They Came to Baghdad

‘Yes?’ cried Victoria.

‘As I say, really a startling coincidence. A Mrs Hamilton Clipp – travelling to Baghdad in three days’ time – has broken her arm – needs someone to assist her on journey – I rang you up at once. Of course I don’t know if she has also applied to any other agencies –’

‘I’m on my way,’ said Victoria. ‘Where is she?’

‘The Savoy.’

‘And what’s her silly name? Tripp?’

‘Clipp, dear. Like a paper clip, but with two P’s – I can’t think why, but then she’s an American,’ ended Miss Spencer as if that explained everything.

‘Mrs Clipp at the Savoy.’

‘Mr and Mrs Hamilton Clipp. It was actually the husband who rang up.’

‘You’re an angel,’ said Victoria. ‘Goodbye.’

She hurriedly brushed her suit and wished it were slightly less shabby, recombed her hair so as to make it seem less exuberant and more in keeping with the role of ministering angel and experienced traveller. Then she took out Mr Greenholtz’s recommendation and shook her head over it.

We must do better than that, said Victoria.

From a No. 19 bus, Victoria alighted at Green Park, and entered the Ritz Hotel. A quick glance over the shoulder of a woman reading in the bus had proved rewarding. Entering the writing-room Victoria wrote herself some generous lines of praise from Lady Cynthia Bradbury who had been announced as having just left England for East Africa…‘excellent in illness,’ wrote Victoria, ‘and most capable in every way …’

Leaving the Ritz she crossed the road and walked a short way up Albemarle Street until she came to Balderton’s Hotel, renowned as the haunt of the higher clergy and of old-fashioned dowagers up from the country.

In less dashing handwriting, and making neat small Greek ‘E’s, she wrote a recommendation from the Bishop of Llangow.

Thus equipped, Victoria caught a No. 9 bus and proceeded to the Savoy.

At the reception desk she asked for Mrs Hamilton Clipp and gave her name as coming from St Guildric’s Agency. The clerk was just about to pull the telephone towards him when he paused, looked across, and said:

‘That is Mr Hamilton Clipp now.’

Mr Hamilton Clipp was an immensely tall and very thin grey-haired American of kindly aspect and slow deliberate speech.

Victoria told him her name and mentioned the Agency.

‘Why now, Miss Jones, you’d better come right up and see Mrs Clipp. She is still in our suite. I fancy she’s interviewing some other young lady, but she may have gone by now.’

Cold panic clutched at Victoria ’s heart.

Was it to be so near and yet so far?

They went up in the lift to the third floor.

As they walked along the deep carpeted corridor, a young woman came out of a door at the far end and came towards them. Victoria had a kind of hallucination that it was herself who was approaching. Possibly, she thought, because of the young woman’s tailor-made suit that was so exactly what she would have liked to be wearing herself. ‘And it would fit me too. I’m just her size. How I’d like to tear it off her,’ thought Victoria with a reversion to primitive female savagery.

The young woman passed them. A small velvet hat perched on the side of her fair hair partially hid her face, but Mr Hamilton Clipp turned to look after her with an air of surprise.

‘Well now,’ he said to himself. ‘Who’d have thought of that? Anna Scheele.’

He added in an explanatory way:

‘Excuse me, Miss Jones. I was surprised to recognize a young lady whom I saw in New York only a week ago, secretary to one of our big international banks –’

He stopped as he spoke at a door in the corridor. The key was hanging in the lock and, with a brief tap, Mr Hamilton Clipp opened the door and stood aside for Victoria to precede him into the room.

Mrs Hamilton Clipp was sitting on a high-backed chair near the window and jumped up as they came in. She was a short bird-like sharp-eyed little woman. Her right arm was encased in plaster.

Her husband introduced Victoria.

‘Why, it’s all been most unfortunate,’ exclaimed Mrs Clipp breathlessly. ‘Here we were, with a full itinerary, and enjoying London and all our plans made and my passage booked. I’m going out to pay a visit to my married daughter in Iraq, Miss Jones. I’ve not seen her for nearly two years. And then what do I do but take a crash – as a matter of fact, it was actually in Westminster Abbey – down some stone steps – and there I was. They rushed me to hospital and they’ve set it, and all things considered it’s not too uncomfortable – but there it is, I’m kind of helpless, and however I’d manage travelling, I don’t know. And George here, is just tied up with business, and simply can’t get away for at least another three weeks. He suggested that I should take a nurse along with me – but after all, once I’m out there I don’t need a nurse hanging around, Sadie can do all that’s necessary – and it means paying her fare back as well, and so I thought I’d ring up the agencies and see if I couldn’t find someone who’d be willing to come along just for the fare out.’

‘I’m not exactly a nurse,’ said Victoria, managing to imply that that was practically what she was. ‘But I’ve had a good deal of experience of nursing.’ She produced the first testimonial. ‘I was with Lady Cynthia Bradbury for over a year. And if you should want any correspondence or secretarial work done, I acted as my uncle’s secretary for some months. My uncle,’ said Victoria modestly, ‘is the Bishop of Llangow.’

‘So your uncle’s a Bishop. Dear me, how interesting.’

Both the Hamilton Clipps were, Victoria thought, decidedly impressed. (And so they should be after the trouble she had taken!)

Mrs Hamilton Clipp handed the two testimonials to her husband.

‘It really seems quite wonderful,’ she said reverently. ‘Quite providential. It’s an answer to prayer.’

Which, indeed, was exactly what it was, thought Victoria.

‘You’re taking up a position of some kind out there? Or joining a relative?’ asked Mrs Hamilton Clipp.

In the flurry of manufacturing testimonials, Victoria had quite forgotten that she might have to account for her reasons for travelling to Baghdad. Caught unprepared, she had to improvise rapidly. The paragraph she had read yesterday came to her mind.

‘I’m joining my uncle out there. Dr Pauncefoot Jones,’ she explained.

‘Indeed? The archaeologist?’

‘Yes.’ For one moment Victoria wondered whether she were perhaps endowing herself with too many distinguished uncles. ‘I’m terribly interested in his work, but of course I’ve no special qualifications so it was out of the question for the Expedition to pay my fare out. They’re not too well off for funds. But if I can get out on my own, I can join them and make myself useful.’

‘It must be very interesting work,’ said Mr Hamilton Clipp, ‘and Mesopotamia is certainly a great field for archaeology.’

‘I’m afraid,’ said Victoria, turning to Mrs Clipp, ‘that my uncle the Bishop is up in Scotland at this moment. But I can give you his secretary’s telephone number. She is staying in London at the moment. Pimlico 87693 – one of the Fulham Palace extensions. She’ll be there any time from ( Victoria ’s eyes slid to the clock on the mantelpiece) 11.30 onwards if you would like to ring her up and ask about me.’

‘Why, I’m sure –’ Mrs Clipp began, but her husband interrupted.

‘Time’s very short you know. This plane leaves day after tomorrow. Now have you got a passport, Miss Jones?’

‘Yes.’ Victoria felt thankful that owing to a short holiday trip to France last year, her passport was up to date. ‘I brought it with me in case,’ she added.

‘Now that’s what I call businesslike,’ said Mr Clipp approvingly. If any other candidate had been in the running, she had obviously dropped out now. Victoria with her good recommendations, and her uncles, and her passport on the spot had successfully made the grade.