Dear James, Thank you so much for the Tatler. I have been studying the evening gowns with Eugenie, with the result that we shall be visiting Madame Marthe, I think, quite soon! I wear Egyptian dress most of the time now but in the evening, for receptions and soirees, one is obliged to dress in the latest European fashion and I have had nothing made since I grew big with Nur.

Mrs Butcher arrived this afternoon just as Madame Rushdi was leaving and we had a very pleasant time together. She was quite unable to let go of the baby, dandling and petting her all the while. She told me a most amusing story about our old friend Mr Gairdner who, after much trouble, succeeded - as he thought - in the conversion of one boatman. He took the man in and gave him a room and prayed with him constantly, but after three days the man's wife came looking for him and it transpired that the conversion had taken place under the effect of a matrimonial quarrel! Reconciled to his wife, the boatman apologised to Mr Gairdner, thanked him and took his leave, returning home with his wife. Mrs Butcher says Mr Gairdner was quite cast down but has since recovered his normal exuberance and is determined to redouble his efforts in the service of the Church.

My husband urges me to celebrate Christmas in church this year, but I do not believe I shall. Even though Mrs Butcher - I think - would be kind enough to have me sit with her, it would be too uncomfortable. Can you not just see the heads bending towards each other, the ostentatious shifting of skirts and then the staring straight ahead? I would find it impossible to attend to the service or enjoy the singing. It would be more an act of defiance than worship and it seems wrong to taint Christmas in such a manner. I have made a Christmas cake, though, even if without brandy, and we shall have a little tree for Nur.

I have grown quite proficient with the loom and have started on a most wonderful work - at least I hope it will be wonderful when it is finished. It is to be a tapestry six foot wide by eight foot long, made up of three panels, for my loom can only accommodate a width of two feet. I shall use nothing but what the Ancients themselves might have used in the way of flax or silk or dye, and it shall be my contribution to the Egyptian renaissance, for it shall depict the G.o.ddess Isis, with her brother consort the G.o.d Osiris and between them the Infant Horns, and above them a Quranic verse - my husband will choose an appropriate one for me in time. I have already prepared a sketch of it and for the colours I will use the deep turquoises, gold and terracotta of the Ancient Egyptians and the deep green that I have never seen anywhere except in Egypt's fields.

Nur al-Hayah lies in her basket and watches me as I work. Ahmad chases the b.a.l.l.s of silk, and Baroudi Bey - as a change from his rosary - twines and untwines the silken thread around his fingers. I wish you could see them. I have asked Sir Charles, but I fear his back now gives him so much trouble that he cannot travel - January 1906 'I will plant some trees for her - here,' my husband said. 'As soon as the season is right.' He did not turn as I approached, but drew me to his side and continued with his thoughts aloud. 'Here,' he said, 'I will make a garden for her, with shade, and a fountain where she can play when the world gets hot.'

Even when I sleep, I dream of him and of Nur al-Hayah.

25.

The want of grat.i.tude displayed by a nation to its alien benefactors is almost as old as history itself.

Lord Cromer, 1908 Cairo, 18 September 1997 As for me, my dreams have become a confusion of times and places. I am lying in the courtyard of the old Baroudi house - 'Beit el-Ingeliziyya' as the driver called it - with Nur sitting by my head tugging at my necklace when I think to look in on my sleeping children. With Nur on my hip I go into the house and upstairs to the boys' room in our house in England and there they lie: the older one splayed out like a starfish, open to the world, the younger curved and tensed gracefully, like a diver in mid-air.

And often, while I sleep, I find myself in a house I have never seen while awake. In the dream I know that I have dreamed of this place often and in the dream I am flooded with relief at having - at last - found it. It is exactly as I dreamed it would be: it has a light, open courtyard surrounded by delicate cloisters with graceful pillars of faded pink and in the middle there is a pool. It has an air of comfortable decay: the plaster is peeling a little from the walls and the garden is overgrown. I walk around. I plan how I will restore it, I note the crumbling capitals of the columns, the missing fragments of mosaic in the floor around the pool, the sagging cane chairs with their faded cushions. I love this place. I know that my mother is in her room somewhere inside, happy, not homesick any more. I shall go in to her soon, when I have collected Nur. I stand by the side of the pool, towels over my arms, calling to the child to come out. And we are expecting others too. I know my sons will love this house. I can see my brother's delighted recognition when he sees it. When I wake and try to capture its image in my mind, what I see are the frescoes of Pompeii.

My brother is gone and Isabel is not coming back for a while. Most people I know are still out of Cairo for the summer. I pack my PC, my ma.n.u.script, Anna's remaining papers and my grandmother's, and Madani carries them down to the car. I take Anna's woven Osiris off his hanger, roll him up carefully and replace him in his length of muslin. I ask Tahiyya to come up to the flat every three days to water the plants and phone me in Tawasi. I decide, before I set out on the road, to go to the museum. Now that I know what the two tapestries are, I want to go and wander around there for a while. Maybe I will find the paintings that Anna used as her references. But in her letter to James she mentions three panels. Where, I wonder, is the third?

I cross Qasr el-Nil Bridge and turn right and pull in by the Mugama building. As the parking attendant comes up, I say, 'If I leave my keys, will you try and find a bit of shade for me?' If Mansur were alive I'd have left the car with him.

'How long will you be?' the man asks.

'A couple of hours,' I say. 'I'm just going to the museum.'

'There's no museum,' he says, 'the museum is closed.'

'How is it closed?' I ask. 'We're twelve o'clock and it closes at four.'

'Because of the bomb,' he says. 'They've exploded a bomb there and they've closed the museum. Look.'

Across the square I see the smoke, the people running, the white uniforms of the police.

'When?' I cry. 'What happened?'

'They say someone threw a bomb and killed some tourists -'

'Ya n'har iswid,' I cry. I run. I run across the square, through the bus terminus and on till I am stopped by a policeman.

'It's forbidden, ya Sett,' he says.

'There's been a bomb,' a man tells me. Crowds of people are standing around. A charred bus is smoking. Officers are yelling into walkie-talkies and others are yelling at the crowd. A police officer turns to the man who'd spoken to me and shoves him in the chest: 'Move away. It's not a spectacle.'

The man moves a few paces and mutters, 'Why don't you do your job properly instead of acting brave on us?'

'What happened?' I ask. 'Was anyone hurt?'

'Yes,' he says. 'They've removed them.'

'They say some are dead,' another man says.

'Tourists?' I ask.

'They say Americans.'

'What a disaster, what a disaster - 'Of course it's a disaster. They won't stop till they've ruined the country -'

'They were Germans,' a woman says. Her make-up is caked with perspiration under the big headscarf. 'All from that bus over there - eight dead. And the driver. G.o.d have mercy on them. My heart on their children and their people -'

I stand in the burning sun and think of the tourists on holiday, of Mansur and how I'd never known if he had a wife and children, and I listen to the voices asking questions, answering them, speculating, praying for mercy for the souls of the dead.

'They say it was one man. And they've caught him.'

'They've caught one. But it will happen again -'

The asphalt is so hot it feels like marshmallow under my heels as I walk back across the square. The car is still in the sun and the seat burns the back of my legs and the steering wheel stings my hands. The barricades on the Upper Egypt road will be worse than ever today. Somewhere in the world eight families do not yet know of the grief that has struck them.

I drive. In Tawasi I will be far away from all this. I will see the school working, see my garden and the fields beyond it. And I will be with Anna.

Cairo

30 April 1906

Dear Sir Charles, You will know by now that the Sultan has refused to vacate Taba and there is a general understanding that he is backed by Kaiser Wilhelm. If Britain should force the matter and issue an ultimatum, it cannot but be war. I am certain that you and our other friends in England are doing everything possible to put the situation forward in its true light and to that end I am sending you an article which sets out the legal and international position with respect to Taba from 1841 when the Vice-Regency of Egypt was granted to Muhammad Ali. Perhaps the Manchester Guardian or the Tribune might print it?

The general feeling here is very much with the Sultan, not from any love of him, but from a revulsion at Britain tightening her grip yet more upon Egypt. The Khedive is perceived to be with the Sultan, he confers daily with Mukhtar Pasha. But it is known that he is grown closer both to the King and to the Prince of Wales and it is probably only a matter of time before Cromer calls him to heel.

Cromer appears more determined than ever now to show us who is master here in Egypt. In February the students of the Law School went on strike to protest against new regulations very like those operating in the primary schools. They saw these regulations - inst.i.tuted by Mr Dunlop, the new Secretary of the Ministry of Education - as an affront to their dignity. The Government immediately closed down the School for a week, during which time they negotiated with the students, who returned to their cla.s.ses on 3 March. On 24 March Cromer appointed Mr Dunlop Adviser to the Ministry of Education - in effect the Minister. This has been a most unpopular and provocative appointment, especially as it is in Education that the Egyptians find themselves most badly served by the British Administration.

You see how politics overshadows everything? Is it so in England? I do not remember it so - except at the end with Edward. But perhaps I was young and unaware. Here n.o.body escapes its malign shadow except for old Baroudi Bey, who has long since retreated into a world of his own, and our precious little Nur, who every day brings fresh and clear pleasure into our lives. She is taking her first steps now, so precarious and full of courage and adventure, and is a truly blessed child for no one sees her but falls in love with her and she is very generous in her affections and will happily submit to being hugged and petted by anyone. My husband's cousin Shukri Bey el-Asali is visiting us from Nazareth and has for the first time accepted our entreaties that he not open up his family house but stay with us instead. We believe this is due to Nur's having made a complete conquest of him, for she is the first person he asks after when he enters the house and he has infinite patience with retrieving her ball countless times from the fountain where she loves to throw it. As for her cousin Ahmad, who is six, he has appointed himself her guardian and her tutor and allows her free access to his books and his slate. She will be reading at three years old if he has his way. Her most serious affections, though, she reserves for her father: she will hang about his knee, her eyes spaniel-like with devotion, and whatever his business, he has to be home at her bedtime or she will not go to sleep. Bedtime is the one thing I have held to; for here, children are allowed to stay up until sleep overtakes them wherever they may be and I cannot think that is good for them. So I carry Nur off to bed at seven despite daily remonstrances from Zeinab Hanim and Mabrouka. The child is well for it and loves the ritual of bidding good night to all her favourite people and things in the house, ending up at last in her father's arms for a lullaby and a kiss before he lays her in her bed.

I fancy I am going on too much, but if you will not come and see her for yourself you must resign yourself to these detailed bulletins, for the prospect of our ever being able to come to England grows more remote with each event that comes to pa.s.s. Mustafa Kamel Pasha will be in Europe soon and he has expressed the wish to see you and Mr Blunt also. It would be good if that can be arranged - In my old room at Tawasi, with the windows open to the veranda to let in the evening breeze, I remember the day when my elder son was just three months and I was carrying him in a sling against my breast and standing at the deli counter in Selfridges' foodhall. He looked up at me with the serious gaze with which he had entered the world and I put my tongue out at him. When he put his tongue out in reply I almost fainted with delight. When they said their first words, when they took their first steps, when they put on their new school uniforms and picked up their bags, at every point I was filled with wonder and thought, This is the most enchanting phase yet.

In Anna's words I read her love for her child and Sharif Basha's grateful and amazed delight. I see the black-haired little girl, her ears already pierced and set with golden studs, her violet eyes serious, concentrating. She takes one tottering step down into the fountain and the small, plump feet stand on the cool, wet floor. So much to choose from: down on hands and knees again she explores the squares and triangles, the blue and white and red of the tiles, till looking up she catches the glint of sunlight on the spray and stretches a hand towards it.

Her father sits cross-legged by the edge of the fountain, in the rough linen trousers he uses for working in the garden. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, his feet are bare. He adjusts the baby's sun bonnet, then dips his fingers into the water, stirring it lazily, making more patterns for her to see. He glances up at Anna's window and from behind the lattice she smiles down.

I consider whether to go to the school and decide to stay with Anna. Tareq Atiyya's men are doing a good job. Two young men with intermediate diplomas, they take it in turns to man the school five nights a week. They help the children with their reading and maths and the village is grateful to them and sends them home from time to time with gifts of eggs, b.u.t.ter or pastry. I ask them veiled questions about changes on the Atiyya land and they say no, there's nothing and n.o.body new. I should call Tareq, or write him a note to thank him.

Cairo

15 May 1906

Dear James, Thank you so much for yours of 20 April and for all the papers. Is it not amazing that a man who has never been abroad except once - and that to France - and who speaks not one foreign language should be in charge of British Foreign Affairs? I am sure your mania is relieved that you turned down the offer of the posting to Syria - are you at all disappointed that you cannot be in a place where you can make more use of your Arabic? Sir Charles wrote to me what you said about not wishing to be involved in British foreign policy and I imagine the sad events in Natal will only serve to rea.s.sure you that you have made the right decision. I believe you can do more good where you are - and remain truer to yourself.

Matters here, thank goodness, can never be as bad as in South Africa, even though Cromer chooses to represent the political unrest here as fanatical in nature. Yesterday al-Muqattam asked if the Egyptian Army should fight on the side of the British against His Majesty the Ottoman Sultan Abd al-Hamid Khan (for half the Fifth Battalion was sent into Sinai), or should it mutiny? In truth we do not know whether to be disappointed that the Sultan has backed down over Taba or relieved that the prospect of war has been averted. The common sentiment was very much for Turkey and I did, in fact, ask my husband whether Turkey's being Moslem had to do with it; he said that in '98 the people were for Marchand in the Fashoda affair and France is not a Moslem state. I do not know how Cromer squares this, for I do not believe he would lie. But he perceives things as he chooses to and if the Government should grant his demand to double the Army it will be very ill received here. He has now taken to promenading the Army through the country in a show of force - and but two years ago he had declared that he could govern Egypt without an army, as he was widely accepted as a friend of the fellaheen!

We would dearly like to spend more time in Tawasi, but for the impossibility of persuading Baroudi Bey to leave his shrine and our reluctance to take Nur away from Zeinab Hanim (and Ahmad too, for where Nur goes he goes), so we continue much as usual and Nur does new things and gives us more pleasure every day. I am working on my tapestry but it is exceedingly slow; I am on the feet of Isis now.

We are planting a magical grove for Nur which is to be completed before she reaches her first birthday. It has an Italian Cypress, a Jacaranda, a Poinciana, a Magnolia, a Persian Lilac and a Palestinian Willow and her own special pool with a fountain. Zeinab Hanim is not happy about the Persian Lilac because of its poisonous fruit, but my husband says that Nur will learn that good and bad can come of the same tree.

I am sending you a watercolour I made of her and Ahmad. The figure reclining in the easy chair is Shukri Bey al-Asali, our cousin from Nazareth. He is most concerned about the situation in the Holy Land, and the loss of Sheikh Muhammad Abdu has been a bitter blow to him for he had counted on his support. He says, however, that the new Mutasarrif of Jerusalem, Ali Ekrem Bey, is known for his integrity and will act honestly on the anti-immigration laws. He has brought with him a most fascinating and disturbing book, Le Reveil de la nation Arabe, which I would send you a copy of but that it is illegal here and we would never get another. But it is published in Paris and so you must get a copy. I would be very interested to know what you think of it.

We have had a new addition to our household in the form of Mahrous, a little boy of four who is Mabrouka's great-nephew. The child was orphaned of his mother and on his father marrying again, Mabrouka wished to have him. My husband gave his consent readily for, as he said, she has brought up all the children of the family and it is but fair that she should now have one of her own. He is a little black boy with perfectly delicate features and springy hair and - being fresh from their village near Tantah - is still somewhat shy. Ahmad is not quite sure how he feels about him but I am certain they will become friends in the end.

We are thinking of going to Italy again in September and perhaps to Paris. If we do, I shall try to prevail upon Sir Charles to meet us there - Sharif Basha is digging in the garden when Anna comes to him. He is planting Nur's 'magical grove', that collection of brave bedraggled trees, still trying to flower in the new slum in Touloun, where Isabel and I had sat, drawing triangles in the dust.

10 June 1906 He digs in rhythm with Fudeil, the gardener's son: one man rising, his spade describing an arc over his shoulder, the soil scattering from it like a shower on to the mound behind him, while the other swoops down, digging his spade deep into the earth. Nearby, Abu Fudeil, the old gardener, is preparing the young cypress for planting.

'We shall be finished in a minute,' Sharif Basha says.

Abu Fudeil lowers the cypress carefully into the ground and holds it straight while Fudeil and his master gently shovel the loose earth in around it. When they have finished, Sharif Basha lays his spade on the ground. 'Water it well now,' he says, then turns to Anna. 'Why, whatever is the matter?' he asks. He puts his arm around her and as they move away, Fudeil is on his knees patting the earth into place while his father fetches the bucket of water that has been standing nearby.

'I've just received these from London.' Anna holds out some sheets of paper. She is pale and the papers in her hand shake.

'What is it?' Sharif Basha asks again. 'What has happened?'

'James,' she says, 'James sent me this. It is a letter - a copy of a letter - that was sent to Sir Edward Grey. It is a translation. The original, in Arabic, fell into Cromer's hands here in Cairo. It describes a plan for an uprising in August.'

'Uprising? What uprising?'

They have both come to a stop and Anna's hands are on her husband's arm, her eyes searching his face: 'Sharif? You would have told me?'

'What are you saying? What uprising?'

'A nationalist uprising.'

'There is no such thing. Come, read me the letter.' He walks her into the house. 'Come in here. And for G.o.d's sake, don't look so frightened.'

They go into Sharif Basha's study. He makes Anna sit in an easy chair and pours her a gla.s.s of water.

'Now. Translate for me. Barrington's letter first.'

' "Dear Anna. I am writing in haste because you should have this immediately. This letter was forwarded to the Foreign Office in support of Lord Cromer's request for reinforcements in Egypt. It is meant to be a translation of a letter in Arabic that was given to the Oriental Secretary by one of his native spies. For me it does not ring true but I could be mistaken. Show it to your husband." '

'Now the letter.'

' "To the Branch of the Fair Tree, the Light Rain of the Generous Cloud, the Son and Daughter of the Prophet - " '

'The what?'

' "The Son and Daughter of the Prophet".'

'This is nonsense.'

'Well, if it has been translated from Arabic into English and now I am translating it into French -'

'It is still nonsense.'

'So there is no uprising?'

'Anna, darling. An uprising with what? The army is scattered in the Sudan. The man in the street? The fallaheen? Where is the organisation? Our spirits have never been at lower ebb since '82. And the Porte has just shown it cannot support its own positions, let alone ours. Do you think we are mad?'

'No. No, I know you are not mad. But there are others -'

'Give me the letter. I shall have it translated back into Arabic'

'But Sharif -'

'Don't worry. I shall tell no one how I came by it. Barrington's name will not be mentioned at all. You keep his letter. And thank him on my behalf. And please - look, come here -'

He pulls her to her feet, sits her down on the diwan and sits close by her. He puts his hand under her chin and tilts her face so that she looks into his eyes. 'Do you think I would be part of any plan that must jeopardise all our lives? Do you think I would do such a thing and not tell you?'

'No,' Anna shakes her head but her eyes fill with tears.

'What then? Do you think something like this can be planned without my knowing about it?'

'Yes.'