Chapter 4
Chapter Four
AS THE JOURNEY DREW NEAR . . .
The evening before her flight to Egypt, Hattie arrived at Manchester airport and checked into her hotel. Later than she’d hoped, she deposited her cases in her room and then hastily made her way to the bar.
Her taxi had failed to arrive. Hollywood Executive Cars had ended up in a muddy ditch, where, after hitting a rock, the suspension was badly damaged.
‘Sorry, Hattie,’ the driver explained, ‘I’d almost reached your cottage, and it was raining hard, when a duck suddenly ran into the road, flapping its wings like something demented, and I had to swerve hard to avoid it.’
Hattie placed her cavernous bag on the bar and plonked herself down on a stool.
She ordered a large gin and thought of Drake.
She knew that the cunning little duck had endeavoured to keep her at home, and sabotaging her transport was a new trick he’d kept under his wing.
With no alternative but to ask Alf to give her a lift, she’d arrived at the hotel later than planned and traumatised.
Alf and motorway driving were a deadly combination, and the old Land Rover had lurched and wheezed at a stately speed, hogging the middle lane to the annoyance of other drivers.
The back of the vehicle, smelling of damp animals and rank fur, was occupied by Ness and Drake, whom Alf insisted couldn’t be left, and a mud-splattered Drake breathed down Hattie’s neck, quacking his disgust.
‘He’ll be alright once you’re off.’ Alf had chuckled as he pulled up at the hotel entrance and Hattie crawled out. ‘I’ll double his pellets for a treat while you’re gone,’ he added.
‘Good,’ Hattie replied. ‘Fatten him up for me and let him know that he’ll taste very nice well roasted and shredded in a pancake with a dash of hoisin sauce.’
Hattie took a large slug of her gin and sighed as the alcohol soothed her taut nerves.
Looking up, she noticed a man ordering a pint beside her and, as he reached for his drink, he stared at Hattie, then wrinkled his nose.
She couldn’t blame him. Her jacket was perfumed with livestock, and the sour musk of fur and wet feathers lingered.
‘Rats,’ Hattie mumbled as the man moved away. The aroma would stay in the fabric of her travelling jacket for days. There was only one thing for it. Hattie knocked back her drink then held up her glass to the barman. ‘Another G and T, when you’re ready,’ she said.
Despite hardly any sleep after rising in the middle of the night and taking off from Manchester before sunrise, Hattie had bundled her smelly jacket into her hand luggage and was now enjoying her flight.
She was reading a book by David Suchet, whose cross-continent journey mirrored that of Agatha Christie, who, with her first husband, Archie, had visited parts of the British Empire to promote the British Empire Exhibition held at Wembley in 1924.
Sadly, the journey hadn’t included Agatha’s time in Egypt, but Hattie enjoyed reading about her adventures as she surfed in Hawaii, visited a jam factory in Tasmania, and met Cecil Rhodes at his home, Groote Schuur, in South Africa.
‘What a gal!’ Hattie murmured as she nibbled a biscuit and sipped a coffee, staring out at marshmallow clouds.
The couple in the adjacent seats to Hattie were sound asleep, and a man in the row behind was telling his neighbour that he was on a classified mission for a branch of the government. It was so secret that even the prime minister didn’t know about it.
Hattie pricked up her ears.
‘I can’t give details,’ he continued in a stage whisper loud enough to be heard through Hattie’s headrest. ‘But let’s just say that the Egyptian authorities will be very pleased to see me.’
Hattie thought that the man very much wanted to give details and was tempted to find her journal and make notes. She may be off duty from her day job, but old habits die hard.
The man’s neighbour replied with a polite, ‘Oh, how interesting,’ and Hattie knew that the poor woman was trapped and couldn’t escape.
‘Once we land, I’ll have a special committee meeting, me,’ the man continued.
There was a pause, then the unmistakable rustle of a crisp packet. ‘Salt and vinegar?’ the woman offered.
‘Might as well,’ he answered. ‘Got to keep my strength up.’
To stop herself giggling, Hattie bit her lip and returned to David Suchet’s travels.
The five-hour flight slipped by, and now Hattie was absorbed in the final stage of Agatha’s journey, in Canada, where she was running out of money, but with a keep-calm-and-carry-on approach, managed to scrape by on dwindling funds.
Hattie wondered what she might have done had she been in Agatha’s shoes.
‘What courage!’ she said aloud and closed the book.
This woke the couple next to her, and as the captain announced that they would shortly be arriving in Luxor, everyone prepared for landing.
‘We used Chinooks for humanitarian missions,’ came the voice from behind, as the plane began the descent.
Hattie chuckled and stared out of the window; desert sand stretched for miles.
She visualised the daredevil passenger leaping from the helicopter when it hovered low, to swoop into a remote village, like an airborne Samaritan.
Clearly intrigued, she couldn’t wait to see what the hero looked like and thought of a James Bond-like character with handsome good looks and the body of an athlete.
But when the plane taxied to a stop, a tall chap with a heavy mop of dark brown hair pushed past Hattie in the aisle as she reached for her bag from the overhead locker. He was so lean that Hattie thought he might blow away in a strong gust of wind.
‘Don’t mind me,’ she said cheerfully.
Moving aside to allow him to pass, Hattie waited while the crew wrestled the doors open. As the gap widened, another passenger called out above the shuffle.
‘Hello, Peter! Fancy seeing you here, what a small world. Where are you heading?’
Hattie edged closer, tilting her head to listen. So his name was Peter, and she heard him reply that he was heading to a boat on the Nile.
‘Well, me and the wife are having a week in Luxor and seeing the sights,’ the man replied, his voice excited with the pride of a long-planned trip. ‘Valley of the Kings, Karnak, might even do a balloon ride.’
‘Enjoy your holiday,’ Peter called, as the line lurched forward and they all got caught up in the race towards the steps.
In the arrivals hall, their luggage arrived promptly, and after visa checks and clearing customs, Hattie headed out into the afternoon sunshine. She noted that Peter’s ‘special committee’ turned out to be the tour company representatives who were there to collect passengers for the SS Nefertari.
He’s on the same boat as me, Hattie realised as she was handed her luggage tags.
She watched Peter make his way to the waiting coach and noted that he placed himself on the front seat with his rucksack on his knee. Leaning his head on the window, Peter promptly fell asleep.
Dare-devilling must be exhausting, Hattie thought she made her way along the aisle to find a comfortable seat.
With an hour or so of daylight left, the temperature was still high, and Hattie wiped perspiration from her brow, grateful for the air-conditioning as she took a gulp from a bottle of water before staring out of the window as they began to wind through the streets of Luxor.
With clouds casting shadows on buildings in the city, rays of sunshine were still bright, and she watched children darting between doorways, where overflowing stalls perched along narrow streets.
The children’s feet kicked up dust, and she noticed that for many, their clothes appeared shabby, perhaps hand-me-downs from elder siblings.
‘All that glitters is not gold,’ Hattie whispered, her eyes wide as tiny tuk-tuks flew by, weaving through frenzied traffic like ants, scurrying through the heat and noise of the city.
Donkey carts, their drivers tanned and wizened from the sun, added to the melee.
Egyptians on bikes and mopeds skilfully sliced through the chaos, many two or three deep, their scarves fluttering, and smiles flashing as they called out to one another.
Beyond rusted shutters, in dim interiors, Hattie saw families sitting on mats as women in flowing abayas moved around.
She felt a long way from the leafy lanes of the village of Hollywood, but as she gazed out at Luxor, she felt excited by the hectic, fast-paced blur of colour and noise.
Soon the streets widened, and palm trees appeared as Hattie caught her first glimpse of the Nile.
She stared wide-eyed at colourful little motorboats adorned with bunting that cut through the water, carrying passengers across the river.
They weaved between graceful feluccas with sails dipped to catch the wind.
The coach slowed and stopped alongside the Corniche, a riverside walkway where boats clustered along the bank.
Hattie could see the SS Nefertari, and she felt a glimmer of excitement as the gleaming vessel stood in welcome.
The long, graceful boat sat low in the water, four decks high, and Hattie noted rectangular windows in neat lines along the sides.
The top deck looked inviting with railings lining the edges and canvas canopies shading seated areas.
After she alighted from the coach with the other passengers, they were led down a series of steps.
Suddenly, vendors appeared and swarmed, thrusting out maps, scarves, and bookmarks.
Heat swelled from the pavements, and with the motorboats close, the air was hot and heavy with diesel.
Hattie tugged on the brim of her Tilley hat and kept her head low, staying close to the group and doing her best to avoid eye contact with the persistent hawkers.
She was too weary to barter and felt relieved when she stepped on the boarding ramp, extending from the middle of the boat, to be greeted by smiling crew members as she moved into the lobby of the SS Nefertari.
She noted the polished marble floor stretching out before her as she entered.
Directly ahead stood a curved reception desk, framed by warm wood panelling, while to the right, sand-coloured décor complemented a seating area where low sofas were grouped around polished tables.
To Hattie’s left, a carpeted staircase rose to the cabins and sundeck above and also descended to the dining area below water level.
Handing over her passport at Guest Services, she was given an envelope with her cabin card and directed to a wide staircase leading to the third floor.
Cabin 320 lay halfway along a carpeted corridor, and as Hattie held her card to the lock, the door swung open, releasing a breath of cool, air-conditioned air.
Beyond a dressing area, the cabin revealed a generous sitting room, with a bedroom alongside.
She kicked off her shoes, crossed the room, and was delighted to find a narrow balcony furnished with a table and two chairs.
Sliding back the glass doors, Hattie stepped out and felt the heat wrap around her skin once more.
The Nile stretched wide and to her amazement, beyond it on the West Bank, clear and unmistakable, rose the honey-coloured cliffs of the Valley of the Kings, looming in the distance.
‘Wow, what a view. This will do nicely.’ Staring out, she thought fondly of Hugo and knew that he would have loved this view too.
After unpacking and changing into the generous towelling robe that had been laid out on her bed, Hattie hung up her jacket and draped it over the balcony rail, hoping the air would carry away the lingering smell of Alf’s animals.
She picked up a copy of her favourite book, which she’d packed to reread during her holiday, and lowered herself into a chair, intending to sit for a few moments of river-watching and reading before exploring the boat.
Tipping her Tilley low, she opened the pages of Death on the Nile and began to relax.
But Hattie couldn’t concentrate on her book, and she thought of her family and reminded herself that she was due to make plans to visit her two sons and grandchildren.
With one lot in Germany and the other in Australia, she had holidays to look forward to in the coming year.
Her boys were far away; they’d always been independent, and Hattie smiled as she thought of the expression: A son is a son till he takes a wife, a daughter is a daughter all her life.
She sighed. Perhaps it was true, but she loved her boys fiercely and knew that it was reciprocated. They had a weekly family catch-up call when she wasn’t on holiday, and Hattie treasured chatting with her daughters-in-law and grandchildren.
Soon, Hattie’s tired eyes closed. The sleepless night had caught up, and with the sun warm on her body and the river lapping softly below, she slipped effortlessly into sleep.
On the lower deck of the boat, Peter Bully examined his room and, with a sinking feeling, realised that, by booking the last available cabin, a compromise would have to be made.
The space was tight, and as he manoeuvred around the bed to place his case on a luggage rack, he heard the steady hum of engines and wondered if they would run all day and night.
Still, there was a window with a wooden rail that allowed one to stand and admire the view.
Considering that time spent in the cabin would be limited, Peter wondered what one of his fictional heroes might do.
Knowing that they wouldn’t complain about engine noise or cramped quarters, he imagined them striding out, ready to uncover adventure at every opportunity.
Buoyed by the thought, Peter decided to have a quick wash and brush-up, change his shirt, and do the same.
As he scrubbed his teeth, Peter thought fondly of his brother, who’d risen in the early hours to take him to the airport and make sure that he got his flight on time. Handing him a package as they arrived at Terminal Two, Bob told Peter that it was to be opened on his birthday.
‘Make sure you relax and have a good time,’ Bob said as he climbed from the vehicle to assist with Peter’s case.
‘None of your cloak-and-dagger nonsense, do you hear?’ he added as he hugged Peter.
‘The business will run without you, and the sausages won’t misbehave.
You’ve left the recipes in good hands. Now switch off from work and enjoy your holiday. ’
And that was precisely what Peter intended to do.
Deciding that there would be plenty of passengers to get to know and enthral, Peter placed his valuables in the safe, set the combination, and patted his pocket to secure his cabin keycard.
He laced his feet into his desert boots, the suede soft against his fingers, then, straightening his shoulders, set forth.
The River Nile was calling, and Peter was ready to meet whatever lay ahead.