Opposite to me sits a Dutch lady with a beautiful face, smoothly moulded and saintly, like the face of a Madonna in an old Dutch painting. It would be pleasant to talk to her but she cannot speak English nor French, and I know not a single word of Dutch, so all we can do about it is to smile at one another and make friendly signs; but this is unsatisfactory and I am delighted when she shuts her eyes and goes to sleep for now I can look at her as much as I like—and to look at her is a pleasure.
Just across the passageway which runs down the centre of the cabin there is a Lancashire woman with two children; the elder, a boy of seven, is restless and discontented; his mother spends most of her time trying to keep him in order. “Don’t do that, ’Arry!” she says. “’Arry you’re not to pinch ’Ilda.” “’Arry, I told you not to touch that ’andle,” and of course ’Arry does all the things he is told not to do, straight off. ’Arry would be much better if his mother would leave him alone, but apparently this does not occur to her.
Mrs. Alston has been reading her book, but presently she puts it aside and says, “Tell me what you’re going to do when you get home, or would you rather read?”
I reply that I would rather talk (and this is true for talking prevents me from listening to the beat of the engines and wondering whether it is merely imagination that one of them is not firing very well) and as I feel it is my turn to talk I proceed to explain that I have temporarily deserted my husband and am returning home to my children. I tell her that Bryan is at Cambridge, studying agriculture, and Betty is at school near Edinburgh, and I have taken a furnished house in a little village not far from London so they will be able to spend their holidays with me.
Mrs. Alston says how frightfully lucky to have got a house. She is obliged to stay with relations and friends, which, although pleasant in some ways, is rather a strain. “Always being on one’s best behaviour,” says Mrs. Alston with a sigh. “Helping to wash the dishes and not knowing where anything is kept. And then, although Edmond is a dear and I understand him perfectly, he’s just a little bit . . . well, a little bit difficult at times. Edmond is my son, of course. I wish I could have arranged to have a house. How did you manage?”
It is obvious that Mrs. Alston does not want to discuss her difficult son—and who can blame her—so I plunge into the long tale of the house and explain that it was discovered for us by the local innkeeper and his wife whom we have known for years. Fred Bollings was Tim’s batman and Annie was Betty’s nurse—and afterwards, when Betty went to school, she was cook-housekeeper and general factotum. In fact both of them were with us for so long and went through so many trials and tribulations with us that they became a part of the family. I further explain that two years ago, when Bollings left the Army, Tim and I decided it was high time they settled down together and had a life of their own and as we had just received a totally unexpected legacy from a distant cousin of Tim’s (whom neither of us had ever seen) we were able to lend Bollings the wherewithal to buy a small inn and thereby attain his heart’s desire.
“How nice!” says Mrs. Alston.
“Yes, it was very lucky. The inn is at a little village called Old Quinings and—”
“Goodness, not the Bull and Bush!” exclaims Mrs. Alston. “I know it well. I used to stay with an aunt at Old Quinings when I was a girl.”
This odd coincidence surprises us; though why it should surprise us it would be difficult to say. Personally I have found the world exceedingly small; so small and compact that it is impossible to chat for half an hour to anyone without discovering some point of contact, some mutual friend or even some long-forgotten meeting. This phenomenon is most noticeable in the British Colonies where the white population consists almost entirely of service people like ourselves.
Mrs. Alston and I agree about the smallness of the world and mention several odd coincidences which have come our way.
“Do you know the Morleys?” enquires Mrs. Alston. “They live at Charters Towers which is quite near Old Quinings.”
“Of course I do! It was Tony Morley who told us the Bull and Bush was for sale.”
Mrs. Alston says she knows Freda Winthrop (Tony’s sister) and adds that she used to go to dances at Charters Towers sometimes. “They were very posh dances,” says Mrs. Alston reminiscently. “But as a matter of fact I didn’t enjoy them much. Freda and her friends all hunted like mad, and knew one another intimately, and I never hunted in my life and knew nobody—except Freda of course—so I felt rather out of it.”
I can sympathise with Mrs. Alston in this experience for, long ago, Tim and I spent a weekend at Charters Towers and felt “rather out of it.”
“They’re very rich of course,” continues Mrs. Alston. “Everything was done on a big scale and it was all quite terrifying; Lady Morley was too grand to take the slightest interest in me and Tony was unbearable.”
“Tony unbearable!” I cry in amazement. “You don’t mean Tony Morley!”
“He’s so stuck up,” explains Mrs. Alston. “So pleased with himself. Of course he did very well in the war (he’s a Major General, isn’t he?) so I suppose he has a right to be pleased with himself. I daresay he would have been more human and less selfish if he had married. I remember Freda told me he had fallen hopelessly in love with a married woman and had never got over it.”
This description of Tony is so untrue and unfair that it takes my breath away and it is a moment or two before I can rush to his defence. “Oh no!” I gasp. “Tony isn’t like that.”
Mrs. Alston looks at me in surprise.
“We’ve known Tony for years,” I tell her. “He was in Tim’s regiment. He’s the kindest creature alive . . . and I don’t believe it’s true about him falling in love with a married woman; I never heard about it.”
“Oh well,” says Mrs. Alston. “I expect you know him better than I do.”
This difference of opinion causes a slight rift in the lute but the advent of dinner helps to mend it. Mrs. Alston shows me how to fix the table in front of me, arranges my tray and points out to the steward that he has omitted to provide me with salt. This solicitude amuses me for Tim is wont to declare that wherever I go there is always somebody who makes it their business to look after me, some capable down-to-earth person who is eager to take me in charge. “You look helpless,” said Tim on one such occasion. “You aren’t the least helpless of course, but you have an appealing air. If you went to the North Pole you’d find a nice kind mug of an Eskimo who would make it his business to fend for you and bring you lovely lumps of blubber.” Since then “Hester’s Eskimo” has become a well-worn joke in the Christie family. Tim will laugh when I write and tell him my faithful Eskimo was waiting, ready for duty, at the Equator.
The plane roars onward through the starry night and its occupants dine in comfort. The soup is excellent (and I am glad to find it does not slosh about the bowl as it does in trains), there is tongue and green peas and potatoes, there is fruit salad and ice cream.
We are all enjoying our meal when suddenly “’Arry’s” mother gives a cry of dismay and we all look round to see what that young imp is up to now. It seems to me that he is remarkably good and peaceful but his mother thinks otherwise. “’Arry!” she exclaims in horrified tones. “’Arry, why can’t you be’ave yourself proper! ’Ow often ’ave I told you it ain’t the right thing to eat peas with your fingers! You got a knife, ’aven’t you?”
After dinner has been cleared away I settle down to write my diary, but Mrs. Alston makes the task somewhat difficult, for apparently she wants to talk.
“What are you writing?” she enquires. “Are you an author, by any chance? You don’t look like one, somehow.”
I reply that I am not an author, merely a diarist—and that only at certain periods in my chequered career. When Tim and I are together I seem to have no time to record my impressions, but when we are separated by force of circumstances I keep a large notebook handy and write down all the interesting and amusing things that happen to me.
/> “Why don’t you have a proper diary?” Mrs. Alston asks.
“Because some days are more interesting than others. Some days I write nothing and other days I write reams. I know it isn’t the correct way to keep a diary, but that’s how I do it.”
Mrs. Alston says she doesn’t know how I can be bothered. She has started a diary several times (on the first of January, which is the right day to start a diary) but she has never managed to keep it up for long.
Thursday, 14th June
It is difficult to know when one day ends and another begins. I am aware, of course, that this phenomenon begins at midnight and I am congratulating myself that yesterday is over and commenting upon the circumstance to my companion, when she interrupts me with the information that it is not. Although my watch informs me that a new day has begun it is still yesterday evening—so Mrs. Alston says. We have almost arrived at Cairo, says Mrs. Alston, and at Cairo we shall find that it is half-past eleven—no more. I find this extraordinarily muddling (probably because I am dazed and sleepy) and although Mrs. Alston continues to explain the matter it becomes no clearer.
“When it’s night-time in Italy it’s Wednesday over here,” I murmur helplessly.
“Fasten your safety-belt,” says Mrs. Alston.
We land—whether today or yesterday I cannot tell—the door of the cabin is opened and we descend.
We have nearly two hours at Cairo while the plane is re-fuelling and, thanks to my new friend who is an experienced traveller, we get through the formalities without any trouble. Soon we are walking along a broad road lined with palm trees. Here and there I see little white bungalows with flowers in their gardens.
I was sleepy in the plane but now I feel revived and excited, for there is something exciting in the air; it is so pure and dry . . . and there is a faint but very curious smell, the smell of the desert! The desert is near; one cannot see it but one can feel the strange magic of its wide spaces, its miles of baked sand and rolling dunes. Somewhere, not far away, stand the pyramids and the Sphinx, those mysterious age-old monuments of a vanished civilisation. Somewhere in the darkness beneath the starry sky—
“Take care!” says Mrs. Alston, seizing my arm.
“What is it?” I ask, slightly annoyed at this violent interruption to my train of thought.
“The curb—I was afraid you didn’t see it,” she explains. “I was afraid you weren’t looking where you were going. It’s dark, isn’t it?” she continues. “What a pity there isn’t a moon! I should have liked you to see a desert moon.”
She continues to talk and, although it is very kind of her to be so solicitous of my welfare, I begin to feel I should prefer silence.
Mrs. Alston and I find the restaurant where we are to have our supper. We sit on the veranda—it is warm and quiet and peaceful—and here we have our meal. Presently a camel comes walking down the road; it is laden with sacks which, being the same colour as itself, give it the appearance of a huge misshapen creature from another world. It pads along soundlessly like a monster in a dream. A few moments later a huge Rolls Royce passes almost as soundlessly but a good deal faster.
Here is the old way of transport and the new passing upon the same road before my eyes.
It seems absurd that this is all I see of Cairo, but somehow, although I see so little, I seem to absorb the atmosphere of the place and my imagination is stirred by every breath I draw.
Somebody is talking and gently shaking my arm. The mists of sleep recede and I come to myself to discover that I have a splitting headache.
“It’s Rome,” says Mrs. Alston. “I’m sorry I had to waken you, but you’ll have to fasten your safety-belt in a minute and I wanted you to see Rome from the air.”
I rub my eyes and, obedient to Mrs. Alston’s behest, I look out of the little window. Far below I see a toy town, a town of soft colouring and bright green trees; wandering amongst the buildings I see a river—not a very spectacular river and somewhat disappointing when one remembers the romance of its history. Old Father Tiber cannot hold a candle to Old Father Thames and the exploit of Horatius in swimming it is less heroic than I had imagined.
I am still looking at Rome, and admiring the pale golden hue of its buildings in the early morning sunshine, when suddenly without any warning Rome rises up from its proper place on the ground and looks at me . . . it looks straight in at the window in a most disconcerting manner.
“Goodness!” I exclaim.
“We’re banking,” says Mrs. Alston. “We’re circling round and getting ready to land. I know it’s rather alarming when you aren’t used to it—you feel as if the ground had risen up and hung itself on the wall. Of course what really happens is that the plane leans over (just as you lean over when you turn a corner on a bicycle) but when you’re in a plane you lose your sense of balance. For instance when you loop the loop and you’re upside down in the sky you feel as if you were the right way up and everything else in the universe had suddenly gone mad. The ground seems up above and the sky down below. At least that’s how I felt,” says Mrs. Alston reminiscently. “You should get someone to take you up and show you.”
“Yes—er—yes,” I reply in doubtful tones.
“It’s very interesting.”
“I’m sure it must be.”
At Rome Mrs. Alston and I are obliged to part. She is staying with a friend and I have booked a room in a pensione recommended to me by my brother and his wife who stayed here last year.
Mrs. Alston seems doubtful about my ability to look after myself in Rome. Her last words as we shake hands are to warn me of pickpockets and to remind me that the traffic comes in the opposite direction from countries under British jurisdiction, and as I sit down to fill in a form (without which formality I cannot leave the airport) I can see her hovering in the doorway and looking back at me. It is obvious that if I show signs of wanting her help she will change her plans and come with me to the pensione and see me settled in. Mrs. Alston is extremely kind and I am suitably grateful, but by this time her solicitude has become a trifle boring, so I wave to her cheerfully and complete my task.
A taxi is chartered to take me to the pensione. It careers along at high speed and, although I am aware that it is conforming to the European convention by keeping to the right, the sight of vehicles approaching at high speed on (what seems to me) the wrong side of the road fills me with anxiety. We pass the ruins of the old Roman aqueducts—a broken line of arches stretching across fields and orchards—we pass wide squares and churches built of honey-coloured stone. There are trees in their summer greenery and slopes of green grass amongst the buildings and masses of brilliant flowers. We pass old buildings and new buildings, streets wide and streets narrow, streets with shops full of all sorts of fascinating merchandise and, coming at last to the Piazza di Spagna, we discover a steep little cobbled street in which is the entrance to the Pensione Scarlatti.
The pensione consists of a large flat in an old Roman palace. It is on the third floor and is reached by a fine staircase of white marble. Probably long ago this whole building belonged to some great Roman family (it is large enough to house a regiment) and as I toil up the marble stairs, suitcase in hand, I try to imagine what it must have been like to live like a prince in magnificence and luxury and to have more servants than one could count. In those far-off days life was colourful and romantic, hospitality was on a gigantic scale; these old walls could tell of revelry, of the whisper of silken dresses and the clash of swords.
Signora Scarlatti opens the door of the flat herself and welcomes me effusively but incomprehensibly in a spate of Italian to which I reply, “Si, si, buon giorno,” which is the only Italian I know. I then enquire in my own tongue whether she can speak English.
“Spika no Inglis!” she exclaims, shaking her head sadly.
Things are now at a complete standstill and we look at one another helplessly . . . until suddenly I have a brilliant inspiration and try how she reacts to French.
“Parlez-vou
s Français?” I ask somewhat diffidently for as I have not spoken French for years (nor even heard French spoken) I have grave doubts of my ability to sustain a conversation in that language.
“Si, si!” exclaims the Signora. “Et vous, madame? Vous parlez le Français?”
“Si, si,” I reply.
“Ah, bon!” cries Signora Scarlatti, her dark eyes flashing with delight and excitement . . . and she proceeds to welcome me all over again in French. Unfortunately, however, she speaks that language with an Italian accent so I find it almost as difficult. Gesticulation helps, of course, and by dint of signs and broken phrases we manage to communicate with one another and to achieve understanding.
The flat is large and has an old-worldly air. It consists of a wide hall with a beautiful parquet floor, which stretches from the front door at one end to the kitchen at the other. This hall—or sala as the Signora calls it—is furnished with sofas and easy chairs and standard lamps with orange-coloured shades. All the rooms open off the sala, some on one side and some on the other.
Signora Scarlatti conducts me round talking volubly and pointing out the comforts and amenities of her establishment. She shows me the bathroom, a gloomy and somewhat sinister apartment with an enormous bath which looks as if it had not been used for years; she opens another door and shows me a spacious roof-garden with plants in boxes and pergolas covered with vines (here some of my fellow guests are sitting, sunning themselves in deck chairs); she shows me the dining room, with eight or ten small tables set for the mid-day meal. Finally she leads me to the room she has reserved for me, which is a pleasant room, clean and bright, with a comfortable bed. It is the bed that interests me most and I explain to the Signora in my halting French that I shall sleep all day and get up to supper.
“Vous n’avez pas faim?”
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