Nightingale (10 page)

‘I'm going to die here, Baba. You will never see me again,' he whispered to the page.
Never see me smile or hear my voice again. You'll never be able to chastise me again and unless you hurry you'll never be able to tell me that you do love me
, his inner voice continued
.
Açar accepted his fate wholly, somewhere deep where he no longer dreamed.

Hasan arrived to flop down next to him. ‘Lucky you. Nothing for me. Everything good at home?'

‘Yes . . . yes. Everyone is fine. They knitted me socks and a scarf,' he answered, digging up a smile.

Hasan nodded appreciatively. ‘Any food?'

‘You know there is. Lokum and homemade halva. I'll share it later.'

His friend grinned. ‘Come on,' he said, standing. ‘Let's go eat. There's a travelling finger puppet show on this evening for those of us off-duty.' Hasan slapped Açar's shoulder. ‘That's us, brother. And there's a rumour that we may have potatoes and garlic tonight. I'm already drooling.'

Açar grinned. ‘Nothing new,' he replied in a dry tone and took his friend's proffered hand, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet and to walk away from the sense of a bleak destiny.

‘Hey, Açar, let's make a promise that tomorrow we do our best to shoot that Australian who plays the mouth organ,' Hasan joshed.

‘Why would you want to? I like it – I wish I could meet him.'

‘Ach, it's ugly to my hearing. You only like it because you play music but your kaval is far prettier in its sound.'

Açar sighed. ‘The kaval is the sound of the shepherd, Hasan. It's in the Turkish soul. But we both make our music by simply blowing air through small holes.'

‘Yes, but your pipe is of noble wood. His instrument is tinny.'

He shook his head. His kaval was made from the wood of the plum – nothing noble or important, but it was honest and its sound was indeed as sweet as the fruit it once bore. Nevertheless he secretly loved the music of the Australian in the trench not far from where he normally stood and it would be hard to explain that to Hasan. The soldier made gentle, sad music that spoke to Açar of dreams on the wind, carried on the wings of birds to families in faraway lands.

Fortunately the smell of frying garlic assaulted him and his whimsy about his opposing soldier was forgotten as Hasan dragged him faster towards food.

________

The guns had been quiet this afternoon, just the odd crack of sniper fire. It was a mild evening too and they'd even tasted something vaguely meaty in their food – hare, perhaps.
Salat
would be soon, he noted. As the sun was dipping beneath his sight, Açar reached to his pocket and touched the small, ancient prayer book of Islam – a gift from his mother's wealthy parents at his birth, crafted in Arabic. The mufti would wait until dusk to call the men to perform their ritual prayers. The enemy deliberately tried to find and kill the holy men, believing they could dim the determination of the Turks if they could kill their priests.

Açar smiled to himself. The enemy had a lot to learn about his faith. He caught the first gentle sound from the Australian trenches as his musical counterpart blew into the harmonica. His smile broadened to hear it.

‘You are alive, my friend,' he murmured with gladness beneath his breath.

Hasan, never far away, nudged him. ‘Play with him. Show him who is the better musician.'

Açar shook his head. ‘No, I like to listen to him. He is wistful tonight.'

Leaning back, he let the music of the mouth organ reach hauntingly across the short distance of no-man's-land and the still night.

‘He plays a song of the heart this evening,' Açar remarked. ‘He's thinking of a woman.'

‘To me it seems like the same ugly sound as always.'

Açar clicked his tongue. ‘It's entirely different. Listen. Can't you hear how it's talking, telling her he loves her?'

Hasan shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘Well, you may get to meet him. They're calling a truce.'

Açar sat forward. ‘Definitely?'

His friend took a long, slow suck on his tobacco. ‘So I hear.'

He nodded.
Good
. Well, if it was the last thing he did on this earth, he wanted to meet the harmonica player from the opposing trench and thank him for the gentle music. Açar closed his eyes and let the breathy sound of the wind harp carry him away from the dirt tunnel and lift him on its notes to a place in his mind that was peaceful, without colour or texture. It was here from this pure position he felt no fear, no anxiety about pain or loss; in this place there was no past or future, for here he was not a worldly body – he was simply thought. It was serenity.

The waiter laid the golden tray on the table they flanked in wicker armchairs and gestured to them in invitation. Just the sight of the sherbets cooled Claire.

‘
Mesdemoiselles, vos boissons
,' he murmured and got busy, putting out coasters and moving the drinks from tray to table.

The lingua franca in Egypt was English or French. Claire rather liked that he chose to speak French to two guests who clearly had English as a first language. It was a tiny defiance and she saw it glimmer in his eyes.

‘
Merci, monsieur
,' she murmured politely, smiling briefly before leaning back to reflect on their day.

While the sleepier Alexandria was traditionally a world away in atmosphere from frenetic Cairo, war had turned it into a chaotically busy harbour. They had been given seven hours' leave and the two nurses had decided to flee the main port. Claire preferred Alexandria to Cairo – there was something more refined about its European influence evident throughout the city.

As they'd left the immediate port area eddies of dust flung fine grit into her throat and she'd flapped uselessly at the flies that constantly tormented them. Her mind rushed to a barren place – Walker's Ridge – but could only imagine. Where Gupta had pointed lived Jamie Wren in a hot, filthy trench. There flies plagued him, along with the threat of malaria, dysentery and a host of other perils if the bullets and bombs didn't kill him.

She had forced herself to bend her thoughts away from Gallipoli and back to the press of the narrow streets they had wandered into, with crowded shops where sharp-eyed merchants had tried keenly to catch her and Rosie's attention. Far too experienced now, the nurses had remained in the middle of the alley, as best they could, and tried not to gaze left or right. They'd linked arms as they walked because the dusty road beneath was uneven, with potholes and ridges determined to trip them. She remembered now how she'd glanced up to see damp clouds that would give no rain but would keep the heat corralled below and send the humidity soaring.

They had moved past a row of shops and drifted level with a cavernous series of cafés, where men sucked on hookah pipes and hulked over games of backgammon while sulky-looking boys served them coffee that looked like tar in a glass. No women were present. The nurses had been searching for a welcoming hotel not too far from the port and knew just where to find it. It would have been easier to follow the waterfront but they'd both agreed they wanted to see some real life – people going about business that wasn't to do with war or killing.

They'd passed a stall selling cut fruit. Watermelons bled vivid juice the colour of blood to remind Claire she couldn't escape her imagination, while guavas were spliced with knives dipped in salt and spices, and the citrus of oranges overrode even the aroma of freshly boiled coffee and vaporised tobacco.

‘Madam, madam!' the fruit seller had called but the nurses walked on, steadfastly refusing him eye contact. Claire knew that to even pause would mean all the merchants would begin to badger them, including the nearby corn seller with his luminous yellow cobs.

‘The sun is bleaching your hair to the colour of that corn silk,' Rosie had noted and Claire had stolen a look at the roasting husks. Her friend was likely right; her hair had lost the buttery yellow it had been in England and had become a pale golden, not that it saw much sun these days. It was mostly hidden beneath her starched veil and only on days like today did she feel the freedom of loosening off some of the tight pinning so the soft waves escaped.

‘Mmm, now I feel hungry,' Rosie had admitted.

Far more pressing than food for Claire had been her need to slake a thirst and wash away the grime of coal dust and sand blown in on the warm winds from the desert.

They'd veered once more towards the waterfront where the breeze off the sea found them again; normally fresh and salty, these days it tasted of fumes from the large fleet of ships that were taking on supplies or dropping off yet more soldiers. Trailing them had been a flock of small children with hands open and voices chattering demands.

‘Come on, Claire, let's speed up or we're going to be mobbed.'

Giving a coin meant the begging only escalated and attracted a bigger crowd. She remembered how her gaze had fallen on an elderly man, looking like a pile of old rags, cross-legged and propped up in the full heat of the sun with only a piece of fabric wrapped around his head for protection. He had stumps for arms. When he looked up, drawn by the sound of the begging children, his rheumy gaze had connected with hers and the guilt he wanted her to feel had banged at the door of her chest like an unwelcome visitor. She'd hated herself for looking away and straight into the dark stare of two veiled women, shrouded in black from head to toe. Claire had envied them slightly in that moment; those women seemed to glide wraith-like through the maelstrom of children, street sellers, beggars, mules and carts, barely being noticed yet seeing everything through that slit in their veil. She wondered now what they thought of her, still in uniform, all crisply stiff in white and grey. Why did she care? War was hard enough without adding more pressure on her reserves by falling into this disconsolate mindset. It wasn't good for anyone – not her, not for the patients she tended, or the people she worked with . . . certainly not for the friend who stared at her now across the table from the cool verandah of the Windsor Palace Hotel with an expression that was a mix of enquiry and soft concern. Rosie Parsons loved a mystery and Claire knew she could sense one.

‘Pomegranate and lime, or violet?' Rosie asked, reaching across the table for the gilded glass filled with a liquid the colour of a pink sunset. ‘I think the violet suits your mood.'

Claire didn't argue. She took the green sherbet that Rose had ordered, made from pounded violet petals and boiled with sugar. Dainty, brilliantly purple fresh flowers floated on her drink and caressed her lips as she sipped; lips that could still remember the kiss that was the origin of this new and entirely unsettled frame of mind she was now in. Violet sherbet was an odd flavor, she decided as she swallowed; scented and subtle, it sounded so feminine but the floral taste wasn't refreshing enough for her.

‘How is it?' Rosie sighed, pulling a rose petal from her tongue as politely as she could.

‘I wish I'd gone for the pomegranate and lime now.'

‘You certainly are in a contrary mood, Claire. What's wrong with you?'

‘Oh, I don't know, the constant parade of death and destruction, maybe?'

Rosie's gaze narrowed at the sting of sarcasm. ‘Are you going to share, or are you going to pretend this gloom is perfectly normal?'

Claire shrugged and put the violet sherbet down. It was making her feel queasy. She took a deep breath of air, clearer now that they were down on the Corniche, which ran for ten miles of the waterfront. In the distance, past the hush and tranquillity of the Windsor and its pampered guests, she could hear the squeal of the trains from the nearby Ramle Railway Station.

Rosie looked around, pretended to let it go, but Claire knew better. Her friend would find an oblique approach.

‘I love this place. It feels like a palace,' Rosie gushed.

‘I think it was built to give that impression. Those frescoes on the ceiling would have taken an army of painters and heaven knows how long to complete.'

‘I think I could live in Alexandria,' Rosie sighed.

‘Really? You wouldn't miss home?'

‘I don't miss England. It's too wet and cold but I miss my family.'

‘You said you ran away into nursing to get away from all those brothers and sisters.'

‘I did. But war quickly has a way of making you realise what matters, doesn't it? Now I'd give anything to glare at my younger brothers for the tadpoles that grow into frogs and suddenly appear in my room, or to scold Lizzie for borrowing my cardigan, or to take the twins to the park to feed the ducks.' Rosie shook her head. ‘I used to think my life was so boring but it was always full of laughter and love.' She gave a sad smile. ‘Here's to laughter and love, Claire.' She raised her glass.

Claire did the same and sipped her odd-tasting cocktail again. ‘I feel envious of your family and all that love.'

‘And I envy you for living in Australia and travelling alone to England and now adventuring here . . . I'm sure you'll take off to new and exciting places when the war is done. I heard one of the doctors saying that he didn't think we'd be in Turkey for much longer.'

‘Really?' She frowned.

‘He was just guessing. I think I'd go back to England, maybe apply for one of the war hospitals on the coast. We could go together, maybe share digs. You can meet my family in Hove.'

Claire smiled softly. ‘Sounds nice,' she murmured.

‘Dad will like you because you're quiet. We're all chatterboxes. Mum's the worst of us.'

‘How many of you are there?'

‘Ten, if you include Gran. We're lucky we're given housing through Dad's job. It's a nice big house with a long garden and even an apple tree with a treehouse.' She laughed. ‘I never thought I'd say it but I do miss them all and can't wait to see them again.'

A young African man, dressed in a richly adorned waistcoat and pantaloons, wearing a crimson fez that marked him as one of the porters, struggled with a small bag of golf clubs and two suitcases. Claire wondered who on this earth was thinking about golf in the middle of a war.

Rosie sat forward. ‘Something's up. You don't seem yourself.' She frowned, considering Claire. ‘Has one of the doctors made a pass?'

‘No!' Then she realised maybe this was a way out. ‘It's one of the patients I'm thinking about,' she admitted. ‘I just felt sorry for him and I think his situation summed up this war for me. The whole push at Gallipoli feels hopeless.'

‘We knew that from day one, didn't we?'

‘Yes, but how many have to die to prove to the decision-makers it's hopeless?'

‘What's his name?'

‘Who?'

‘Your soldier.'

‘He's not mine,' she bristled.

‘Really? I noticed you took special interest in one despicably handsome brave from the Light Horse. All that talk of knowing the families. I think you're sweet on him.'

She swallowed, feeling the colour rise to her cheeks.

‘Claire! I was joking! But I'm right, aren't I?'

‘Rosie,' she interrupted, as she signalled to the waiter with a raised hand, ‘I had just held the hand of his closest friend who died while Jamie wept. I was on the shore, in the midst of all the despair and it caught me in an unguarded moment. Later I just happened to be on a break, insisted upon by Matron, when I saw Jamie arrive for treatment. Given what had recently occurred I thought I'd make it a little easier for him. I knew all he needed was a wound cleaned and some stitches. I left the stitches to —'

‘I know, I heard. You've gone to some trouble to explain an inconsequence.'

‘Because you're trying to make the inconsequential seem important,' she snapped.

Rosie chuckled, undeterred. ‘Do you deny he's unspeakably attractive?'

‘I deny that I noticed,' she lied. ‘But yes, he's handsome enough. He was covered top to toe in mud and blood, incidentally.'

‘Really? The fact that you call him Jamie while we call him Trooper Wren is a bit of a giveaway,' Rosie said, arching an eyebrow expertly as she sipped.

The waiter arrived and bought Claire precious moments; she wasn't ready to share Jamie with Rosie. What if he died? Then she'd have to put up with Rosie's pity but first there would be her friend's gushing enthusiasm for Claire's romance. No, Jamie was her secret for now. The man waited. ‘Sorry, I wonder if I could order some lemonade instead, please?' She momentarily felt obliged to give an explanation but he would surely be used to the whims of the spoilt Westerners who frequented the hotel.

His expression barely flickered in response. ‘Carbonated, madam?'

‘Fresh, thank you.'

He removed himself and the violet sherbet, and having found the calm she needed, Claire returned her gaze to Rosie. ‘Did you hear about the armistice?' she said.

‘Yes. There's talk it will be underway by the time we get in tomorrow morning. It's too hot for the Nhouza Gardens after here. Shall we look in on Davies Bryan? I need some hosiery and I like their fixed prices.'

Claire's lemonade arrived and she was instantly grateful for the sour, refreshing tang. She sighed her pleasure as it chased away the cloying floral sweetness of her previous drink. ‘Yes, of course. I need to exchange some money anyway. Perhaps we can grab a meal at Walkers & Meimarachi before we go? We promised the owner we'd go next time we were in town.'

‘Perfect. I wish we had time for the Alhambra. We could use some of the happy atmosphere and music of the club.'

Claire gave her a soft glance of reproach. ‘I'm not in the mood.'

‘Then, Claire Nightingale, something is definitely wrong with you. After where we've been you should be busting for some entertainment.'

Claire knew her friend was right.

‘Claire?'

She let out a small breath. ‘I was just thinking that perhaps the orchestra might be playing tonight at Walkers.' The name echoed through her thoughts.
Walker's Ridge where Jamie lives . . . or dies
.

‘Oh, that's true. Wonderful. Something to look forward to. So, hurry up. I've finished,' Rosie said, draining her sherbet. ‘I'm going to visit the lav, and then I'll find out how much it is to stay here. I think we should treat ourselves next visit. We could share a room – what do you think?'

Claire grinned her answer and waved her on as she sucked on the waxed paper straw in her lemonade. It would have been a relief to talk about Jamie but Rosie was a helpless chatterbox and she wouldn't have been able to keep Claire's secret between them. It made her feel guilty but as soon as Rosie had moved out of her line of sight her expression fell again and she pressed on her memories of two days ago like a bruise, wanting to feel the pain as though addicted to it.