The Visitors

by Sally Beauman

  When Miss Mack and I travelled on to Luxor, we were to stay at the Winter Palace Hotel on the banks of the Nile, looking west across the river towards the Theban hills – that much had now been decided. Once there, our time was limited, for the date of our return to England was fixed. Even so, we would go everywhere and see everything. Only one aspect of the master plan remained undecided: how should we travel upriver? The Winlocks, Mrs d’Erlanger and Lady Evelyn, together with her father, who was due to arrive from England very soon, would all be travelling by the overnight Wagons Lits train, which would cover the journey in some twelve hours. Howard Carter would also be journeying to Luxor by train, going ahead of the Carnarvons to get the dig under way.

  This uniformity of choice alarmed Miss Mack: the alternative to the White Train was to travel upriver by boat, always her preference. But should we journey in a swift, economic way via a Thomas Cook steamboat, or by the more expensive, picturesque means of a houseboat or dahabiyeh? After days of indecision, Miss Mack finally made up her mind: both the train (dull and commonplace) and the dahabiyeh (slow and extravagant) were ruled out: QED, the Cook’s steamboat it had to be. I reported this plan to Frances immediately.

  ‘A hard decision,’ Miss Mack cried, over dinner at Shepheard’s, on the first occasion this decision was publicly discussed. ‘I was tempted, Lady Evelyn – I first sailed up the Nile with my father on a dahabiyeh called Kleopatra. I shall never forget it! We flew the Stars and Stripes, and we had a piano, and our own library… Ah, the dawns I saw! The pelicans diving for fish! In fact, it was such a wonderful experience, I mean to write it up as a memoir one of these days. But times change, and I must be realistic. The young man at Cook’s was most helpful. So I’ve made up my mind. A dahabiyeh could take weeks. The steamboat will get us there in four days. The fares are so reasonable.’

  ‘And the company so intolerable,’ said Herbert Winlock, stealthily refilling her champagne glass. He glanced across at his wife, and at Evelyn, who had joined us for dinner that evening; both were suppressing smiles. ‘Miss Mackenzie, I can’t allow it. Do you really want Lucy to experience the Nile for the first time from the deck of a steamboat, with all that noise and nasty cramped little cabins, and a crowd of ignorant tourists hell-bent on buying hideous souvenirs, complaining about the heat and the food and the flies? An old Egypt hand such as you are? Surely not?’

  Miss Mack’s egalitarian views fought a battle with pride in her status: she hesitated. ‘Well, I guess you have a point, Mr Winlock, but––’

  ‘Herbert, please. And as Helen addresses you as “Myrtle”, may I not do so too?’

  Miss Mack blushed scarlet as she acquiesced. Herbert Winlock could be charming, and I think he genuinely liked Miss Mack, as well as being amused by her. For her part, she had been predisposed in his favour by the immediate devotion she’d felt for his wife, and archaeologists could do no wrong in her eyes. Winlock was head of the Metropolitan’s Egyptian excavation team; Rudyard Kipling, her supreme hero and favourite poet, had visited one of his digs years before – a meeting that in her view sealed Winlock’s own heroic status. Within two days of making his acquaintance, she’d pronounced him courtly, witty, highly intelligent and an erudite tease with a dramatic taste in bow ties. By now there were distinct signs that he was the latest paragon – for example, a tendency to quote him ten times a day.

  With his customary skill her paragon now sensed his moment and pressed home his advantage. ‘Besides,’ he added wickedly, ‘what was that phrase – “No expense spared”? I think the Emerson and Stockton coffers could stand it, don’t you, Myrtle? Would the cost of a dahabiyeh bring the railroads to a halt and close down the steel mills?’

  ‘Well, that is true, of course,’ she replied, visibly wavering. ‘I want Lucy to experience the Nile the best possible way. But those dahabiyehs are so darn slow––’

  ‘They are,’ Frances put in. ‘If the wind drops, or you get stuck on a sandbank, you can sit there for ever – that happened to you once, didn’t it, Eve?’

  ‘Well, perhaps not for ever, Frances,’ Evelyn said, ‘but you can get becalmed for days and even the most beautiful river can get boring. Anyway, I’m my father’s daughter – I like speed, just as Pups does. So I adore the train – I love whizzing through the dark – and then waking up with the desert on one side and all the hubbub of Luxor on the other.’

  ‘And there’s a dining car on the train,’ Helen put in, ‘and mighty civilised it is. French food, lovely wine, the desert flashing past––’

  ‘And efficient plumbing, Helen.’ Evelyn laughed. ‘Which definitely cannot be said of dahabiyehs or the steamboats.’

  ‘That is true,’ Miss Mack conceded, beginning to look anxious. ‘The plumbing in all boats leaves much to be desired.’

  ‘Daddy always says the steamboats can be very unhealthy, don’t you, Daddy?’ Frances said, on a note of innocent appeal – and it was then I began to understand that there was an agenda here, that Frances had initiated it, and that the Winlocks, aided and abetted by Evelyn, intended to push it through.

  ‘Unhealthy? Heavens above – I hadn’t considered that, which is very remiss of me. I have to be mindful of Lucy’s welfare, she… Do you really think that, Herbert?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t wish to alarm you,’ Winlock replied, straight-faced. ‘But there can be a rat problem – Nile rats are gigantic, you know. And those boats vary greatly in their standards of hygiene… ’

  He left the sentence hanging, leaving it to his wife to execute the coup de grâce.

  ‘You must decide, Myrtle,’ Helen said. ‘But of course, if you and Lucy were to take the train, we could travel up together. Why, Frances and Lucy could even share a sleeper.’

  Poor Miss Mack! She was now in a state of consternation. I could see which way she was leaning; the mention of giant rats had made the train journey a near-certainty. I had no doubt that it was Frances who had engineered this outcome, and I was touched by her wily determination. But I was beginning to feel tender towards Miss Mack and knew the best solution would be to let her down gently. I suggested we go and inspect the steamboats minutely, and then decide.

  ‘Oh, Lucy!’ Miss Mack burst out, when we’d returned to our rooms. ‘I was in such a fret – but I feel much better now. How sensible you are! We’ll inspect those darn boats first thing tomorrow. I shall pay close attention to the plumbing systems. Then I’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ I replied cautiously: that ganging-up had made me anxious. I was experiencing a seeping sense of disloyalty.

  ‘What a dear, good child you are, Lucy,’ she said, and, for the first time since I’d known her, she dropped a kiss on my forehead and gathered me in her arms. I returned the hug awkwardly. No one had embraced me since my mother died. I was unsure how to respond. Out of practice, I suppose.

  8

  ‘The train?’ Frances asked, on my return from the steamboat inspection the next morning.

  ‘The train,’ I replied.

  ‘That is what you wanted?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded any of the alternatives.’

  ‘Liar! You were angling for the train as much as I was, Lucy Payne.’

  ‘No I wasn’t. I stayed neutral.’

  ‘Not true! And don’t look so goody-goody. You don’t fool me.’

  I wondered who was right about my character, Frances or I. Linking her arm in mine, she marched me up the great staircase at Shepheard’s: it was time for my daily dancing practice. Thanks to Frances, I’d now learned the five basic ballet positions. I hadn’t mastered them, and couldn’t claim to perform them well, but I had learned the rudiments. We were now ready for the final push: the day of Madame Masha’s test was fast approaching.

  We’d been unable to use Madame’s studio at Shepheard’s to practise – that was out of bounds, but we’d needed a barre, so had improvised. We’d ended up in the huge mausoleum of a bathroom next to my bedroom; there, the daylight was dimmed and filtered
through windows of pearly glass, which gave our exercises a ghostly air. But there was a long towel rail of about the right height, and a door we could lock, so there was no danger of any outsider glimpsing my ugly, patchy hair or witnessing my clumsiness and ineptitude. At first, I had practised with Frances alone. Then, on the third day, we’d been joined by Lady Rose, the little girl whom I’d seen at Madame’s class – she claimed she needed extra practice too. That morning, I discovered, we were to be joined by Rose again, and also by her infant brother Peter, otherwise known as Viscount Hurst, aged three. This did not please me – and neither did the fact that Frances had kept this development a secret.

  ‘Why do we have to have them?’ I complained, drawing Frances aside and into my bedroom, leaving Rose and Peter at play in the bathroom beyond. ‘It’s bad enough having that stupid, stuck-up Rose. Now we’re landed with a three-year-old cry-baby with a ridiculous title as well.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Peter can’t help the title. He’s not a cry-baby, he’s cute. And Rose isn’t stupid or stuck-up – when you know her better, you’ll like her. Besides, it’s not their fault, it’s their mother’s: she insisted on bringing them out to Egypt, and now they’re in Cairo she’s always dumping them on someone – usually Eve.’

  ‘Rubbish. They must have a nanny or something.’

  ‘They did. But she was a snoop, so she got fired two days in. Meanwhile, their mother’s always gadding about somewhere. Eve says she’s got a new man – I overheard her.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A new man – you know. One of those flirty-flirty sort of things.’ Frances batted her eyelashes hideously. We stared at each other and then giggled.

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ I said, when we’d finally stopped laughing. ‘How can their mother flirt? She’s a mother. She’s married. What about her husband?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Frances, giving me a measuring glance. ‘Well, that’s kind of tricky. You see, she divorced her first husband, and now she’s finished with her second husband too – people say he got his marching orders before she sailed for Cairo with Eve. So I guess she’s on the hunt for a third husband, and that takes time. Which is why we have to look after Peter and Rose, and why you have to be nice to them.’

  I considered this. I was wavering.

  ‘Also,’ Frances continued, ‘Rose and Peter’s father, who was the first husband of course, is a man called Lord Strathaven. He’s an earl too, like Eve’s father, and he’s horrible. Peter and Rose hate him. But Peter lives with him because he’s the heir, so he can only escape for holidays, and Rose lives with her mother because her father can’t be bothered with a stupid girl.’

  ‘Oh, poor Rose – does she hate her mother too?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Frances replied airily. ‘She adores her – everyone does. She’s really sweet-natured and good fun. It’s just that she isn’t like most mothers and she isn’t around much. But you must know that – you’ve met her.’

  ‘Met Rose and Peter’s mother?’ I met many people at Shepheard’s in the course of the day, and was finding it hard to navigate their bewilderment of names and titles. ‘I haven’t met anyone called Lady Strathaven.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I told you: she’s divorced. She used to be Lady Strathaven. Three years ago she was still Lady Strathaven. But she couldn’t bear living with the horrible earl a second longer, so she bolted. She escaped two months after Peter was born. Now she’s Poppy d’Erlanger.’

  ‘Mrs d’Erlanger is their mother? But I’ve never seen her with Peter or Rose.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t – I told you, Poppy is too busy finding husband number three, so she leaves them with Eve, or her maid Wheeler, or whoever else she can persuade to look after them. Anyway,’ she made an impatient gesture, ‘if her plans work out, she won’t be Poppy d’Erlanger much longer, she’ll be Poppy-someone-else. And just think, she and Rose and Peter are all coming to Luxor too, so we’ll have ringside seats when Poppy finally decides who to marry next. My money’s on that Carew man we saw playing polo at the Gezira… Now, can we get on with this dancing class?’

  It was shaming how little I knew, I thought, as we returned to the echoing bathroom. This world of multiple divorces was as foreign to me as the world of the pharaohs. Frances was light years ahead of me. None of this appeared to shock or confuse her; she simply took it in her stride with a sophistication she’d acquired in Cairo. In the fustian Cambridge circles in which I’d grown up, divorce equalled disgrace. Yet here was Rose with a mother who’d already dispatched one husband, possibly two; a divorcée who was welcomed on all sides at Shepheard’s… I was never sure whether to believe all the things Frances told me: I had much to learn, I realised.

  Before we began our ballet practice we played a game; Rose and Peter had already begun it before we rejoined them. The huge, marble-floored and -walled bathroom contained the largest bath I’d ever seen, mounted on a marble plinth with four couchant lions as feet. By the time Frances and I returned, both Rose and her little brother were lying down in this sarcophagus.

  ‘We’re playing mummies,’ Rose announced. She crossed both her brother’s arms on his chest, and then settled herself beside him, her right arm next to her body and her left arm across her heart. ‘Look, Peter’s a king and I’m a queen,’ she added.

  So, she too must have visited the Egyptian Museum, and learned these funereal differences, I thought: she was observant, I had to give her that.

  ‘Oh, excellent,’ Frances said. ‘Shall I perform the Opening of the Mouth ceremony?’

  ‘Does it hurt?’ Peter asked, on a piping note of apprehension.

  ‘Of course it doesn’t, silly,’ his sister replied. ‘How can it hurt? You’re dead.’

  Frances found my toothbrush and advanced on the bath. In a priestly way, reciting some incomprehensible and eerie hocus-pocus that she claimed was a spell from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, she made an ugly levering gesture with the toothbrush handle, first at Rose’s mouth, then Peter’s.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘This is the most solemn moment in your entire funeral. Now you’re alive again and your ka is freed. He guides you on the sacred journey, down to the underworld. When you get there you will be presented to Osiris, the god of the dead, and you will get judged. Peter, Rose, are you ready for that?’

  Rose and Peter, still lying in their bath sarcophagus with their eyes shut, had a brief conference. Peter, not surprisingly given his age, had no opinion on the matter. Rose did: ‘Yea, we are ready and prepared… ’ she intoned in a sepulchral voice.

  ‘Right,’ Frances continued, ‘this is the moment of truth. In fact, Ma’at, who’s the goddess of truth, is watching, and so is Anubis, the great black jackal god, so there’s no faking. Now your heart will be solemnly weighed, on a huge set of scales, like the scales of justice, but much bigger. On one side there’s your heart and on the other side there’s a feather––’

  ‘A feather?’ Rose sat up. ‘They weigh my heart against a feather?’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ said Frances firmly. ‘And if they don’t balance out, boy, you’re in trouble.’

  Peter opened his eyes. The word ‘trouble’ affected him at once; his lips wobbled, and he made a grab for his sister’s hand. ‘What kind of trouble?’ Rose asked recklessly.

  ‘Big trouble,’ Frances replied. ‘If the scale that side goes down it means your heart is heavy with evil. It means you have a bad heart because you’ve done bad things in your life. So this huge horrible hairy monster comes along and gobbles you up. And that’s it: no afterlife for you.’

  ‘That can’t be right,’ Rose said, in a Sunday-school voice. ‘What about forgiveness? What if you repent?’

  ‘You can’t repent. Egyptian gods don’t forgive. It doesn’t work like that. You are what you’ve done. And if you’re bad, bad, bad… that’s it, you’re finished.’

  At the repeated word ‘bad’, Peter made a small whimpering sound, covered his eyes with his hands and clung to
his sister. Rose lay down again and hugged him.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Frances added, kindly, quickly and diplomatically, ‘if you have a good heart, like you, Peter, and you, Rose, then everything is hunky-dory. Your heart and the feather balance perfectly – and off you go to paradise, which is just like this life, only much better and even more beautiful, and you – you live by the Nile and the sun shines and… and there are no more tears, only joy and rejoicings, and you have nice things to eat and lots of servants to do things for you. For ever and ever… That’s if you’re a king, of course.’

  She paused, then continued in a helpful, pedantic way: ‘Meanwhile, it’s pretty neat being a mummy, because of course you don’t rot, not if the priests have done their job properly, anyway… They’ve left your heart in, because you’ll need it for the weighing ceremony, but they’ve taken out your liver and lungs and all the gut-stuff and pickled them. And they’ve pulled your brains out through your nose with a special hook––’

  At the mention of brains, noses and hooks, Peter could stand it no longer. He uttered one long agonised wail, then sat up. Large tears plopped silently down his flushed face.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Rose said, also sitting up and putting her arms around him. ‘Honestly, Frances, you are the absolute end. He’s only three… now he’ll have nightmares.’

  ‘He has nightmares already, you told me so.’

  ‘That’s because of Papa and his tempers. You don’t have to make it worse. Why do you have to be so gruesome? Now you’ve really upset him… Oh, hellishness! There, there, Petey – don’t cry, it’s all right. Frances didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Yes I did. It’s the truth. You asked––’

  ‘Oh, put a sock in it.’