contemplation of birds.
It might therefore have been enjoyable had he not been subjected to a constant stream of interruptions. His telescope and tripod, standing nearby, continually attracted attention and he was eventually forced to go back to his cabin and the small dressing table where he attempted to write up his notes. He’d been on board for the best part of twenty-four hours and as yet nothing had gone down on paper. With his illustrated guide beside him on the makeshift desk, he opened his diary and began the first bird list of the trip, noting down the cast in order of appearance – House Sparrow, Barn Swallow, Palm Dove. He wanted to create a lasting record of the trip and what he’d seen – but he couldn’t concentrate. He’d got no further than the Colossi of Memnon and the recollection of Spur-winged Plover when he was suddenly overwhelmed by a bout of tiredness and felt compelled to slip off his shoes and lie down on the bed. Within a matter of moments he had dropped off and his bird list remained frustratingly incomplete.
He awoke slowly and found himself lying on his back, staring up at a blank ceiling. For a moment he panicked, wondering where he was and how he’d got there. But then it all came back to him – the boat, the Nile, the search for birds, the fact he was no longer employed…
Outside his cabin window it was dark and there was no indication of movement. He looked at his watch. Five to seven already. He panicked and pulling open the side drawer of the dressing table, took out the itinerary he’d put there the day before. In the entry for the day an item was highlighted in red.
6.30pm. Cocktail Reception in the Forward Lounge
.
Well, he’d clearly missed that! Then,
7pm Gala Dinner
.
And if he didn’t get his skates on he’d miss that too. He cursed silently – there was barely time to change and get spruced up.
He arrived in the dining room ten minutes late and a little out of breath. He’d taken off his neckerchief and rearranged his shirt, leaving the top button undone in an attempt to appear casual. Then he’d pulled on his linen jacket and had selected a formal pair of shoes rather than the slip-ons he’d worn on deck. He still felt horribly under-dressed. Gala Dinner. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Keith had come down sporting a dinner suit and bow tie.
Something new awaited him at the table. He had assumed he would return to the same place as the night before but it was already occupied – by Miss Malaysia. It seemed she’d solved the mystery they’d all been pondering by announcing herself as the eighth member of their party. Blake was horrified.
She’d changed and having dispensed with her jeans and Cuban heels, was now sporting a long silver evening dress. Set against the brown skin of her bare shoulders, it made her look even more attractive. And although she’d retained the same set of earrings she’d been wearing earlier, she’d taken the time to restyle her hair which added to her elegant appearance. In her lap, she clasped a small matching bag. The overall effect was stunning. If he’d not already known who she was, Blake might never have recognised her as the slight Asian girl who’d stared him down that morning.
In his absence she’d taken the opportunity to move up a place, presumably so as to be closer to the middle of the table. If her objective was to become the centre of attention, then along with her choice of apparel she could hardly have done any more, for even allowing for Mrs Biltmore’s continual failure of fashion (she was still in the same dull green top), the rest of the table looked positively drab by comparison.
Blake felt relieved rather than concerned. She could have thelimelight – he personally had no desire to shine. If pushed to the front, what would he have chosen to say? No-one wanted to hear him talk about birds.
He pulled out the one remaining chair and took his seat on the end.
“Sorry I’m late,” he
It might therefore have been enjoyable had he not been subjected to a constant stream of interruptions. His telescope and tripod, standing nearby, continually attracted attention and he was eventually forced to go back to his cabin and the small dressing table where he attempted to write up his notes. He’d been on board for the best part of twenty-four hours and as yet nothing had gone down on paper. With his illustrated guide beside him on the makeshift desk, he opened his diary and began the first bird list of the trip, noting down the cast in order of appearance – House Sparrow, Barn Swallow, Palm Dove. He wanted to create a lasting record of the trip and what he’d seen – but he couldn’t concentrate. He’d got no further than the Colossi of Memnon and the recollection of Spur-winged Plover when he was suddenly overwhelmed by a bout of tiredness and felt compelled to slip off his shoes and lie down on the bed. Within a matter of moments he had dropped off and his bird list remained frustratingly incomplete.
He awoke slowly and found himself lying on his back, staring up at a blank ceiling. For a moment he panicked, wondering where he was and how he’d got there. But then it all came back to him – the boat, the Nile, the search for birds, the fact he was no longer employed…
Outside his cabin window it was dark and there was no indication of movement. He looked at his watch. Five to seven already. He panicked and pulling open the side drawer of the dressing table, took out the itinerary he’d put there the day before. In the entry for the day an item was highlighted in red.
6.30pm. Cocktail Reception in the Forward Lounge
.
Well, he’d clearly missed that! Then,
7pm Gala Dinner
.
And if he didn’t get his skates on he’d miss that too. He cursed silently – there was barely time to change and get spruced up.
He arrived in the dining room ten minutes late and a little out of breath. He’d taken off his neckerchief and rearranged his shirt, leaving the top button undone in an attempt to appear casual. Then he’d pulled on his linen jacket and had selected a formal pair of shoes rather than the slip-ons he’d worn on deck. He still felt horribly under-dressed. Gala Dinner. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Keith had come down sporting a dinner suit and bow tie.
Something new awaited him at the table. He had assumed he would return to the same place as the night before but it was already occupied – by Miss Malaysia. It seemed she’d solved the mystery they’d all been pondering by announcing herself as the eighth member of their party. Blake was horrified.
She’d changed and having dispensed with her jeans and Cuban heels, was now sporting a long silver evening dress. Set against the brown skin of her bare shoulders, it made her look even more attractive. And although she’d retained the same set of earrings she’d been wearing earlier, she’d taken the time to restyle her hair which added to her elegant appearance. In her lap, she clasped a small matching bag. The overall effect was stunning. If he’d not already known who she was, Blake might never have recognised her as the slight Asian girl who’d stared him down that morning.
In his absence she’d taken the opportunity to move up a place, presumably so as to be closer to the middle of the table. If her objective was to become the centre of attention, then along with her choice of apparel she could hardly have done any more, for even allowing for Mrs Biltmore’s continual failure of fashion (she was still in the same dull green top), the rest of the table looked positively drab by comparison.
Blake felt relieved rather than concerned. She could have thelimelight – he personally had no desire to shine. If pushed to the front, what would he have chosen to say? No-one wanted to hear him talk about birds.
He pulled out the one remaining chair and took his seat on the end.
“Sorry I’m late,” he
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