Daisy Gumm Majesty 06-Ancient Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  However, I did my best to suppress all unhappy thoughts and vowed to myself that I’d enjoy the day whether I wanted to or not. I opened the door to Harold, who’d had the same brilliant idea as I, and who also wore jodhpurs. I grabbed a jacket that went well enough with my puffy pants so as not to look odd, and Harold and I headed to the dining room. Before we got there, I’d used up my quota of conversational tidbits for the morning by asking him if he’d had a good time the night before. He said he had, that Shepheards’ band was quite good, that he’d danced a bit, and that was that.

  An obsequious waiter led us to a table. I ordered toast and tea. Harold had a full English breakfast, which consisted of . . . Lord, just about every type of foodstuff you can imagine, and even some I never knew existed.

  “What did you say that stuff was?” I asked, nodding at a pile of a rice-based concoction on his plate.

  “Kedgeree. Have a bite. It’s delicious.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Smoked fish, eggs, rice, mushrooms.” He squinted at the forkful of the mélange he’d lifted toward his mouth. “I don’t know what else, but it’s really good. I has an East Indian flavor to it. I guess the British stole the idea from India—kind of like they stole India from the Indians. Have a bite,” he repeated.

  “Um, thanks, but I don’t think so.”

  And here I used to think I was up to anything. That morning the mere thought of kedgeree conquered me. I lifted a piece of my toast and spread a little marmalade on it. We didn’t get marmalade much in Pasadena, although I don’t know why. After all, we had two orange trees in our very yard, a navel and a Valencia, giving us oranges darned near year-round, and Aunt Vi made all sorts of other kinds of jams and jellies. Although it was a little bitter, I liked the taste of marmalade. Perhaps I wasn’t a total coward when it came to food. Not that it matters.

  Before we were through with our meals—well, before Harold was through with his, anyhow, I was finished practically before I started—who should walk up to our table but Mr. Wallingford Stackville. He pretended to be surprised to see us.

  “Well, my goodness, look who’s here!” he said in a jovial voice.

  Harold waved to an empty chair at our table. “Have a seat. We’re nearly through with our meal, but it’s nice to have company.”

  I didn’t think it was nice at all, but I managed a weak smile for Mr. Stackville.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said he, and he pulled out a chair and sat. He eyed my plate. “You certainly don’t eat much, Missus Majesty. That’s probably how you manage to keep your figure so trim.”

  I’d have slapped his face if we’d been at home, but I presumed this person, who seemed to have been everywhere and done everything, didn’t find personal comments of such a nature in the manner of an insult. Nevertheless, while I didn’t answer him, I gave him a frown for his efforts.

  He grinned. “Oh, dear. I see I’ve stepped in a mess again. Please forgive me, Missus Majesty. I’ve been away from home for so long, I seem to have forgot my company manners.”

  I sipped some tea so I wouldn’t have to speak to him.

  Thank the good Lord, Stackville turned his attention to Harold. “So what’s on the agenda first, old man?”

  “We’re going to see the pyramids first. Then I want to get Daisy on a camel.”

  Mr. Stackville laughed. “I’d love to see that. There are camel drivers near the pyramids who can accommodate you. Do you have a Kodak?”

  Harold patted a big satchel he’d deposited on the fourth chair at our table. “Sure do. Bought it especially for this trip. I want Daisy to have mementoes of all the places we’ve been when we get back home again.”

  “To Pasadena?”

  “Right. Good old Pasadena.”

  “And then you’re taking the Nile cruise?”

  “Right again.”

  “But you’ll be stopping in London for a day or so before you head home, won’t you?”

  Why in the name of Glory was he quizzing Harold about our itinerary? I decided to ask him, thereby risking being told once more that I was touchy. “You seem quite interested in our travel plans, Mister Stackville.” I tried to keep my tone neutral, but I sounded relatively icy to my own ears.

  “Oh, my, just curious, my dear Missus Majesty. I see so few people from home in Egypt this time of year.”

  “Home? I thought you were British.”

  “Well, yes, I am. But I’ve been to the United States so often, I almost feel like an American. I beg your pardon if my question seemed forward.”

  Hmm. Flummoxed again.

  Oh, stop it, Daisy Majesty. He’s probably only an innocent tourist like we are. That’s what I told myself. After considering the matter for a moment or two, myself didn’t believe it.

  I gave him a glacial smile. “Think nothing of it. Ask all the prying questions you want to.”

  “Daisy!” Harold gaped at me.

  Mr. Stackville gulped.

  To heck with the both of them. “Harold, I’m going back to my room to freshen up. I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour. Will that give us time enough to catch the train to the pyramids?”

  “Plenty of time.”

  He and Stackville rose as I got up from my chair and exited the dining room, feeling like an idiot, which I probably was. Ah, well. Wouldn’t be the first time. And I had no idea why Mr. Stackville’s persistent presence irked me so much. Perhaps if we’d met a single woman—say, a middle-aged lady who was traveling with a companion after her husband’s death or something like that—I wouldn’t have been so bristly.

  Fortunately for Harold, Mr. Stackville and me, Stackville was nowhere to be seen when I met Harold downstairs. There we were loaded into an automobile, driven to the station and boarded the train for Giza. The group we joined had an Egyptian guide at our beck and call, a fellow whose name was Mohammed. I think all Egyptian men are named Mohammed, actually, although I’m not sure why.

  It seemed that Harold intended to keep the peace, because he didn’t mention Stackville once during the train ride or our subsequent activities that day. I appreciated his consideration.

  We did meet some other people in our group, by the way, and it was kind of fun to exchange oohs and aahs with folks from England, France and even Canada. I particularly enjoyed the company of the Canadians, who were three college friends whose parents had financed a trip around the world for them before they began working at more mundane jobs. As I’d thought a million times before—actually, probably more times than that—it must be nice to be born into money. Still, they were very nice, courteous young gentlemen, and two of them helped me climb the Great Pyramid.

  To look at a picture of the Great Pyramid, you’d think it was straight up and pointy on top, or just barely squared off, but it’s not. Even though Billy had read me everything he could find on the pyramids, I hadn’t anticipated their size. The Great Pyramid’s base took up over thirteen acres of land, for Pete’s sake! And tall? My goodness, I’ve never seen so tall a structure. Not only that, but the sides of it weren’t smooth at all. They were built sort of like stairs, only out of huge, square blocks of limestone, and must each have been three feet on all sides.

  In fact, before we were halfway to the summit, I’d begun to wish I’d stayed below and bought a postcard instead attempting the climb. But such was not to be, and I have to admit that once we reached the top of the thing, the view was spectacular. If you’re fond of deserts. I’m not particularly, but knowing something of the history of these magnificent monuments made the view worthwhile even so.

  “Oh, my,” I said to one of the young men who’d helped me and whose name was Nathaniel Gentry, “I’m so out of breath. I should start doing Swedish exercises when I get home, I reckon.”

  He laughed, as did the other fellow who’d helped me achieve the summit and whose name was George Washington (I’m not joking about that, although George himself had a ready supply of jokes about his name at his disposal). Nathaniel said, “It
’s a steep climb, and it’s hotter than Hades, too. I think you did very well.”

  Wiping my perspiring brow with one of the several hankies I’d secreted on my person, having anticipated the weather, I said, “It sure is. But, my goodness, it’s hard to imagine people without our modern-day tools building these monster monuments.”

  “I agree,” said George, who was similarly occupied in mopping sweat from various parts of his body.

  “God, Daisy, I damned near gave up before we were halfway to the top.” This little gem was dropped by Harold, who staggered toward our little group with the last Canadian (whose name was Brian Brandt) in tow. With them came a couple of the ever-present Egyptians who expected baksheesh for helping hapless tourists up the pyramid. Harold handed them a bunch of coins. From the looks of ecstasy on their faces, he’d grossly overpaid them.

  “You probably shouldn’t have done that,” said Nathaniel. “You’re going to be haunted by little Egyptian kids begging for baksheesh when word gets out that you’re so generous.”

  “I don’t even care.” Harold plunked himself down on the dusty ground, the limestone blocks having been gathering dust for millennia. I had a feeling that, what with the dust and the perspiration, Harold and I were both going to be muddy messes by the time we got back to Shepheards.

  “It’s an amazing sight,” said Nathaniel, awe clear to hear in his voice.

  “It sure is,” agreed George. “Too bad we couldn’t have come in January instead of August.”

  “You’ve got that right,” said Brian.

  All of us had sweated through our garments, and I took off my jacket. I had meant to pay due deference to the sensibilities of the Egyptian people and cover up as much of myself as I could, but common sense took hold of me at last and I couldn’t get the stupid jacket off fast enough. As it was, my white shirt was soaked through, and I hoped nobody was shocked at the sight. They didn’t seem to be.

  Although we all could have used a good long rest after our arduous climb, it was too darned hot to linger at the top of the Great Pyramid, so as soon as Harold had caught his breath and taken gobs of pictures with his Kodak, several of which included our Canadian friends, we started down again. Going down was no more fun than going up had been, but we finally made it to the dusty earth. You know, whenever I think about that trip to Egypt, the first thing about it that pops to mind is the dust. I don’t think that’s being fair to Egypt, but I can’t help it.

  And then I rode a camel. The beast stank to high heaven. And the ride was hideously uncomfortable, in spite of the little saddle-like thing perched on top of the beautiful saddle blanket. The gait of a camel isn’t, say, like riding in a car over a bumpy road. It’s more like sitting on something that joggles you on purpose every third second or so and threatens to send you toppling. Fortunately for yours truly, the camel was led by one of those universal dragomen, who only smiled up at me with his brownish teeth showing and who said every now and then, “Good, good. You ride good.”

  If he said so.

  By the time my camel ride was over, my legs were so tired and I had such a fierce headache from heat and exertion, I could barely walk. Fortunately for me, the train was there to take us back to Cairo. I don’t think I’d ever been so exhausted in my entire life.

  “But I got several shots of you on the camel and on top of the pyramid, Daisy. Once you recover from your ordeal, you’ll enjoy looking at them and showing them to your family,” said Harold as we chugged back to Cairo.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Harold.”

  This train wasn’t anything like the Orient Express. One couldn’t, for example, go to the dining car and get a glass of water or some bicarbonate of soda or some salicylic powders to cure one’s headaches and other assorted aches and pains. So I sat there and suffered and wished I was dead. Or back home. Either option would have done at that moment. I was so happy when we finally returned to Shepheards, I could have cried, but I didn’t.

  As soon as we got inside, Harold went to the bar, claiming he needed liquid refreshment. I headed straight for the elevator, but the man behind the desk called my name. “Missus Majesty?” Don’t ask me how he remembered people’s names, but I’d heard him call out like that to other people before that time.

  Although I didn’t want to, I turned and smiled at him. To my surprise, I saw he was holding up an envelope. I stood at the elevator like a dope, staring at the envelope, until he said, “A letter was delivered for you while you were out.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes. Of course.” My head throbbing a jungle beat, I walked to the desk and took the envelope. “Thank you.”

  “Of course,” said the excruciatingly polite man. I guess Shepheards only hired the best.

  So I took the letter on the elevator with me and on the way up to the fourth floor, I perused its envelope. Sam. Sam had written me another letter. How very strange. My heart twinged as I considered the letter might contain bad news about Pa or something.

  But that was silly. If anything had happened to Pa, Ma would have sent a telegraph wire.

  As soon as I reached my room, I plowed through my little bag of toiletries—Harold had told me that English folks call these bags sponge bags, God knows why—and dug out my bottle of aspirin. I took three of them with a tall glass of water, refilled the glass from the pitcher of boiled water the hotel supplied to each room, sat on my bed and carefully opened Sam’s letter.

  Dear Daisy, I read,

  You will probably laugh at this, but I miss you. I know you don’t care for me and that we’ve had an adversarial relationship a time or two, but I have to say that I do miss you when you’re gone. So, naturally, do your mother, father and aunt. But I thought you might at least get a laugh out of my feeling lonely with you away.

  The aspirin hadn’t begun working yet, my head throbbed like mad, and I wondered if I’d misread Sam’s words, which seemed . . . so unlike him, I guess. Blinking several times to make sure my vision was clear, I went back to his letter.

  But enough of the maudlin stuff. I just want you to know that your father is doing well. He and I take Spike for a walk most evenings. Spike is pining, missing both you and Billy, I suspect, but we’re doing our best to keep his spirits up.

  “Oh, poor Spike,” I murmured into the warm air, which was being stirred by an electrical fan, which felt wonderful. “I shouldn’t have left him to go on this harebrained trip.” Feeling terrible about abandoning Spike, not to mention the rest of my family, I read further.

  I know you think I spend more time at your house than my own, and you’re probably right. But the truth is, I’m a lonely man. Ever since Margaret passed away, I’ve felt as though I have a hole in my heart. You probably don’t want to hear this, but I feel as though your family, and especially Billy, more or less adopted me. You’re fortunate to have such kind and generous relations, Daisy. But it seems to me as though you’re the glue that holds the family together. Without you, everyone seems sort of at loose ends.

  Please don’t think I’m trying to make you feel guilty . . .

  He could have fooled me, blast the man. Nevertheless, I read on.

  . . . because I’m not. Your entire family believes you’re doing the right thing in going on this trip with Mr. Kincaid. Sometimes it’s good to get away from what we coppers call “the scene of the crime.” Not that Billy’s death was a crime, unless you count the late war as a crime against humanity, but I’m sure you see what I mean.

  Anyhow, I don’t want to bother you, but I do want you to know that everyone here at home in Pasadena thinks of you daily, and we all send our best wishes. I’m not a very good hand at letter-writing, but, well, writing to you seems to be helping me feel better, so I’m going to keep doing it. If you want to, you can throw my letters away. Just writing them is something like what the alienists call a “catharsis.” At least I think that’s the word.

  I look forward to seeing a photograph of you on a camel.

  Sincerely,

  Sam (Rotondo)


  By the time I’d finished Sam’s letter, tears stung my eyes. I chalked them up to heat exhaustion. Then I peeled my clothes off and headed to the bathroom to take a cool bath. By the time I’d finished my bath, taken a nap and changed into a very cool sleeveless dress in which I aimed to pass the remainder of the evening, I thought I might be able to write Sam a letter without crying all over it.

  So I did.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dear Sam,

  Thank you very much for your letter. I enjoy reading news from home.

  “What a stupid way to begin a letter,” said I to myself. Nevertheless, the truth was the truth, so I allowed the words to remain on the paper and the paper to remain on the desk and didn’t throw it into the waste-paper basket.

  The heat here is truly awful. Harold and I climbed the Great Pyramid at Giza today, I rode a camel afterward, and I can now tell you from experience that camels are stinky, hateful beasts. I think I got too much sun, because I had a roaring headache when we returned to the hotel.

  We’ve been meeting people here and there on our trip, but so far I haven’t felt up to socializing much. Please tell Ma and Aunt Vi that I’m eating as much as I can, although that’s not very much. And I truly appreciate you and Pa taking care of Spike, who must be really confused about the changes in his family.

  I tapped the end of the pen on the writing table and wondered what I should write next. Should I tell Sam what was in my heart, or should I keep the letter light and skirt the important stuff?

  “Oh, to heck with it.”

  Your letters mean a lot to me, Sam, perhaps because you have suffered the loss of a beloved spouse, as I’ve done. I know we got off on the wrong foot together, but I do appreciate that you’re continuing to spend time with my family. Please tell them I’m doing as well as can be expected, but I sure do miss them and home and Pasadena.