20

When we crawled out on to the ledge again, it was dawn. After dragging the boulder back into place, we sat against the cliff, exhausted.

‘It went well,’ Pepe said.

I looked sideways at him. ‘It did.’

He nodded: we left it at that because I was crying, and so was he.

The sun was coming up over the valley. Where the light caught the tops of the hills, the rock looked almost pink. Everything else was in shadow – the road twisting along the valley floor, the boulders that marked the way. I’d never seen a view more beautiful, or more empty.

I wiped my eyes. Now, at last, the curse should be broken. We could start hoping for better, happier things.

I fancied a moment just to sit, and take it all in. I was so tired. But it was a good tiredness, like Nefertiti on a winter’s evening curled up in front of the fire. After a while, Pepe left me to check on the others, but was back again in moments, looking agitated. Remembering Tulip, I scrambled to my feet.

‘She’s not worse, is she?’ I asked.

He beckoned: ‘Come. You can see for yourself.’

I followed him almost blindly off the cliff, back to the place where we’d left Tulip lying on Pepe’s scarf. My heart was hammering. I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t three people, where earlier there’d just been two.

Tulip looked better, thank heavens. Oz was beside her, staring not at his sister but at the new addition to the group, a blond-haired young man. All three were sitting cross-legged on the ground, the camels behind them dozing.

Tulip waved. As I approached she shot me a quick questioning look: have you done it? Is the jar back where it belongs?

I nodded.

Immediately, she was all smiles. ‘Then you’ll never guess who came back for his notebook?’ It wasn’t exactly hard to: the reporter was right there in front of me.

I stopped mid-stride. He looked very familiar. The beard was gone, but the nice smile made me realise he was the man from the train.

‘Crikey!’ I said, grinning back. ‘Hullo! Fancy you being here!’

‘Hullo.’ The man ran a hand rather sheepishly through his hair. ‘I expect you’ve guessed who I am by now, haven’t you?’

‘Um … well … you seem to be a reporter …’ I offered.

As I sat down beside Tulip, I was aware of how shivery she was, not from fever any more, but with excitement. And Oz, who never looked directly at anyone much, was gazing at the young man like he was a Christmas present that might be snatched away from him at any moment.

‘This is my best friend Lil,’ Tulip said, then gestured to the reporter. ‘And this is Alex.’

I stared at her. At him. At Oz. And at Pepe, who watched us, an arm round each of his camels’ necks, tears still rolling down his face.

‘Alex?’ I frowned. ‘What, as in your brother, Alex?’

‘I don’t think we’ve got another one!’ Tulip laughed.

I was knocked sideways. This young man didn’t look anything like the boy with the floppy hair whose portraits hung in the Mendozas’ library.

‘You got on the train in Yugoslavia! You’re the second-class ticket man!’ I cried. ‘But your beard—’

‘Gone,’ he said, patting his face. ‘It didn’t suit me much, did it?’

He certainly looked better without it.

I turned to Oz. ‘Blimey! This was who you saw at Athens station!’

But Oz, who’d normally have enjoyed being right, wasn’t even listening. He had his brother back, the lucky devil – Alex, who was sitting there, with his notebook in his lap.

‘So you’re a reporter?’ I said again, because it hadn’t all sunk in.

‘I’m afraid I am,’ Alex admitted. ‘I write for the Washington Post. I was sent by—’

‘Mr Pemberton,’ I finished. It all began to make sense. ‘You’re here to replace the man who had a motorcar accident in Italy.’

‘That’s it,’ Alex nodded.

I was still confused. Where had he been since the war? Everyone in Tulip’s family thought he was dead. But it wasn’t my place to ask, I was learning this too. Sometimes people only told you things – difficult things – when they were ready to do so.

‘Well, you know your mother’s going to eat you for breakfast, don’t you?’ I remarked.

Oz looked very worried. Tulip laughed fondly.

‘I’m certainly going to get a proper telling-off, and I probably deserve it,’ Alex agreed.

‘I think we’re all in for one of those,’ I pointed out. ‘But you being here, I mean, it’s incredible.’ And it was, though it didn’t quite sink in that such a better, happier thing had happened already. All I could do was burst into a fresh bout of tears.

*

Mrs Mendoza was waiting for us with a face like thunder.

‘I’ve just reported you all missing to the local police!’ she cried, as we arrived back at the houseboat. ‘Tulip, what on earth has happened to your leg?’

‘It’s better than it was last night,’ Tulip told her.

When Mrs Mendoza saw Alex, the leg was forgotten. Yet she didn’t come any closer. Maybe she didn’t believe this person really was her son. Or maybe she was angry. We all stood on deck, not knowing what to say or do. The silence was agony. Alex, meanwhile, grew paler by the second.

‘Here.’ Tulip offered him a seat. As he sank into it, she settled herself protectively at his feet.

Oz moved his chair to sit next to his brother, the bond between them obvious. I felt glad for them, I really did. But this was family business. I was an outsider looking on: theirs was a team I wasn’t part of.

In broad daylight, Alex’s scars were more vivid. His hair tumbled forwards into his eyes once or twice, which made me think maybe he didn’t look so different from the boy in the portraits after all. He was, I supposed, rather handsome. He also seemed very lost.

‘Might we have some tea and toast, Mama? I’m starving,’ Tulip suggested.

Mrs Mendoza went very white, then very red. ‘You can’t just walk in and expect breakfast!’ She looked pretty scary, to be honest. Tulip seemed to recognise the look too: she looped her arm tighter around Alex’s ankles.

‘The war ended, Alex. They told us you were missing, believed dead.’ Mrs Mendoza’s voice was dangerously quiet.

Alex wiped his hands on his trousers. Even from where I was sitting I could see how much he was shaking.

‘I was in a hospital in France, Mama. This scar on my face?’ He touched it. ‘Shrapnel. I couldn’t speak, feed myself or remember anything for months. I didn’t know who I was.’

I wished Mrs Mendoza would go to him and hug him, but all she did was close her eyes for a moment.

‘Why didn’t you come home when you’d recovered?’ she asked in the same tight, quiet voice.

‘Come home for what?’ Alex asked. ‘Look at me, Mama! I can’t even hold a cup of tea without spilling it.’

Mrs Mendoza gritted her teeth. ‘We thought you were dead. Everyone – even the War Office – thought you were dead.’

Alex was crying.

‘I couldn’t come home to you in pieces, Mama. You’d have been so disappointed.’

‘Disappointed?’ Mrs Mendoza looked shocked. ‘You’ve never disappointed me, ever!’

I thought of all the silver cups on the library shelves, the place at Oxford. Alex’s spectacular future was all mapped out for him.

‘That’s exactly it, don’t you see?’ Alex said. ‘I’m not your dazzling boy any more. I’ve seen terrible things, seen chaps who I’ve shared lunch with die half an hour later. The war changed me.’

A lump grew in my throat as I thought of my dad. The war probably changed him too, though he’d never have said so much out loud. But hearing Alex give words and feelings to the sadness helped me understand a little better why Dad rarely smiled.

Mrs Mendoza, though, wasn’t moved. ‘Do you think you’re the only person in the world who’s suffered? All those wives who lost husbands, all those children without fathers, mothers without sons.’ She almost spat the last word. ‘And those men who did come home – disfigured, injured, out of their minds – do you think they found it easy? Do you?’

Alex shook his head.

‘I lost two tiny babies before you came along,’ she told him. ‘You were my blessing. And then, four years ago, I thought I’d lost you too.’

It was getting harder to listen. Everything they were saying made me think of my parents, especially that Sunday afternoon in St Mary’s churchyard. My mum had lost a baby, I’d never had the chance to be a sister to my brother, and all these years Grandad had missed out on having a grandson. In my family, it wasn’t the dead people who were mourned, it was the living one we’d never got to know.

‘I’m sorry.’ Alex held up his hands. ‘But the longer I stayed away, the harder it got to come back.’

When Mrs Mendoza stepped towards her son, I honestly thought she was going to hit him. She didn’t; she hugged him at last. It was a fierce, bone-crushing embrace, and anyone could see how much she meant it.

*

Afterwards, we did have tea and toast.

‘Where have you been all this time, Alex?’ said Mrs Mendoza, adding sugar to our tea. Now her anger had eased a bit, she looked completely dazed.

‘America, mostly. I gave up on history.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I’d had enough of dead people. I wanted to be a writer like you, Mama. I thought it might help me make sense of the world.’

Her face softened a little. ‘And why are you here now? Did you track us down, or is it mere coincidence?’

‘A little of both,’ he said, taking a deep breath. ‘You see, I followed in your footsteps … I work for the Washington Post.’

I braced myself as Mrs Mendoza froze mid sip of tea.

Nervously, Alex hurried on. ‘When my colleague had an accident, I was sent to cover this terrific story. It was my first big break. I leapt at the chance, of course. More than anything, I wanted to do it to impress you, don’t you see?’

‘You!’ Mrs Mendoza nearly choked. ‘Mr Pemberton sent you!’

‘Oh lordy,’ Tulip muttered under her breath. ‘Here we go.’

I winced. It was all about to come out – our cover-ups, the misunderstandings about who’d sent which telegram and when. We’d also booked tickets under someone else’s account. In amongst that lot, we’d probably done something rather criminal.

Yet the great unravelling of more secrets didn’t come – at least not then. Mrs Mendoza was too stunned to say anything, and Alex, now he’d started, couldn’t stop. ‘I’d heard rumours of tensions between Mr Carter and the locals here, though not much has been said in the papers about that so far.’

‘Back home they’re making him sound like a hero,’ I agreed.

‘Exactly.’ Alex nodded vigorously. ‘I followed him last night, when he took off into the desert. He and Lord Carnarvon were up to no good, I’m sure of it, but they were on donkeys and I was on foot, so by the time I caught them up I’d missed the real action.’

‘It’s a possible story lead,’ Mrs Mendoza admitted. ‘But you’d need to have all the details to write about it.’

I put down my teacup.

‘We were there,’ I said. ‘I saw it happen up close. What do you want to know?’