Colonel Race was sitting on the terrace of the Old Cataract Hotel enjoying a large gin and tonic. The view across the River Nile at this time in the late afternoon seemed to add a soporific golden glow to the west bank, with its barren hillsides and hidden mysteries. The heat of the day was dissipating. Below him just a handful of meandering feluccas plied this ancient waterway with all the grace of their Egyptian heritage. Muriel would have loved it here.
His attention was interrupted by the arrival of another guest; a woman. She carefully pulled out a wicker chair and sat down at the next table before removing her sunglasses. Looking towards the bar, she called the waiter over who, with the deferential appearance of some fabled genie, went away to carry out her instructions.
“Is it your first time?” Race enquired and pulled at his grey moustache while he eyed the woman with all the surreptitiousness he could muster.
She pulled off her floppy hat and proceeded to fish in her bag for something. “Do you mean in Egypt?”
“Yes, because if it is, perhaps I might be able to offer you a little advice.” He gave a knowing wink. “How to deal with the natives and all that.”
The waiter, in starched white jacket and red fez, deposited the woman’s drink.
“Oh, you really needn’t bother,” she replied, lifting her glass of Perrier water. “I’m well aware of men touting for business as amateur tour guides. Not to mention the children and their incessant appeals for bakseesh. And don’t for one moment imagine I’d be shocked by those saucy postcards.”
The colonel raised a smile. He liked women with what the American’s called spunk.
It was still warm but the sun was gradually sinking, dazzling shafts of sunlight almost obliterating the view of Elephantine Island which sat in the middle of the Nile. From somewhere a muezzin began calling the faithful to prayer, an eerie chant that made one realise that England was so far away.
The woman had produced a notebook and pencil. Taking another sip of her drink, she proceeded to jot something down, chewing the end of that pencil as she concentrated her thoughts.
Race finished his gin and tonic and ordered another. Muriel would have been shaking her head if she’d been here. “Darling we’ll be eating in an hour. Have a glass of wine with the meal”. Always there to look out for him. Even during the troubles.
“My wife used to keep a diary,” he found himself telling the other.
The woman put her pencil down and looked over Race’s left shoulder at two local men arguing and coming to blows down by the waterside. “It’s not a diary,” she replied. “I’m a writer and am just doing some research.”
The other turned. “Bloody savages. If they’re not trying to fleece us, they’re taking pot shots at each other.”
The woman pushed back a lock of dark hair and wrote something in her notebook.
“These people are very poor. Life is a constant struggle for them.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I’ve always thought it such a shame that one is often defined by the circumstances of one’s birth. Those two men in their filthy galabeya’s might be cashiers in some high street bank if they’d had the good fortune to have been born in Croydon.”
The colonel shook his head and smoothed down his trousers. Damn it, the woman was a socialist. He didn’t hold with these modern views that we were all the same underneath.
The fight was broken up by the arrival of the hotel manager. Scenes like this didn’t exactly enhance the reputation of Thomas Cook’s most prestigious hotel in Aswan.
“So what are you writing?’ Race suddenly enquired. Probably an article about anti-colonialism for some Bolshie rag.
“A novel.”
The man coughed and thumped his chest. “Can’t say as I’m a reader myself. Well not since boarding school. And then it was all Shakespeare and Dickens. Oh, and the poetry of William Wordsworth which we had to recite.” He paused and flicked a fly away from his drink. “Mind you Muriel, my wife, used to love a good read. Well I suppose it whiled away the hours in India.”
The woman leaned forward slightly. “Is your wife not with you?”
“No, no, no,” he said shaking his walrus like head. “Passed on a few years’ ago. Cancer. All very tragic.” He drew a freckled hand across his forehead. “One moves on of course.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“So this novel of yours, set in Egypt obviously? Is it a thriller?”
The woman lifted her drink and looked into the distance. The sky had turned a gorgeous purple with just the barest streaks of pink. Very soon it would be dark and all the stars of a desert night would stretch the heavens. She jotted those observations down in her note book before she forgot them.
“It’s a murder mystery”’ she found herself telling him.
He feigned a shiver. “I’ve seen enough murder and death in my time without wanting to read about it in some novel.”
She suppressed a smile. “It’s just entertainment. Like a crossword puzzle.”
Race’s features glowed with genuine pride. “Muriel loved crossword puzzles. She could do the one in the New Delhi Times in under half an hour. Damned clever memsahib, my Muriel.”
A few more moments went by. Guests of this hotel drifted in and out of the bar, strolled along the terrace and sauntered through the impeccably maintained grounds towards the edge of that great river.
“I really must be getting back to my room to change for dinner,” the woman told him, and put her things back into her bag.
Race stood up. “It’s been nice talking,” and held out his hand. “I’m so sorry but I never introduced myself. The name’s Colonel Race.”
“Mrs Christie,” she said. “But just call me Agatha. Perhaps we could dine together tonight and you could tell me a little more about your late wife and your adventures on the sub-continent.”
“My God, I’d be delighted,” he beamed.
As she walked back to the lobby, she smiled to herself. Characters like the Colonel were invaluable as a source of literary inspiration.
His attention was interrupted by the arrival of another guest; a woman. She carefully pulled out a wicker chair and sat down at the next table before removing her sunglasses. Looking towards the bar, she called the waiter over who, with the deferential appearance of some fabled genie, went away to carry out her instructions.
“Is it your first time?” Race enquired and pulled at his grey moustache while he eyed the woman with all the surreptitiousness he could muster.
She pulled off her floppy hat and proceeded to fish in her bag for something. “Do you mean in Egypt?”
“Yes, because if it is, perhaps I might be able to offer you a little advice.” He gave a knowing wink. “How to deal with the natives and all that.”
The waiter, in starched white jacket and red fez, deposited the woman’s drink.
“Oh, you really needn’t bother,” she replied, lifting her glass of Perrier water. “I’m well aware of men touting for business as amateur tour guides. Not to mention the children and their incessant appeals for bakseesh. And don’t for one moment imagine I’d be shocked by those saucy postcards.”
The colonel raised a smile. He liked women with what the American’s called spunk.
It was still warm but the sun was gradually sinking, dazzling shafts of sunlight almost obliterating the view of Elephantine Island which sat in the middle of the Nile. From somewhere a muezzin began calling the faithful to prayer, an eerie chant that made one realise that England was so far away.
The woman had produced a notebook and pencil. Taking another sip of her drink, she proceeded to jot something down, chewing the end of that pencil as she concentrated her thoughts.
Race finished his gin and tonic and ordered another. Muriel would have been shaking her head if she’d been here. “Darling we’ll be eating in an hour. Have a glass of wine with the meal”. Always there to look out for him. Even during the troubles.
“My wife used to keep a diary,” he found himself telling the other.
The woman put her pencil down and looked over Race’s left shoulder at two local men arguing and coming to blows down by the waterside. “It’s not a diary,” she replied. “I’m a writer and am just doing some research.”
The other turned. “Bloody savages. If they’re not trying to fleece us, they’re taking pot shots at each other.”
The woman pushed back a lock of dark hair and wrote something in her notebook.
“These people are very poor. Life is a constant struggle for them.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I’ve always thought it such a shame that one is often defined by the circumstances of one’s birth. Those two men in their filthy galabeya’s might be cashiers in some high street bank if they’d had the good fortune to have been born in Croydon.”
The colonel shook his head and smoothed down his trousers. Damn it, the woman was a socialist. He didn’t hold with these modern views that we were all the same underneath.
The fight was broken up by the arrival of the hotel manager. Scenes like this didn’t exactly enhance the reputation of Thomas Cook’s most prestigious hotel in Aswan.
“So what are you writing?’ Race suddenly enquired. Probably an article about anti-colonialism for some Bolshie rag.
“A novel.”
The man coughed and thumped his chest. “Can’t say as I’m a reader myself. Well not since boarding school. And then it was all Shakespeare and Dickens. Oh, and the poetry of William Wordsworth which we had to recite.” He paused and flicked a fly away from his drink. “Mind you Muriel, my wife, used to love a good read. Well I suppose it whiled away the hours in India.”
The woman leaned forward slightly. “Is your wife not with you?”
“No, no, no,” he said shaking his walrus like head. “Passed on a few years’ ago. Cancer. All very tragic.” He drew a freckled hand across his forehead. “One moves on of course.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“So this novel of yours, set in Egypt obviously? Is it a thriller?”
The woman lifted her drink and looked into the distance. The sky had turned a gorgeous purple with just the barest streaks of pink. Very soon it would be dark and all the stars of a desert night would stretch the heavens. She jotted those observations down in her note book before she forgot them.
“It’s a murder mystery”’ she found herself telling him.
He feigned a shiver. “I’ve seen enough murder and death in my time without wanting to read about it in some novel.”
She suppressed a smile. “It’s just entertainment. Like a crossword puzzle.”
Race’s features glowed with genuine pride. “Muriel loved crossword puzzles. She could do the one in the New Delhi Times in under half an hour. Damned clever memsahib, my Muriel.”
A few more moments went by. Guests of this hotel drifted in and out of the bar, strolled along the terrace and sauntered through the impeccably maintained grounds towards the edge of that great river.
“I really must be getting back to my room to change for dinner,” the woman told him, and put her things back into her bag.
Race stood up. “It’s been nice talking,” and held out his hand. “I’m so sorry but I never introduced myself. The name’s Colonel Race.”
“Mrs Christie,” she said. “But just call me Agatha. Perhaps we could dine together tonight and you could tell me a little more about your late wife and your adventures on the sub-continent.”
“My God, I’d be delighted,” he beamed.
As she walked back to the lobby, she smiled to herself. Characters like the Colonel were invaluable as a source of literary inspiration.