—47—
I thought of all the people I loved who might be alive until I read their death notice on that piece of paper. My mother. My brother. Tanveer. I halted, and I thought, quite definitely, that I could not bear another death. Not one more. I just could not.
But of course I would bear it, just as everyone else had been forced to do.
And then I realized that I wasn’t wife or mother to any of those people, and therefore would not get a telegram. Who, then?
I reached for it, tore it open before Mary had made her way back to her bicycle.
It was from Gurdaya.
Tanveer Injured Stop Taken to Hospital in Brighton Stop Help Stop Hurry Stop
Injured! How badly? Without a second thought, I whirled around and ran upstairs to gather a bag, taking only enough time to be certain the fires were doused in the two fireplaces I used, in the sitting room and my bedroom. Then I flew away to the railroad station.
In two hours, I was in Brighton, and a half hour after that, I stood at the doorway of the hospital.
“I’m looking for a patient,” I said. “Indian. Injured at the front, probably only brought in the past day or two.”
The matron, a thin woman with large kind eyes, nodded. “Most of the Indians have been moved out to Africa, so we haven’t had many arrive here for quite some time. Come with me.”
As we entered the ward, bed after bed after bed after bed of men, a smell unlike anything I’d known slammed me. Instinctively, I covered my face with a handkerchief, then realized how rude it must be, and lowered it again.
The matron gave me a sad shake of the head. “It’s all right. You get used to it, but it takes time.”
“Is it injury?”
“Some. Gangrene, trench foot, sepsis.” She gestured toward a soldier still in his uniform, passed out and covered with a kind of grime that said he hadn’t washed in days or even weeks. “Mostly, it’s their uniforms.”
The smell was so vile it had texture, carrying the scent of death, of rot, of unspeakable things.
I wanted to weep, to cover my face, to run away, but if these poor souls could endure what they’d faced, I could stand up straight and meet their eyes as I passed.
Some were bandaged, some had lost limbs.
Some—I lifted my chin and met their eyes—had faces burned and twisted, uncovered to heal.
At last I saw Tanveer. His body was covered with a blanket, his arms in clean pajamas, but his turban was grimy and stiff with mud.
He was the cleanest person I had ever known, and I could not imagine his despair at the layers of dirt and mud and God knew what else layered into it. “Has he not been bathed?”
“His injuries were stabilized in the field hospital.” The matron gave me a small smile. “His men would not allow the turban to be removed. And he does not want to be parted from the cat.”
“Cat?”
She pointed. Tucked into the blanket at his right side, cradled against his body, was a small yellow cat. This time, I could not help the tears. “Of course he has a cat. Why wouldn’t he?”
“It is most unusual, but two men came along with him to make sure the beast wouldn’t be taken away.” Her eyes were bright blue behind spectacles. “They said he’d saved nine men, but he wouldn’t be evacuated because he wouldn’t leave her in the trenches.”
I blinked my still-welling tears away. “I’ll take care of it.” I approached and stroked the cat’s head. It meowed softly at me, green eyes tilted up happily. To the matron, I said, “What injuries did he suffer?”
Her face was grave. “Abdominal wound, which was treated in the field to stabilize it, and a badly broken arm.”
I heard the reserve in her voice. “And?”
“An earlier infection in his leg that was not well treated and has festered.”
I swallowed. “Will he live?”
“He requires more surgery, but he seems strong. It will be helpful to have a friend.” She squeezed my arm. “Time will tell.”
Time will tell. I stood quietly next to his prone, too-still form. His face had grown thin, his cheekbones too prominent. Bruises darkened his jaw and eye. His hands showed scrapes and cuts and marks of all kinds, the oval nails too long.
And yet, he was alive.
I took his hand. “I’m here, Tanveer. You are safe.”
“Do not take him,” Tanveer growled, an arm covering the little cat. He did not open his eyes.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t think of it.”
He made a noise and turned his head away.
“I will take care of him myself.”
Nothing. I stood and touched his cheek with the back of my fingers, and found it burning. “Tanveer. You must let me take the cat so you might be treated. Do you hear me?”
His head swiveled at my touch, and his eyes opened. They were red and bleary, full of delirium. In Hindustani he said, “I know it isn’t really you.”
I leaned in, pulled his free hand to my face. “It is me.”
He stared. His fingers moved a little, as if testing the reality. “How?”
“Your sister sent me a telegram. I came right away.”
“I can’t . . . you shouldn’t be—”
“Shh.” I held his hand on my cheek. “I will take your cat and give her some food. What’s her name?”
“Him. Topaz.”
“All right.”
“Promise you won’t get rid of him.”
“I would never do such a thing.”
“You smell like Elsie, but I can’t really see you.”
“It is me. You had a cat name Shera once,” I said. “We wept over a tiger that died. And your sister’s name is Gurdaya.”
He closed his eyes, and I saw a depth of despair cross his face. “Elsie,” he whispered. “I am ruined.”
“You are not. You are only exhausted and wounded. You’re going to get well. I shall be here to help.”
He did not look up, but allowed me to take the cat.
I found lodgings nearby, where an old woman with a flowered apron allowed me to bring Topaz.
He wasn’t more than six months old, curious and funny, very happy to curl up on the bed with its piles of quilts.
Daily, we traveled back and forth to the hospital and sat with Tanveer as he first recovered from surgery to repair his gut and belly, then to clear and cauterize the infected wound in his leg.
Much of the time, he was incoherent or lost in a haze of morphine, and even so, his face was often gray with pain.
Topaz eagerly sat with him and purred softly, which seemed to me a thing that would be more healing than many of the other things used to treat him.
I sent Gurdaya a telegram, promising to write a letter to follow up, and as I sat by his bedside, I fulfilled that promise, glazing over the depth of his condition to give her hope so far away.
The ward was overwhelmed, with a shortage of nurses.
When Tanveer slept, I offered a hand bringing meals and running errands.
The local lending library had a good selection of adventure novels, so I checked out three or four and alternated reading them to one soldier and another.
Most of them were desperately ill, wild-eyed.
Some had injuries of both the body and the mind, staring sightlessly into nothing.
Many of them suffered nightmares and awakened each other with screams. I read Gulliver’s Travels and The Time Machine and even Alice Through the Looking-Glass, which seemed a happy favorite.
At Tanveer’s side, I read Lewis Carrol and Tennyson. Mostly, I could not tell if he was listening, but sometimes, it seemed it might be getting through.
Day after day, I brought Topaz back to him, sat by his side, read to him, and then spent time with whatever jobs might help the staff. The routine kept me from despairing, for it did not seem as if Tanveer was improving very quickly, if at all.
Time will tell.
I dared not think of the world without him somewhere in it. No.
In the evenings, Topaz and I sat in the garden at Mrs. Bolton’s.
He chased insects and watched birds in branches above our heads, never seeming inclined to stray far from my side.
I finished the edge of a long stretch of pale-green lawn provided by Mrs. Bolton from her attic.
It had once been a summer dress, airy and light, and would be perfect for my purpose.
My stitches were tidy and small, as one learned to do as a gentlewoman, and for once I was glad of the skill.
One warm day, when I arrived at the hospital, the windows were open to a soft breeze, scented with June roses.
On my way, I’d gathered handfuls of wildflowers, daisies and campion, and a few stands of pink foxglove.
In the hospital kitchen, I found a variety of small containers to hold them.
To each of the tiny metal stands near each bed, I added a flower.
By Tanveer’s bed, I settled a blue glass bottle of oxeye daisies, a clutch of yarrow, and a single stalk of pink foxglove. It was cheery and very English.
Topaz settled on his chest and licked his beard, mewing softly. Tanveer stirred. “Hello, little one,” he said quietly.
But he did not acknowledge me, and I did not know whether to be hurt or irritated.
I chose practicality. The beds were on wheels, and I asked the floor nurse if I could push Tanveer out to the screened porch where some of the more ambulatory patients sat on warm days like this. “Might I wheel him out there?”
“Course you can. I’ll get you some help.”
“No need.” Gardening had made me strong. Returning to his bedside, I said, “We are going on a little adventure, my friend.”
He only shrugged.
It took some doing, but I maneuvered the bed to the wide-screened area.
There was no one else out today—once they were well enough to sit and take the air, they were discharged or sent back to the front, a fact that layered yet another horror on top of many others.
But they had to make way for more wounded.
Once Tanveer was in place nearby a view of the garden, I left him and found a deep basin, which I filled with hot water and carried back to the porch. I dragged a small table to the head of his bed, placed the basin there. “I’m going to wash your hair, Tanveer.”
He scowled. “I would wait and tend to it myself.”
“Your arm is broken.” When he made no more protest, I began the unpleasant task of unwinding his turban. It had lain undisturbed for the entirety of the hospital stay, but as I unwrapped each layer, the stench of the battlefield rose out of it.
He protested. “Elsie, please—it is too grim a task.”
I ignored him, and freed his hair, which was tied tightly in a bun.
I let it down, shaking it to unravel the length, then gathered the black mass of it and dropped it in the water.
Using a cup, I poured warm water over his head, over and over, working my fingers over his skull, loosening the grime, rinsing again.
I squeezed it out and left to empty the basin and refill it, this time bringing shampoo with me.
He had not moved. His hair hung behind the bed, dripping, and I gathered it up and dropped it in the water, wet it all thoroughly once more, and then added shampoo. “It’s not as pleasant as the spicy one you like,” I said matter-of-factly, “but it will be nice to have clean hair.”
I worked the soap into his scalp, using my fingers to massage it deeply.
It gave me no small pleasure to so intimately feel the shape of his skull, the smooth places and the small ordinary rises and indentations.
Whole. Emotion rose to my throat, but I forced it back down.
He needed my practicality, not my emotion.
And yet, when I chanced to look at his face, tears streamed from his eyes. Not a small number and without sound, he wept.
Which meant I could not hold back my own weeping, but I kept it to myself, and let the tears flow as his did, silently, as I rinsed the soap away. “It needs one more rinse,” I said. “I shall be right back.”
He did not reply. When I returned with a pile of thin towels and the last basin of water, I rinsed his hair one more time, then squeezed it dry. Using one end of a towel, I wiped his face, and dried it, and he allowed it.
Still in silence, I combed his long, long hair, smoothing out the tangles, and then left it loose. “It needs to dry before it’s wrapped again,” I said. “I don’t know that I can get this fabric clean enough, but I’ll see what I can do.”
He opened his eyes. “Elsie.”
I waited, my hands full with the basin and damp towels thrown over my shoulders. As lightly as possible, I echoed him. “Tanveer?”
He touched his chest, and the darkness filled his eyes. “I don’t know how to live with what’s in me.”
I took a breath, steeling myself. “I know.”
The very faintest of smiles played over his lips. “Clean hair will help.”
I smiled. “Right. Next up, a cup of tea.”
That evening, he sat up and, as he could not lift his right arm at all, instructed me in how to pull his hair into a topknot and tie it with a small piece of muslin the matron found, likely meant for bandages.
This covered his head and secured the knot.
I then produced the length of cotton lawn I’d hemmed.
“Will this do for a turban? It was the most similar weight to muslin. There isn’t a lot of fabric available. ”
He touched it. “You made this?”
“Every good Englishwoman can stitch a decent hem,” I said. “It’s no miracle. I only worried that you wouldn’t like the color.”
“The color is fine.” His tone was gruff. “I shall instruct you.”
It might have been an embarrassment—my face was hot a few times when I had to unwind it and start again from some early place—but he was as patient as Tanveer of old, although that Tanveer might have teased me.
I finished and stepped back. “I’m sure it isn’t the best. You’ll be up to it yourself in no time.”
He touched it with the hand he could lift. “Thank you. It feels quite tidy.”
“Do you want to look in the mirror?”
“No, thank you.” He stroked Topaz’s long back, avoiding my eyes, and I wondered if I’d done something wrong.
“Have I offended you?”
“No.” The word was fierce, but he kept his eyes lowered, and I realized that he was struggling to contain himself. “It was a great kindness. Thank you.”
“I’ll take Topaz then, and let you get your rest.”
As I reached for the cat, who leapt to my shoulder in a routine we’d established, Tanveer touched my hand with his free hand, and said so quietly I almost could not hear him, “Mujh se yeh sab kyūn sahā nahīn ja rahā . . .” Why can’t I bear any of this?
What answer was there to such pain? “Shall I read to you until you sleep?”
I thought he would refuse. Instead he said, “I would like that very much.”