jennytheshipper

We had a grievous hole in our garden and Papa had a notion to fill it with a Banyan tree. There was a good specimen at the park Papa said, so I took my parasol and we walked, for it was not far from the Embassy. That was one of the advantages of Cairo, Papa said, the Embassies were close to the park. Papa was mad about green things. When we visited Mama’s people in Paris, he disappeared for hours in his beloved Jardin des Plantes. We circled round the gravel path till we found the Banyan tree. Nearby, Papa found the groundskeeper and chatted to him in a dialect I didn’t understand.

I stood stupidly for a minute, and then began drifting around the edge of the garden. I was soothed by a sound like running water, applause, coming from the far side of the park. When Papa was done talking to the groundskeeper, I suggested we investigate the crowd making the noise. He agreed and we strolled off in that direction, carrying my apricot silk parasol against the afternoon sun. It became apparent that all the fuss was about a cricket match. Though I had no interest or even a rudimentary knowledge of the game, I was savvy enough to know that there was always a refreshment tent. Papa agreed that this must be the case and we soon found ourselves with mint tea and almond cookies, in comfortable, shady seats with a very poor view of the action.

A while later, Papa was spotted by his old friend Mr. Pashawar,--known to the world as Pasha. He motioned to us to sit with him nearer the pitch and we followed, balancing our tea things as we gingerly pushed our way through the crowd. The match was between the Fifth Fusaliers, a fierce, strapping bunch, who’d recently seen action in Afghanistan, and the Royal Engineers, who were mostly small with many pairs of spectacles between them. Everyone involved was badly sunburned, including most of the spectators, and Pasha said he worried for the future of my parasol. There was one engineer who stood out, quite literally, a good head taller than the rest, with fine shoulders under his white jumper. When he came to bat, the fielders took a step back to accommodate his swing and when he bowled, his arm came round in a blur like the lash of a whip. I liked the way his white flannel trousers draped against his legs and backside as he leaned over to pick up the ball. Owing mostly to the tall engineer, the Fusaliers were having a tough time of it, we gathered from Pasha, though they had been expected to win.

The crowd was surly in the heat and some of Fusaliers earned boos when they were put out by the tall engineer. Everyone began to root for the Engineers, even the friends and loved-ones of the Fusaliers. Papa asked who this tall hero of the bookish team was, and Pasha replied his name was “Capt. Brighton.” I strained to see this hero’s face, but his cap was pulled low to shade his eyes, but I could see that his skin had turned quite brown in the sun. His face looked like a cubist painting of a man-all planes and angles in the hard light. That was my first impression of him, not like a man at all really, but some far away image of a god or an idol appearing out of the heat haze.

I could only follow the match indirectly from Papa who relayed all the action that seemed relevant from Pasha who was seated on his other side. I tried to find patterns to the movements, to make sense of it, but could find none, appreciating at least aesthetically this series of completely random occurrences. At length the match ended to applause and even a cheer for Captain Brighton. He waved to the crowd with his cap, and revealed a crop of unruly brown curls. Pasha stepped forward and intercepted Capt. Brighton and the two had a hearty handshake for they had been at school together in England. Pasha was in the Foreign Service like Papa, though he worked for the other side, as he was fond of reminding us.

“Harry, this is Louis Chaki, the Turkish ambassador, and his daughter, Sophia,” Pasha said.
Captain Brighton turned to me and gave a slight bow. The hard angled face was softened with the addition of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, which was constantly, it seemed.

I wanted to tell him that “everyone calls me, Sophie” but I suddenly felt very self conscious and only said “pleased to meet you, Captain,” in a very weak voice.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Chaki,” he said in a confident, but quiet tone. I liked his voice very much. It reminded me of the English radio station that Papa was always listening to after Mama went to bed.

I managed a smile and reached out for his hand and he took it gently, but firmly; his skin was hot and damp, and perhaps owing to the heat, I wanted to pull away but did not, for fear of giving offense. That left us at somewhat of a standoff, him grinning, eyes disappearing to slits behind his wrinkles and me turning purple with embarrassment. Papa came to the rescue at last, handing him his card which forced the Captain to let go of my hand. I was immediately sorry and wanted to return to that firm, gentle grip. Papa invited Captain Brighton and Pasha to tea the next day. The offer was readily accepted.

A party of ladies, sisters of one of the other players, approached and with great familiarity hung round Captain Brighton’s neck.

“Oh! Captain Brighton! Three cheers for Captain Brighton!”

“Allow me to introduce my team-mate George Hartley and his three sisters, “ Captain Brighton said and luckily for him, the eldest Miss Louisa Hartley stepped forward to introduce herself and her younger sisters Annabelle and Amy.

The next day I was quite nervous and excited to see Captain Brighton again. I made mama change her scarf because it was too similar to mine and I fiddled with my hair for an age.
“Honestly, such a fuss over this English cricket player,” my mother teased. She and Papa frequently invited young French officers around to meet me, in hopes that one would whisk me away to be his wife. At 25 I’d been introduced to enough second and third cousins in Paris to fill a regiment, but I was rarely interested and certainly never nervous before. I did my best to hide my agitation by arranging and re-arranging the flowers in the sitting room. Mama shook her head.

“Sophie, it’s no use, Darling. You’ll never make oleander into orchids. And look, half the petals are off this one,” she said, pulling out the offending stem. Finally the bell rang and Mimi announced Mr. Pashawar, Captain Brighton and to my dismay, Miss Hartley. Mama looked triumphant as my face fell. I half-wondered if she had anything to do with the invitation, but this was beyond even her power. I learned later that Papa had been engaged in conversation with the eldest Miss Hartley for some duration and had extended the invitation as a method of breaking free from with her with the least pain.

I enquired after Louisa’s “charming sisters” who were had gone with their brother to see the pyramids.

“You don’t wish to see the Pyramids, Miss Hartley?”

“The last time I visited dear George took me. And as it’s such a hot day and your father’s invitation was so kind, indeed, I felt I’d much better accompany Harry, here and keep him out of trouble,” she said placing a possessive arm over Captain Brighton’s.
Upon hearing his Christian name, Captain Brighton blushed prodigiously, his brown face turning a purplish hue. He smiled tightly, but it was not the easy smile of the cricket pitch and could almost believe that Miss Hartley had overstepped her remit. She released his arm, reluctantly I thought. I could see no sign of either relief or disappointment on the Captain’s face.

When Mama stood up to be introduced to Captain Brighton and Miss Hartley she took the opportunity to kiss Pasha on the cheek in the Parisian manner which so delighted him. In doing so she gave up her seat, stranding Miss Hartley on the wicker sofa next to Papa while Captain Brighton and I sat in club chairs next to the tea table. I looked at Mama, but there was no trace of a wink. Papa looked desperate to be rid of Miss Hartley and to engage Pasha in their endless diplomatic talk. It served him right, though, since he had invited her in the first place.

Mama poured the tea and Miss Hartley raved about Mimi’s scones, which she assured us were the first proper scones shed had since she left England a month ago.

“Not that I won’t be terribly distressed to leave George next week when we sail next week, but to own the truth, the God’s honest truth,” she said, and began in an affected whispering tone loud enough for the whole room to hear, “I don’t half miss Old Blighty.”

It was my turn to smile tightly at this confession. I was relieved to hear that the Miss Hartleys were returning from whence they came. Already my mind had seized on the following week. Another cricket match was scheduled and it would be only natural for another tea to follow, with Pasha as willing chaperone to Capt. Brighton.

“Miss Chaki,” Captain Brighton, said quietly, almost in my ear, “I understand from Pasha, that yesterday was your first-ever cricket match.” It was the same warm, low voice as the day before and again I had the same flush feeling at the loveliness of it, the nearness of it.
I swallowed hard and replied in a voice equally low, “You may call me, Sophie, Captain Brighton,” nearly everyone does.”

“Sophie then,” he said beaming, his eyes disappearing to slits again, “what did you think of our game?”

“Captain Brighton,” I began.

“Harry, please, call me Harry,” he insisted.

“Harry, I thought your game was beautiful to watch, but that international spies might do well to learn its intricacies for a secret code. I watched that game for an hour and could see no discernable pattern, no reason for anything that happened.”

He chuckled a low laugh and took a sip of his tea. I took the opportunity to study him, for I had only dared a few quick looks when he came in, conscious that I might stare altogether if I wasn’t careful. He wore his dress uniform, an impressive red tunic with shiny buttons and a sword. He didn’t look altogether comfortable though as it was a hot day for such a heavy garment and red color didn’t flatter his face as well as white. He’d gotten rather more sun or perhaps the intervening evening had brought out the crimson in his face. He looked rather an orangey-red, rather than the nut brown from the day before.