Flora's War

by Pamela Rushby

  ‘Yes,’ I said, rather reluctantly, but I said it. ‘Yes, I could manage a few visits.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Lady Bellamy. ‘I shall draw up a roster.’

  A few days later I found myself in the middle of Cairo, walking into the Egyptian Army Hospital at the Citadel. As it was a British hospital I’d expected only British patients, but there were Australians and New Zealanders here as well. I’d brought an armful of magazines, a basket with boxes of chocolates and biscuits, materials to write letters, and instructions from Lady Bellamy about not tiring seriously ill patients and not spending too long with any one soldier.

  A stiffly starched English matron eyed me with suspicion. ‘Just who sent you?’ she demanded.

  ‘Lady Bellamy,’ I replied.

  She unstiffened slightly. She called a nurse and asked her to take me to a ward. ‘Not the infectious ward, of course,’ she added sternly.

  The nurse rolled her eyes at me as we moved off. ‘I could have worked that out all by myself,’ she murmured.

  Her uniform was very like Lydia Herschell’s, the nurse Gwen and I had met at Shepheard’s. ‘You’re Australian,’ I said. ‘What are you doing in a British army hospital?’

  ‘Oh, some of us were sent here as soon as we arrived, to help out until the Australian hospitals are organised,’ she said.

  ‘And are you liking it?’ I asked as we walked down a corridor.

  ‘We’re not kept very busy,’ she said, reminding me of Lydia. ‘These cases aren’t usually serious. Still, I won’t take you too near the influenza or the measles patients!’

  ‘You don’t know a nurse called Lydia Herschell, do you?’ I asked.

  ‘Why, yes,’ the nurse said. ‘Lydia’s on this ward. Are you old friends?’

  ‘No, we met recently,’ I said.

  ‘Lydia’s a grand girl,’ the nurse said warmly. ‘I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.’ She put out her hand. ‘I’m Emily Lidgard.’ We shook hands.

  Lydia wasn’t on the ward at the moment. Emily introduced me to the other nurses and busied herself while I did my rounds. Two of the patients were French. I’d learned French at school, but I found it a stretch to speak to real Frenchmen and be understood. We did a lot of smiling.

  I was made most welcome by the Australian patients – purely for my accent.

  ‘Great to hear a real Aussie voice!’ one of the Australian boys said.

  ‘But you have Australian nurses, don’t you?’ I said.

  ‘Just a few, not enough of them. The rumour is they’ll be going to a big, new Australian hospital out by the pyramids.’

  That got my attention. ‘You don’t know where, exactly?’

  The soldier was vague. ‘I think a hotel is being converted into a hospital.’

  Our hotel was the only one near the pyramids. It seemed we’d be moving soon.

  The chocolates and biscuits were very popular, as were the magazines. I handed out copies of the British The War Pictorial and The War Illustrated as well as the Australian The Bulletin. The most popular magazine, however, was an Australian publication: Motor Cycling. It seemed the patients were happy to forget about the war for a while, and contemplate motor cycles instead.

  I’d been around the ward and was about to leave when Lydia came bustling through the door. ‘Flora!’ she exclaimed. ‘Well, fancy meeting my partner in crime here!’

  The patients sat up and took notice. ‘Partner in crime?’

  ‘Tell us about it, nurse!’

  Lydia glanced at me. I shrugged. I didn’t mind if she told them. Lydia gave the whole ward the story of her encouraging Gwen and me to try our first cigarettes.

  The patients were laughing when the matron appeared at the door. ‘Well, you’ve certainly cheered everyone up,’ she said to me. It sounded more like an accusation than a compliment.

  ‘I’ll be happy to come and do it again,’ I said.

  ‘Come again!’

  ‘Come soon!’

  ‘Bring your American friend!’ the soldiers called. The matron did not look as if another visit from me was something she’d look forward to.

  ‘I’ll say hello to Lady Bellamy for you, shall I?’ I suggested. That should take care of her, I thought.

  Lydia walked me out.

  ‘The men said you’d be moving to an Australian hospital by the pyramids soon,’ I probed.

  ‘I’ll be happy when it happens,’ said Lydia. ‘Working for the British isn’t my idea of a good time.’ She stopped and faced me. ‘Speaking of good times, a group of nurses and officers are going on a picnic to the pyramids soon. Would you and Gwen like to come?’

  Why not? I thought. A picnic with Australians would be fun.

  ‘I’ll have to check with Gwen, and her mother,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure Mrs Travers won’t object to us going with a group of nurses.’ I wouldn’t emphasise the Australian officers, I thought.

  We made arrangements, and I went down the steps of the hospital where Mr Hussein was waiting for me. Soon, I thought, I’ll have a motorcar of my own and won’t have to be collected every time I want to go somewhere.

  ‘Could I drive?’ I asked eagerly.

  ‘Be very careful with the traffic,’ he cautioned. ‘It is much busier in the city than out by the pyramids. Steer carefully.’

  I threaded my way through the streets, between donkeys, horse-drawn carriages, the occasional camel and motorcar. My mind, though, wasn’t entirely on my driving. Would Mr Khalid find us somewhere to stay in time?

  Chapter 6

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Khalid said. ‘I have been giving this a great deal of thought.’

  I looked at him expectantly. ‘You’ve found us another hotel?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘Finding a hotel has been impossible, sadly. The hotels are full, or they are being requisitioned by the military.’

  I hadn’t thought anything was impossible for Mr Khalid. ‘What are we going to do then? We can’t give up and go back to Australia. Fa would rather live in a tent.’ Goodness, I thought. I hoped that wasn’t the solution.

  ‘He will not have to,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘I have an alternative which I think will be acceptable. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘I think you should see first,’ Mr Khalid said. ‘Mr Wentworth told me he was too busy to come. He is happy to leave it to you.’

  Mr Hussein drove us towards the city. I wondered what Mr Khalid had found. A guesthouse on one of the islands in the river? A houseboat, even? But we drove past the river and further into the city. As we entered the bazaar area the streets began to narrow. Walls rose high above our heads, gradually shutting out the sky. Washing flapped above us. Scents of incense and spicy cooking floated into the car. Shadows slid along the walls as people passed by. Soon we were so far into the city the streets were in permanent twilight and only isolated rays of sunlight found their way to the ground.

  We drove through a street filled with beaten copperware, the ting! ting! of workers wielding small hammers rising all around us. The next housed a community of fabric dyers, and yards and yards of dripping, drying fabrics hung around and above us. We passed down a street of spice merchants, and baskets of brilliantly coloured spices filled the air with their fragrance.

  We made an awkward turn into another street, too narrow for the motorcar to pass through, and Mr Hussein pulled up.

  ‘Now we must walk,’ said Mr Khalid.

  I got out and looked up. Above me, on every house, were latticed balconies called mashrabiya. Behind them, women would be watching all that went on in the street without being observed themselves. The sun, I thought, would never reach this street.

  We walked on and I wondered where we could be going. There couldn’t possibly be a hotel or guesthouse for Europeans in this area!

  We’d only been walking for a minute when Mr Khalid stopped before an ancient, massive wooden door. ‘We are here,’ he said, and rang a bell hanging beside the door. There was a
n iron-grilled window to one side of the door, with copper cups on metal chains dangling from it.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Water for the poor,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘Just behind the window there is a well, and it is an old tradition that a basin is filled with water from it so all who have need may drink.’

  Rattling sounded behind the door and a smaller door, set in the large one, creaked open. A man in a white robe stood there. He bowed deeply to Mr Khalid and Mr Khalid nodded.

  ‘This is Bilal,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘He is the caretaker.’

  ‘How do you do, Mr Bilal,’ I greeted him. ‘Salam alekum.’

  ‘Wa alekum es salam,’ responded Mr Bilal.

  He stepped aside for me to go through. I hesitated. I wasn’t sure what I would find in this out-of-the-way, back-alley place.

  I stepped through the small door and I found a paradise: a paved courtyard, surrounded by buildings three storeys high. From the street, there was no suggestion that this haven of peace and calm existed. A tiled fountain played into a lily pool and potted palms and flowers lined the walls. A stone staircase led up the outside of one wall to a loggia with high arches and a latticed wooden balustrade. An open sitting room nestled behind, and I could see brass lamps on long chains suspended from its lofty ceiling.

  ‘There are other rooms further in,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘A bridge leads across the street to the second part of the house.’

  ‘What is this place?’ I said, awed. ‘It’s – it’s magic.’

  ‘It was once two houses,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘This section dates back to the 1600s, the other to the 1500s. They were built by two rich men, one a butcher and the other a blacksmith. Many years later the houses were owned by one person, and he built the bridge that connects them.’ He indicated a stone well at the side of the courtyard. ‘Here is the ancient well, the Well of Bats. It is said that a person will see the reflection of an absent sweetheart in the water.’

  That was enough for me. I wanted to live here.

  ‘Can we see more?’ I asked.

  ‘But of course,’ said Mr Khalid.

  The house was a maze of stairs and passageways, corners and crannies, recesses and rooms opening off rooms into other rooms. Mr Bilal led the way, guiding us up and down, backwards and forwards.

  From the arched loggia we looked down into the courtyard. Another flight of stairs up and we stood on the roof, on a terrace shaded by latticed wood with a view over a mosque and then over the rooftops of Cairo and its minarets, domes and towers.

  We descended a different flight of stairs and crossed over the enclosed bridge linking the houses, passing bedrooms, studies and even, to my surprise and enormous pleasure, a fairly modern bathroom. Then suddenly we came to an interior balcony running around four sides of a large hall on the floor below. Parts of the balcony were screened with mashrabiya like the ones I’d seen in the street on the way here.

  ‘This was the harem of the house,’ said Mr Bilal. ‘Look.’ He opened the door of a cupboard in the wall. But it wasn’t a cupboard. It was a secret balcony, overlooking the hall, a place to hide and spy on the room below.

  It was almost too much. I felt dizzy. ‘This is available to rent?’ I asked.

  ‘It is,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘If you like it.’

  ‘Like it?’ I said faintly. ‘Oh Mr Khalid, I love it!’

  Mr Khalid looked at me gravely. ‘I thought you might,’ he said.

  ‘I want to move in right away!’ I said. Mr Khalid and Mr Bilal smiled.

  ‘Furniture,’ murmured Mr Khalid.

  ‘Staff,’ said Mr Bilal. ‘You will need a cook, a housekeeper, houseboys. My wife, Mrs Maryam, can arrange this.’

  ‘Perhaps two weeks,’ Mr Khalid said. Nothing happened in a hurry in Cairo.

  I left them to arrange everything and went back upstairs to the roof terrace. The stone benches needed cushions, but I was sure that would all be organised. I sat down and looked out over the mysterious roofs of Cairo. A soft, cool breeze that would be cold later, rolled across from the river and a flock of white pigeons wheeled and flashed around the minarets of the mosque next door.

  I looked down across the alley and noticed that in the wall opposite there was a small door, with a stone lattice above it. That must be part of this house, I thought. I wondered where the door led. There hadn’t been an entry courtyard in the house across the street. The door, besides, was small and low, not a formal entry at all. What could it lead to – another small, secret room? As soon as we moved in, I promised myself, I’d explore that mysterious door and see what lay behind it.

  I wanted this house, the House of the Butcher and Blacksmith. I wanted to live here forever, and never go back to Australia. I wonder, I thought dreamily, if Fa would consider that?

  …

  A couple of days later Gwen and I met the picnic group in the afternoon at my hotel. Gwen and I were a novelty: girls who had visited Cairo many times before, lived here, knew our way about, and even spoke a little Arabic.

  ‘Flora knows everything about the pyramids and can guide us through one,’ Lydia immediately announced to the Australian nurses and young officers.

  I laughed and said, ‘I certainly don’t know everything, but I can arrange a guide to take us into a pyramid. But is anyone nervous of being in small spaces?’ I glanced around the group. ‘We’ll have to bend very well over for quite a long time along narrow passages.’

  ‘I think I’ll stay outside,’ Emily said faintly. ‘I’m not fond of cramped places.’

  ‘I’ll stay with you,’ quickly offered an officer we’d been introduced to as Lieutenant Joseph Callendar. Hmmm. I was sure he wasn’t at all nervous about small spaces. I suspected he was keen on spending one-on-one time with Emily.

  It was only a short distance and we could easily have walked, but riding donkeys was very popular with the nurses and officers. I knew we’d be covered with eau de donkey, but shrugged and went along with the group. Once at the pyramids of Giza, I gave a brief history of their construction about three-and-a-half thousand years ago over an eighty-year period for a father, son and grandson: the Pharaohs Cheops, Chephren and Mycerinus.

  I kept it brief. I knew my audience. I saw they were eager to get inside the Great Pyramid.

  ‘Right, we have to climb up there.’ I pointed out the small entrance. ‘It’s about fifty feet above the ground. When we get there, boots off.’

  ‘Why can’t we wear our boots?’ a blonde nurse asked.

  ‘The stone inside is polished,’ I explained. ‘It’s very slippery. You’ll slide and fall if you leave your boots on.’

  ‘I hope I haven’t got a hole in my socks,’ an officer said, and everyone laughed.

  ‘I’m not anxious to see inside a pyramid again,’ Gwen said. ‘I’ll stay outside as well.’ Emily and Lieutenant Callendar looked rather disappointed.

  I beckoned to a guide waiting for hire. He eagerly accepted the coins I handed him and led us scrambling up the tall, rough stones to the entrance.

  ‘Can you climb right to the top?’ one of the officers asked, leaning back to stare above us.

  ‘You’d need a guide. Some of the stones are taller than your head and it’s quite dangerous,’ I warned him. ‘It’s also a very strenuous climb, I’ve done it myself.’

  ‘You’ve climbed it?’ he said. ‘If a girl can do it, it can’t be too hard. I think I’ll give it a try.’

  Not too hard if a girl can do it? He didn’t see my glare; he was still staring up at the top of the pyramid.

  ‘Oh come on, Lewis,’ one of the officers urged him. ‘We want to go inside the pyramid.’

  ‘No, I think I’ll do the climb to the top,’ Lewis said. He grinned at me challengingly. ‘Maybe Flora would like to guide me?’

  That did it. ‘I’ll get an Egyptian guide if you really want to go,’ I said coolly. ‘And I’ll certainly come with you, if you like.’

  There was a chorus of disapproval from the nurses and office
rs.

  ‘Let it go, Lewis.’

  ‘It’s not a competition you know, old man.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Gwen murmured to me.

  ‘He’s not getting away with saying girls can’t do things,’ I hissed at her.

  I turned to the group. ‘Do you mind waiting?’ I asked. ‘It won’t take long. Not if Lewis can keep up.’

  I beckoned to an Egyptian guide and gave him some instructions.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ Lydia asked curiously.

  ‘I asked him to guide us to the top,’ I said. I glanced at Lewis. ‘I told him to take care of Lieutenant Canning, because he’s never done this before.’

  Lewis grunted.

  With the guide leading the way, we started out. I hadn’t been exaggerating; it was a hard climb. I ascended carefully, placing my feet where the guide said. Lewis kept up determinedly.

  We climbed and climbed. I was careful not to look down, concentrating on placing my hands and feet exactly where the guide indicated, Lewis right beside me. As we neared the top, the guide nodded to me. I moved to the side of the block of stone he pointed out and disappeared behind it. A few more steps upwards and I reached the top.

  I was sitting on the top, admiring the view, when Lewis appeared. ‘Why hello, Lewis,’ I said. ‘What delayed you?’

  ‘That guide –’ he panted. ‘He took you a different way!’

  ‘Did he?’ I said innocently. ‘I didn’t notice. Isn’t the view quite splendid?’

  Lewis gave me a dark look.

  ‘Will you go down now?’ the guide said in Arabic.

  ‘Quite ready, Lewis?’ I asked. I got to my feet. ‘By the way,’ I said, ‘do take care on the way down. Every year two or three tourists die falling off the pyramids.’

  The nurses and officers, perched on the stones of the pyramid, welcomed us back enthusiastically.

  ‘Well done, Flora!’

  ‘Not as easy as all that, eh, Lewis?’

  ‘Just what did you say to the guide?’ Gwen whispered to me.

  I grinned at her. ‘I told him I’d pay him double if he made sure I reached the top first.’