The Visitors (46 page)

She paused. ‘Then, this summer, I decided to bite the bullet, stiffen the sinews, screw my courage to the sticking point and take the plunge! So I bought my beloved Oliver, and off I went. And once I started, I discovered it was surprisingly easy. I can’t think why I imagined writing would be hard, dear – it isn’t at all. You simply sit there and talk to the page. Sometimes you know what’s coming and sometimes you don’t, in fact, all sorts of things just
pop
up out of nowhere and astonish you.’

I listened to this intently – it continued in similar vein for some while. When Miss Mack finally drew breath, I reminded her that she still hadn’t told me what her book was about. At this, she shifted in her seat and gave me a sibylline look that, over the next two months in Egypt, I would come to recognise.

‘Well, dear, it’s called
An American Amidst the Tombs
, but that will have to change. You see, Lucy, it started off as a family memoir: I wrote a great deal about my first visit to Egypt with my father, the pyramids, the pelicans, and so on. I did
so
want to do the flora and fauna justice… ’ She frowned. ‘But The Book soon began to make its wishes known. It reminded me of everything that happened to us on our last visit: meeting Mr Carter and Lord Carnarvon – that lunch in the tomb, the storm in the Valley, the political upheaval, a new nation in the throes of being born. And
then
I heard the rumours that Mr Carter had found a tomb. That’s when I realised I was an eyewitness, Lucy, right there on the spot when history was being made.

‘I can see now how
slow
I was,’ she continued, ‘but The Book knew which route I should take – and once I listened to it, all became clear. What I need to write, Lucy, isn’t some fusty memoir. I need to
report what’s happening in the Valley right now.
A detailed blow-by-blow account by one who was there. What do you think, dear?’

I made encouraging noises. I asked her if she was writing to a plan, an authorial scheme.

‘No, no,
no
!’ she cried, throwing up her hands. ‘A scheme would have a very
cramping
effect! The Book itself will decide that – and where it leads, I’ll follow. A bit like Ruth and her mother-in-law in the Bible. You remember, Lucy?
Whither thou goest, I will go.
’ She paused. ‘However, I have given considerable attention to the far more important issue of
style.
I’ve never written
reports,
as such. They need to be crisp, concise and
informed
. But I’ve rewritten my first five chapters now, dear, and I’ve found my voice, I’m hitting my stride. I have a model in mind, obviously.’

I could see she wanted me to press her, so I asked who this model could be.

‘Mark Twain, who else?’ she replied, on a triumphant note – and shortly afterwards we retired to our rooms. ‘Stout shoes and an early start tomorrow morning, Lucy,’ she announced from her bedroom doorway. ‘It’s time to explore the Theban hills. We’ll do some investigating; the view of the Valley from there is superb. If anything is happening at Mr Carter’s site, we’ll soon know. The Book needs
material
, dear. Mohammed will pack us a picnic. Some rugs – binoculars, obviously – and off we’ll go!’

She gave me a speaking look, then firmly closed her door. From beyond it, within minutes, came the rattle of the Oliver No. 9 keyboard, the screech of the return carriage, the ratcheting sound as she inserted a fresh page. The Book must have had her in an iron grip: it was two in the morning before the Oliver fell silent at last.

I’d gone to sit on the deck by then, to breathe the air, to drink in Egypt and remind myself that at last I was there. I gave silent thanks to my mother and to Miss Dunsire, the two women who had made my journey possible. The crew had left one kerosene lamp alight; I extinguished it and wandered the boat in the starlight, back and forth. At a distance, on the east bank of the river, the windows of the Winter Palace glowed. It was still early in the season, but even so I could hear hotel dance music, drifting its seductions across the water – blues, a tango, ragtime; another drift of blues. I lay down on the deck and gazed up at the heavens, the arching stars. I could hear the shift and lap of the Nile, a sussuration as it stroked the
dahabiyeh
’s hull. The boat’s timbers creaked and moaned as it moved on the water, tugged against its mooring ropes; the reeds whispered and rustled; from the desert came the hooting of an owl.

Sitting up, and turning towards the hills that hid the Valley of the Kings, I could just make out the American House, its dark crouching bulk backed up against the rocks; the Winlocks were not due in Egypt for some weeks yet, so perhaps it was still closed up, awaiting their arrival; it was unlit, I saw. At Castle Carter, however, someone must have been keeping a vigil similar to mine: lights blazed from its windows – and I wondered if a wakeful Howard Carter was there, planning his next day’s work in the Valley; if so, was he alone, or were Lord Carnarvon and Eve with him? What would they find tomorrow?

I returned to my cabin and, still wakeful, wanting to share the excitement I felt, I began on the first of my promised letters to Nicola Dunsire. I wrote:
Luxor,
aboard the good ship ‘Queen Hatshepsut’, Friday 24th November 1922. Dearest Nicola…
My handwriting was improving: I had nearly mastered italic script, and, as a parting gift, Miss Dunsire had given me a fountain pen. It fitted my hand perfectly.
Now Lord Carnarvon and Eve have arrived
, I wrote, as I reached the letter’s end,
Mr Carter can recommence excavations.
They begin tomorrow, which is very exciting! Miss Mack and I are making an expedition to the hills in the morning, in the hope of watching them at work.

Meanwhile, the great news is, Miss Mack has decided to become a reporter. She has begun a book about Mr Carter’s work. In the style of Mark Twain. If you’d been here, we might have laughed together about this – but you aren’t, so I did so alone. Such a night, so many, many stars… I’ll send this letter to Athens, where you should have arrived by now.
 

Pour mon père, félicitations. Pour toi – à bientôt et je t’embrasse, ma chère Nicole.
 

‘Can you see anything, Lucy?’ Miss Mack asked. She was pacing restlessly back and forth between the rocks high on the barren Theban hills. ‘Surely you can see
something
,
dear?’

I could see dust. My binoculars were focused on clouds of billowing white dust. Occasionally, when these dust clouds dissipated, I could see below us the figures of Carter’s workmen; some seemed to be resting, but a few were still plying their way back and forth from the dark square that must be the entrance to the putative tomb. Standing on a rise from which he could direct operations, was the thin bearded figure of Ahmed Girigar. It was ten minutes to four in the afternoon of Sunday 26 November – and this was the second of our reportorial expeditions to the hills.

At the behest of The Book, we’d spent much of the previous day in the same way, exploring the hills, selecting a suitable vantage point, picnicking and reading, while watching the events in the Valley below – historic events, or so local rumours claimed. When Carter had removed the infill protecting the stairs, he had discovered seals on the wall at their base – and they bore a king’s name. The discovery, which suggested this was a royal tomb, even if it did not prove it, had given the excavators new heart. They’d pressed on at speed: the previous morning, they had demolished the wall and discovered behind it a tunnel of unknown length. That tunnel proved to be blocked off, packed to its roof with rocks and chippings.

Both yesterday and today, Carter’s workforce had been excavating this barrier – or so we’d heard. And it seemed to be true: for two days, Miss Mack and I had watched huge quantities of flint debris being carted from a shadowy hole in the ground… not the most exciting of views, I felt. As I’d pointed out several times, there could be more tunnels and, for all we knew, they could
all
be blocked. They might extend two or three hundred feet into the rock, as those leading to the tombs I’d visited with Frances had done. Carter’s workmen could be engaged on this task for the next week, the next month,
longer…
in which case, Miss Mack was in for a tedious wait – and so was I.

‘I think they’re slowing down now,’ I said. ‘Maybe they’re taking a break. Not much seems to be happening.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, child,’ Miss Mack said, losing patience, ‘give
me
the binoculars.’

I retreated to the shade of a rock, ate an apple, stared at the air. I was thinking of the meeting in London, which Miss Dunsire had described as ‘the handover’ when I passed from one protectress to another. ‘Ah,
that
must be your guardian angel, Lucy,’ Nicola had remarked, spotting the anxious figure of Miss Mack on the boat-train platform at Victoria. Nicola had looked her up and down, eyebrows arched, and then advanced, with me scurrying beside her. ‘Don’t tease,’ I was muttering. ‘Be nice. I told you, she’s very kind – and she isn’t stupid, either.’

‘Miss Mackenzie. At last!’ Nicola clasped Miss Mack’s hands, kissed her in the French fashion on both cheeks. Miss Mack recoiled sharply and then, as I’d known she would, over-compensated. She talked. On and on, while Nicola stood by, appraising her, a bemused smile on her face:
So taken aback when she’d heard of the wedding… Gracious! Didn’t mean that,
quite
the wrong way of putting it. Sincere congratulations, overjoyed for everyone, the best thing that could have happened… so kind of Mrs Foxe-Payne to entrust her new stepdaughter to a woman she’d never met and didn’t know from Adam… Rest assured, vigilance, best possible care, old Egyptian hand, firm friends, would ensure Lucy wrote regularly, and kept up with her homework…

I could sense Nicola Dunsire’s amused derision, her deepening scorn. I crimsoned with embarrassment, praying she’d see beyond that torrent of words to the essential good-heartedness of the woman who uttered them. She gave no sign of doing so. She glanced at her watch, smoothed the lapels of the exquisite suit she was wearing, allowed her beautiful satiric gaze to dwell on Miss Mack’s crumpled tweeds, her flushed complexion, her untidy hair escaping from its pins; she cut in on the word ‘homework’.

‘Indeed. Lucy must not let her standards slip. She must keep up with the work I’ve set her. I intend her to be intelligent.’

There was a tiny pause: the word ‘intelligent’ hung in the air like a sword. Miss Mack lowered her eyes. ‘But Lucy
is
intelligent. At least, I have always believed so,’ she said in a quiet tone. ‘However, no doubt there is room for improvement, as there is for us all.’

It was the gentlest of reprimands – I wasn’t sure whether Nicola even noted it. She gathered me in her arms for a farewell embrace. ‘
Improve each shining hour, remember, Lucy
,’ she instructed, in a teasing tone, over her shoulder – and then she was gone.

In the heat of the Theban hills I considered the nature of shining hours. My plans were specific: I meant to return home and dazzle Miss Dunsire with the amazing progress I’d made while away. Accordingly – one poem, by heart, every day. I leaned back in the shade of my rock, opened the collection of Coleridge I’d brought and made sure I now knew
Kubla Khan
by heart. I did…
Caverns measureless to man
: would Carter and Carnarvon discover such caverns? Should I next learn sections of
Christabel
? I read on for a while, then closed the book and turned back to examine the Valley. From here, the view of it was magnificent: I could see its every twist and turn, trace the routes I’d followed with Frances, identify the tombs to which Herbert Winlock had taken us. The site of Carter’s excavations lay close to the ramped entrance to the burial place of Ramesses VI. So the tomb he’d found – if it
was
a tomb – was situated, as he’d believed, beneath the workmen’s huts, in that last unexplored section of his celebrated triangle.

A few of his men had been posted to keep any tourists at bay – though I’d seen very few visitors and the Valley was now deserted. The only activity had been centred on Carter’s workplace, next to which a small white tent had been erected; but even this work seemed to be winding down. The noise of digging was intermittent, and the number of basket boys carrying spoil much diminished: perhaps Carter’s workforce was making ready to down tools for the day.

My guardian angel was still on the alert, but I was beginning to lose faith in her reporting skills. So far, the gathering of information had consisted of these walks and a shameless attempt to interrogate our cook Mohammed, who, according to Miss Mack, would convey the all-important reactions of a man born and bred in this area. She had then discovered that he could be an even richer source of material: Abd-el-Aal Ahmad Sayed, Howard Carter’s major-domo, encountered on our previous visit, was his uncle.

Mohammed, grilled at length that morning, had proved richly informative. It was universally known, he said, and had been for over two weeks, that Mr Carter had
already
uncovered a tomb. This discovery had been predicted by his uncle Abd-el-Aal and by all the other servants at the Castle, the instant Carter arrived from Cairo to begin his dig. Carter had brought with him a cage containing a bird unknown in Egypt, a canary; the servants instantly understood that,
Inshallah,
this golden songbird was a good omen – so they were not surprised when that first step was found, only three days after its advent. They’d been sure that the stairway then revealed must inevitably lead down to a tomb filled with treasures, and had at once christened it ‘The Tomb of the Golden Bird’.

Unfortunately, and in circumstances that were opaque, this bird had been eaten by a cobra some days later. A cobra decorated the crown of all ancient Egypt’s kings, so the snake’s sneaking into Carter’s compound and snacking on the canary was
not
a good omen; quite the reverse. However, Mohammed continued more cheerfully, the cobra had subsequently been shot by Mr Carter’s good friend, Mr Pecky Callender, on whose watch the disaster had occurred: he had dispatched the snake with two blasts from a shotgun. And this
first
golden bird had now been replaced with a
second
, brought by Lady Evelyn from Cairo; so perhaps the ancient gods would be appeased and all would be well.