.

His arm round the girl, his mouth close to her ear, Dicken put his questions between the crashes. As a child Marie-Gabrielle had been one of his favourites. She had climbed on his back, sat on his knee, swung on his arm, never involved in family squabbles, sunny-natured, good-tempered, gregarious, cheerful and friendly.

‘How did you come to be here?’ he asked.

‘Not very difficult,’ she said briskly. ‘Father died in 1927. Heart attack. He was only sixty. Mother, who was French, you remember, went back to Paris to live and the family split up a little. George became a missionary, as he said he would, and went to China. I worked as a nanny for a year and was in London wondering what to do with myself when I saw an advertisement in the Personal Column of
The Times
:
“Will Miss M G Aubrey please communicate at once with Mr Basil Forsythe with a view to looking after his four small sons. Please write The British Legation, Ambul, Rezhistan.”’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Never met him in my life. But he’d known my father in India, while I was in England at school. I arrived early in the year. The whole Legation staff were on the lawn to greet me. Then on December 12th the rebels came pouring down from Sihar and bullets started flying and the fort on the Bagh-i-Bila was taken by tribesmen from Kohistan. There must have been three or four thousand of them. They say the King changed his uniform three times in an hour and rushed into the street, pushing rifles at both men and women and shouting “Save me, save me!” If the Bachi had pushed his attack then the whole thing would have fallen apart but I think he was more surprised by his success than anybody.’

She paused, looking at him while the roaring of shells above drowned her voice. When they stopped she continued. ‘We were collecting flowers in the garden when Mr Forsythe came rushing out. “Come quickly, Auby,” he said. “There’s trouble,” and we all went into the Legation and all the gates and doors were locked. I had no idea what was happening so I went up on the roof. All I could see was a solid mass of humanity, all waving guns and shouting. Then the Bachi stopped at the gate and promised no harm should come to us but as soon as he left the shooting started again.’

‘What about the rest of your family?’ Dicken asked.

‘Bernadette and Marguerite are married – Bernadette to an Italian – and Cecilia’s engaged to a Frenchman. If you remember, we were rather a cosmopolitan lot. Mark joined the army. He’s in Khanpur, which was one of the reasons I decided to come to India too.’

‘What about Nicola?’ By this time, Dicken was sure, she was either married into a good Roman Catholic family, a nun or a missionary.

‘Oh, she’s old,’ Marie-Gabrielle said with the cheerful contempt of the young. ‘Twenty-nine now, and married to an American diplomat. A Baptist.’

‘A Baptist!’ Dicken stared at the laughing face a few inches from his own. ‘When
I
wanted to marry her she was afraid of excommunication because I was an Anglican.’

‘It doesn’t seem to bother her so much these days,’ Marie-Gabrielle said cheerfully. ‘I can only think she wasn’t as much in love with you as she thought. Personally, I thought she was potty.
I’d
have married you. Any time, church or no church. I remember I asked you, even. I was nine at the time.’

Suddenly it all seemed funny.

‘A Baptist?’ Dicken said. ‘For God’s sake, a Baptist! That’s about as far from Catholicism as you can get. What about her husband?’

‘He was supposed to agree to the children being brought up as Catholics, of course, but somehow it’s been overlooked and I understand they all go together to the Baptist Church in Washington.’

For a long time, aware of the crack and rattle of bullets outside, the occasional thump of a shell, and the slow trickle of sand and dust through a crack in the wall, Dicken was silent, wondering how he could have suffered such agonies of love to no avail.

‘Why did she never write to me?’ he asked. ‘I wrote to her.’

Marie-Gabrielle managed a shrug. ‘She thought you’d let her down.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you went away.’

‘There was a war on! If you remember the Austrians were trying to break through to Venice. I was sent with the rest of the squadron from Capodolio where you lived to Schia Piccola to help stop them.’

‘I don’t think she managed to take that into account. She was always inclined to be romantic and never managed to see much sense.’

‘But your parents? Why didn’t they write?’

‘
I
wrote.’

‘You weren’t very old at the time, if you remember.’

‘I think they thought you’d quarrelled and that love affairs between young people were best left alone. I tried to make it up.’

‘You forgot to include your address.’

‘I wondered why you never wrote back to me.’

He suddenly realised they were thinking only of the past, about something which was dead and finished with.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘You’re not married. Are you engaged?’

‘No.’

‘I’m surprised.’

‘Nobody asked me. At least, nobody I ever wanted.’

‘Who did you want?’

‘I wanted you,’ she said bluntly. ‘I did when I was nine. And I don’t think I’ve ever come across anyone since whom I preferred.’

They were silent for a moment then she went on with disarming frankness. ‘My father was ten years older than my mother and Nicola’s Baptist is ten years older than she is.’ She gave him a smile. ‘It seems to run in the family. Perhaps that was what was wrong with you for Nicola. You weren’t old enough. I’ve often thought about you.’

‘For ten years?’

‘First impressions are important ones. I thought you were handsome, brave and honest. It’s obvious you still are. I think when the Minister finally gets around to having an evacuation – and I suppose he will some time – I’ll persuade them to let me stay in Peshawar until you arrive. I’m sure they wouldn’t dream of allowing the men to go until all the women and children have gone first. They’re terribly fussy about that sort of thing. Then when you arrive, I hope we’ll talk again.’

‘About what?’

‘About me marrying you.’

Dicken gave a hoot of laughter. ‘I remember you telling me once that you had a wasting disease. You coughed for my benefit. You sounded remarkably healthy. And you were always tormenting Nicola about the way she changed her clothes every time I appeared. You were always fooling about.’

He became aware that she wasn’t smiling. ‘I wasn’t fooling about
that
,’ she said. ‘I’m still not fooling.’

Dicken was just digesting what she had said when MacAllister’s secretary appeared. For a change he was neither immaculate nor unmoved. He was covered with dust and flakes of plaster from a fallen ceiling and he looked alarmed.

‘The King’s troops are breaking down the gates, Minister,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better come.’

MacAllister rose and, followed by his gaggle of staff, hurried up the stairs. Dicken glanced quickly at Marie-Gabrielle then scrambled to his feet and followed. By the time they arrived at the gate, the Rezhan soldiers were already inside the garden and heading for the house. As MacAllister moved to meet them, one of them raised his rifle and Dicken snatched it away.

‘You must leave this property.’ MacAllister’s voice was calm as if he were talking to the gardener. ‘Under international law, this is British territory and you have no right to be here.’

Whether they understood him or not was hard to say but they certainly seemed to be impressed by his demeanour. It took an hour to clear them all out, however, and the women and children were sent back to the cellar. A few minutes later one of the King’s DH9s appeared overhead and there was a twitter of nerves in case the insurgents suspected double-dealing.

It was quite clear the situation was becoming worse rather than better but during the night the usual signal was put out on the lawn ‘Don’t land. All’s well’. It seemed to Dicken that MacAllister was being unduly optimistic because the next day the gates were pushed open again, this time by the rebels. Once more they all hurried to persuade them to leave and once more there was the rigmarole of pointed rifles and threats and the possibility of an eruption of anger. MacAllister dealt with it in his normal urbane fashion, then headed for the house to draft a signal for Babington, requesting a radio to be dropped by parachute.

‘It seems to me, sir,’ Dicken pointed out, ‘that instead of a radio, we ought to be requesting an evacuation by air.’

‘I have grave doubts that it can be done,’ MacAllister said. ‘It’s never been done before.’

‘There are machines waiting at Peshawar.’

‘Would they be able to land?’

‘Yes, sir. At Arpur.’

‘How do we get the women and children to Arpur?’

‘We could walk, sir. I’ll be willing to try to arrange a safe passage.’

MacAllister seemed tempted. ‘Do you think it can be done?’

‘Sir, I’ve already been through the lines three times. Once when I came here and twice when I went to fetch the radios.’

‘I hate giving up the Legation.’

‘Sir, you might have to!’

There were a few more questions then MacAllister nodded, convinced. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I have to admit that I have grave doubts about the Bachi
or
the King being able to control their men much longer. These people like fighting and they know there’s a possibility of loot in the Legations.’ He sighed. ‘It goes against the grain, you know, being forced to evacuate my post but perhaps, after all, we’d better try. I’m beginning to think that if we don’t go willingly we shall be forced to go unwillingly and that’s something I can’t think about with the women and children. How soon can it be arranged?’

‘If we can get a message through, the aircraft can be here tomorrow.’

MacAllister considered for a moment, then he nodded. ‘I’ll go and ask the ladies to pack,’ he said.

That night, while Babington was struggling to contact Miranshar, there was a clatter on the French windows. As they rushed to open them the firing outside swelled up again and two men fell in.

‘Von Rotow, sir,’ one of them announced breathlessly. ‘German Legation. We have come to request evacuation.’

MacAllister’s eyebrows shot up. ‘We haven’t arranged our own evacuation yet,’ he said.

‘Nevertheless, Herr Minister, we have heard you intend to. So also have the French Legation.’

During the night, as the rebels made another attempt on the Palace and the city, the fighting flared up and, as servants appeared one after the other with requests for help, it began to be clear that everybody in Ambul who was not a Rezhan had somehow heard of MacAllister’s decision and decided it might be better to bolt for India. More requests, brought by bearers, came from the Persian Legation and from individual British Indians and Rezhans. When they added up the figures it came to over three hundred.