The luxor curse, p.3
The Luxor Curse, page 3
part #1 of Kathryn Black Series
Cairo started to ask a question, but Kate reminded him that he had not answered hers. He thought for a couple of seconds before recalling her question. “What Papa did was wonderful to me, as my English is great. I can talk English to anyone. I do miss some small words, especially when nervous or speak quickly. We don’t have them in Arabic. Papa make sure that I spend time in any spare room here watching television in English. They have satellite. We only had electric at home before a year ago. I don’t understand everything, though I learn all the words. How to use them all, that’s difficult. When I started school …” Cairo hesitated, blushed and squirmed awkwardly in his chair. It was obvious to Kate that he did not want to tell her how he got his nickname. For a split second she thought that she would say that it did not matter, but it was just for a split second, as curiosity was already killing her. She gave him one of her get-on-with-it looks, and he did get on with it, but not before an agonising period of silence. “When I start school I had only very small understanding of Arabic, so they call me Paris, after Paris Hilton. You know her?” Kate nodded. “She was in news at the time, as she was useless as well.” They both shared a chuckle before Cairo continued. “When I told Mohammed …” Kate immediately interrupted to ask which Mohammed. “Mohammed, my oldest brother, he now eighteen.” Cairo looked down, moved his fingers and mentally counted them before saying, “He five years older than me.”
Kate now knew that Cairo was not ten as she had thought, but actually thirteen, the same age as she was. It was being small, both in height and breadth, just like his father, which gave him the appearance of being much younger.
“Mohammed said that if I going to be called after a city, it must be greatest city in the world. I didn’t know what he meant, so he hit me. That way I never forget. I have been Cairo from that time to this.”
Kate made a mental note not to waste a question by asking what Cairo’s real name was, as she thought it was bound to be Mohammed.
“Why you here?” asked Cairo with a knowing look. “It not just for holiday. I see that you have purpose.”
“How do you know that?” Kate said, rather shocked at his correct observation, to which Cairo came back immediately.
“One question at a time, young madam. You can have that as your question if you wish, want, wish.”
Kate jumped in to say that either word was okay, though followed it with a firm, “Oh no, Cairo, I have other questions for you.”
“Well, what the answer then?”
“Would you mind if I answered that tomorrow, Cairo, as Alex will be here by then, and I can explain to you both?”
“Alex, who Alex?” asked Cairo with some uncertainty and a sad look on his face. He thought he was going to have his new friend to himself, for the best part of two weeks.
“Alex is my best friend. He knows so much more than me about Egypt as he has been here several times. His father is an archaeologist, though I don’t think that his father has worked in Luxor for a few years.”
“Alex is like you?”
“No, not like me, Cairo, there is nobody quite like me. Well, that is what mum used to say.” There was a short pause as Kate gathered herself. Involuntary mentions of her mother still evoked raw emotions.
It was that time of evening, the time when the bar was very full. With the majority of the hotel guests having eaten, they had returned to the bar, so Three was here, there and everywhere, as he tried to keep up with their orders. Kate slowly drifted back into a more relaxed state of mind. She felt that she could tell Cairo anything as he was a real friend, though she had known him for just a few hours. Not wanting anything to come between them, she continued by answering a question which had not been asked. “I have never known my father and have always been told that he died, but nobody would tell me anymore than that. So, just like it is in many of your favourite American movies, I expected that one day he would just turn up and we would all be one happy family … but he never did!”
Already a look of horror had come across Cairo’s face, though the worst was yet to come. Kate had started slowly, because she knew that Cairo would want to know the whole story, but it was also Kate’s way of removing something that could easily become a barrier between them. Similar to knowing someone for a while, only to realise one day that you never knew their name, though by then it was too late to ask.
“I always imagined that my father was alive and working undercover in some remote part of the world. That dream was shattered after my mother died. I was put into the care of her mother. Yes, I was given to my grandma. That is Aggie, who I am here in Luxor with.” Kate paused as she held back tears. Cairo said nothing, though he was not far from tears himself. “At that time, I had to come to terms with the fact that they were both dead. Yes, both my parents had to be dead, because Aggie most certainly didn’t want me to live with her. It was a horrid time, as with the death of my mother I felt that I had lost both parents.” Cairo had pulled his knees up under his chin and buried his head in his galabeya, so nobody could see his tears. Tears which were freely running down both cheeks, but Kate knew. She did her best to reassure him. Putting her hand on his arm, she said, “Don’t cry, Cairo, as when I tell you how my mother died you will laugh, everybody does.”
Cairo looked up and turned towards Kate, wondering if his English had failed him, as he was sure that young madam had said that he would laugh when she told him how her mother had died. Surely this could not be right. Any death was bad enough, but to a male Egyptian the worst thing that could ever happen to them was the death of their mother. After all, who would cook, wash and clean once she had gone?
“It was like this, Cairo, my mother didn’t get along with my father’s family, in fact she hated them, each and every one of them. Aggie still tells anyone who will listen, that my mum and dad should never have got married, and that makes me feel a whole lot better about my place in the world. Anyway, on one wet and wild winter’s day, mum went to London, last November to be exact, as she had arranged to donate granddad’s war medals to the Imperial War Museum.”
“What that?” asked Cairo.
“It’s a museum dedicated to war,” Kate retorted with an acerbic edge, as she wished for a brief moment that she had not started to tell her story at all. Though she had to, as Cairo needed to know what had happened, because it would explain her tearfulness, some of her moods and would also make him laugh. The problem was, that she still found it hard to talk of her mother, so hard in fact, that she had never spoken her mother’s name since she had died. To Kate it was something so precious and personal that it was never to be shared, though she failed to understand why she felt as she did. Cairo picked up on Kate’s hesitation to say more, and wishing to know the story, he decided to say he understood what an Imperial War Museum was, even though he did not.
“Well, mum came out of the museum and tried to get a taxi, but she couldn’t, so she walked and eventually caught a bus near to the Elephant and Castle.”
“Wow, what a country England is,” thought Cairo. “They build castles for their elephants.” Using logic, he worked out that it did nothing but rain in England, so as Elephants come from hot dry countries, they would need to be kept dry, and as they were so strong they would need a castle in which to be kept captive. This made perfect sense to him, though he was suddenly aware that he had missed what Kate had been saying. Her conversation came back into focus at a point where her mother was very wet and had just bumped into an old school friend outside Selfridges. His mental picture was of a small shop, down a dirty street, which sold fridges. He was amazed when Kate said, “It’s a massive store on Oxford Street with many floors that are crammed full of everything.”
“Everything to do with fridges,” thought Cairo. “Wow, how much do the English spend on a fridge? Surely they do not need a fridge in such a cold and wet country.” Kate was still telling her story, and yet again Cairo had missed some of it, which he had hoped was not important.
“So, mum was in Selfridges’ coffee shop with her friend, whom she hadn’t seen since she had left school, and they were chatting away. But before I tell you any more, do you know what my surname is?” Cairo shook his head, and Kate enlightened him. “It is Black, Kathryn Black, and that was the root of the problem. According to the police reports, my mother’s friend asked her if she married her high school sweetheart. Mum replied that she had, but that he had died just before I was born, so she had brought me up on her own. ‘What about his family?’ her friend asked, to which mum replied, ‘Oh God, I have nothing to do with the Black’s’. It was at this point that a rather large black lady, who was offering mum more coffee, just lost it. She shouted, ‘You racist, you will have something to do with the blacks now’. In her anger she slammed the glass coffee pot down on the table so hard that it shattered, causing hot coffee to go everywhere.” Kate was right as always, as Cairo was laughing like a drain, and the more he tried to stop, the more he laughed, and like an infection, Kate laughed as well. It was only when Three came around the corner and gave them one of his looks, that their laughter abated.
“So that was how she died?” asked Cairo.
“Oh no, there is more to this story. Would you like me to continue?”
Yes, yes, yes!” came back the urgent reply, so Kate continued.
“Mum was wet, burnt and bleeding slightly as a result of a flying piece of glass coffee pot, which had caught her cheek. Before anymore mayhem could take place, her friend was able to explain to the waitress that the Black’s in question were my mother’s dead husband’s family, and that their conversation had nothing at all to do with either race or skin colour. By the time the police arrived, mum was happy to put it down to a misunderstanding, so they and the store manager went away. The waitress, who had previously been so angry with mum, was now so appreciative that she still had her job. She was so dreadfully sorry over the misunderstanding, but she was also out of breath, sweating and looking somewhat paler by the moment. Mum suggested that the lady sit down for a while, which she did.
“A couple of hours or so later, after finishing their shopping, mum and her old school friend were waiting outside Selfridges for a bus, when the same waitress, who was obviously now on her way home, came up to them. She was still so extremely concerned over what had happened and so sincerely apologetic, but she looked really unwell, and as it turned out, she was. She collapsed from a massive heart attack, which was terrible enough, but she collapsed onto my mum. They both ended up under the wheels of a number seven bus on its way down Oxford Street to the British Museum.”
Cairo had to leave the room, as his laughter, combined with the tamar-hindi, had made his bladder rather insecure. Kate sat and smiled as she watched Cairo head for the toilet as fast as he could, whilst still being able to maintain control of his bladder. It did not matter who Kate told the story to, it always had the same result. And every time Kate felt extremely guilty, as telling the story of her mother’s death always made her smile, yet she knew that it should not, as she missed her so much. Aggie had much more money than her mum ever had, but she was a poor substitute for a mother who gave her love unconditionally.
Cairo returned with his hands in front of him, so Kate guessed that he had not quite made it in time, but she would say nothing to embarrass him. This had become a normal reaction to the story of her mother’s death, as laughter was always stronger than the bladder.
Chapter 3
-
Packing the Bags
Alex was in his bedroom, pulling a T-shirt on, when he heard his father shout down to mum in the kitchen, because he was unable to find his new white socks. Father was renowned archaeologist Quentin Cumberpatch, Q to his friends for obvious reasons, and The Stripper – or TS as his students marked on their lecture planners – for reasons, which would only be obvious to anyone who had ever attended one of his lectures.
On any day that Quentin had to give a lecture he set off early, though for some inexplicable reason he always managed to arrive late. As he raced onto the stage in his usual panic, he would be removing his old dark blue and green Regatta anorak with its many pockets, which he had considered to be his good luck charm on so many digs. Draping it over the back of a chair just behind the lectern, he would move to centre stage before addressing his audience. His height gave him a stage presence, though he did have a waistline that had spread, and a hairline which had receded, both just a little, with the passing years. Blue blazer, red shirt, white tie and whitish trousers had been his usual attire when he had attended lectures as a student. He could see no reason to change his style of dress, now that he was in front of an audience rather than part of it. Whilst bending down to correct a shoelace, he would give the appearance of being a Union Jack on steroids.
His lecture would start with a wave of his hand towards the screen behind him. As if by magic, his latest projected PowerPoint presentation would appear and his face would beam. He was always extremely proud of his presentations, and rightly so, as he put so many hours into each and every one of them. However perfect he considered his presentation to be, he would still pause it from time to time in order to add in extra detail. After the first pause his tie would come off. There would then be a few more minutes of presentation before he removed his jacket, which he would swing onto the back of any nearby chair. A little further along he would roll up his shirt sleeves. After this, usually around halfway through, there was the highlight of the lecture for his students. Quentin would sit down and remove his camel coloured Caterpillar boots. This always prompted a round of applause, for which he would take a bow before carrying on as though nothing had happened. Hence, he was known to his students as The Stripper.
Quentin was now calling down to his wife almost hysterically, angered at where she had hidden his new white socks. It was a given that he had to have a new pair before every lecture, that was his ritual. Even though they were always kept in the same place, he could never find them, which prompted another ritual, that of shouting downstairs to his long-suffering wife, Babs, or today Babette, as he was annoyed.
“Babette, where have you put my new white socks?” Quentin shouted again. Their bedroom was very small, and apart from the bed only had room for a narrow antique wardrobe and a chest of drawers. The latter having two drawers at the top, under which there were three rows of single drawers. Alex wondered, how a world-renowned archaeologist could find ancient artefacts which had been lost for thousands of years, yet was unable to find his socks in a bedroom the size of a broom cupboard.
Babs replied as she reached the bottom of the stairs, “Top drawer, on the right as always. Just use your eyes!” There were thumps and bumps as Quentin frantically searched. Babs reached the small landing at the top of the stairs, just by their bedroom door, at the same time as Alex. It was immediately obvious to them both, that Quentin had found his socks: the noise of drawers being pulled out and then slammed back into place had ceased. It was also obvious from various snorting noises, that he was about to blow a gasket.
Babs gave a knowing nod to Alex, before speaking to Quentin, through the closed bedroom door, in her sweetest voice. “A friend of mine was desperate to see the Greek general’s button that you found in Thebes. I have told her so much about it, I’m so proud of you, but she couldn’t find it in the museum.” By museum, Babs meant the British Museum, which was just a few hundred metres away from where they lived in Coptic Street.
Quentin immediately flipped into archaeologist mode, with all traces of temper dissipated. “Tell your friend that as she enters the Museum she should turn to the right, go through the shop with all the reproductions for sale, then take the stairs which will be in front of her up to the second floor. Then she must turn left, go along the corridor before turning left again through the big doors, not the first small ones, be very clear about that, the big doors. Once in that room, it is in the second glass case on the left, third shelf up and about fifteen tunic buttons from the left. It’s right there, and it is really worth seeing, as it’s the only known example of a Greek general’s button with the head of Cleopatra on it.
“If she would like to read about it, it is extensively documented in Grimwald and Geiger’s third volume of Greek Army Uniforms of the Egyptian Campaigns and was cleaned, not restored mind you, as it was in perfect condition due to the way that I excavated it, by no lesser than Sebastian and Grist. The most perfect example …”
Quentin continued on, though Babs and Alex were already in the kitchen and chuckling away to themselves. “It works every time,” said Babs, “you would have thought he would have twigged by now.”
“How daft is that!” retorted Alex with his Yorkshire roots coming out, roots that he was trying to rid himself of.
Pouring hot water to make two mugs of instant coffee, Babs, with her mind on tomorrow, managed to overfill them both. Whilst she grabbed for the dishcloth, her mind went back to what she needed to get ready, because tomorrow they were all off to Luxor. “Once your dad has gone to his lecture we will pack, as it will be an early start in the morning.”
Alex reminded his mum, that he had to go to the British Museum, but that he would not be long.
“Oh well, I will pack for us all as usual,” she said with a sigh. “Do show me what you want in your case before you leave.” This comment, when combined with hearing his father leave the bedroom and start downstairs, confirmed to Alex that he must get away now, otherwise he was unlikely to get to the museum today, and his best friend, Kate, was relying on him.
Dashing out of the front door without as much as a goodbye, he went down the steps to the ground floor, two at a time. Stepping out onto the pavement, he almost suffered the same fate as a nearby Traffic Warden. A cycle courier flashed past, shouting something about a Second World War fighter plane manufacturer. The picture became clearer as the Traffic Warden approached Alex, saying, “Blooming cycle couriers are the bane of my life. They break every sodding rule, and now they put duct tape over their company logo, it’s impossible to book them. On the pavement, the wrong way up a one-way street, and all he says is that he was only going one way. Very sodding clever, I think not, but rest assured I’ll have him.” And waving his fist in the air to a now long-gone bicycle courier, he shouted, “One day I will have you.” With that he turned and walked to a parking meter which had just given the most satisfactory click of expiration. Wearing the smile of a cat that had just had the cream, he was already scribbling away.
