Land of Hope and Glory (4 page)

Eventually Jack gave a small cough. ‘Sir, if I may . . .’

Shri Goyanor stirred from the window and looked at Jack. ‘Yes?’

‘I’d like the day off to go into Poole.’

‘Today? That’s quite unusual. You need to give some notice.’

‘I know, sir, and I’m sorry about that. But I have some urgent business. It won’t affect the guard roster.’

‘Urgent business? Very unusual.’ Shri Goyanor looked down at the newspaper, shook his head and then rapped the page with his finger. ‘Look at this. Brighthelm’s fallen to the traitors now. I don’t know . . .’

‘It’s terrible, sir.’ Jack had already heard rumours that the port city had been taken. This was just the latest in what had been months of bad news. First, reports had come in of English regiments turning on their Indian officers, then of London falling, of the massacre of Rajthanan women and children at Westminster, of further cities falling. Now most of the south-east was controlled by the rebels, under their leader, the so-called Sir Gawain. Even King John had given his support, although many said the old man was either senile or under duress.

‘I don’t understand,’ Shri Goyanor said. ‘I don’t understand it at all. What’s wrong with those soldiers?’

Jack stood in silence. He knew it was best to let Shri Goyanor talk until he’d expressed his views fully.

‘Well, I dare say it’ll all be over soon enough,’ Shri Goyanor continued. ‘The army will sort it out, of course. I just hope they get on with it quickly. At least we won’t get that kind of trouble here. I mean, the sentiment of the people around here . . . it’s different, isn’t it? I’ve always said that.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, sir.’

‘Yes. The sentiment is quite different. We won’t have any trouble. Even this . . . this Ghost, or whatever he calls himself. He might be on our doorstep, but people won’t flock to him. I’m certain of that.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Shri Goyanor turned the page of the newspaper and studied it for a moment.

After a pause, Jack said, ‘Sir, about Poole . . .’

Shri Goyanor looked up again and blinked, as though Jack had appeared out of thin air.

‘I need to go into Poole today, sir,’ Jack repeated.

‘Oh, yes.’ Shri Goyanor gave a long sigh. ‘Very well, if you must.’

The doctor’s eyebrows shot up when Jack pulled off his tunic. Jack had expected this reaction. His torso was covered in a patchwork of pale lines and knots, scars from numerous bullets and blades.

‘I was in the army,’ Jack said.

‘I can see.’ The doctor – a young Rajthanan wearing a brilliant white turban – walked around the table to stand beside Jack.

They were in the main hall of the Poole Shiva Mission Hospital. Behind Jack, slumped on benches, were the sick, the injured and the dying: old men weak from cholera and sleeping on the streets; worn mothers with screaming babies; peasants from the country covered in dust from the long journey into town; people whose faces were marred with pox blisters; people shivering, coughing, sniffling. The sharp smell of urine and faeces was stronger than the scent of burning incense that rose from numerous brackets about the walls.

Those patients who were currently being attended to sat in a row before a series of tables, behind which sat the doctors and nurses. And behind the doctors, at the back of the hall, was a huge stone statue of Shiva that reached almost to the ceiling. The god sat cross-legged, with two hands in his lap and a further two hands holding a trident and an hourglass-shaped drum. A cobra coiled about his neck and reared up beside his shoulder.

The doctor examined Jack’s scars slowly, finally stopping at the thick, red burn mark in the centre of his chest. The doctor prodded the mark with his finger and Jack flinched.

‘So that’s the sattva-fire injury,’ the doctor said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Nine years ago, you say.’

‘Yes. Got it in an accident. On the battlefield.’

For a moment Jack remembered the fierce blue fire and the searing pain. In the heat of battle he’d got ahead of his platoon and a sattva-fire ball had fallen short. It had burst on the ground and a bolt of the stuff had screamed through the air and struck him.

The doctor leant forward to look at the scar more closely. ‘Don’t see this sort of thing very often in England.’

Jack nodded. England was peaceful – at least it had been until the mutiny. Only soldiers like him who’d been posted overseas were likely to get hit by sattva-fire.

The doctor drew back. ‘It’ll never heal. There’ll always be a trace of the fire in you.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Jack already knew this. The army doctor who’d first treated him had told him. The injury would always be there, but he could learn to live with it. So long as he didn’t try to use his power, he could lead a normal life, even stay in the army.

‘I’ll just check something.’ The doctor picked up a brass ear trumpet and placed the cold metal in various positions on Jack’s chest. He furrowed his brow, straining to hear.

Finally he put the trumpet down again. ‘I’m afraid it’s not good news.’

The sounds in the hall seemed to echo louder and the smell of incense grew stronger.

‘What is it, sir?’

‘The wound’s spreading. The fire has reached your heart.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Your heart is being weakened. It’ll get worse as the fire spreads. Eventually it’ll be fatal. There’s nothing that can be done about it.’

Jack swallowed. He was suddenly conscious of his heartbeat, that regular pulse tapping away on the left side of his chest. ‘How long have I got?’

‘That all depends. You could have a few years left, in fact, if you can learn to live with your condition. But you have to take care. Any strain on your heart and it could stop completely.’

‘What kind of strain?’

‘Anything that increases your heart rate: physical exercise, a sudden shock, any form of excitement.’

Jack nodded as he considered this.

‘I’m afraid that’s all I can do for you.’ The doctor returned to the other side of the table and began writing in a notebook. ‘You can go now.’

Jack pulled on his tunic and bowed with his hands pressed together, as if praying. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Outside the hospital, he stood on the edge of the narrow street and watched the crowds go by. Horse and bullock carts clattered along, scattering chickens and geese. Three-storey buildings with wooden frames and wattle-and-daub walls leant over the road, as if about to topple over. Dogs skulked down alleyways. He smelt excrement and rotting vegetables.

His wound was spreading – the army doctor hadn’t told him that could happen.

Ah well, what did he expect? Karma, after all, had caused the accident, because of what he’d done, the mistake he’d made. Obviously he hadn’t paid his debt in full yet. When his time to go came, he would accept it. There was no point fighting fate.

He was, in many ways, lucky to be alive at all. Many of his comrades had died on the battlefield. Now he was thirty-nine – not a bad age for a soldier to reach. And the doctor had said he could live for several years yet, so long as he took care of himself – which was exactly what he intended to do.

He wandered down to the seafront and leant against the low wall, beyond which lay a short stretch of rocks and then the expansive bay. The sea was blue marble beneath the sun, and on the far side of the bay were wooded hills and islands.

He glanced along the wall to the left and about a mile away he could see the jumble of blackened buildings, stepped terraces and jetties that formed the docks. Two military transport ships were in the port, their chimneys smouldering amidst the cross-hatch rigging. They would be bringing in more troops – every week more arrived.

The mutiny. It seemed to seep into everything these days. It would bring nothing but misery to England. Shri Goyanor was right: the sooner it was over, the better.

He rubbed his face with his hand and glanced inland to the high, red walls of the new town, where the Rajthanans lived in their orderly streets and mansions. The enormous golden towers of the Vishnu temple glistened in the sunlight and cast a warm glow over the surrounding buildings.

He couldn’t help but marvel at the Rajthanans. With their grand buildings, their avatars and mills, and their knowledge of sattva, they seemed a people blessed by God, even though they didn’t even worship Him. The mutineers were fools to think they could defeat the might of Rajthana.

And the rebel leader was the biggest fool of all. He called himself ‘Sir Gawain’, as if he were a knight from King Arthur’s day, but apparently he was just a little corporal with a big mouth.

The bells of the old cathedral rang Nones – three o’clock – in the distance. He thought of Elizabeth, standing in the snow, waving goodbye. What would happen to her if the worst happened to him? He brushed the thought aside. She could look after herself now. But he would make sure he saw her more often. He would save harder for the cart fare. He would go without the little luxuries he bought from time to time: a pint of ale, chewing paan. He didn’t need those things – he just needed to see his daughter.

And he would write more, many more letters. He still had time.

He left the sea wall and hurried along the muddy streets to the market square, which bustled with stalls, traders, farmers, pigs, chickens, goats and all manner of other produce. People haggled, shouted at each other, ate, drank and listened to minstrels singing along to lutes.

He went to the stall of his usual letter writer, but found a different man behind the stand – a Mohammedan with a thick blond beard and a white skullcap.

‘Is Master Beatson around?’ Jack asked.

‘He’s sick.’ The Mohammedan waved his hand dismissively. ‘I can help you.’

Jack paused. He didn’t trust Mohammedans. He’d served with them in the army – most of continental Europe was Mohammedan – but he’d never liked them. And it was even worse for an Englishman to follow Islam. England was a Christian country, and had been ever since the last English Caliph had been defeated two centuries ago. Everyone knew the story – after centuries of conflict, the old Moors had eventually conquered Europe and ruled in England for 200 years, but an army of English knights had rebelled and forced them back over the sea to France, or al-Francon as the French called it. England had been free then, but had been mired in wars between dukes and barons and a series of kings. Peace had only been restored when the Rajthanans arrived a hundred years ago.

‘I’d like to send a letter,’ he said.

‘One shilling,’ the letter writer replied.

‘A shilling? It was only ten pence last time.’

‘That’s the price.’

‘I’ll give you eleven.’

‘No, no. The post-cart price has gone up. It’s one shilling. That’s it.’

Jack felt his heart beat faster. He was becoming breathless, or maybe he was just imagining it. He had to calm down. No point getting worked up over a few pence. ‘All right, then. One shilling.’

The letter writer took out a pen and some paper. Jack tried to concentrate on what he wanted to say, but a woman pushing a wheelbarrow of parsnips bumped into him and cursed. He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured Elizabeth standing in the snow.

‘Dear Elizabeth,’ he began. ‘Thank you for your last letter. It was good to hear from you . . .’ He paused. It was so hard to know what to say sometimes. ‘No, change that. Make it: “It was wonderful to hear from you, as always.” How does that sound?’

The letter writer shrugged.

‘I was pleased to hear about your promotion,’ he continued. ‘You deserve it. I hope you’re still well. It’s summer now. I know how you like to see the wild flowers on the heath. Do you remember how your mother used to take you out to the fields? You used to make daisy chains together.’ His voice became hoarse and he stopped for a second. His throat was tight. He wished Elizabeth was there with him now.

‘Anything else?’ The letter writer tapped impatiently against the paper with his pen.

‘Yes.’ Should he tell Elizabeth about his heart? ‘I am the same as usual . . . No, make it: “I am well.” No . . .’

The letter writer grumbled as he crossed out what he’d just written.

‘All right, say this: “I am in the best of health. Never been better. May God give you grace, Elizabeth. As always, your loving Father.”’

The sounds of the market faded away for a second and the ground seemed to drag at Jack’s stomach.

‘The address?’ the letter writer said.

‘Sorry.’ He tried to concentrate. ‘The address. Yes.’

He gave the Mohammedan the address of Elizabeth’s letter writer. And he imagined Elizabeth standing in a market in North Dorsetshire as his words were read out, those scratches on the paper forming an invisible connection across the miles, across the towns and fields and heaths and downs, bringing him and his daughter together for a moment.