Flora's War (6 page)

Lady Bellamy welcomed about twenty potential volunteers, mostly British civilians living in Cairo, to her pretty pavilion. I’d met some of the other volunteers in previous years. We all sat in cane chairs around a large table. ‘This lovely pavilion was once used to sell strong drink. But no more,’ said Lady Bellamy forthrightly. ‘We shall serve tea, and iced drinks and food, but this shall be a temperance concern.’

Gwen, leaning back in her chair and screened by my shoulder, murmured, ‘That’ll surely disappoint the soldiers.’ I tried not to smile.

‘We shall have table tennis, board games and cards,’ Lady Bellamy went on. ‘Naturally, there will be no gambling. Places must be arranged for writing letters home, and stationery shall be supplied. Soldiers may meet their friends here. We shall have shower rooms. Gramophone records must play at all times and we shall hold occasional concerts. We shall refer soldiers to respectable lodgings while they are on leave. Volunteers must always be here to assist with queries. I shall be creating a roster. Are there any questions, ladies?’

She didn’t look as if she expected any.

‘Um, I have a question,’ I said. All of the women turned and stared at me.

‘Yes?’ asked Lady Bellamy. ‘Flora, isn’t it? Flora Wentworth?’

I nodded. ‘Well, as we came through the gardens I saw several rest and recreation centres, the YMCA, for example. Why is another needed? What will make this centre different from the others?’

There was a collective, discreet noise of sucked-in air. Someone had dared question Lady Bellamy! Mrs Travers frowned at me.

Lady Bellamy gazed at me rather as if I were something unpleasant she’d discovered on the sole of her shoe. ‘Our centre shall be different,’ she said, ‘because English ladies will be running it. Many of our boys are away from home and the influence of their mothers and sisters for the first time. A place where they may converse with English ladies and take part in wholesome activities will be of immense benefit to them. We shall be an influence for good, in a way which organisations run by men – well-meaning and competent as they are – cannot be. Do you see?’

‘Yes, I see,’ I said. I could see Lady Bellamy’s argument, not that I necessarily agreed with her. I hoped that the soldiers who found their way here would enjoy their leave, despite being heavily influenced towards seemly behaviour by Lady Bellamy. I couldn’t honestly imagine how I could influence someone. I supposed I’d just serve them tea and smile, and hope for the best.

The meeting broke up, with Lady Bellamy promising to organise the rosters. ‘I assume Gwen and yourself prefer to work together?’ she said to me.

‘Please,’ Gwen and I said in unison.

‘That will make it easier to ensure you are suitably chaperoned,’ she said. ‘I would not be at all happy to have two young girls walking to and from their hotel through the gardens without appropriate escorts.’ She wrote on her roster.

‘Through the gardens?’ I said. ‘Is that a problem?’

Lady Bellamy looked at me severely. ‘Many soldiers use the gardens,’ she said. ‘Some frequent the public tavern. I have been unable to arrange its closure. Yet.’ She looked as if that was the next item on her agenda.

Gwen and I arranged to meet Mrs Travers at Shepheard’s later and left the pavilion, leaving Mrs Travers lingering for a few words with another of the ladies. Taking care to avoid Lady Bellamy’s eagle-eyed observation, we circled the pavilion and walked slowly towards the lake. We had time, we decided, to visit Gwen’s dressmaker near Shepheard’s Hotel.

Suddenly, a small group of soldiers stopped right in front of us. They were wearing the emu-plumed hats of the Australian Light Horse.

‘Well, now, aren’t you two just a sight for sore eyes!’ one of them said.

Gwen and I stopped, uncertain.

‘Are you ladies all right?’ another said courteously. ‘Do you need escorting somewhere?’

Gwen and I relaxed; they were only being friendly. ‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘We’re just going back to our hotel.’

‘You’re Australian, aren’t you?’ another asked. He was a nice looking boy with sandy hair and bright blue eyes. ‘What are you doing here in Cairo?’

‘We come here every year with our families for the excavation season,’ I explained.

‘This year we’ll be volunteering at Lady Bellamy’s rest and recreation centre,’ Gwen said, pointing to the pavilion. ‘It’ll be opening soon.’ She gave them a dimpled smile. ‘You’ll all surely be welcome.’

‘You young ladies will be working there? Then we’ll certainly come!’

I looked at them seriously. ‘I must warn you,’ I said, ‘that Lady Bellamy serves only tea and lemonade.’

The men laughed. ‘Even that won’t put us off!’ the sandy-haired boy promised. They touched their hats to us and went off. I noticed they headed towards the public tavern that so offended Lady Bellamy.

Gwen and I looked at each other and smiled. Maybe volunteering at Lady Bellamy’s rest and recreation centre mightn’t be as staid and boring as we’d thought.

Chapter 5

Gwen and I spent a very happy hour at the dressmaker’s. The tiny shop opened onto the street, with just enough room for the dressmaker, a sewing machine and two chairs for clients. An assistant kept disappearing through a door at the back of the shop and returning with armfuls of fabrics in glowing colours.

‘Pastels are correct for Miss Gwen,’ the dressmaker said. ‘You, Miss Flora, can wear deeper colours.’ He laid out deep, dusty pinks, sky blues, glowing orange and sea green

‘He’s right,’ Gwen agreed. ‘You should wear more intense shades.’

I had never been offered such variety in colour for dresses before. Aunt Helen had thought pale pink, baby blue, lemon and – rather daringly – insipid green were more suitable shades for young ladies. That I looked washed-out wearing them was of little concern to her.

‘Gwen, look at this!’ I held some rose pink cloth out towards her. ‘It’s got tiny mirrors embroidered around the edge.’

Gwen reached out to take it.

‘Oh no you don’t! It’s mine!’ I crushed the fabric to my chest. ‘All mine!’

‘I think she might take that one,’ Gwen said to the dressmaker, her face expressionless. He grinned and held out another tempting array of fabrics to me.

I chose several pieces of the beautiful fabrics and the dressmaker’s wife was called to take my measurements. When we stepped through the door at the back of the shop for privacy, I gasped at the rolls of fabrics. It was like Aladdin’s cave; roll upon roll of glorious colour stacked to the ceiling, with completed garments hanging on racks waiting to be collected. I lightly passed my hand over filmy, floating evening dresses in a rainbow of colour, but what caught my eye were the tailored riding clothes.

‘Jodhpurs,’ I sighed. ‘They’d be just right to wear when I’m working at the excavation. So practical.’

‘Have some made,’ advised Gwen.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘It’d be acceptable to wear them if I was riding, but I’m not riding, am I? Aunt Helen would have a fit.’

‘Aunt Helen’s not here,’ said Gwen. ‘And you
are
a modern girl.’

‘Would your mother be happy?’ I asked. ‘If you wore them?’

Gwen bit her lip, considering. ‘For riding, yes. For just wearing, no. You’re right.’

‘If I could suggest?’ the dressmaker’s wife quietly interrupted. She’d been following the conversation, looking amused. Now she turned and took a tailored skirt from a rack and held it up.

‘It looks like a skirt, yes?’ she said. ‘But it is divided.’ She spread the skirt out to reveal it was actually wide trousers. ‘Both comfortable and practical. And very modest!’

‘It’s quite short, though, isn’t it?’ I said. Just below knee length, I judged.

‘Worn with knee boots,’ she said.

‘Gwen, this is perfect!’ I said. ‘No one could object! Not even Aunt Helen.’

‘Or Lady Bellamy?’ suggested Gwen.

I ordered three.

I also ordered four evening gowns. As the dressmaker’s wife measured me, I realised that the corset I’d buried in the bottom of my trunk would have to be taken out and squeezed into if these gowns were to fit perfectly. I sighed. Sometimes a girl just had to make sacrifices.

…

Later, while Gwen and I took tea at Shepheard’s, I remembered I had an appointment with Mr Hussein the next day.

‘I’m starting driving lessons tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Do you want to come?’

‘I certainly do!’ Gwen clasped her hands. ‘Frank said he’d be delighted to teach me, but every time I ask Mama if I can have our car it always seems to be busy.’ She screwed up her nose. ‘Odd, that, don’t you think?’

‘Well, Mr Hussein is happy to teach us. Can you be at our hotel about ten?’

‘Try and keep me away,’ said Gwen. ‘I’ll ask Papa and Frank to make it right with Mama.’

Mr Hussein and I were waiting on the spotless white stairs when Frank and Professor Travers dropped Gwen at the Nile Palace the next morning. Frank looked a little apprehensive, I thought.

‘You’re sure they’ll be all right?’ he said to Mr Hussein. ‘They’ll be able to control the motorcar?’

Mr Hussein was definitely on our side. ‘There is no physical reason why a female should not drive a motorcar safely,’ he said. ‘The only issue is –’

‘Yes?’ asked Frank, rather hopefully, I thought.

‘Starting,’ said Mr Hussein. ‘It needs some strength to start a motorcar. Miss Flora and Miss Gwen are not –’ he paused. Gwen and I stared at him. Hard.

‘Not
large
ladies,’ said Mr Hussein tactfully. ‘But wiry. They are definitely wiry.’

‘Frank,’ said Professor Travers impatiently, from his seat in the car. ‘The girls are in good hands, I’m sure. Do you think we might get to the excavation sometime before lunch?’

Frank gave in, got into the car, and drove off.

‘Huh!’ snorted Gwen, glaring after him. ‘Frank’s just worried we’ll be able to go off and have a good time without him.’ She turned to me and smiled widely. ‘And we will, won’t we? Let’s get started!’

But getting started, as Mr Hussein had feared, was the problem. First, he showed us how to check the oil level and the water. It was news to us that motorcars needed either, but Mr Hussein assured us they were indispensable. Then, before we attempted to start the engine, he made us check that the motorcar was out of gear. ‘If it is not,’ he said severely, ‘when you start the engine the motorcar will move forward and you will be run over by your own vehicle.’

‘Well, that would be highly embarrassing,’ Gwen said. I nodded seriously and Mr Hussein shook his head at us.

‘Now we will push this lever in,’ said Mr Hussein, at the front of the car. ‘And turn this handle several times. The left hand is safest. Do not grip the crank handle hard, hold it in the palm of your hand and keep your thumb on the same side. If you do not, and the motorcar is not in the retard position, the engine will kick back and your arm could be broken.’

Gwen and I looked at each other. Driving was obviously more dangerous than it appeared.

It took us each several attempts before we could swing the crank handle and get the engine started. But we managed it. We each received a round of applause from people sitting on the verandah of the hotel, who had been watching our lesson with great interest.

‘That is excellent,’ said Mr Hussein. ‘If you had not been able to start the motorcar, what would you do if it stopped in an isolated place?’

I thought about that. ‘Ask someone to start it for me?’ I suggested. ‘There’s always someone around. Just a few piastres …’

Mr Hussein shook his head. ‘A driver must be self-sufficient,’ he said. ‘You do not want to have to depend on others.’

‘He’s right,’ Gwen said.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Modern girls must be independent.’

Mr Hussein decided that we should go to a quieter road for our first attempts at driving, and he drove us out onto the Giza plateau. Among the hillocks of tombs and the holes of excavations, Gwen and I learned how to make the motorcar move forward, how to stop, how to steer in different directions and how to go backwards.

‘It’s harder than it seems,’ I said to Mr Hussein. ‘You make it look so easy! My hands and my feet are doing different things all the time and my head can’t keep up.’

‘It is just practice,’ said Mr Hussein. ‘With a few more lessons and some practice in your own motorcar in a quiet place like this, it will be easy.’

I thought of the camels and donkeys and horses and carriages in Cairo – as well as a few other motorcars. ‘Yes, practising in a quiet spot will be essential!’

‘Miss Flora, you can drive us back to the hotel,’ said Mr Hussein.

‘Me?’ I squeaked. ‘Now? Do you think I can?’

‘It is a quiet road,’ said Mr Hussein. ‘Drive along steadily.’

So I did. We bowled past the pyramids and the Sphinx. Soldiers on leave stared, waved and called out cheerfully to us: ‘Give us a lift, love!’ and ‘Going my way?’

Gwen waved back but I kept my hands in their tight grip on the steering wheel.

I’d worried about the turn into the hotel driveway, but Mr Hussein talked me through it and we pulled up at the hotel’s front entrance – with rather a jerk and a scatter of sand and gravel. We were greeted by another round of applause from guests on the verandah.

‘Oh, that was wonderful!’ I said to Mr Hussein. ‘Thank you! You’re such a good teacher!’

‘It has been a pleasure,’ Mr Hussein said. ‘I will tell Mr Khalid that arrangements can be made for the purchase of a motorcar.’

…

‘What on earth are we supposed to talk to the soldiers about?’ I groaned to Gwen and Frank as we walked across the Ezbekieh Gardens towards the rest and recreation centre. Frank had decided to be our chaperone to our first rostered morning on duty. ‘Lady Bellamy says we’re supposed to be a good influence. I don’t know how to be a good influence! What are we supposed to do, read them sermons? Sing hymns?’

‘That’d clear the centre in no time,’ said Gwen. ‘I don’t know, I guess we just
talk
to them. We could ask them where they come from? Ask about their families? Ask what they’ve been doing on leave?’

‘Better be careful about
that
,’ I said.

Gwen linked her arm through her brother’s. ‘So, Frank, exactly what
unwholesome
activities are the soldiers getting up to on their leave?’ she asked.