Chapter 4
Fa was positively itching to get started on his excavation. It was a third dynasty tomb, which meant, I knew, that it dated from the Old Kingdom period, about four-and-a-half thousand years ago. Giza plateau tombs from the Old Kingdom period were built in mastaba style; flat-topped, rectangular buildings with sloping sides, usually constructed of mud brick or, less often, of stone.
‘As it is stone I am hoping that the tomb may have been built by a member of the royal family,’ Mr Khalid said as we drove across the Giza plateau. ‘A lesser member, of course, not a pharaoh. But at the very least, it will have belonged to a member of the nobility.’
‘I’m expecting some significant contents,’ Fa said, his eyes lighting up.
‘Hopefully,’ said Mr Khalid. From his position in the front seat, beside Mr Hussein, he glanced back at us. ‘Miss Flora is looking very interested,’ he observed.
I blushed, and leaned back. I’d been leaning forward in my seat watching every move Mr Hussein made as he drove the motorcar.
‘Perhaps Miss Flora would like to sit in the front?’ suggested Mr Khalid.
‘Oh, could I?’ That would give me an excellent view of the motorcar’s controls!
‘It will give you an unimpeded view of the tomb as we approach it,’ said Mr Khalid. He said it completely straight-faced, but as Mr Hussein pulled up and we got out and exchanged places, he gave me a small conspiratorial smile.
I settled into the front seat and watched breathlessly to see what Mr Hussein did when we moved off. We waited until a string of camels passed, padding softly on huge, flat feet, then Mr Hussein released a hand lever on the floor to his left. He pushed something on the floor with his foot, simultaneously operating something on the right side of the steering wheel with his hand as we pulled away smoothly. He did it again as we moved faster. That looked easy enough. But the engine had already been running. How did he start the motorcar? I watched him closely as we drove.
Mr Khalid and Fa continued their conversation from the back seat, shouting over the noise of the engine and the rattle from the rough road.
‘I have started the workmen clearing sand from the main entrance,’ said Mr Khalid. ‘There are no signs of tomb robbers, either through the door or down from the roof.’ He shrugged. ‘They may have entered from the sides; they are as yet uncleared.’
‘I’m hopeful thieves have bypassed it altogether, gone after easier targets,’ Fa shouted back. ‘After all, stone is much harder for robbers to penetrate than mud brick.’
We had already passed several excavation sites with workmen swarming around them carrying buckets of sand. One of these would be Professor Travers’ excavation. I tried to spot him or Frank as we drove by, but the white-suited, panama-hatted figures supervising the work could have been anyone.
‘There aren’t anywhere near as many excavations as usual, are there?’ I said to Mr Khalid as we reached our destination.
‘Far from it,’ he agreed. ‘The number of excavations is well down this season. The British are not coming, the Germans are not coming.’ Mr Hussein helped me from the motorcar. ‘There are no Italians, no French,’ Mr Khalid said. ‘It is fortunate for us that the Americans are continuing, along with privately funded excavations like Mr Wentworth’s. Even so, the workers are grateful to have jobs this year.’ He turned to Fa. ‘I have taken the liberty of employing more men than usual. They are eager for work, and the excavation will proceed faster.’
‘Excellent,’ said Fa. His eyes were fixed on the site in front of us.
As we approached, I could see the workers had dug down through years of sand to reveal the flat top of the tomb, this house of eternity. Fully uncovered, the tomb would look like a mastaba, the low bench made of mud bricks, which was a piece of furniture in most Egyptian houses.
I fanned flies away and followed Fa along one side of the tomb where workmen had uncovered the door of the main entrance. The sides and back of the tomb were still buried in sand, and the door stood in a pit.
Fa was almost trembling with impatience to get at it. But first, courtesy demanded that Mr Khalid introduce him to the team of workmen. After the many seasons he’d spent in Egypt, Fa spoke passable Arabic. I spoke rather less, though I could get by. As Fa encouraged them in their work, I could see the workmen were impressed that Fa spoke to them in their own language, with Mr Khalid interpreting just a little, as needed.
I could follow that Fa was promising them a bonus for every find – ‘no matter how small’, Fa emphasised – that they uncovered and brought to him. This was wise, I knew, because very small objects could be so easily concealed and carried off the excavation, hidden in the pockets of the men’s gallibayahs or under their headscarves, and sold on the black market. By promising immediate payment, the finds would come straight to Fa. On the other hand, objects could be smuggled on site, and ‘discovered’ for the sake of the bonus. Some might be genuine ancient artefacts, some might be fake. It was a constant battle of wits, Fa had explained wryly to me, and when they were caught in the act the workers were quite unrepentant, and treated it all as a huge joke. This year, however, with jobs being hard to come by, perhaps they wouldn’t try their trickery as often.
‘There is something you may be interested in seeing,’ Mr Khalid said to Fa. ‘The men noticed it when they began shifting the sand.’
He led us up a small rocky incline a little way from the tomb. A piece of canvas had been laid on the ground, weighted at the edges with rocks. Mr Khalid gestured and two workmen removed the canvas, peeling it back to reveal a hole. I stepped forward and looked down. I caught my breath.
I’d seen ancient burials before, but never one as old as this. Huddled in the bottom of the pit, curled onto its left side, was the body of a human. It was thin, dark brown in colour and totally dried out by the heat in the sand it had lain in for thousands of years. A few pieces of pottery lay in the grave beside it.
‘Hmmm.’ My father bent over the grave. ‘Pre-dynastic.’
Mr Khalid nodded. ‘At least five-and-a-half thousand years old.’
The body had not been intentionally mummified. He or she had simply dried out in the hot, dry sand and then lain, preserved, over the centuries until the workmen discovered it.
‘Interesting how the dry heat preserves them,’ Fa said. ‘Look, Flora, you can even see fingernails, and there’s a little hair remaining.’
Fa turned away and looked down the hill towards the mastaba. To him, this grave was of no importance. His focus was on the mastaba and what he hoped to find inside it. But I lingered, looking down into the grave. This had been a person. Someone had cared enough for him, or her, to place a few simple pots – probably all they could afford, I thought – in the grave, so that their loved one would have a supply of food and drink in the afterlife.
‘What would you have us do with the grave?’ Mr Khalid asked.
‘What do you think, Flora?’ Fa said, turning back to us. ‘Should it be filled in, let the fellow rest in peace?’
I was about to agree, when I had a thought. ‘We might have visitors to the site,’ I said. ‘If we did, they’d be interested in seeing this.’
Mr Khalid nodded, and gestured to the workmen to cover the grave again.
‘It will be quite safe?’ I asked as Fa hurried down to the mastaba. I didn’t like to think of anything disturbing the body.
‘I will see it is fitted with a more secure cover,’ said Mr Khalid, understanding me perfectly.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
At the end of the morning, on our drive back to the Nile Palace, I looked out at the excavation sites around and between the pyramids. Unlike previous seasons, there weren’t as many people gathered around the cemeteries of mastaba tombs containing royal sons and daughters and nobility. But around the pyramids and the Sphinx, business was booming. I watched parties of soldiers lining up to have their photographs taken standing beside the Sphinx, or balancing on the stones of the pyramids. Some were climbing to the top of a pyramid, guided by men who made it their business to show visitors the way. Others were taking rides on donkeys, camels or horses, or buying souvenirs from small stalls set up by enterprising Egyptians.
‘If men can’t get jobs on excavations this season, there seems to be plenty of opportunity here,’ I said to Mr Khalid.
‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied. ‘The soldiers have money and they want to spend it. They pay well for photographs and gifts to send home.’
I assumed that Mr Khalid had business interests in this area.
As Mr Hussein drove, I watched him very closely.
My father stared out at the desert. He’s not seeing it again, I thought. He’s thinking of the hoped-for contents of the tomb. But when we reached the hotel, Fa said to Mr Khalid, ‘I can quite see the advantages of running our own motorcar. You and Hussein have other calls on your time, Khalid, and if Flora and I had a motorcar we’d be able to come and go between the excavation and hotel and Cairo as we like.’ He glanced at me. ‘I’m sure Flora will be happy to add driving to her accomplishments. Perhaps you can locate a suitable motorcar for me to buy, Khalid?’
‘It will be no trouble at all,’ said Mr Khalid.
‘And will Mr Hussein teach me to drive?’ I burst out.
All three of them grinned at me. ‘That also will be no trouble at all,’ Mr Khalid said.
‘When? Tomorrow? Can Gwen come?’
‘If Mrs Travers approves,’ said Fa.
Mmm, I thought. That might take some persuasion.
We arranged my first driving lesson for the following morning, leaving me with the afternoon free. Fa and I took a table on the terrace and ordered iced lemonade.
‘I might take a trip into town to visit Gwen’s dressmaker,’ I said. A servant brought our lemonades, and a note from Mrs Travers. ‘Mrs Travers writes that Lady Bellamy would like to meet with her volunteers at the Ezbekieh Gardens pavilion for tea this afternoon,’ I read out. ‘This afternoon! Oh, bother!’
‘Don’t you want to volunteer?’ asked Fa. ‘I thought you said yes.’
‘Have you ever tried saying no to Mrs Travers?’ I said.
Fa thought. ‘It’d be quite a waste of time, wouldn’t it?’ he agreed.
‘Precisely,’ I said. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go and do some volunteering. But I don’t want it to stop me working on the excavation.’
‘Now’s a good time, then,’ Fa said. ‘It’ll be a few days before the men get enough sand cleared from the tomb to get inside. Even then, depending on the condition of the walls, I expect there could be a lot of sand to remove from inside.’
‘I’ll see if Mr Hussein can drive me into Cairo this afternoon,’ I said. ‘If he can’t, I’ll take the tram. You’re right, Fa, it’ll be much easier when we have our own motorcar and we can please ourselves where and when we go.’
At least, I thought, I certainly plan to please myself. Having a motorcar and being able to drive it would allow me a degree of freedom I’d never enjoyed before. I thought of Mrs Travers giving Fa her assurance that I’d be ‘suitably chaperoned’ if I volunteered at Lady Bellamy’s rest and recreation centre. I fully intended not to be suitably chaperoned when I was driving myself around Cairo. At the same time, I also knew I’d be safe. Anyone who was under the protection of Mr Khalid need not worry about being robbed, or cheated, or mistreated in any way. Driving in my motorcar, I’d be as safe as if Mr Khalid himself was sitting in the back.
Later in the afternoon I asked Mr Hussein if I could have a ride into Cairo. ‘I can easily get the tram, if it’s inconvenient,’ I said.
Mr Hussein looked disapproving. ‘The tram that runs from the hotel to the centre of town is always crowded with soldiers. Some of them can be …’ He looked for a word. ‘Rowdy.’
I was seated beside Mr Hussein in the motorcar, ready to go, when a boy ran from the hotel with a message for him. He glanced at it and said apologetically, ‘Will you excuse me for a moment? There is something I must do.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
I waited for a few minutes. I looked carefully at the motorcar’s controls again, trying to remember what Mr Hussein pressed and pulled as he drove. Then it occurred to me: I was here, the engine was running, all I had to do was slide over to the driver’s seat. Now, what exactly did Mr Hussein do? He put his foot here, he adjusted the lever on the column here, he held his left hand on the wheel and he did something that made the motorcar move forward with his right hand here –
Oh heavens! Oh heavens! The motorcar suddenly leapt forward. It bounced and bumped like a startled rabbit and kept going. How did I stop it? I pulled levers and pushed frantically with my feet but the motorcar kept rolling. It bounded over a bed of flowers and headed straight for a fountain. No – not the fountain!
I heard shouts and looked around to see Mr Hussein sprinting over the drive behind me. ‘Use the foot pedal on the right!’ he yelled. ‘On the right!’
I planted my foot on the pedal and pushed. The motorcar gave a last frenzied bound – and stopped. I sat, my hands frozen on the wheel. Mr Hussein ran up beside me, leaned over and pulled something. The engine shuddered, roared and cut out.
Silence. I looked, horrified, at Mr Hussein. ‘Have I wrecked it?’ I whispered.
Mr Hussein regarded me sombrely. ‘The motorcar is unharmed,’ he said. ‘But I am very afraid …’
‘What?’ I whispered. Had I run over someone?
Mr Hussein shook his head sadly. ‘I am afraid the flowers will never be the same.’ Then he laughed and laughed.
I was afraid Mr Hussein would never agree to teach me to drive after that, but after a stern warning about not touching the controls again until I knew what I was doing, he relented and said we would still have our lessons.
Mr Hussein dropped me at Shepheard’s and said he would be back to pick me up in three hours. Mrs Travers and Gwen were waiting for me and we walked across to the nearby Ezbekieh Gardens to meet Lady Bellamy.
‘I am not at all happy about Gwendoline driving a motorcar,’ Mrs Travers said immediately after we greeted each other. ‘Really, if it was up to me I should speak to your father, Flora, and advise him against it. However, my husband and Frank seem to think there is no harm to it.’ She made a movement that, in a less correct person than Mrs Travers, might have been seen as a toss of the head. ‘I appear to have been overruled.’
Behind her mother, Gwen made a face at me. I made one back and we were silent and demure for the rest of our walk. I decided to tell Gwen about my escapade with the motorcar when we were alone.
The Ezbekieh Gardens were a cool, restful oasis of green in the middle of the crowded, noisy, dusty city. We walked under lush trees, past a lake spanned by a pretty bridge, over lawns – struggling, rather, but recognisably lawns – and by beds of fragrant flowers. I didn’t know the gardens well, as we had always stayed outside the city at Giza, but I knew there were places for recreation and entertainment amongst the greenery: a theatre, a skating rink, a tavern and coffee houses. Now there was more. Other organisations, apart from Lady Bellamy’s, had also set up recreation centres for soldiers in the gardens. The YMCA had a large pavilion, and there seemed to be plenty of soldiers inside.
Lady Bellamy welcomed about twenty potential volunteers, mostly British civilians living in Cairo, to her pretty pavilion. I’d met some of the other volunteers in previous years. We all sat in cane chairs around a large table. ‘This lovely pavilion was once used to sell strong drink. But no more,’ said Lady Bellamy forthrightly. ‘We shall serve tea, and iced drinks and food, but this shall be a temperance concern.’
Gwen, leaning back in her chair and screened by my shoulder, murmured, ‘That’ll surely disappoint the soldiers.’ I tried not to smile.
‘We shall have table tennis, board games and cards,’ Lady Bellamy went on. ‘Naturally, there will be no gambling. Places must be arranged for writing letters home, and stationery shall be supplied. Soldiers may meet their friends here. We shall have shower rooms. Gramophone records must play at all times and we shall hold occasional concerts. We shall refer soldiers to respectable lodgings while they are on leave. Volunteers must always be here to assist with queries. I shall be creating a roster. Are there any questions, ladies?’
She didn’t look as if she expected any.
‘Um, I have a question,’ I said. All of the women turned and stared at me.
‘Yes?’ asked Lady Bellamy. ‘Flora, isn’t it? Flora Wentworth?’
I nodded. ‘Well, as we came through the gardens I saw several rest and recreation centres, the YMCA, for example. Why is another needed? What will make this centre different from the others?’
There was a collective, discreet noise of sucked-in air. Someone had dared question Lady Bellamy! Mrs Travers frowned at me.
Lady Bellamy gazed at me rather as if I were something unpleasant she’d discovered on the sole of her shoe. ‘Our centre shall be different,’ she said, ‘because English ladies will be running it. Many of our boys are away from home and the influence of their mothers and sisters for the first time. A place where they may converse with English ladies and take part in wholesome activities will be of immense benefit to them. We shall be an influence for good, in a way which organisations run by men – well-meaning and competent as they are – cannot be. Do you see?’
‘Yes, I see,’ I said. I could see Lady Bellamy’s argument, not that I necessarily agreed with her. I hoped that the soldiers who found their way here would enjoy their leave, despite being heavily influenced towards seemly behaviour by Lady Bellamy. I couldn’t honestly imagine how I could influence someone. I supposed I’d just serve them tea and smile, and hope for the best.
The meeting broke up, with Lady Bellamy promising to organise the rosters. ‘I assume Gwen and yourself prefer to work together?’ she said to me.
‘Please,’ Gwen and I said in unison.
‘That will make it easier to ensure you are suitably chaperoned,’ she said. ‘I would not be at all happy to have two young girls walking to and from their hotel through the gardens without appropriate escorts.’ She wrote on her roster.
‘Through the gardens?’ I said. ‘Is that a problem?’
Lady Bellamy looked at me severely. ‘Many soldiers use the gardens,’ she said. ‘Some frequent the public tavern. I have been unable to arrange its closure. Yet.’ She looked as if that was the next item on her agenda.
Gwen and I arranged to meet Mrs Travers at Shepheard’s later and left the pavilion, leaving Mrs Travers lingering for a few words with another of the ladies. Taking care to avoid Lady Bellamy’s eagle-eyed observation, we circled the pavilion and walked slowly towards the lake. We had time, we decided, to visit Gwen’s dressmaker near Shepheard’s Hotel.
Suddenly, a small group of soldiers stopped right in front of us. They were wearing the emu-plumed hats of the Australian Light Horse.
‘Well, now, aren’t you two just a sight for sore eyes!’ one of them said.
Gwen and I stopped, uncertain.
‘Are you ladies all right?’ another said courteously. ‘Do you need escorting somewhere?’
Gwen and I relaxed; they were only being friendly. ‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘We’re just going back to our hotel.’
‘You’re Australian, aren’t you?’ another asked. He was a nice looking boy with sandy hair and bright blue eyes. ‘What are you doing here in Cairo?’
‘We come here every year with our families for the excavation season,’ I explained.
‘This year we’ll be volunteering at Lady Bellamy’s rest and recreation centre,’ Gwen said, pointing to the pavilion. ‘It’ll be opening soon.’ She gave them a dimpled smile. ‘You’ll all surely be welcome.’
‘You young ladies will be working there? Then we’ll certainly come!’
I looked at them seriously. ‘I must warn you,’ I said, ‘that Lady Bellamy serves only tea and lemonade.’
The men laughed. ‘Even that won’t put us off!’ the sandy-haired boy promised. They touched their hats to us and went off. I noticed they headed towards the public tavern that so offended Lady Bellamy.
Gwen and I looked at each other and smiled. Maybe volunteering at Lady Bellamy’s rest and recreation centre mightn’t be as staid and boring as we’d thought.