Elizabeth is near Luxor, but mischief and murder are abroad. There is news from London.
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
Elizabeth is near Luxor, but mischief and murder are abroad. There is news from London.
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
THIS HOUSE WILL DEVOUR YOU: THE HUNGRY TOMB Season Two
A Podcast concerning love, madness, mystery, murder and dead gods in 1920's Ireland, England and Egypt.
THWDY Episode 2.05
'Up The Nile'
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Paddle Steamer Hathor, Qena, Upper Egypt,
13th February 1926
My dear Jon,
I do hope this letter gets to you safely. I will send it c/o Shepheards as I assume that is where you will stay when you arrive in Cairo or at the very least you will announce your presence there to your compadres and there will be a place to pick up the post. Unfortunately I am having to write in pencil – in a mishap with a donkey cart when the boat was being loaded my writing set and ink bottle went flying, leaving a trail of blue-black dust for miles behind us. But as long as this gets to you and is legible it will have done its job. In fact, in our confined cabin, with barely a level surface to rest upon, I must say there is a certain freedom in writing with such a solid object as a pencil. No fear of smudges or blots.
So – you read correctly – I am aboard a Nile river boat, moored a short distance downstream from Luxor, part of I now realise, a hurriedly put together expedition led by Sir Malcolm Whitton to find his Hungry Tomb. I had hoped and expected it was to discover unknown mysteries of the Nile Valley, the adjacent lands, now desert but in the time of the Pharoahs, fertile agricultural plains, and perhaps even the true desert lands lying to our west. It is believed that is where Zerzura lies. Jeremy Anson, the expedition leader, did indicate this scope to me, when he hired me as Expedition Scholar. However as it is in fact funded by Sir Malcolm and the mousy Mabel, it is understood Sir M has a priority, a personal grudge to bear, and that he is seeking something in the cave otherwise referred to as “The Hungry Tomb”. I learned this from the Egyptologist Sam, a few nights ago in Egypt before our boat set off.
The expedition team comprises Artie and Jeremy, their mate Trevor, all of whom I met with Irina in the Casino de Paris in Ezbekiyya, Irina herself, and half a hundred others, on a paddle steamer up the Nile as far as Luxor. From there we will disembark and take a train from a nearby junction westward into the desert, to the oasis town of El Kharga. I am not sure if everyone on board is on our expedition but they certainly seem to act as though they are! Irina and I am sharing a tiny cabin with a small window – a porthole, I suppose – opening out onto the river and the reed banks not far away. It is strange to be afloat but so close to dry land. I was surprised Irina decided to accompany me on the trip, thinking she would be more at home in the artistic studios and ateliers of Ezbekiyya, but she said it was wonderful being with such a charismatic team, and it is certainly handy to have her to share the twin cabin. I am not sure who she thinks are the charismatic members of the team? Rather oddly she has been seeking out the Whittons, trying to sit at their table at dinner, and seemingly becoming very pally with the dreary Mabel. I can only assume she is seeking some form of artist’s patronage from them.
Irina and I had actually bumped into Mabel, that day at the cloth bazaar before the trip, when Mabel was accompanied by Mr Ashraf, at her husband’s behest. I was laden with heavy cotton sheets and coverings I had purchased in preparation for the desert camp, and I have to admit, some finer lawns and muslins, for wear, so I declined to take coffee with Mrs Mabel Whitton. Instead, Mr Ashraf helped me to a taxi, leaving Irina alone with Mabel. I do not know what passed between them, but all of a sudden Irina was headlong in favour of coming on the expedition.
Someone who has not joined the trip, however, is Sam the Egyptologist. I had a detailed discussion with him in Cairo, the night before we sailed, in which he imparted a whole load of information regarding hieroglyphs and ancient writings he had unearthed in his preliminary research. While fascinating, it made me think of myself as superfluous in my role as Expedition Scholar, so in a way it is a relief – although at the same time alarming – to know that any scholarly responsibilities will now be assigned to me.
The main objective of the expedition, according to Sam, is a repeat of last autumn’s attempt for Sir Malcolm to find and enter a hidden room in a new tomb he discovered at that time west of El Kharga, known colloquially, as the “Hungry Tomb”. Sir Malcolm believes this to be an apocryphal tomb – if he is right, it belongs to a priestess, perhaps dating from the Intermediate Period of ancient Egypt, a generally unstable episode in this country’s long history. The tomb’s epitaph is “Fear Her. Do not enter lest you be devoured.” This is fairly well known among the expedition members, and Sam was pleased to be able to confirm it from Sir M’s notebooks - with a hodge-podge of hand-inked hieroglyphs and photos of more of the same found among the papers. What intrigued him, however, was a newer notebook of hieroglyphs, hand drawn in blue ink, probably recently, and presumably in Sir Malcolm’s hand, but copying an archaic and unusual style. Although slightly smudged by the writer’s hand, Sam thinks that indicates the speed at which they were written, and was fascinated by the writer’s fluency. After my incident earlier the same day with the ink-pot, I laughed at the smudging and recommended pencil. Sam said his personal view was that this recent writing was intended to re-enact an ancient spell, for which, he said, somewhat patronisingly, mere pencil would not work. I felt rather snubbed.
Seeing my fallen expression, he continued, “What we call The Book of the Dead, the ancients knew as ‘Spells for going forth by Day’. It was a manual to survive the journey through the Underworld after death. But this text is summat else, summat way more intriguing. I see I’ll be up all night again trying to decipher it. It’ll be good to discuss my findings with his nibs in the morning before we head out. It’s definitely a ritual of some sort and appears to have been written originally by the priestess in this tomb we’re headed for.” He looked at me with a glint in his eye that I wearily recognised as a man about to wind me up with some esoteric titbit. If only they knew!
He said, “The ancients called female magicians ‘Rekhet’, meaning ‘she who knows’. But the texts around our priestess always refer to her as a ‘Hekat’ – that is, a witch.”
“ ‘Why now, Hecate’ ,” I couldn’t resist quoting – I am Expedition Scholar after all – “ ‘you look angerly’ ”.
I couldn’t remember the rest of the Shakespearean quotation but I think there is something about a pit of Acheron, and thinking of the Hungry Tomb, I must confess, Jon, for the first time I felt afraid. But Sam recognised the reference and, pursuing it, asked if I was a ‘saucy and overbold beldam’, which I found oddly cheering. Shakespeare can do that to you.
So it came as a surprise to hear that Sam would not, after all, be coming on the expedition, without any explanation, though the rumour amongst the team is that Mabel of all people fired him! As I do not have access to Sir M’s papers, I will have to make do the best I can. I may make light of this hungry tomb business, and try to get the team to focus rather on mythical Zerzura, or something that Irina may want to use in her art. I have not forgotten my own objective, to seek that talisman for George.
The journey up the Nile has been slow and would be serene were it not for a very odd incident last night. I was on deck in the evening with Artie, sharing a cigarette (I must confess), and endeavouring to get to know him better. He is a confused mix of gung-ho action man and thoughtful introvert. About Gallipoli he would say very little except to say it was interminable and a relief in a way a way to have been captured and spend time as a Prisoner of War.
“The camp,” he said, “was a massive shanty town in central Turkey, oh my word you never saw such a sprawl. Afion Kara Hissar, it was called, meaning the black rock in the opium field. The rock was this magnificent crag at our backs, an old fortress on top. Any chance of escape blocked by its bulk. The vultures used to soar off it, reminding us of our lack of freedom.”
“Ever since,” he continued, “freedom’s what I hold dear. Just do my own thing, something here, something there, a bit on the side, what d’ye think, Sheila?”
I hoped he wasn’t propositioning me, so I reminded him my name was Elizabeth, not Sheila, and asked him about the opium. I wondered had the POW’s had to grow it as part of their labours?
Artie gave a short laugh. “We sure didn’t see any,” he said, “though I heard tell it was rife in certain quarters. The officers’ mess I reckon. Not the guards, they were too on the ball. Hard times, Sheila, make no mistake.”
It was difficult to cheer him up and he seemed quite happy to be left chatting with Mr Ashraf, who turned up promenading the deck in the gloaming, so I made my way to engage in other social interactions. During a round of cards on a previous evening I had made the acquaintance of an American couple, a Mr and Mrs Clarence Valentino. I do despair of the American custom of subjugating the wife to the husband’s first name as well as surname! While I’m sure I’ll be happy to become Mrs Elizabeth Ross (hopefully fairly soon!) I do draw the line at Mrs Jon Ross.
Anyway, Hayley, for that was Mrs. Valentino’s first name, seemed to quite take to Irina and myself, and after tonight’s card game was over, hustled both of us out to the upper deck bar and basically forced cocktails into our hands, gulping at her own with a rather unladylike abandon.
“Do you know?” she said, “the rumours about this expedition? About its leader, Sir Malcolm? And what happened to that guy in the hotel in Cairo?”
I was unsure how to reply, half scared and wholly curious, but keen not to show it. But Irina cut it short.
“I am artist”, she said. “I care not for foolish rumours and little fears that will cramp my vision. If I cared one zloty for all the scaremongering gossip folk put about, I would never have escaped the ravages of war-torn Poland to be here today! I would have been sucked in and pulled under, submerged by the silly little qualms of small people!”
Well, that put a halt to Hayley Valentino’s barrage of questions, and she looked quite uncomfortable, pouting and patting her nose with a dainty little handkerchief quite unsuited to the climate in my opinion. It made me wonder too, how Irina’s art was coming on, as she had not mentioned it during our hectic few days in Cairo or indeed in our shared cabin. I didn’t want to discomfit her before Mrs Valentino however, but I vowed to ask her how her sculpture, for which she had used me as muse on board the ship, was progressing.
We were spared further questions by the appearance of Mr Valentino, a large, portly man with a red face and wearing a tropical jacket that barely met in the middle. He was accompanied by Sir Malcolm, who as the leader of the expedition, had every right to be there of course, but there was no sign of his wife, and I found this continual neglect of Mabel quite offensive. Interestingly enough, the Valentinos must have had the same view, as Mr V said to Sir M,
“An’ how’s that cute little pixie lady of yours, huh? She taking an early night? Too beautiful an evening to turn-in so soon.”
Hayley, glad of a change of subject, nodded in vigorous agreement. But at that moment, Mabel appeared, dressed far more becomingly than usual in a figure-hugging grey dress picked out with sequins, glittering almost provocatively as she moved along the deck to join our party. Sir Malcolm seemed surprised to see her, and it was Mr Valentino who quickly ordered a martini for her from a passing waiter. I decided to leave them to it, and moved into the bar itself, to join some other members of the party, including Jeremy, who were gathered there.
On the far side of the bar, between the central counter and roof supports, it was possible to catch glimpses of the white-jacketed barman at work, presumably making Mabel’s martini. My view was at a slightly sharper angle than the others, and I could see less of the man and more of the glass. I became intrigued to watch a cocktail in the act of being made, the ice first, nice big cubes, and then the red vermouth, and then a pause. The barman, now out of sight, must be peeling a lemon or looking for some olives.
Suddenly I froze in shock! I could see a white-gloved hand - emptying a sachet of powder into the glass and stirring it in vigorously, ensuring there was no visible trace. My mind raced back to the conversation with Artie on opium; “it was rife”. Mabel’s drink was being spiked! Could it be by Sir Malcolm? If not by his hand, then engineered under his auspices? I don’t much care for Mabel but I felt I must save her from this nefarious deed. With a cry, I pushed my way through the throng at the bar and out onto the deck, just in time to see a slim-built, white-gloved waiter – could it be the barman? – appearing with a red martini on a silver salver and approaching Mabel with it. I had no time to think! Pushing forward I swept the drink off the tray, dashing it to one side, and unfortunately, spilling red liquor all over Hayley Valentino’s cream chiffon dress and a white damask tablecloth.
“Its spiked!” I cried. “Drugs! Or poison! Stay back! Catch the poisoner!”
Well, I was right, because the waiter, with a shriek of alarm, scurried away along the deck into the shadowy bows of the boat, whereupon we could hear a short clanking of chain, and then a splash.
“He’s gone OB!” roared Mr Valentino, ignoring the wails of his wife as to the state of her dress. “Get help, someone! Where’s Whitton gone?” I turned round and couldn’t see Sir Malcolm. Although he’d only recently arrived with Mr Valentino, he seemed to have excused himself to go to the lavatory. He must be involved!
There followed general confusion. A shot rang out – and to my horror, I saw it was fired by Mr Ashraf, who came running along the deck on the far side, disappearing into the darkened bow area. The barman – a taller, heavier built, man than the waiter, but whose white-gloved hand might easily have mixed the drink - appeared from the behind the bar, and with a few cries in Arabic, raised a number of crew members, who rushed to the foredeck, and then disappeared, returning with nets and draglines. There was much chatter and the flickering of torches, but I heard no sounds of anyone being pulled back on board. Jeremy, with some reluctance I thought, put his drink down, and went forward to join the affray. Meanwhile Hayley was screaming about her dress – which to be frank was nothing special – so I tried to placate her by offering to pay the laundry bill, although I hoped she would realise it was such an emergency that she should act graciously. Mabel was opening and shutting her mouth like a stranded fish, with Irina behaving very solicitously toward her, putting her arm around her, ushering her to a chair, lighting her – and the rest of us - cigarettes. All the time I was itching to find out what was going on up forward. At that moment Sir Malcolm reappeared, seemingly completely unaware of all the drama that had just befallen.
“Ladies,” he said, “what’s all the do?”
[SFX:
Mabel: I didn’t want a martini anyway......
Hayley: My dress is ruined.....!
Elizabeth: the drink was poisoned.....it’ll come out.....
Irina: it is shattering to the nerves of an artist....]
I still wonder if Sir M is behind it all? He took one look at his quavering wife, said, “I’ll get Ashraf or Anson to check up on it all,” and then, after a word to the barman, proceeded to chat away to Mr Valentino about commodities pricing as though nothing had happened!
Needless to say, we couldn’t leave the party, although I was getting tired by this time. There was a long period of waiting, during which the only useful information came from Khalid, the barman, who explained that the waiter was a new hire, and this was his first Nile cruise, but that he had been quite reliable, until now. To take our minds off the matter, Khalid made up a few more cocktails, which were suitably sustaining.
Eventually, long after midnight, some of the search party, led by Jeremy, returned.
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” he said to Sir Malcolm. “The lads dragged their nets all round the bows and midships. Your chap Ashraf has been ashore and asked if anyone has been seen emerging from the river and there’s been no takers. We’ll try again at first light but I have to say – a fair chance the poor chap’s a-goner. Rather rum job, eh?”
Sir M wouldn’t be drawn into discussion about the event, or as to why his factotum, Mr Ashraf, carried a pistol, but curtly agreed to retire until daybreak. There was nothing much to do than follow suit. Irina and I plodded wearily to bed. To take our minds off the incident, and what might have happened to the wretched waiter, I remembered my earlier train of thought, and asked Irina how her art was progressing and if the sculpture was ready for viewing yet.
“I am struggling,” she said, “with the Egyptian aesthetic – it is not what I was looking for, it is structured, very stylish indeed, but without the raw primitivism I am seeking. I am pleased to go up the Nile, I would like to get close to the Nubian lands and experience some of their culture and spirit.”
I wanted to tell her we were leaving the Nile and heading west into the Egyptian desert, rather than continuing south into Nubia, but she carried on. “Here, I will show you the sculpture, it is not finished, and this is just a study in wax, but you should get to see it. I am not entirely happy with it, but I think there is a likeness.” Without more ado she plunged in her bag and brought out a small cloth-wrapped figurine.
Well! I have never seen a piece of art intended to be my likeness and I have to admit I found it hard to recognise myself. I do not think I am that angular! Do my hips really jut out so? And my chin? She had obviously got me on a bad hair day with a Force Nine Atlantic storm to judge by the wild locks sticking up at all angles. But there was a certain confident stance about the little figurine that appealed to me, despite my misgivings.
“You may have it,” said Irina generously.
“Thank you,” I said, “if you are sure you can spare her? look. I’ll stand her against the porthole and we can see what you think in the morning.”
I spent a fretful night then, the events of the evening disturbing me, but something else too that I could not put my finger on. The boat was rocking gently, not turbulently, just at ease, and yet I felt fraught, disturbed, my mind racing. I realised after a while that this upset had affected Irina too, as she was sat on her bunk, head in hands, muttering, “Nubia – is not Zerzura – it is not! Neither is it Giza or Abydos! I must go, go far from here – to Nubia – to find the source”.
I thought there had been plenty of sauce in the bar that evening and told her so. But she looked at me with eyes that chilled me to the very bone; deep, fathomless pools with no feeling or recognition, and said, “No, Elizabeth, you do not understand. You are on the level plane. There are many other dimensions out there and I feel them, I feel them so hard – I must go –“ and without more ado she had stumbled from the cabin and raced up the companionway to the upper deck.
I half expected to hear retching, and wondered if those cocktails punched above their weight, but there was just the gentle lapping of the waters, and silence once more.
I am not disloyal, Jon, and if course I would go to a friend in obvious distress, but there was something in her eyes – not hatred, exactly, but the complete absence of anything humane – which had scared me, and I felt there were plenty of other people on the boat who could help her out. After that I turned over and slept deeply and peacefully.
But the next morning, she had not returned – and my statue stared balefully at me from its vantage point in the porthole, daring me to action.
Nor was there any news of the missing waiter. Who would want to kill Mabel? Was it merely because she is Sir M’s wife? It is one thing for silly rumours about a deadly curse, it is quite another for a possible murder attempt!
Jon, I will write again from Luxor, I hope to have had news from you by then.
Fondest love,
Elizabeth
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Bloomsbury
London, W.C.
February 12th
1926
Dear Liz,
I despair of this letter finding your good self as you gallivant around Egypt, but nevertheless I am sending it post restante in hope rather than expectation.
Really Liz? Egypt? You’ve barely left Wiltshire before now. I know I badgered you to see more of the world but I was really thinking of you visiting me in London. I am sure it is all my fault. Your mother certainly hasn’t decided yet if I, your poor cousin Celia, am to be considered blameless in the matter.
Jon is no longer quite the saint in her eyes! She has strong opinions on the subject of men having control over their domestic affairs and is fond of saying with a deep sigh, “what will Elizabeth be like when she is married, if she is so wayward now?”
I believe she is also worried that your headlong dash out of the country might mean you are having second thoughts on the marriage, and she is uncertain now whether this is a thing to be encouraged or deplored.
So Liz, all I can plead is come home and come home soon, before your family make me wish I wasn’t related to them. Which brings me neatly to the matter of your brother George.
I mean first off, Jon turning up in London with a bedraggled Lily Southcliffe in tow! It is a wonder the papers didn’t get hold of it and really give your mother something to worry about! Thankfully Lily's uncle’s mysterious death has disappeared into the inside pages.
But yes, your brother. Your mother soon followed on their heels with poor George all bundled up in a wheel chair.
This Lily though. Have you met her? Jon seems to think well of her but she is a strange creature. One minute elegantly poised, quite the little socialite, the next in some dark funk that not even the offer of champagne will fix. I think I like her but I am not sure yet.
Well thank god I have only an apartment or your mother would have ensconced herself and your brother here with me. As it was, she took rooms near enough. But Liz, it is intolerable really - she expects me over for breakfast every morning. I am barely undressed and in bed, my head mellow and woozy from champagne, gimlets and dancing, when I must get up and make myself presentable. I made the mistake once of turning up in the previous night’s party frock. The ensuing frigid silence reminded me of that time when we were ten and decided to borrow George’s cricket set. How was I to know I could hit the ball so far? Suffice it to say I have had to purchase an alarm clock. The wretched thing drives me mad with its incessant tick tock, tick tock.
It was terrible to see the state George was in when he arrived. Your mother has employed an Irish nurse, Mary, to look after him and she is very brisk and practical which does seem to have stabilised him somewhat. I am rather scared of her to be honest.
Jon suggested soon after he arrived that I take Lily out for the evening. Well I saw through that ruse and insisted he come as well. He looked like he could do with a bit of fun in his life. It’s not like he had a fiancée to smooch around with, is it Liz? We had a lovely meal in Harry’s and then went on to a favourite club of mine. Lily was monosyllabic over dinner but I worked my party girl charms on her and she loosened up once we had a table in the club and cocktails in front of us. I began to see why George likes her. To be honest, if she could put aside what ails her from the fire in Waterford, she might even be out of his league.
So we settled into that routine for a few days: I would drag myself over for breakfast at an ungodly hour; retire to recuperate for the rest of the morning, take Lily shopping in the afternoon as the poor thing had nothing fashionable to wear, then dinner out and dancing till late. When Lily was not with me, she was by George’s bedside. That alone has softened your mother’s heart towards her, and every morning I would hear about poor sad Lily and how she dotes on George.
Where was Jon in all this? Well he spent his time fretting about you and about the parcel you sent which somehow ended up in Ireland and then got lost again before turning up a few days after your mother. I have to say Liz, chatting up RAF fellows to smuggle mysterious packages back from Egypt? Your life has become something like a John Buchan novel! I think I may actually envy you!
No sooner than this parcel of yours arrives than Jon gets a letter which lights a veritable fire under him and nothing will have it but he must hightail it for Egypt right away. He turns up for our lunch date, thrusts this mysterious box into Lily’s hands, saying she will know what to do with it, tells me to look after Lily, a peck on both our cheeks and then he is gone, a taxi outside waiting to take him to Croydon aerodrome.
I mean! Really! The cheek of the man. Of course I would look after Lily.
So Lily and I pursue the path I have already described and I keep asking her what is in the blasted box. Because whatever it is, it clearly frightens the poor thing. She is also a sly one, because it turns out she was in part waiting for your mother to return home to Clatbury for a few days respite from London.
You may picture this, Liz. Your mother has departed. I am lying in bed and it is only ten o’clock in the morning. I am nursing a hangover and considering throwing the alarm clock out the window, when Lily arrives banging on the door and ready to open the box. Yes, well it was more like lunchtime when we finally got to it, but we sat down in the lounge and Lily placed the box on the coffee table while I lit us some cigarettes. She opened it slowly and carefully, revealing straw and crumpled paper.When she stuck her hand in, I imagined she was going to draw out either some precious jewel stolen from a pharaoh’s tomb or worse, horror of horrors, part of the pharaoh himself.
Did you know my grandparents were all into that Egyptomania craze? When I was four, we stayed with them in Surrey when they were having a mummy unwrapping party. It had become rather unfashionable by then anyway but after I snuck into the room to see what the fuss was - I became quite hysterical when I realised what was underneath the bandages - well my parents forbade them from organising such events again. I do not think I ever fully recovered!
So there I am waiting with bated breath to see what emerges and what is it but a cheap bottle of perfume! I was so disappointed I nearly suggested we throw it out and go get a gimlet or two. Lily though checks the seal and then draws back the curtains, blinding me I might add, so that she may see the liquid in natural light.
I gathered from Lily that Jon had suggested to hold this under George’s nose and see what it did. Well after all that, I was expecting something a bit more, scientific, I suppose. Instead it was more of that mumbo jumbo you are so fond of. Lily seemed to take it all very seriously and I was afraid to gainsay her. Off to George’s we went and when Mary let us in, Lily suggested to her that she take the afternoon off. Quite a liberty to take with someone else’s staff I might say, but Mary was glad of the opportunity and quick to pull on a warm coat and head out.
Up the narrow, creaky stairs we went. By now I was desperately trying to keep down a fit of the giggles. It all seemed so silly and we were so grave as we progressed upwards! George was asleep as ever; not peacefully, he has never looked peaceful. Rather as if bad dreams constantly harass him. When Lily talks to him, he seems to rest a little better.
Lily looked at me and I waved my hand vaguely as if to say, get on with it. I was actually afraid to open my mouth because I would start laughing and not be able to stop. Lily broke the seal with a sharp twist of her hand and the stopper came out. Immediately the room was filled with a complex fragrance - vanilla, pine resin, cloves, bitumen even, and something else. It at once reminded me of when they tarmacadamed over the cobbles outside my apartment, but also of that night in Surrey, because that was also the smell of the mummy as they slowly cut the wrappings off it, exposing the body within. My giggles were suddenly gone and instead I felt something approaching fear.
Lily held the bottle under George’s nose. Nothing happened except maybe he looked a bit calmer. She looked at me in disappointment.
I said, “try daubing some of it on him, anoint him.”
You can tell I was getting into the spirit of the thing, can’t you Liz? Lily did just that, putting a little touch of it on his wrists, then his neck, finally a press of her thumb onto his forehead. She was mumbling now as well and I was afraid she was saying a ritual of some sort. I mean, this was already beyond the pale as it was. But she was just speaking little endearments to him.
We stood back expectantly.
Nothing happened.
Then George sat up in bed with a roar that frightened the life out of us. He looked at us in confusion and said weakly, “What on earth are you doing in Waterford Celia? And why do I smell like a mechanic in a flower shop?”
Well, Lily was all over the man and I might have been a little tearful myself.
So there we have it Liz. Your perfume has woken up George! Do you think you could get something as powerful for hangovers? It’d be a great sell.
As you can imagine there was a giant too-dah over him coming back to us. Your mother was recalled, doctors sent for, etcetera. Champagne drunk, though that may mostly have been me.
Lily and George are as thick as thieves and Mary has to shoo her home as George gets tired quickly. The doctors say he needs to exercise a lot to build up his muscles again. Poor George! The only exercise he has ever liked is that done by the horse he is riding.
So we are all very excited here and looking forward to your safe return. I am very much awaiting word of your departure from Egypt. I have to admit, while I still think it all hocus pocus, mumbo jumbo, I find that every so often that perfume creeps up on me from nowhere and I am of a sudden a little melancholic.
Come home to us soon,
Your loving cousin,
Celia