afternoon rest period, and abandoned the practice of early, melancholy suppers in our rooms. Now, as Miss Mack liked to say, there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to fit in the delights Cairo offered: every morning, Frances and I practised ballet steps; in the afternoons, we explored the city, with her mother as our guide. As each day passed, I learned more about Frances herself – that she had been born in Cairo, which made her an honorary Egyptian, she said; that she had a younger sister, just a shrimp of two-and-a-bit, who was too young to come to Egypt; that she loved the desert and the Valley of the Kings – but also the wild places of America, in particular Maine, where her family spent summers by the sea, in a house on a remote island.
With Frances at my side, Cairo opened up to me. I explored the Mousky bazaar with her, wandering the labyrinth of dark lanes and getting lost in the section where they sold antiquities. There, Frances and her mother showed me how to bargain, and tried to train my eye: could I not see? This antika was an obvious fake, but that one, ah, that was the real thing. We made a visit to the famous Gezira Sporting Club to watch a polo match, and there, after a long and incomprehensible series of chukkas, the two teams of sweating British officers lined up, and Lady Evelyn presented the captain of the winning team with a silver cup. It was on that occasion that I met for the first time, and was fleetingly introduced to, Lady Evelyn’s friend, Mrs d’Erlanger, the woman I’d heard her mention that first day at Madame’s dancing class.
I’d glimpsed the astonishing Mrs d’Erlanger before, speeding through the lobby at Shepheard’s, circling its dance floor in a dress that seemed to be made of liquid silver. I’d watched her run down the steps of the hotel and jump into a car driven by a dashing English lieutenant. I’d seen her in the Sudan courtyard at the bazaar, rifling through a heap of ivory tusks, bargaining for a leopard skin and tossing aside ostrich plumes. I’d watched her decide to buy all of the furs, and then, a second later, none of them… I knew she had travelled out from England with Lady Evelyn and would be continuing on to Luxor with her once Lord Carnarvon arrived, but I couldn’t believe she could be pinned down in such a way. She fascinated Frances, and she fascinated me: I thought of her as an exotic and beautiful bird of passage – an impression Helen Winlock confirmed that day at the polo match. Following my gaze across the gardens to the clubhouse terrace, where the vivid figure of Poppy d’Erlanger could be seen, first at Evelyn’s side, then separated off by an eager phalanx of polo players, she sighed.
‘She’s exquisite, isn’t she, Lucy?’ Helen said. ‘Those eyes! But she isn’t a woman you can rely on, you know – not like Evelyn… dear Eve’s only twenty, and Poppy d’Erlanger must be, oh, twenty-eight, at least, and she has children too – but Eve is so sensible, whereas Poppy is – well, thoughtless. Lord only knows what goes on in that beautiful head of hers… She’s always agreeing to do this or that, she was supposed to lunch with us last week – but then she simply doesn’t turn up, and forgets to send word, or she stays five minutes and then disappears without explanation. She’s famous for bolting… ’ She laughed. ‘And famous for her charm too, so she’s always forgiven.’
Poppy d’Erlanger bolted on the occasion of that polo match: one minute she was there, and I was being introduced and shaking her thin, cool hand, and we were making our way into the clubhouse for the post-match tea; the next, there was a vacant chair, and emissaries were being dispatched in quest of her. After a long delay, we learned Mrs d’Erlanger had left the club a few minutes before.
‘She drove off with Jarvis, I think,’ said the young captain who’d gone in search of her. He had returned out of breath, hot, disgruntled and
With Frances at my side, Cairo opened up to me. I explored the Mousky bazaar with her, wandering the labyrinth of dark lanes and getting lost in the section where they sold antiquities. There, Frances and her mother showed me how to bargain, and tried to train my eye: could I not see? This antika was an obvious fake, but that one, ah, that was the real thing. We made a visit to the famous Gezira Sporting Club to watch a polo match, and there, after a long and incomprehensible series of chukkas, the two teams of sweating British officers lined up, and Lady Evelyn presented the captain of the winning team with a silver cup. It was on that occasion that I met for the first time, and was fleetingly introduced to, Lady Evelyn’s friend, Mrs d’Erlanger, the woman I’d heard her mention that first day at Madame’s dancing class.
I’d glimpsed the astonishing Mrs d’Erlanger before, speeding through the lobby at Shepheard’s, circling its dance floor in a dress that seemed to be made of liquid silver. I’d watched her run down the steps of the hotel and jump into a car driven by a dashing English lieutenant. I’d seen her in the Sudan courtyard at the bazaar, rifling through a heap of ivory tusks, bargaining for a leopard skin and tossing aside ostrich plumes. I’d watched her decide to buy all of the furs, and then, a second later, none of them… I knew she had travelled out from England with Lady Evelyn and would be continuing on to Luxor with her once Lord Carnarvon arrived, but I couldn’t believe she could be pinned down in such a way. She fascinated Frances, and she fascinated me: I thought of her as an exotic and beautiful bird of passage – an impression Helen Winlock confirmed that day at the polo match. Following my gaze across the gardens to the clubhouse terrace, where the vivid figure of Poppy d’Erlanger could be seen, first at Evelyn’s side, then separated off by an eager phalanx of polo players, she sighed.
‘She’s exquisite, isn’t she, Lucy?’ Helen said. ‘Those eyes! But she isn’t a woman you can rely on, you know – not like Evelyn… dear Eve’s only twenty, and Poppy d’Erlanger must be, oh, twenty-eight, at least, and she has children too – but Eve is so sensible, whereas Poppy is – well, thoughtless. Lord only knows what goes on in that beautiful head of hers… She’s always agreeing to do this or that, she was supposed to lunch with us last week – but then she simply doesn’t turn up, and forgets to send word, or she stays five minutes and then disappears without explanation. She’s famous for bolting… ’ She laughed. ‘And famous for her charm too, so she’s always forgiven.’
Poppy d’Erlanger bolted on the occasion of that polo match: one minute she was there, and I was being introduced and shaking her thin, cool hand, and we were making our way into the clubhouse for the post-match tea; the next, there was a vacant chair, and emissaries were being dispatched in quest of her. After a long delay, we learned Mrs d’Erlanger had left the club a few minutes before.
‘She drove off with Jarvis, I think,’ said the young captain who’d gone in search of her. He had returned out of breath, hot, disgruntled and
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