Oriental Secretary

Edited excerpts from Chapter 6 of

Diverse Times, Sundry Places

by Donald Maitland

The Alpha Press, 1996

Published with the permission of the Estate of Sir Donald Maitland

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As our aircraft taxied towards the passenger terminal, the purser welcomed us to Baghdad. “Local time is 16:25 hours,” he announced, “and the outside temperature is 114 degrees Fahrenheit, 45 degrees Centigrade.” When the cabin door opened we were hit by a blast as from an oven. An embassy car took us to the house of Humphrey and Peggie Trevelyan. The following day Jean succumbed to heatstroke. Her temperature rose alarmingly and she developed a severe headache. One aspect of the treatment — applying ice to her body until her temperature was under control —was more unpleasant than the condition, but it was effective. Within two days she had recovered and we were able to begin the process of absorbing our new surroundings.

The Trevelyans’ house was as comfortable as any in the city. In the early 1950s air-conditioning in Iraq was rare. Water-fed air coolers, ceiling and desk fans were the usual means of providing relief from the heat and working practices were adapted to the conditions. Office hours in Baghdad during the summer months were usually from seven-thirty in the morning until half past one. In the afternoon shutters were closed and curtains drawn while Baghdad slept for four hours. Traditional houses had special cellars, known as sirdab, to which the whole family would retreat during these oppressive hours.

We were soon installed in a well-built house in the Karradat Miriam quarter about a mile south of the embassy compound. Our neighbour on one side was the first secretary in the Spanish legation, who regarded the welfare of the several Spanish dancers in the Baghdad night-clubs as one of his special responsibilities. In the early hours we were frequently wakened as he summoned his servant with his car horn to open the garage door. On the other side was an Iraqi family who kept themselves and their assorted livestock to themselves. Karradat Miriam was almost a rural village. On summer nights we slept in an insect-proof cage on the roof lulled by the cooing of doves — a familiar Baghdad sound.

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