The next day, Esmie stood open-mouthed at the chaotic scenes at the mission hospital. The long verandas outside the wards were crammed with beds for those who couldn’t be accommodated inside. Waziris lay with old gunshot wounds going gangrenous from being bound in sheepskin dressings, waiting stoically to be seen.
‘They’ve been brought in from the outlying hills now that things are calmer,’ Harold explained. He looked tired but full of purpose and Esmie realised now why he’d come home so late their first night in Taha. It had been after curfew and she’d been pacing the steps looking out for him. He had silenced her fretting by telling her that he’d already done three operations to save the limbs of two men and a boy of six.
This morning, a new queue of men squatted in the dusty courtyard, smoking, or lay on filthy blankets, their eyes glassy with pain. On the other side of the yard, cordoned off by makeshift curtains, a line of women hidden in voluminous veiled cloaks waited too, some of them clutching sickly children or trying to pacify wailing babies. Esmie was aghast at the scene. She hadn’t witnessed such suffering since her time in Southern Russia two years ago.
‘Can’t we get the families out of the sun?’ Esmie asked.
‘The women’s ward has been commandeered by the army since July,’ Harold said, his look apologetic. ‘We’ve set up a temporary theatre in one of the storerooms but there’s nowhere else for them to sit.’
‘Harold!’ Esmie looked at him in disbelief. ‘They’re sitting in the dirt trying to feed their babies – no wonder so many have dysentery.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said distractedly. ‘But I’m needed in theatre. Can you help Malik this morning?’
‘Of course,’ Esmie agreed, curbing her impatience.
For the next few hours, she joined Malik and the other male orderlies helping to process the outpatients, deciding who should see a doctor, and then cleaning and dressing wounds. Esmie was impressed by how dextrous and efficient Malik was in his work, talking gently to the younger patients and respectfully to his elders. He was far more than a rifle-bearing guard.
A tall and willowy woman with a sallow complexion and a shrewd assessing look in her dark-brown eyes introduced herself as Rupa Desai.
Esmie shook her hand. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mrs Desai,’ she said.
This was the widow Harold had told her about, whose doctor husband had been shot in a raid three years previously dispensing medicines in the remote outpost of Kanki-Khel – the same mountain village where the clinic had been burnt to the ground earlier in the summer.
Rupa was trained as a pharmacist, ran the dispensary and had worked on the women’s ward before the recent crisis. Now she helped out in the dressing station. Esmie was keen to know more about her but Rupa said little apart from questioning patients and issuing instructions to the orderlies.
As the day grew hotter and the stench of bodies became overbearing, Esmie thought she would faint. Rupa worked on calmly, her manner detached but professional.
‘Go and get something to eat and drink,’ she told Esmie. ‘You’ll be no use this afternoon if you don’t.’
‘I’m really not hungry,’ Esmie said. ‘And there’s so much to do.’
At that moment, a woman tore into the dressing station cradling a bundle and shrieking incoherently. As Rupa steered her to the side and tried to calm her, Esmie took the bundle of rags. With a gasp she realised she was holding a baby. Its eyes were closed and it made no sound. Alarmed, she bent to the baby’s mouth but felt no breath.
Rapidly, she placed it on a table and pulled frantically at the dirty swaddling clothes that stank of liquid excrement. Esmie hid her fear that this might be cholera. The baby was a girl. Behind her, she could hear the mother wailing and beseeching. Esmie felt for a pulse. Her hope leapt as she found a tiny beat.
‘Tell her she’s still alive,’ she cried.
Bending over the infant, Esmie covered her tiny mouth and nose with her own mouth and gently breathed into her. She massaged the baby’s chest. Moments later, the baby exhaled and her eyes opened. She took one look at Emsie bending over her in her white cap and let out a whimper.
Esmie’s eyes stung with tears of relief. The woman began babbling her thanks. She snatched at the child and as she did so, her veil slipped from her face. Esmie stared in horror. She was young but horribly disfigured; below her pretty almond-shaped eyes, her nose had been partially mutilated as if someone had hacked at it with a sharp blade. The skin was raw and puckered.
Quickly, Rupa steered the woman away from the stares of the male orderlies to a corner of the veranda that was curtained off. Esmie followed, swallowing down the bile in her throat. Behind the curtain, there was just enough room for a bedroll and Esmie wondered if this was where Rupa snatched moments of rest during hectic working hours. The woman crumpled to the floor, weeping and cradling her baby who was now mewling constantly.
Rupa talked to her in a low reassuring voice and examined the wound. She called for Malik. He came bearing ointment and bandages, anticipating what she would need, and then withdrew. While Rupa dealt with her patient, Esmie went to fetch a bowl of water, soap and a clean cotton cloth in which to wrap the baby. She set about bathing the infant, whose cries lessened as Esmie gently washed her in the tepid water. The baby’s dark eyes fixed on hers in trusting puzzlement and Esmie felt a surge of protectiveness. She thought of Jeanie at Vaullay and her determination that no one was going to part her from her precious son, Norrie, and wondered if this was how she had felt.
‘Can we keep the woman here at the hospital?’ Esmie asked. ‘I’d like Harold to check the baby over and make sure she doesn’t have some underlying problem. I worried it might be a fever but I think she is just malnourished.’
‘We can let her sleep here,’ said Rupa. ‘I just use this as a private space during the day – but she probably won’t stay.’
Esmie turned to the young woman and in faltering Pashto asked what her name was and the baby’s.
She looked at Esmie warily but with a glint of defiance. ‘I am Karo and my daughter is Gabina.’
Esmie smiled. ‘Gabina – pretty name. It means honey?’
Karo nodded.
‘Yes, Gabina is sweet as honey,’ said Esmie. Turning to Rupa she said, ‘Can you ask her to stay and let the doctor see the baby?’
Rupa spoke to Karo in fluent Pashto. The Waziri, looking anxious, answered her questions.
‘She says she’ll stay for the baby’s sake but she’s frightened. She’s run away from her village,’ Rupa explained. ‘Her husband came back from the fighting and accused her of adultery – just because she gave him a daughter.’
Esmie was appalled. ‘So was he the one who tried to cut off her nose?’
‘Yes, it’s a way of punishing women and keeping them cowed. I’ve seen a woman who had her breast severed for adultery. Karo must be very worried for her baby to have come here and risked the shame of people seeing her mutilated.’
Esmie was sickened. ‘Tell her she can stay in here and feed her baby – it’ll be safe,’ she said.
As the sun was dipping, Harold came to seek her out. He looked as drained and exhausted as she felt. Earlier, Rupa had sent for food and made Esmie eat a simple bowl of rice and dahl, and share a flask of tea. But Esmie had hardly stopped working all day, except to dash along the veranda to make sure Karo was still there and that Gabina was breathing.
As they closed up the out-patients dressing station, Esmie knew that those they hadn’t dealt with would have to find somewhere to curl up under a blanket and join the queue again in the morning.
‘There’s a backlog of cases,’ Harold sighed. ‘They come such a distance and are worse for all the travelling. We need to get the clinic in Kanki-Khel going again so they can be treated nearer home.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Esmie. She glanced at Rupa, who was on the point of leaving. ‘Harold, there’s this woman from beyond Kanki-Khel with a sickly baby that I want you to have a look at. The baby stopped breathing earlier in the day. The woman’s been attacked by her husband and hounded out of her village. She’s nowhere to go. Can we take her and the baby home tonight?’
She saw Rupa’s eyes widen in surprise. Harold was swift to scotch the suggestion.
‘I’m afraid we can’t do that – it would be showing favour. There are scores of women and children in need – we can’t take them all home. Besides, their menfolk wouldn’t allow it.’
‘I’m not saying we should,’ said Esmie. ‘Just this one mother and her daughter who have no one to protect them.’
‘My dear, you don’t understand the ways of these people,’ Harold said. ‘They are proud and take offence easily if they think you are interfering in their domestic affairs. We know nothing about this unfortunate woman—’
‘We know that her husband hacked off half her nose!’ Esmie retorted.
Harold looked shocked. Rupa spoke up.
‘It’s true, Dr Guthrie. She needed treatment too. Perhaps you could just check the baby over to put Mrs Guthrie’s mind at rest.’
Harold reddened at her gentle reproof. ‘Of course. Where are they?’
Esmie gave Rupa a grateful look and then led Harold to the hidden part of the veranda. Even though the baby’s dirty clothing had been taken away and burnt, the space behind the curtain smelt rank. The baby was whimpering, which Esmie found oddly reassuring; at least she wasn’t too listless to cry.
‘This is Karo,’ said Esmie.
Karo looked at Harold in alarm and quickly covered her bandaged face. Esmie tried to reassure her. Harold spoke to her gently in Pashto and after a moment’s hesitation, Karo handed over her daughter.
‘She’s called Gabina,’ Esmie told him. ‘It means honey.’
Harold gave her a brief smile. ‘Yes, I know that.’
After examining the girl, Harold confirmed what Esmie suspected.
‘She’s very underfed and dehydrated. Possibly the mother isn’t producing enough milk. The baby might have a chest infection too.’
Esmie put a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Harold,’ she said quietly, ‘what if it was Jeanie and wee Norrie? We’d do our best for them, wouldn’t we? Let’s look after this poor woman – even if it’s just for a few days until her baby’s life is out of danger. We can’t save every child brought to us here but we can save this one. Karo has no one else to turn to.’
She saw him struggling with his conscience, his brow furrowed. Yet there was compassion in his hazel eyes. After a long pause, he nodded and said, ‘Very well. We’ll find a room in the servants’ compound.’
Esmie smiled in relief. ‘Thank you.’
‘But we can’t make a habit of this,’ he added as if already regretting his decision.
Esmie ignored this. ‘Can you explain to Karo what’s happening?’
As Harold did so, Esmie determined she would redouble her efforts to learn Pashto fluently. After this incident, it felt more important than ever that she could speak to their patients in their native tongue.