A few days later, they pass through the Suez Canal. Flat desert on either side, pale brown like the fur of a dead deer he had found one day in Mussoorie. Raw Umber. Raw Sienna. The huge liner dwarfs the flocks of little boats with sharp, triangular sails that dart around the Narkunda as it inches along the strange, dead-straight waterway, passing other big ships: rusty cargo vessels flying flags he has never seen before; coal ships; an Italian cruiser, which has all the Narkunda’s passengers lined up along the rails, ooh-ing and aah-ing and waving at the smart Italian sailors. Another ocean liner glides by, and Tom feels a stab of raw envy: the people on its decks are going to India.

They put in at Port Said. Mummy and Daddy go ashore, but Tom is left on board with the Woodleighs, and has to listen to Mrs Woodleigh muttering darkly to her husband about women – whom she may or may not actually know – doing things she doesn’t approve of while the two of them drink tea and forget to offer him so much as a biscuit. He desperately wants to lean over the rail and listen to all the noise of Egypt, smell all the smells, watch the orange sellers and the luggage carriers and the beggars and soldiers. But instead he sits stiffly beside Mrs Woodleigh, trapped in a cloud of lavender water and the starchy tang of moral superiority. Mummy comes back alone, reporting that Daddy has bumped into someone he knows from the War. The sigh and slight shake of her head with which she relates this is familiar to Tom. But at least she has brought him some presents: a funny cut-out figure of a fat man in a fez; and a toy, four wooden camels on a wooden paddle, that nod their heads if you pull on a piece of dangling string. He is entranced, and thinks about nothing else for the rest of the day. When he wakes up the next morning, they are at sea again. Daddy eats his breakfast kedgeree in frowning silence. His face is red and puffy, and Mummy narrows her eyes whenever she has occasion to glance at him.

Major Rowland, who is revealing himself as something of a gossip, comes over to tell them that they have someone important on board. An American consul, apparently. The Narkunda is making a slight detour, to Piraeus, on this American’s account. ‘Hitching a ride,’ says the major, twitching his eyebrows, perhaps with disapproval, perhaps with admiration. ‘Americans …’

The breakfast party murmur and shake their heads. It is something to do with an awful happening in Smyrna, Tom hears, though where Smyrna might be is not explained.

Mrs Woodleigh is very upset at what she calls outrages. Mr Forde remembers a visit before the War – ‘Motor cars and department stores, just like Oxford Street,’ he says. All burnt, now. Nothing left at all.