Secret of the Sands. Sara Sheridan

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СКАЧАТЬ whether he might have chocolate this morning with his rolls, or coffee. Still debating this, he takes the stairs down at a sharpish trot to the sunny, yellow drawing room on the first floor. He never will get used to the portrait of Lord Byron over the mantel, though, of course, to remove it would cause a scandal were further scandal required. It has been a good ten years since Murray’s father famously burned Byron’s memoirs to safeguard public morality, and hardly a week passes even now that he is not asked by some starry-eyed matron or other if the old codger had, by chance, ever mentioned to his son the nature of the manuscript’s contents. Murray considers the matter both foolish and tiresome. He is a serious man of science and his interests do not stretch to poetry – unless perhaps it is German poetry – or indeed to much in the way of scandal. Byron’s musings on sherbet and sodomy might have funded Murray’s education, but now, as he has been known to dryly remark, it is time to put aside such childish things. At least in conversation – for Byron’s full canon still graces the great publisher’s list and sells at least several hundred copies every year. In addition, each week Murray receives by post a number of attempts at Byronic genius, all of which, on principle, he consigns to the fire.

      Coffee, Murray decides.

      The enticing smell of fresh bread is floating upstairs from the kitchens in the basement and he can almost taste the melting butter and lemon conserve already. A glass of rhenish, some ham perhaps and he will be set.

      There is a pile of correspondence on his desk and, as it is Friday, he might have passed it by for it is his habit to ride on a Friday morning, but there is one packet that catches his eye. Neither the handwriting nor the paper is extraordinary but in the small, nondescript, black wax seal there are embedded some grains of sand. Murray breaks open the packet with a satisfying click and inside lies a manuscript bound in worn card, accompanied by a covering letter dated several weeks before and written in a neat hand.

       Dear Sir,

      I wish to offer for your consideration an account of my recent exploration and adventures on the island of Socotra where I have been humbly employed as an officer of the Indian Navy during the current survey of the Red Sea by the ship Palinurus. I hope you might wish to publish my unworthy writings and find them of some small interest.

       Yours, etc.,

       James Raymond Wellsted (Lieutenant)

      Murray crosses the room and spins the leather globe until he finds the Red Sea. Then he peers short-sightedly to try to identify the islands nearby. He has never heard of this Socotra place but with the help of a magnifying glass he quickly plants a firm finger over the speck of the island, which is far smaller than his nail. It is perched to the east of Abyssinia and to the south of Oman.

      I must ask George about this, he thinks.

      Murray will be dining that evening with the President of the Royal Geographical Society and his beautiful wife, Louisa. The manuscript might make for some interesting dinner conversation over the roast fowl and jellied beets. His wife will not like it, for her interests do not run to anything the least bit sensible, but Murray, like most of London, is eager for news of the Empire’s burgeoning territories – the more exotic, the better – and a keen sense for a bestseller is in his blood. If it is written well, an explorer’s memoir is generally a sure-fire success. So many people these days are either venturing abroad themselves, or have relations in the far reaches, that there is something of a vogue for travel writing and Murray’s view is that he will be publishing more and more of the stuff. After all, it is worthy, educational and occasionally exciting (all of which he approves far more than any damned fiction). There is a market, he fancies, for some kind of guidance for those embarking on life overseas. He must make a note of that, he thinks, and scrambles around for a clean sheet of paper. In any case, the prospect of dinner tonight is especially entertaining and, he is certain, there may even be pear pudding, for that costermonger had been right outside. Cook surely will have availed the household of fresh pears if it is possible, will she not – first of the season this early in July? Socotra, eh? Sounds fascinating. Murray hopes George will be able to tell him if the island is Arabian or African, for a start. An interesting conundrum given its position on the map between the two territories.

      Murray rings the bell and the butler appears almost instantly.

      ‘Bring me breakfast here, would you?’ he asks as he sinks into the high-backed, wooden chair at his desk and pulls a plush, yellow, velvet pillow into the crook of his back. The long windows behind him let in a flood of light – perfect for reading. Many of England’s greatest publishing success stories have started their journey at this desk, in this light.

      ‘Coffee, I think. And tell Jack I won’t need Belle saddled just yet.’

      And with the tiniest speck of sand loosing itself from Wellsted’s missive and falling onto the wide, dark boards that span the floor, John Murray begins to read.

       Chapter Nine

      It is almost midday when Jessop and Jones spot the tents. Nothing moves out on the burning sands, even the scorpions have buried themselves. The first they know that there is any life at all is the eddy of dust that floats into the air as the men come out, tiny specks on the horizon standing at the fringe of the lush oasis, to watch the foreigners and their party arrive from well over a mile away. While Jones’ attention is immediately taken up by the Arabian horses tethered in a makeshift corral, Jessop considers the place itself extraordinary. Despite the heat and the difficulty of the journey, the doctor is glad to be here. As the senior officer, he took the decision simply to keep going because, with the instincts of a true traveller, this time when the men said they were close to reaching the destination he believed them.

      Now, he is ushered into the emir’s tent and makes his salaams as he has been shown in Bombay, in preparation for just this kind of occasion – an introduction to someone of some small power who might be of use on His Majesty’s business. Jessop gives the emir the payment that has been agreed and then entreats the ruler to allow him to help the children of the camp. The doctor can see the young ones are suffering from an eye infection. Thin and angular as baby storks, they tarry at the tent flaps, blinking through their swollen eyelids, batting off the flies, their feet bare and their arms like sticks. Fresh burn marks pock their little legs – the Omanis treat pain with pain and burn flesh to purify from disease; it is the best they can do.

      ‘I am a doctor,’ he explains. ‘Let me try my white man’s medicine. I will do my best.’

      ‘Bitsalam yadak,’ the emir replies graciously, which Jessop takes to mean, ‘May God keep your hands safe.’ A good sign, surely.

      In another tent, Jessop inspects the eleven children who seem even more like fragile, strange, featherless birds now they are grouped together. When he asks questions, the women tending them shy away, but one of the men becomes a go-between, attempting the translation. In the main this is achieved by the means of hand movements as much as the Englishman’s sparse Arabic vocabulary, which is hindered further by his accent. The upshot is, Jessop concludes, that the infection has been spread by the kohl used on the youngsters’ eyelids. Kohl is widely believed to be medicinal in Arabia and is used to keep the eyes moist, but often people do not wash it between applications. When one of children got a windblown infection, it spread rapidly to the others. Now one or two are even sporting pustules ripe with suppurating mucus.

      ‘Bring me water, please,’ he asks his translator, who eyes him with suspicion, but returns quickly with a flask nonetheless.

      Calmly, Jessop takes each child in turn and washes away the СКАЧАТЬ