Tom nodded. “Pretty good, aren’t they?”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at how beautiful they are, after seeing what was left of those frescoes at Charnley,” Nina replied, instantly drawn to them.
But these were gentle, exquisite watercolours, as far removed from what it had been possible to see of the decorations in the Jessamy rooms – or for that matter from the brilliant tomb paintings of Ancient Egypt – as it was possible to imagine. Modern paintings in soft muted tones that sought to capture the essence of this sun-baked land: the pale browns, beiges and salmon pinks of the sand and rocks, the soft turquoise and teal colours of sky and water. Reflections in the Nile, the sharp triangular sail of a felucca; an irrigated field, and white egrets following a solitary, Biblically-attired figure leading a buffalo and a plough; a sickle moon in a pale green evening sky; the glittering white domes of a mosque contrasting with the colourful, vibrant crowds in the narrow streets below. Tall stands of feathery palms at a watering place in the desert. The Pyramids at Giza rising from the arid desert sand; a group of racing camels.
Tom’s voice broke into her absorption. “Would you like some tea? There’s bound to be some, somewhere.”
Still awash with the Thermos-tea doled out at regular intervals on the aircraft, full of the last packed meal, she declined the offer in favour of taking a shower, while Tom telephoned Iskander, who was expecting to hear from him. He’d previously made a brief telephone call from England, warning Iskander of their arrival – a difficult connection which Tom had had to book and wait hours for, and the line had been terrible. In the end he’d deemed it better to wait until now to make what was bound to be a complicated explanation of the real reason for this visit. The long conversation, conducted in Arabic, was still continuing when Nina, in a cotton wrap, emerged from the bathroom.
She wandered out on to the balcony until the call ended, leaning on the railing, sharing it with a small bright green lizard, lying motionless in the sun. A brilliant, rampant bougainvillaea twining itself around the rails of the balcony which looked out over the distant prospect of Cairo, several miles away, was luxuriant enough to provide shade as she gazed out over the city’s minarets, spiking the sky through the haze. Traffic passed unceasingly below on the road into Cairo - modern cars and bell-ringing bicycles dodging the occasional camel or fodder-laden donkey. The air rising from below was thick with perfumes and the smell of dust and petrol fumes. England seemed very far away. As Tom came out to join her, she moved and the lizard suddenly darted away and disappeared, following its own compulsions.
“Sorry that took so long. I thought I ought to put the old boy in the picture as to how things are before we meet. He swears he knew nothing of what happened after he left Charnley the morning after the party, until Marcus told him about it when he came out here with my mother.”
But, thought Nina, if Iskander had anything on his conscience, that would be the line he would take, wouldn’t he?
“He seemed quite upset about Beatrice, and he wants us to meet to talk about it. He insists on buying us dinner tonight in the old town. I know the place, and the food will be good. Put your best bib and tucker on.”
“What do you suggest I wear?” Every woman’s first thought on being invited to any social occasion, and Nina was no exception. “My nice uniform or that silk frock of Harriet’s she made me bring despite your advice not to bother about clothes?”
“Is that what I said?” He grinned. “If I did, it must have been because I knew you’d take no notice. Don’t women always pack everything but the kitchen sink, regardless? Isn’t that why your bag was so heavy?”
“I didn’t notice you staggering under it.”
A couple of cotton dresses, a light suit and Harriet’s frock could hardly be regarded as excess baggage, thought Nina, as she made up her face, brushed her dark hair till it shone and put on Harriet’s chestnut silk. Fashions hadn’t moved forward much since the war, and it didn’t feel dated, with its draped neckline and a sleek fit over the hips before falling into a gentle flare. And oh, what luxury, to feel silk against your skin – the chance to wear such borrowed finery! Especially if it brought to a man’s face the sort of look that Tom gave her as she came out on to the balcony where he was waiting for her.
But all he said was, “Come and watch this.”
They leaned on the balcony rail, with the tops of the feathery palms waving below, watching an ineffable, glorious sunset of fiery oranges and rose-gold. He moved nearer and put his arm around her shoulders while the black velvet night dropped with startling rapidity. And there they stayed under the brilliance of the stars until it was time to leave, talking quietly. The bougainvillaea wreathing around them had lost its vividness but the starry blossoms of a creeper glowed white in the dusk. There was a jasmine somewhere whose scent was heavy on the night air. And electricity flashing between them where his hand rested on her flesh.
He said, “My father would love to meet you, I know. But that’s for another time, hmm? He’s working up-country at the moment. Pity he isn’t here now.”
But somehow she didn’t think he really meant that.
Harriet had found Millie by the simple expedient of looking in the telephone directory. Not dead, after all then, but living in south London. She made a brief call, and arranged a visit for the next afternoon.
A bus took her to the nearest point, after which she found herself walking through ruined, scruffy streets of red brick houses and collapsed buildings, where children, rowdy as packs of stray mongrels, kicked balls and jumped to skipping ropes, and chalked hopscotch squares on the pavements. Buddleia and willow herb and bright yellow ragwort clung to unlikely places on staircases open to the street, on unsupported bedroom floors, sprang from rubble-filled basements. But quite suddenly, rounding the corner, Harriet was immediately into a quieter, more prosperous area, the way it happened in this city, working class streets cheek-by-jowl with those of higher pretensions – no less scarred, but not as dilapidated, and free of the ragamuffin hordes.
And here was where Millie now lived, a short, peaceful, cul-de-sac, miraculously untouched by bomb damage, as if invading aircraft might have been intimidated by its patrician elegance, the only evidence of war being the years of neglect to peeling paint and greying stucco. But the house Harriet sought at least had shining windows, scrubbed steps and a brightly polished bell push with several cards next to it. So, flats now. Millie, unlike Vita, didn’t live in solitary splendour in this house. She pressed the bell next to the name Kaplan, Flat 1, and presently the door was opened, not by Millie herself, but by an elderly woman whose face was vaguely familiar. The hallway had a pre-war look and smell. Furniture polish, fresh flowers, old fashioned furniture. The woman nodded to Harriet, saying shortly, “Mrs Kaplan’s expecting you.” She stood back and indicated an inner door on the right, adding, “She’s in the drawing room,” at the same moment that Harriet placed her. It was Clara Hallam, her mother’s maid. Older by nearly forty years, but not looking much different, hair now iron grey, upright and rigid as a broomstick, still flat as a washboard. Mouth drawn into a familiar purse of disapproval. I am not welcome, thought Harriet. The same aura of self-righteousness hung around the woman as it always had.
They looked at one another, unsmiling. “How are you?” said Harriet at last, recovering from the shock. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” The last person, actually.
“Didn’t she tell you when you rang? I’ve been Mrs Kaplan’s housekeeper for thirty-seven years.”
Since she had ceased to be … since that awful day … since – then. A disconcerting beginning to a meeting Harriet was already half wishing she hadn’t instigated.
She collected herself and stepped forward. The door was held open for her to pass through and closed after her, without a word of announcement. But then Millie, if this small person sitting by the fire was Millie, must have heard the exchange in the hall.
“I somehow expected you might come, even b
efore you rang – one of you, at least, and I thought it would be you, Harriet. Excuse me for not getting up.” A small claw-like hand indicated a stick leaning against her chair and was then held out, weighed down with rather grey diamonds. For some reason Harriet remembered that hand better than she remembered the face that went with it. For the woman in the chair seemed no more than middle-aged. And Millie had to be well over eighty.
“Sit over there where I can see you. That’s right. Oh yes, I always knew you’d become handsome, Harriet. Good bones, one can always tell. You’re wearing well — why have you never married? No, I won’t ask. That seems to matter nothing these days.” It was Millie, irreverent as ever.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mrs Kaplan.”
The gamine look that must have been so appealing when she was very young now gave her the appearance of a wise little monkey. And yet to Harriet, still disorientated after having the door opened to her by Clara Hallam, it seemed that Millie looked more attractive than she had in her middle years. Then she smiled, and when she did, the marks of a face-lift showed, one that had possibly taken place some time ago and at closer range could be seen to be in need of repair; there were all the tell-tale signs, the stretched skin at her temples, the lifted wattles and the tiny tucks beside her mouth. She had, however, wisely forsaken the heavy, rather desperate make-up of that time and was painted expertly and with care. Her silvery hair was drawn simply back. She was dressed severely in a black Chanel suit, and though she seemed to have shrunk, her upright posture and her perfectly groomed appearance gave her stature. Millie Kaplan, despite her rather racy past, had also worn well.
Harriet had been waved to a chair on the opposite side of the hearth, where a coal fire burned brightly. The room might have been lifted from her childhood memories of houses exactly like this. A cut-glass bowl of roses, rather too much beeswaxed furniture, tea set out on a lace edged cloth, a silver teapot. There was bread and butter (not marge), scones, real strawberry jam with no need of marrow to eke out the fruit, and a Fuller’s walnut cake. Harriet was reminded that Millie Kaplan was very rich.
“Will you pour?”
Harriet dispensed the tea, passed the scones. Having enquired about Vita and Daisy (of course, Daisy was born to espouse causes — hadn’t she been a suffragette once? And Vita - clever girl! – had always known which side her bread was buttered. Quite a catch, Wycombe – despite his age, but what did that signify?) Millie came straight to the point. “First let me say again how sorry I am about your mother – what a dreadful thing! Oh, my dear, when I read in the papers that she’d been found! My dearest friend, Bea! I thought my heart might not stand the shock. It isn’t often, at my age, that I find I have cause to be ashamed, but I have to confess I was. That my first thought was of myself and my bad heart.” Millie heaped jam on to a scone. “Do have some more of this. There’s plenty more where it came from. I don’t believe in rationing. All very well during the war, but what are they thinking of now? Mr Churchill would never have allowed it to go on. Too many of those dreadful Labourites around – you take my advice and keep your eye on them!” She passed the cut glass jam dish across. “All these years, I’ve been condemning her – and now!”
The jam was stiff with fruit, rich and red on the silver spoon. Harriet deposited some carefully on her plate and then looked up, to find Millie’s bright, intelligent eyes on her face. “My mother? Condemning her? So you too believed that she’d run away with Iskander?”
“Frankly, yes. What else was there to believe? Despite evidence to the contrary. I’m sorry, perhaps you don’t think it’s proper for me to say that of your mama.”
“The time for being proper has long past. But … what do you mean by evidence to the contrary?”
“Ah, well, now–” Millie looked a little put out, as if she’d said more than she meant.
“I have read what she wrote in what she called her Egyptian journal,” Harriet prompted, unwisely, because it allowed Millie to avoid an answer to her question.
“So that’s what you’ve come to see me about. You want to know about that trip up the Nile.”
“Yes. I believe what happened there must have had some bearing on her murder. If you’re sure it won’t tire you–”
“Tire me? Harriet, I used to be the greatest gossip in London and it isn’t often I get the chance nowadays! And I’ve always thought that was where it all started – your mother and father were never the same afterwards.” Millie’s hand went to her gold chains. The loose rings on her fingers slipped about and winked in the firelight. “He filled her head with silly nonsense.”
“My father did?”
“Amory?” Millie laughed, not quite kindly. “Can you imagine him having the imagination to fill anyone’s head with nonsense? Nor the sense of humour, if you’ll forgive me. No, I mean the Egyptian, of course. He was besotted with her.”
Harriet sipped her tea. “He must have been very young at the time.”
“Well, that’s hardly anything new, is it? A young man’s infatuation for a beautiful, older woman? Especially when she encourages it. Oh, don’t look like that! It was quite the thing, you know, in our day, not frowned upon at all – or not much, in certain circles. Rather romantic – courtly love, and all that, a knight and his lady. And Bea – well, she was never averse to being – admired – by anyone.” She cocked a bright eye at Harriet. There was a sense of more being meant than was actually being said.
Harriet was silent. Needing time to absorb and accept this not very acceptable view of her mother, although it merely endorsed what Kit had written, she dived into her bag and brought out some of the photographs taken at the birthday celebrations that she had thought might be needed to jog an old woman’s memory. She needn’t have been afraid of that, but she handed them over just the same.
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Millie, immediately diverted by the one of herself. “What a mistake it is to look at oneself forty years ago – how very ageing that outfit was!” She threw a complacent look at Harriet, as if expecting a comment that she now looked younger than ever. And perhaps compliments are due, Harriet thought, if only on the way she was managing to live. Here she was, having survived those terrible wartime years, as surely only someone like Millie could, living on black market food and what must have been hoarded perfume and cosmetics and the clothes her clever, expensive dressmaker had designed for her in better days. Looked after by that dragon. Hallam. But let’s not approach the subject of Hallam just yet.
Harriet declined another scone, and obediently poured more tea for both of them.
“That journey up the Nile was a mistake, you know,” went on Millie. “Nothing to do, day after day, but watch the scenery - which I must say all looked the same, after a while — unless you took trips to visit those boring ruins. I think Glendinning had it right – use the trip to get in some fishing and shooting. He had a wonderful time at the Turf Club, too. Boring, did I say? Well, not always. Intimidating, sometimes. Some of those places frightened the life out of Bea, and no mistake.”
“Like the temple at Luxor?”
“Yes,” said Millie shortly, casting her a quick sidelong look. She glanced again at the photos she’d placed on her lap and picked out the one showing Iskander. “He didn’t look like that in Egypt. Mostly wore one of those nightshirt things, like a native, though I must admit he was a cut above that. But it wasn’t calculated to make one regard him as an equal, though Bea never seemed to see it that way.”
Harriet was becoming accustomed to Millie’s jumpy, inconsequential conversation and determined not to be thrown off the subject. “When you say she was frightened, you must have been meaning the experience in the temple at Luxor?”
Millie said, after a pause. “Must I? Perhaps. Well, I don’t know if I can explain that. You haven’t, by any chance, been to Egypt?”
“Regretfully, no.”
Millie fell silent again, crumbling a morsel of scone on her plate. “Those old tombs – I’m not a very
imaginative person, Harriet, but I have to say there was definitely something creepy about them. It doesn’t take much to credit those tales about the curse on the opening of Tutankhamun’s tomb – though of course that wasn’t discovered then. But those dim torch lights, the silence and the stifling heat … there were bats.” She shuddered, remembering. “So many dead people – no matter they’d been dead thousands of years. There was something unnatural, uncanny about those sarcophagi – and those mummies–” She stopped abruptly. “Forgive me. I’m an insensitive old woman.”
Perhaps mummy had not been a well-chosen word in the circumstances, but Millie was not as insensitive as all that, thought Harriet, and a good deal sharper than anyone had ever given her credit for. She began to wonder if her mother had not perhaps been quite fair to her friend in that journal of hers. “What about the Luxor temple?”
Millie’s expression showed she wasn’t eager to reopen the subject, but since that was why Harriet was here, she wasn’t going to let it go willingly. And after a while, Millie sighed. “Something happened to her there – some weird experience that I, for one, didn’t feel, though I was there. She said afterwards she felt some sort of horror that she couldn’t explain, someone close behind her who actually touched her intimately. At which point, she turned and ran – bumping her head on the door lintel and passing out for a few minutes. We got her back to the hotel and into bed. She was perfectly all right afterwards.”
“She described all that in her journal. Do you think she could have imagined it?”
“Wishful thinking, more like. Oh dear, I’m sorry – whatever it was, it simply terrified her. But it didn’t excuse–”
The Shape of Sand Page 27
