The Visitors (10 page)

Rose and Peter, still lying in their bath sarcophagus with their eyes shut, had a brief conference. Peter, not surprisingly given his age, had no opinion on the matter. Rose did: ‘Yea, we are ready and prepared… ’ she intoned in a sepulchral voice.

‘
Right,’ Frances continued, ‘this is the moment of truth. In fact, Ma’at, who’s the goddess of truth, is watching, and so is Anubis, the great black jackal god, so there’s no faking. Now your heart will be solemnly weighed, on a
huge
set of scales, like the scales of justice, but much bigger. On one side there’s your heart and on the other side there’s a feather––’

‘A
feather
?’ Rose sat up. ‘They weigh my heart against a
feather
?’

‘Yes, they do,’ said Frances firmly. ‘And if they don’t balance out, boy, you’re in trouble.’

Peter opened his eyes. The word ‘trouble’ affected him at once; his lips wobbled, and he made a grab for his sister’s hand. ‘What kind of trouble?’ Rose asked recklessly.

‘
Big
trouble,’ Frances replied. ‘If the scale that side goes down it means your heart is heavy with
evil.
It means you have a bad heart because you’ve done bad things in your life. So this huge horrible hairy monster comes along and gobbles you up. And that’s it: no afterlife for you.’

‘That can’t be right,’ Rose said, in a Sunday-school voice. ‘What about forgiveness? What if you
repent
?’

‘You can’t repent. Egyptian gods don’t forgive. It doesn’t
work
like that. You are what you’ve done. And if you’re bad, bad,
bad…
that’s it, you’re finished.’

At the repeated word ‘bad’, Peter made a small whimpering sound, covered his eyes with his hands and clung to his sister. Rose lay down again and hugged him.

‘On the other hand,’ Frances added, kindly, quickly and diplomatically, ‘if you have a
good
heart, like you, Peter, and you, Rose, then everything is hunky-dory. Your heart and the feather balance perfectly – and off you go to paradise, which is just like this life, only much better and even more beautiful, and you – you live by the Nile and the sun shines and… and there are no more tears, only joy and rejoicings, and you have nice things to eat and lots of servants to do things for you. For ever and ever… That’s if you’re a king, of course.’

She paused, then continued in a helpful, pedantic way: ‘Meanwhile, it’s pretty neat being a mummy, because of course you don’t rot, not if the priests have done their job properly, anyway… They’ve left your heart in, because you’ll need it for the weighing ceremony, but they’ve taken out your liver and lungs and all the gut-stuff and pickled them. And they’ve pulled your brains out through your nose with a special hook––’

At the mention of brains, noses and hooks, Peter could stand it no longer. He uttered one long agonised wail, then sat up. Large tears plopped silently down his flushed face.

‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Rose said, also sitting up and putting her arms around him. ‘Honestly, Frances, you are the absolute
end.
He’s only three… now he’ll have nightmares.’

‘He has nightmares already, you told me so.’

‘That’s because of Papa and his tempers. You don’t have to make it
worse
. Why do you have to be so gruesome? Now you’ve really upset him… Oh, hellishness! There, there, Petey – don’t cry, it’s all right. Frances didn’t mean it.’

‘Yes I did. It’s the
truth.
You asked––’

‘Oh, put a sock in it.’

‘Give him to me,’ I said. ‘I have some barley sugar in my room. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Peter?’

I held out my arms and the small trembling boy was bundled into them. He looked at me apprehensively, and wriggled at first, and I wasn’t sure how best to hold him, but I made the kind of soothing noises I could remember my mother making to me, and they seemed to have the right effect. I took him to my room, and found the barley sugar stick, and broke off a piece for him. He seemed to like its amber colour and twisted shape; he certainly liked its taste. The tears ceased.

It took a long while to suck the sweet down to nothing, and by the time he’d done that he’d forgotten Frances’s scare stories – although I had not. I cuddled him tight and kissed his forehead, and told him that of course he was a good boy and not a bad one – he seemed very anxious on this point. When his eyelids began to droop, I tried to settle him for a nap on my bed. But the second he realised I was leaving him alone, he clung to me and began to cry piteously, so in the end I took him back to the bathroom, where we could keep an eye on him while we practised our dance steps. Its marble floor was cold and hard, but I made a deep, warm nest for him out of the enormous, soft towels that Shepheard’s provided; he snuggled down into them, put his thumb into his mouth, and in an instant was asleep.

Later, when we’d finished our exercises, he woke up, toddled over and took my hand. He couldn’t pronounce my name, so he called me Lulu; he told me I had funny hair, but he liked it. I bent to kiss him again – he looked vulnerable, his skin still flushed from his sleep, and so sweet and trusting, that my heart gave a strange lurch. At his earnest request, I called him ‘Petey’ and he continued to call me Lulu. It was under this new name, and in this new guise, that, later that day, I was finally introduced to Howard Carter.

9

We were taking tea on the terrace at Shepheard’s when the meeting with Carter took place – and at our very own table. This scheme, initiated by Frances and endorsed by Rose, had been effected with the combined assistance of Helen Winlock, Miss Mack and an indulgent Evelyn. She had charge of Rose and Peter again that afternoon – Poppy d’Erlanger was, as usual, not in evidence. The waiters had entered into the game, installing us at one of the best tables, and bringing us double portions of cucumber sandwiches, biscuits with icing and cakes. There was a brief battle between Frances and Rose as to who should have the honour of pouring the tea. Rose had just won this tussle, and I was busy settling a cushion on Peter’s chair next to me, so he could reach the table, when I caught a waft of tobacco and lime cologne, and, looking up, saw Howard Carter.

Removing his hat with a flourish, he bowed to us with great ceremony – or mockery.

‘Lord Hurst… Lady Rose – Frances, my dear child – what a splendid tea, and the most fashionable table on the terrace too. Am I permitted to join you?’

He made a curt gesture that brought the waiters hastening to his side, a chair was produced, and he had seated himself before Frances and Rose, both pink with delight, had graciously informed him he could do so. He smiled that disconcerting smile of his, and I saw his penetrating brown-eyed gaze rest upon me.

Frances, alert to the social niceties, was beginning to introduce us, when Peter interrupted. ‘Lulu,’ he said, banging the table with a teaspoon that Rose quickly confiscated. He liked the sound, and repeated it in an ululating way: ‘Lulu, Lulu, Lulu.’

I had a feeling Carter already knew who I was, having perhaps discovered my connection to Miss Mack, and to steel and railroads. Something in the measured assessing stare he gave me suggested this, but if it were so he disguised it, merely nodding his head at me, and drawling, ‘Delighted,’ in a way that made me fear I should dislike him. I sat there on tenterhooks, nibbling a cucumber sandwich, hoping he’d redeem himself.

‘So do tell us, Mr Carter,’ said Rose, a good mimic, playing the hostess, ‘how much longer shall we have the pleasure of your company in Cairo?’

‘Just a few more days, Lady Rose,’ he replied. ‘I’ll wait until Lord Carnarvon arrives – then I’m off to the Valley.’

‘Well, I should think
so
,’ Frances put in. ‘I can’t understand why you’re still here. It’s late in the season for you. Why aren’t you in the Valley working?’

‘Because, Frances, I was ill last November – I had to have an operation in London, and then I was convalescent for six long weeks.’

‘Not a
serious
operation, I trust,’ said Rose, pouring tea.

‘No, no – a mere bagatelle, involving gallstones. Lord Carnarvon’s surgeon wielded the knife, so I was in very safe hands. And then I stayed to recuperate at Seamore Place – that’s Carnarvon’s Mayfair town house, you know, so I was well looked after.’

I swallowed the sandwich and stared at the tablecloth. I despised all name-dropping, and this was clumsily done; my disappointment deepened.

‘I couldn’t get out to Cairo until last week. So it will be a short season for us in the Valley this winter. It will be February before we start and we’ll finish off in early March. But we’ll be back up to strength for a full season this coming October. Meanwhile, I’ve been employing my time in Cairo very usefully.’

‘Have you been
dealing
?’ Frances asked, her clear voice carrying to the adjacent tables.

Several heads turned, and Carter flashed that dangerous smile. Leaning forward, he said quietly: ‘Frances, I’ve used my eyes and my expertise
.
And I think certain collectors – and certain museums – will be pleased with the result. But let that be our secret, and don’t use that word, especially here in this nest of gossip mongers.’

‘Have you found some marvels?’ Frances asked, lowering her voice to a whisper.

‘One or two… yes, one or two. And my good friend Tano was generous enough to throw in a few small trifles. I’d been racking my brains as to who might like them – then I saw you all here, and I found I had my answer.’

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew some tiny parcels, wrapped in shiny white paper and sealed with red wax. I had been expecting three: to my surprise, there were four. Carter handed them to each of us in turn.

‘For me?’ I said. ‘But you don’t know me, Mr Carter.’

‘On the contrary. We’ve just been introduced. So don’t argue.’

We all unwrapped our parcels eagerly. We three girls had each been given a single and exquisitely worked bead: Frances’s was obsidian, Rose’s carnelian, and mine lapis lazuli. Peter also had a bead, made of silver, and in the shape of a hippopotamus.

‘Ippo!’ he cried, delighted. He had difficulty with aitches.

‘Oh, they’re beautiful,’ said Frances, flushing with pleasure. ‘That is kind of you.’

‘Beautiful, and three thousand years old. Give or take a century.’

‘Did they belong to a queen, Mr Carter?’ Rose asked, in a hopeful way.

‘Maybe. Or to a king. Once part of a bracelet or collar, perhaps. They’re stolen goods, of course.’

‘Stolen?’ Frances was gazing intently at her bead.

Carter shrugged. ‘Oh, stolen by some tomb robber, almost certainly. But nothing to worry about – we can forgive a theft that took place two thousand years ago, can’t we?’

‘They couldn’t be – they weren’t part of the Three Princesses’ treasure hoard, were they?’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘But you must have done, surely? I thought––’ She broke off as Carter gave her a sharp glance, and then continued quickly: ‘Well, wherever they came from, they’re lovely. Look, Lucy – yours is carved to look like a nasturtium seed.’

We all thanked him. Carter fell silent. He perhaps found our childish enthusiasm irritating, or was becoming bored – as I’d learn, his mood changes were sudden and often inexplicable. Having given the presents, he seemed to lose interest in them and in us. He asked our permission to smoke and lit a cigarette, using that silver box and gold holder I’d glimpsed before. He drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes on the other guests thronging the terrace; I think he was noting who was there and with whom. He gave the impression of distancing himself, and dwelling on some private grievance, while half listening to our prattle. Rose was telling him at length about the game we’d played that morning in my sarcophagus bath, and Frances’s enactment of funeral rituals.

‘She performed the Opening of the Mouth ceremony,’ Rose was saying, ‘and it was horrible
.
It made Petey
howl––
’

‘Frances, you should know better than that,’ Carter interrupted sharply. He swung around in his chair to face her. ‘These were profound beliefs. Not a joking matter.’

‘I wasn’t joking, I was
explaining
,’ Frances protested.

‘To a three-year-old? What were you thinking of? Don’t do it again.’ He paused. Frances had coloured, and I could see she was hurt by this sudden reprimand from her hero. ‘You’ve been in the Valley,’ he continued. ‘You’ve been in those tombs. Did they teach you nothing? Tell me, were you never afraid?’

‘Well, no, not often. Maybe once, when the candles blew out and it was dark. But Daddy said I was being superstitious and foolish.’

‘Your father was wrong. Take it from me.’

Frances flinched and subsided into silence. We all stared at Carter, who had raised his voice and now appeared angry. Peter put his hands over his eyes and began to tremble.

‘But I thought you
liked
the Valley and the tombs, Mr Carter,’ Rose said. ‘You live so close to it. You’ve worked there for years and years and years. You’ve made so many discoveries. Everyone says you––’

‘Oh, they do, do they? Then everyone is wrong. As usual. The Valley can be the most hateful place on earth. Or its opposite. Remember that. Frances, don’t meddle with matters you can’t understand. Learn respect. And watch your tongue in future.’

With that, he rose to his feet, gave us all a curt nod, then turned and walked out. I stared after him, trying to understand what could have provoked this sudden harsh change. Both Peter and Frances were now in tears, and even Rose was disconcerted.

‘Gosh, he really is frightfully rude,’ she said. ‘
And
that cigarette holder is made of gold, which is such a
boast.
’

I comforted Peter and thought over this encounter, trying to decode it. It was not the mention of the ‘Opening of the Mouth’ game that had caused the problem, I decided; it might have seemed that it was, but I felt the true cause was something that had been said earlier. That evening, when I had Frances alone, I asked her in a casual way who were the three princesses she had mentioned, and what was the story of their treasure. Frances was too quick for me; she clammed up at once.