Nightingale (26 page)

‘The way that Jamie described your son's behaviour that day attests to those beliefs. He made the ultimate sacrifice so that he wouldn't have to kill anyone, but also so that he was no longer answerable to a world at war.' She swallowed. ‘I admire him.'

His bruised glance held her. ‘I encouraged him to go . . . I ignored his leanings and —'

‘Here I am. Oh, do forgive me,' gushed Leavers, arriving to explode the tender and intimate atmosphere. Claire looked at Shahin and felt their exchange of a private, silent apology and within it she sensed a longing from him, as Leavers explained how he and his friend had known each other from schooldays.

Shahin took his chance while their white-haired companion sipped his tea. ‘Miss Nightingale was explaining the significance of this damage to my dead son's prayer book.'

That silenced Leavers. ‘Oh, I say, how intriguing.'

‘I've said enough,' Claire murmured with a polite smile. She, Jamie, Rifki and Açar were inextricably linked through that book and its bullet hole. It was not necessary for Leavers to learn of it, and she had no desire to hear his take on it. She glanced at her watch. ‘Well, look at that. I suppose I should go and let you get back to your lecture. I have taken up more than enough of your time, Mr Shahin.'

‘Please, we have taken tea together now. Call me Rifki, as my friends do.'

She smiled. ‘Thank you. But then I insist you refer to me as Claire.'

He bowed his head politely as he stood. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Claire.'

‘I am a convert,' she replied, gesturing at the near-empty tulip glass. ‘Wild sage tea may well be my new poison.'

‘“
Ada çay
” is how you order it,' he said, as they lingered over pleasantries as a way of somehow holding on to each other's company for a few moments longer.

‘I'll remember that.' She beamed. ‘Professor Leavers, it was so kind of you to come along.'

‘Oh, my dear Miss Nightingale —'

‘Claire,' she corrected, throwing a glance at Shahin. She had been wrong. His eyes weren't grey. Now they looked charcoal, like his short hair and dark suit. She blinked, realising poor old Leavers was answering her.

‘. . . anytime at all.'

‘Thank you. I'm here for a couple more weeks at least and could use a chaperone to explore more of the cultural spots of the city. I hear there is a remarkable cistern worth viewing.' She grinned, deliberately addressing Leavers. ‘Although the truth is I'm perhaps more interested in the culture of the region. I wish I could meet more Turkish folk, learn further about their lives.'

‘What is it you wish to discover, Miss . . . Claire?'

She looked back at Shahin and lifted a shoulder slightly. ‘Every­day life,' she said, noncommittally.

‘I was about to invite Charles to experience the hammam – do you know what that is?'

She nodded. ‘The public baths.'

‘I'm surprised.'

‘We have Turkish baths in Charing Cross, I gather,' she said, remembering a snippet from the newspaper. ‘There's a separate bath for the ladies, of course.'

He looked surprised and nodded, impressed.

‘Gentlemen enter from Northumberland Avenue, as I understand it, while the women have a special entrance in the Northumberland Passage . . . off Craven Street, The Strand.'

‘That's extraordinary,' he said, genuinely delighted.

‘Yes, I read an article about it. I think it cost something in the order of thirty thousand pounds to build and there is a suite of bathrooms and cooling rooms beneath a dome.'

‘The dome has a purpose, of course, to circulate air and achieve excellent ventilation.'

‘I have to admit, I've never seen the inside of those baths.'

‘Well, while I cannot extend an identical invitation to you that I have to your friend Charles, our visit will coincide with a family celebration for the birth of my sister's first grandson. She and the women of our family and her husband's family will be attending the hammam and later there will be a gathering of both families at my sister's house in Istanbul. She lives not too far from your hospital in Taksim. You are more than welcome to accompany the women to the bathing ritual and perhaps you and Charles may like to join us at the festivities afterwards?'

She knew she hesitated. Was it right to accept this man's invitation? And was she hesitating out of cultural respect, or because he was an attractive man and it felt as though she was betraying Jamie to even acknowledge that?

‘Please don't feel obliged, of course. It is simply a way for you to share some typical local family rituals. My sisters and the women of our family would be intrigued to meet you.'

There, she told herself, it was an innocent invitation and would be a fascinating insight. She too would love to talk at length to the women of Shahin's family. ‘I'd be delighted to,' she said.

‘Absolutely, old chap,' Leavers said. ‘Sounds exciting.'

‘Next Friday it is,' he said, looking pleased. ‘I will get details to you at the hospital.'

‘Perfect. Well, until next week, thank you both again. Enjoy your afternoon.' Claire turned and could feel his gaze on her back as she walked away, her thoughts racing to reassure her that he was simply interested in the connection to his son rather than her.

It was several days before Claire was once again called to the telephone, this time in the nurses' station.

‘It's a Professor Shahin from the University of Istanbul's Mathematics Department for you,' Matron said, arriving beside where Claire was giving a patient a shave.

She looked back at Matron, trying not to reflect the pleasure that rushed to follow her private delight at the mention of his name. ‘Ah, how kind of him. Professor Shahin is a colleague of Professor Leavers whom I met recently and he has some information for me.' She turned to her patient and squeezed his shoulder because he was a fraction deaf. ‘Will you excuse me, Mr Wilkes?'

‘Anythin' for you, darlin',' he said.

‘Thank you, Matron, I won't be a moment,' she promised and wiped her hands as she walked quickly to the phone. ‘Hello, Mr Shahin?'

‘Rifki,' he reminded her and she smiled, liking his mild tone, finding it hard to imagine him ever raising his voice.

‘How are you?' she continued.

‘I am feeling very good, thank you for asking. I have made arrangements as I promised. My sister will send some women to collect you on Friday.'

‘Why do I suddenly feel nervous?'

‘You will enjoy it, Claire. My sister has assured you are welcome and afterwards in her home.'

‘That's most generous. I am looking forward to it.'

‘Perhaps I shall see you tomorrow evening then at the celebration.' He paused as if he wanted to say more. She waited. ‘Good afternoon.'

‘Yes, good afternoon.' As she put the phone back on the hook, one of the Turkish orderlies walked by and she hailed him, glad he was one of the youngsters who spoke reasonable English. ‘Ali . . . I'm going to a Turkish house to celebrate the birth of a baby. What should I take?'

He laughed. ‘Only gold will do, Nurse Nightingale. It is the custom. A small gold coin.'

Gold! Well, she couldn't risk being embarrassed by taking the wrong sort of celebratory present and she persuaded one of the doctors, whom she'd become friendly with, to accompany her to the nearby souk that evening to find a jeweller.

‘We can't find a jeweller in Taksim?' she asked as Edward helped her to step up to the ferry at Karacöy. The craft was shifting slowly atop the Bosphorus as though slumbering, awaiting its next load, which seemed to be filling surprisingly quickly.

Edward shook his head. ‘I know a reliable jeweller, but he's at the back end of the Grand Bazaar and down an alley. We can rely on him to give you excellent quality and price. In fact, I might find my sister something there. It's her birthday soon.'

‘I saw her yesterday, I think. Dark-haired, Liverpool accent?'

He grinned. ‘That's my Janet. We seem to be ships that cross in the night at the moment – our shifts are all out of kilter but she loves nursing as much as I love being a doctor.'

‘It must be wonderful to be able to work overseas together.'

‘Well, after what we both saw during the war, we're enjoying being family again and neither of us wants to be separated if we can help it – not with both our parents dead.'

Claire understood all too well.

‘Have you visited the Bazaar yet?'

She nodded, leaning on the rail, and memories of the
Gascon
flooded back, except this time she was staring across beautiful blue waters to an ancient city. ‘I've never experienced anything like it but it can be overwhelming.'

‘I loathe it, frankly,' he admitted, taking off his glasses to polish them with a pocket square he drew from his pale linen jacket. ‘But it's more to do with my lack of trust for crowds and tinkers.'

She laughed. ‘They're hardly tinkers, Ed. Everything I saw was a work of art . . . even the food.'

The signal was given and the ferry groaned and heaved lazily away from the jetty, gulls circling them with keen eyes.

He put his glasses back on and it immediately aged him, given that his hair was also thinning. ‘You're right, and I do enjoy experiencing another culture. I tend to think that medicine is a frontier, isn't it?' he said. ‘So much of the human body, human condition, human psyche is unknown. There is no map – we're discovering it. So pursuing your calling to medicine is throwing yourself straight into the unknown.'

She smiled and squeezed his arm. ‘You're an adventurer, Ed, without knowing it. And thank you for being so gracious about accompanying me.'

He grinned. ‘It wasn't a hard decision, Claire. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that every red-blooded doctor in the hospital is hoping to have your pale gaze fall upon him.'

She inhaled silently. ‘I'm spoken for, Ed.'

‘I know. We all think he's a thoroughly lucky fellow too.'

‘You're sweet, thank you.'

‘Sweet is what my last girlfriend called me right before she called our engagement off.'

Claire threw him a look of sympathy that she hoped also told him she didn't really want to discuss romance.

‘Anyway, my Lady Claire, we don't need to walk in through the main entrance of the Grand Bazaar – we can skirt it and move straight to the area of the gold souk where the haggling will begin.'

‘Do you know how?' she teased.

‘Of course.' He grinned. ‘I don't like bargaining but unfortunately I'm wretchedly good at it. You see, it's a game . . .'

They walked in a relaxed, jolly haze of chatter in neutral Red Cross uniform to show they were not part of the military or the politics that had split up the city. Her companion knew his way and she tagged along, happy to follow down the twisting lanes that got busier the closer they reached the main building, which had reputedly been trading since the middle of the fifteenth century.

‘We need the southern side,' Edward said and Claire became entranced by the labyrinthine feel of the souk with tiny alleyways running off streets to dark, intriguing places she couldn't fathom. Robed locals moved in a river of purposeful activity and haggling voices were all she could hear as the sounds of the city were drowned.

She soaked up the sights of the brightly coloured fabrics of carpets and shawls, of tins and jars of products she could neither read nor fathom their contents. Strange smells leaked towards them.

‘Toasting pistachios for lokum,' Charles explained. ‘They say lokum is what the gods would eat on Mount Olympus.'

Claire nodded. ‘I'll eat Turkish delight in all of its incarnations. It's exquisite.'

He pointed to small, bronze-coloured lumps piled up in a basket. ‘Ever chewed Arabic gum?'

She shook her head. ‘What does it taste like?'

‘Well . . . a bit like how cedar wood smells. Bit bitter but then gets better the more you chew. Aids digestion, apparently.'

‘I'm sure we have a lot to learn from this part of the world,' she remarked, remembering how little she understood of the medicinal products sold in Alexandria and Cairo and yet the locals who worked alongside her swore they had magical healing properties . . . from argan oil to combat skin diseases to the biblical frankincense for aiding arthritis.

She was glad the awkward moment of romance had passed and she could now follow her companion, chatting amiably, into a wide, much quieter street where gold glinted with alluring intensity in the lamplight and men lurked in shadowed doorways watching purchases being made by Istanbul locals crouched in the street as the seller weighed gold. Money exchanged hands in both directions – some merchants were selling, others were buying.

He dropped in on her thoughts and spoke quietly, close to her ear. ‘We see gold almost entirely for its beauty and then its value. But here, in this street, it is about wealth.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Well, people don't drive cars or live in fancy houses such as Mayfair. They wear their wealth. And silver but especially gold is their currency. It's the measure of their financial worth . . . like a bank.'

‘So, help me find a gift of gold coin for a friend's newborn.'

‘Ah, they have coins for everything . . . births, weddings. And the greater your friend, the bigger the coin.'

‘I don't know these people personally.'

‘A small one, then. Come on, just down here.'

Inside the dark shop, which looked like a shanty that may fall down at any moment, Claire saw an old man wearing wire-rimmed glasses standing quietly behind a counter.

‘Not busy tonight, Mr Hakan?' Edward enquired.

The shopkeeper nodded. ‘As you see, sir. You are my first customer so you bring me luck.'

Edward gave Claire a wink. ‘They all say that,' he muttered.

‘We're looking for a gold coin for a new child.'

Hakan pointed to a dilapidated case before him. ‘I have some attached to white silk bows.'

Claire leaned forward to get a better view of the glinting coins, which sat in soft depressions of the velvet within the case.

‘The small coin is fine,' she said, pointing. ‘And thank you, the one with the white ribbon looks perfect.'

Claire watched as Hakan retrieved the coin. He held it up and she nodded, enjoying the ritual of him polishing it carefully and retying the bow it was attached to. He showed her and she smiled.

‘Perfect, thank you.'

Mr Hakan took his time weighing it against tiny spheres. When he looked up, Edward grinned. ‘Let the haggling begin,' he murmured.

Claire had already handed him the maximum she was prepared to pay so she drifted away to the entrance to watch the street in its constant motion until the deal was done. Edward soon arrived beside her and held out a tiny package, wrapped in brown paper and folded expertly. ‘Here you go and it wasn't as much as you were prepared to pay, first sale of the day and all that. What a fib!'

She looked over her shoulder. ‘Thank you, Mr Hakan.' He nodded at her. ‘You keep what was saved,' she offered to Edward.

‘Oh, don't be daft,' Edward said in mock horror. ‘Share a pot of tea sometime with me.' Claire smiled but his wink as he spoke gave her pause. She had no intention of encouraging another man into her life. As it was, the mention of tea, which should have only brought images of Jamie, suddenly made her think of the scent of warmed sage and the tentative smile of Rifki Shahin.

________

Friday eased around and Claire hadn't realised how much she'd been anticipating the opportunity to glimpse ‘behind the veil' with the women of the Shahin family. Even so, she approached with mixed feelings about walking into the unknown world of the hammam. None of the other nurses had experienced it but several made remarks.

‘Are you really happy to walk around naked with a bunch of strangers? Let a strange person wash you?'

Claire had shrugged. ‘Well, I give bed baths all the time to people I've never met before. They don't seem to mind and neither do I.'

‘I've heard their massages hurt.'

‘Oh, I can't imagine that. This is to be a celebration.'

‘It's dirty, Claire.'

‘No! Cleanliness is spiritual to Muslims. The bathing rituals are part of their faith, so water has a powerful religious significance.'

She had dressed with great care after coming off her shift, choosing a new dress she'd had copied from a magazine by a tailor close to the hospital. She'd been amazed that from his daughter taking her measurements to his wife handing her the finished garment, it had taken only a day. She'd ensured the design deliberately covered her shoulders and arms and had used an enormous and exquisitely woven shawl she'd bought on her second day in the city. It was so delicate it was near transparent, so beneath it she wore a simple iron-grey shift. From afar it shimmered, as part of it was woven with tiny silver plates. She wore no other adornment and when she arrived to stand at the hospital entrance, carrying a cloth bag with the newborn's gift and a neatly wrapped package of lokum for the celebration at the baths, she saw two women approaching in black robes. She'd chosen a mix of mastic and rosewater gels presented in small mouthful-sized cubes dusted with cream of tartar and touched with glinting gold leaf; and the same amount again of less perfectly shaped mouthfuls of a harder, chewier gel of pistachio and date with silver leaf. And yet despite all of her prudence, which she'd convinced herself was all about respect for her hosts, Claire heard the small voice within mocking her that all of this was only to impress him.

No!
she argued back, alarmed by such a notion. The only man in her thoughts was Jamie, she reassured herself, reminding that she was simply being polite and doing her best to engage with the culture.

‘Miss Nightingale?' one of the robed women enquired as they neared, seeming to float beneath the dark, voluminous fabric. Big, dark eyes of ebony smiled above the veil.

‘Yes. Are you Amina?' she asked, relieved she could speak to this young woman in English.

‘I am.'

They all regarded each other hesitantly for a moment and then Claire stepped forward and kissed them on each cheek. ‘Thank you so much for coming for me.'

Amina's eyes crinkled more as her smile widened. ‘I am Rifki Shahin's niece. This is my cousin, Jehan.' Claire nodded at the other girl, guessing she was not fluent in the language being spoken.

‘Rifki has a lot of nieces,' she remarked.

Amina laughed. ‘I think six. But I'm the only one with good English,' she confirmed. ‘Please forgive.'

‘Nothing to forgive. I wish with all my heart I could speak Turkish.'

‘My uncle did not tell me you were so beautiful.'

Claire smiled. ‘Well, shame on him.'

Amina laughed. ‘Did you have your dress made here, Miss Nightingale?'

‘Please call me Claire. Yes, I did.'

‘I recognise that work.' Amina said a word that Claire didn't catch. ‘It is a very old tradition and very clever for you to turn it into a dress.'