The Visitors

  Beyond her, lined up with their right hands clasping the barre, was a group of just seven, no, eight little girls, all of about my own age or younger. Their flushed faces were fixed in concentration, they had beads of sweat on their brows. The child at the front was, I gradually understood, the Lady Rose who had incurred Madame’s wrath before we entered. She was the smallest child present, plump, clumsy, erratic in her footwork and on the verge of tears. Next to her was the unfortunate Fräulein von Essen, scarlet with exertion, out of breath and visibly wilting. Fifth from the front, performing the exercises of the adage with cool precision, was a pupil whose grace marked her out from her companions. Even with her dark hair sleeked back inside a bandeau, I recognised her at once as the pyramids’ girl.

  As I watched, Madame advanced upon her, stick raised. She touched her lightly on the shoulder with the tip of her stick and, motioning the other girls to stop and to watch, said: ‘Enough. Mademoiselle Winlock shall demonstrate. Frances, ma petite, come forward. Attention, je vous en prie. We shall move on to the allegro. Mademoiselle, if you please, you will show them how it’s done.’

  The pyramids’ girl began to dance – and it was like a dance, not a series of exercises. Each move flowed into the next, to Madame’s barked commands. Entrechat, demi-plié, grand jeté, fouetté: I was watching grace, balance and an astonishing accuracy of footwork performed at speed. I was transfixed with admiration: I had never attended a ballet, knew nothing of the art, and had never suspected what dance might be. ‘Ballon,’ said Madame. ‘Mademoiselle Frances, on essaie le ballon, s’il vous plait…⁠’

  There was a stir in the room, a craning of necks, a new concentration on the faces of the watching girls – just enough for me to understand that, whatever a ballon was, it was difficult. There were a few preparatory graceful steps, then the child’s feet flickered in a series of lightning scissor moves and without appearing to jump or to leap she simply rose in the air, as weightless as a bird. I gasped at this magic and, before I could stop myself, clapped my hands. The girl returned earthwards, landed, missed her step, twisted her foot, and fell in a heap on the ground.

  ‘Pas mal,’ Madame pronounced, ignoring the fact that Frances Winlock’s face had whitened with shock and pain. She shrugged, adding, as she turned away, ‘Vous voyez – c’est difficile.’

  Beside me, Miss Mack shook her head: I think she was reconsidering the wisdom of my joining this ballet class. ‘Oh, the poor child! I hope she hasn’t broken anything,’ she murmured. ‘It’ll be a miracle if that ankle isn’t sprained. And she danced so charmingly too. A little praise might not go amiss. Or sympathy… ’

  Madame overheard this comment. She turned to look at Miss Mack and me, fixing us in the glare of her huge tiger eyes. I shrank away, fearing some burning reprimand. She gave us a look of scorching contempt, then turned her back on us. Clapping her hands once with a sound like a pistol shot, she dismissed the class.

  5

  In the mêlée that ensued as the girls ran off to change out of their ballet clothes, and a crowd of mothers and companions clustered around Madame, Miss Mack and I held back. We hovered nervously on the fringe of the group, and I found we were next to a woman I now recognised as Frances Winlock’s mother. She had changed her dress since I’d glimpsed her that morning at the pyramids, but still looked dishevelled, as if the garments she’d chosen to wear to Madame’s class had been an attempt at smartness undermined by last-minute changes of heart. Numerous drifting scarves were thrown about her neck; perhaps, undecided as to which best suited her, she’d simply given up and elected to wear them all. Her manner was agitated; her eyes, which resembled her daughter’s, were both intelligent and kind.

  ‘Oh, isn’t this awful?’ she said to Miss Mack. ‘It’s such a battleground, everyone fighting for attention… And Madame is a Gorgon – I always mean to protest, then she glares at me, and I freeze. She will push Frances, and make her do things she’s not ready for – she’s only eight, you know, but people forget that because she’s tall, and advanced for her age.’ She paused, and smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I’m running on, and we haven’t been introduced. I’m Helen Winlock. It’s my daughter that had the fall… I haven’t seen you here before. Are you thinking of enrolling your daughter in Madame’s class?’ She turned to me, with a wry expression. ‘Are you sure you’re ready for that? It’s nothing short of tyranny. Frances has been reduced to tears many times – you must be about the same age, I think? How old are you, my dear?’

  ‘I’m eleven,’ I replied firmly. I was used to these misconceptions and found it prudent to correct them fast.

  Mrs Winlock, embarrassed at her mistake, began on an apology. Miss Mack, always ready in my defence, came to my rescue. As she later told me, she had at once recognised that Mrs Winlock was not only a fellow American, but also a woman of sympathy; she had noted that her accent was Boston Brahmin and ‘pure Harvard yard’. Drawing Mrs Winlock aside, she embarked on a now-familiar tale. I could hear only some of the phrases, uttered with emphasis and heartfelt pauses, but it was easy enough to join up the narrative: this was my history, my identity. I might not believe it, but I knew it by heart.

  No, neither the child’s mother nor her aunt, merely Lucy’s unofficial guardian… known her dear mother Marianne from way back, had attended her New York christening, her coming-of-age party… Happened to be in England and thus on hand when the great tragedy occurred… Typhoid, horribly sudden; poor Marianne succumbed to complications, Lucy desperately ill, everyone fearing the worst. Luckily had extensive nursing experience, and, in the end, child pulled through… Hair had to be shaved, taking an age to grow back, made her painfully self-conscious, other difficulties too, acute loss of weight, loss of appetite, grief and listlessness… Everyone in state of despair, father at his wits’ end, immersed in his work of course, not very good with children anyway, well, what scholar ever was? Yes, a don at Cambridge, England… Oh, Mrs Winlock was familiar with the world of academe? Well, then, she’d know the situation was hopeless, father simply hadn’t the remotest idea how to care for a child, also… Here Miss Mack lowered her voice, so I caught only two words, ‘Bad war.’

  Those two words were familiar: my mother had used them once a day: they were a diagnosis that explained everything, the aloofness, the outbursts of temper, the nightmares and the night screams. My father had volunteered in 1914: he left home for the army when I was four and returned when I was eight. I knew this silent stranger had fought in France, though he never spoke of it. Once, when I asked him to show me where the Somme was and handed him an atlas, he threw it across the room, and it struck me on the forehead, drawing blood. Bad war, bad war. I’d met several other men in Cambridge afflicted by that disease; I’d glimpsed several victims among the officers here in Cairo – their twitchy unpredictability gave them away, as did a certain deadness in the eyes. Had anyone experienced a good war? I knew better than to ask.

  I stared at the floor, which had begun to undulate. Miss Mack’s saga had resumed… So, crisis situation, but she herself, old Egypt hand, had had a suggestion to make… Prolonged period of convalescence. Voyage to warmer climes – much better than the prospect of an English winter. Only difficulty, insufficient funds… at which point, Took Charge, wrote the maternal grandparents, who, thus far, hadn’t lifted a finger to help…

  Here, Miss Mack drew breath. I knew what was coming next: the bid for sympathy was made: the bid for status would follow as inevitably as night followed day. Mrs Winlock was listening to this story with close attention, and with what seemed genuine interest. Unlike many of the women Miss Mack had buttonholed on my behalf, both on the voyage out and this past week in Cairo, she betrayed no signs of impatience. Lowering her voice again, Miss Mack moved on to the next twist in the tale.

  Child’s father brilliant classicist, distinguished Norfolk family, but could be his own worst enemy, always had advanced, even Socialist views… a trait that had not gone down well with Marianne’s family… They’d met
in London on Marianne’s first visit to Europe. Married inside three months, cut off without a dime, all contact with her family severed… No, didn’t make one ounce of difference when the child was born, though you’d have thought that might have softened their stubborn attitudes and overcome their stiff-necked pride. But perhaps Mrs Winlock, as a fellow American… oh, and a Bostonian? Well, then, she’d understand just how plain bone-headed such families could be, especially when it came to a clan composed of Emersons, Stocktons and Wigginses…

  Miss Mack paused. Mrs Winlock’s eyes widened as the information sank in. ‘Stockton – as in railroads?’ she said faintly.

  ‘And Emerson steel.’

  There was a silence. Upon Helen Winlock’s face came an expression familiar to me. It was compounded of surprise, awe, pity and deepening distaste. I began to edge away.

  ‘I wrote them,’ Miss Mack said, with an air of finality. ‘I wrote the Emersons – and I did not mince my words. And they relented – well, to the extent of funding this little expedition of ours. What the future holds, I cannot say. But I will tell you, Mrs Winlock, that I’m just about burned up with all this snobbery and injustice and when I look at that poor child there, it breaks my heart. She’s lost a mother she adored. She’s been desperately ill. What she needs isn’t some stuffy old woman like me. She needs fun. And some friends her own age who can take her out of herself, don’t you agree?’

  The pitch seemed over-blatant to me. I was retreating, shamefaced, when I saw Helen Winlock do something unexpected: instead of uttering the platitudes and evasions that this appeal of Miss Mack’s usually evoked, she gave every sign of being moved. Her interpretation of the appeal seemed to differ from mine: colour rose in her cheeks; with a low exclamation of sympathy, she rested her hand on Miss Mack’s arm, and then awkwardly embraced her. Miss Mack sighed and grasped Helen Winlock’s hands. In the midst of the mêlée of returning children being reclaimed, the two women stood there clasping one another, exchanging what seemed to be consolation or endearments as if they were the oldest of friends.

  I was not used to such demonstrations. ‘Let us try to avoid hysteria, Marianne,’ my father used to say on those occasions, increasingly rare, when my mother had betrayed strong emotion. I backed away, inching a path through the chattering influx of little dancers, now transformed into ordinary girls wearing skirts and blouses or dresses such as mine. One by one they were collected: Fräulein von Essen was marched off by a uniformed nanny. The hapless Lady Rose was greeted by a sweet-faced young woman so exquisitely dressed, so astonishingly fashionable, that I stopped to stare.

  ‘Rosie, darling,’ she cried, swooping across the room and bending to embrace her. ‘What a perfect duck you are – you looked just like a little rosebud when you were dancing. I’m fiercely proud of you, and I intend to show you off to the whole of Cairo. Will you let me take you to tea on the terrace tomorrow? Your mamma says I may… Now, shall we toddle off? You must be utterly exhausted, darling – that wicked witch shows you poor girls no mercy. She really is an old battleaxe… Oh, Madame! Here you are! I’m so glad I came. It was an absolute education, I never realised art involved such hard work.’

  ‘And why would you?’ Madame replied, with a flash of her eyes. ‘Do I see any evidence of hard work in your face? In your hands? Pah, lady’s hands, idle hands.’

  ‘Now don’t be cruel, you monster,’ the young woman answered with a smile. ‘You know I try. And you shan’t intimidate me – I know your ways too well. Mille mercis pour tous ces compliments. Now, listen: Pups telegraphed this morning. He’ll be here next week, and he says you’re joining us for dinner before we leave for Luxor? Oh, good. Yes, here at Shepheard’s, we thought – a whole heap of people, some friends from London and Poppy d’Erlanger – she and I travelled out here together – oh, and Howard Carter, of course––’

  ‘And your mother?’ Madame interjected. ‘Will dear Lady Carnarvon not be joining us?’

  ‘Darling, unlikely. She may change her plans, but she’s in Paris.’

  ‘Again?’ said Madame, with a small lift of her eyebrows. The two women exchanged a look I could not interpret, and the younger made a wry face.

  ‘Yes, again – but what can one do?’

  ‘Very little, I imagine,’ Madame replied. ‘I shall be sorry not to see her, but delighted as always to see your father. I look forward to the dinner. Send him my félicitations… ’

  ‘Oh, I shall. It’s so lovely to be back – Poppy and I are having a whale of a time. I’m thinking of buying a canary – did Howard tell you? If I do, I shall take it with us to the Valley to bring us luck. Now, I must fly… Pups sends masses of love, by the way.’

  Leaning forward, she embraced Madame, who chuckled, bestowed a kiss on Madame’s sallow rouged cheek and, clasping Lady Rose’s hand, turned to go. She drifted past me, still chattering away. I caught a drift of her scent – jonquils, iris – and then the vision was gone. I watched Madame scythe her way through the last clustering of children and guardians, and saw that Miss Mack, flanked by Helen Winlock, was nerving herself to pounce.

  ‘Madame, if I may just introduce myself,’ I heard. ‘I am Myrtle C. Mackenzie. Of Princeton, New Jersey. I wrote you a note, you may recall? Concerning my little friend over there, Lucy Payne? Lucy… Lucy? Where has the child hidden herself… ’

  I had hidden myself behind the piano, crouched down by the stool, where short-sighted Miss Mack was unlikely to spot me. I could sense the saga was about to start up again; I’d reappear when it was over, I told myself, and not before. Madame was receiving the abbreviated version: Miss Mack was no fool, and no doubt sensed that with a woman like Madame it was futile to play the sympathy card. The status card, however, given the intake of her classes, might prove a trump. If plain Lucy Payne were denied admittance, perhaps a grandchild of steel and railroads might make it through the door? Emerson, I heard, Stockton, Wiggins. My cheeks flamed. I imagined Madame’s scorn, poor Miss Mack’s chagrin. As I peeped out from behind the shiny ebony of the piano, I saw my guardian was agitated, and Helen Winlock had now entered the debate. Madame stood listening to both women with an expression of stone.

  ‘Impossible,’ I heard. ‘Je regrette, ma chère Madame, mais votre fille––’

  ‘Miss. I told you, I am Miss Mackenzie. And Lucy is not my daughter. Heavens! This is so darn difficult. May we stick to good plain English, please?’

  ‘English? But I thought you were American?’ Madame said silkily.

  ‘And so I am. A Yankee and proud of it!’ Miss Mack, who knew sarcasm when she heard it, was becoming heated. She raised her voice; her hat was now tilting dangerously over her left eye. As I shrank back again behind the piano, I felt a small hand brush my arm. Turning, I found myself face to face with Frances Winlock.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, without ceremony. ‘I’ve been watching you for a while. I was watching you this morning too, through my field glasses. I recognised you as soon as you walked in. You’re the Sphinx girl, aren’t you?’

  ‘And you’re the pyramids’ girl. You’re an acrobat. You did a cartwheel. You wore sunglasses. I was watching you too.’

  We gazed at one another warily. After a long appraising pause, Frances Winlock held out her hand, I solemnly shook it and we introduced ourselves. Close to, I could see that she was indeed younger than I’d realised at first, though she was tall for her age, almost on a level with me. Unlike her untidy mother, she was immaculately turned out in a navy blue pleated skirt and a neat, white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. She wore socks and sandals identical to mine. Her shining dark hair was cut in a bob to her shoulders, parted on the side and pinned back from her high forehead with a slide or, as Miss Mack would call it, a bobby-pin. She had a clear complexion and an air of radiant health. Her eyes and the brilliance of their gaze were the first thing you noticed about her – until she smiled, that was. Her smile lit her face in a way and to a degree I’d never seen before. She smiled now, and I risked the question to which
I’d longed for an answer all day: ‘I’ve been wondering – did you pass your hieroglyph test?’

  ‘Oh, you heard that?’ The smile disappeared. ‘No, I failed. One out of six. Daddy was mad at me. But they are hard – really hard.’

  ‘Never mind. You’re sure to get them right next time,’ I said. She seemed so crestfallen that I felt anxious to console her. ‘And you danced beautifully.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Half the steps were wrong, and then I messed up that jump.’

  I glanced down at her ankle, which was visibly swollen. ‘Have you sprained it?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I can walk on it. Just twisted it – it hardly hurts at all.’

  That was untrue, I thought. Frances shuffled her weight from foot to foot experimentally, and winced. Changing the subject, she quickly asked me why I was in Cairo, how long I was staying there. She also asked why was I so thin and – peeping under the brim of my hat – what had happened to my hair? She was the first person I’d encountered who had been this outspoken and her directness undid all my resolutions: before I could stop myself, out the story came. I was just reaching the end of this blurt and had got to the ‘parcelled-up’ phase when Miss Mack, accompanied by Madame and Helen Winlock, discovered my hiding place.

  As I looked from face to face, Miss Mack’s flushed and anxious, Helen Winlock’s sympathetic, Madame’s a mask of arrogance and impatience, it became obvious that Miss Mack was fighting a lost cause. ‘Ah, Lucy,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid this is not promising. Madame’s classes are full and it really doesn’t look as if––’