Palace Circle (15 page)

As they plunged into a maze of medieval alleys, the first thing that overwhelmed her was the stench. Not just cooking smells but unwashed bodies and raw sewage. The place was claustrophobic. Everyone was crowded into passageways so narrow that hardly any sunlight penetrated. Even with Darius at her side, protecting her, she was jostled in a way she had never experienced. The noise was incredible. Everyone seemed to be shouting at the top of their voices.

There were no other Westerners. Everywhere she looked she saw only turbans, red fezzes, hijabs, and all-covering veils.

Heaps of rubbish were everywhere. Tawdry shops, some little more than holes in walls, sold uncovered food. Ragged children had flies swarming around their eyes and their mouths.
She
had flies buzzing incessantly around her.

It was so hot, so fetid, that she could hardly breathe.

“People here live two or three families to a room—with no running water and no sanitation. Half the children die before they are five,” he said grimly, sidestepping a pile of refuse. “How many of your friends at Shepheard's and the Gezira Sporting Club are aware of that, do you think?” His voice was taut with anger. “Our King doesn't care that Cairo's poorest live like this, and wealthy landowners like my father don't care, either.”

Just when she thought she was going to faint, he said tersely, “Had enough?”

She nodded and they turned left into a crowded bazaar. “Back to the fortress,” he said, making no comment on the indescribable poverty they had just witnessed.

At the far end of the bazaar they reached a street that was a little broader, a little less crowded. Heat shimmered up from the ground and she watched Darius drop some coins and a beggar grabbing at them and shouting a grateful
“Shukran! Alhamdulillah!”

As a muezzin called the faithful to prayer, Darius said abruptly, “Do you speak any Arabic?”

“I can say ‘good morning’ and ‘good evening’ and I know that
‘shukran’
means ‘thank you’ and that
‘Alhamdulillah’
means ‘thank God.’”

“That isn't much after seven years.”

Not for the first time she noticed that he avoided ever addressing her as Lady Conisborough.

“Maybe not,” she said, aware that their relationship had changed. “But as all the Egyptians I meet speak either English
or French or both I've had no need to study Arabic. And it isn't an easy language to learn.”

“Maybe not, but when you make your home in a city, it's polite to be able to speak a little of the language, don't you think?”

She nodded, wondering what Ivor's reaction was going to be when she announced she was going to learn Arabic.

“You won't be the first member of your family to learn Arabic,” he said. “Davina asked Adjo for lessons a long time ago.”

“She did?”

Her surprise was so obvious that he said, “She didn't want her father to know in case he put an end to them.”

They reached the tram stop and Delia saw with relief that the tram going back to Ezbekiya Gardens wasn't as crowded as the one they had taken out. When they were seated on one of the dirty slatted seats, she said, “Even though my husband is a friend of your father's, you don't like him, do you?”

“You're right,” he said. “I don't like him. I don't like any British, except for Davina who is, after all, half American— and Jack.”

“Jack?” Delia felt as if the day's surprises would never end. “I didn't realize that when Jack visited you and he spent time together.”

His eyes met hers. “That,” he said drily, “is because when Jack visits Cairo, his father travels south, to Aswan. And that when he does, you go with him.”

To change the subject fast, she said bluntly, “Are you more than just a nationalist, Darius? Are you one of the students at Fuad I University that my husband calls revolutionaries who ought to be imprisoned?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I am one of the students your husband would like to see imprisoned. I want the British
out of my country. I want Egypt to be ruled by Egyptians— not a king the British put on our throne, a king who is three-quarters Albanian. As long as Fuad is on the throne Egypt will never become independent.”

She looked behind them swiftly to make sure no one was sitting near enough to overhear him.

He smiled. “Even if people overhear me, no one who travels by tram is going to take issue with what I've said. Outside the palace circle—a circle that includes my father—Egyptians want Egypt for Egyptians. It's as simple as that.”

The tram rattled and swayed. At every stop more and more galabia-dressed fellahin got on board. Delia remained silent, knowing that her own situation wasn't either plain or simple. She couldn't tell Ivor that Darius was a revolutionary. If she did he would refuse to allow either Petra or Davina to visit Zubair Pasha's home again.

And she would have to admit that she sympathized with Darius's position that the British were in a country they had promised to leave years ago.

Even as it was, the sights she had seen that afternoon were going to strain her relationship with Ivor, for she was certainly going to tell him that as an adviser to King Fuad he should advise the king on how to help his impoverished people into the twentieth century—something he would say was none of his business.

He would simply not understand, but Jerome would.

Jerome.

Apart from brief interludes, they had been separated for seven years. How much longer was their separation going to last? For how much longer could she remain the most important person in his life when he so seldom saw her and when so many young London socialites were, she was sure, only too willing to take her place in his heart?

1930–1933

Petra was lying flat on her back next to Jack on the grass beside the tennis court at Nile House. They had just finished a hard-fought game and were in a state of pleasant exhaustion.

“I don't think anyone else knows, apart from myself and Davina—and now you—but Darius is a very committed Egyptian nationalist,” she said, shading her eyes from the sun.

“I doubt it.” Jack swatted a fly away from his face. “Fawzia probably just told you he was in an attempt to impress you.”

“How would her brother wanting to kick my father out of Egypt impress me? I think she was speaking the truth and I'm rather glad, as now I don't feel bad about not liking him.”

“Are you sure you don't like him?” There was teasing amusement in Jack's voice. “Last year I thought you had a crush on him.”

Beneath her tan Petra blushed and sat up so her back was toward him. “Last year I was fifteen and didn't know better.”

“That's good. I don't like the thought of you mooning over Zubair Pasha's heir.” Though there was still amusement in his voice there was also something else, something which caused her to blush even more furiously.

He rolled over to lie on his side, resting his weight on one arm, saying, “Do you think Zubair Pasha knows of Darius's political inclinations?”

“God, no! He'd skin him alive if he did.” She hugged her knees. “Zubair Pasha is very pro-British. If he wasn't, my father wouldn't be such close friends with him.” Her blush had safely receded and she turned toward Jack again. “As it is, Papa is almost as close to him as he is to your father.”

“Which is why it's such a shame your father has meetings in Alexandria for nearly the entire length of our stay. They must both be bitterly disappointed, but it seems always that way. The last time we were here your father had to attend a meeting in Alexandria. I'm not sure, but I think my father caught up with him there for a few days. I had to stay in London for the Foreign Office exam.”

“Is the Foreign Office the reason you're so interested in Darius's politics?”

He plucked a blade of grass. “No. It's just I've known Zubair Pasha's family for almost as long as you have and I've always liked Darius. I wouldn't like to see him end up in a British prison.”

“Land's sakes!” The blood drained from her face. “Is that what could happen?”

It wasn't often she used any of her mother's Virginian expressions and despite the grimness of the subject, a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“If he's joining the violent extremists, yes. If he's merely a member of the Wafd, which is a pukka political party calling for full independence, then possibly not.”

“He may be a member of Wafd. I don't know. All I'm certain of is that his father doesn't know of his opinions.”

“And does your father?”

“Do you mean did I tell him what Fawzia told me? Of course I didn't. I'm not a sneak. Besides, if my father were to suspect how anti-British Darius is, he'd probably forbid me to see Fawzia.”

Jack picked up his tennis racket and rose to his feet. “How
is the lovely Fawzia? I'm surprised she didn't leave the Mere de Dieu and go to the lycée when you did. She's bright enough.”

Petra stood up and brushed the grass from her tennis skirt. “She may be bright, but she's also lazy. For all her Western attitudes, life in a harem would suit Fawzia down to the ground.”

He chuckled. “You're wrong, Petra. Lying about eating chocolates would make her fat—and Fawzia would die rather than lose her figure. She would also hate to wear veils when out in public. Hiding her beauty is not something Fawzia would ever do.”

Crossly Petra picked up her racket and began walking back to the house. Fawzia
was
beautiful, but Petra didn't much like hearing Jack say so. She looked across at him. In his white shirt and flannels, his curly hair slicked back, he was stunningly good-looking. Over the last year, since he had left Oxford, he had become a very sharp dresser. Like his father, he stood out in any crowd. She just didn't want him doing so with Fawzia at his side.

As they neared the terrace, Davina stepped through the French doors and shouted good-naturedly, “Come on, you two. Hurry up and get changed. You're going to be late for lunch and, as Papa is away and Uncle Jerome is here, we're eating Virginian fashion. Fried chicken and lemon pie.”

Petra smiled. Her mother was always in an exceptionally good mood when Jack and his father visited. Later on they were all going to the Gezira Sporting Club where Jack had been invited to play polo.

“The Prince of Wales played polo at the Gezira when he visited Cairo in 1922,” Delia said chattily to Jack as lunch was served. “It was before we came here, but it's still talked about.”

She was wearing a new calf-length lemon silk dress. A heavy amber necklace hung to precisely the right depth of the
softly draped neckline and her fiery-red hair had been tamed into a cap of fashionably sleek waves.

“That's only because one of the other players was Seifallah Youssri Pasha,” Davina said, helping herself to green beans in a mustard sauce. For her uncle Jerome's benefit, she added, “Youssri Pasha was one of the club's first Egyptian members— and he still plays a mean game of polo. If you're Egyptian you have to be royalty or an intimate friend of royalty to be a member of the Gezira. Darius is only a member because his father is such a close confidant of the King. He'll be playing this afternoon.”

“Interesting,” Jack said, his eyes meeting Petra's across the table.

She knew what he was thinking. Why on earth was Darius playing polo at the Gezira, when the club epitomized the foreign domination he hated?

“And talkin' of the Prince of Wales,” Delia said, bringing the conversation back in the direction she had initially been trying to steer it, “everyone in Cairo was mightily disappointed that he didn't play polo when he was here last spring on his way back to London after tourin' Kenya and Uganda. He just viewed some antiquities. Even Ivor didn't get a glimpse of him. What is the London gossip, Jerome? Has he really left Freda Dudley Ward? Gwen wrote me that he has eyes for no one but Lady Furness.”

Petra was intrigued to see that Jerome looked distinctly uncomfortable. “For goodness' sake, Delia,” he said in fond exasperation. “Do you really expect me to discuss such a subject in front of Petra and Davina?”

“It won't shock them. You forget they live in Cairo. They're quite used to scandal.”

Davina and Petra both raised their eyebrows. Scandals were never discussed in front of them. The very thought would
give their father a fit, but neither girl was about to say so. Not when the conversation was so interesting.

“Well, if you must have scandal over the lunch table, yes— Gwen is doing a good job of keeping you up-to-date.”

“She may be keepin' me up-to-date, but she doesn't have access to as much inside gossip as you. Do King George and Queen Mary know of David's latest infatuation?”

“Who,” Davina asked, “is David? I thought you were talking about the Prince of Wales.”

“He's known as David to his family and friends, honey.”

“And are you one of his friends?” Davina was clearly impressed.

Petra rolled her eyes, annoyed at having her mother sidetracked.

Delia, who never minded talking about the Prince, said breezily, “I was before I left England. We are about the same age and he likes Americans. Freda Dudley Ward's mother is American and I'm guessin' Thelma Furness is half American.”