The Visitors (42 page)

Caring for the little dog, meanwhile, was becoming exhausting, as both Carter and Wheeler had warned it would be. The puppy was so young and frail that it required feeding every three or four hours, all day and all night. Wheeler refused to have anything to do with it; it was our problem, and we’d have to cope with it. She said she’d brought up four brothers and sisters, and nurturing a puppy was exactly the same as nurturing a baby, non-stop work, non-stop worry and no sleep. The little dog was greedy; if she drank too much milk too eagerly, she’d get colic, and would lie on her back, stomach distended, whimpering and whining. At first, Rose and I took it in turns to do the night-time feeds, but Rose was a heavier sleeper than I, and complained so vociferously that after a few days I took it on. I’d read my Egyptian books in my room until I heard Wheeler going to bed; when I judged another hour had passed, I’d creep downstairs, prepare the bottle, give the puppy her midnight feed, soothe her and return to bed again. She was confined to the kitchen regions, but she soon learned to make a babyish, plaintive, penetrating cry that echoed up to me through the floors and chimneys. Somewhere around three or four, this summons would wake me, and I’d pad down to her again. These expeditions made me sleepy during the day, but I came to love them. It was peaceful there, sitting on a cushion on the kitchen floor, close to the warmth of the banked wood range, one oil lamp lit, with the tiny creature cradled in my arms. I began to believe that she loved and trusted me – that I alone possessed the powers needed to soothe her.

After a week or so of this routine, the lack of sleep began to take its toll. I was down to three hours a night by then; the puppy was going through a fretful phase; sometimes she’d sick up the milk, then fall asleep, then wake demanding more milk just half an hour later. This made me anxious; I was so on edge, I’d wake long before it was time for a feed, and find I couldn’t sleep once it was over. Wheeler was displeased. ‘Look at you,’ she said one morning over breakfast. ‘Bruise marks under your eyes – you’re exhausted. It’s Rose’s birthday in three days – and at this rate, you’ll be sleepwalking through it. This afternoon you go to bed and you rest for two hours minimum, young lady.’

On another occasion I might have argued, but I felt so peculiar that morning, sick and faint, with an aching head and cramps in my stomach, that I gave in. I went upstairs after lunch and lay down on my bed in my petticoat: Wheeler drew the counterpane over me and rested her hand on my forehead. ‘Well, there’s no fever anyway… ’ I saw wariness flash across her face: ‘You don’t have a pain anywhere?’

I denied it. She gave me an aspirin anyway. ‘Growing pains,’ she diagnosed. ‘Get some sleep. I’m taking Rose and Peter to the river – and I’m taking that blasted puppy too, so there’s nothing to wake you. We’re in earshot, so you shout if you need me.’

I was asleep before she left the room. I closed my eyes and drowned: oblivion closed over my head like water.

When I woke, I had no idea how long I’d slept, or what time it was. I felt hot and sweaty; the house was silent. Opening the curtains, I saw the sun was still high and bright; there was neither sight nor sound of the others. I still felt dizzy and removed – that typhoid smoke seemed to have clouded my mind again, but the dull ache in my head and my stomach had gone. I washed, found a clean dress, then padded barefoot downstairs.

I was in the kitchen, making myself some tea, when I realised the farm had visitors. Parked in the corner of the yard was Eve’s racing-green car. Eve must have walked down to the river to join the others, I thought, and then, moving to a window that overlooked the valley, I saw I was not alone at the farm after all: Howard Carter was sitting outside in the sun, gazing at the chalk downs opposite. He was so silent and unmoving that the swallows were flitting within a few feet of his head.

I made a cup of tea for him and took it outside. He thanked me but seemed scarcely aware of my presence. He fell silent again, and showed no inclination to speak when I drew up a chair and sat down at the table with him. I still felt light-headed and had no inclination to speak either, so I sipped my tea and debated what illness I might have; whether it was serious or a trivial passing affliction, from which I’d already recovered. The latter, I decided.

I stole a look at Carter’s face: his expression was calm – as calm as I’d ever seen it. I turned towards the valley, where I caught a glimpse of Peter on the far side of the river, and of a woman in a pink dress. For a muddled instant I thought it was Poppy d’Erlanger – I often sensed her presence in this house; then I realised that it was Eve. ‘There! A
pike
,’ I heard Peter cry. The two figures vanished.

‘Well, it’s all settled at last,’ Carter said, in a quiet voice. ‘One last dig in the Valley. Lord Carnarvon agreed to it last night. He’s changed his mind – or, to be more exact,
I
changed it for him.’

He still seemed almost unaware of my presence, indifferent to it, anyway, so I said nothing. I waited.

‘I let it lie for a few days – always a good tactic,’ he went on, after a long pause. ‘Then I went to him with a new proposition. No maps, no arguments – we were past all that. I said: Give me one last chance. The permit’s still in force. Let me dig that one last area by the entrance to Ramesses VI’s tomb. It’ll take me six weeks, probably less, to clear the rest of those workmen’s huts. I have Girigar and my team ready and willing to work. It costs five Egyptian pounds a day to employ them, that’s thirty-five Egyptian pounds a week. Add in ancillary costs and let’s say a six-week dig will cost around two hundred pounds sterling… Not much, in the circumstances, when there’s so much riding on it.

‘I told him: that’s what it will cost, and
I’ll
cover all the expenses: my own salary, the men’s wages. There’s no need for you to risk your health or come anywhere near Egypt. I’ll handle it. The dig can be finished before Christmas. If I find nothing, at least we know we’ve exhausted every possibility. If I find
anything
, however large or small, it’s yours, just as it would be if you were funding the dig… I pointed out it was our last throw of the dice. Worth a punt. In my view, anyway.’

Carter fell silent then, and after a long pause I felt I could risk prompting him, so I said: ‘And then Lord Carnarvon changed his mind and agreed?’

‘Yes. He’s a betting man. I knew he would. He might have been touched, or amused – it’s difficult to tell with him. Oh, and he won’t accept my offer. He’s paying for it.’

We sat in silence while I considered this. Carter’s suggestion that he should bear the costs of the dig reminded me of Wheeler’s half-wages gambit, and I wondered if that ploy might have influenced him. I didn’t mention this possibility, but I did ask whether Lord Carnarvon had been swayed by the fact that the Met might be after his permit.

‘Could be. The idea that they could make a discovery that had eluded him for years might have alarmed him – I hope it did. He’d never admit it, if so. The main thing, the
key
thing, is he knows I won’t give up. If I don’t find
him
a tomb, I’ll damn well find it for someone else. It’s there – and it’s
mine.
This year, next year, ten years from now: however long it takes. I’ll find it, if it kills me.’

Carter lit another cigarette, and drew on it deeply. He stared at the hills opposite, his face sullen and brooding. ‘Does Lord Carnarvon know about Mr Winlock’s discovery now?’ I asked, after another long pause, during which Carter showed no inclination to say anything further. ‘Did you explain to him what Mr Winlock found? Frances told me about it, in her last letter, and I was so glad! I
knew
Lord Carnarvon would want to continue your work once he knew Mr Winlock had made a breakthrough.’

I faltered and came to a halt. Carter, who had not looked at me once during this conversation, had now swung around sharply and was glaring at me. I saw that the mention of Herbert Winlock was a mistake and my question had made him furious. He gave me a long, hard, withering stare.

‘I
knew
you were trouble,’ he said, ‘I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you in Cairo. Frances’s little friend, who’s been seriously ill, or so it’s claimed. Who’s so shy she can’t say boo to a goose, who pretends butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. The girl with too many names – Lucy Payne from Cambridge, Lucy Foxe-Payne from Norfolk, Lucy-Christ-knows-what, with her American connections. The girl I look at and think: is she what she claims – or an imposter? The sad little invalid who turns up in Cairo, then Luxor, then the Valley. The girl I take pity on and include in a lunch invitation, who then starts a row with her ignorant comments and ruins the occasion for everyone. The girl who turns up at Highclere with a sick, flea-bitten mongrel in tow, and embarrasses Eve in front of her guests. The rude, obstinate girl who insists on seeing Lord Carnarvon’s collection, no matter how much it inconveniences everyone else – and who then doesn’t have the manners to disguise just how damn boring she finds it.’

He rose and stood glowering down at me. I recoiled. For one moment I thought he was about to smack me, but even he wouldn’t have gone that far, however much his fingers itched to administer a slapping; he could probably see that his words were more effective than a smack anyway. I wanted to protest, to say this wasn’t true, that it surely could not be true, but the words would not be spoken.

‘Anything Winlock tells me and I tell him is between
us,
’ he went on.
‘
It’s none of Frances’s business – and it certainly isn’t yours. I won’t be spied on – you hear me? So don’t meddle with things you don’t understand. Stay clear of me from now on, little girl, and keep that damned mouth of yours
shut
.’

He strode across to the gate. ‘I’m going back to Highclere. Tell Eve,’ he said, over his shoulder; then he set off across the fields at a fast pace without looking back.

When he was finally out of sight, I waited a while and then walked slowly down towards the valley; there, I met the others making their way back. Both the puppy, who had ventured into the river, and Peter, who had rescued her, were soaking wet.

Eve was radiant. ‘Isn’t it wonderful, Lucy?’ she said. ‘Did you see Howard – did he tell you? I’m so happy for him, and for Pups. It’s worth just one last try, and I told Pups that. Even if Howard finds nothing, his plans will be complete, so honour’s satisfied, and besides,’ she took my arm, ‘he’s such a
good
man, Lucy. Kind-hearted, utterly loyal, a true friend – look how he’s been this last few days, coming over to see you children, helping with the puppy: I was very touched by that, and Pups was too. Howard had just suffered a terrible blow – but he’d put that behind him, not one word of reproach… He’s so
generous
, Lucy. Howard has a heart of gold: I don’t know why people can’t see that.’

I said nothing. Peter had been carrying the puppy, but she was proving too heavy for him. Halfway up the hill, I took her from him and cradled her damp fur against my chest. She whined; she was cold and shivering and forlorn, so I wrapped her in my cardigan and held her tight. I set my face to the farm and walked on steadily. In the distance, I saw that the postboy was toiling down the hill, carrying his leather satchel, kicking up the dust. It was late for a delivery. When the boy glimpsed us he hallooed, jumped up and down, and began semaphoring.

‘What’s that daft boy doing?’ Wheeler asked. ‘Why is
he
back again? He brought the post earlier. There’s a letter for you, Lucy, I left it for you in the kitchen, did you see it? From Miss Mackenzie – I recognised her writing.’

I hadn’t seen the letter – and I had no opportunity to read it that afternoon. The postboy, with great excitement and an air of massive self-importance, met us in the yard. He announced he was delivering telegrams – the first ever entrusted to him. He handed them across: two small brown envelopes, one for me and one for Wheeler. The boy bustled into the kitchen, accepted his usual lemonade and cake, sat down at the table and looked from face to face expectantly – he was anticipating a death, I think; something juicy anyway.

I inspected the telegrams. I knew they couldn’t bode well – telegrams never did. Mine read:
YOUR
FATHER
UNWELL
+
URGENT
YOU
RETURN
CAMBRIDGE
IMMEDIATELY
++
NICOLA

Wheeler’s read:
LUCY
’
S
RETURN
IMPERATIVE
+
UNFORESEEN
EVENTS
+
WIRE
SOONEST
RE
HER
ARRIVAL
TIME
CAMBRIDGE
++
DUNSIRE

‘Heavens, whatever can have happened?’ Eve said. ‘Could it be an accident? Oh, Lucy, don’t be upset, dear – I’m sure it will be all right, how lucky that I’m here – leave
everything
to me.’

No one seemed interested in the question of why Nicola Dunsire, still in France as of her most recent Loire letter, should now be back in England. No one enquired as to my father’s state of health before I’d left – and perhaps that was irrelevant, I thought; perhaps some accident
had
occurred. I felt concussed. I stared at the telegrams. It occurred to me that I was
inconveniencing
people again. I was a
nuisance
yet again – why did that happen? I was very afraid Eve might think I was presuming on friendship, but when I muttered something to that effect, she gave me a hug, made an urgent face at Wheeler, and told me not to be silly.

‘We’ll get you back home in no time, Lucy, dear,’ she said. ‘And meanwhile, you mustn’t worry.’

Before I could say a word, Wheeler was hastening upstairs to pack my cases. The Carnarvon machine swung into action, and its efficiency was impressive. We couldn’t telephone my home, because there
was
no telephone; domestic phones were still comparatively rare then and my father regarded them as unnecessary, intrusive, new-fangled extravagances. He no more approved of phones than he did pet animals, holidays, Americans, aristocrats, scarabs, disobedient children, or deceitful women who concealed secrets from him. Accordingly, within an hour, no
ifs
or
buts
and no
‘
Let’s discuss this
,’ a telegram was sent in return, confirming my arrival home later that night. Half an hour after that, I was inside one of Highclere Castle’s fast cars, its most reliable driver at the wheel. As it drew out of the farmyard, Peter and Rose, in tears, ran after it. I heard Peter call
Lulu
one last despairing time as the great machine turned and accelerated; then the farm – which I loved, which I’d return to, briefly, later in my life – was hidden behind its sheltering hawthorn hedges.