Under cover of the music, Miss Mack finally risked opening the door. She crept around it and I followed her. I saw a huge room, its size doubled and redoubled and distorted by the looking glasses lining its walls. At first glance, it seemed filled with scores of small girls wearing white leotards, white hairbands, and gauzy white skirts that grazed their knees. On the count, this ghostly
corps de ballet
moved in unison. Then, as my panic subsided and the room calmed, I found I could begin to differentiate between the reflected and the real. To my left, beyond the gilt chairs reserved for the ranks of mothers and nursemaids, and next to the piano and accompanist, stood a woman who could only be the legendary Madame Masha: it was by this name that she was familiarly known throughout Cairo, her real name, Countess Mariya Aleksandrovna Sheremeteva, being a mouthful no one could pronounce. She was tiny and terrifying, wearing a flowing dress, her raven hair parted in the centre, slicked back against her skull and fastened in a bun, ballerina-style; she was armed with a long tapering stick, which she banged on the floor to emphasise her demands.
Beyond her, lined up with their right hands clasping the barre, was a group of just seven, no, eight little girls, all of about my own age or younger. Their flushed faces were fixed in concentration, they had beads of sweat on their brows. The child at the front was, I gradually understood, the Lady Rose who had incurred Madame’s wrath before we entered. She was the smallest child present, plump, clumsy, erratic in her footwork and on the verge of tears. Next to her was the unfortunate Fräulein von Essen, scarlet with exertion, out of breath and visibly wilting. Fifth from the front, performing the exercises of the
adage
with cool precision, was a pupil whose grace marked her out from her companions. Even with her dark hair sleeked back inside a bandeau, I recognised her at once as the pyramids’ girl.
As I watched, Madame advanced upon her, stick raised. She touched her lightly on the shoulder with the tip of her stick and, motioning the other girls to stop and to watch, said: ‘Enough. Mademoiselle Winlock shall demonstrate. Frances,
ma petite
, come forward.
Attention
,
je vous en prie
. We shall move on to the allegro. Mademoiselle,
if
you please, you will show them how it’s done.’
The pyramids’ girl began to dance – and it
was
like a dance, not a series of exercises. Each move flowed into the next, to Madame’s barked commands.
Entrechat, demi-plié, grand jeté, fouetté
: I was watching grace, balance and an astonishing accuracy of footwork performed at speed. I was transfixed with admiration: I had never attended a ballet, knew nothing of the art, and had never suspected what dance might be. ‘
Ballon
,’ said Madame. ‘Mademoiselle Frances
, on essaie le ballon, s’il vous plait…’
There was a stir in the room, a craning of necks, a new concentration on the faces of the watching girls – just enough for me to understand that, whatever a
ballon
was, it was difficult. There were a few preparatory graceful steps, then the child’s feet flickered in a series of lightning scissor moves and without appearing to jump or to leap she simply rose in the air, as weightless as a bird. I gasped at this magic and, before I could stop myself, clapped my hands. The girl returned earthwards, landed, missed her step, twisted her foot, and fell in a heap on the ground.
‘
Pas mal
,’ Madame pronounced, ignoring the fact that Frances Winlock’s face had whitened with shock and pain. She shrugged, adding, as she turned away, ‘
Vous voyez – c’est difficile
.’
Beside me, Miss Mack shook her head: I think she was reconsidering the wisdom of my joining this ballet class. ‘Oh, the poor child! I hope she hasn’t broken anything,’ she murmured. ‘It’ll be a miracle if that ankle isn’t sprained. And she danced so charmingly too. A little praise might not go amiss. Or sympathy… ’
Madame overheard this comment. She turned to look at Miss Mack and me, fixing us in the glare of her huge tiger eyes. I shrank away, fearing some burning reprimand. She gave us a look of scorching contempt, then turned her back on us. Clapping her hands once with a sound like a pistol shot, she dismissed the class.
In the mêlée that ensued as the girls ran off to change out of their ballet clothes, and a crowd of mothers and companions clustered around Madame, Miss Mack and I held back. We hovered nervously on the fringe of the group, and I found we were next to a woman I now recognised as Frances Winlock’s mother. She had changed her dress since I’d glimpsed her that morning at the pyramids, but still looked dishevelled, as if the garments she’d chosen to wear to Madame’s class had been an attempt at smartness undermined by last-minute changes of heart. Numerous drifting scarves were thrown about her neck; perhaps, undecided as to which best suited her, she’d simply given up and elected to wear them all. Her manner was agitated; her eyes, which resembled her daughter’s, were both intelligent and kind.
‘Oh, isn’t this
awful
?’
she said to Miss Mack. ‘It’s such a battleground, everyone fighting for attention… And Madame is a Gorgon – I always mean to protest, then she glares at me, and I freeze. She will
push
Frances, and make her do things she’s not ready for – she’s only eight, you know, but people forget that because she’s tall, and advanced for her age.’ She paused, and smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I’m running on, and we haven’t been introduced. I’m Helen Winlock. It’s my daughter that had the fall… I haven’t seen you here before. Are you thinking of enrolling your daughter in Madame’s class?’ She turned to me, with a wry expression. ‘Are you sure you’re ready for that? It’s nothing short of tyranny. Frances has been reduced to tears many times – you must be about the same age, I think? How old are you, my dear?’
‘I’m eleven,’ I replied firmly. I was used to these misconceptions and found it prudent to correct them fast.
Mrs Winlock, embarrassed at her mistake, began on an apology. Miss Mack, always ready in my defence, came to my rescue. As she later told me, she had at once recognised that Mrs Winlock was not only a fellow American, but also a woman of sympathy; she had noted that her accent was Boston Brahmin and ‘pure Harvard yard’. Drawing Mrs Winlock aside, she embarked on a now-familiar tale. I could hear only some of the phrases, uttered with emphasis and heartfelt pauses, but it was easy enough to join up the narrative: this was my history, my identity. I might not believe it, but I knew it by heart.
No, neither the child’s mother
nor
her
aunt, merely Lucy’s unofficial guardian… known her dear mother Marianne from way back, had attended her New York christening, her coming-of-age party… Happened to be in England and thus on hand when the great tragedy occurred… Typhoid, horribly sudden; poor Marianne succumbed to complications, Lucy desperately ill, everyone fearing the worst. Luckily had
extensive
nursing experience, and, in the end, child pulled through… Hair had to be shaved, taking an
age
to grow back, made her painfully self-conscious, other difficulties too, acute loss of weight, loss of appetite, grief and listlessness… Everyone in state of despair, father at his wits’ end, immersed in his work of course, not very good with children anyway, well, what scholar ever was? Yes, a don at
Cambridge, England…
Oh, Mrs Winlock was familiar with the world of academe? Well, then, she’d know the situation was
hopeless
, father simply hadn’t the remotest idea how to care for a child, also… Here Miss Mack lowered her voice, so I caught only two words, ‘
Bad war
.’
Those two words were familiar: my mother had used them once a day: they were a diagnosis that explained everything, the aloofness, the outbursts of temper, the nightmares and the night screams. My father had volunteered in 1914: he left home for the army when I was four and returned when I was eight. I knew this silent stranger had fought in France, though he never spoke of it. Once, when I asked him to show me where the Somme was and handed him an atlas, he threw it across the room, and it struck me on the forehead, drawing blood.
Bad war, bad war
. I’d met several other men in Cambridge afflicted by that disease; I’d glimpsed several victims among the officers here in Cairo – their twitchy unpredictability gave them away, as did a certain deadness in the eyes. Had anyone experienced a good war? I knew better than to ask.
I stared at the floor, which had begun to undulate. Miss Mack’s saga had resumed… So, crisis situation, but she herself, old Egypt hand, had had a suggestion to make… Prolonged period of convalescence. Voyage to warmer climes – much better than the prospect of an English winter. Only difficulty,
insufficient funds…
at which point, Took Charge, wrote the maternal grandparents, who, thus far, hadn’t lifted a finger to help…
Here, Miss Mack drew breath. I knew what was coming next: the bid for sympathy was made: the bid for status would follow as inevitably as night followed day. Mrs Winlock was listening to this story with close attention, and with what seemed genuine interest. Unlike many of the women Miss Mack had buttonholed on my behalf, both on the voyage out and this past week in Cairo, she betrayed no signs of impatience. Lowering her voice again, Miss Mack moved on to the next twist in the tale.
Child’s father brilliant classicist, distinguished Norfolk family, but could be his own worst enemy, always had advanced, even Socialist views… a trait that had
not
gone down well with Marianne’s family… They’d met in London on Marianne’s first visit to Europe. Married inside three months, cut off without a dime, all contact with her family severed… No, didn’t make one
ounce
of difference when the child was born, though you’d have thought that might have softened their stubborn attitudes and overcome their stiff-necked pride. But perhaps Mrs Winlock, as a fellow American… oh, and a Bostonian? Well, then, she’d understand just how plain bone-headed such families could be, especially when it came to a clan composed of
Emersons, Stocktons
and
Wigginses…
Miss Mack paused. Mrs Winlock’s eyes widened as the information sank in. ‘Stockton – as in railroads?’ she said faintly.
‘
And
Emerson steel.’
There was a silence. Upon Helen Winlock’s face came an expression familiar to me. It was compounded of surprise, awe, pity and deepening distaste. I began to edge away.
‘I wrote them,’ Miss Mack said, with an air of finality. ‘I wrote the Emersons – and I did
not
mince my words. And they relented – well, to the extent of funding this little expedition of ours. What the future holds, I cannot say. But I will tell you, Mrs Winlock, that I’m just about
burned
up with all this snobbery and injustice and when I look at that poor child there, it breaks my heart. She’s lost a mother she adored. She’s been desperately ill. What she needs isn’t some stuffy old woman like me. She needs
fun.
And some friends her own age who can take her out of herself, don’t you agree?’
The pitch seemed over-blatant to me. I was retreating, shamefaced, when I saw Helen Winlock do something unexpected: instead of uttering the platitudes and evasions that this appeal of Miss Mack’s usually evoked, she gave every sign of being moved. Her interpretation of the appeal seemed to differ from mine: colour rose in her cheeks; with a low exclamation of sympathy, she rested her hand on Miss Mack’s arm, and then awkwardly embraced her. Miss Mack sighed and grasped Helen Winlock’s hands. In the midst of the mêlée of returning children being reclaimed, the two women stood there clasping one another, exchanging what seemed to be consolation or endearments as if they were the oldest of friends.
I was not used to such demonstrations. ‘Let us
try
to avoid hysteria, Marianne,’ my father used to say on those occasions, increasingly rare, when my mother had betrayed strong emotion. I backed away, inching a path through the chattering influx of little dancers, now transformed into ordinary girls wearing skirts and blouses or dresses such as mine. One by one they were collected: Fräulein von Essen was marched off by a uniformed nanny. The hapless Lady Rose was greeted by a sweet-faced young woman so exquisitely dressed, so astonishingly fashionable, that I stopped to stare.
‘Rosie, darling,’ she cried, swooping across the room and bending to embrace her. ‘What a perfect duck you are – you looked just like a little rosebud when you were dancing. I’m
fiercely
proud of you, and I intend to show you off to the whole of Cairo. Will you let me take you to tea on the terrace tomorrow? Your mamma says I may… Now, shall we toddle off? You must be utterly exhausted, darling – that wicked witch shows you poor girls
no
mercy. She really is an old battleaxe… Oh, Madame! Here you are! I’m so glad I came. It was an absolute education, I never realised art involved such
hard
work.’
‘And why would you?’ Madame replied, with a flash of her eyes. ‘Do I see any evidence of hard work in your face? In your hands? Pah, lady’s hands, idle hands.’
‘Now don’t be cruel, you monster,’ the young woman answered with a smile. ‘You know I try. And you shan’t intimidate me – I know your ways too well.
Mille mercis pour tous ces compliments.
Now, listen:
Pups telegraphed this morning. He’ll be here next week, and he says you’re joining us for dinner before we leave for Luxor? Oh,
good.
Yes, here at Shepheard’s, we thought – a whole
heap
of people, some friends from London and Poppy d’Erlanger – she and I travelled out here together – oh, and Howard Carter, of course––’
‘And your mother?’ Madame interjected. ‘Will dear Lady Carnarvon not be joining us?’
‘Darling, unlikely
.
She may change her plans, but she’s in Paris.’
‘Again?’ said Madame, with a small lift of her eyebrows. The two women exchanged a look I could not interpret, and the younger made a wry face.