The Visitors Read Online Free PDF Page A

pictures in such appalling conditions, inside Tut’s tomb, cramped conditions, inadequate light – it’s astonishing.’ He paused. When I didn’t respond, I saw puzzlement again. ‘You have seen Burton’s photographs, right?’
    ‘I was there when he took them. So, yes.’
    ‘And these?’ He flipped a page, scanned the images, and shook his head. ‘No. This is new to me. I don’t recognise anyone here… ’
    I leaned across to examine the picture. It had been taken on the steps outside the American House. Mrs Lythgoe, the senior wife, was speaking to one of the servants. Harry Burton’s wife, Minnie, was wearing a long woolly garment designed to flatter her hips. Helen Winlock, who was dear to me, had been caught in a hand gesture I remembered her making a score of times a day: it indicated she had lost something and was in search of it: sometimes her spectacles, or her watercolours, sometimes a missing child.
    ‘Wives,’ I said. ‘Living at the Metropolitan House those first seasons. Several of the archaeologists brought their families with them to Egypt.’
    Dr Fong glanced down at the photograph. Mrs Winlock and her fellow Metropolitan wives merited twenty seconds. He turned a page. ‘And these two children. Who are they?’
    ‘The dark-haired girl on the right is Frances, the Winlocks’ daughter… ’
    ‘And the one on the left?’
    ‘That is me.’
    There was a silence. Dr Fong muttered an expletive. ‘You look – I guess I wasn’t expecting… what’s with the hair?’
    ‘I was recovering from an illness. Long story. Not of any interest to you.’
    ‘Sorry if I sounded rude – it caught me by surprise, that’s all. You look––’
    ‘I know how I looked, Dr Fong.’
    Reaching across, I took the album from him and handed him a different one. ‘Let me show you the pictures I took of the pyramids,’ I said warmly. ‘They’ll be of interest, I know. Most people find them absolutely fascinating. A lost world, Dr Fong.’
    If faded out-of-focus pictures of the pyramids in the 1920s did not dislodge him, nothing would. They are, in my experience, a soporific that’s guaranteed. Add in a few animated old lady anecdotes inducing terminal ennui, and most visitors discover a pressing appointment. In less than five minutes Dr Fong again checked his watch; in another five, he produced his BlackBerry, consulted its screen and announced he must be going – forgotten a meeting, so interesting to hear my reminiscences, would make use of the invaluable insights I’d provided, privilege to meet me, would try to be in touch again, felt sure there was more I could contribute, but unfortunately had to leave…
    Result. Within minutes he was hastening down my front steps and I was able to close the door on him. I stood in the shivery hall; it was still only mid-afternoon, but in London in January on an overcast day, with snow threatening, my house exists in a permanent and sepulchral twilight. I could feel the ghosts gathering. They’re now as familiar with my house as I am. They like to cluster, especially by the stairs. Today their mood seemed amicable; it is not always so.
    I returned to my sitting room. There, too, I could sense movement, excitement: something, perhaps Dr Fong’s questions, perhaps the photographs, had caused disturbance. Sharp as the crack of a whip: electricity in the air.

4
    ‘Farewell to the Pyramids… ’ Miss Mack said, as we climbed back into Hassan’s carriage; one flick of his whip in the air – and we were back in our rooms at Shepheard’s, bang on schedule. The louvres were closed, the ceiling fans switched on, the linen sheets folded back and the mosquito net arranged protectively around me. Miss Mack announced she’d retire to her room to write up her journal: she had literary ambitions and planned to write some form of Egyptian memoirs one day – a day I secretly thought would never come. ‘You have a good rest, Lucy, then you’ll be ready for tea and the