They Came to Baghdad

announced in the strangest terms.

The Prince Consort, Disraeli, Norwegian Fjords and Skaters in Switzerland completed this strange glimpse of olden far-off days.

The showman ended his exposition with the following words:

‘And so we bring to you the wonders and marvels of antiquity in other lands and far-off places. Let your donation be generous to match the marvels you have seen, for all these things are true.’

It was over. Victoria beamed with delight. ‘That really was marvellous!’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it.’

The proprietors of the travelling cinema were smiling proudly. Victoria got up from the bench and Richard who was sitting on the other end of it was thrown to the ground in a somewhat undignified posture. Victoria apologized but was not ill pleased. Richard rewarded the cinema men and with courteous farewells and expressions of concern for each other’s welfare, and invoking the blessing of God on each other, they parted company. Richard and Victoria got into the car again and the men trudged away into the desert.

‘Where are they going?’ asked Victoria.

‘They travel all over the country. I met them first in Transjordan coming up the road from the Dead Sea to Amman. Actually they’re bound now for Kerbela, going of course by unfrequented routes so as to give shows in remote villages.’

‘Perhaps someone will give them a lift?’

Richard laughed.

‘They probably wouldn’t take it. I offered an old man a lift once who was walking from Basrah to Baghdad. I asked him how long he expected to be and he said a couple of months. I told him to get in and he would be there late that evening, but he thanked me and said no. Two months ahead would suit him just as well. Time doesn’t mean anything out here. Once one gets that into one’s head, one finds a curious satisfaction in it.’

‘Yes. I can imagine that.’

‘Arabs find our Western impatience for doing things quickly extraordinarily hard to understand, and our habit of coming straight to the point in conversation strikes them as extremely ill-mannered. You should always sit round and offer general observations for about an hour – or if you prefer it, you need not speak at all.’

‘Rather odd if we did that in offices in London. One would waste a lot of time.’

‘Yes, but we’re back again at the question: What is time? And what is waste?’

Victoria meditated on these points. The car still appeared to be proceeding to nowhere with the utmost onfidence.

‘Where is this place?’ she said at last.

‘Tell Aswad? Well out in the middle of the desert. You’ll see the Ziggurat very shortly now. In the meantime, look over to your left. There – where I’m pointing.’

‘Are they clouds?’ asked Victoria. ‘They can’t be mountains.’

‘Yes, they are. The snow-capped mountains of Kurdistan. You can only see them when it’s very clear.’

A dream-like feeling of contentment came over Victoria. If only she could drive on like this for ever. If only she wasn’t such a miserable liar. She shrank like a child at the thought of the unpleasant denouement ahead of her. What would Dr Pauncefoot Jones be like? Tall, with a long grey beard, and a fierce frown. Never mind, however annoyed Dr Pauncefoot Jones might be, she had circumvented Catherine and the Olive Branch and Dr Rathbone.

‘There you are,’ said Richard.

He pointed ahead. Victoria made out a kind of pimple on the far horizon.

‘It looks miles away.’

‘Oh no, it’s only a few miles now. You’ll see.’

And indeed the pimple developed with astonishing rapidity into first a blob and then a hill and finally into a large and impressive Tell. On one side of it was a long sprawling building of mud-brick.

‘The Expedition House,’ said Richard.

They drew up with a flourish amidst the barking of dogs. White robed servants rushed out to greet them, beaming with smiles.

After an interchange of greetings, Richard said:

‘Apparently they weren’t expecting you so soon. But they’ll get your bed made. And they’ll take you in hot water at once. I expect you’d like to have a wash and a rest? Dr Pauncefoot Jones is up on the Tell. I’m going up to him. Ibrahim will look after you.’

He strode away and Victoria followed the smiling Ibrahim into the house. It seemed dark inside at first after coming in out of the sun. They passed through a living-room with some big tables and a few battered arm-chairs and she was then led round a courtyard and into a small room with one tiny window. It held a bed, a rough chest of drawers and a table with a jug and basin on it and a chair. Ibrahim smiled and nodded and brought her a large jug of rather muddy-looking hot water and a rough towel. Then, with an apologetic smile, he returned with a small looking-glass which he carefully affixed upon a nail on the wall.

Victoria was thankful to have the chance of a wash. She was just beginning to realize how utterly weary and worn out she was and how very much encrusted with grime.

‘I suppose I look simply frightful,’ she said to herself and approached the looking-glass.

For some moments she stared at her reflection uncomprehendingly.

This wasn’t her – this wasn’t Victoria Jones.

And then she realized that, though her features were the small neat features of Victoria Jones, her hair was now platinum blonde!

Chapter 19

I

Richard found Dr Pauncefoot Jones in the excavations squatting by the side of his foreman and tapping gently with a small pick at a section of wall.

Dr Pauncefoot Jones greeted his colleague in a matter of fact manner.

‘Hallo Richard my boy, so you’ve turned up. I had an idea you were arriving on Tuesday. I don’t know why.’

‘This is Tuesday,’ said Richard.

‘Is it really now?’ said Dr Pauncefoot Jones without interest. ‘Just come down here and see what you think of this. Perfectly good walls coming out already and we’re only down three feet. Seems to me there are a few traces of paint here. Come and see what you think. It looks very promising to me.’

Richard leapt down into the trench and the two archaeologists enjoyed themselves in a highly technical manner for about a quarter of an hour.

‘By the way,’ said Richard, ‘I’ve brought a girl.’

‘Oh have you? What sort of girl?’

‘She says she’s your niece.’

‘My niece?’ Dr Pauncefoot Jones brought his mind back with a struggle from his contemplation of mud-brick walls. ‘I don’t think I have a niece,’ he said doubtfully, as though he might have had one and forgotten about her.

‘She’s coming out to work with you here, I gathered.’

‘Oh.’ Dr Pauncefoot Jones’ face cleared. ‘Of course. That will be Veronica.’

‘ Victoria, I think she said.’

‘Yes, yes, Victoria. Emerson wrote to me about her from Cambridge. A very able girl, I understand. An anthropologist. Can’t think why anyone wants to be an anthropologist, can you?’

‘I heard you had some anthropologist girl coming out.’