Absent in the Spring

A little distance away, across another tangle of barbed wire was a squat building that was evidently the station with something that Joan took to be either an artesian well or a big water tank beside it. On the far horizon to the north was the faint outline of a range of hills.

Apart from that, nothing. No landmarks, no buildings, no vegetation, no human kind.

A station, a railway track, some hens, what seemed to be a disproportionate amount of barbed wire—and that was all.

Really, Joan thought, it was very amusing. Such an odd place to be held up.

The Indian servant came out and said that the Memsahib’s breakfast was ready.

Joan turned and went in. The characteristic atmosphere of a rest house, gloom, mutton fat, paraffin and Flit greeted her with a sense of rather distasteful familiarity.

There was coffee and milk (tinned milk), a whole dish of fried eggs, some hard little rounds of toast, a dish of jam, and some rather doubtful looking stewed prunes.

Joan ate with a good appetite. And presently the Indian reappeared and asked what time the Memsahib would like lunch.

Joan said not for a long time—and it was agreed that half past one would be a satisfactory hour.

The trains, as she knew, went three days a week, on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. It was Tuesday morning, so she would not be able to leave until tomorrow night. She spoke to the man asking if that was correct.

‘That right, Memsahib. Miss train last night. Very unfortunate. Track very bad, rain very heavy in night. That means no cars can go to and fro from here to Mosul for some days.’

‘But the trains will be all right?’

Joan was not interested in the Mosul track.

‘Oh yes, train come all right tomorrow morning. Go back tomorrow night.’

Joan nodded. She asked about the car which had brought her.

‘Go off this morning early. Driver hope get through. But I think not. I think him stick one, two days on way there.’

Again without much interest Joan thought it highly probable.

The man went on giving information.

‘That station, Memsahib, over there.’

Joan said that she had thought, somehow, that it might be the station.

‘Turkish station. Station in Turkey. Railway Turkish. Other side of wire, see. That wire frontier.’

Joan looked respectfully at the frontier and thought what very odd things frontiers were.

The Indian said happily:

‘Lunch one-thirty exactly,’ and went back into the rest house. A minute or two later she heard him screaming in a high angry voice from somewhere at the back of it. Two other voices chimed in. A spate of high, excited Arabic filled the air.

Joan wondered why it was always Indians who seemed to be in charge of rest houses like this one. Perhaps they had had experience of European ways. Oh well, it didn’t much matter.

What should she do with herself this morning? She might go on with the amusing Memoirs of Lady Catherine Dysart. Or she might write some letters. She could post them when the train got to Aleppo. She had a writing pad and some envelopes with her. She hesitated on the threshold of the rest house. It was so dark inside and it smelt so. Perhaps she would go for a walk.

She fetched her thick double felt hat—not that the sun was really dangerous at this time of year, still it was better to be careful. She put on her dark glasses and slipped the writing pad and her fountain pen into her bag.

Then she set out, past the refuse dump and the tins, in the opposite direction to the railway station, since there might, possibly, be international complications if she tried to cross the frontier.

She thought to herself, How curious it is walking like this … there’s nowhere to walk to.

It was a novel and rather interesting idea. Walking on the downs, on moorland, on a beach, down a road—there was always some objective in view. Over that hill, to that clump of trees, to that patch of heather, down this lane to the farm, along the high road to the next town, by the side of the waves to the next cove.

But here it was from—not to. Away from the rest house—that was all. Right hand, left hand, straight ahead—just bare dun-coloured horizon.

She strolled along not too briskly. The air was pleasant. It was hot, but not too hot. A thermometer, she thought, would have registered seventy. And there was a faint, a very faint breeze.

She walked for about ten minutes before turning her head.

The rest house and its sordid accompaniments had receded in a very accommodating manner. From here it looked quite pleasant. Beyond it, the station looked like a little cairn of stones.

Joan smiled and strolled on. Really the air was delicious! There was a purity in it, a freshness. No staleness here, no taint of humanity or civilization. Sun and sky and sandy earth, that was all. Something a little intoxicating in its quality. Joan took deep breaths into her lungs. She was enjoying herself. Really this was quite an adventure! A most welcome break in the monotony of existence. She was quite glad she had missed the train. Twenty-four hours of absolute quiet and peace would be good for her. It was not as though there were any absolute urgency in her return. She could wire to Rodney from Stamboul explaining the delay.

Dear old Rodney! She wondered what he was doing now. Not, really, that there was anything to wonder about, because she knew. He would be sitting in his office at Alderman, Scudamore and Witney’s—quite a nice room on the first floor looking out over the Market Square. He had moved into it when old Mr Witney died. He liked that room—She remembered how she had come in one day to see him and had found him standing by the window staring out at the market (it was market day) and at a herd of cattle that was being driven in. ‘Nice lot of shorthorns—those,’ he had said. (Or perhaps it wasn’t shorthorns—Joan wasn’t very good at farming terms—but something like that, anyway.) And she had said, ‘About the new boiler for the central heating, I think Galbraith’s estimate is far too high. Shall I see what Chamberlain would charge?’

She remembered the slow way Rodney had turned, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes and looking at her in an absent faraway manner as though he didn’t really see her, and the way he had said ‘boiler?’ as though it was some difficult and remote subject he had never heard of, and then saying—really rather stupidly, ‘I believe Hoddesdon’s selling that young bull of his. Wants the money, I suppose.’

She thought it was very nice of Rodney to be so interested in old Hoddesdon at Lower Mead farm. Poor old man, everyone knew he was going down the hill. But she did wish Rodney would be a little quicker at listening to what was said to him. Because, after all, people expected a lawyer to be sharp and alert, and if Rodney was to look at clients in that vague way it might create quite a bad impression.

So she had said with quick, affectionate impatience:

‘Don’t wool-gather, Rodney. It’s the boiler I’m talking about for the central heating.’ And Rodney had said certainly have a second estimate but that costs were bound to be higher and they must just make up their minds to it. And then he had glanced at the papers piled up on his desk and she had said that she mustn’t keep him—it looked as though he had a lot of work to do.

Rodney smiled and said that as a matter of fact he had got a lot of work piled up—and he’d been wasting time already watching the market. ‘That’s why I like this room,’ he said. ‘I look forward to Fridays. Listen to ’em now.’

And he had held up his hand, and she had listened and heard a good deal of mooing and lowing—really a very confused and rather ugly noise of cattle and sheep—but Rodney, funnily enough, seemed to like it. He stood there, his head a little on one side, smiling …

Oh well, it would not be market day today. Rodney would be at his desk with no distractions. And her fears about clients thinking Rodney vague had been quite unfounded. He was by far the most popular member of the firm. Everyone liked him which was half the battle in a country solicitor’s practice.

And but for me, thought Joan proudly, he’d have turned the whole thing down!

Her thoughts went to that day when Rodney had told her about his uncle’s offer.

It was an old-fashioned flourishing family business and it had always been understood that Rodney should go into it after he had passed his law exams. But Uncle Harry’s offer of a partnership and on such excellent terms was an unexpectedly happy occurrence.

Joan had expressed her own delight and surprise and had congratulated Rodney warmly before she noticed that Rodney didn’t seem to be sharing in her sentiments. He had actually uttered the incredible words, ‘If I accept—’

She had exclaimed dismayed, ‘But Rodney!’

Clearly she remembered the white set face he had turned to her. She hadn’t realized before what a nervous person Rodney was. His hands picking up blades of turf were trembling. There was a curious pleading look in his dark eyes. He said:

‘I hate office life. I hate it.’