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.
‘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?’