That night, I wrote to Frances to describe the events at Highclere: perhaps that man-to-man conversation was happening as I wrote, I thought. It was dark outside the farm; at Highclere, they would be coming to the end of dinner. I imagined the women withdrawing, the port circulating among the male guests, and then Lord Carnarvon taking Carter to one side. I wondered which of the many, many rooms at Highclere he’d select for their interview. I tried to imagine what he might say, and how Carter would respond. I felt sure that Carter would now inform him of Herbert Winlock’s discovery. And once given that key information, once Carnarvon knew it was not just a king they were pursuing, but a named king, whose tomb must be there, it was obvious he would relent – he couldn’t abandon the Valley now, surely?
I left the letter to Frances unsealed: sooner or later, I would hear the results of these after-dinner discussions, and I planned to add the final details as to Howard Carter’s fate in a postscript, the instant I heard them. I was impatient for the latest news – and I did not have long to wait.
The following morning, as hoped, Eve’s maid Marcelle turned up for her weekly visit to Wheeler. She came over by bus, looking very chic in a handed-down dress of Eve’s and a new hat. She strolled along the lane, paused in the yard to admire the puppy – now bathed and flea-powdered – and then wandered into the kitchen for her regular gossip. Marcelle was sure to tell me what had happened; unlike Wheeler, she was rarely evasive, tight-lipped – or reticent.
My chance finally came when Wheeler called us inside for biscuits and lemonade at eleven o’clock. Once we were all settled at the kitchen table, Marcelle launched herself on an interminable description of the dinner at Highclere the previous evening, a description that focused on dresses and jewels. This delighted Rose, but not me. Lady Evelyn had worn this, Lady so-and-so had worn that, Lady Carnarvon had dazzled in her famous emeralds . . . Then she switched to the menu, the soufflés sent up, the chefs’ tantrums, the ongoing rivalry between the senior chef, who was French, and the pastry-chef, who was Austrian – and the sulks of the Ceylonese chef, hired solely to cook Lord Carnarvon’s curries, whose services were not required on this occasion. Such politics were dear to Marcelle; I knew that if I failed to tilt the conversation quickly, we’d be in for hours of below-stairs analysis. But I’d learned from Nicola Dunsire’s techniques, and at last managed to steer Marcelle in the direction I wanted. Within minutes, she was off and away. The events of the night before, she said, were a puzzle – a surprise to everyone.
‘We think Mr Carter must have sensed what was coming,’ she said. ‘Streatfield said he was in ever such a twitchy state all through the dinner. There were thirty at table, and Lady Evelyn made sure he had ladies he knows either side of him. But he barely ate a thing. His hands were shaking – all the footmen noticed that. His face was grey, they said, and he never uttered one word from the consommé onwards. Drank very little, which is unusual for him, because he’s fond of wine, Mr Carter. Refused the port too, I hear – and when someone, it was Mr Donoghue, I believe, took pity on him and asked him about Egypt, he gave a start, and knocked over his glass . . . Then, after the port, Lord Carnarvon took Mr Carter to the Antiques Room – just the two of them.
‘His lordship laid it on the line, Miss Lucy. I know that for sure because he told Lady Evelyn afterwards: she’d waited up to hear – and she told me when I was doing her hair for bed. No ifs or buts. No, “Let’s think this over.” His lordship knew that wouldn’t work: give Mr Carter an inch and he’ll take ten miles, he’s well known for it. No, his lordship broke it to him gently but firmly. He wouldn’t let him fetch out his maps – which Mr Carter was dead set on doing. And he made it clear there’d be no discussion or argument. He said to him: “My old friend, the Valley of the Kings is finished as far as I’m concerned. The end of the line has been reached at last.”’
I suspected this quote was apocryphal, but made a mental note of it. Marcelle was polishing this story, I felt; when I recounted it to Frances, I intended to polish it further.
‘But you know the extraordinary thing, Miss Lucy? Mr Carter took it like a lamb! We’d all been expecting one of his outbursts. Lady Evelyn was afraid he’d keep her father up half the night, arguing and haranguing him the way he does. But no: not one word of protest apparently. He took it on the chin like a gentleman, shook his lordship by the hand, got a little emotional at one point . . . but he pulled himself together. He said he understood the reasons for the decision, and he owed his lordship a great debt of gratitude for his unfailing generosity, for the years they’d worked together side by side. He said he believed they were friends – and they’d remain loyal friends for the rest of their days. Lord Carnarvon was touched by that.
‘Isn’t that strange?’ Marcelle looked around the table at her audience. ‘To give in so easily? No one expected that – and last night Lady Evelyn was ever so worried. She thought there’d be a delayed reaction, one of Mr Carter’s tantrums this morning. But there’s no sign of any trouble so far. He was sunny over breakfast, I’m told, and he must have got his appetite back, because he wolfed down the devilled kidneys and the kedgeree. Streatfield says he was a bit distracted at first, not saying much, but by the end he was nattering away as if nothing had happened. He was going off to the Antiques Room to do some cataloguing when I left. I passed him in the south corridor. Quieter than usual, perhaps, and looked tired, so maybe he hadn’t slept too well, but—’
‘How well would you sleep, if you’d just been told your services were being dispensed with?’ Wheeler gave her friend a look of scorn. ‘Sixteen years he’s been working for Lord Carnarvon. Took it like a lamb? My eye, he did. Mavis Marcelle, you’re a fool.’
‘Well, if I am, I’m not alone,’ Marcelle retorted, with spirit. ‘Lady Evelyn says Mr Carter has had enough of that godforsaken Valley and those nasty dirty tombs, and he’ll be glad to escape the place. She says he may claim he loves that Valley, but actually he’s quite ambi—’ She hesitated. ‘What’s the dratted word? Ambigous? No, that’s not right.’
‘Ambivalent?’ I suggested. Marcelle nodded. ‘That’s it, it was on the tip of my tongue. Ambivalous about that Valley, that’s what he is. I think Lady Evelyn may have hit on it. What do you think, Miss Lucy? You’ve seen him working there. Do you think that could be the truth of it?’
I did not. I escaped from the kitchen as soon as I decently could, hastened upstairs and added a postscript to my letter to Frances. I can’t understand it, I scratched. No more funding, no more digs – and apparently Mr Carter’s accepted that, despite your father’s discovery. But I think he must be devastated, don’t you? I asked Marcelle straightaway whether Lord Carnarvon will now give up his permit to dig in the Valley of the Kings – but she didn’t know. I’ll ask Eve when I see her.
There was no need to interrogate Eve: the following day both she and Howard Carter turned up at the farm in her car, and he – to my surprise – showed a marked inclination to discuss the subject. He came into the farmhouse looking subdued. He’d come armed with a present – a dog basket for Rose’s puppy – and in the intervening hours, it seemed, he had remembered who I was. There were several references to my observation powers, smiling reminders as to lunches in tombs, buttered toast, his aunties’ famous fruitcake.
He spent some time exploring the farm with Rose, Peter and me, admiring the orchard, counting the swallows and their nests. He told us about the various animals he’d kept in Egypt over the years: the pet gazelles; the donkey so devoted it would try to follow him indoors; the horse that died of a cobra bite; and various pet dogs, none of which had long survived the dangers of a desert environment. He described his birdwatching expeditions by the Nile, and the water-colours of birds he’d painted. He began digging around in the barns and examining all those enigmatic farming artefacts, many of which he recognised – and I saw another side to Carter, hidden before: the countryman, the lover of birds, animals and wildlife. Yet when we sat down outside for tea, this side to his character vanished. He reverted to archaeologist – and he raised the subject of Egypt at once.
I thought the topic of the Valley made Eve uneasy, but Carter seemed calm: he had seen it coming for months, and he understood. He respected Lord Carnarvon for not mincing his words. ‘What I can’t stand,’ he said, ‘is diplomacy and double-speak. I’m not one of nature’s diplomats myself. I like to give it straight and hear it straight. Now I know where I stand.’ He blew on his tea. ‘And I can plan accordingly.’
‘Will you be going back to Egypt, Mr Carter?’ Rose asked.
‘Certainly. I do live there, Lady Rose. No fixed abode in England. I’m a bird of passage. My home is in Egypt, and I’ll be returning as usual this winter. Next month, late October, that’s the plan. My place needs some repairs – I’ll look into that. See my old friends from the Met, catch up with Winlock and Lythgoe.’
My chance had come. ‘What will happen to the permit to dig in the Valley of the Kings?’ I asked. ‘Will Lord Carnarvon give that up now?’
‘I imagine so.’ Carter looked pleased at this cue. He glanced at Eve, who was inspecting the tea things with great concentration. ‘The permit is coming up for its annual renewal, Lucy,’ he continued. ‘Lord Carnarvon will resign it in the next few weeks, I expect. No point in him hanging on to it now. It’s our difficult friend, Monsieur Lacau, who decides who gets it next, and he does not favour what he calls “amateur gentlemen” excavators. So the Valley permit will go to some learned body – most probably, one of the great museums.
‘The Metropolitan will get it. That’s my belief. They want it, I know that. They have the expertise, and they have the backing: virtually inexhaustible funds – or so I hear from my good friends Lythgoe and Winlock. The Met already has an excellent base near by: the American House is half an hour’s ride from the Valley, if that. Of course,’ he continued, in a meditative tone, munching cake, ‘none of the Met team is that experienced when it comes to the Valley of the Kings. Harry Burton’s dug there in the past, but it’s new territory for them even so. They’ll need to recruit some outside expertise. They’ll need the guidance of someone with a ready-made team of trained local men; someone who knows the Valley, who’s endured its tricks and its traps for decades . . . ’ He left the sentence hanging. ‘Well now, that was a fine tea,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I like it here. Such a beautiful day. I wonder, Eve, should we be thinking of getting back now?’
‘Have the Met actually said they’re after the Valley permit?’ Eve asked sharply.
Carter appeared to give this simple question considerable thought. After a long pause, he said: ‘They’ve been circumspect, Eve: let me put it that way. They have the greatest respect for your father, and they know my unshakeable loyalty to him. Lythgoe and Winlock wouldn’t dream of stepping on anyone’s toes. But once they hear your father’s pulled out, they’ll make their move. In my view, they’ll go after that permit immediately. The possibility your father would give up on the Valley was something they’d foreseen, I’m afraid: the decline in his health was noted back in February, and they’d drawn their own conclusions, made contingency plans. Inevitable, alas. You know how people talk, Eve. And archaeologists gossip like girls.’
‘Have you told the Met what’s happened, Howard?’ Eve’s tone became sharper. She had risen to her feet and was looking at him in consternation.
‘Good grief, no! Well, not yet . . . ’ He sighed. ‘I began writing a letter to Winlock this morning, as a matter of fact – after all, it’s no secret now, is it? All open and above board. I was pretty shaken after my talk with your father, Eve – I can admit that to you. I needed to get it off my chest to someone, so I thought it would help to write to my old friend Winlock. He and I are close, we’ve always got on well and I respect him.’
He frowned. ‘I could cableWinlock, of course,’ he went on. ‘Maybe I should do that – he’ll be anxious to hear the news. On the other hand, maybe I should let things settle for a day or two, wait till I’m calmer. What d’you think, Eve?’
‘I think you should wait. And I think you know that perfectly well, Howard.’
‘I’ll give it a couple of days, then. I’ll be guided by you,’ he replied, his tone humble, and turned away to inspect the view across the valley, the narrow ribbon of river below us, the blue-shadowed hills beyond. He sighed. ‘Absolutely right, Eve, as you always are. No point in my rushing things. I’ll let the dust settle. For a few days. What a restful place this is,’ he went on, in stronger tones. ‘I tell you what, Eve, why don’t you drive back to Highclere and leave me to find my own way home? Would you mind? I’m in the mood for a good long walk. Give me time to think things over.’
Shortly afterwards, this plan having been agreed, he put on his tweed countryman’s cap, straightened his tweed jacket, and strolled off across the fields. Eve left at once for Highclere, driving at speed.
The next report from the castle was that Lord Carnarvon had been told of the Met’s pressing interest in the Valley of the Kings’ permit – I felt sure Eve must have driven straight back to the castle that day to tell him. On being given this news, her father had laughed and said the Met men were welcome to it – more fools they, and he hoped they were contacting their millionaire donors right now, because they’d certainly need to.
I felt this reaction must be a blow to Carter, but it was he who reported it to us some days later, and he did so with no sign of dismay; on the contrary, it seemed to amuse him. He’d begun to visit Nuthanger quite often by then, usually on his own, strolling across the downs and taking the bridge across the river. On every visit, he appeared unconcerned as to his altered future. He said it made a change to be here, away from the smart pace of affairs at Highclere; he enjoyed the castle, of course, very much so – but it was good to get away, to clear his mind. He’d stay for an hour or so at the farm, sometimes chatting to Wheeler, sometimes to us. He would join in our games and was even prepared to play I Spy or Dumb Crambo with us. He liked card games too, we discovered, and was happy to play two-pack Patience with me, Snap with Peter, and poker with Rose, a game to which he introduced her.
Carter taught Rose the techniques of bluff and double-bluff, and how to retain a poker-face, useful techniques that she imparted to Peter and me. He taught her some amusing methods of cheating too, dealing from the bottom of the pack and so on, and we all spent many hours trying to perfect these tricks. Rose hadn’t the patience for sleight of hand; Peter’s small fingers weren’t yet deft enough, but I became quite adroit.
‘Not bad,’ Carter said, giving me a considering look, when I showed off the results of hours of card-sharping practice.
‘Better than your knitting, anyway,’ Wheeler pronounced sourly.
Carter claimed that he liked being at the farm because it took him back to his childhood in rural Norfolk; he’d also grown fond of Rose’s little dog, he said, but he feared it was the runt of the litter and would never thrive – and in this he was right. The little creature was never strong. But during the puppy’s happy weeks at the farm, Carter brought it several more gifts, and one afternoon, he drew it as it lay snoozing on its back in the sun, in sprawled surrender to sleep. He presented this clever lightning sketch to Peter, and Peter gave it to me, many years later.
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 dis-tended, 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.
The time, the driver informed me, was 4 p.m. Four o’clock it is, I thought. I felt as if I were sleepwalking. I strapped my neglected watch around my wrist, adjusted the hands and wound it.