They went out to the road that was lit only by the lights of the hotel. The pyramids were no more than a greater darkness in an area of darkness. Harriet led Simon to the noted corner from which the ascent was easiest and as they climbed on to the first ledge, the local Bedu sighted them and came running and shouting, ‘Not allowed. No one go up without guide. Law says you have guide.’
Simon paused but Harriet waved him on. As they scrambled upwards the Bedu shook their fists and wailed, ‘Come back. Come back,’ and Harriet laughed and waved down at them. Standing on one ledge, she jumped her backside on to the one above then swung her legs up after her. She was very light and moved at such speed, she passed Simon and was first at the top. There she waved again to the guides who were still making half-hearted complaints before they drifted away.
The apex of the pyramid was missing, purloined to provide stone for other buildings, and now there was a plateau some twelve yards square. Harriet, seeing it as a dancing-ground, held out her arms to Simon as he reached it and they circled together for a few minutes, singing ‘Run rabbit’ until they were overcome by laughter. They went to the edge of the square and sat, looking into the darkness of the desert. The sky was fogged and there was nothing visible but the blue quilt of lights that was Cairo. Speaking as a soldier, Simon said sternly, ‘There ought to be a proper black-out.’
‘You could never enforce it. It would take the whole British army to get the Cairenes to black their windows. Besides, it would be no use. A pilot told me that the Nile is always visible. They’d just have to follow it. The lights frightened me when we first came here but nothing happened and I got used to them.’
‘You mentioned my brother. You didn’t say much about him. Didn’t you like him?’
‘Hugo? Of course I liked him. I liked him very much. We met him in Alex. He was in the Cecil bar and he looked so young and alone that we went over and spoke to him. He talked about the desert. He said he was sick of it but he had to go back next day. He asked us to have dinner with him because it was his twenty-first birthday.’
‘Really!’ Simon was entranced by this information. ‘You were with him on his twenty-first?’
‘Yes, we went to Pastroudi’s and had a great time.’
‘How splendid!’ Simon waited, expecting to hear more about this momentous dinner-party, but Harriet had said all she meant to say. The numinous sequel to that dinner was not for Simon. It had been the night of full moon. Passing through the black-out curtains at the door, they had entered the startling brilliance of the night and stood together to say good-bye. Hugo, his handsome, smiling, gentle face white in the moonlight, thanked them for giving him their company on his birthday. Guy wrote down a telephone number saying, ‘When you come back on leave, let’s meet again,’ and a voice inside Harriet’s head said, ‘But he won’t come back. He is going to die.’ She felt neither surprise nor shock at this foreknowledge, only the certainty that it was true.
Simon broke into her memory, saying, ‘I must try to find him but I’m not sure if I can. I don’t know what it’s like out there.’
‘I don’t know either. It’s strange, living here on the edge of a battlefield. It’s like living beside Pluto’s underworld.’
Simon, knowing nothing about Pluto’s underworld, moved to a more desirable subject. ‘You know Edwina’s Hugo’s girl. She’s really something, isn’t she. She’s very beautiful.’
Harriet laughed, saying only, ‘I hardly know her. She’s an archivist at the Embassy.’
‘I say, is she?’ Simon could not have said what an archivist did but the word impressed him. He wanted to hear more about Edwina but felt the need to curb his interest. ‘Actually, I’m married. My wife’s called Anne. We were only together for a week and then I had to go to Liverpool and join the draft. She came to the station to see me off and she couldn’t speak. She just stood there, crying and crying, I said, “Cheer up, the war can’t go on for ever,” but she only cried. Poor little thing!’
Simon’s voice faltered so Harriet feared that he, too, would cry. She wanted to agree that the war could not go on for ever but she had no certainty. She stood up and said, ‘The others will wonder where we are. Having come up at top speed, there’s nothing to do but go down again.’
The cars no longer stood outside Mena House. Harriet sent Simon to the hotel desk, expecting a message had been left, but there was no message. Clifford’s party had gone and she and Simon were left behind.
Abashed, Simon said, ‘But Edwina told Clifford to take me back to her. She made me promise to return.’
‘I see.’ Harriet could imagine Clifford seizing the chance to decant a rival, even such a young and temporary rival as Simon. If Edwina asked where Simon was Clifford could say, ‘He went off with a girl,’ and that would be the end of Simon.
‘It was my fault. I shouldn’t have taken you away like that.’
‘It was an experience. I’ve been hearing about the pyramids since I was a kid but I never expected to go up one.’ Simon smiled to show he did not blame her but it was a dejected smile. Harriet. thinking how few experiences might be left for him in this world, felt enraged that Clifford, so much concerned for his own safety, could abandon Simon who would soon be risking his life. She said, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find a taxi and I’ll drop you off in Garden City.’
‘But can I just barge in like that?’
‘Of course. If Edwina invited you . . .’
‘Yes, she did invite me.’
They waited outside the hotel until a taxi, coming from Cairo, was willing to take them back. Harriet was relieved to see a light in the living-room of the flat where Edwina lodged. Simon, too, looked up, delighted, never doubting that Edwina was there.
He said, ‘I say, I’m terribly grateful. We’ll meet again, won’t we?’
‘I expect we will.’
The safragi who opened the door of the flat seemed to confirm Simon’s expectations. Inviting him in, the man grinned in an intimate, insolent manner as though conniving at some act of indecency. He said, ‘Mis’ Likkle here,’ but Simon found the person in the living-room was not Edwina. It was a man in late middle age who rose and gazed on him in courteous inquiry.
‘Miss Little invited me here.’
‘Did she? I’m sorry, but she has gone out to dinner. She’s usually out at this time.’
Apologizing, Simon began to back from the room but the man said, ‘Do stay. I’m Paul Beaker, one of the inmates. If Edwina’s expecting you, I’m sure she’ll be back quite early. Why not have supper with me!’
Supper with Paul Beaker offered a bleak alternative to Edwina and Simon hesitated, considering refusal, reflecting on the possibility of her return. There was a snuffle behind him and he realized the safragi had waited to observe his reception. He said, ‘Your man thinks I’m some sort of joke.’
Beaker, looking over Simon’s shoulder, ordered the safragi away and explained to Simon, ‘This is an Embassy flat and we live here in a sort of family freedom that is incomprehensible to the Moslem mind. Hassan can no more understand the innocence of our proximity than you can understand his grins and giggles.’
Beaker, a fat man with a broad red face, raised the glass he was holding and said, ‘Have a drink. Do have one. It will give me an excuse to have another.’
Simon was handed a tumbler of whisky. Pouring in a little water, Beaker asked, ‘That all right?’
Simon, who had never before drunk anything stronger than beer, supposed it was all right as Beaker was drinking the same thing. Beaker, before he had even reseated himself, started to drink with avid satisfaction.
The room was sparsely furnished with sofa, two armchairs, a table and not much else. ‘Rather a makeshift place,’ Beaker said as Simon placed himself on the edge of an armchair, intending to leave when his drink was finished. ‘The chap who holds the lease, one Dobbie Dobson, does not want to lash out on furniture. It’s expensive and hard to get and who knows how long we’ll all be here! I, myself, am le
aving in a few weeks. I’ve been appointed to the university of Baghdad. I’m not a diplomat. I’m a professor of romance languages.’ Doing his best to keep Simon entertained, the professor ruminated about the flat. ‘Not a bad flat, really. It’s designed for a Moslem family. This would be the audience room, then there’s another room behind here, the hall’s there and you see that baize door? It leads to the gynaeceum, the women’s quarters. It’s all arranged so the women of the house could pass from one end of the flat to the other without being seen by the visitors in here.’
Simon, uncertain whether Beaker was speaking of past or present, thought of the women moving secretly in the hidden rooms, then thought of Edwina and his cheeks grew pink. ‘Do you mean Edwina is kept behind the baize door?’
Beaker laughed. ‘Oh no, no indeed. Would one dare? No, I mean that it was in accordance with Moslem custom. Edwina does have her sleeping-quarters behind the baize door but no restrictions are placed upon her. She comes and goes as she likes.’
At the mention of Edwina’s sleeping-quarters, Simon’s blush deepened. He lowered his head to hide it while Beaker refilled the glasses and asked, ‘You been out of England before?’
‘Oh, yes. I once had a week in Paris.’
‘Paris, eh?’ Beaker laughed as though the name had some peculiar connotation for him. ‘And now you’re going into the desert, is that it?’
Simon, who was listening for Edwina’s return, realized he must explain himself. He told of his journey round the Cape then asked if the professor had ever met his brother, Hugo.
‘Yes, I seem to remember a young fellow called Hugo, one of Edwina’s swains. So he’s your brother! And you’re joining him at the front. Bit worrying for your people to have two sons out there, isn’t it? Are you their only children?’
‘Yes, just the two of us,’ Simon was suffused by the memory of his home and said, ‘We live in Putney — not really Putney, more Roehampton.’ He saw the street of small Edwardian terrace houses, all alike except that the Boulderstone home had a conservatory leading from the living-room. Mr Boulderstone had built it himself and said it added to the value of the house. Warmed and activated by the whisky, he told Professor Beaker about the conservatory that was filled with his mother’s geraniums and a very old sofa. In the summer she would sit among her plants, mending clothes and knitting and listening to talks on the radio. The clouded glass, the scents, the summer warmth of the conservatory came back to him so vividly that he described them to Beaker as though they were important in the scheme of things. There was one remarkable thing in the conservatory. When the local mansion was being demolished to make way for a housing estate, Mr Boulderstone had acquired an old vine which he planted against the wall outside, bringing the main stem in to spread under the glass roof. He told his family that the vine was a Black Hamburg, like the vine at Hampton Court that produced great bunches of purple grapes, but, whatever Mr Boulderstone did, his vine had nothing but small green grapes like bunches of peas. He bought the vine buckets of blood from the abattoir. He puffed sulphur over the bunches but they never got bigger. Sometimes a sour flush of mauve would come over the grapes but they tasted as bitter as aloes.
Beaker, gazing intently at Simon’s glowing face, seemed deeply interested in all this, encouraging Simon to talk so by the third whisky he was as far back in memory as his infants’ school. When Beaker made to refill his glass Simon said, ‘Oh no, I’d better not. I’ve got to find my way back to Abbasia barracks somehow.’
‘Why not stay here,’ said Beaker. ‘We often put you chaps up. There’s a small spare room.’
Thinking of Edwina, thinking of the abominable, death-smelling room at the barracks, Simon said, ‘Oh, I say, thanks. But I’ve got to ring Transit.’ When he rang Transit, he found a message had come for him from Major Perry. He was to be at Kasr el Nil barracks at six the next morning.
He said to Beaker, ‘I’m afraid, sir, I’ve got to make an early start.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you the alarm clock. We’re used to chaps making early starts.’
Simon settled thankfully back into the armchair and let Beaker give him another drink. But that, he knew, was enough. Hassan came in to set the table and Simon now was happy to accept Beaker’s invitation to supper. Four places were laid but only Beaker and Simon sat down. Beaker asked him about the long voyage out to Egypt and Simon tried to describe the wonderful communion that had existed between him and his two friends, but already the deathless friendship, the understanding, the intense sympathy, the very smell of the ship itself, were fading from his mind like illusions that could not survive on dry land.
While he was talking, the front door opened and shut and Simon’s voice dried in his throat. Paused in expectation, he realized that Beaker, too, was listening for Edwina’s return. Then a male voice shouted, ‘Hassan’, and Beaker twitched nervously. ‘Dear me, that’s Percy Gibbon. I didn’t know he would be in. He will be cross that we started without him.’
Percy Gibbon could be heard talking in Arabic to the safragi while Beaker, awaiting him, made an effort to appear sober. When Gibbon entered, Beaker began in a confused and fussy manner, ‘So sorry, I really thought . . .I really did . . .’ Gibbon held up an imperious hand and Beaker’s apology limped to a halt.
Gibbon said, ‘There are more important things to worry about.’
‘Oh, really, are there? You’ve heard something?’
‘Nothing that I’m free to impart.’
A very subdued Hassan put down Gibbon’s soup and Gibbon bent to it, his nose just above the plate. It was a very large nose, the cheeks falling back so sharply that, from the front, Gibbon’s face looked all nose. His mouth was small and his weak, pinkish eyes seemed colourless behind brass-rimmed glasses. Having downed his soup, he blinked at Simon. ‘One of Edwina’s, I suppose?’
Simon said, ‘Not really. I only arrived yesterday. I came out on the Queen Mary with the draft.’
Gibbon frowned down in disapproval. ‘That’s something you should keep to yourself.’
Beaker, having incited information from Simon, now sided with Gibbon. ‘Dear me, yes. Quite right. People are on edge. Rumours and so on. Unwise, I agree, to tell anyone anything.’
Gibbon said nothing. A dish of sliced lamb with carrots and sweet potatoes had been put on the table and he shovelled nearly half of the lamb on to his plate. He ate briskly, repeatedly sniffing as though he had a cold in the head. He took no more notice of Simon and as soon as the meal was over, he jumped up and took himself out through the baize door.
Simon asked in a low voice, ‘What does he do?’
Beaker, too, spoke quietly as though fearing a reprimand. ‘Don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s very hush-hush. I’ve been told he breaks codes.’
‘He must be very clever.’
Beaker laughed and let his voice rise. ‘He certainly thinks he is. My theory is that he’s modelled himself on one of those Byron heroes. You know: “Vital scorn of all”, “Chilling mystery of mien”, “Haughty and reserved manner” — that sort of thing.’
Simon nodded, too sleepy to speak, and Beaker suggested that having to make such an early start, Simon might be wise to go to bed. He was put in a room behind the baize door. It was as bare as the barracks’ room but for Simon, it was another thing. It was a room in a household and what was more, it was near Edwina’s room. The whole corridor behind the baize door had been redolent of flowers.
He was roused some time after midnight by the noise in the living-room. Several people were talking and laughing, then came the plink-plink of a guitar and a voice rose high, pure and dulcet, singing in a language Simon did not know. From the long, melancholy notes, he guessed it was a sad song of love and he murmured to himself, ‘Poor little thing.’ Then the voice warmed into impetuous emotion and he knew the singer was Edwina. The song tantalized him with the memories of young women he had known in England and the women he had met that day. He saw in his mind not only Edwina, but the dark girl ca
lled Harriet and the woman with the dead boy in the Fayoum House. Even Miss Brownall entered his thoughts with a certain seductive pathos because she was a woman and tomorrow he must go where there were no women.
While he lay listening, in a state of ardent anguish, a door was flung open in the corridor and Gibbon bawled out, ‘Shut up. I do an important job, not like you bastards.’
The guitar stopped. The song devolved into giggles and Simon returned to sleep. Professor Beaker’s alarm clock wakened him to darkness and silence. He had no idea how he was to find his way through the unknown, sleeping city but down by the river a taxi was parked with the driver curled up on the back seat. He reached Kasr el Nil barracks as the first red of dawn broke across the sky, and saw the convoy strung out along the embankment.
There was no sign of movement. He had had to go first to Abbasia for his kit and was relieved to find himself in time. He wondered if he looked a fool, turning up in a taxi but, reaching the lorries, he realized no one knew or cared how he had got there.
The lorries were a mixed lot, made up from one unit or another, but on most of them the jerboa, the desert rat, could be discerned through the grime. They had arrived sand-choked from the desert and were returning sand-choked, but here and there a glint of new metal showed where a make-do-and-mend job had been done. Among the men packed on board them, he recognized faces he had seen on the Queen Mary and he felt less dejected. Finding the sergeant in charge, he said, to show he was not a complete novice, ‘I suppose a lot of your chaps were on leave when the trains stopped?’
‘That’s right . . .’ there was the usual pause before the ‘sir’ was added.
It was up to Simon to take over now. He counted the lorries and said, ‘Thirty. That’s the lot then, sergeant?’
‘That’s the koulou . . . sir.’
The sergeant strolled off with the blank remoteness of a man to whom war was an everyday affair. Simon, with no idea of what lay ahead, looked about him as though seeing everything for the last time. There was an island in mid-river, one end of it directly opposite the barracks. In the uncertain light it looked like a great schooner decked out with greenery. The light was growing. The island, touched by the pink of the sky, was taking shape, its buildings quivering as though forming themselves out of liquid pearl. Palms and tall, tenuous trees grew from the shadows at the water’s edge. Nothing moved. The island hung on the air like a mirage or an uninhabited place.
Fortunes of War Page 5