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though,’ laughed Grace. ‘Pansy – love – we’re only teasing. We didn’t mean it.’
    We all sat down on her bed. The springs creaked.
    ‘Come on, Pansy, cheer up.’
    ‘It’s not that bad.’
    ‘Worse things happen at sea.’
    Pansy gave a sniff that turned into a weak giggle. ‘My father says that.’
    ‘Sensible man, the Rev,’ declared Grace. ‘The trouble with us is that we don’t get about enough. How long have we been here – a week? All we’ve had is a trip to the Museum of Hygiene and that’s given me nightmares every night – I never knew men’s bits and pieces could look like that! We haven’t so much as toured a Pyramid yet. Honestly, you’d think we were in a nunnery. It’s time we made up for lost time. So get your glad rags on, girls…’
    She opened her cupboard and whisked out the kind of evening dress I’d always longed for and would never have been allowed at home – slinky, bias cut, slithery – of the four of us, only Grace could possibly have worn it (or afforded it).
    ‘I don’t believe it,’ gasped Vee. ‘Are you telling us you brought that all the way from England in your kitbag?’
    ‘Why not? I hear one of the MTC girls has arrived with a wedding dress, veil and all. Now all she needs is a man!’ Grace held the dress against herself and twirled round. ‘I haven’t been dancing in ages. We deserve some fun.’
    Pansy had sat up and was beginning to look interested. ‘But we’re only allowed out in uniform,’ she protested weakly.
    ‘Good heavens! What difference does that make?’ exclaimed Grace, foxtrotting down the length of the hut, oyster-coloured satin swirling around khaki cotton stockings. ‘We owe it to the boys to look our best. Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
    *   *   *
    Giggling, suspiciously bulky, with uniform tunics and skirts dragged over our frocks and caps perched on freshly washed hair, we went off to catch a tram into Cairo. Two stopped for us, but we waved them on. The inside of each was packed and passengers hung on to every possible outside projection, as it lurched and clanged along. The conductor swung along the outside to collect his fares. Then we were lucky enough to hitch a lift into town with a cheerful New Zealander who was only too pleased to give us a leg up into the back of the Bedford.
    The road to Cairo led through the mausoleums and tombs of the City of the Dead. Here whole communities, caretakers and their children and their children’s children, lived in tombs like miniature houses, the spare rooms of the dead, without water, without sanitation. Families took up residence for forty days to ease their loved one into the spirit world with food and drink and worldly goods. Naked children played in the dust. Disturbed by the draught of our passing, flies rose in a hideous swarm, a black, crawling blanket, from the carcass of a dog. Vee was looking over the other side of the truck. She didn’t see the bloated horror underneath.
    Pansy saw and didn’t look away. Her shoulders heaved. ‘“And the houses of the Egyptians shall be full of swarms of flies and also the ground whereon they are,”’ she whispered.
    ‘What’s that?’ shouted our driver.
    We’d picked up a bit of speed when Vee, sitting up in front, screamed and grabbed the driver’s arm. ‘Stop! Stop! There’s a child…’
    The emergency stop threw us into a huddle of arms and legs. Suddenly, there were children everywhere, swarming up over the sides of the vehicle, grabbing everything they could lay their hands on. Spare wheel, tool kit, two jerry cans of fuel and one of water, tow rope – all gone in less than the time it took to sort ourselves out. The body in the road disappeared, too.
    ‘Shit,’ the Kiwi shouted, banging his hands on the steering wheel. ‘I should’ve known. They’ll cut off my balls and use them for conkers! Begging your pardon, ladies. Next time I’ll run over the little bugger, no questions asked.’
    The