Читать книгу Whispers in the Sand - Barbara Erskine - Страница 10

May there be nothing to resist me at my judgement; may there be no opposition to me; may there be no parting of thee from me in the presence of him that keepeth the scales.

It is thirteen hundred years before the birth of Christ. The embalming complete, the bodies of the priests are carried back into the temple in the cliff where once they served their gods and they are laid to rest in the shadows where they died. A mote of sunlight lies across the inner sanctuary for a moment, then as the last mud brick is pressed into place across the entrance, the light is extinguished and the temple that is now a tomb is instantly and totally dark. Were there ears to hear they would distinguish a few muffled sounds as the plaster is smoothed and the seals set. Then all is as silent as the grave.

The sleep of the dead is without disturbance. The oils and resins within the flesh begin their work. Putrefaction is held at bay.

The souls of the priests leave their earthly bodies and seek out the gods of judgement. There in the hall beyond the gates of the western horizon, Anubis, god of the dead, holds the scale which will decide their fate. On the one side lies the feather of Maat, goddess of truth. On the other is laid the human heart.

‘What you need, my girl, is a holiday!’

Phyllis Shelley was a small wiry woman with a strong angular face, which was accentuated by her square red-framed glasses. Her hair cropped fashionably short, she looked twenty years younger than the eighty-eight to which she reluctantly admitted.

She headed for the kitchen door with the tea tray leaving Anna to follow with the kettle and a plate of scones.

‘You’re right, of course.’ Anna smiled fondly. Pausing in the hall as her great-aunt headed out towards the terrace, she stood for a few seconds looking at herself in the speckled gilt-framed mirror, surveying her tired, thin face. Her dark hair was knotted behind her head in a coloured scarf which brought out the grey-green tones in her hazel eyes. She was slim, tall, her bones even, classically good-looking, her body still taut and attractive, but her mouth was etched with fine lines on either side now and the crow’s-feet around her eyes were deeper than they should have been for a woman in her mid-thirties. She sighed and pulled a face. She had been right to come. She needed a good strong dose of Phyllis!

Tea with her father’s one remaining aunt was one of the great joys of life. The old lady was indefatigably young at heart, strong – indomitable was the word people always used to describe her – clear thinking and she had a wonderful sense of humour. In her present state, miserable, lonely and depressed, three months after the decree absolute, Anna needed a fix of all those qualities and a few more besides. In fact, she smiled to herself as she turned to follow Phyllis out onto the terrace, there was probably nothing wrong with her at all which tea and cake and some straight talking in the Lavenham cottage wouldn’t put right.

It was a wonderful autumn day, leaves shimmering with pale gold and copper, the berries in the hedges a wild riot of scarlet and black, the air scented with wood smoke and the gentle echo of summer.

‘You look well, Phyl.’ Anna smiled across the small round table.

Phyllis greeted Anna’s remark with a snort and a raised eyebrow. ‘Considering I’m so old, you mean. Thank you, Anna! I am well, which is more than I can say for you, my dear. You look dreadful, if I may say so.’

Anna gave a rueful shrug. ‘It’s been a dreadful few months.’

‘Of course it has. But there’s no point in looking backwards.’ Phyllis became brisk. ‘What are you going to do with your life now it is at last your own?’

Anna shrugged. ‘Look for a job, I suppose.’

There was a moment’s silence as Phyllis poured out two cups of tea. She passed one over and followed it with a homemade scone and a bowl of plum jam, both courtesy of the produce stall at the local plant sale. Phyllis Shelley had no time in her busy life for cooking or knitting, as she constantly told anyone who had the temerity to come and ask for contributions of either to the church fete or similar money-raising events.

‘Life, Anna, is to be experienced. Lived,’ she said slowly, licking jam off her fingers. ‘It may not turn out the way we planned or hoped. It may not be totally enjoyable all the time, but it should be always exciting.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You do not sound to me as though you were planning something exciting.’

Anna laughed in spite of herself. ‘The excitement seems to have gone out of my life at the moment.’

If it had ever been there at all. There was a long silence. She stared down the narrow cottage garden at the stone wall. Phyllis’s cat, Jolly, was asleep there, head on paws, on its ancient lichen-crusted bricks covered in scarlet Virginia creeper. Late roses bloomed in profusion and the air was deceptively warm, sheltered by the huddled buildings on either side. Anna sighed. She could feel Phyllis’s eyes on her and she bit her lip, seeing herself suddenly through the other woman’s critical gaze. Spoilt. Lazy. Useless. Depressed. A failure.

Phyllis narrowed her eyes. She was a mind reader as well. ‘I’m not impressed with self-pity, Anna. Never have been. You’ve got to get yourself off the floor. I never liked that so and so of a husband of yours. Your father was mad to let you get involved with him in the first place. You married Felix too young. You didn’t know what you were doing. And I think you’ve had a lucky escape. You’ve still got plenty of time to make a new life. You’re young and you’ve got your health and all your own teeth!’

Anna laughed again. ‘You’re good for me, Phyl. I need someone to tell me off. The trouble is I don’t really know where to start.’

The divorce had been very civilised. There had been no unseemly squabbles; no bickering over money or possessions. Felix had given her the house in exchange for a clear conscience. He, after all, had done the lying and the leaving. And his eyes were already on another house in a smarter area, a house which would be interior-designed to order and furnished with the best to accommodate his new life and his new woman and his child.

For Anna, suddenly alone, life had become overnight an empty shell. Felix had been everything to her. Even her friends had been Felix’s friends. After all, her job had been entertaining for Felix, running his social diary, keeping the wheels of his life oiled, and doing it, so she had thought, rather well. Perhaps not. Perhaps her own inner dissatisfaction had shown in the end after all.

They had married two weeks after she graduated from university with a good degree in modern languages. He was fifteen years older. That decision to stay on until she had finished her degree had been, she now suspected, the last major decision she had made about her own life.

Felix had wanted her to quit the course the moment he asked her to marry him. ‘You don’t need all that education, sweetheart,’ he had urged. ‘What’s it for? You’ll never have to work.’

Or worry your pretty little head about anything worth thinking about … The patronising words, unsaid but implied, had echoed more and more often through Anna’s skull over the ensuing years. She kidded herself that she had no time for anything else; that what she did for Felix was a job. It was certainly full time. And the pay? Oh, the pay had been good. Very good! He had begrudged her nothing. Her duties had been clear cut and simple. In these days of feminist ambition, independence and resolve, she was to be decorative. He had put it so persuasively she had not realised what was happening. She was to be intelligent enough to make conversation with Felix’s friends but not so intelligent as to outshine him and, with some mastery, she later realised, he had made it seem enormously important and responsible that she was to organise all the areas of his life which were not already organised by his secretary. And in order to maintain that organisation uninterrupted it was made clear only after the fashionable wedding in Mayfair and the honeymoon in the Virgin Islands that there would be no children. Ever.

She had two hobbies: photography and gardening. On both he allowed her to spend as much money as she liked and even encouraged her interest when it did not conflict with her duties. Both were, after all, fashionable, good talking points and relatively harmless and she had allowed them to fill whatever gaps there were in her life. Indeed in combining them she had become so good at both that her photographs of the garden won prizes, sold, gave her the illusion that she was doing something useful with her life.

Strangely, she had put up with his occasional indiscretions, surprised herself at how little they actually upset her and suspecting but never admitting that this was because, perhaps, she did not, after all, love him quite as much as she ought to. It did not matter. No other man came along to whom she was attracted. Was she, she sometimes wondered, a bit frigid? She enjoyed sex with Felix, but did not miss it when it became less and less frequent. Nevertheless, the news that his latest girlfriend was pregnant hit her like a sledgehammer. The dam, which had held back her emotions for so long, broke and a torrent of rage and frustration, loneliness and misery, broke over her head in a tidal wave which terrified her as much as it shocked her husband. He had not planned this change in his life. He had expected to carry on as before, visiting Shirley, supporting her, and when the time came paying, no doubt through the nose, for the child, but not becoming too involved. His instant and genuine enchantment with the baby had shaken him as much as it had pleased Shirley and devastated Anna. Within days of the birth he had moved in with mother and child and Anna had consulted her solicitor.

After the uncontested divorce Felix’s friends had been strangely supportive of her, perhaps realising that something unplanned and unexpected had taken place and feeling genuinely sorry for her, but as one by one they rang to give her their condolences and then fell into embarrassed silence she realised that in fact she had very few friends of her own and her feeling of utter abandonment grew stronger. Strangely, the one piece of advice they all passed on before hanging up, was that she take a holiday.

And now here was Phyllis, saying the same thing.

‘You must start with a holiday, Anna dear. Change of scene. New people. Then you come back and sell that house. It’s been a prison for you.’

‘But, Phyl –’

‘No, Anna. Don’t argue, dear. Well, perhaps about the house, but not about the holiday. Felix used to take you to all those places where you did nothing but sit by swimming pools and watch him talk business. You need to go somewhere exciting. In fact you need to go to Egypt.’

‘Egypt?’ Anna was beginning to feel her feet were being swept from beneath her. ‘Why Egypt?’

‘Because when you were a little girl you talked about Egypt all the time. You had books about it. You drew pyramids and camels and ibises and you pestered me every time I saw you, to tell you about Louisa.’

Anna nodded. ‘It’s strange. You’re right. And I haven’t thought about her for years.’

‘Then it’s time you did. It is so easy to forget one’s childhood dreams. I sometimes think people expect to forget them. They abandon everything which would make their lives exciting. I think you should go out there and see the places Louisa saw. When they published some of her sketchbooks ten years ago I was tempted to go myself, you know. I’d helped your father select the pictures, and worked with the editor over the captions and potted history. I just wanted to see it so much. And perhaps I still will one day.’ She smiled, the twinkle back in her eye, and Anna found herself thinking that it was entirely possible that the old lady would do it.

‘She was an amazing woman, your great-great-grandmother,’ Phyllis went on. ‘Amazing, brave and very talented.’

Like you. Unlike me. Anna bit her lip and did not say it.

Frowning, she considered Phyllis’s words, aware that the old lady’s beady eyes were fixed unswervingly on her face.

‘Well?’

Anna smiled. ‘It’s very tempting.’

‘Tempting? It’s a brilliant idea!’

Anna nodded. ‘I did actually suggest once or twice to Felix that we go to Egypt, but he was never interested.’ She paused, aware of a stirring of something like excitement deep inside her. After all, why not? ‘You know, I think I might just take your advice. I haven’t exactly got a lot of pressing plans.’

Phyllis sat back in her chair. Closing her eyes she turned her face to the sun and a small smile played across her features for a moment. ‘Good. That’s settled then.’ There was a pause, then she went on, ‘This is heaven. There is no nicer time of the year than the autumn. October is my favourite month.’ Her eyes opened again and she studied Anna’s face. ‘Have you spoken to your father yet?’

Anna shook her head. ‘He hasn’t rung me since the divorce. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.’

‘For separating from Felix?’

Anna nodded. ‘He was so proud of having Felix for a son-in-law.’ She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice for a moment. ‘The son he never had.’

‘Silly man.’ Phyllis sighed. ‘He’s got more and more impossible since your mother died and that’s a good ten years ago now! Don’t let it upset you too much, darling. He’ll come round. You’re worth ten of any son he might have had and one day he’ll realise it, I promise you.’

Anna looked away, concentrating as hard as she could on the drift of scarlet creeper on the wall on the edge of the terrace. She was not going to cry. She should have got used by now to her father’s insensitivity and his blatant lack of interest in her, his only child. She sniffed hard and turned her attention to the York stone slabs at her feet. Old lichens, long dried to white crusts had formed circles and whorls in the stone. She realised suddenly that Phyllis had levered herself to her feet. Glancing up, she watched as her great-aunt disappeared back through the open French windows into the house, and groping for her handkerchief she mopped hurriedly at her eyes.

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 Louisa’s 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.’

‘You’ve read it?’

Phyllis shrugged. ‘I had a quick look at it, but the writing is very difficult and my eyes aren’t so good these days. I think you should read it, Anna. It’s 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 he’s 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 don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Phyllis shook her head in mock anger. ‘You would cope very well indeed as you know. Now, ring Edward tonight. Promise?’

‘I’ll think about it. I’ll 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 Phyllis’s 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 couldn’t cope yet with the idea of Felix as the father of another woman’s 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 Anna’s 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 moment’s silence, then: ‘I can’t 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. ‘I’m 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, I’m sorry, but we could not have reached some accommodation. Our marriage is over. Our decision. No one else’s. If you feel slighted in some way, then I’m sorry. It was not intentional. I kept you informed all the way, if you remember. Every day.’ Her temper was fraying.

‘I don’t 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 it’s 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. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Anna, dear, but I’m 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 doesn’t 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 Felix’s 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 hadn’t 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 haven’t.’ 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 couldn’t 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 wasn’t 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 plane’s 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 neighbour’s 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 Louisa’s 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.’

‘It’s 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. ‘You’re so brave, Louisa. I can’t imagine how frightening the rest of the trip is going to be.’

‘It won’t 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 you’re 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 Louisa’s departing back.

The boat towards which they were heading was one of the graceful private vessels which plied up and down the Nile, this one propelled by two great lateen sails and steered from the back by a huge tiller that extended over the main cabin roof. The elegant accommodation, she soon discovered, included cabins for herself, the Forresters and Lady Forrester’s maid, a saloon, filled with divans and a large writing table and quarters sufficient for the crew which consisted of the captain, or reis and eight men. The deck allowed room to sit and to eat outside should they wish it, and also an area for the crew, one of whom was an excellent and talented cook.

This time she was to have a cabin to herself. Staring round it Louisa felt her heart leap with delight. After the dark wood and brass fittings of the paddle steamer this cabin, tiny though it was, was beauty itself. Her narrow bed was spread with brightly coloured woven fabrics, there was a carpet on the floor, fine blue and green shawls were draped across the window and the basin and ewer were made of some beaten metal which looked like gold.

Tearing off her hat she flung it on the bed and looked round approvingly. From the deck overhead she could hear the pattering of bare feet and the creak of the masts and rigging.

Of Lady Forrester there had been no sign. ‘Indisposed, my dear. She’ll join us for dinner,’ Sir John had said vaguely as he showed Louisa to her cabin. ‘We’ll sail as soon as possible. Not far. We’ll tie up on the other side of the river so you can set off for the valley tomorrow. Hassan will be your dragoman. That is, he will act as your guide and interpreter. Good chap. Highly recommended. Very reliable. And cheap.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘And you’ll have to share Jane Treece, Lady Forrester’s maid. I’ll send her in to you directly and she can help you settle in.’

And here she was, a woman of about forty-five with hair pulled severely off her face beneath her cap, dressed, like her, in black and with skin which beneath the cruel sun had freckled and creased into a tight map of lines and blotches. ‘Good evening, Mrs Shelley.’ The woman’s voice was deep and educated. ‘Sir John has asked me to act as your maid and chaperone while you are on his boat.’

Louisa hid her despair as best she could. She had hoped to be free of such formality. It would though be helpful to have someone unpack and shake out her dresses and fold away her under-linen and petticoats and lay out her hairbrushes and combs. Her sketchbooks and her precious Winsor and Newton watercolour box, her paintbrushes, she would allow no one to touch but herself. These she put on the small table in front of the elegantly pointed cabin window with its latticed shutters.

Turning she stared at the evening gown which Jane Treece had already shaken free of its folds and laid out for her. Her vision of casting aside her corset and petticoats and the formal black which her mourning demanded and putting on the blessedly cool, softly flowing dresses made for her all those long months ago in London by her friend Janey Morris, were beginning to recede once more. ‘I had assumed we would be more casual on so small a boat,’ she said cautiously. ‘And, though it was kind of Sir John to think of it, as a widow I scarcely think I need a chaperone!’

‘Indeed.’ The word conveyed shock, scorn and such superiority that Louisa was in no doubt at all that her assumptions had been dreadfully misjudged.

‘Sir John and Lady Forrester keep every formality on the Ibis, Mrs Shelley, I assure you. When you leave the boat to go off and see the heathen temples I have no doubt it will be more difficult to maintain the niceties, and I have made it clear I am not prepared to go with you on those occasions, but while we are here Sir John’s man, Jack, and I, see to it that everything runs as well as it does at home in Belgravia.’

Louisa bit her lip to hide a wry smile. Trying to look suitably chastened she allowed the woman to help her on with her black silk gown and pin her hair up in loose ringlets and loops around her head beneath a black lace veil. At least without the weight of her customary chignon it was cooler. The assurance that Jane Treece would not be going with her to visit the Valley of the Tombs had cheered her up enormously.

The main saloon of the boat was as exotic as her own cabin, but the silver and china laid on the table for dinner was English. The food itself though was Egyptian, and delicious. Louisa ate with enjoyment as she tried to explain to the Forresters why she wanted to paint the Egyptian scenery. Augusta Forrester had emerged from her own quarters looking as elegant and cool as if she were entertaining at home in London. A small silver-haired woman in her early sixties with huge dark eyes, she had managed to retain a prettiness of feature and a charm which made her immediately attractive. Her attention span was, though, Louisa discovered quickly, very short.

‘When Mr Shelley died,’ she explained as they ate, ‘I found myself lost.’ How could she ever tell them how lost without her beloved George? She had contracted the same fever which had killed her husband and although she had recovered it had left her too weak and too listless to care for her two robust and noisy sons. They had gone to stay with George’s mother and Louisa had been persuaded finally that a few months in a hot climate would restore her to health. She and George had planned to come to Egypt one day. It was George who had regaled her with stories of the discoveries that were being made in the sands of the desert. It was George who had promised that one day they would go there and that she would paint the temples and tombs. The somewhat unconventional household they ran with its laughter and conversation and the constant flow of painters and writers and travellers had fallen apart when illness had struck. George’s mother had arrived, nursed them both, taken away the children, dismissed half the servants, substituted her own and left Louisa devastated.

Glancing from Sir John to his wife, Louisa saw that the latter was no longer listening to her, but the mention of Augusta’s nephew, Edward, brought her back from her daydreams and for a few minutes she sat, her beautiful dark eyes fixed on Louisa’s face, as her guest described how that young man, a friend of George’s, had rescued her, arranged her passage, booked the steamer from Cairo and persuaded his uncle and aunt to take her to see the excavations. Without his help she would have been destroyed.

His uncle and aunt were however not quite as unconventional as their nephew and she was finding out every minute that her dreams of conversation and laughter and the convivial travel which she and George had so often discussed were far from what the Forresters had in mind.

Anna looked up. Her neighbour appeared to be asleep. Over the back of the seat in front of her she could see the film in full swing. Most of the passengers seemed to be engrossed in the action. Surreptitiously she tried to stretch and wondered how long she could last before she had to ask him to move so she could go to the loo. She glanced back towards the rear of the plane. The queue for the lavatories did not seem to have grown any shorter. Beyond the thick glass of the window the distant ground had turned the colour of red and ochre and gold. The colours of Africa. With a tremor of excitement she stared down for a long time, before leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes. She was almost there.

It was impossible to sleep.

She opened the diary again, eager to lose herself in Louisa’s adventures and blot out her own less than romantic mode of travel. Skimming down the cramped slanted writing with its faded brown ink, she flipped through the pages, glancing at the sketches which illustrated the narrative.

‘Hassan brought the mules at first light so that we could escape the worst of the heat. He loaded all my painting equipment into the panniers without a word. I was afraid he was still angry at my lack of tact and understanding of his role, but resolved not to speak of it. Instead I allowed him to help me onto my animal without uttering a word either of apology or of remonstrance at his outburst. He looked up at me once and I saw the anger in his eyes. Then he went to collect the lead rein of the pack animal and climbed onto his own. We rode all the way to the valley without speaking.’

Anna glanced up again, wearily rubbing her eyes. It did not sound as though Louisa had had a good time with Hassan. She turned on a few pages.

‘I saw him again today – just a faint figure in the heat haze. A tall man, watching me, who one minute was near me and the next minute was not there. I called out to Hassan but he was asleep and by the time he had reached my side the man had vanished into the strange shimmer thrown by the heat of the sand. The shadows where I set my easel were dark in contrast but out there, on the floor of the valley there was nowhere for him to hide. I am beginning to feel afraid. Who is he and why does he not approach me?’

That sounded exciting. Exciting and mysterious. With a small shiver Anna looked up with a start to see the flight attendant hovering with a jug of coffee. Her neighbour, ignoring the woman, was looking down at the diary on Anna’s knee with evident interest. She closed it and slipped it into her bag, reaching for the tray in front of her and letting it down onto her lap. He had already looked away. Outside, the sun was slipping nearer and nearer to the horizon.

Her neighbour appeared to have fallen asleep when she fumbled in her bag once again for the diary, and opening it at random was captivated immediately by the words which sprang from the page. ‘I begin to love this country …’

Louisa set down her pen and stared out of the window at the dark river outside. She had pulled open the lattice shutters to allow the smell of it, the warmth of the night air, the occasional breath of chill wind from the desert to enter her cabin. It all captivated her. She listened carefully. The other cabins were silent. Even the crew were asleep. Gathering up her skirts she tiptoed to the door and opened it. The steps to the deck were steep. Cautiously she climbed them and emerged into the darkness. She could see the humped forms of the sleeping men before the mast and heard suddenly a brief sleepy snore as one of them eased his head on the cushion of his arm. Another breath of cold air and she could hear the rustle of palm fronds on the bank. Above, the stars were violent sparks against the blue-black sky.

There was a slight movement behind her and she turned. Hassan’s bare feet had made no sound on the deck. ‘Mrs Shelley, you should stay in your cabin.’ His voice was no more than a whisper against the whisper of the wind in the reeds.

‘It’s too hot down there. And the night is too beautiful to miss.’ Her mouth had gone dry.

She could see his smile, his teeth white against the dark silhouette of his face. ‘The night is for lovers, Mrs Shelley.’

Her face burning, she stepped away from him, her knuckles tight on the deck rail. ‘The night is for poets and painters as well, Hassan.’

With half an ear she was listening for sounds from below deck. Her heart was beating very fast.

Her neighbour was looking at Louisa’s diary again, she could sense it. Anna sighed. He was beginning to irritate her. His glance was an invasion of her space, an intrusion. If he was not prepared to make a minimum of polite conversation he had no business being interested in her reading material! Closing the diary, she forced herself to look up and smile at the seat-back in front of her. ‘Not long now.’ She turned towards him. ‘Are you going on a cruise too?’

He was an attractive man, she realised suddenly, but even as she thought it his face closed and she saw it harden and the warmth vanished.

‘I am indeed, but I very much doubt it is the same one as you.’ His accent was difficult to place, very faint – slightly Scots perhaps, or Irish – because that was all he said. He shifted his shoulders slightly, turning away from her, and putting his head back against the seat he closed his eyes once more.

She felt a surge of anger and resentment. Well, that had certainly put her in her place. How dare he assume anything about her! Turning abruptly towards the window she stared out, astonished to find that far below them it was already dark. In the distance, she realised suddenly that she could see lights. They would soon be arriving at Luxor.

By the time she had been through passport control and retrieved her suitcase among the teeming throng of other tourists Anna was exhausted. She hung onto her case, grimly waving away the offers of help from a surge of gesticulating shouting would-be porters, and joined the queue for the bus.

The White Egret was a small boat. The brochure had shown the Victorian paddle steamer on a separate page from the other cruisers belonging to the travel company, emphasising its age, its history, and its selectness. There would be only eighteen passengers. It was a long shot she had suspected, even to try and find a place on it but she had made the effort because it was the closest she was likely to get to the kind of boat Louisa would have travelled on from Cairo to Luxor, and to her enormous delight and surprise they had written to say that there had been a cancellation and she found herself allocated one of the only two single cabins.

A hasty glance round the bus showed her that her neighbour from the plane was not there. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or sorry. She had not enjoyed his rudeness. On the other hand his would at least have been a familiar face amongst all these strangers. She made her way towards the back and sat down, her small holdall and camera bag on the seat beside her. Was she the only person there on her own? It seemed like it. Everyone else was sitting in pairs and the level of excited conversation had escalated as the door closed and the bus pulled away. She gazed out into the darkness feeling suddenly bleak and lonely and then realised with an excited sense of shock which put all thoughts of her loneliness out of her head that beyond the reflections of the bus windows she could see palm trees and a man in a white turban, perched on the rump of a tiny donkey trotting along the road in the dark.

The boat – three storeys, picked out in lights with a huge paddle wheel each side – was moored on the outskirts of the town. They were welcomed with hot towels for their hands and a drink of sweet fruit juice, then they were given their cabin keys.

Her cabin was small but adequate, her case already waiting for her in the middle of the floor. She looked round with interest. Her new domain provided her with a single bed, a bedside locker, on which stood an old-fashioned internal telephone, a dressing table and a narrow cupboard. It was scarcely luxury, but at least she did not have to share it with a stranger. Throwing her holdall, camera and shoulder bag down on the bed she closed the door behind her and went to the window. Pushing back the curtains and opening the shutters she tried to see out but the river bank beyond was dark. To her disappointment she could see nothing. Pulling the curtains shut again she turned back to the room. Half an hour, they had been told, until supper, and then in the morning they would be ferried across the River Nile and their first visit – to the Valley of the Kings, Louisa’s Valley of the Tombs – would begin. A wave of excitement swept over her.

It took no time at all to unpack, to hang up the dresses and skirts she had brought with her – there was no need of a Jane Treece to help her – and to lay out her few cosmetics on the dressing table. Amongst them she stood her little perfume bottle. It had seemed only right to bring it to the land of its origins, whether those origins had been in some lowly bazaar or in an ancient tomb.

There was time for a quick shower before dinner. Throwing off her clothes she turned and ducked into the little bathroom. She stood for five minutes beneath the tepid trickle of water, letting it wash away the weariness of the journey before forcing herself out of her reverie, and, stepping out onto the duckboard on the tiled, mosaic floor between the loo and the doll-sized basin, she reached for her towel.

Pulling it round her she stepped back into her room. The temperature in the cabin had dropped. Shivering, she stared round, puzzled. There was no air conditioning control that she could see. Perhaps there was some central system on the boat. Pulling on her green cotton shift and slinging a lightweight sweater round her shoulders she stopped in her tracks again, frowning. There was definitely something odd about the temperature in the room. She hoped she wouldn’t have to complain about it; she had expected Egypt to be hot! Shrugging, she gave one more glance round the cabin and then she headed for the door.

This was the moment that she was dreading. She had to go out and meet the other passengers. This was her first sortie into life as a single woman once again. If she had imagined the people on the cruise with her at all it was as a homogenous group of which she would be a part, not as a collection of couples where she would be the only one alone. With a deep sigh she let herself out into the broad, carpeted corridor outside and, noting with relief how warm it was, began to make her way to the main staircase of the boat. Straight ahead lay the lounge and the bar and the double doors which led out onto the deck, and down the stairs, magnificently railed in brass and decorated with palms and Victorian spittoons was the dining room towards which everyone was now heading.

She found herself seated at one of three round tables, each of which accommodated six people. Beyond the windows she could see nothing of the land or the river she had come so far to visit. The only sign of Egypt was the appearance behind the semi-circular serving counter, piled high with fruit and cheeses in the centre of the room, of a solemn procession of waiters, dark-skinned, dressed in white – two or three per table at least.

Her companions were, to her relief, immediately friendly; the silence of strangers disappeared at once as on every side people began introducing themselves to each other. Next to her on her left she found herself shaking hands with a good-looking man perhaps her own age or slightly older. He stood up as he greeted her and she saw he was no taller than herself, but his broad shoulders and stocky frame gave the impression of size. ‘Andy Watson, from London.’ He smiled, hazel eyes bright with humour beneath dark lashes and bushy brows. ‘Unattached, available, charming, with an absolute passion for all things Egyptian, as I suspect have we all, because that’s why we’re here.’

Anna found herself laughing. A little shyly she introduced herself as a divorcée also from London, recklessly meeting his eyes for a moment before she turned to greet the tall thin man with mousy hair, almost gaunt features and the palest blue eyes who sat on her right.

‘There are five of us on the cruise.’ Andy leant across her, reclaiming her attention. ‘That’s Joe Booth next to you, he’s something in the City, and beyond him is his wife Sally, and this,’ he indicated the slim, red-headed young woman on his left, ‘is Charley, who is sharing a cabin with Serena, over there.’ He nodded at a woman seated with her back to them at the next table. The sixth person at the table, the only one there apart from her who appeared to know no one on the cruise, introduced himself as Ben Forbes, a retired doctor. He and Andy were, it appeared, sharing a cabin. He was, she guessed, in his late sixties, a large, florid man with small bright observant eyes, a wild thatch of greying hair and a rumbustious laugh which within a few minutes had proved to be both infectious and a wonderful way of drawing attention to their table. The waiters unfailingly came to them first, as did their tour guide, Omar, who introduced himself as they were waiting to be served.

‘Welcome. Tomorrow we start with our tour to the Valley of the Kings. Karnac and the Temple of Luxor itself we shall visit on the last day of the cruise. Tomorrow we get up very early. We cross the river on the ferry, and then we go on a bus. The schedule will be posted each day at the top of the stairs, outside the lounge.’ A strikingly handsome young man, who, Anna discovered later, when he was not working as a tour guide, was studying history at Cairo University, he glanced round at them and smiled the most beautiful smile, his white teeth enhanced by what looked like a fortune in gold. ‘Please, if you have any problems and questions come to me at any time.’ He bowed and moved on to the next table.

Watching him, Anna saw him bow again and introduce himself to each of them in turn, then she noticed the man next to whom he was standing. Seated with his back towards her, his arm across the back of the chair as he looked up at Omar and listened to his short speech, was the man who had sat next to her on the plane; he must have been on the bus after all. He had changed into a dark-blue open-necked shirt and pale linen trousers and she saw him make some quiet remark to Omar which had the young man blushing and the others at the table laughing uproariously. So he was still being unpleasant. Obviously it was in his nature. She suppressed a quick feeling of triumph that she was after all on the same cruise as he was!

‘Seen someone you know?’ Andy was passing her the basket of warm bread rolls.

She shook her head. ‘He sat next to me on the plane, that’s all.’

‘I see.’ Andy stared over his shoulder, then he turned back to her. ‘So. It’s brave of you to travel out here on your own. What made you decide to come to Egypt after dumping hubby?’

She winced. ‘It is as you said. I have a passion for things Egyptian. Well, perhaps that’s putting it too strongly. My great-great-grandmother was a woman called Louisa Shelley. She came out here to paint in the late 1860s –’

‘The Louisa Shelley? The watercolourist?’ She had his attention completely now. ‘But she is very well known! I sold one of her sketches not six months ago.’

‘Sold?’ Anna frowned.

‘In my shop. I deal in fine art and antiques.’ He smiled at her.

Beyond him Charley leant forward and smacked him on the wrist. ‘No shop, Andy, please. You promised.’ She surveyed Anna carefully, her eyes wary. ‘Don’t encourage him!’ There was no friendly smile as she looked Anna up and down. ‘What do you do?’ She waited, eyebrows raised.

Not giving her a chance to reply Andy leapt in for her. ‘She’s here to spend her ex-husband’s fortune, darling, what do you think? And I’ll bet I can sell her some gorgeous things when we all get home, but for now we’re going to concentrate on Egyptian goodies, and first of all, Egyptian food. Did you know this boat is famous for its food?’

Anna glanced at Andy. His open cheerfulness encouraged confidences. She noticed suddenly that Charley’s hand, resting on the table beside her plate, was touching Andy’s. So, he was not as unattached as all that. She would have to be careful. ‘If you’re interested in art and antiques perhaps I should show you my Ancient Egyptian scent bottle!’ She smiled.

Andy leant back in his chair, his head cocked on one side. ‘Genuine Ancient Egyptian?’ He waited attentively.

She shrugged. ‘I have been told not. But it came from Louisa and I think she thought it was. I have her diary with me. I’ll see if she mentions where she found it. I just thought it would be fun to bring it with me. Back to the place of its origin as it were.’

‘Indeed.’ Andy watched as a Nubian waiter approached with their soup. ‘You must show it to me some time. I know a little about ancient artefacts, and I would love to see Louisa Shelley’s diary. Are there any sketches in it, by any chance?’ He had picked up his bread roll and was crumbling it between his fingers.

Anna nodded. ‘A few, tiny thumbnail ones. She did most of her sketches in the special sketchbooks she had with her.’

She was aware suddenly that at the next table her neighbour from the plane had realised she was there. He was staring at her with such close attention that she suspected he had been listening to their conversation. She gave him a small quick smile – no more than the slightest acknowledgement – and saw him nod curtly in return.

‘Your flight companion has spotted you, I see.’ Andy’s voice in her ear was amused.

‘So it seems.’ Anna wondered why the man’s neighbour, Serena, was sitting separately and not at the table with her companions. So far she had not even turned to acknowledge them. Even as she watched the woman smiled across at her neighbour and began talking animatedly to him. He turned back towards her at once, and as his head turned Anna caught sight of the not unattractive smile.

She picked up her spoon. The soup was made of vegetables, lightly seasoned and thin but tasty. It was very welcome after the packaged food on the journey. ‘He was fascinated by the diary. I was reading it on the flight and he couldn’t keep his eyes off it.’

‘Indeed.’ Andy’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Anna, you will take care of it, won’t you? I’m sure it must be extremely valuable. It would be very tempting to anyone who guessed what it was.’ His eyes on her face were concerned, sincere.

For the first time in ages Anna felt a small rush of grateful happiness. He actually seemed genuinely interested in what she was saying. ‘You are not suggesting that he would try and steal it?’

‘No, of course not. I’m sure he was just curious. A manuscript diary is not the usual airport reading that one expects to see on a plane.’ He chuckled.

Anna glanced back towards the other table again and was disconcerted to find the man in the blue shirt still watching her. There was a look of faintly sardonic amusement on his face. She looked away, embarrassed at being caught staring and without thinking she smiled nervously at the tall Nubian standing behind the serving counter. He caught her eye and in a moment was beside her. ‘More soup, madam?’

Andy chuckled. ‘Go on. You’ll have to have it now.’

She glanced up. ‘Yes. Please. That would be lovely.’ Watching her plate disappear she shrugged helplessly. ‘They are going to think that I’m really greedy.’

‘Or just hungry.’ Andy laughed again. ‘Just to make you feel better I shall have some too. You do realise that this is a four course meal,’ he went on as her brimming plate reappeared.

‘No!’

‘Yes! And I shall order some wine to accompany it.’ He raised his hand and beckoned the waiter back.

‘I love their robes,’ Anna whispered when the man had finished serving them and returned to his watchful pose by the counter. The waiters were dressed in long striped cotton shift-like garments, fastened round the waist with red cummerbunds. ‘They look fantastically glamorous.’

Andy reached for the bottle. ‘They’re called galabiyyas.’

‘What are?’

‘The robes, as you put it, that the men here wear. Enormously comfortable. Cool.’ Turning his back on the neighbouring table he leant back in his chair and beamed first at Charley, who was beginning to scowl at him, clearly resenting the attention he was paying to her, and then back at Anna. ‘No doubt we shall have to don such apparel at some time during the voyage. Even the most salubrious and posh of vessels feel bound to humiliate their passengers with a fancy dress party of some kind, I gather.’

‘I’m beginning to suspect that this is not your first trip to Egypt.’ Anna watched as he squinted at the label on the wine bottle which had appeared.

‘My first on a cruise like this.’ He slopped a little wine into his glass and raised it to his nose speculatively. ‘This may be a mistake. One should really stick to beer in Egypt unless one wants to buy French wine. Not bad, I suppose. Want some?’ He reached for her glass.

Beyond him Charley was engaged at last in a lively conversation with Ben Forbes. Her long red hair had fallen forward over her shoulder and a few strands were trailing in her soup. She didn’t seem to notice.

‘I was a bit nervous, coming on a trip like this on my own,’ Anna went on. ‘I’ll know who to ask for advice.’

‘Indeed you will.’ He winked. ‘Now, eat that soup. I can see the hors d’oeuvres waiting to come in.’

When the meal was at last finished almost all the passengers made their way up to the lounge bar and some of them, thence, through the double doors out onto the deck. As she stepped out into the darkness, Anna shivered. She had expected the earlier balmy evening air, but a sharp breeze had sprung up. Threading her way between the tables and chairs she made her way aft and leant on the rail alone. Andy and Charley had stopped inside at the bar and she could hear their laughter through the half-open door. The river was broad at this point, though she could see little in the darkness. On the bank against which they were moored the houses, built with mud brick and clustered closely together were mostly without lights and the only sound, of distant singing, came from another boat further along the bank and from the occasional slap of water against the mud.

‘So, it appears we are on the same cruise after all.’ The voice at her elbow made her jump. ‘Forgive me for doubting your good taste.’

Turning she saw the blue shirt, the sandy hair. He was leaning over the rail, not looking at her, lost in thought. He turned and held out his hand. ‘My name is Toby. Toby Hayward.’ Now that he was standing up she realised that he was much taller than she expected, his frame lanky, slightly stooped.

‘I’m Anna Fox.’ His handshake was firm but brief.

They both stared out into the darkness for several moments. ‘You know, I am finding it hard to believe I am actually here,’ Anna went on softly. ‘On the River Nile. Somewhere out there in the darkness is Tutankhamen’s tomb, and ancient Thebes and the desert and beyond that the heart of Africa.’

There was a quiet chuckle. ‘A romantic. I hope you’re not going to be disappointed.’

‘No. No, I’m not.’ Suddenly she was on the defensive. ‘It is going to be wonderful.’ Turning away from him, she made her way back between the deserted tables and ducked into the lounge.

Andy spotted her at once. ‘Anna! Come on, let me buy you a drink.’

She shook her head with a smile. ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll turn in. We’ve an early start tomorrow, and I got a bit chilled out there. I never thought it would be cold in Egypt.’

‘It’s the night wind off the desert.’ Andy caught her hand between his own. ‘My goodness, yes. It’s frozen. Are you sure a stiff drink wouldn’t thaw you out?’

‘No. Thank you.’ She was conscious that the door behind her had opened and Toby had come in, leaving the deck outside deserted. Ignoring the other passengers he walked straight through the lounge and made his way out towards the cabins.

She followed him slowly, not wanting to catch him up as he headed for the staircase, but there was no sign of him as she made her way to her door and let herself in.

She paused, looking round. The cabin no longer looked bleak and impersonal. Nor was it cold. It was warm and inviting, the bedside light on, the bed turned down, the towel she had used before supper already replaced by a dry one. Her own belongings made the place look welcoming and friendly, the little perfume bottle, in place of honour on the dressing table, reflecting in the mirror, a small almost glowing patch of colour on the brown wood. Suddenly she was very happy.

The diary was waiting for her by her bed. Perhaps, before she fell asleep, she would stay awake long enough to read a little more and find out how Louisa had first experienced the Valley of the Kings, then tomorrow she would know what to expect.