The news of Aidan Pratt’s suicide reached Guy with unusual speed. The commanding officer at Kantara had telephoned the Embassy where Dobson was on night duty and Dobson, coming in to breakfast next morning, said: ‘You know that actor chap, Aidan Sheridan! He seems to have gone berserk on the train to Palestine. Killed himself in the corridor of the sleeping-car. Put his gun to his head and blew his brains out. I imagine we’ll hear from the Minister of Transport about the mess. Why couldn’t he have waited till he got to his own quarters.’ Then, observing Guy’s face, he apologized: ‘Didn’t mean to upset you. He wasn’t a particular friend, was he?’
‘I saw him fairly often. He used to ring up when he came here. In fact, I had supper with him last night. He was attached to Harriet and upset by her death, but not to that extent. I’m afraid he was rather a one for dramatic gestures.’
‘Unstable sort of chap, was he?’
Bemused by this second tragedy, Guy said: ‘I don’t know. I don’t think I’d say unstable. The war had trapped him in an intolerable situation and he probably took this way out.’
‘The war’s trapped a good many of us but death’s a pretty desperate escape route.’
Guy could feel little more than exasperation at Aidan’s death. Too much was being imposed on him. He tried to put it out of his mind but for the rest of the day Aidan’s dark, appealing gaze followed him as he went about his work. Aidan had wanted response, reassurance and affection, perhaps even love, and Guy had made it clear that he would give none of those things. He remembered that Harriet had accused him of taking up with inadequate people so for the first time they felt understood and appreciated. Then, their dependence becoming tedious, he would leave her to cope with them. She had, apparently, coped with Aidan. Guy, having talked him out of his defences, had become bored with him and wished him away. He had gone, and gone for good.
Edwina, told of his death, dismissed Aidan without a tear: ‘You mean that actor who came to the fish restaurant? I’m not surprised he shot himself. He was an absolute misery.’
It was the eve of her wedding and she passed at once to the much more important subject of the reception.
‘You’re coming, aren’t you, Guy darling?’
Guy, in no mood for parties, tried to excuse himself: ‘I’m afraid I can’t. I promised to go and see Simon.’
‘Oh, but Guy, you can see Simon any time. This is a special occasion; I don’t get married every day.’
‘Well, the arrangements have been rather sudden, and I’m committed to Simon. He’s leaving the hospital. It may be some time before I see him again.’
‘Bring him with you. I’d love him to come. Now, Guy, you’ve no excuse. You’re to come to my reception. I’ll never forgive you if you don’t. You’re such a close friend, if you weren’t there, people would think we’d had a row or something.’
Realizing it would be wise to put in an appearance, Guy telephoned Simon at the hospital and asked if he would like to come to a party in Garden City.
‘Will Edwina be there?’
Simon’s voice was eager and Guy said: ‘Of course,’ forgetting to tell him that the party was to be Edwina’s wedding reception.
Simon was hoping to leave the hospital soon. He refused all offers of rest in convalescent homes and intended to take himself to Kasr el Nil barracks before being posted to an office job. What the job would be, he did not know but it was to be temporary. The party in Garden City had come at the right time. It would be for him a celebration of his complete recovery.
He had brought from England, as part of his kit, a dress uniform of fawn twill which, packed in an insect-proof tin trunk, had followed him about in the regimental baggage train. Now, for the first time, he had a use for it. The tin trunk had been sent after him to the hospital. He dragged it out from under his bed and Greening found him trying to smooth out the creases in the twill.
‘Dressing ourselves up, are we, sir? Come on, I’ll get that pressed for you.’
Guy, when he reached the hospital, found Simon dressed and ready, a handsome and elegant young officer, in high spirits and aglow with health. Guy had brought a taxi which took them to Garden City earlier than they were expected.
Simon, breathless at the thought of seeing Edwina again, bounded up the long flight of steps to the upper flat with Guy some way behind. Shown into the living-room, Simon was deflated at finding they were alone.
‘But where is Edwina?’
‘Don’t worry. She’ll be along soon.’
They waited with the appurtenances of the party all round them. There was a table with cold meats and a cake from Groppi’s, five rented champagne buckets and three cases of champagne. There were also vases of tuberoses, white asters, lilies and ferns.
‘I say, it’s quite a party, isn’t it?’ Simon said.
It was some time before, the other guests came, and they came all together. Simon, unaware of the nature of the occasion, was surprised that there should be so much laughter in the street; then came an inrush of young people, mostly from the British Embassy, all wearing white carnations. There was still no sign of Edwina but her name was repeatedly mentioned and when most of the guests hurried out to the balcony, Simon realized they were watching for her. He guessed that this was a wedding party yet it did not occur to him that it could be Edwina’s wedding.
There was the sound of a car door banging below. The guests on the balcony shouted a noisy welcome. Two girls entered, dressed in pink chiffon and carrying bouquets of Parma violets. Then, at last, Edwina herself appeared. She stood posed in the doorway of the room so all might admire her in her dress of white slipper satin, a veil thrown back, a wreath of gardenias crowning her resplendent hair. She remained there for nearly a minute, the day’s bright star, then the dazzled audience thought to applaud. She burst out laughing and the young men crowded about her, clamouring for a kiss.
Simon, stunned, realized there was a man looking over her shoulder: the dim, grinning face of Major Brody, the man in possession. As Edwina was drawn into the room, the safragis started bringing round the champagne in ice buckets. Simon, given a glass, whispered to Guy: ‘You didn’t tell me.’
Edwina was now making her way round the room. The effusive hostess, she greeted each guest in turn, kissing the girls who were her office friends. The guests embraced her and she gave squeals of excitement, declaring her love for all of them. Coming to Simon, she was stopped, astonished by the change in him. She gasped before she said: ‘But you look wonderful!’
As she bent to kiss him, a confusion of emotion strained her face and she said under her breath: ‘You’re so like Hugo . . . so like Hugo!’ then turned quickly away and gave her attention to Guy. ‘Dear Guy, so glad you’re here,’ speaking his name as though there existed between them a particular intimacy. He kissed her lightly and she passed on.
The cake was a large cream sponge but Edwina, using Tony Brody’s dress sword, cut it as though it were a real bridal cake. As this performance went on, Simon said pleadingly to Guy: ‘Please, let’s go.’
Guy was about to make their excuses to the wedded couple when he became aware that the room had grown silent. People were staring towards the door and a figure, apparently uninvited and unexpected, was sidling into the room, self-consciously smirking, as surprised at finding himself at a party as the party was at seeing him. The new arrival was Castlebar.
Guy pushed forward, saying: ‘But this is wonderful! Jake’s been taken from us and you’ve come to console us.’
‘Y-y-yes,’ Castlebar was fumbling for his cigarette pack: ‘Y-y-you’re right. I have come to console you.’
Edwina, asserting her importance, said: ‘Good gracious, where have you come from? Where have you been all this time?’
‘Oh, swanning around,’ Castlebar managed to get a cigarette into his mouth and his speech became clearer, ‘I came to see Guy. Didn’t know there was something on. Angie’s downstairs in a taxi and she sent me up to break it to you. She thought I should come up first and t-t-tell you, she’s not alone.’ Whatever Castlebar intended to say to Guy, he had obviously been warned to say it without undue haste. He lit his cigarette before adding: ‘It . . . it’s about Harriet.’
There was an uncomfortable movement throughout the room. This was no time for recalling the dead and Guy, going close to him, said urgently: ‘You don’t know, of course, but Harriet was lost . . .’
‘But that’s just it. That’s what I came to tell you. She wasn’t. She kept trying to telephone you yesterday but couldn’t get hold of you, so we thought we’d better come straight here and . . .’
Dobson asked sternly: ‘What are you talking about, Castlebar?’
‘I’m not doing very well, am I? I wanted Angela to come up first but she decided to stay with Harriet.’
‘What do you mean?’ Guy, agitated, took Castlebar by the shoulders and shook him: ‘Are you trying to say Harriet is alive?’
‘Yes. I’ve been telling you — she’s downstairs with Angela.’
Dobson pulled Castlebar away from Guy and gave him another shake: ‘If you’re lying, I think I’ll murder you.’
‘I’m not lying. Don’t be an ass. Who would lie about such a thing? She is alive. She didn’t get on to the ship for some reason, I don’t know why. She went to Syria and we found her there and brought her back. That’s the truth. If you go downstairs, you’ll find her with Angie in the taxi.’
Guy did not seem able to move and Edwina, elevated by all that had happened that day and was still happening, darted forward: ‘I’ll go. I’ll bring her up. I was her best friend.’
Guy, his face creased in an expression of longing and disbelief, stared at the door until Edwina returned holding Harriet tightly, Angela following behind. Edwina cried out to the room: ‘Isn’t this marvellous! To think it should happen at my wedding! The whole of Cairo will be talking about it.’
Harriet took a step towards Guy then stopped in uncertainty: ‘I wasn’t sure you’d want me back.’
Guy put out his arms. She ran to him and he clutched her against his breast and broke into a convulsive sob. Dropping his head down to her head, he wept loudly and wildly while people watched him, amazed. He was known as a good-humoured fellow, a generous and helpful fellow but no one expected him to show any depths of emotion.
Harriet kept saying: ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know the ship went down. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have stayed away.’ She tried to explain her action but Guy did not want an explanation. His paroxysm subsided and, finding his voice, he said: ‘What does it matter? You’re safe. You’re alive. You’re here,’ and, his face still wet with tears, he started into laughter.
Simon, caught up in the drama of Harriet’s return, no longer wanted to leave the party. Had Guy offered to go with him, he would have said: ‘It doesn’t matter,’ and it did not matter. A part of his mind had been returned to him. His vision of Edwina had dropped out of it, just as Anne’s photograph had dropped from his wallet, and he knew he was free of her. His sudden freedom produced in him an emptiness like an empty gift box that in time would be filled with gifts.
Looking at her now, he saw the glow had faded. Her hair was still lustrous, her skin smooth, yet it was as though a film of dust had settled on the golden image.
She had been a fantasy of his adolescence but now he had not only reached his majority, he was verging on maturity. He had been the younger son, Hugo’s admirer and imitator, and Edwina’s attraction had lain not only in her beauty but the fact he had believed her to be Hugo’s girl. He had wanted to be Hugo and he had wanted Hugo’s girl, but now he was on his own. And Edwina had been no more Hugo’s girl than she could be his.
He realized he was becoming less like Hugo. He was losing the qualities that had made him Hugo’s counterpart. He was becoming less simple, less gentle, less considerate of others. He had, he feared, been tainted by experience, but he did not greatly care. Hugo did not have to face the future; he could remain innocent for ever. But there was no knowing what he, Simon, might still have to endure.
Harriet came over to speak to him. Not knowing he had been wounded, she asked: ‘How are you, Simon?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ And that was the truth. He had passed through the ordeal of slow recovery and he was very well.
There was a flurry as Edwina, having gone to change, reappeared in a suit of white corded silk; a pretty girl, a very pretty girl, but the magic was no longer there. Her departure left Simon unmoved. For him, she had already gone.
The party dwindled; the guests went off to their different offices. Dobson, before returning to the embassy, came close to Harriet and, surprisingly, squeezed her round the waist.
There remained only Guy and Harriet, Simon, Angela and Castlebar, together with the debris of the feast. They sat down with little to say, exhausted by events.
Guy began to think of the day’s work. He said he would take Simon back to the hospital and then go on to his class at the Institute.
‘Oh no!’ Angela sat up in protest: ‘You can ditch the Institute for one night. We’ll all take Simon back and then we must do something special. Mark the occasion. Make a night of it.’
Guy, looking blank, said nothing. For him the excitement was over. Harriet was safely back and there was no reason why life should not resume its everyday order. But Angela, imagining he would agree with her, had other plans for the evening. She and Castlebar intended to book in at the Semiramis, so she said: ‘We’ll have dinner at the hotel and then go on somewhere, perhaps to the Extase.’
Guy frowned but still said nothing. Harriet, with the Semiramis in mind, said she must go and change. Awad had put her suitcase in the room she had shared with Guy. Now it was her room again.
She thought: ‘Our room. Our very own room!’ She had gone away in despair but could not think why she had ever despaired. The room was as it had always been; very hot, the woodwork like parched bone, the air filled with the scent of the dry herbage in the next-door garden. It was the day for the snake-charmer and the thin, wavering note of his pipe rose above the hiss of the garden hose.
She opened her case and threw the clothes out. They were the summer things she had intended to wear while voyaging down the coast of Africa. They were very creased but one dress, a light mercerised cotton, was still fit to wear. She shook it out and spread it on the bed, then opened the top drawer of the chest. It had been her underwear drawer and Guy had left it unused. There was only one object in it — the diamond heart brooch that Angela had given her. She ran with it to the living-room.
‘Look what I’ve found.’
She held it out to Guy who gave it an uninterested glance. She asked: ‘Did Edwina return it to you?’
‘I don’t know. I think I asked for it.’
‘Why did you ask her for it?’
‘I can’t remember.’ Guy turned to Simon, saying: ‘We must go’, then to Angela: ‘I’m afraid dinner isn’t on tonight. I’ve too much to do. After the Institute, I have to meet some young Egyptians and give them a talk about self-determination. I was invited by Harriet’s doctor, Shafik, and I can’t let him down. You can see that. We’ll have dinner another night.’
This did not satisfy Angela who said: ‘This is absurd. Surely on a night like this, you can ditch all this nonsense you get up to. So far as you’re concerned, Harriet has returned from the dead and you want to leave her and go and talk to a lot of Egyptians.’
‘They’re expecting me.’
‘You can put them off.’
‘It wouldn’t be fair to them.’
Defeated by his belief in his own reasonableness, Angela gave up the argument. Guy, bending to kiss Harriet, became aware of her despondency and relented enough to say: ‘Very well. I won’t stay long at the meeting. You go and have dinner at the Semiramis and I’ll come and join you afterwards. We’ll all have a celebratory drink. How’s that?’
‘Try not to be late.’
‘No. I’ll come as soon as I can.’
When Guy had gone cheerfully away, taking Simon with him, Harriet said: ‘Nothing has changed.’
‘No. I told you you ought to box his ears. It would serve him right if you went away again.’
‘Where would I go? I’m not much good at being alone. My home is where Guy is and the truth is, he’s more than he seems to you. You saw how he cried when he saw me. And he made Edwina return the brooch.’
‘I’d like to know how that happened,’ Angela said, then she turned to look at Castlebar who had fallen asleep with his mouth open: ‘Poor Bill, champers doesn’t agree with him.’ She kissed the top of his head and he, lifting his pale, heavy eyelids, smiled at her. ‘Wake up, you gorgeous brute,’ she said. ‘We’re going to the Semiramis. And you, Harriet, if you’re going to change, hurry up. We must feed Bill. He badly needs a proper meal after all those awful weeks in the Holy Land.’
At the Semiramis, Angela booked into a famous suite on the top floor that was called the Royal Suite. There, protected by the hotel servants, she hoped they would be safe from the assaults of Castlebar’s wife. The main room overlooked the Nile and Angela decided that before they went down to the dining-room, they would have drinks by the window and wait for the pyramids to appear.
Castlebar, lying on a long chair, smiled in lazy content and said: ‘Suppose we just stay here! Have supper sent up!’
‘What a good idea!’ Angela went to the house phone and asked for the menu.
The little black triangles of the pyramids came out of the mist as they had done every evening for some four thousand years. They came like the evening star, magically, just as the red-gold of the sunset was changing to green. Twilight fell and the star was there, a single brilliance that for a few minutes hung in the west then was lost among the myriad stars that crowded the firmament. While all this was happening, Castlebar kept his eyes on his plate, eating smoked salmon, veal cutlets and a mound of fresh, glistening dates. Harriet, who had not yet regained her appetite, ate frugally and watched the spectacle outside.
Angela’s whisky bottle had come up with the meal and, when they had eaten, the two of them sat over it as Harriet had seen them sit so many evenings before. The lights of Gezira came on and darkness fell. It was time for Guy to arrive. Castlebar, replete, yawned once or twice and Harriet became anxious, feeling she should leave but having to stay. At last, when the bottle was nearly empty and Angela and Castlebar were nodding with sleep, Guy was shown into the room.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
Angela roused herself and laughed towards Harriet: ‘You’re right: nothing has changed.’
Guy, surprised by the laughter, asked: ‘What should change?’ He was himself again, relieved not only of grief but remorse and a nagging sense of guilt, free to pursue his activities without being tripped at every turn by the memory of his loss. He said: ‘Life is perfect. Harriet and I are together again. No one would want things different, would they?’ He took Harriet’s hand and bent to kiss her.
‘And how were your Gyppos?’ Angela asked.
‘Fine!’ Guy had had a brilliant evening and being given a vote of thanks, the leader of the group had said: “‘Blofessor Blingle has blought his influence to bear on many knotty bloblems.’”
Guy reproduced the Egyptian accent with such exactitude that Angela had to laugh as she said: ‘Knotty problems, indeed! Do they hope to solve anything? The Gyppos play around with hazy ideals instead of learning to govern themselves.’ She had given Guy the last of the whisky and when he had drunk it, she said: ‘We must go to bed.’
‘I’ve only just arrived. I want to talk with my friend Bill.’
‘Not now. Bill’s exhausted. It’s nearly midnight. I’m afraid you’ll have to talk another night.’
Guy, feeling he had been uncivilly ejected, said when they were in the street: ‘You see what I mean about Angela? She asks me to dinner then turns me out as soon as I arrive.’
‘You were very late.’
‘Not unreasonably. She really is the most irrational of women. Crazy. Pixillated. Mad as a hatter. I don’t know what you see in her.’