But they could not possibly go home without at least seeing the pyramids, and the Sphinx, Wycombe admonished sternly, while vetoing outright the suggestion of an evening ride there on donkey back, by moonlight. He would make the more prosaic, but infinitely more comfortable arrangement of a native arabeah. By moonlight, if they insisted, but not by donkey. Not even by the electric tram, a horse-drawn carriage it must be.
They looked at each other and Millie whispered behind her hand, “Don’t tell him!” Whereupon they giggled like silly young girls keeping a secret – for they had already seen the Great Pyramid. When the major had been occupied with his regimental duties, they had made their own arrangements and, forgetting the responsible matrons they were supposed to be, wobbled out on bicycles to Giza, preceded by a syce walking ahead to clear the way. There was, Beatrice secretly admitted, an added spice to the stolen outing at the thought of what Wycombe – or Amory – would have thought of it. No doubt the ancient monument had not been as romantic as it would be if seen by moonlight, but it was a wonder indeed, a marvel, and Millie had been all for making the attempt to climb it – what a lark! But looking at its stupendous size, seeing the ant-like figures clinging to the face, Beatrice had been overcome by a sudden attack of vertigo. Moreover, foolish as the thought was, it had seemed somehow sacrilegious to climb and scramble over what was, or had been, a sacred monument. It was the first intimation she had of the effect this strange land was to have on her, that she would be seized by the same fascination and awe that had gripped Egyptologists and others for centuries. Fortunately, Millie’s enthusiasm had waned when she saw the perspiring state of those who descended and heard from them that getting to the summit was a matter of being literally hauled there by a couple of natives, in return for baksheesh. Too tedious, she declared. The bicycle ride back to Cairo would be tiring enough.
They said nothing to Wycombe of this adventure, however, and therefore saw the pyramids twice. They also visited the Sphinx and went along with the other cultural activities he planned for them all, whenever he could manage it.
In between, they found other amusements. Beatrice had discovered a French dressmaker and a divine milliner, and Millie had winkled out someone who made perfectly exquisite gloves, not to mention a jeweller who sold better (though consequently more expensive) things than the cheap and showy trinkets offered in the bazaars, which probably came from Birmingham, in any case, said Wycombe. In the afternoons, they sipped mint tea and listened to the military band at the Ghezireh Club and wrote postcards to send home: Cairo was marvellous – colourful, strange, exotic and crowded, but full of flies and exceedingly whiffy. The noise was unbelievable – street cries, the continuous clanging bells of the electric trams. Donkeys and people everywhere. It was still very hot and it never rained. Be good children and I’ll bring home the red fez I have bought for you, Marcus, and the stuffed leather camel saddle which might be adapted for your pony, and French dolls for the girls. Mama is feeling much better.
Indeed, by the time they were embarked on the Nile voyage, Beatrice was in finer spirits than she had thought possible when they had started on this trip.
To accompany them on the journey was a young man by the name of Valery Iskander, hired on Wycombe’s recommendation as the ideal person to be the organiser of the trip. He was a student of archaeology at the Al Azhar University, and was said to be as extremely knowledgeable about Egyptian history as he was about Nile travel and the local customs. It was a great asset, too, that he was part Egyptian, and thus would be able to hold his own with the notoriously independent reis, the sailing master of the boat, and keep an eye on the crew. He was a penniless, but pleasant and cultivated young man, despite his family’s unhappy history. His father had left Russia after falling foul of the Tsar’s secret police, and there had never been a moment when it had not been dangerous to try and return. His parents were now both dead, and he lived a pinched and somewhat precarious existence on the fringes of Cairene and European society, often despairing of his situation. But his Egyptian blood would not let him be melancholy for long.
His presence on the boat promised well.
4
“So there’s no more to be said. Your mother doesn’t approve of Egyptian themes for redecorating her guest rooms, and that’s that.”
Rose Jessamy scuffed the beautifully raked gravel with the toe of her shoe, spoiling its symmetry and raising little puffs of dust, scowling at the writhing stone figures rising above the basin of the fountain as though they were to blame for her being put out of countenance. It was still early and the morning was hazy, but very warm, giving promise of real heat later in the day. The old roses climbing the walls gave off a rich, heavy scent, the sound of the splashing water was a cooling antidote to the massed geraniums blazing in the geometrical flower beds, each with a standard fuchsia sentinel in the middle and a border of royal blue lobelia.
She dipped her fingertips in the fountain and dabbed water impatiently on her wrists. “She sent for me first thing this morning to talk about what I intended to do. And I’m bound to say that I feel she’s not willing to open her to mind to original ideas.”
“Maybe not,” Marcus replied cautiously, unable to escape recollections of that rash, unladylike remark Miss Jessamy had made at dinner the previous evening. One wouldn’t be, after that. Not his mother, at any rate. “Though I m-must say, it sounds rather stupendous. She might be persuaded, though I agree that last night she didn’t seem at all keen to be reminded of Egypt. I was too young to know anything about it at the time, but that trip of theirs couldn’t have been much of a success. That f-fellow Iskander – I’d love to know where they encountered him …”
They began walking towards the wisteria-hung pergola, where it was cooler. Rose, recalling Beatrice an hour ago in a café-au-lait satin bedjacket trimmed with white swansdown, leaning back against frilly white pillows, her pale, shining hair tumbled around her shoulders, drinking her morning tea and nibbling a nearly transparent piece of bread and butter, was still smarting at the rejection of her brilliant ideas. “I had thought of friezes, you know, going round the walls, a sort of Nile panorama, if you see what I mean, gold on black, boats with high prows, kings and queens in those wonderful tall headdresses, those dramatic hairstyles! Ra, the sun-god, on the ceiling, and the wall paintings in ochres and terracotta, reds and greens, with that ravishing blue they used to decorate the temples.” Her enthusiasm was making her quite lyrical. “The idea came to me when I was talking with Mr Iskander, over dinner. For a long time, I’ve been fascinated with the ideas coming out of Egypt – there’s such a beautiful simplicity and dignity about those austere figures, and those pure, clear colours! I lay awake half the night, thinking about it. The possibilities seemed endless, but …” She broke off and lifted her shoulders. “Well, there it is.”
“Don’t be too disappointed. I’ll speak to Mama and see if I can bring her round to your way of thinking.” Marcus had very little hopes of any success, for he was somewhat out of his depth here. Not being artistic himself, knowing nothing about Egyptian art or archaeology, it seemed to him there was a danger the rooms might end up resembling the insides of tombs, which made him rather sympathetic to his mother, but he smiled encouragingly.
“I don’t see her ever agreeing to it. I shall have to compromise.”
Glancing at the set, angry little face of the young woman walking beside him, he couldn’t imagine she would be very good at that. “Some solution will be found. You mustn’t take it to heart, that would never do. And I simply won’t allow you to lose any sleep over it, Miss Jessamy”
“Have you forgotten how I detest that name?”
“Oh, sorry – but look here, I c-can’t go on calling you RJ! It’s ridiculous, and besides, it doesn’t suit you at all, you know.”
“Neither does Rose!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Marcus stopped walking, the better to see her, and grinned engagingly. “You have rather a sweet face,” he added
wickedly, suspecting it would enrage her all the more, but meaning it all the same. “Rosa Perfecta, perhaps – ivory, flushed with pink around the edges in the heat, but with exceedingly sharp thorns.”
“I don’t believe there’s a rose called that!”
“Then there should be. When I retire and take up my inheritance here, I shall breed the perfect rose and name it that.”
“Breed roses? You?”
“Why not? I’ve always had the idea at the back of my mind. They’re such jolly flowers, roses. I shall stop making all that filthy lucre at the Bar and come home and listen to Scott Joplin and be a p-perfect nuisance to Hopper and his under-gardeners … meanwhile, I’ll find you a beauty to wear at Mama’s birthday party.”
“What nonsense you talk! I shouldn’t really be here at all for your mother’s birthday.”
“I don’t see why not, it was she who asked you to come, after all – impatient for you to get started on those rooms, I dare say.”
“And now–”
“Dash it, she’ll come round, I’m certain of it! After all, she wanted something different, and agreed to give you carte blanche. Anyway, I for one am glad you came.”
He smiled down at her. She had to tilt her head to look up at him. She noticed he was hardly stammering at all. He had beautiful white teeth and a kind face. “Rose, I—” Suddenly, he swung round. “Daisy, what the deuce are you doing lurking about here?”
“I wasn’t lurking!” retorted Daisy indignantly, emerging from behind the high brick wall that hid the kitchen garden, carrying a small basket. “I’ve just been to the hothouses for some peaches for Mama’s breakfast. Don’t they look luscious? All rosy and downy. I shall decorate them with fern and tuck in a rose. Red, or yellow, what do you think? Tell me, which one shall I ask Hopper for? You know all their names, Marcus.”
“Rosa Perfecta,” said Marcus, looking at Rose Jessamy. She blushed and her mouth curved upwards and for a moment, forgetting herself, she looked quite pretty.
So he really did know something about roses, she thought. How clever of him to be so very unusual. But no, she didn’t think he would ever do anything for effect, as Kit Sacheverell did. She knew he was nearly twenty-five but how young he seemed, in comparison to her! How unworldly. Not in the least like Kit, either, with whom relations had swung to and fro ever since their meeting last year, in ways she didn’t always like to think of. There was a thread of darkness running through Kit which it wouldn’t do to underestimate or ignore. He was unpredictable, and probably ruthless at times. Perhaps she was a little like that, too, especially where her work was concerned. But Marcus, never. You would always be sure of him, she thought. He would always be the same. She was beginning to regard him with more interest, this young man with a passion for ragtime and roses.
Daisy, clutching her basket of peaches, turned back. “By the way, Marcus, we’re going to need you and Kit to help us with this tableau.”
Marcus groaned.
“Only to pull back the curtains – and to bring your gramophone and a record. Copley has promised to rig things up in front of the folly, and – oh, help!” she cried as the stable clock struck nine. “Harriet is waiting to pin me into about a hundred yards of muslin. There’s miles of sewing to be done and she’ll be cross with me if I’m late.”
“And I had better walk down and see what I’m letting myself in for. It looks as though Copley’s already begun.” Down by the edge of the lake, by the white Palladian folly in front of the trees, he and one of the footmen could be seen moving around, assembling various props.
“Yes,” said Daisy, “he’s setting it up now so that we have plenty of time for rehearsals.”
“Since Daisy appears to be occupied at the moment, will you come with me, Rose?”
Oh, Rose, is it? thought Daisy, as she left them and hurried back to the house. He was evidently smitten, poor Marcus. It was a thousand pities, because even Daisy knew they’d never let him marry a girl like that. Nevertheless, she was rather pleased.
When she had breakfasted and completed her leisurely toilette, but before she had dressed, Beatrice sat with a pile of unread letters before her, facing the unpalatable fact that she might have been wrong.
A couple of hours earlier, after a disturbed night when images and recollections had been chasing each other around like demons in her brain, Miss Jessamy’s suggestions in the matter of the guest rooms had seemed monstrous. She might have known that it had been Valery Iskander’s discourses on Egyptian art, last night at dinner, which had put ideas into her head and excited her so much. Well, that made no matter, the young woman could not be allowed to dictate her own preferences, a constant reminder of everything Beatrice had tried for over a decade to forget. She had wasted no time in informing her that under no circumstances did she wish the rooms to be decorated in the Egyptian manner. She would be pleased to consider any other suggestions Miss Jessamy might have to make, providing they were sensible ones. The young woman had had no choice but to accept, but Beatrice had felt resentment seeping from every pore.
However … all that had been said in the aftermath of a bad night. Now that she was bathed, violet-powdered and perfumed, her hair brushed and carefully arranged in its puffs and rolls, she was more in command of herself, and beginning to feel not only that she might have been a trifle hasty, but also rather foolish for letting the matter so upset her. One must admit that the ideas put forward were original – and since there was growing excitement being generated at the moment, as Miss Jessamy had not failed to point out, on account of the number of newly discovered tombs which archaeologists were presently opening and revealing in all their magnificence, Ancient Egyptian themes were set fair to become all the rage. It might, indeed, be amusing to be one of the first in the field. After all, she herself had been left breathless with admiration at the scope and magnificence of the originals when she had first encountered them. This was not rudimentary or primitive art, she had realised, but the mark of a high civilisation. It was merely an unfortunate association of ideas that was preventing her from accepting them here at Charnley — and probably, it suddenly occurred to her, with a suddenness that took her breath away, from exorcising that haunting fear from her mind for ever. After years of not allowing herself to remember, she found that now she could not stop thinking about it, like probing a sore tooth. It kept coming back to her at every odd moment, such as now, when she could do nothing but wait for her maid to reappear with the blouse she was seeing to. She looked at the little gilt clock on the mantelpiece and tapped her foot impatiently. Hallam was taking her time; only a few stitches were needed, for goodness’ sake, just a couple of inches of the tiny feather-stitching which had come undone on the finely pin-tucked bodice.
“Another blouse, the cream silk, perhaps?” Hallam had suggested.
“No, I’d like to wear the lavender grosgrain skirt,” Beatrice told her firmly, “and there’s really nothing else which is as cool, or looks quite so well with it. I’ll wait until it’s done before I finish dressing.”
Holding the lavender blouse to her flat and frumpy chest, Hallam closed the door behind her as she departed with a sour look deliberately, in search of needle and matching silk thread.
Beatrice rummaged among her jewels and set aside the jet brooch to wear at the neck of the blouse when it was returned; then, almost as if it were a sign, at the bottom of the box she saw a golden cross surmounted by a loop, the Egyptian ankh which symbolised life.
The dahabeah Hathor, named after she who was the goddess of the sky, joy and love, had been everything even Millie could wish for. As a sailing boat, it was smooth and stable, as a place to live, commodious and convenient, almost a modern hotel in miniature. There were five cabins, besides quarters for the crew, and a saloon that was luxuriously furnished, right down to a piano with a paisley shawl draped over it, and was kept cool by the breeze which blew through its opened ends. Nothing about Egypt was conspicuously clean, but the boat had adequate sanitary
arrangements, and was even equipped, amazingly, with that most modern of Western appliances – an ice-box.
Luxor, where they would leave Hathor for a few days’ stay at the Luxor hotel, before journeying further up-river to Assuan and the great dam being erected across the Nile, seemed improbably distant as they left Cairo behind. There was no necessity to hurry, however, no definition of time, and as the boat began to sail its course up-river a feeling of informality and relaxation descended like a benign presence. The days slid by in a dream; the boat glided swiftly between mud banks, clumps of papyrus, palm groves and lebbek trees, while the khaki-green waters of the Nile lapped against the sides of the boat … the Nile, which at a distance always seemed so slow but was in essence a great, moving, powerful force. One became more and more aware of its power as one drew nearer to its source, and contemplated the mystery of the yearly inundation that flooded the land before the great river emptied its waters into the sea – that miraculous annual flood which brought down rich, alluvial mud to fertilise the banks, and irrigated the crops upon which the health, happiness and wealth of the people of Egypt had depended for thousands of years.
But the delights of living on Hathor had soon palled for Millie. She had never envisaged the voyage being as boring as this, with nothing more taxing to do all day than recline under the shade of the awning on deck and doze, or read novels, waiting for cold drinks to be brought, while the endless procession of cargo boats passed by, laden with fodder and sugar cane and water-pots. Listening to the lateen sails cracking in the sprightly wind that invariably sprang up before noon – and all the while a ceaseless background noise from the Arab crew: the endless jabbering and the wailing that passed as singing, accompanied by their weird musical instruments. Worse than the bagpipes at Glendinning’s Scottish shooting box! The tedium was relieved a little at night when they all played cards, and she could summon up enough energy to play the piano, and sing for them, but in the daytime it was too hot – and growing hotter each day as they sailed south – to do anything other than lie prone.
The Shape of Sand Page 7
