Whispers in the Sand

‘Daddy. Can we talk?’ She had sat by the phone in her bedroom for ten minutes before picking up the receiver to dial.

There was a moment’s silence, then: ‘I can’t imagine we have much to talk about, Anna.’

She bit her lip. ‘How about the fact that I might be miserable and lonely and need you?’

‘I hardly think you need me.’ The voice the other end was cold. ‘After all, you did not need to consult me over the divorce.’

‘Consult you?’ The usual emotions of anger, incredulity, indignation and finally impotence swept over her. ‘Why should I have consulted you?’

‘It would have been courteous.’

Anna closed her eyes and began counting to ten. It had always been like this. Other parents might show affection or sympathy or even rage. Her father was worried about a lack of courtesy. She sighed audibly. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose I was too wound up about everything. It all came to a head too suddenly.’

‘It should not have come to a head at all, Anna. You and Felix could have reached some accommodation. If you had consulted me I could have talked to him –’

‘No! No, Daddy, I’m sorry, but we could not have reached some accommodation. Our marriage is over. Our decision. No one else’s. If you feel slighted in some way, then I’m sorry. It was not intentional. I kept you informed all the way, if you remember. Every day.’ Her temper was fraying.

‘I don’t expect to be kept informed, Anna. I expect to be consulted. I am your father –’

‘I am a grown woman, Daddy!’

‘You are not behaving like one, if I may say so –’

Anna slammed down the phone. Her stomach was churning, and she was almost sobbing with rage.

Standing up, she walked across to the dressing table and stood staring down at it, unseeing. It was a small Georgian writing desk, transformed for its current use by an oval toilet mirror and the scatter of cosmetics and brushes and discarded jewellery. Focusing suddenly on her reflection in the mirror she scowled furiously. He was right. She was not behaving like a grown woman. She was behaving as she was feeling, like an abandoned child.

Her hand strayed to the small scent bottle standing by the mirror and she picked it up, staring at it miserably. About three inches high, the glass was a deep opaque blue, decorated with a thick white feathered design, the stopper a lump of shaped wax, pushed flush with the top and sealed. Phyllis had given it to her when it had caught her fancy as a child and it had stayed with her ever since. ‘Take care of it, Anna,’ the old lady had said. ‘It comes from Ancient Egypt and it’s very, very old.’

Egypt.

Anna turned it round in her hand, staring at it. Felix had had it valued, of course, and the antique dealer had been very sniffy about it. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Anna, dear, but I’m afraid it probably came from a Victorian bazaar. The early visitors out there were always being conned into bringing back so-called artefacts. And this doesn’t even look Egyptian.’ He had handed it back with a slight sneer, as though even by touching it he had somehow contaminated himself and his Bond Street reputation. Recalling that moment Anna gave a weary smile. At least she no longer had to put up with Felix’s pretentious acquaintances, pretending they were so wise and acquiescing with their patronising dismissal of her too as no more than a decorative nonentity which he had picked up in a bazaar somewhere.

With a sigh she set down the bottle and stared once more into the mirror. She was tired, she was depressed and she was fed up.

Phyllis, as always, was right. She needed a holiday.

‘Have you ever been to Egypt before?’

Why hadn’t she thought of this when she asked for a window seat? Five hours of being trapped into conversation with whomever destiny had chosen to be her neighbour, and with no escape!

It was nearly four months since that glorious autumn day in Suffolk but now, at last she was on her way. Outside, the ground staff at Gatwick were completing the final checks on the loading of the plane and still spraying ice off its wings as they prepared for take off. Sleet slanted across the airport, whipping the faces of the men clustering round the plane into an angry painful colour.

Anna did not look up from her guidebook. ‘No, I haven’t.’ She tried to sound unenthusiastic without being downright rude.

‘Nor me.’ She felt him glance at her sideways, but he said no more, groping in the bag by his feet for his own reading material.

Beyond him the aisle seat was still empty as the plane began to fill and the flight attendants shoe-horned people more and more tightly into place. Anna risked a quick look to her left. Forties; sandy hair, regular features, long eye-lashes, clearly visible as he flipped through an already well-thumbed volume. She was suddenly sorry she had been so curt. But there was plenty of time to make up for it if she wanted to. All the time in the world. Beyond him an elderly man in a dog collar inserted himself into the third seat in the row. He leant forward to nod first to her and then their neighbour, then he reached for a pile of newspapers. She saw with a smile the Church Times was firmly tucked away beneath a copy of the Sun.

That morning, as she locked the front door and hefted her suitcase into the waiting London taxi her nerve had almost failed her. The quiet early-morning streets were white with thick February frost and the pre-dawn light was strangely flat and depressing. All her resolution had fled. If the cab driver had not been waiting to take her to Victoria Station to catch the train to the airport she would have turned back into the empty house, forgotten all about Egypt for ever, climbed back into bed and pulled the duvet over her head.

It was hot and stuffy on the plane and her head ached. She couldn’t move in the closely packed seats and she could feel the arm of her neighbour wedged tightly against her own. Beyond a nod and half-smile when she had looked up to reach for her tray and another when the drinks came round he had said nothing more to her, and the silence was beginning to weigh on her. She wasn’t looking for a full-blown conversation, in fact only a short time before, had dreaded it, but a casual remark to lighten the atmosphere would be a pleasant change to silence. The drum of the plane’s engines was relentless and when she closed her eyes it seemed to grow louder by the minute. She had declined headphones for the film. So had he. As far as she could see he was asleep, his book upside down on his lap, his fingers loosely linked over the cover. The first guidebook had been replaced by another and he had glanced through it swiftly before sitting back, rubbing his face wearily with his hands and seeming to subside at once into a deep sleep. Glancing out of the window she could see, far below, the tiny shadow of the plane dancing across the intense blue ripples of the sun-warmed Mediterranean. She risked a second glance at her neighbour’s face. In repose it was less attractive than when awake. The lines drew heavily downward, the mouth was set and sad, a tangible weight moulding the features. She turned her attention back to her own book, envying him his ability to sleep. Another two or three hours loomed before them and her muscles were screaming to be released from the cramped position into which they were squashed.

Reaching up to the control panel over their heads to try and find some cooler air she realised suddenly that he had opened his eyes and was watching her. He smiled and she gave a small grimace in return. It was meant to convey cautious friendship and sympathy over the tightly packed, too intimate seating. She was about to follow this with a noncommittal remark when once again he looked away and closed his eyes.

Shrugging, she delved into the bag at her feet and brought out Louisa’s diary. She had been saving it to read on the trip. Perhaps this was the moment to start.

The paper of the leatherbound notebook was thick, deckle-edged and in places foxed with pale brown spots. Carefully she turned to the first page of florid italic script and began to read.

‘February 15th, 1866: And so, the boat has reached Luxor and here I leave my companions to join the Forresters. Tomorrow morning my boxes will be transferred to the Ibis which I see already tied up nearby. The decks are empty, even of crew, and the boat looks deserted. It will be wonderful at last to have some privacy especially after the constant chatter of Isabella and Arabella with whom I have had to share a cabin all these weeks from Cairo. I am sending a packet of sketches and paintings back with them on the boat and hope to start a new series of drawings of the Valley of the Tombs as soon as possible. The British consul has promised me a dragoman, and the Forresters are said to be a kind, elderly couple who will allow me to travel with them willingly, without too much interference to my drawing. The heat of the day which at first renewed my spirits after the long voyage out here is growing stronger, but the nights are blessedly cool. I long to be able to see more of the desert. The nervous excitement of my companions so far on this adventure has prevented us from venturing any distance from our boat and I cannot wait to begin my explorations further afield.’

Anna looked up thoughtfully. She had never seen the desert. Never been to any part of Africa or the Middle East. Imagine the frustration of not being able to explore because your companions were too nervous. It had been bad enough knowing there was no time, no possibility of visiting properly the places she had travelled to with Felix. Shifting a little in her seat to try and make herself more comfortable, she turned back to the diary.

‘Louisa, dear. Sir John Forrester is here.’ Arabella bounced into the small cabin in a froth of white lace and slightly stained cambric. ‘He has come to take you across to his yacht.’

‘It’s not a yacht, Arabella. It is called a dahabeeyah.’ Louisa was packed and ready, her painting things already neatly roped on deck with her trunks and her valise. She adjusted her broad-brimmed black straw hat and reached for the small portmanteau on her bunk. ‘Are you coming to see me off?’

‘Of course!’ Arabella giggled. ‘You’re so brave, Louisa. I can’t imagine how frightening the rest of the trip is going to be.’

‘It won’t be frightening at all,’ Louisa replied tartly. ‘It will be extremely interesting.’

Her voluminous skirts gripped tightly in one hand, she climbed the companionway steps and emerged into the blinding sunlight on deck.

Sir John Forrester was a tall skeletally thin man in his late sixties. Dressed in a heavy tweed jacket, plus fours and boots he turned to greet her, his white pith helmet, his only concession to the climate, in his hand. ‘Mrs Shelley? How very nice.’ His bow was courteous, his eyes brilliant blue beneath bushy white eyebrows and shrewdly appreciative. He greeted her companions in turn then instructed the two dark-skinned Nubians with him to remove her luggage to the felucca drawn up alongside the paddle steamer.

Now the moment had come, Louisa felt a small pang of nervousness. She had shaken hands one by one with the men and women who had been her companions over the last few weeks, nodded to the crew, tipped her cabin servants and at last she was turning towards the small sailing boat which would ferry her across to the Ibis.

‘Bit of a test, my dear, getting down the ladder.’ Sir John offered her his hand. ‘Once you’re down, sit where you like. There.’ His sternly pointing finger contradicted the vagueness of his invitation.

Louisa wrapped her skirts around her tightly, holding them as high as she dared and cautiously she reached down for the ladder with a small brown boot. From below a black hand grabbed her ankle and guided it to the first rung. She bit her lip, firmly fighting the urge to kick the man who had taken such a liberty, and quickly lowered herself into the small boat with its flapping sail. She was greeted by smiles and bows from the two Egyptian crewmen as she slid towards the seat to which Sir John had directed her. He followed her down and within seconds the boat was heading across the turbid water towards the Ibis. Behind her Arabella lingered on deck, her face shaded by her pink parasol, and waved at Louisa’s departing back.

The boat towards which they were heading was one of the graceful private vessels which plied up and down the Nile, this one propelled by two great lateen sails and steered from the back by a huge tiller that extended over the main cabin roof. The elegant accommodation, she soon discovered, included cabins for herself, the Forresters and Lady Forrester’s maid, a saloon, filled with divans and a large writing table and quarters sufficient for the crew which consisted of the captain, or reis and eight men. The deck allowed room to sit and to eat outside should they wish it, and also an area for the crew, one of whom was an excellent and talented cook.

This time she was to have a cabin to herself. Staring round it Louisa felt her heart leap with delight. After the dark wood and brass fittings of the paddle steamer this cabin, tiny though it was, was beauty itself. Her narrow bed was spread with brightly coloured woven fabrics, there was a carpet on the floor, fine blue and green shawls were draped across the window and the basin and ewer were made of some beaten metal which looked like gold.

Tearing off her hat she flung it on the bed and looked round approvingly. From the deck overhead she could hear the pattering of bare feet and the creak of the masts and rigging.

Of Lady Forrester there had been no sign. ‘Indisposed, my dear. She’ll join us for dinner,’ Sir John had said vaguely as he showed Louisa to her cabin. ‘We’ll sail as soon as possible. Not far. We’ll tie up on the other side of the river so you can set off for the valley tomorrow. Hassan will be your dragoman. That is, he will act as your guide and interpreter. Good chap. Highly recommended. Very reliable. And cheap.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘And you’ll have to share Jane Treece, Lady Forrester’s maid. I’ll send her in to you directly and she can help you settle in.’

And here she was, a woman of about forty-five with hair pulled severely off her face beneath her cap, dressed, like her, in black and with skin which beneath the cruel sun had freckled and creased into a tight map of lines and blotches. ‘Good evening, Mrs Shelley.’ The woman’s voice was deep and educated. ‘Sir John has asked me to act as your maid and chaperone while you are on his boat.’

Louisa hid her despair as best she could. She had hoped to be free of such formality. It would though be helpful to have someone unpack and shake out her dresses and fold away her under-linen and petticoats and lay out her hairbrushes and combs. Her sketchbooks and her precious Winsor and Newton watercolour box, her paintbrushes, she would allow no one to touch but herself. These she put on the small table in front of the elegantly pointed cabin window with its latticed shutters.

Turning she stared at the evening gown which Jane Treece had already shaken free of its folds and laid out for her. Her vision of casting aside her corset and petticoats and the formal black which her mourning demanded and putting on the blessedly cool, softly flowing dresses made for her all those long months ago in London by her friend Janey Morris, were beginning to recede once more. ‘I had assumed we would be more casual on so small a boat,’ she said cautiously. ‘And, though it was kind of Sir John to think of it, as a widow I scarcely think I need a chaperone!’

‘Indeed.’ The word conveyed shock, scorn and such superiority that Louisa was in no doubt at all that her assumptions had been dreadfully misjudged.

‘Sir John and Lady Forrester keep every formality on the Ibis, Mrs Shelley, I assure you. When you leave the boat to go off and see the heathen temples I have no doubt it will be more difficult to maintain the niceties, and I have made it clear I am not prepared to go with you on those occasions, but while we are here Sir John’s man, Jack, and I, see to it that everything runs as well as it does at home in Belgravia.’

Louisa bit her lip to hide a wry smile. Trying to look suitably chastened she allowed the woman to help her on with her black silk gown and pin her hair up in loose ringlets and loops around her head beneath a black lace veil. At least without the weight of her customary chignon it was cooler. The assurance that Jane Treece would not be going with her to visit the Valley of the Tombs had cheered her up enormously.

The main saloon of the boat was as exotic as her own cabin, but the silver and china laid on the table for dinner was English. The food itself though was Egyptian, and delicious. Louisa ate with enjoyment as she tried to explain to the Forresters why she wanted to paint the Egyptian scenery. Augusta Forrester had emerged from her own quarters looking as elegant and cool as if she were entertaining at home in London. A small silver-haired woman in her early sixties with huge dark eyes, she had managed to retain a prettiness of feature and a charm which made her immediately attractive. Her attention span was, though, Louisa discovered quickly, very short.

‘When Mr Shelley died,’ she explained as they ate, ‘I found myself lost.’ How could she ever tell them how lost without her beloved George? She had contracted the same fever which had killed her husband and although she had recovered it had left her too weak and too listless to care for her two robust and noisy sons. They had gone to stay with George’s mother and Louisa had been persuaded finally that a few months in a hot climate would restore her to health. She and George had planned to come to Egypt one day. It was George who had regaled her with stories of the discoveries that were being made in the sands of the desert. It was George who had promised that one day they would go there and that she would paint the temples and tombs. The somewhat unconventional household they ran with its laughter and conversation and the constant flow of painters and writers and travellers had fallen apart when illness had struck. George’s mother had arrived, nursed them both, taken away the children, dismissed half the servants, substituted her own and left Louisa devastated.

Glancing from Sir John to his wife, Louisa saw that the latter was no longer listening to her, but the mention of Augusta’s nephew, Edward, brought her back from her daydreams and for a few minutes she sat, her beautiful dark eyes fixed on Louisa’s face, as her guest described how that young man, a friend of George’s, had rescued her, arranged her passage, booked the steamer from Cairo and persuaded his uncle and aunt to take her to see the excavations. Without his help she would have been destroyed.

His uncle and aunt were however not quite as unconventional as their nephew and she was finding out every minute that her dreams of conversation and laughter and the convivial travel which she and George had so often discussed were far from what the Forresters had in mind.

Anna looked up. Her neighbour appeared to be asleep. Over the back of the seat in front of her she could see the film in full swing. Most of the passengers seemed to be engrossed in the action. Surreptitiously she tried to stretch and wondered how long she could last before she had to ask him to move so she could go to the loo. She glanced back towards the rear of the plane. The queue for the lavatories did not seem to have grown any shorter. Beyond the thick glass of the window the distant ground had turned the colour of red and ochre and gold. The colours of Africa. With a tremor of excitement she stared down for a long time, before leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes. She was almost there.

It was impossible to sleep.

She opened the diary again, eager to lose herself in Louisa’s adventures and blot out her own less than romantic mode of travel. Skimming down the cramped slanted writing with its faded brown ink, she flipped through the pages, glancing at the sketches which illustrated the narrative.

‘Hassan brought the mules at first light so that we could escape the worst of the heat. He loaded all my painting equipment into the panniers without a word. I was afraid he was still angry at my lack of tact and understanding of his role, but resolved not to speak of it. Instead I allowed him to help me onto my animal without uttering a word either of apology or of remonstrance at his outburst. He looked up at me once and I saw the anger in his eyes. Then he went to collect the lead rein of the pack animal and climbed onto his own. We rode all the way to the valley without speaking.’

Anna glanced up again, wearily rubbing her eyes. It did not sound as though Louisa had had a good time with Hassan. She turned on a few pages.

‘I saw him again today – just a faint figure in the heat haze. A tall man, watching me, who one minute was near me and the next minute was not there. I called out to Hassan but he was asleep and by the time he had reached my side the man had vanished into the strange shimmer thrown by the heat of the sand. The shadows where I set my easel were dark in contrast but out there, on the floor of the valley there was nowhere for him to hide. I am beginning to feel afraid. Who is he and why does he not approach me?’

That sounded exciting. Exciting and mysterious. With a small shiver Anna looked up with a start to see the flight attendant hovering with a jug of coffee. Her neighbour, ignoring the woman, was looking down at the diary on Anna’s knee with evident interest. She closed it and slipped it into her bag, reaching for the tray in front of her and letting it down onto her lap. He had already looked away. Outside, the sun was slipping nearer and nearer to the horizon.

Her neighbour appeared to have fallen asleep when she fumbled in her bag once again for the diary, and opening it at random was captivated immediately by the words which sprang from the page. ‘I begin to love this country …’

Louisa set down her pen and stared out of the window at the dark river outside. She had pulled open the lattice shutters to allow the smell of it, the warmth of the night air, the occasional breath of chill wind from the desert to enter her cabin. It all captivated her. She listened carefully. The other cabins were silent. Even the crew were asleep. Gathering up her skirts she tiptoed to the door and opened it. The steps to the deck were steep. Cautiously she climbed them and emerged into the darkness. She could see the humped forms of the sleeping men before the mast and heard suddenly a brief sleepy snore as one of them eased his head on the cushion of his arm. Another breath of cold air and she could hear the rustle of palm fronds on the bank. Above, the stars were violent sparks against the blue-black sky.

There was a slight movement behind her and she turned. Hassan’s bare feet had made no sound on the deck. ‘Mrs Shelley, you should stay in your cabin.’ His voice was no more than a whisper against the whisper of the wind in the reeds.

‘It’s too hot down there. And the night is too beautiful to miss.’ Her mouth had gone dry.

She could see his smile, his teeth white against the dark silhouette of his face. ‘The night is for lovers, Mrs Shelley.’

Her face burning, she stepped away from him, her knuckles tight on the deck rail. ‘The night is for poets and painters as well, Hassan.’

With half an ear she was listening for sounds from below deck. Her heart was beating very fast.

Her neighbour was looking at Louisa’s diary again, she could sense it. Anna sighed. He was beginning to irritate her. His glance was an invasion of her space, an intrusion. If he was not prepared to make a minimum of polite conversation he had no business being interested in her reading material! Closing the diary, she forced herself to look up and smile at the seat-back in front of her. ‘Not long now.’ She turned towards him. ‘Are you going on a cruise too?’

He was an attractive man, she realised suddenly, but even as she thought it his face closed and she saw it harden and the warmth vanished.

‘I am indeed, but I very much doubt it is the same one as you.’ His accent was difficult to place, very faint – slightly Scots perhaps, or Irish – because that was all he said. He shifted his shoulders slightly, turning away from her, and putting his head back against the seat he closed his eyes once more.

She felt a surge of anger and resentment. Well, that had certainly put her in her place. How dare he assume anything about her! Turning abruptly towards the window she stared out, astonished to find that far below them it was already dark. In the distance, she realised suddenly that she could see lights. They would soon be arriving at Luxor.

By the time she had been through passport control and retrieved her suitcase among the teeming throng of other tourists Anna was exhausted. She hung onto her case, grimly waving away the offers of help from a surge of gesticulating shouting would-be porters, and joined the queue for the bus.

The White Egret was a small boat. The brochure had shown the Victorian paddle steamer on a separate page from the other cruisers belonging to the travel company, emphasising its age, its history, and its selectness. There would be only eighteen passengers. It was a long shot she had suspected, even to try and find a place on it but she had made the effort because it was the closest she was likely to get to the kind of boat Louisa would have travelled on from Cairo to Luxor, and to her enormous delight and surprise they had written to say that there had been a cancellation and she found herself allocated one of the only two single cabins.

A hasty glance round the bus showed her that her neighbour from the plane was not there. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or sorry. She had not enjoyed his rudeness. On the other hand his would at least have been a familiar face amongst all these strangers. She made her way towards the back and sat down, her small holdall and camera bag on the seat beside her. Was she the only person there on her own? It seemed like it. Everyone else was sitting in pairs and the level of excited conversation had escalated as the door closed and the bus pulled away. She gazed out into the darkness feeling suddenly bleak and lonely and then realised with an excited sense of shock which put all thoughts of her loneliness out of her head that beyond the reflections of the bus windows she could see palm trees and a man in a white turban, perched on the rump of a tiny donkey trotting along the road in the dark.

The boat – three storeys, picked out in lights with a huge paddle wheel each side – was moored on the outskirts of the town. They were welcomed with hot towels for their hands and a drink of sweet fruit juice, then they were given their cabin keys.

Her cabin was small but adequate, her case already waiting for her in the middle of the floor. She looked round with interest. Her new domain provided her with a single bed, a bedside locker, on which stood an old-fashioned internal telephone, a dressing table and a narrow cupboard. It was scarcely luxury, but at least she did not have to share it with a stranger. Throwing her holdall, camera and shoulder bag down on the bed she closed the door behind her and went to the window. Pushing back the curtains and opening the shutters she tried to see out but the river bank beyond was dark. To her disappointment she could see nothing. Pulling the curtains shut again she turned back to the room. Half an hour, they had been told, until supper, and then in the morning they would be ferried across the River Nile and their first visit – to the Valley of the Kings, Louisa’s Valley of the Tombs – would begin. A wave of excitement swept over her.

It took no time at all to unpack, to hang up the dresses and skirts she had brought with her – there was no need of a Jane Treece to help her – and to lay out her few cosmetics on the dressing table. Amongst them she stood her little perfume bottle. It had seemed only right to bring it to the land of its origins, whether those origins had been in some lowly bazaar or in an ancient tomb.

There was time for a quick shower before dinner. Throwing off her clothes she turned and ducked into the little bathroom. She stood for five minutes beneath the tepid trickle of water, letting it wash away the weariness of the journey before forcing herself out of her reverie, and, stepping out onto the duckboard on the tiled, mosaic floor between the loo and the doll-sized basin, she reached for her towel.

Pulling it round her she stepped back into her room. The temperature in the cabin had dropped. Shivering, she stared round, puzzled. There was no air conditioning control that she could see. Perhaps there was some central system on the boat. Pulling on her green cotton shift and slinging a lightweight sweater round her shoulders she stopped in her tracks again, frowning. There was definitely something odd about the temperature in the room. She hoped she wouldn’t have to complain about it; she had expected Egypt to be hot! Shrugging, she gave one more glance round the cabin and then she headed for the door.

This was the moment that she was dreading. She had to go out and meet the other passengers. This was her first sortie into life as a single woman once again. If she had imagined the people on the cruise with her at all it was as a homogenous group of which she would be a part, not as a collection of couples where she would be the only one alone. With a deep sigh she let herself out into the broad, carpeted corridor outside and, noting with relief how warm it was, began to make her way to the main staircase of the boat. Straight ahead lay the lounge and the bar and the double doors which led out onto the deck, and down the stairs, magnificently railed in brass and decorated with palms and Victorian spittoons was the dining room towards which everyone was now heading.