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Authors: Mary Stewart
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As a non-communicator he just about wins, wouldn’t you say? He ought to be at the Royal Court.’
‘But surely your Queen would not—? Ah, here he is,’ said Hamid, rising, ‘and praise be to Allah, he has brought someone with him.’
The ‘someone’ was a young man, a European, tall and thin and carelessly dressed, with light hair bleached to fair by the sun, and grey eyes. He had the slightly confused air of someone startled awake from sleep, and I suddenly remembered Great-Aunt Harriet’s alleged nocturnal habits. Perhaps the staff slept during daylight? He paused for a moment in the shadow before dismissing the porter with a gesture, then came forward into the sun. I saw him wince as if its fierce light worried him, as he approached slowly and with apparent reluctance over the broken pavement. He looked about twenty-four.
His voice was friendly enough, and what was more, English.
‘Good afternoon. I’m afraid I didn’t get your name. I gather from Jassim that you have an urgent message for Lady Harriet? Perhaps you could give your message to me?’
‘You’re English? Oh, good.’ I stood up. ‘It’s not exactly a message. My name’s Mansel, Christy Mansel, and Mrs. Boyd – “Lady Harriet” – is my great-aunt. I’m in Beirut on holiday, and someone told me that my great-aunt was still living up here at DarIbrahim, so I came up to see her. I’m sure my people at home will be very glad to have news of her, so if she’ll spare me even a few minutes, I’d be very pleased.’
He looked surprised, and, I thought, guarded. ‘A great-niece? Christy, did you say? She never mentioned anyone of that name to me.’
‘Should she have?’ My voice was perhaps a little tart. ‘And you, Mr—er …? I take it you live here?’
‘Yes. My name’s Lethman, John Lethman. I – you might say I look after your great-aunt.’
‘You mean you’re the doctor?’
I must have sounded abrupt and surprised, because he looked rather taken aback. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m sorry, it was only because I suppose you look – I mean, I expected somebody older. The porter told my driver that “the doctor” wouldn’t allow anyone to see my great-aunt, that’s how I knew you were here. If he did mean you, that is?’
‘I suppose he did …’ He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, shook his head sharply as if to wake himself up, and gave me the flash of an embarrassed smile. His eyes still looked blurred and unfocused. They were grey, with wide, myopic-looking pupils. ‘I’m sorry, I’m still a bit stupid, I was asleep.’
‘Oh, goodness, I do apologise. When one’s madly sightseeing all day one tends to forget the siesta habit …
I’m
sorry, Mr Lethman. It was just that when the porter said “the doctor” was here I began to think my great-aunt must be ill. I mean – if you have to live here …?’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘we’d better clear this up. I’m not adoctor really, unless you like to count half a course in psychological medicine—’ A quick look. ‘And don’t let that worry you, either, because I’m certainly not here in that capacity! Your great-aunt’s pretty fit, and all I actually do is keep an eye on the Arab servants and see to things generally, and provide her with a bit of company and conversation. I don’t “have” to live here at all in the sense you mean. All that happened was that I came here – to the Lebanon – to do some research for a paper I wanted to write, and I was marooned up here one day, driven to ground by one of the flash storms they have occasionally, and your great-aunt took me in, and somehow one thing led to another, and I stayed.’ His smile had something tentative about it, but oddly disarming, so that I thought I could supply the missing bits of the story quite easily. He added: ‘If you can think of a better place to write in, just tell me.’
I could think of a million better places to write in, among them almost any room almost
‘But surely your Queen would not—? Ah, here he is,’ said Hamid, rising, ‘and praise be to Allah, he has brought someone with him.’
The ‘someone’ was a young man, a European, tall and thin and carelessly dressed, with light hair bleached to fair by the sun, and grey eyes. He had the slightly confused air of someone startled awake from sleep, and I suddenly remembered Great-Aunt Harriet’s alleged nocturnal habits. Perhaps the staff slept during daylight? He paused for a moment in the shadow before dismissing the porter with a gesture, then came forward into the sun. I saw him wince as if its fierce light worried him, as he approached slowly and with apparent reluctance over the broken pavement. He looked about twenty-four.
His voice was friendly enough, and what was more, English.
‘Good afternoon. I’m afraid I didn’t get your name. I gather from Jassim that you have an urgent message for Lady Harriet? Perhaps you could give your message to me?’
‘You’re English? Oh, good.’ I stood up. ‘It’s not exactly a message. My name’s Mansel, Christy Mansel, and Mrs. Boyd – “Lady Harriet” – is my great-aunt. I’m in Beirut on holiday, and someone told me that my great-aunt was still living up here at DarIbrahim, so I came up to see her. I’m sure my people at home will be very glad to have news of her, so if she’ll spare me even a few minutes, I’d be very pleased.’
He looked surprised, and, I thought, guarded. ‘A great-niece? Christy, did you say? She never mentioned anyone of that name to me.’
‘Should she have?’ My voice was perhaps a little tart. ‘And you, Mr—er …? I take it you live here?’
‘Yes. My name’s Lethman, John Lethman. I – you might say I look after your great-aunt.’
‘You mean you’re the doctor?’
I must have sounded abrupt and surprised, because he looked rather taken aback. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m sorry, it was only because I suppose you look – I mean, I expected somebody older. The porter told my driver that “the doctor” wouldn’t allow anyone to see my great-aunt, that’s how I knew you were here. If he did mean you, that is?’
‘I suppose he did …’ He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, shook his head sharply as if to wake himself up, and gave me the flash of an embarrassed smile. His eyes still looked blurred and unfocused. They were grey, with wide, myopic-looking pupils. ‘I’m sorry, I’m still a bit stupid, I was asleep.’
‘Oh, goodness, I do apologise. When one’s madly sightseeing all day one tends to forget the siesta habit …
I’m
sorry, Mr Lethman. It was just that when the porter said “the doctor” was here I began to think my great-aunt must be ill. I mean – if you have to live here …?’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘we’d better clear this up. I’m not adoctor really, unless you like to count half a course in psychological medicine—’ A quick look. ‘And don’t let that worry you, either, because I’m certainly not here in that capacity! Your great-aunt’s pretty fit, and all I actually do is keep an eye on the Arab servants and see to things generally, and provide her with a bit of company and conversation. I don’t “have” to live here at all in the sense you mean. All that happened was that I came here – to the Lebanon – to do some research for a paper I wanted to write, and I was marooned up here one day, driven to ground by one of the flash storms they have occasionally, and your great-aunt took me in, and somehow one thing led to another, and I stayed.’ His smile had something tentative about it, but oddly disarming, so that I thought I could supply the missing bits of the story quite easily. He added: ‘If you can think of a better place to write in, just tell me.’
I could think of a million better places to write in, among them almost any room almost
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