seemed to be defeated by the awfulness of it all. But we’d looked at so many rooms already, rooms with bedbugs, elegant rooms we couldn’t afford, rooms over a brothel.
‘This’ll do very well,’ I said.
* * *
And so we were married, in the early spring of 1942, when the pleasant, English summer temperature of Cairo winter was rising and the sun had a sting to it again, a reminder of what was to come.
Grace borrowed a camera and snapped everyone and everything, but the film was accidentally exposed, so I have no pictures. I have to rely on memory. The camera never lies, but perhaps my memory does.
I see Vee and Grace in uniform, but with gardenias pinned to their tunics and silk stockings they had bartered for with the South African WAASes. Vee is crying and laughing and hugging and crying again, sometimes all at once. Pansy’s cheap cotton frock is straining over a bulk that looks indecent on such a tiny girl. Most of the time, she stands with her arms crossed and her shoulders hunched, as though trying to hide.
I see the padre, with khaki trousers visible below his robes, standing outside the little wooden hut he called the garrison church. I see Grace’s cousin George giving me a smacking, wet kiss on one cheek before he escorts me to the altar, and Major Prosser giving me a dry peck on the other cheek when I come back again, a married woman.
There is Madame Bouvier, still in black, but black velvet this time, stamped with gold. She is crying into a scrap of lace handkerchief and her rings still flash, though duller in the dim church.
I see me – how funny, how can I see myself? – thin and brown in a heavy, corded-silk dress copied by a Levantine dressmaker from an old copy of Vogue, how old I didn’t know, but certainly prewar. My strong, springy hair is veiled by the Brussels lace mantilla worn by Madame Bouvier to mass. It smells of her, of patchouli and tuberose and – surely not – cats? From sleeves that come to a point below the wrist protrude my rough, brown hands, but they are camouflaged beneath a bouquet of white lilac. I look unnaturally elegant, rather withdrawn, rather puzzled, as though I can’t quite remember how I’ve got myself into this situation.
I see James standing before the altar, young and grave in perfectly pressed uniform, blond-brown hair caught in a halo of light, the boy warrior. I see the sudden blaze of joy that lights his face, brighter than Madame Bouvier’s rings, brighter than I could ever deserve, as he turns to see me coming towards him.
He loves me.
I see the laughing, crying, kissing group outside Shepheard’s, hurrying us into the taxi in case we miss the train to Alexandria, at the same time holding us back for more kisses and handshakes. I lean out of the window and throw my bouquet. Pansy catches it – just a reflex action – and for a moment everyone else is filled with embarrassment. Her face is very white, but she goes on smiling the tight little smile she has worn all day. She looks as though she will go on smiling it in her sleep, just in case someone is still watching. Then James pulls me back into my seat and kisses me, very deliberately, to cheers from the onlookers.
We have three days – three days to pretend to be grown-up, married people.
He loves me.
I see all these things now, but did I really see them then?
* * *
James pulled down the blinds, blanking out the lush, damp greenness of the Delta. No sand here. The earth was black, seamed with ditches, quilted with straight, green, growing lines, patterned with patient, black buffalo, knee-deep in mud, with white egrets and scarlet ibis and bent-backed fellahin. James went round the carriage, shutting them from view.
He put his hand on my hair, left it there for a second, long enough for me to feel it fluttering, then ran his fingers down my cheek, my neck, down to my breast, where they trembled again, feather-light, scarcely daring to be there. I covered his hand
‘This’ll do very well,’ I said.
* * *
And so we were married, in the early spring of 1942, when the pleasant, English summer temperature of Cairo winter was rising and the sun had a sting to it again, a reminder of what was to come.
Grace borrowed a camera and snapped everyone and everything, but the film was accidentally exposed, so I have no pictures. I have to rely on memory. The camera never lies, but perhaps my memory does.
I see Vee and Grace in uniform, but with gardenias pinned to their tunics and silk stockings they had bartered for with the South African WAASes. Vee is crying and laughing and hugging and crying again, sometimes all at once. Pansy’s cheap cotton frock is straining over a bulk that looks indecent on such a tiny girl. Most of the time, she stands with her arms crossed and her shoulders hunched, as though trying to hide.
I see the padre, with khaki trousers visible below his robes, standing outside the little wooden hut he called the garrison church. I see Grace’s cousin George giving me a smacking, wet kiss on one cheek before he escorts me to the altar, and Major Prosser giving me a dry peck on the other cheek when I come back again, a married woman.
There is Madame Bouvier, still in black, but black velvet this time, stamped with gold. She is crying into a scrap of lace handkerchief and her rings still flash, though duller in the dim church.
I see me – how funny, how can I see myself? – thin and brown in a heavy, corded-silk dress copied by a Levantine dressmaker from an old copy of Vogue, how old I didn’t know, but certainly prewar. My strong, springy hair is veiled by the Brussels lace mantilla worn by Madame Bouvier to mass. It smells of her, of patchouli and tuberose and – surely not – cats? From sleeves that come to a point below the wrist protrude my rough, brown hands, but they are camouflaged beneath a bouquet of white lilac. I look unnaturally elegant, rather withdrawn, rather puzzled, as though I can’t quite remember how I’ve got myself into this situation.
I see James standing before the altar, young and grave in perfectly pressed uniform, blond-brown hair caught in a halo of light, the boy warrior. I see the sudden blaze of joy that lights his face, brighter than Madame Bouvier’s rings, brighter than I could ever deserve, as he turns to see me coming towards him.
He loves me.
I see the laughing, crying, kissing group outside Shepheard’s, hurrying us into the taxi in case we miss the train to Alexandria, at the same time holding us back for more kisses and handshakes. I lean out of the window and throw my bouquet. Pansy catches it – just a reflex action – and for a moment everyone else is filled with embarrassment. Her face is very white, but she goes on smiling the tight little smile she has worn all day. She looks as though she will go on smiling it in her sleep, just in case someone is still watching. Then James pulls me back into my seat and kisses me, very deliberately, to cheers from the onlookers.
We have three days – three days to pretend to be grown-up, married people.
He loves me.
I see all these things now, but did I really see them then?
* * *
James pulled down the blinds, blanking out the lush, damp greenness of the Delta. No sand here. The earth was black, seamed with ditches, quilted with straight, green, growing lines, patterned with patient, black buffalo, knee-deep in mud, with white egrets and scarlet ibis and bent-backed fellahin. James went round the carriage, shutting them from view.
He put his hand on my hair, left it there for a second, long enough for me to feel it fluttering, then ran his fingers down my cheek, my neck, down to my breast, where they trembled again, feather-light, scarcely daring to be there. I covered his hand
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