Barbara Erskine - Whispers in the Sand

A sharp crack followed by a rattling sound made her catch her breath. The noise had come from the table in front of the window. It sounded as though something had fallen to the floor. She stared at the spot, straining her eyes in the candlelight then, knowing she would not rest until she had looked more closely, she reluctantly climbed out of bed. She stood for a moment in her long white nightgown, the candle in her hand, staring at the floor. One of her tubes of paint had fallen from the table. She picked it up and stared at it. The slight movement of the boat as it lay against its mooring must have dislodged it and allowed it to roll from the table. Her eyes strayed to Hassan’s scent bottle. She hadn’t seen him to speak to since he had given it to her that afternoon. While she dined with the Forresters he had been sitting on the foredeck with the reis , smoking a companionable hooker, both men deep in conversation.

She had tucked the piece of paper with its Arabic warning into an envelope and slipped the envelope into the back of her diary. Joke or not, the message made her feel uncomfortable.

The little bottle was standing on the table with her painting things. She frowned. She had surely tucked it into her dressing case? She remembered distinctly doing so before dinner. Perhaps Jane Treece had moved it when she tidied away Louisa’s muslin gown and, not recognising it, had assumed it was part of her painting equipment. She reached out to pick it up and at the last moment hesitated, almost afraid to touch it. What if it were true? Supposing it was three or four thousand years old? Supposing it had been the property of a temple priest in the days of one of the ancient pharaohs?

Drawing in a quick deep breath she picked it up and taking it back to her bed she sat down. Leaning back against her pillows, the little bottle cradled between her palms, she lapsed into deep thought, her imagination taking her from the high priest who followed the scent bottle, to Hassan. Why should he have given her a present at all? She pictured his face, the strong bones, the large brown eyes, the evenly spaced white teeth and suddenly she found herself remembering the warm dry touch of his hand against hers as he passed her the flaring torch in the tomb in the valley. In spite of herself she shivered. What she had felt at that moment was something she had never thought to feel again, the intense pleasure she used to feel at the touch of her beloved George’s hand when he glanced at her and they exchanged secret smiles in unacknowledged recognition that later, when the children were asleep, they would keep an assignation in his room or hers. But to feel that with a comparative stranger, a man who was of a different race and one who was in her employ? She could feel herself blushing in the light of the candle. It was something too shocking, almost, to confide even to her diary.

Anna awoke to find the sunlight flooding across her bed from the open window. The boat was still moving and when she climbed to her feet and went to look out she found a breathtaking view of palms and plantations streaming steadily by. For a few moments she stood still, transfixed, then she turned and pulling off her nightshirt she headed for the shower.

Toby was just sitting down to breakfast as she arrived in the dining room. ‘Another late arrival? I believe most of the others have already finished. Please, join me.’ He pulled out a chair for her. ‘This morning we go to the temple of Edfu. I gather we will be arriving fairly soon.’ He beckoned the waiter with his coffee pot over to the table as Anna sat down. ‘You look tired. Did the Valley of the Kings prove too much of an exciting start?’

She shook her head. ‘I didn’t sleep well.’

‘Not sea sick, I trust!’

She laughed. ‘No, though I must admit I noticed the movement. It did feel odd.’ She reached for the cup.

‘I expect it disturbed you when we went through the lock at Esna. It must have been some time in the early hours. It certainly woke me, but not enough to make me want to go up on deck and watch.’

She shrugged. ‘Would you believe, I missed that. No, actually I was reading Louisa’s diary until late and I think it gave me nightmares. I kept waking up after that.’

‘What on earth was she describing?’

‘She was talking about a scent bottle which her dragoman bought for her in a bazaar. It had the reputation for being haunted.’

‘The scent bottle or the bazaar?’ His eyes crinkled rather pleasantly at the corners, she realised, although he kept all traces of laughter out of his voice.

‘The bottle. I know it sounds strange. A haunted scent bottle!’

‘What haunted it? A genie, presumably. They seem to favour living in bottles.’

‘She called it a djinn. Is that the same thing?’ She smiled, hoping that would show she didn’t believe it herself, that she could laugh it off as he had.

‘Indeed it is the same. How intriguing. Well, you mustn’t let such imaginings disturb your sleep again. Perhaps you’d better not read such sensational stuff at bedtime.’ He stood up, pushing back his chair. ‘What can I get you from the buffet?’

She watched as he made his way across the dining room and picked up two plates. She saw him carefully select two of the largest croissants from the basket on the counter, then he was on his way back. ‘We’ve arrived. Do you see?’ Putting down the plates he gestured towards the windows. ‘Just time to eat, then we’d better go and claim our places in a suitable calèche. We drive to the temple of Edfu in style.’

A line of four-wheeled open carriages, drawn by an array of painfully thin horses was drawn up on the quayside waiting for them, each driven by an Egyptian in a colourful galabiyya and turban. Beside each driver a long, formidable whip rested against the footrail. Every so often one was cracked loudly as the horses milled about, jostling for position. The shouting was deafening, as around the calèches and between the horses’ feet a dozen little boys shouted for baksheesh, and urged the tourists towards their own particular choice of vehicle.

As they assembled on the quayside, Anna found herself standing next to Serena and it was with some relief she saw that they were both bound for the same calèche. She became aware that she had been scanning the crowds for Andy and Charley almost without realising it, but there was no sign of either of them; with them when they were finally settled into their seats were Joe and Sally Booth. Their driver, whose name, so he informed them, was Abdullah, could have been any age between seventy and one hundred and fifty, she decided as she quailed beneath his toothless grin. His skin was especially dark, gauntly drawn into deep creases and his missing teeth rendered his smile particularly piratical. Anna settled beside Serena with a fervent prayer that they were not going to be whisked off into the desert and never seen again. They set off at a canter, passing the other vehicles and heading into the centre of town where the horses challenged lorries and cars with no fear at all. Holding frantically to the side of the carriage Anna wished she had a hand free to take out her camera. There was something deeply primitive in this mode of transport which appealed to her greatly.

The calèche lurched into a pothole and Anna fell sideways against her companion. Serena laughed. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? I am so looking forward to seeing Edfu Temple. It’s very special you know. It’s not nearly as old as somewhere like Karnac which we shall see next week. It was built in the Ptolomaic period, but it is famous for its inscriptions and carvings and they were faithful still to the old Egyptian gods even in Roman times.’