I risked looking straight into Andrew’s sea-grey eyes. To my astonishment I saw there a spark of attraction, or magnetism, or whatever you want to call it. Once you know what to look for, it’s unmissable.
There’d been a young man, two years ago, who’d produced the same sort of wild emotions in my normally pragmatic breast. He’d inspired a character in the novel I was working on at present, when time away from keeping an eye on Bernard allowed. Our relationship had ended in tragedy and I’d spent much of the time since then moping around and trying to get Jerry’s face out of my mind. Eventually the pain of being left behind had waned from a burning ache to a smouldering discomfort. If I stayed around Andrew Parks much longer the ache might die out entirely.
After that brief, shared glance, I itched to find a chance to be alone with him again, away from the all-seeing eyes of servants or conservators. Maybe I should have given clear acknowledgement at that point that I’d noticed his interest and returned it in full, then Andrew could have engineered an excuse to be alone in his rooms. Such a shame that we’d been told it was no longer safe to be out alone at the digs after dark; in the pitch black and starlit silver of the Egyptian night we could have said what we meant, without fear.
I leaned closer.
“Andrew, can I…” I began, but the sound of one of the foremen calling out that he might have made a valuable discovery split the air, drawing Andrew away from potsherds and from me.
“Later, Charles. Whatever it is, we can discuss it later, I promise,” and with that stunning smile he was off in pursuit of new treasures, leaving me rueful at having been a couple of minutes too late in speaking. I took refuge in those bloody potsherds.
Lunch was taken in the tent where finds were initially sorted. There the men grabbed both food and some welcome shade. Andrew hadn’t returned—they said he was still out, probably half way down a shaft into a newly located tomb and would be back when he could. So, I sat and tried to eat, even though my appetite had gone, watching the life of the camp go on around me.
A local lad passing by with a bundle of wood had that look of intense concentration only seen on the young, absorbed in their task. He suddenly gave a shrill, terrified cry, dropping his burden and flinging something from him, something small and dark that landed near my leg. I remember coolly thinking that whatever had been thrown had been affronted at both its unexpected flight and the hard contact with flesh.
A scorpion, and it rapidly took its brief revenge.
Strange how time expands at a time of crisis. I remember thinking how Mother Nature must have known how I felt about her beasts of burden and had become determined to take her vengeance on me, proving she really was red in tooth and claw. Or rather in sting and telson. I must have cried out in pain, because everyone’s attention was on me in an instant, including the attention I most craved.
“What’s happening?” Andrew had appeared almost out of nowhere, pushing his way through the small knot of onlookers which had gathered around me.
“The boy had this in his load.” One of the conservators pointed at the small, possibly deadly creature, now smashed into an almost unidentifiable heap. The curve of the tail was still recognisable, although everything was beginning to look peculiar.
“Sorry about this, Charles,” Andrew drew his knife and efficiently cut out a piece of my flesh, clearing all the area surrounding the bite. I hardly noticed the pain, too shocked to understand fully what was going on. Nothing felt real anymore. “Think it’s a scorpion sting, old man. Needed to attend to the wound as soon as I could.” His usually happy face was clouded with worry.
Some part of me couldn’t help being delighted that he cared, just as another part of me thought, Poison. This is serious.
The knife had done its work when the wave of real pain hit. I felt faint, all perception of what was happening around me fading and returning as in a dream. I was vaguely aware they’d called for the resident doctor and that someone was preparing a makeshift stretcher, to take me back to the camp. The one thing I saw most clearly was Andrew’s face—full of fear and trying very hard to hide the fact.
Just how bad was this bloody sting going to turn out to be?
***
Dr. Peterson said this was only the second such sting he’d seen in two years at the camp. At least that’s what I think he said. My recollections are vague and much of what happened I pieced together afterwards. He attended briskly to the wound, seemed satisfied everything that could be done to get the poison from the flesh had been done, and accompanied me back to the quarters, talking to Andrew while he must have weighed up the prognosis in his mind.
“So, was the thing a fat-tailed scorpion?” he asked, quietly, although not so quietly that I couldn’t hear part of it.
“That I don’t know.” Andrew shrugged. “The men reacted as you’d expect and stamped the creature to smithereens before we could identify it. It might have been a fat-tailed, or it could equally have been something innocuous.”
I hoped the latter was true and that I’d suffer nothing worse than some local pain and feeling a bit sick, although it was hard to ignore the immediate fact that I felt like death.
“Only time will tell,” the doctor said. “He’s shivering already, but that might just be shock, especially if he knows anything about these creatures and what they might do to an unsuspecting victim.”
I shut my eyes—I felt more comfortable that way, although I could still hear them talking.
“Best to keep him in the dark for the moment,” Dr. Peterson continued. “Sometimes it’s the thought that death might be on its way which ends up killing the victim, rather than the toxicity of the sting. I’ve seen someone get bitten by a corn snake and pass away from sheer terror.”
I wished I hadn’t been able to hear.
“Take him to my rooms,” Andrew told the stretcher bearers. “Young Oakley’s already confined to the ward and I don’t wish to disturb him.”
Oakley? That must have been the chap who’d been the victim of food poisoning. I was pleased—as much as I could be pleased, given the situation—not to be in with him. And to be in Andrew’s room, crossing the semi-sacred threshold, where no visitors were allowed to tread, was one comforting point in my increasing distress.
Peterson agreed immediately, which made me wonder if he was confining me to Andrew’s quarters so that if I had to be eased into the next world then it could be in privacy, and without disturbing or alarming the rest of the camp.
I must have passed out, because the next thing I was aware of was being stripped of my outer clothing, despite my protestations to the contrary.
“I’ll be fine, I can take care of myself,” I said, although I knew from the sweat all over me, and how difficult it was to swat the doctor’s hands away, that I was far from well. I lay back, exhausted at the effort.
“Don’t be an ass.” Andrew busied himself with getting my boot off. He left my shorts to the doctor. “My old nanny would be telling you you’re not fine and couldn’t take care of a balloon on a stick. Be a good chap and just let us get you comfortable. The doctor has a job to do and we mustn’t get in his way.” He caught Peterson’s eye and received a nod of agreement.
“Dr. Parks is right. The best thing you can do is be co-operative and not get agitated. I’m going to rig up a drip and get some liquid into you. You can thank your host for having such a range of medical facilities here. Very advanced.” As he spoke, Peterson’s assistants arrived with the equipment he needed and the bedroom began to resemble a hospital ward.
I kept my eyes, my barely focussed eyes, away from needle and tubes. I had a strong stomach for such things normally but on this occasion…
Andrew moved into view. How bad was my condition to make him so ashen? I lurched in and out of consciousness, waking to see him smiling, clearly putting on a brave front as my wound was dressed and they got me settled.
Peterson took the first watch, his calm, assured face swimming in and out of view as I
fought whatever was making me feel like death, whether that was poison or shock. It was a matter of waiting, then. Andrew appeared, told us that he’d assured Bernard I wasn’t about to drop down dead, although he didn’t sound like he shared that confidence.
Peterson muttered something that might have been, “I’m optimistic about the chances of the scorpion being one of the less harmful species,” although that might have been my wishful thinking.
I must have slept then, waking again to find Andrew sitting by the bed—his bed, I registered, with a small glow of satisfaction. He had some work with him, which he bent over, although his mind didn’t seem to be on it. The next time I opened my eyes, he’d replaced the work with a book. My book.
“This is my favourite chair,” he said, smiling cheerily. “Sitting here with the best coffee and a good book. Anybody might think I’d arranged for you to be stung so I could have a few hours relaxation.”
That heartened me. Surely things couldn’t have been so bad if he was making jokes? Unless it was gallows humour, of course.
“Here, let me.” Andrew gently wiped the perspiration from my brow, talking quietly and soothingly, as if I were a child. It made the pain worthwhile enduring.
“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very kind.”
“I’d say it was my pleasure, but…” Andrew smiled. “That sounds a bit silly, given the circumstances. You try to sleep some more. It’s clearly doing you good.”
“This bed’s very comfortable,” I said, immediately regretting it. Even if there was a chance Andrew was interested, this was hardly the time or the place for making lewd suggestions.
He sat back in his chair, carefully folding the cloth he’d used. “Do you writers always go to such lengths to achieve authenticity for your stories? Will some poor chap get stung in the new one?”
“I don’t think I’d be inclined to make any of my characters suffer like this.”
“Your characters suffer beautifully. That young man, the one who volunteers for the mission. I find him fascinating.”
“Do you?” I asked, trying to sit up but falling back again. The effort of talking—and choosing my words—was too much.
“Hush.” Andrew mopped my brow again. “We can talk about him in the morning. Sleep.”
“Only if you promise to get some shuteye too. You look all in.”
“Physician heal thyself?” Andrew laughed. “All right. I promise to sleep. As long as you promise to get better.”
“I’ll try my best.”
I dozed off, happy, to the sight of Andrew at my bedside, cradling that cloth in his hands as if it were some priceless artefact.
***
When I woke again, morning was already here, if only just, and Andrew had drawn his chair to the bed, with his head resting on his arms, facing me. Somehow in the night my hand had rested itself on the back of his head. Perhaps my subconscious mind had put it there deliberately, because it felt so right—protecting my protector, even in sleep, even in illness. There was a steadiness and strength in his body and soul that promised loyalty and valour. I seemed to have won his fealty: now what I sought was his love.
In the end the discomfort in his neck and shoulders must have forced Andrew to wake and then move.
Bleary eyed, tousled and stifling a yawn, he asked, “Feeling any better? At least you look human now.”
“I don’t feel it. But at least I think I’ll live—wasn’t so sure last night.” I smiled in reply, as shy as a maid. “I’m sorry to have been such a nuisance. I’d been told enough times to avoid those wretched creatures.”
“Well it was hardly deliberate on your part, was it? I mean, you didn’t go looking for the little beast, did you? Unless it was all an author’s ruse.”
“Alas, not.” Such wonderful English stoicism on display. I’d possibly been at death’s door and here I was apologising, as if I shouldn’t have been so inconsiderate as to nearly die. “I’ll make sure I don’t cross paths with another one.” I yawned, stretched, and realised nothing hurt quite so much as the evening before. “Thank you—and Dr. Peterson—for looking after me so well.”
“You were an undemanding patient.” Andrew rubbed—stroked?—my arm. “Can I get you a bit of breakfast? The doctor would want you to have something to drink at the least.”
“A little coffee would be fine—very sweet, if you could—and I’ll see if that stays down. Not ready for food yet, I’m afraid.” I smiled at him, hoping he might stroke my arm again.
“I dare say you’re not.” Andrew placed his hand on my forehead, but the skin was dry and cool by now. I wondered whether he felt the same little ripples of excitement at the contact as I had prickling my spine. “The doctor’s optimistic that by the end of the day your appetite will be back. There certainly doesn’t seem to be a fever anymore.” He kept his fingers on my brow slightly longer than was strictly necessary and seemed disappointed at removing them. Before I could grab his hand and place it back there—or keep it in mine—he said, “I’d better see about that coffee—I could do with some myself.”
I couldn’t just let him go. “Andrew, you will come and keep me company while I drink it, won’t you?”
“Of course I will, if you want, so long as it doesn’t fatigue you to talk. I’ll bring my breakfast.” He grinned. “I could eat a horse. Or a camel!”
“Don’t mention camels, or I’ll have a relapse!” I wanted to keep him talking forever, prolonging the magic of the moment. “I’ll be fine, although I would have thought you’d be tired. You seemed worn out last night and the sleep you got this morning wasn’t enough, surely? Maybe you should be the one resting.”
Andrew raised his hands, as if surrendering. “Ah, you caught me in dereliction of my duty, did you? Not going to arrange for a court martial, I trust?”
“It was hardly dereliction—you performed above and beyond the call of duty.” I laid my hand on his arm. “Look after yourself.”
“That’s all right, old man.” Andrew placed his hand over mine. “Do you know, that was one of the best naps I’ve had in ages? Not an unpleasant sensation to wake with your hand on my head. Comforting, you know—to think you were feeling better.”
Had that last bit been added to give us both a way out? I didn’t need it. The sooner we both understood what was going on, the better.
“I…”
Yaseem knocking at the door, bearing a pot of coffee and plate of food, broke the mood. A clear demonstration of the servant who knew his master’s needs, even if his timing was dreadful. Dr. Peterson followed in his wake, insisting that I be put through my medical paces before he was prepared to declare the worst was over and the hour by hour watch could be abandoned. The coffee was all but finished before we had any time to be alone and then the time for the day’s business to start was horribly near at hand.
“I’ll have to be about my duties, I’m afraid. Yaseem will make sure you have all you want. I’ll ask him to pop in during the day and see you’re comfortable. Whistle if you need him in between.” Andrew patted my shoulder. “And don’t go doing what you shouldn’t. You had the devil’s own luck yesterday and you don’t want to go tempting fate.”
“Do you always look on the bright side?” I forced a grin. Those interruptions had actually been a blessing in disguise—I felt tired again and sleep was what I needed more than anything.
“I’m just being sensible. You’ll only be getting up and wandering around and doing too much and then fainting somewhere and it’ll cause all sorts of unnecessary work for us.” Despite his banter, Andrew suddenly looked unusually serious. “I mean it. You have to look after yourself for once. Bernard will keep and so will the camp.”
He smiled again and left. I wished I could have asked him to stay, but as I’d been officially declared to be on the mend, how could I make such demands?
And even if Andrew would have welcomed the request, how could he have wangled spending the day at my bedside?
***
A
ndrew popped in and brought me some watermelon for lunch, along with a little piece of cake which resembled baklava. He seemed pleased to find me interested in food, so he perched on the side of the bed to eat his own rations.
“You look almost human now. I think we’ll see you back on the dig in no time, so long as Peterson is happy you’re still making progress. He can be a bit of a fusspot at times, but his heart’s in the right place.” Andrew wiped some watermelon juice from his chin.
“You’re lucky to have such a competent man out here. Everyone speaks highly of him.”
Andrew smiled, ruefully. “There’s a bit of a story there, I’m afraid. He lost a patient when he was back in England. No one blamed him, but he blamed himself and he wanted to get away from things for a while. The while has lasted rather a long time, which is to our advantage, if not his.”
“What happened? Did he perform an operation that went wrong?” I’d known of such cases. They were often hushed up if the surgeon had plenty of connections and the hapless victim without influence.
“No. He had a rather well to do patient who suffered from coronary disease. His Lordship had a heart attack, seemed to be well on the road to recovery then took a sudden turn for the worse. He died within the hour, no matter what Peterson tried to do to save him. It’s not uncommon, as I understand it, a bleak night after a false dawn.” Andrew shrugged. “As I said, our doctor is the only one who lays the blame at his own door.”
“Doesn’t he want to go back?”
“One day. I think he’s fallen in love with this country—quite a contrast to Surrey and none the worse for that—and almost needs to work it out of his system. Funny how it happens. People come here for one reason and stay for another.” Andrew smiled, making my heart race more violently than even the scorpion bite had done. “People do fall in love with Egypt, you know.”
Love in Every Season Page 13
