Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
MY FRIEND – BEST PRICE!
Sylvie wasn’t hurt, and as hands reached out to help her to her feet, she recovered quickly, but the same couldn’t be said for her digital camera. It had landed with a sharp crack and burst apart, the lens rolling away in several pieces.
‘Oh, my, it’s ruined,’ she cried and scrambled to gather the fragments, and scoop up the bent casing that refused to fit together.
Sam produced a plastic bag and crouched down, placing the pieces inside. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.
‘Honey, it’s not your fault, but the camera was a gift from my husband for my holiday, and now . . .’ Her voice faltered. ‘Now, it’s gone.’
‘Let me help,’ Sam said, gently taking the casing from her hand.
‘Errol was so excited when he gave it to me and told me to take pictures of everything. I have so much to show him, but . . .’
‘Mom, it will all be on the memory card,’ Ezra said and put an arm around her shoulder. ‘I’ll retrieve it for you. In the meantime, you can use your phone to take more photos.’
‘I guess you’re right.’ Sylvie gave a half-smile. ‘I’m sorry, Sam, I’m holding up the tour. Please go ahead, and I’ll catch up.’
‘Ezra and I will walk with Sylvie,’ Hattie told Sam. ‘She’ll be fine.’
As the party set off, Hattie linked her arm through Sylvie’s and led her from the museum.
‘I wonder what was wrong with Peter,’ Sylvie said as they stepped from the muted interior and into a blaze of sunshine. ‘He was in such a hurry.’
‘It’s the crocodile curse, it strikes without warning.’ Ezra glanced nervously back at the museum doors. ‘Peter probably poked about somewhere he was told not to.’
‘Oh, Ezra, there is no curse! I just hope that the guy is alright and there’s nothing seriously wrong, because he was kind of acting weird.’
Hattie marvelled at Sylvie’s empathy towards someone who had so rudely knocked her aside. It could have been far worse than a broken camera, and Sylvie might have been hurt. If Peter had done that to her, Hattie felt certain she’d have punched him on the nose.
As they manoeuvred past vendors selling an abundance of colourful souvenirs, they were bombarded with shouts of: ‘My friend, best price!’ Hattie averted her eyes from rolls of papyrus paintings and miniature pyramids.
‘No, thank you,’ she repeated as a man ahead walked backwards, his hands holding scarves and postcards, and by the time they reached the boat, she felt as though she’d survived a stampede.
‘I think we could all do with a drink,’ Hattie said and looked at her watch. ‘Shall we meet on the top deck in ten minutes or so?’
‘Sounds cool.’ Ezra nodded.
‘I’m up for that,’ Sylvie agreed.
There was a lively buzz by the pool when Hattie claimed a sunbed beside Sylvie and spread her towel across it. She slipped a light, gauzy wrap from her shoulders, rummaged in her bag for sun cream, and began to smooth it over her skin.
A steward appeared and took their order for beers.
‘That’s a pretty suit,’ Sylvie said, admiring Hattie’s baby-pink tankini.
‘Thank you. It has a slimming panel that’s supposed to hold my stomach in.
When I bought it, the assistant said it was flattering, but that must be retail code for optimistic, as the elastane will only stretch so far.
’ She patted her well-rounded tummy. ‘But it’s taken me years to achieve this look. ’
‘Hell, I think you look great.’ Sylvie smiled. ‘By the time we reach middle age, we’ve earned these bodies. They deserve a little respect and appreciation.’
‘Talking of which . . .’ Hattie nodded to the pool. ‘Instagram will soon be on fire.’
Sylvie raised her sunglasses to see Anouska, who was testing the water with a pointed toe. Her long leg elegantly poised as she held up a selfie stick and pouted at the camera.
‘Just look at her,’ Sylvie murmured, taking in Anouska’s size-eight figure wrapped in a minuscule cut-away red one-piece and matching sarong, knotted low on her hips.
Ezra, standing beside them, stared too.
‘She’s very beautiful, isn’t she, Ezra?’ Sylvie said lightly, smiling at her son.
‘I’m checking out her selfie stick, that’s all,’ Ezra snapped, then in a softer tone said, ‘You should get one. It’d help you take photos on your phone.’ He turned and peeled off his T-shirt, then plunged into the pool.
Their beers arrived, and as Hattie settled back, she noticed the cruise boat manager approaching.
‘Sylvie, I hear there was an incident in the museum,’ Sue said, clutching her hands together. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I’m fine, don’t give it another thought.’ Sylvie waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m sad about my camera, but it’s only stuff, and I guess I can claim on my insurance.’
‘I’m concerned for you,’ Sue said.
‘I’m more concerned about poor Peter.’ Sylvie lowered her voice. ‘He looked like he’d seen a ghost. Is he okay, or did he have some kind of accident?’
‘Er . . . you could say that.’ Sue glanced around. ‘Our onboard medic has given him something to ease the problem. It works very quickly.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Sylvie said, as Sue moved away, though she didn’t see at all.
Hattie began to chuckle.
‘What do you think?’ Sylvie asked.
‘I think the problem is the curse of the hibiscus tea.’
‘Huh?’
‘Peter drank two glasses in the café. And you know the tourist rule in Egypt. Don’t drink anything that doesn’t come in a screw-top bottle or has ice made with local water.’
‘Ah, you mean he really did have an accident?’ Sylvie began to understand.
‘A fairly violent one, I’d say. Powerful enough to eject him from the museum and propel him into the nearest bathroom. Where he may still be . . .’
The SS Nefertari glided from Kom Ombo towards Aswan, and the afternoon passed pleasantly for all on board.
Many guests lingered over lunch in the restaurant or opted for a light bite at the alfresco buffet, while the more enthusiastic attended a Paint Your Name in Hieroglyphics class in the observatory.
Others relaxed by the pool.
Under a shady umbrella, Hattie sat upright on her sunbed, her book on her lap, and looked out at the river, which appeared a deep, burnished blue under the relentless sun.
Tilting her Tilley, she could see palm trees and banana plants clinging to the banks before the lush green land fell away to sand and stones.
Standing to lean by the railing and marvel at feluccas that caught the breeze, Hattie watched their slender white sails, silhouetted against the blue sky.
Every now and then a cluster of mud-brick houses came into view, and she waved at children running along the water’s edge, their laughter carrying across the river.
She felt as though she were slipping between eras and stepping back in time, the wonderful Nile unchanged and indifferent to centuries of passing.
Hattie was happy, for this was exactly what she’d hoped for from her holiday.
Life on the Nile as Agatha might once have known it.
No traffic noise, no hustle and bustle, just the marvellous peace of sailing smoothly along.
Occasionally other riverboats intersected the river, some old, some new.
Hattie watched the MS Blue Lotus, and the SS River of Kings slip by in opposite directions, decks bright with draped tables and colourful deckchairs, flags billowing, the floating worlds not unlike their own.
Further along the bank, a riverboat lay moored. As they drew closer and as it came fully into view, Hattie watched in disbelief. She could hardly believe her eyes.
‘I say, is that what I think it is?’ Gerald appeared and stood next to Hattie as more guests left the comfort of their sunbeds to gather by the rails.
Suddenly a voice crackled across the Tannoy and as the engines slowed, Sue could be heard.
‘Everyone, if you care to look portside, we are alongside the Old Sudan. The riverboat that inspired the author Agatha Christie. In the 1930s it was named the SS Sudan and later nicknamed the Old Sudan to distinguish it from newer vessels.’
‘What a magnificent boat,’ Gerald said admiringly as he studied the Edwardian steamer, where polished wood and brass fittings shone in the sunlight, and rattan chairs sat on shaded decks, lined with white railings, beneath cooling ceiling fans.
‘Are you interested in boats?’ Hattie asked.
‘I’m an engineer, drawn to anything to do with engines, and these old paddle steamers are fascinating.’
‘Agatha stayed in cabin ten, which,’ Hattie explained, ‘I believe still exists today and has been preserved much as it was then.’
‘Wasn’t Death on the Nile filmed on this boat?’ Gerald asked.
‘No,’ Hattie said. ‘They used other, larger boats for the Peter Ustinov film, and again for the 2022 version. But this was the boat that inspired Agatha to create the fictional SS Karnak in her novel.’
Gerald turned to Hattie. ‘You know a lot about it,’ he said.
‘Agatha is my inspiration, my muse in many ways, and seeing the Old Sudan feels like stepping into her imagination.’
‘Muse? Do you write novels too?’
‘No, but I have an interesting job.’
Before Gerald could ask further, Peter arrived and hustled his way into a gap to stare at the boat too.
‘Are you feeling better?’ Hattie asked the new arrival.
Peter inclined his head and moved closer. Lowering his voice, he whispered. ‘Much better. The medics called in the big guns and flushed my system.’
‘Ah, that’s a relief, for you, in every way.’ Hattie smiled.
Nodding gravely, Peter continued. ‘One can never be entirely certain, but . . .’ He cast a glance along the rail, as though checking who might be listening. ‘My drink was spiked,’ Peter confided. ‘Probably a powder, quite tasteless.’
‘It’s a good job you’re so nimble and that you sought assistance so quickly,’ Hattie murmured.
‘Indeed, and I survived, which has rather ruined their plans . . .’
As Peter turned away, Gerald and Hattie exchanged puzzled looks.
‘Whose plans?’ Gerald whispered.
‘The Russians?’ Hattie suggested, trying not to laugh.