‘Overrate?’ said Zeinab pityingly. ‘When the British ladies talk of nothing else? Samira was at the hairdresser’s with the Consul-General’s wife yesterday and she said that all the talk was of what everyone was going to wear. Samira herself-’
‘I do think she has a point, you know,’ Paul said to Owen. ‘I was talking to the C-G’s wife only this morning-’
Zeinab patted his hand.
‘You understand,’ she purred, ‘because you have imagination.’
‘Gosh, yes!’ said Paul.
‘Paul, she’s eating you alive!’
‘ He has no imagination,’ said Zeinab pointedly. ‘That is because he is British. They have it cut out of them in childhood. Like tonsils.’
“ I’m British,’ said Paul faintly.
‘But you are different, Paul. You have imagination. And sensitivity. You understand women.’
‘If he doesn’t,’ said Owen, ‘he’s getting a pretty good lesson.’
Zeinab gave him a black look.
‘The cable needs to go off today,’ she said.
‘Look,’ said Paul, ‘if it matters that much, why don’t I send it?’
‘There!’ said Zeinab, looking at Owen.
‘No!’ said Owen.
‘I’d be glad to, honestly!’ said Paul.
‘That’s not the point,’ said Owen.
‘No,’ agreed Zeinab, ‘that’s not the point.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Paul, bewildered.
‘ I’ve got to send it,’ said Owen.
‘That’s right,’ said Zeinab.
‘I don’t-’
‘It’s nothing to do with dresses,’ said Owen. ‘She doesn’t care a damn about that sort of thing. It’s to do with her and me.’
‘Quite right,’ said Zeinab.
‘I’m out of my depth,’ said Paul.
‘She wants to show her power over me.’
‘What nonsense!’ said Zeinab. ‘I want you to show your love for me.’
‘I’m backing out,’ said Paul, quickly finishing his aperitif.
Owen looked at Zeinab.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s all over.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Zeinab picking up the menu. ‘What’s for lunch?’
‘Someone else, I hope,’ said Paul, rising from his chair.
The chandeliers glittered. Ice tinkled in the glasses. Redsashed suffragis bowed. A small group of men entered the room and began to move round the guests.
‘Prince Oblomov,’ introduced the nervous young member of the Charges staff; ‘Captain-’ He looked down at his prompt card and swallowed.
‘Cadwallader,’ said McPhee quickly, anxious to be helpful. ‘Cadwallader Owen.’
It was McPhee who had prepared the prompt list. Hence the inclusion of the Cadwallader. The name was a secret that Owen preferred to keep. He had, however, once made the mistake of signing his name in full in McPhee’s presence and McPhee, a Celt himself and a romantic, had never forgotten.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Prince.
‘Cadwallader. It’s an ancient Welsh name, the name of the Welsh ruling family, in fact-’
‘Ah!’ said the Prince, interested, and turning to Owen. ‘You are a member of the Royal Family?’
‘No, no!’ said Owen hastily, cursing McPhee. ‘It’s just a name. Not uncommon in Wales. My mother-’
‘I quite understand,’ said the Prince sympathetically. ‘I’m illegitimate myself. Or so they say.’
‘No, no. It was just that my mother fancied there was a remote family connection and, being a bit of a romantic-’
‘Quite,’ said the Prince. ‘Always giving her heart away. I’m like that too. A bit of a romantic.’
‘What’s all this?’ asked the Russian Charge, joining the group.
‘I was explaining about Owen’s name,’ said McPhee. ‘Gareth?’ said the Charge, who knew Owen well.
‘No, Cadwallader.’
‘Just a minute,’ said the Prince. ‘What is his name?’
‘Owen,’ said Owen.
‘Gareth Cadwallader,’ supplemented McPhee. ‘Gareth is the Christian, or first name; Cadwallader the second, or middle-’ The Prince looked at the Charge desperately.
‘My name is Ivan Stepanovich,’ said the Charge cheerfully, ‘if that helps. Oh, and Volkonsky, too, of course.’
‘I thought it might interest the Prince,’ said McPhee, perspiring slightly, ‘because of the Welsh connection.’
‘Welsh? Oh, yes. Like those soldiers, you mean? Prince, I hope His Royal Highness hasn’t forgotten about them. I mentioned them in my communique, if you remember.’
‘A decoration, was that it?’ said the Prince vaguely.
‘For services rendered. Against our Mingrelian adversaries.’
‘In battle, was it?’
‘Yes. You could say that. Pretty well.’
‘Oh, there’ll be no problem. His Royal Highness will be only too glad to, I’m sure. I’ll have a word with him when he arrives. Most appropriate. In view of the British, er, presence… Well, I’m very pleased to have met you, Captain Cadwallader Gareth.’
‘Guard of Honour? The Fusiliers? Not their turn,’ said the Army.
‘You don’t think the Sirdar could stretch a point? In view of them being especially singled out?’
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said the Welsh Fusiliers doubtfully when Owen came across them that evening as they were making for the Ezbekiyeh. ‘But if it’s all the same to you, we’d rather not. It’s going to be that hot standing out there in the sun
‘The DCLI, perhaps?’ suggested Owen.
‘Oh, sir, that would be wonderful. Give those bastards a taste of something.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. The Army wasn’t all that keen on you lot, anyway.’
‘Any chance of us being on guard at the Opera House, sir? I mean, he’s going there, isn’t he? It’s a special night. They’re getting some Italian singers… there’s a very good tenor, they say…’
‘It’s ridiculous!’ complained Mahmoud. ‘The city is going crazy about him. They’re getting all the bunting out, putting flags up everywhere…and who is he? Just some petty Russian aristocrat. Why is he getting this treatment? It’s demeaning. The Khedive is demeaning himself…other countries will think we’re glad to get anyone!’
‘Don’t make too much of it!’ Owen advised. ‘It’s some kind of recognition, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ said Mahmoud. ‘Who is being recognized? The Khedive? The British? Not Egypt. Is he going to talk to anybody who’s been democratically elected? Is there going to be any discussion of the Capitulations? Of the British presence? Is he going to address the National Assembly?’
‘From what I hear,’ said Owen, ‘he couldn’t even address an envelope.’
‘They’re sending a cipher,’ complained Mahmoud. ‘That’s not recognition; that’s insult!’
‘It’s something,’ said Owen pacifically, ‘some kind of diplomatic recognition. And that’s better than nothing.’
Mahmoud snorted.
‘It’s a waste of money,’ he said. ‘Money that could be used to do a lot of good: build houses, build hospitals, improve maternity care, education, sewage-’ He made a gesture of hopelessness. ‘There’s so much to do,’ he said bitterly, ‘and we’re spending our time on this!’
‘I know!’ said Owen soothingly. ‘When we could be getting on with our jobs!’
Mahmoud, however, the Nationalist bit between his teeth, was not to be soothed.
‘And that’s another thing!’ he said fiercely. ‘I had hoped that the visit might give us an opportunity to raise that internationally!’
‘What?’
‘Policing. Law and order. Who should be responsible, Britain or Egypt? And why isn’t the British Army subject to Egyptian law?’
‘I don’t think that question is on the agenda.’
‘I’ll bet it isn’t! And none of the real questions are, are they? They’re all being kept out of the way, just as we, the Egyptians, are being kept out of the way. Well, one day, I can tell you, we won’t be kept out of the way, we won’t allow ourselves to be managed aside. We shall strike back!’
Owen, however, declined to be stirred. He was feeling relaxed now that all the preparations were complete. All was under control.
‘Not until the Grand Duke’s visit is over, I hope,’ he said benignly.