Chapter 1
Cairo, 1915
We can always smell them before we see them.
Today it’s bad, really bad, but not as bad as the first time, because then we had no conception of just what we’d see when the wooden doors of the train slid back. Then, that first time, we’d all surged eagerly forward as soon as the train stopped, ready to help, prepared to assist those who could walk and carry those who couldn’t.
And then it hit us.
It was overpowering. It stopped us dead in our rush forward; made us stagger back. It wasn’t heat, or dust, or blowing sand – in Egypt, we were used to those – but a smell. It was more than a smell. It was a stench. So strong it grabbed deep into our throats; made us cough and choke, made our eyes pour water. I’d never smelled anything like it before; couldn’t begin to think what it was.
I know now. It’s the smell of infected wounds, of bandages that haven’t been attended to for days, of unwashed bodies, of stale sweat. Awful. Just awful. But now, I can cope. I’m expecting it. I don’t react the way I did that first time, almost vomiting onto the sand.
Gwen did. Well, she didn’t actually vomit. Gwen would never do anything so unattractive in public. But she went – very prettily – quite white, and Frank had to take her back to the motorcar she was driving and sit her down for a bit. She recovered quickly, though. Gwen’s tougher than she looks, and when it’s an emergency she comes through. And she’s used to it now, after months of volunteer driving.
So am I.
Now I can step forward and say briskly to the doctors and orderlies on the train, ‘I’ve got room for three in my car, who should I take first?’ And I can smile at the white, exhausted faces of the soldiers they send towards me, and say cheerfully, ‘Hello! I’m Flora. Come on now, we’ll have you at the hospital in just a couple of minutes.’
And if one of them is not too exhausted, or in too much pain, and says something like, ‘But you’re an Australian girl, aren’t you? And you’re driving a motorcar!’ I can answer something bright and cheerful, like, ‘Well, you can’t be too bad then, if you can notice things like that! That’s good! You’ll be fine in no time!’
And I keep chatting and smiling, smiling and chatting, until I hand them over to the hospital staff on the wide marble steps of the hospital, steps that were once pure white and wiped down every time a foot put a mark on them, but that are now dusty and sandy and stained with the brown marks of old blood. No one has time to bother with washing marble steps now.
And then, as I turn the motorcar around and head back to the train for another load of soldiers, I can stop smiling for a moment. But then there’s another load. And another. And I have to smile again, smiling all the time, holding my breath to try to keep the appalling smell out of my throat, but never, never letting the soldiers see it.
It’s only afterwards, when the train is empty, that I can cry.
…
I’d known things were going to be different in Egypt, that season of 1914 to 1915, even well before the war began. On a purely personal level, I’d been looking forward to the season for years. This season, I was sixteen years old. A very significant age. I’d be officially grown up. I wouldn’t be just a schoolgirl tagging along to Egypt with her archaeologist father anymore, but a properly grown-up, left-school-forever young woman, who was now his assistant.
Since I turned sixteen just a few months ago, my whole appearance had changed. It was like magic, I’d been transformed from a gawky duckling into – well, if not quite a swan, then something as nearly approaching a swan as hairdressers and dressmakers could make me, given the raw material they had to work with. My Aunt Helen had seen to all of that.
From a plait down my back, my hair had been cut and curled into a knot on the back of my neck, with a few careless, casual, wispy tendrils (that took a great deal of work to create) around my face.
I’d had new clothes made, quite different clothes. Some of that was good, no more black stockings and skirts well above my ankles; boring, schoolgirl outfits. Now I had smart blouses and skirts that came right down to my stylish new shoes, and pretty dresses for afternoons and evenings. Wonderful! But some of it was, well, not quite so good.
‘Now you’re sixteen and you’re not a schoolgirl anymore, Flora …’ Aunt Helen had begun.
We were in a big department store in Brisbane, shopping for my new wardrobe, and Aunt Helen, who bore a bosom like a battleship, had already ploughed her way through the departments of Gowns, Millinery and Ladies’ Boots and Shoes, leaving shop assistants bobbing in her wake.
‘Yes?’ I’d said warily.
‘A corset,’ decreed Aunt Helen. ‘It’s high time you had a proper corset.’
And in the Corsetry Department I’d been inserted into a contraption of stiffened cotton and boning by a determined and formidable fitter, herself with a bosom that you could balance a tea tray on. I’d been laced up until I was gasping like a floundered fish.
I’d brought the corset with me on the ship to Egypt, but it was packed deep in my trunk. If Aunt Helen thought I was going wrap myself in that instrument of torture every day, she was wrong. It wasn’t at all the sort of garment that lent itself to crawling through narrow passages in ancient tombs and temples.
But far, far more than my newly grown-up status was making Egypt different this year. Months ago, my father had received a letter.
‘Khalid says there are very few archaeologists travelling to Egypt for the season this year,’ he said, the letter in one hand and a buttered breakfast muffin in the other. ‘The English aren’t going. The Germans aren’t going. No French, either. He wants to know what I want to do. Will I be going? What does he mean they’re not going? I can’t understand it!’
‘The war, Fa,’ I said. ‘They’re not going because of the war.’
‘The war?’ My father looked up vaguely, as if it was the first he’d heard of it. ‘Why would that stop them?’
‘I suppose it could be difficult,’ I said. ‘Awkward, you know, with English and Germans excavating next to each other.’
‘Oh.’ He thought about that. ‘I don’t see what the war’s got to do with archaeology,’ he said at last.
Well, he wouldn’t. My father hardly recognised the modern world existed. He lived, breathed and thought about little other than ancient Egypt. It was extremely fortunate for my father that his grandfather had made a fortune as a grazier. Fa could indulge his passion for archaeology without having to bother about anything as mundane as earning a living. My mother had died before I could even remember her, so my father had only himself to please. From around November to March or April every year he went to Egypt and excavated ancient tombs and temples. He donated most of his significant finds to the Egyptian Museum. Some very important pieces went to the British Museum in London. But there were plenty of other, smaller artefacts that he was able to keep. He came home to Australia, accompanied by crates of artefacts, and studied them and arranged them and wrote about them and discussed them with people at museums. In Egypt, he was as happy as a rather sandy wombat, scrabbling away under the ground.
‘You won’t be breaking any new wartime regulations by going? Mr Khalid will be able to arrange it all, won’t he?’ I asked.
I wanted to go too. Archaeology was fascinating, but the social life in Cairo during the season was absolutely glittering. And this year, I’d be able to go to all the parties and dances and dinners. I wouldn’t have to stay meekly at home like a good girl while my father went out. This year, my biggest excitement would be staying up for dinner when he had guests himself.
‘Laws? Regulations? Khalid will take care of them.’ My father brushed my worries aside like slightly annoying flies.
I nodded. I was sure he could. Mr Khalid could take care of anything.
We were going to Egypt. Just as we did every year.
As our ship approached the docks at Alexandria I began to see just how different it would be this year. There were many more ships in the harbour than usual, and they weren’t at all like the ships that usually docked here. These were sleek, grey, dangerous-looking ships, battleships, war-ships, troop-ships. The usual dockworkers, in cotton gallibayahs, dealt languidly with boxes and trunks, but there were far more soldiers. And, unlike the dockworkers, they were moving with speed and purpose. The docks and the streets just beyond were full of them, khaki ants seething around a disturbed ant nest.
Mr Khalid always met us at Alexandria, and he was easy to see, a mountain of a man, wearing a spotless white gallibayah (I’d never seen a speck of dirt or a drop of sweat on him, and I’d often wondered how he managed it) and a red fez with a tassel. He always had workers around him, ready to transfer our luggage onto the train for Cairo. I scanned the docks, but I couldn’t see him. This was most unusual.
We walked down the gangplank, and I looked around again for Mr Khalid. ‘Where’s Khalid?’ my father fretted, anxious about our luggage.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered, looking again for the familiar huge, white figure. A younger, slimmer man appeared at my father’s side, dressed in white like Mr Khalid always was.
‘Mr Wentworth?’ he said. ‘I am Mr Hussein. Mr Khalid is my father. He has sent me.’ Mr Hussein was about twenty, I thought, with intelligent dark eyes and a wide moustache.
‘Khalid has?’ my father said. ‘Well, and I didn’t even know he had a son! I’m very pleased to meet you. But where is he?’
‘Mr Khalid apologises, but he is unable to meet you. He is very busy,’ Mr Hussein said. ‘He will meet you in Cairo. I will take care of you until then.’
Mr Khalid had always met us personally. I could feel my father wondering what he could possibly have to do that was more important than the Wentworth excavation.
Mr Hussein called for porters and a carriage, ushered us into it and drove us through the soldier-teeming streets to the station. There were masses of soldiers there, too, packing themselves into the carriages of the Cairo train. How would we ever get onto the train? I wondered. Mr Hussein, however, escorted us to a reserved, first-class compartment that was being guarded by railway officials to ensure that no one else tried to board it. After seeing us to our compartment he said, ‘I will see you in Cairo,’ and left.
The train journey from Alexandria to Cairo took between three and four hours, depending on how many camels there happened to be on the line and how often an official had to climb off the train and chase them away. After accepting tea from the carriage attendant, I pushed the lace curtains aside and looked out at papyrus-overgrown canals. We passed by villages of mud-brick houses standing on the edges of green fields, then we chugged into empty desert.
Egypt! My second home. It was wonderful to be back!
When we arrived in Cairo, instead of the horse-drawn carriage we’d always driven to our hotel out near the pyramids, Mr Hussein showed us to a motorcar.
‘A motorcar!’ my father said. ‘This is something new!’
‘Yes,’ Mr Hussein said proudly. ‘Mr Khalid is always up with the times.’
I was impressed. I’d wanted my father to buy a motorcar, everyone who was anyone in Brisbane had one, but he hadn’t seen the need. I’d been very disappointed; I’d desperately wanted to learn how to drive. I knew I’d look so utterly dashing behind the wheel!
‘Does Mr Khalid drive it?’ I asked enviously.
‘No,’ Mr Hussein said. His chest expanded a little. ‘I am the driver.’
I looked at Fa sidelong. He was preoccupied confirming that all his equipment was gathered about us. I smiled at Mr Hussein. It was worth a try. ‘Would you – could you teach me to drive?’ I asked.
Mr Hussein looked uncomfortable. ‘Indeed I could,’ he said. ‘But your father and Mr Khalid would have to agree.’
I sighed, but that was the way it was. There was little I, or any woman, could do without approval from a male relative. I was sure I could get my father and Mr Khalid to agree, but that I had to ask annoyed me.
We climbed into the motorcar, porters piled luggage up behind us, and Mr Hussein set off through the streets. There seemed to be even more soldiers here. We had an excellent view of them, perched up on the high seats of the motorcar. Of course, they also had an excellent view of us peering down at them, and many looked at us curiously. A number seemed to be off duty; they were wandering the alleys, looking into little shops, drinking coffee and beer in cafés and eating in restaurants.
We soon left them behind, and drove down the long, straight avenue leading from the middle of Cairo to the pyramids. I pulled my hat off and let my hair blow in the breeze. Even though it was winter in Egypt the days were still warm, though I knew it would be sharply cold in the evenings.
The Nile Palace, the hotel we always stayed at, was almost in the shadow of the pyramids. It was the only large building near them, set in a vast stretch of desert pockmarked with tombs and the ruins of temples. As we drove on, and the three huge shapes of the pyramids loomed before us, I saw something else: low, white shapes stretching out into the desert. Row after row of identical triangular shapes.
‘What’re they?’ I shouted to Mr Hussein above the roar and rattle of our engine.
‘It’s the Australian army camp,’ he shouted back. He shook his head. ‘It’s not a good place. It’s too low – mosquitoes, malaria.’
To avoid being bitten by the mosquitoes, we always slept under billowing white clouds of mosquito nets. I wondered if the soldiers had them as well. Unlikely, I thought.
The Nile Palace came into view. I loved our hotel. It was an eccentric extravagance of a building, an oriental fantasy of minarets, domes, arches, balconies and terraces in pure white marble. I always felt like a princess stepping into an enchanted castle as I entered. Perhaps I’d have a room like last year’s, with its own little domed balcony overlooking the pyramids. I hoped to have a room with a view of the lushly green garden, with its cooling splashing fountains and tiny pavilions smothered in vines.
Mr Hussein stopped the motorcar in front of the hotel and went into the lobby while Fa supervised the unloading of the precious baggage. When he was certain of the porters’ competence, Fa and I walked up the spotless marble stairs. As soon as we reached the top a worker leapt out of nowhere with a broom and brushed away the marks of our feet.
We joined Mr Hussein and the hotel clerk at the desk. ‘When it’s convenient the manager would like to see you,’ Mr Hussein said. He looked concerned.
The manager came to us as we sat on a terrace overlooking the garden, having tea. ‘Welcome back to Cairo, Mr Wentworth, Miss Wentworth. It is always good to see you,’ the manager said. I noticed he was rubbing his hands together. ‘But I am afraid I must tell you the hotel is soon to be requisitioned by the Australian army. It is to become a hospital.’ Now he was twisting a gold ring around and around his finger. There was a pause. ‘All of the guests will have to leave.’
Mr Hussein, hovering, looked outraged. ‘When will this happen?’ he demanded.
The manager lifted his shoulders apologetically. ‘A month? Six weeks? They have not told me. I was only informed today.’
‘Mr Wentworth and Miss Wentworth may stay for the present?’ Mr Hussein pressed.
‘Of course,’ the manager said. ‘But when I have word the Australians are ready …’ He spread his hands helplessly.
‘I have already sent for Mr Khalid,’ Mr Hussein said to my father.
I didn’t know when he had done this. He’d only heard about the Australians and the hospital just now. But things worked that way in Egypt. Mr Hussein would only have had to raise an eyebrow at one of the hotel staff for action to occur.
The manager looked alarmed. ‘Mr Khalid is coming? But there is nothing he can do, there is nothing anyone can do.’
Mr Hussein looked as if he rather doubted that.
Less than ten minutes later Mr Khalid arrived. He moved regally from the shadows of the lobby and walked over to the terrace. If Aunt Helen ploughed through life like a battleship, Mr Khalid floated as serenely as one of the white-sailed Arab feluccas on the Nile.
Mr Hussein sprang to attention. The hotel manager stood up respectfully. Mr Khalid and my father sketched bows to each other. I smiled, and Mr Khalid bowed to me as well.
Greetings over, Mr Khalid took a chair. He eyed the manager. ‘I am surprised,’ he said. ‘My information suggested this hotel would not be commandeered.’
Though Mr Khalid said he was surprised, he wasn’t showing it. I had never seen Mr Khalid outwardly surprised, or angry, or put out. He travelled through life tranquil and monumental and as inscrutable as a sphinx. People stepped aside for him, bowed, rushed to do his bidding. I knew he was immensely powerful in Cairo, he knew everything and everyone. He had fingers in every pie. He acted as agent for archaeologists and he owned property and dealt in imports and exports. I had never asked Mr Khalid a question about life in Cairo that he hadn’t been able to answer. Now, someone had failed in their duty to report to Mr Khalid. Someone, I felt, was going to regret this. Mr Khalid did not like to be surprised or misinformed. I was glad it wasn’t I who had failed him.
The manager, still standing, shuffled his feet. ‘It was only today I was informed. It was not expected. I have been in contact with other hotels, trying to find accommodation for my guests. It is not easy. So many buildings, not only hotels –’
‘Yes,’ Mr Khalid said, cutting him short. ‘It is the same all over Cairo.’
‘What?’ said my father, startled. ‘You mean the army’s taking over buildings? Whatever for?’
‘Sick soldiers?’ I suggested. ‘Mr Hussein told us about the malaria.’
‘You don’t need entire hotels for a few soldiers with malaria,’ my father said impatiently. ‘Incredible,’ he went on. ‘There’s no front here! No need for hospitals! The army always overdoes these things.’ He turned to Mr Khalid. ‘Isn’t that right?’
Mr Khalid looked at him calmly. ‘You are right,’ he agreed. ‘There is no front here. Quite possibly this is an overreaction. It will all settle down.’ He flicked an eye at Mr Hussein and the manager, and they politely withdrew.
My father was reassured. ‘As for hotel rooms, I’m sure you’ll be able to fix something up, won’t you, Khalid? I’ll leave you and Flora to deal with it. Now, how are things progressing at the excavation site? Ready to start work?’
He and Mr Khalid began talking about the excavation: how many workers had been employed, and exactly where my father planned to start digging.
I poured more tea, and passed a cup to Mr Khalid. I was concerned. If the army was setting up hospitals, surely it expected those hospitals to be used. There was no front here, certainly. But there were soldiers. Many, many soldiers. They must be here for a reason. Knowing Mr Khalid, I wondered if he knew more than he was telling.
A servant materialised at my elbow. ‘Miss Wentworth?’ he murmured. ‘You have a visitor.’
I looked around. Walking onto the terrace was a girl. No, not just a girl. A vision. A vision in white: a crisp white linen blouse and skirt, a glimpse of whitestockinged ankle, white high-heeled shoes, a waist so slim that a corset was definitely in the picture, a wide white hat, and even – only one girl I knew could have carried this off – a white parasol. I forgot all about soldiers and hotel rooms.
‘Gwen!’ I shrieked. ‘Gwen!’