Birds of the Nile (4 page)

He received a perfunctory farewell. His presence would not be missed, and for all that he had contributed to the evening, they could carry on easily without him.

The truth was, he wanted a breath of fresh air before turning in.
He returned to his cabin to find a pullover and pick up his binoculars. His infallible rule was that if he left them behind, there was bound to be something he’d want to look at – a silhouette perched on the ship’s rail, or the outline of an owl in a distant tree. Experience had taught him to go prepared.

He climbed up to the open top deck and made his way between the tables and the sun-loungers toward the stern. It was a bright, starry night and although there was still some warmth in the air, the temperature would soon drop sharply and it would turn cold. Beneath him, the Nile glistened in the moonlight, its regular flow inducing an enduring sense of calm. All was at peace, and for a moment he could stop and listen to the sounds of the night.

From the mud-walled houses on the far bank came the anguished cry of a young child. Somewhere in a nearby village, a dog began barking in response, echoing across the water. He turned to look for it and became aware of an orange glow emanating from an adjacent field to his right. Someone had lit a fire. A group of men had gathered round it and, raising his binoculars, he saw amongst them the porters from the quayside, sitting cross-legged, warming their hands and passing their cigarettes one to another. Other, younger men had joined them and were engaged in earnest conversation. One of the faces looked familiar and he instantly recognised the young Egyptian from earlier in the evening. He’d exchanged the suit and tie of management for a galabeya and was now indistinguishable from his compatriots, talking and smoking with the others. It seemed quite a heated debate.

Blake’s face broke into a knowing grin. For all the trivia at the dinner table it had been an interesting evening. Yes, you could count on the British not to surprise you – but you could always rely on the Egyptians to do exactly the opposite. And if he knew anything about them they would be there late into the night, arguing and talking politics. He laughed to himself, folded his
binoculars away and went off to bed.

Earlier, he’d felt excluded, as if he were a visitor to a club of which he was not a member. The need for small talk had bored him, but now the life of the land he loved had reclaimed him. Who needed to travel the world, he thought, when you could live in Egypt and see it all?

By 7am the following morning, Blake’s feeling of smug self-satisfaction had turned to one of distinct frustration. He was an hour into the second day of his much-awaited trip and as he would have put it, he was not yet ‘in amongst the birds’. As Keith had predicted, they’d set off at six and when the bus made a brief stop at the Colossi of Memnon, he’d admittedly discovered a pair of Spur-winged Plover in the cultivated fields (possibly three, there may have been another hidden in the vegetation). There had been Palm Doves too, perched on the telegraph wires and softly cooing, and probably Barn Swallows, glimpsed from the bus as it wound its way through the villages. But where in Egypt could you not find Palm Doves and Barn Swallows? So now, here he was, standing amongst the crowd on the vast concourse in front of the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut, his teeth chattering in the nithering wind.

He zipped his fleece up a little further and let out a yawn. Considering he was as yet unused to the bed, he’d slept well but it had indeed been an early start. Coffee and rolls had been taken in the dining room at half past five. The thought of conversation at that hour had been too daunting to contemplate and thankfully, the meal had been conducted in silence. The fact that the eighth place at the table was still unoccupied had consequently passed without comment.

An early morning breeze was wafting up from the Nile. It was cold, unexpectedly so for Egypt, and even Blake had underestimated the conditions. The rest of the party certainly had and for the last five minutes he had been listening to Joan bemoaning the fact, continually rubbing her bare upper arms until at last she had snatched the coat David had thought to bring for himself and flung it around her own shoulders. Mrs Biltmore on the other hand, who with the addition of a floppy white sun-hat was dressed in exactly the same unbecoming outfit as she had worn at
dinner the previous evening, seemed utterly impervious to the weather, her inner body presumably insulated by her outer layers of flesh. Standing next to her and looking emaciated by comparison, Ira’s coat remained buttoned up to his chin.

They were supposed to be listening to the tour guide who, in his obvious enthusiasm for his subject, seemed equally as oblivious to the conditions as the American.

“…one of which also boasted myrrh trees which Hatshepsut personally acquired from the Land of Punt in a famous expedition that is depicted along one of the facing walls…”

Blake’s attention drifted. The history of the region, both ancient and modern, was well known to him. The only point of interest lay in the fact that the tour guide was the self-same Egyptian from the night before. The young man whom he’d last seen in a peasant’s smock next to a late night fire had now reverted to his more conventional dress. As he’d already had chance to observe, these people played many parts – and in a country where you did what you had to in order to survive, the boy was no exception.

On another occasion Blake might have dwelt on this but for the moment his thoughts were elsewhere. He was convinced that the rocky, arid landscape in which he found himself was inhabited by at least one species of bird, and to pass the time before they moved on he’d set himself the task of finding it. He was hoping for wheatear (preferably one of the pied variety, Mourning or Hooded, either of whose distinct black and white markings would make it easy to spot) and he’d just completed his second visual scan of the surrounding ground when he became attracted by a movement to his right. Yes! Here was a bird surely – although it did not have the black and white plumage he was expecting. Something more plain and grey-buff was strutting about amongst the stones. Probably a lark then – but was it Desert or Bar-tailed? He needed a closer view to decide and raised his binoculars to look.

He was inwardly debating the finer points of bill size and plumage when he became aware that he himself was being watched. Somewhere to his rear, a pair of eyes was focused intently on him and, like a carpenter’s auger, he could feel them boring a hole in his back. They carried an angry
message. What are you doing? Why are you wasting your time fiddling around with birds when you should be listening to the history of mankind?
A feeling of acute embarrassment came over him, and gently lowering his glasses he turned his head slowly toward what he perceived was the source of the scrutiny.

Some three or four yards behind him stood a young woman (he was tempted to say ‘girl’, she was so slight) of South East Asian appearance. Her eyes and face were of a deep brown colour, and to judge from her Western style of dress, he would have said Philippino or possibly Malay. She had on jeans and a pair of Cuban heels, which she presumably wore to make herself look taller as she was barely above five feet in height. She’d wrapped herself in a heavy three-quarter length jacket, the collar of which was turned up against the wind while her neat black hair blew about in the breeze. A pair of large round silver earrings dangled down each side of her neck. She was undoubtedly pretty, if not beautiful, although at the moment her face was contorted into a disapproving stare.

Blake smiled weakly back by way of apology. He slowly let go of his binoculars and told himself to face forward toward the tour guide and pay more respect. There was something unnerving about the girl’s presence he did not quite yet understand. She possessed an intensely serious appearance, a feature made all the more daunting by her obvious good looks, and this outward force of character made him feel as though he were an errant schoolboy and she a teacher scolding him, as if he’d been caught shirking his lessons.

Keeping his head as still as he could, he risked a glance at the stony patch to his right where the lark had been just a few
moments earlier – but the place was now empty. The bird had literally flown and any chance of confirming its identity had gone with it. He frowned ruefully to himself. Hopefully there would be other occasions when he might not be put off so easily. His attention returned to the young Egyptian who had fortunately reached the end of his speech.

“And now, if you would like to follow me, we will make our way up to the Middle Terrace…”

Cursing his luck, and the young woman who had so distracted him, Blake fell into line. Soon, he thought, they would be able to get back on the bus and out of the chilling wind.

Much to his disappointment, the ruins of Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple were entirely devoid of birds and after what seemed like an eternity, the bus moved further up to the Valley of the Kings.

Their tickets had been booked in advance and included entry to three of the tombs. The question was whether to stick with the programme or to pay extra and visit the sepulchre of Tutankhamun – but it was expensive and the tomb was allegedly empty. Keith didn’t think it was worth it, but Joan took a different view.

“I didn’t get up at five o’clock this morning and slog all the way up here just to be told I can’t see it.” She’d already given David his coat back and was standing in what was now warm sunshine, soaking up the heat like a reptile. “Frankly,” she continued, glancing round at the arid surroundings, “it’s probably the only thing up here worth looking at.”

Mrs Biltmore, who had said relatively little all morning and was allegedly suffering in the heat, professed herself happy to go with the crowd. “Whatever you people decide, why that’ll be just fine by me.”

She stood in the shade of the bus, fanning herself with her floppy white hat. As for Ira, no-one thought to ask. And with Keith remaining adamant that he would prefer to walk to the
head of the valley rather than waste his money, they split into two groups, David and Joan heading off toward the ticket office while the rest set off up the main path and into the interior.

It was, as Joan had suggested, a desolate and unforgiving landscape that confronted them. Above ground there was nothing but stones and shale and without a tree or any form of vegetation in sight, the only shade was afforded by the occasional tin-roofed shelter erected at the side of the path. Here and there were the entrances to tombs, pin-pricks in the rocky hillside, those that were open signed and lit with tunnels deep into the earth, those that were not, dark and barred off by iron grilles. It was a formidable place. If the intention of the ancient Kings of Egypt had been to hide themselves away in the middle of nowhere, then they had certainly chosen wisely. As to what birdlife it supported, Blake was doubtful.

By this time it was mid-morning and a fierce heat had begun to beat down on them. The coats they had relied on earlier were discarded and replaced by sun-cream and headgear. Blake donned a favourite Panama (it was rather battered after years of constant use) and to protect the back of his neck, he tied off a linen scarf he’d brought for the purpose. Janet and Keith put on bush hats while Mrs Biltmore jammed her white affair back on her head and was busy lathering her flabby arms with a protective gel. Her legs were already covered by a voluminous denim skirt that reached down to her ankles, from beneath which protruded a well-worn pair of trainers. Their scuffed and shabby exterior did nothing to enhance her appearance. They grouped together at the start of the path and set off with Keith in the lead.

It occurred to Blake that the American would suddenly surprise him and turn out to be athletic, bounding up the path with unlooked-for strength and purpose. Surely, he thought, there must be some virtue, however small, hidden within so large a frame. But if so, it was not of the physical kind and he was sadly
mistaken. As her size and shape suggested, Mrs Biltmore struggled to progress through the harsh terrain, huffing and puffing at every step and for ever in need of a stop to catch her breath.

“Oh my!” she kept protesting, looking up toward the head of the valley. “Do we have to go all the way up there? Why, I don’t believe I’ll be able to make it. Why don’t you folks just go on without me, I’ll be fine right here.” And every so often she would affect to sink down on a nearby boulder.

But she did make it, for despite her objections and constant protestations to the contrary, she seemed inwardly determined and any strength she possessed lay in her will rather than her physical ability.

Ira brought up the rear, his slight frame bounding from rock to rock like a jack rabbit, but without at any point straying in front of his wife.

As they progressed upwards through the valley, the sixth sense which had afflicted Blake earlier in the day cut in yet again. He’d stopped to lend Mrs Biltmore his arm for the umpteenth time
Why, thank you Mr Blake
when he turned to look behind him, and sure enough, following them at a discreet distance, there was the girl from the temple. She’d dispensed with her heavy jacket to reveal a white T-shirt promoting some rock band or another and she carried a black parasol above her head. As Blake halted, so did she, and a look was exchanged between them. Then, when he and his charge resumed their painful progress, he could hear the scrunch of her Cuban heels on the stones once more. It was as if she were stalking him.

Keith was striding out in front. His plan, he had announced, was to head up to the tomb of Seti I –‘the finest in the valley’ according to his guide book – and then work his way back down at leisure.

It sounded like an admirable idea and Blake was sure it
would have worked well but for the fact that Mrs Biltmore was proving an unforeseen and frustrating drag on their headway. In addition to which, after a good twenty minutes hiking and having turned off up a narrow spur, they found the tomb they had targeted was closed for renovation. The entrance was barred off and a sign in red Arabic lettering had been posted to the side. There was an immediate feeling of disappointment and after starting out with such good intentions, this discovery seemed to dampen their spirits.

“Well now that’s a great shame,” said the large American, blowing with exertion. “After all that effort.”

Her will to continue suddenly evaporated in the heat and she did at last sink down onto a nearby boulder, collapsing into the shade beneath the overhanging entrance and fanning herself once more with her hat. Ira took up a position next to her, watching her like a sharp-eyed hawk. And with their main charge stranded and immobile like a beached whale, the whole troupe came to a grinding halt and they stood about like a yacht luffed against the wind.

“What now?” said Blake, hands on hips.

“I suppose we’d better go back,” said Keith.

Janet instantly nodded, grabbing at his sleeve. She’d shown little interest in entering the tomb and seemed reluctant to descend below ground under any circumstances. Blake pressed on with his questioning. “So do you mean to tell me we’ve come all the way up here for nothing and now we’re simply going to turn round and go all the way back?”

“It looks that way.” Keith was apologetic.

“Isn’t there another tomb we can go in?”

With his wife tugging at his arm, Keith grew suddenly diffident.

“I’m not entirely sure…”

“Oh for goodness sake…” said Blake, for whom this was just another frustration.

As they were talking, their period of indecision had allowed Miss Malaysia to catch up (Blake was now confident of her country of origin). She had continued to follow them up the narrow spur right the way to the entrance to the tomb and was now standing at Blake’s elbow. No doubt she had come to chide him again, he thought. Surely she was not still pursuing him after the incident at the temple?

But before they had chance to acknowledge her presence and ask as to her intentions, she butted in without any form of introduction.

“Is there a problem?”

“Yes there is,” said Blake, determined to be assertive. “We’ve come all the way up here to see the tomb of…” (and just as he wanted to appear decisive, the name escaped him)

“…Seti I,” said Keith, helping him out.

“Seti I,” continued Blake, “and the damned thing’s closed. On top of that, Mrs Biltmore here,” he waved a hand at the prostrate form of the distraught American, “has conked out on us and can’t take another step. Besides which we’re all lathered with the heat and our leader here has lost his get up and go. So all in all, I should say we’re in a state of complete limbo.”