Phyllis was only gone two minutes. I have something here which might interest you. She did not look at Anna as she sat down once more. She had dropped a package onto the table in front of her. When I was going through Louisas papers and sketchbooks I despaired of ever finding anything personal. If there were letters she must have destroyed them. There was nothing. Then a few months ago I decided to have an old desk restored. The veneers had lifted badly. She paused. The restorer found one of the drawers had a false bottom and inside he found this. She passed the packet over to Anna.
Anna took it. What is it?
Her journal.
Really? Anna glanced down in sudden excitement. But that must be incredibly valuable!
I expect so. And interesting.
Youve read it?
Phyllis shrugged. I had a quick look at it, but the writing is very difficult and my eyes arent so good these days. I think you should read it, Anna. Its all about her months in Egypt. And in the meantime I think you should ring your father. Life is too short for huffs and puffs. Tell him hes being an idiot, and you can say I said so.
The diary was on the back seat of the car when it was time to leave. The last crimson rays of the sunset were fading as Anna climbed in and reaching for the ignition looked up at her aunt. Thank you for being there. I dont know what Id do without you.
Phyllis shook her head in mock anger. You would cope very well indeed as you know. Now, ring Edward tonight. Promise?
Ill think about it. Ill promise that much.
She did think about it. In the queue of heavy traffic making its way slowly back into London after the sun-drenched weekend she had plenty of time to reflect on Phylliss advice and review her situation. She was thirty-five years old, had been married for fourteen years, had never had a job of any description whatsoever and was childless. Letting in the clutch she edged the car forward a few yards as the streams of traffic converged from the motorway into the clogged London streets. Her mind glanced sideways away from that last particular memory. She couldnt cope yet with the idea of Felix as the father of another womans child. She had few friends, or so it seemed at the moment, a father who despised her, and a terrifying vista of emptiness before her. On the plus side there was Phyllis, the photography, the garden and whatever Phyllis said, the house.
One of the reasons Felix had left her the house was the garden. It was large for a London property, at first glance narrow and rectangular, but by some vagary of planning back in the eighteenth century the end of the garden took a steep angular bend around the back of two other houses, whose own gardens were thus sharply curtailed, doubling its size. The garden was Annas passion. Felix had as far as she knew never even walked to the end of it. His interest began and ended with its uses as a place for entertaining corporate clients. Drinks. Barbecues. Sunday tea. The terrace with its jasmine and roses, its old terracotta pots of herbs that was the extent of his interest. Beyond it, the winding paths, the high trellis-topped walls, the intricate beds with their carefully planned colours, the occasional half-hidden piece of sculpture lovingly garnered from trips to country antique shops was her domain alone.
It had stunned her when in the divorce settlement Felix had specifically mentioned the garden. He had said she deserved it after all her work. It was the nicest thing he had ever said to her about it.
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 moments silence, then: I cant 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. Im 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, Im sorry, but we could not have reached some accommodation. Our marriage is over. Our decision. No one elses. If you feel slighted in some way, then Im sorry. It was not intentional. I kept you informed all the way, if you remember. Every day. Her temper was fraying.
I dont 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 its 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. Im sorry to disappoint you, Anna, dear, but Im 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 doesnt 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 Felixs 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 hadnt 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 havent. 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 couldnt 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 wasnt 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 planes 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 neighbours 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 Louisas 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.
Its 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. Youre so brave, Louisa. I cant imagine how frightening the rest of the trip is going to be.
It wont 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 youre 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 Louisas departing back.