‘I hope it's not rabid,’ said Miss Crawley with interest. ‘You have to expect that, in places like this.’ The magistrate examined her hand, on which beads of blood had appeared. ‘Oh dear …’ said Miss Crawley. ‘I wonder if it's worth putting on some antiseptic.’ The magistrate, glaring, applied Kleenex.
It was at around nine-thirty that the feelings of those without provisions of any kind became insupportable. The mutiny was provoked by the revelation that the surveyor's wife was in possession of a cache of oranges, Ryvita and Garibaldi biscuits which she now attempted furtively to distribute among those of her choice. The murmurings of those excluded became impossible to ignore; Mr Campion, eventually, rose to his feet, crossed the hall and had a brief and gruff word with the surveyor's wife, who bridled angrily. He then cleared his throat and announced that given the circumstances some kind of a kitty situation as regards food might be a good idea. This produced a small assorted pile which Mrs Campion, with evident embarrassment, divided up and carried round on a tray borrowed from the soft-drinks counter. The several sick said they didn't want anything, prompting further complex and minute division. These comings and goings caused a considerable diversion, so that it was some while before anyone – including his wife – noticed that there was something wrong with old Mr Appleton. He sat slumped down in his seat, intently muttering and emitting, from time to time, a sort of bark that was neither laughter nor a cry of distress. His wife, with as much embarrassment as concern, leaned over him, murmuring exhortations. Presently one of the librarians bustled across with a bottle of mineral water. Aspirins were also produced, and a variety of throat lozenges.
‘Poor old chap,’ said the Knutsford magistrate. ‘Mind, I've been thinking all week he was ever so slightly gaga. What a shame.’ Others declared that they weren't surprised – this was enough to unbalance anyone. ‘You know what it makes me think of?’ said the Knutsford magistrate. ‘That place in Orkney – Maeshowe. Anyone been there?’ No one had; those for whom she had already over-done the widely travelled bit returned emphatically to their books or their magazines. ‘Oh, it's quite extraordinary – you really should go. BC three thousand or something but the fascinating thing is these Viking inscriptions by some sailors who spent the night there in a storm and one of them went barmy.’ There was a silence. The cat, writhing seductively, wrapped itself round the magistrate's calf; she pushed it away with her bag.
‘How does your hand feel?’ enquired Miss Crawley.
‘Perfectly all right,’ said the magistrate with irritation. She watched the cat, which sat lashing its tail. Miss Crawley lowered her book and eyed it. ‘Of course all the animals out here look unhealthy. What is that on its mouth?’
At eleven o'clock the only functioning ladies’ lavatory packed up, a circumstance causing a frail-looking and hitherto silent woman to burst into ill-concealed sobs. Someone else's husband admitted some amateur plumbing proficiency, rolled up his sleeves and braved the now softly rippling floor. ‘Good chap,’ said the police inspector loudly.
The attendant at the soft-drinks counter wrapped himself up in a tartan rug, lay down and was seen to fall instantly into deep and tranquil sleep. ‘Lucky sod,’ said the architect. ‘Mind, we used to be able to do that, back on the Halfaya Ridge.’
‘Oh, do shut up about the Halfaya Ridge,’ said Mrs Marriott-Smith, her voice inadequately lowered. The architect, a more sensitive man than was superficially apparent, and who had shared a genial lunch-table with her and Lady Hacking only yesterday, sat in bristling silence. ‘Ssh, dear,’ said Lady Hacking. ‘Of course, these people aren't made like us physically. It's something to do with their pelvises. Haven't you noticed how they can squat for hours?’
‘What absolute nonsense,’ muttered the police inspector's wife. Lady Hacking swung round, but was unable to identify the speaker.
The party, by now, had divided into those determinedly enduring in as much isolation as possible and those seeking – tacitly – the faint comfort of collective suffering. One or two had tried to clean up a section of the floor and lie down upon it, inadequately cushioned by newspapers and the contents of handbags, but soon gave up. A few people, drawn to authority, had settled themselves around Mr Campion, as though in wistful belief that he might yet effect some miracle. Old Mr Appleton continued to mumble and bark; his wife, now a little wild-eyed, plied him with mineral water.
Mrs Marriott-Smith said, ‘Oh my goodness, it can't only be half past midnight …’
‘Tell you what,’ said the chartered surveyor's wife. ‘We should do community singing. Like people stuck on Scottish mountains.’ She giggled self-consciously. ‘Don't be so damn silly,’ muttered her husband. Miss Crawley, lowering her book, stared with contempt: ‘A peculiarly inappropriate analogy, if I may say so.’ No one else spoke. The chartered surveyor's wife got out a powder compact and dabbed angrily at her nose.
A detached observer, arriving now at Abu Simbel airport, could not have failed to detect something awry. The complex lines of hostility and aversion linking the members of the Magitours group were like some invisible spider-web, grimly pulsing. Apart from the small group of acolytes around Mr and Mrs Campion, the bucket seats, in their uncompromising welded lines, were occupied in as scattered a manner as possible. Married couples were divided from other married couples by an empty seat or two. Solo travellers like Miss Crawley and the Knutsford magistrate sat in isolation. The two retired librarians had fenced themselves off, pointedly, with a barrier of possessions spread over two unoccupied seats. Old Mr Appleton's barking and muttering had cleared a substantial area around him; he appeared, now, to be asleep, his jaw sagging. From time to time someone would cough, shuffle, murmur to spouse or companion. An uneasy peace reigned, its fragility manifest when someone grated a table against the floor. ‘Some of us,’ said Lady Hacking loudly, ‘are trying to get what rest we can.’
It was at one forty-five that Mr Appleton, apparently, died. He sagged forward and then toppled to the ground with a startling thud, like a mattress dropped from a considerable height. His wife, for a moment or two, did nothing whatsoever; then she began, piercingly, to shriek.
Everyone stood up. Some, like the Campions, the Knutsford magistrate and the librarians, hurried over. Others hovered uncertainly. Miss Crawley, moving to a position where she could see what was going on, said loudly that one must assume a stroke, so there probably wasn't a lot to be done but in any case there was no point in crowding round. Those trying to offer assistance had split into two groups, one devoted to Mr Appleton, the other admonishing his wife, who continued, with quite extraordinary vigour, to scream. ‘Hysterics,’ said Mrs Marriott-Smith. ‘Something I know all about. We had a girl for the children who used to do it, years ago. Someone should slap her face – it's the only thing.’
Mrs Campion, her arm round Mrs Appleton's shoulders, was imploring her to be quiet. ‘It's all right. Everyone's doing what they can. Do please stop making that noise. Please.’ Mrs Appleton paused for a moment to draw breath, glanced down at the prone body of her husband, and began again. ‘Be quiet!’ ordered the inspector. ‘Stop that noise!’ The librarians and the magistrate were arguing about whether or not to turn Mr Appleton over. ‘I tell you, I know about this sort of thing- he shouldn't be moved.’ ‘Excuse me but you're wrong, I know what I'm doing. Is he breathing?’ ‘I don't think so,’ said the magistrate, her words unfortunately falling into a momentary respite in Mrs Appleton's screams, and serving to set her off again nicely.
The soft-drinks attendant had unfurled himself from the tartan rug and, along with the lavatory attendant and the porter, stood watching with interest. ‘Tell them to get a doctor,’ said Lady Hacking. ‘I should think that's the best thing to do.’
‘Shut up, for Christ's sake, you stupid woman,’ said the police inspector. There was a startled silence; even Mrs Appleton, briefly, was distracted. Lady Hacking went brick red and turned her back. The chartered surveyor's wife burst into frenzied laughter. The Knutsf
ord magistrate, kneeling over Mr Appleton, looked up and snapped that she didn't frankly see what there was to laugh about just at the moment. Mrs Appleton had been led to a seat somewhat apart and was being damped down, with some success, by Mrs Campion. Mr Campion, having picked up the receiver of the phone on the EgyptAir desk and listened for a moment, was trying to convey to the porter that the EgyptAir official must be summoned. ‘Is sleeping,’ said the porter. ‘Office closed.’ ‘Give him some baksheesh,’ advised the architect. The police inspector, a big man, ignored this; he leaned forward, seized the porter's jacket in either hand, and violently shook him. The lavatory attendant uttered a shrill cry of outrage.
‘Frightfully unwise,’ said Mrs Marriott-Smith loudly. ‘That simply isn't how to deal with these people.’ Interest, now, was diverted from the Appletons to the EgyptAir counter.
The porter, muttering angrily, picked up the phone, and, presently, was heard to speak into it. ‘Tell him to bloody well get over here at once,’ said Mr Campion, ‘and bloody well get on to Assuan for us.’
‘The man doesn't understand English,’ said Miss Crawley.
‘At least some of us are trying to do something,’ hissed the magistrate. ‘Which is more than can be said for others.’
Miss Crawley stared, icily: ‘There's no need to be offensive.’
Lady Hacking, tight-lipped, was sitting stiffly while Mrs Marriott-Smith spoke in a mollifying undertone. ‘I have no intention,’ said Lady Hacking loudly, ‘of getting involved. One simply ignores such behaviour, is what one does.’ The chartered surveyor's wife gazed at her, beady-eyed.
The porter had put down the phone and was loudly reiterating his grievances. ‘All right, all right, old chap,’ said the engineer. ‘We've got the message. Calm down.’ Mrs Appleton continued keening; Mrs Campion, still in attendance, was becoming visibly impatient. The woman who had been reduced to tears by the collapse of the surviving ladies’ lavatory was again quietly weeping. ‘I just want to be at home,’ she kept saying. ‘That's all. I want to go home.’
At this point Mr Appleton twitched convulsively and made an attempt to roll on to his back. ‘He's coming round,’ announced the magistrate. ‘Good grief! I thought he'd croaked, between you and me.’ The librarians, with cries of encouragement, heaved him into a sitting position.
The porter, shrugging, looked meaningfully at Mr Campion: ‘Is O.K. now.’ ‘Go to hell,’ said the police inspector, advancing towards Mr Appleton, who was heard to ask where he was. ‘Don't tell him,’ advised the engineer. ‘It'll be enough to knock the poor fellow out again.’
Mrs Appleton, supported by Mrs Campion, was led across to her husband and began attempting to brush the dust off his trousers and jacket while reproaching him for giving everyone such a nasty shock. The old man, ignoring her, allowed himself to be helped up into a seat; he stared round, wheezing. ‘That's the ticket,’ said the police inspector, patting him on the shoulder.
The EgyptAir official arrived, tie-less and with one shirt-tail untucked. The porter fell on him in noisy complaint. The police inspector, cutting in, took him aside. ‘Spot of baksheesh might save the situation,’ said the architect. Mr Campion continued, in quiet but authoritative tones, to explain that a member of the party had been taken ill, and was undoubtedly in need of medical attention, but that fortunately the immediate crisis seemed to have passed. ‘Man not dead,’ stated the EgyptAir official, aggrievedly. ‘No, I'm happy to say,’ said Mr Campion.
And when, presently, dawn broke over the desert and a grey light crept into the airport building the scene there was one of, if not peace, at least an exhausted truce. A few of the Magitours party, done for, were in restless sleep; the others, raw-eyed, sat staring out of the windows at the reddening desert or braved the lavatories to attempt whatever might be done by way of physical repairs. The librarians graciously offered cologne-soaked tissues. A few people ventured outside for a breath of air and even wandered a little way along the road to the temples, at the far end of which those stone immensities, in their solitude, were contemplating yet another sunrise.
And when, three hours later, the first flight from Assuan decanted its passengers the arrivals found the place occupied by a party of people grim-faced but composed. Members of a Cook's tour bore down on them: ‘I say, is it true you've been here all night? It must have been ghastly!’ Those who saw fit to respond were deprecating. ‘The odd little contretemps,’ said Lady Hacking graciously. ‘But on the whole we muddled through quite nicely.’ Miss Crawley, in sepulchral tones, warned of the condition of the lavatories. The librarians, gaily, said it had been a bit like an air-raid in the war, if you were old enough to remember. Mrs Appleton, supporting her husband, who was demanding a morning paper, valiantly smiled. The wan appearance of the party was defied by an air of determined solidarity, even perhaps of reticence. The thing was,’ said the Knutsford magistrate, ‘we were all in the same boat, so there was nothing for it but grin and bear it.’ The exclamations and queries of the Cook's tour members were parried with understated evasions. Mrs Marriott-Smith assured the new arrivals that the temples were absolutely amazing, unforgettable, no question about that. ‘Absolutely,’ said the police inspector heartily. ‘Extraordinary place.’ There was a murmur of agreement and, as the Cook's tour filed towards their coach, the Magitours party, rather closely clumped together, made their way across the sand-strewn tarmac to the waiting plane.
Bus-Stop
THE 73 BUS, plunging from the heights of Islington down Pentonville Road towards King's Cross, put on a burst of speed between the traffic lights. The conductor, collecting fares from the standing passengers, smiled indulgently: a private smile, and hardly detectable in any case below the lush droop of his yellow-white moustache. He was a big man, a shambling figure with a stoop, the London Transport jacket even more ill-fitting than most, hanging lankly on him, the trousers sagging and supported by a broken belt.
‘Any more fares then? King's Cross next stop!’
The diction was upper class – Edwardian upper class at that, a whiff of long-retired statesman about it; indeed, his whole head, if you isolated it from the grey uniform jacket and the paraphernalia of the ticket-machine, was that of, say, some city magnate, the kind of face that features in The Times above a brief note about an appointment to chairmanship of a bank or building society. Any incongruity, though, attracted no interest; a good many of the bus passengers, indeed, were foreign in any case and perhaps impervious to such subtleties. A Scandinavian couple wanted South Kensington and were redirected on to a 30. The lower deck thinned out at King's Cross and the conductor went to stand for a moment at the end of the aisle, leaning against the driver's window, his very large feet braced against the floor, stooping slightly to keep an eye out of the window and humming to himself. He had an expression of benign detachment, but there was also something faintly louche, a suggestion, the merest hint, of afternoon drinking clubs, of the odd flutter on the horses.
At Euston he came loping down the aisle to help a woman with a push chair. As the bus halted at the Park Crescent traffic lights he restrained an elderly man from getting off – ‘Not the stop, watch it! Just hang on till we get across the lights.’ In Gower Street he remonstrated with a bunch of teenagers pushing their way up the stairs against the descending passengers. He ran an orderly bus, it was apparent. At the Great Russell Street stop he paused a full minute or so before ringing the bell to direct a party of Japanese to the British Museum; a querulous fist knocked on the panel of the driver's window. ‘All right, all right,’ he muttered amiably, reaching for the cord. The bus swung round into the seedier wastes of New Oxford Street, leaving behind it the grace of Bloomsbury, its cargo constantly mutating – raincoated map-laden tourists, bright-eyed shoppers, girls with rainbow hair, a West Indian woman with a tiny staring doll-like baby propped over her shoulder.
At the bottom of Tottenham Court Road there was a surge from a waiting queue, sending the conductor racing up the stairs to check e
mpty seats on the upper deck. The lower deck filled up completely. A plump woman in her late sixties, fur-jacketed, forged her way panting to one of the seats up front. The bus proceeded in fits and starts along Oxford Street; the conductor moved down the aisle, collecting fares.
When he reached the fur-jacketed woman she said, ‘Barkers, please’, delving in her purse. Then she looked up, met the conductor's gaze fair and square, and gave a gasp that caused heads to turn.
‘Hello, Milly,’ said the conductor. ‘Fancy seeing you. Barkers – forty, that'll be.’
The woman found, at last, speech. ‘George!’ She clutched a pound note in a gloved fist, staring transfixed.
The conductor glanced back at the platform, rang the bell for the request stop. ‘How's Philip, then?’
‘George …’ whispered the woman. ‘I don't believe it. Oh my God, how could you
‘Come on, Milly,’ said the conductor with a trace of impatience. ‘How could I what? Forty, please.’
The woman closed her eyes for a moment and hugged the jacket about her. She turned to the conductor, spoke in shocked hushed complicity; ‘Oh my God, George, what would Shirley say …’
‘Look, turn it down would you, Milly.’ The bus lurched, stopped. ‘Oxford Circus! Anyone for Oxford Circus?’ Passengers jostled on and off. ‘I'll come back, Milly. Forty, to Barkers.’ He made for the platform, gave an arm to a woman with a stick, stowed another pushchair for a mother, swung up the stairs.
When he was on the top deck, sorting out two English-less Spaniards wanting Harrods, the bell urgently rang. Someone shouted up, ‘Oy – there's a lady been took ill down here.’ The conductor, with a sigh, hurrying but unfussed, made his way down. The bus had come to rest alongside a jeans shop; music gushed into the street. There was an atmosphere of unrest on the lower deck. People craned and stared; at the front two women had stood up. The conductor pushed his way through.
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