The Visitors

by Sally Beauman

  Evelyn, who, like Rose, seemed used to this spectacle, was sitting on a chair near by, waiting for the weather to calm and the tide to ebb: her attitude was patient and resigned, as was that of Poppy’s maid, the statuesque Wheeler, who was standing to attention next to the wardrobe. This was a huge catafalque, very like the fearsome one in my own room; ten minutes before, the contents of that wardrobe, and of several chests of drawers, had been in impeccable order: now, chaos had come, but Wheeler’s broad features remained impassive; she surveyed the detritus lapping around her ankles with studied detachment.

  Audience and advisors, our sacred mission to help Poppy decide what to wear at the dinner the newly arrived Lord Carnarvon was giving at Shepheard’s that night, we three girls were in a trance of dresses. I dearly wanted Poppy to choose a dress of black velvet; Rose preferred the emerald-green silk; and Frances favoured the slick of shocking pink satin that had been made for Poppy, I’d just learned, by an artist called Elsa Schiaparelli, a friend of hers in Paris.

  How intoxicating that room smelled – never had I seen so many flowers in one space. Great bouquets of roses and deep-throated lilies and orchids spilled from vases on every available table. Poppy herself, as vivid as any of these flowers, stood in the sea of clothes, snatching up one dress, discarding it carelessly, then pouncing upon another with little cries. She had changed into a silk kimono embroidered with scarlet dragons, and tiny slippers with silver heels, decorated on their toes with thistledown pompoms. Her black shingled hair shone in the lamplight: falling forward in rippling waves across her face, yet cut as short as a man’s at the back, it was shockingly modern, exposing her white neck and giving her a misleading air of porcelain fragility. Her dark blue eyes, restless in their gaze, were tragic in their expression. She was tall and astonishingly thin, she was all angles and surprises: she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. The beautiful one is come, I thought. I wondered how I could have considered Eve’s looks remarkable: next to her friend, her quiet grace and prettiness were eclipsed; she was a crescent moon in comparison to Poppy’s meridian sun.

  ‘Oh, do get a move on, Poppy,’ Eve said now, in a good-humoured way, but stifling a yawn. ‘This is taking such an age, darling. You know you look divine in all of them. Just remember, Pups thinks you’re frightfully fast, which amuses him no end. So don’t disappoint him, and choose accordingly.’

  This remark seemed to increase Poppy’s uncertainty; she moaned and began pouncing, pulling, tossing and ferreting around again. Frances and I exchanged a look: we had witnessed the arrival of Lord Carnarvon the previous day, so we could understand why Mrs d’Erlanger might consider him a stern judge of appearances.

  We had stationed ourselves in the lobby of the Continental Hotel where, like Howard Carter and the Winlocks, the earl was staying; we took up our position early, determined to get a good view. Even by the standards of the Continental, which were as high as Shepheard’s in this respect, it had been a magnificent arrival. The manager and a line of under-managers were there to greet him: Lord Carnarvon made his entrance wearing that wide-awake hat, as made famous in an earlier era by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Thin, elegant and superbly nonchalant, he wore a long dark woollen overcoat with a rich fur collar; he leaned on a cane with a handle carved from some improbable pink stone – made to his design by Cartier, we learned, when we quizzed Eve afterwards. True, he had a slight limp, but he moved at a rapid pace, taking immediate possession of the hotel as if it were his home and its staff his servants; in his train came his valet and his doctor – he usually travelled with his own physician. Four lordly trunks and thirty-seven pieces of leather luggage, each stamped with his coronet and monogram, brought up their wake: we counted.

  ‘Fast, fast… ’ Poppy d’Erlanger sighed. ‘I wish you hadn’t said that, Eve – you’ve just made it worse. Wheeler, which of these dresses would you say was the fastest?’

  ‘I really could not venture an opinion on that, madam,’ replied the impassive Wheeler, speaking for the first time since this onslaught began. ‘But I’d say they were all fairly speedy.’

  ‘The blue? The imperial yellow? I adore that. Have I worn that yet, Wheeler?’

  ‘Not in Cairo, madam. You thought of wearing it to the Residency, but settled on the blue chiffon with the sapphires. The last occasion on which you wore the yellow, the only occasion, was at Lord Carnarvon’s birthday dinner at Highclere Castle.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s no good then. Your father will have seen it, Eve. So that’s out, and the blue… ’

  Poppy turned her tragic eyes to the dresses again – and I saw that the need for a decision really did pain her: this was no affectation, but an anxiety close to fear. She knew that she was judged by her looks. Had it never occurred to her, I wondered, exquisite as she was, that she might be judged on any other score, her sweetness of temper, for example, or her innate kindness and generosity? Presumably not – yet these qualities of hers were very evident. They became obvious after ten minutes in her company.

  ‘Oh, please wear the emerald green, Mamma,’ Rose said. ‘You look so splendid in that. It’s my favourite – and Petey loves it too.’

  Peter woke up briefly, said, ‘Geen, please, Mamma,’ and went to sleep again.

  ‘No,’ said Frances, standing up, and fishing from the rainbow pile that slick of architectural pink satin. ‘You should wear this. It’s the fastest thing I ever saw in my life. And you must wear lipstick.’ She looked covetously at the line of lipsticks drawn up for battle on Poppy’s dressing table. ‘A scarlet one, I think – one that clashes.’

  ‘Heavens!’ Poppy cried, snatching at the dress. ‘Are you sure? What a little genius you are, Frances. Yes, yes, I see it now. Wheeler – be an angel and get it ironed, will you? It seems to have got crumpled somehow. Oh, and my bath needs to be drawn and I shall need my fur – no, not that one, the dark one… ’

  ‘Poppy, are you mad?’ Eve stood up and stretched. ‘Fur? It’s insufferably hot – and it will be worse in the dining room.’

  ‘I know, I know, but I might need it later. I might be trotting on somewhere.’

  ‘Oh, Poppy – what are you up to? Trot on where? I do wish you wouldn’t.’

  ‘So do I. But even so, I might. Of course, I’m resolved not to, but I’m so bad when it comes to temptation. I solemnly intend to resist to the last – and then I just sort of cave in. Why does that happen? It’s a complete mystery.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’re not planning something stupid, darling,’ Eve said. She gave Poppy a searching look, then turned and motioned to us that it was time to leave.

  ‘I’m not planning anything, Eve. Truly I’m not. I never do plan.’ Poppy shook her head sadly. ‘I think that’s the problem. I just sort of ricochet around from moment to moment. But what can you do? I am what I am… Now, children, best beloveds, before you go – you’ve all been such bricks, and I’m so grateful… you must take something lovely with you. Is there anything here?’ She looked around in bewilderment at the sea of clothes, from which we were carefully extricating ourselves. ‘Hellishness! What a muddle – how did that happen? No, nothing here, they’re all very unsuitable… I know! Something from my dressing table – anything – some little bauble, something pretty – you choose.’

  We hung back at first, but Poppy insisted. Politely ignoring the litter of diamond rings and ivory bracelets and exotic black Sobranie cigarettes with gold tips, and the amber cigarette holders and chocolate boxes and books and letters that were scattered on the table, we each made a decision. Rose selected a pink swansdown powder puff; Peter chose a nail file that he stuck in his waistband and claimed was a dagger. I very much wanted a book, entitled The Mysterious Affair at Styles, which was hiding beneath a pot of Parisian cold cream, but a book seemed greedy, so I chose a tiny phial of scent, which smelled of sophistication. Frances chose one of the armoury of lipsticks.

  ‘You are such a colossal clot, Frances,’ Rose said loftily as we left the room. �
�Why did you choose that? Your mother will have forty fits – you can’t possibly wear it.’

  ‘Well, you can’t wear a powder puff either,’ Frances retorted. ‘And I don’t care. It’s the colour of rubies. It’s blood red, and it’s gorgeous. When I’m grown up, I’m going to wear red lipstick all the time – not just in the evening like Poppy. I shall wear it at breakfast.’

  ‘Breakfast? Bet you don’t dare.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I shall take it everywhere and get it out from time to time, and look at it.’

  And that was exactly what Frances did that very evening. Before we went downstairs for dinner, we visited Rose and Peter to say goodnight, and left them in their room, Rose with the powder puff on her nightstand, and Peter with his nail-file dagger under his pillow. They were being watched over by Wheeler, and by Eve’s maid, Marcelle. The two women, who could scarcely have looked more different, one being twice the size and twice the age of the other, seemed good friends. Wheeler heaved herself into a capacious armchair and settled down with her knitting; Marcelle stretched out on a chaise longue, crossed her elegant legs, and offered us chocolates from a box that Poppy, who never touched them, had given her.

  ‘Save me the soft-centres, mind,’ she said in a voice that was firmly London – not a hint of France, despite her name.

  We both selected more chewy specimens; Marcelle inserted a violet cream in her mouth, sighed, and opened a book; it was called The Sheik, and had a promising cover.

  ‘Did you see the film of it, Wheelie?’ Marcelle asked, waving the book. ‘Ooh, how I wept. I love a good romance, I do.’

  ‘I can’t be doing with that flim-flam,’ Wheeler replied stolidly. ‘Give me a good murder, that’s what I like. Something you can get your teeth into.’

  ‘You’ve got no imagination, Wheelie, that’s your trouble.’

  ‘Better none than too much,’ Wheeler pronounced, with finality.

  Frances and I wished them goodnight. She had smuggled the lipstick, in its gilded case, and hidden it in her pocket – she showed it to me as we went down the stairs; during dinner she continually took it out under cover of the starched white damask tablecloth. She would examine it, gloat over it and then hide it again.

  As we always went down to dinner early, it was an hour at least before the Carnarvon party of twelve arrived and was ushered to a table near us. Greetings were exchanged, and Poppy, who was seated on Carnarvon’s left, wearing her short shocking-pink dress, blew us a scarlet kiss. Madame Masha took in our presence with her tiger’s eyes, grandly inclined her head and took her seat to the immediate right of Carnarvon. Howard Carter, who was seated next to Poppy, greeted then ignored her; he immediately turned to Eve, on his left, and engaged her in a low, emphatic conversation.

  The archaeologists at our own table watched this arrival covertly, but minutely. When they could be sure of remaining unheard, a buzz of speculation passed from side to side. ‘How do you think Carnarvon is looking?’ Lythgoe said, in a low voice to the Winlocks.

  ‘Not well,’ Helen replied. ‘Even frailer than last year, poor man. I know Eve is terribly worried about him.’

  ‘There was talk of yet another operation, I gather,’ said Winlock. ‘But he decided against. Couldn’t face it – and who can blame him?’

  ‘Egypt will do him good,’ Helen said gently, turning away to Miss Mack. ‘It always does. His verve will soon return if they make some finds this winter.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’ Lythgoe’s eyes met those of Winlock across the table. ‘How long do you reckon Carnarvon will go on?’

  ‘Difficult to say. But if Lordy does decide to pack it in, the concession to dig in the Valley would be up for grabs. Not that that interesting possibility has ever crossed our minds––’

  ‘Never. Hadn’t given it a second’s thought. Scout’s honour.’ Lythgoe smiled thinly.

  ‘They’ve virtually exhausted the areas inside Carter’s triangle,’ Winlock continued in a pensive way.

  He glanced around the table, and having satisfied himself that the general buzz of conversation ensured he and Lythgoe could not be overheard by Carnarvon’s party, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. I was seated next to him, spooning up an ice. I concentrated, made myself invisible and listened.

  ‘In fact, Carter’s moving the current dig well outside his golden triangle,’ Winlock went on. ‘I find that pretty strange – it could mean he’s got some new lead.’

  ‘Maybe he’s simply biding his time,’ Lythgoe said. ‘He had that operation back in November, he’s still not back to full health. This season is a very short one for him. February to March? That’s nothing by Carter’s standards. My guess is he’s pinning his hopes on their next season. When is he coming back out here? Has he told you?’

  ‘Hasn’t said a word to me – but he told Frances: next October. That’s the schedule, but looking at Carnarvon I have my doubts. Lordy’s spent a fortune, his health is poor. Suppose they draw a blank in the next month? He might well feel it’s time to call it a day. Of course if he does jack it in, this will be Carter’s last dig in the Valley.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Lythgoe waited a beat. ‘Unless someone else hired Carter, of course. Any friendly millionaires sniffing around?’

  ‘A friendly millionaire who was prepared to work alongside Carter, indulge his hunches, suffer his moods?’ Winlock laughed. ‘That breed of millionaire is damn near extinct. You’re looking at the last of the species, right over there.’

  ‘True. Besides, the day of the amateur excavator is over. Lordy is the last of his kind in that respect too.’ Lythgoe, who never touched alcohol, took a sip of water. ‘Welcome to the brave new world of the trained professional. Welcome to the universities and the museums, to scientific excavation, performed by men bristling with doctorates.’

  ‘And the millionaires who top up their funding, who ask nothing more than a gallery be named after them – I’ll drink to that.’ Winlock raised his wineglass. ‘On the other hand… ’ He hesitated. ‘What about instinct, Albert? The nose for a tomb. The natives have that. Carter has it. In spades. And you won’t find that on the curriculum at Harvard.’

  ‘Instinct can always be hired. Carnarvon hired it, and if he were to pull out––’

  ‘Someone else could hire it. The Met, for example.’

  ‘Feelers? Soundings? I rely on you there.’

  ‘Of course. But I’ve had to tread warily. Carter’s loyal. I’ve stressed it’s hypothetical for the moment, depends on Carnarvon, what he decides, not sure if the Valley would ever be for us et cetera.’ Winlock threw up his hands. ‘Christ – I don’t know. Do we even want to consider this? Maybe the Valley is exhausted and we’d be mad to waste time and money on it. Maybe Carter’s right, and there’s a tomb right there in that damn triangle of his. Maybe, one fine morning Carter will say to his workmen, “Try digging there today,” and ten seconds later it’ll be, “Allahu Akbar, Mr Carter-sir, look what we’ve found!” I haven’t a clue any more. I believe one thing today and another tomorrow. Maybe Carter’s a genius with an ace up his sleeve. Maybe he’s a misguided dreamer – and a fool.’

  Lythgoe smiled. I think Winlock’s volatile nature amused him. There was a brief interruption then, while the waiters cleared plates, and the two men lowered their voices. Next to me, Frances had made a small scarlet lipsticked cross on her palm and was inspecting it critically. Across the room, at the curtained entrance to the restaurant, some difficulty seemed to have arisen: I could see waiters bunching and gesticulating; they had been joined by the tall and august figure of the manager. From the Carnarvon table next to us, came the drift of animated voices and laughter. Poppy had just said something to Madame Masha, who laughed. ‘Méchante,’ I heard her reply, with a flash of her tiger eyes, and in a tone of throaty amusement. Then the waiter leaned across in front of me, arranging tiny dishes of silver and crystal. Frances took a date, I took an almond. The waiter departed. The two men’s conversation had continued.

 
; ‘In which respect – I’m going over to the Antiquities Service’s bunker tomorrow. I’ll be lunching with our dear friend the Director,’ Winlock was saying. He made a sour face. ‘He who decides who will dig where. God the Father in person for two long hours – now won’t that be a treat? If he tells me yet again that it’s time to reform the rules of partage, I won’t answer for my actions: “Ah, but mon cher Monsieur Winlock, surely you can see, everything you find belongs by right to the Egyptian nation. Yes, yes, it’s your museum’s money that’s funded the dig, and your expertise that led to the discovery in the first place, but that is neither here nor there, mon ami. The days of the fifty-fifty division are over.” What humbug! The man’s in his element at the moment, playing both sides against the middle, endorsing the Protectorate when he’s drinking cocktails at the British Residency and all the while sucking up to his new Nationalist friends.’

  ‘Pierre Lacau can see which way the wind’s blowing,’ Lythgoe replied. ‘He’s always had that gift. Frankly, he’s capable of anything. But, rest assured, it’s always been a fifty-fifty split, and that’s the way it will stay, whether Egypt gets independence or not. I can bring considerable pressure to bear on Lacau and his Nationalist buddies and I’ve already set the wheels in motion. He’s not going to push us around, or the British – not if he wants any excavating done in this country. Not if he wants any more pretty toys for his Egyptian Museum.’

  ‘Stop talking shop, you two,’ Helen interrupted, turning back to the two men. ‘It’s bad form and it’s indiscreet – Howard has very sharp ears. Shall we have our coffee on the terrace? It’s so noisy in here, and it’s stiflingly hot. I’ll join you there. Myrtle and I will just get the girls up to bed. They’re exhausted – look, poor Lucy is half asleep.’

  Frances and I rose obediently. She pocketed her lipstick and I began to plan the diary entry I’d write as soon as I was alone in my room. I’d report the conversation between Mr Winlock and Mr Lythgoe. I must remember also to report on such important matters as Mrs d’Erlanger and her fast dress. Frances and I said our goodnights, and as we turned to leave, I glanced across at the Carnarvon table. I could see at once that something had happened, something significant had happened, in a few short minutes: I’d missed the event’s cause, but its after-effects were evident.