‘This . . . yes, this is the young person who knows things. She can tell us what’s going on. She’s in the American information office.’
The man to whom he spoke was the one who had backed Harriet’s opinion of the cave. He was thin and elderly and his raw, pink hands, tightly clenched, were nervously pressed into the ground at his sides. He smiled on Harriet, saying, ‘Oh, I know. I know she’s in information.’
The two of them gazed expectantly at her and she introduced them to Simon. The man with the scarf was Professor Lord Pinkrose; the other was called Major Cookson. The major was so absurdly unlike a professional soldier that Harriet laughed slightly as she spoke his name. As for information, she had no more than anyone else.
Pinkrose’s face went glum. A pear-shaped, elderly man, he was wearing an old-fashioned tussore suit that buttoned up to his chin. His nose, that rested on top of his scarf, was blunt and grey like the snout of a lizard. His eyes, too, were grey — grey as rainwater, Simon thought — and looked coldly on Harriet when he realized she had nothing to tell. He was about to turn from her when he remembered he had another question to ask. ‘Have you any news of Gracey? . . . any news? Every time I ring the office, I get a girl saying, “Mr Gracey is not available,” and that’s all she says. It’s exasperating. Over and over. “Mr Gracey is not available.” It’s like a machine.’
Gracey was the head of the organization which employed Harriet’s husband, Guy Pringle. She said, ‘It is a machine; an answering machine. There’s no one in the office. The place is locked up. I’ve tried to contact them, too. Guy’s in Alexandria in an out-of-the-way place and if the advance goes on, he could be cut off there.’ Harriet, her anxiety renewing itself, spoke with feeling. ‘It’s Gracey’s job to order him to leave but Gracey’s not here. He’s taken himself to a safe place as he always does when things look bad. I went to the office and found the porter. He told me Gracey’s gone to Palestine.’
‘Gone to Palestine! Gone to Palestine!’ Pinkrose seemed baffled by the news and then became agitated. ‘You hear that, Cookson? You hear that? Gracey’s gone to Palestine.’
‘So have a lot of other people.’
‘But he said nothing to me. Nothing. Not a word. This is disgraceful, Cookson. To go off without a word to me. Did you know he had gone?’
Cookson shook his head. ‘I never see Gracey these days. Now I’m on my uppers, most of my old friends have faded away.’
Pinkrose, caring nothing for Cookson’s lost friends, interrupted him. ‘I’d no idea the situation was so serious. No idea. No idea. No idea at all.’
Harriet watched Pinkrose with a smile, quizzical and mildly scornful, while Pinkrose’s small, stony eyes quivered with self-concern. She had known him first in Bucharest where, sent out to give a lecture, he had arrived as the Germans were infiltrating the country and had been abandoned then just as he was abandoned now. He was, she thought, like some heavy object, a suitcase or parcel, an impediment that his friends put down when they wanted to cut and run. Looking beyond him to Cookson, she mischievously asked, ‘And what are your getaway plans this time, Major Cookson?’
Cookson gave a wry, sheepish smile, not resenting the question. In Greece, where he had had money invested in property, his house had been a centre of hospitality. When the Germans came down on Athens, he had chartered two freighters, intending to take his friends to safety. Pinkrose had been among those invited. They had kept their plans secret but had been discovered and Cookson was ordered by the military to include anyone who chose to leave.
Now, having spent the money he had in Egypt, he existed on a dole from the British Embassy. He had been brought by Clifford merely as a driver of the second car. His clothes were becoming shabby, he looked underfed and Pinkrose, who had been his guest in the past, treated him as an inferior. For a time those who knew Cookson’s story had no wish to speak to him but now, seeing him so reduced in the world, Harriet looked on him with pitying amusement. He answered humbly, ‘I have no plans, and if I had any, I’ve no money to carry them out. Those freighters cost me a fortune and I didn’t get a penny of compensation from the army.’
‘Still you got away with all your possessions while we were allowed only a small suitcase. You even had your car on board.’
‘My poor old car,’ Cookson sighed and smiled. ‘The Egyptian customs’ve still got hold of it. They refuse to release it — not that it matters. I couldn’t afford to run it.’
Harriet, having decided the past was past, smiled with him, realizing that now they were almost old friends, while Pinkrose went on with his fretful mumblings, the more angry because he had been left in the lurch for a second time.
A crowd of children had gathered to watch the strangers. Mr Liversage, enlivened by his tea, went over to them and trailed his dog backwards and forwards in front of them, his manner gleeful, expectant of applause. The children stared, confounded by the laughing old man and the old, bald toy dog which was a money-box in which he collected for charity. At first they were silent then one of them opened his mouth to jeer and the others took up his contempt with derisive yells and shouts of ‘Majnoon’. Stones were thrown at man and dog and Clifford rushed in, wielding his fly-whisk like a flail, and scattered the miscreants. That done he ordered his party to rise. ‘Wakey, wakey. We’ve a long drive back.’
As they moved and dusted themselves down, a passenger from the second car, a university professor called Bowen, said, ‘Isn’t this where that chap Hooper lives? He took over a Turkish fortress and spent a mint of money on it.’
‘Hooper?’ The name brought Clifford to a stop. ‘Sir Desmond Hooper? Now he’s the one who could tell us what’s happening out there. He’s always wining and dining the army big shots.’
Bowen, a small, gentle fellow, nodded. ‘Well, yes. He might know more than most people.’
‘Then why don’t we look him up? Call in for an early sun-downer?’
‘Oh, no,’ Bowen, aghast at the idea, had the support of Cookson and Mr Liversage, when he realized what was being argued, said firmly, ‘Can’t do that, my dear fellow. Too many of us. Can’t march an army into a chap’s house, don’t you know! Simply not done.’ Pinkrose, however, eager for news and concerned for his own safety, felt differently. ‘Why not call in? Why not? These aren’t ordinary times, no need to stand on ceremony these days. It’s disgraceful the way we’re kept in ignorance. If Sir Desmond Hooper knows what’s going on, it’s his duty to tell us. Yes, yes, his duty . . . it’s his duty, I say.’ Pinkrose spoke indignantly, carrying his anger with Gracey over on to the innocent Hooper.
The others — Simon, Harriet, Miss Brownall and a girl from the second car who was also one of Clifford’s employees — took no part in the discussion but waited for Clifford’s decision. Harriet, entertained by it, was not unwilling to see the Hooper fortress in the anonymity of so much company.
Pinkrose’s agreement settled the matter for Clifford. ‘We’ll go,’ he said. Bowen begged, ‘At least ring him up first.’
‘Ring him up? Where from? We’ll get more out of him if we take him unawares.’
Clifford spoke to one of the camel drivers and was directed towards the river. The fortress was soon evident. Larger and more complex than most desert fortresses, it stood up above the trees, a white-painted, crenellated square of stone behind a crenellated white wall. The wall enclosed a row of palms from which hung massive bunches of red dates. A boab, looking out through the wrought-iron gates, seemed doubtful of the party but Clifford’s masterful manner impressed him and he let them in. They drove between extensive, sandy lawns to an iron-studded main door where three safragis lolled half-asleep. One of them, rousing himself with an air of long-suffering, came to the first car and inquired, ‘What do you want?’
‘Lady Hooper.’
‘Not here. Layey Hooper.’ The safragi made to walk away but Clifford shouted, ‘Sir Desmond, then.’ The safragi had to admit that Sir Desmond was at home.
Mr Liversage refused to l
eave the car but the others — even Bowen’s curiosity was stronger than his discretion — followed the servant into a vast hall where the parquet was as deep and dark as the waters of a well. The house was air-conditioned. Enlivened by the drop in temperature, they seemed all to realize suddenly the enormity of their intrusion into the Hooper household. Harriet had an impulse to run back to the car but the safragi had opened the door of a living-room and, feeling it was too late to retreat, she went in with the rest. The room was as large as a ballroom and made larger by its prevailing whiteness. Walls, carpets, curtains and furniture were white. The white leather and the white-painted surfaces had been toned down with some sort of ‘antiquing’ mixture which Harriet noted with interest. The only colour in the room came from half a dozen paintings so startling in quality that she took it for granted that they were reproductions. Moving to them she saw they were originals.
She said to Clifford in wonder, ‘They’re real.’
‘I don’t like that modern stuff.’
‘They were painted before you were born.’
‘I don’t like them any the better for that.’
Clifford, disconcerted by his surroundings, was in a bad temper.
Sir Desmond entered and looked at his uninvited guests with bewildered diffidence. Deciding they were friends of his wife, he said, ‘I’m afraid Angela’s not here. She’s out on a painting expedition.’ Then he noticed Bowen, ‘Ah, Bowen, I did not know you were here.’
Bowen, identified, blushed and tried to excuse himself, ‘I’m sorry. So wrong of us to interrupt your Sunday peace. It’s just . . . we . . .’ Struggling to find an excuse, he twisted about in anguish.
‘Not at all. Sit down, do. Won’t the ladies sit here!’
Harriet, Miss Brownall and the other girl were put into the seat of honour, a vast ottoman so deep they almost sank out of sight. The men found themselves chairs and Sir Desmond, placing himself among them, asked if they would take tea.
Clifford said they had had tea and his manner left the occasion open for a more stimulating offer, but Sir Desmond merely said, ‘Ah!’ He was a tall, narrow man with a regular, narrow face, dressed in a suit of silver-grey silk. His hair was the same silver as the silk and his appearance, elegant, desiccated yet authoritative, was that of an upper-class Englishman prepared to deal with any situation. He looked over the visitors who, dusty, sweaty, depleted by their travels, were all uneasy, except Clifford. Clifford’s assurance was such that Sir Desmond dropped Bowen and addressed the younger man: ‘Well, major, what brings you into the Fayoum?’
Clifford blinked at the title but did not repudiate it. ‘We’re just exploring a bit. Voyage of discovery, you might call it.’
‘Is there anything left to discover in this much-pillaged country?’ As he spoke Sir Desmond noticed that Clifford had on his shoulder not a crown but a plain gold button and his voice sharpened as he inquired, ‘What are you? Press? Radio? Something like that?’
‘Certainly not. I’m in oil. The name’s Clifford. The fact is, Sir Desmond, rumours are going round Cairo and we don’t like the look of things. And we don’t like being kept in ignorance. The station’s in an uproar with foreigners trying to get away and I heard even GHQ’s packing up. What we want to know is: what the hell’s happening in the desert?’
‘I don’t think I can answer that question, Mr Clifford.’
Rancour came into Clifford’s voice. ‘If you can’t, who can?’
The telephone rang at Sir Desmond’s elbow. He answered it, said urgently, ‘Yes, yes, hold on,’ and, excusing himself, went to take the call in another room. A scratch of voices came from the receiver on the table. Clifford tiptoed to it, bent to listen but before he could hear anything, a safragi entered to replace it on its stand.
Bowen was indignant. ‘Really, Clifford, what a thing to do! And I think we’ve stayed long enough. Let’s slip away.’
‘No, no.’ Pinkrose was impressively impatient, ‘This may be the very news we’re waiting for.’
‘It may indeed,’ said Clifford.
The light was deepening towards sunset. The safragi who had attended to the telephone, opened the windows and the long chiffon curtains blew like ghosts into the room.
Bowen complained, ‘It’s getting late . . .’ but Clifford silenced him with a lift of the hand. Before anyone else could speak, a car, driven at reckless speed, came up the drive and braked with a shriek outside the house. They heard the heavy front door crash open and from the hall came the sound of a stumbling entry that conveyed a sense of catastrophe. A woman entered the room shouting, ‘Desmond. Desmond,’ and seeing the company, stopped and shook her head.
The men got to their feet. Bowen said, ‘Lady Hooper, is anything the matter?’ She shook her head again, standing in the middle of the room, her distracted appearance made more wild by her disarranged black hair and the torn, paint-covered overall that protected her dress. Lady Hooper was younger than her husband. She was some age between thirty and forty, a delicately built woman with a delicate, regular face. She looked at each of the strangers in turn and when she came to Simon, she smiled and said, ‘I think he’ll be all right.’
Two safragis carried in the inert body of a boy. The three women hastily struggled out of the ottoman and the boy was put down. He lay prone and motionless, a thin, small boy of eight or nine with the same delicate features as his mother: only something had happened to them. One eye Was missing. There was a hole in the left cheek that extended into the torn wound which had been his mouth. Blood had poured down his chin and was caked on the collar of his open-necked shirt. The other eye, which was open, was lacklustre and blind like the eye of a dead rabbit.
Sir Desmond entered and anxiously asked, ‘My dear, what has happened?’
‘We were in the desert. I was sketching and didn’t see . . . He picked up something. It exploded — but he’ll be all right.’
Harriet could scarcely bear to look at Sir Desmond but he answered calmly enough, ‘My dear, of course. I expect he’s suffering from shock.’
‘Do you think we should rouse him? Perhaps if we gave him something to eat . . .’
‘Yes, a little nourishment, light and easy to swallow.’
‘Gruel, or an egg beaten up. What do you think?’
Sir Desmond spoke to the safragis who glanced at each other with the expression of those who have long accepted the fact that all foreigners are mad.
There was an interval in which Sir Desmond telephoned a doctor in Cairo and Lady Hooper, sitting on the sofa edge, held the boy’s hand. Sir Desmond, finishing his call, spoke reassuringly to her, ‘He’s coming out straight away. He says Richard must have an anti-tetanus injection.’
‘There was Dettol in the car. I bathed his face.’
One of the safragis returned, bringing a bowl of gruel and the visitors watched with awe and amazement as Sir Desmond, bending tenderly over the boy, attempted to feed him. The mouth was too clogged with congealed blood to permit entry so the father poured a spoonful of gruel into the hole in the cheek. The gruel poured out again. This happened three times before Sir Desmond gave up and, gathering the child into his arms, said, ‘He wants to sleep. I’ll take him to his room.’ Lady Hooper followed her husband and Clifford, knowing he was defeated, was willing to depart.
Outside, beneath the palms and the roseate sky, he gave a long whistle. ‘Now I’ve seen everything.’
‘They couldn’t face the truth,’ Bowen sighed in pity. ‘They couldn’t accept it.’
‘They’ll be forced to accept it pretty soon. And we never heard what that phone call was all about.’
Mr Liversage lay asleep in the car. Bowen elected to move him over and sat beside him while Miss Brownall joined her friend in the second car. Remembering the boy, no one spoke as they drove through the Fayoum. The trees merged, dark in the misty evening. Lights were flickering inside the box-shaped houses. It would soon be night. As the oasis was left behind, the boy’s death lost its immediacy and Har
riet thought of all the other boys who were dying in the desert before they had had a chance to live. And yet, though there was so much death at hand, she felt the boy’s death was a death apart.
Bowen murmured, ‘A tragedy. An only child.’
‘And the last shot in the old locker,’ said Clifford. ‘They’re not likely to have another.’
The sun had almost set when they approached Mena and the last, long rays enriched the sand. It glowed saffron and orange then, in a moment, the colour was gone and a violet twilight came down. The passengers were sunk together with weariness but Clifford had still not had enough. A few hundred yards before the road turned towards Mena, he drew up and said, ‘There’s an ancient village about here. Let’s take a shufti.’
‘Is it really worth the effort?’ Bowen asked.
‘Oh, come on!’ Clifford rallied the party, insisting that if there was anything to see, it must be seen. They wandered about on the stony mardam and found the village which was sunk like an intaglio in the sand. Jumping down, they walked through narrow streets between small, roofless houses. The dig must have been a students’ exercise for the dwellings were too poor to yield more than a few broken pots and it was hard to understand why anyone had chosen to live in this waterless spot. In the deepening twilight, it was so forlorn that even Clifford was glad to move on to the Mena House bar.
While Bowen and Simon were buying the drinks, Clifford moved eagerly round the officers in the bar until he found a group known to him. Putting his head among them, he said, ‘Just come from the Hooper house. Their kid’s been killed by a hand grenade he picked up. You won’t believe this, but old Hooper tried to spoonfeed the boy through a hole in his face.’ Tomorrow the story would be all over Cairo.
When their drinks were finished, Harriet said to Simon, ‘Shall we climb the great pyramid?’
‘Is it possible? Goodness, I’d love to, but can you manage it?’
‘I’ve done it twice before. The last time, I was wearing a black velvet evening dress which hasn’t been the same since.’
Fortunes of War Page 4