Then there was that damn fool Moore-Simpson. DFC and Bar! Trench strafer! He didn’t think much of him! But he was to be preferred to the officer commanding this fort. James Lindsay! He’d had the effrontery to write him a chit telling him how to behave; warning him that he wasn’t to leave the fort without an escort; that he wasn’t, it seemed, to do anything without an escort. He’d even had the nerve to give him a lecture on how to treat the local women! ‘Do not meet their eye. Do not address them directly.’ How childish and absurd! He could count the number of native females he’d seen since his arrival on the fingers of one hand and they had been so shrouded in veils from top to toe it was impossible to tell they were women anyway. He had a strong feeling that the natives in these parts – Pakhtuns or Pathans they called them, he believed – had been allowed to get a damn sight too big for their boots. Perhaps Moore-Simpson wasn’t such a fool after all. People criticized General Dyer but certainly his action at Amritsar had nipped what could have have been a nasty bit of trouble in the bud. No – if they were going to trade in these parts it had to be on the basis of who’s boss and who is not. And if that damn fool Burroughs had his way what could be a promising market could be flooded with cheap Russian goods. Dermot Rathmore was determined that this shouldn’t happen. His confidence stemmed from the encouragement he had had at the very highest level. ‘Why don’t you go and have a look at the situation on the ground, old boy? Nothing like first-hand experience of the possibilities. Don’t worry about security – we’ll lay on a show for you. We’ll expect your report on your return – just remember what we’re interested in, what we’re all interested in, is the feasibility of the project. Can we get British goods into Afghanistan and, assuming we can, what sort of goods should they be?’
Rathmore smiled to himself and took a small object from his pocket. His eyes lingered on the jewel-like painting of a saint. An icon, that’s what these things were called. And since those Bolshies got into power in Russia and suddenly wealth and religion were frightfully unpatriotic they were finding their way over the border. He’d picked this one up in the bazaar in Peshawar for tuppence halfpenny. And there were other things too. Precious things, unusual things which would sell well in London or New York. Some of the works of the enterprising Monsieur Fabergé were filtering down to Afghanistan and onwards. His plan would be to get British goods into Afghanistan all right for the propaganda that was in it and to impress His Majesty’s Government, but Dermot Rathmore’s real profit would be in the goods his caravans brought back out again.
He stared ahead of the convoy, beyond the fort. His calculating blue eyes followed the newly tarmacked road that wound its way up into the dark jaws of the Khyber Pass. That would be the route his lorries would take. How far did the road surface extend? Was it safe? He supposed it all depended on the efficiency of this Lindsay in his tinpot little fort with his bugles and his handful of British officers. Dermot had heard that the vast majority of the thousands of enlisted men – Scouts they called them! Scouts! – were tribesmen from these hills, brigands to a man probably. Dermot sighed. He’d come on a wild goose chase. But then he looked again at the icon in the palm of his hand and cheered up.
Betty Lindsay too was looking about her. She’d been cooped up with the other military wives within the walls of Peshawar for too long and was enjoying the wide horizons. She took off her heavy solar topee and shook out her thick brown curls, turning her head this way and that. There it was at last! So often imagined, so often described to her by James. Betty stared and stared again at the fort. James’s fort – more or less James’s creation. The centre of his world. ‘No, perhaps not that. I know what’s the centre of his world – me!’ She was heartened by this thought in the midst of a landscape so hostile.
At first the fort was hard to see. Like so many things in this country it had a facility to disappear. A cloud would cross the sun, shadows would chase each other, the cloud would pass on and briefly the mud-coloured fort would reappear in the mud-coloured landscape. Long and low, the fort seemed sprawled across the foothills. She knew – because James had told her – that every possible use had been made of natural features to ensure interlocking fields of fire in the event of attack. Lookout posts and lookout positions ensured that no part of the surrounding landscape was ever in view from fewer than two separate outlooks.
‘It’s all very malein the bud’ she thought to herself. ‘Nothing soft here. This is a world of nailed sandals, bugle calls, iron rations, binoculars and ceaseless watchfulness.’
They wound their way across the plain and Betty became aware of details as they approached the fort. She saw battlements, watchtowers loop-holed for rifle fire, perched like swallows’ nests against the side of the fort, a signal station manned with a heliograph, but amongst the unrelenting military dispositions of stone and dried mud there were the tentative beginnings of shy greenery. Very regimented greenery! Regimented but vulnerable in this harsh world. Recently planted fruit trees seemingly stood to attention where they had been put by a military hand. Vegetables stood likewise. An attempt had been made to establish a vineyard. The whole was efficient and promising ‘but,’ thought Betty with a lurch of the heart, ‘totally without imagination.’ Yes, this was James’s work all right. ‘If ever we live anywhere a civilized life is possible, I won’t let him within a mile of the garden, that’s for sure!’
She turned and said as much to Grace. ‘All the same,’ said Grace, ‘persistence! That’s what’s needed. And that is certainly what James has.’
‘It’s what you’re going to need over this next bit too, Grace,’ said Betty, suddenly concerned and frowning. ‘Look! If you look back the way we’ve come, what do you see? Civilization! Orchards, fields full of green crops, sparkling river, canals, the dome of Ismalia college and a froth of apple and almond blossom! It’s quite heavenly! And then turn quickly and look to the west. Now what do you see? Hell! All shades of brown and not a tree or a blade of grass in sight. And as for that gate to Avernus,’ she pointed at the black vertical fissure that marked the Khyber and shuddered, ‘wild horses wouldn’t drag me up there! I think you’re awfully brave, Grace, going all that way. They say it’s thirty miles from beginning to end. That’s a long ride!’
‘You kindly don’t add, “At your age!” ’ Grace eyed Betty calmly for a moment. ‘I’m not exactly a tourist,’ she said. ‘I know these people and – at last – they know me. I’d go further and say they trust me, and that trust hasn’t been easy to establish. Thirty miles! Yes, it’s a long way but Afghanis say, “Halve the journey – travel with a friend!” and that’s what I shall be doing.’ Her calm was impressive. ‘I’ve done it before,’ she added placidly.
‘I hope you won’t think I’m overstepping the bounds of decorum, Grace -’ Betty smiled, ‘which of course means that I’m about to! – if I ask why you should go to dance attendance on the Amir? We need you in Peshawar! I need you in Peshawar! Surely there must be a supply of competent doctors in Kabul?’
Grace smiled. ‘The Amir Amanullah has very particular requirements in a physician, the most important being that his doctor should not kill him! He doesn’t trust the homebred ones not to be in the pay of one of his aspirant relatives. Too easy to administer a fatal dose! For this reason he never allows himself to be anaesthetized – not even to have a tooth removed. But he trusts me. He’s visited Peshawar several times to consult me and we get on well. He also appreciates my Western training. His country may still be in the Stone Age in many ways but Amanullah admires many aspects of Western culture. And so does his wife, Sourayah. Sourayah is a great beauty and her husband is very proud of her. She’s even been photographed wearing Paris fashions without her veil – what a scandal! And, more importantly,’ Grace leaned forward, her eyes shining with enthusiasm, ‘the royal pair have a notion to overhaul education in Afghanistan and insist that it be provided for all girls as well as for boys. There has even been talk of enfranchisement for women.’