We crossed the river blinking in the sunshine, strangers to the open air, glad to be in a boat on the water. The boatman heaved on his oars with calloused hands, the oars bound with canvas where they worked in the oarlocks. He threaded his way between barges and feluccas, their slanting sails filling with the breeze. James was sitting in the bow behind the boatman, so I couldn’t talk to him. Besides, the noise of Cairo drove all thoughts from my head. The city roared in a way that Alexandria didn’t: the traffic was louder, the squares more bustling, the grand buildings more broad-shouldered and imposing. They called Cairo umm ad-dunya, mother of the world, but these days the city seemed more like a man to me, a bumptious, hurrying fellow in a double-breasted suit, pushing his way through life. Suddenly the stamping blare of a dance band swelled above the roar: a paddle-steamer appeared out of the haze. Our boatman backed away, delivering a long and impious protest as the big boat swept past, the wheel making a wash that rocked us from side to side. Soldiers and airmen waved down at us from the stern. I waved back and so did James. Many of them had bandaged faces, and some of those faces were badly lopsided.

Célia was gazing downriver, away from the boat.

—

“Who’s for a game of croquet?” James said, as he paid the boatman.

Célia looked rather wildly at him.

“Didn’t you play croquet at the English Girls’ College, Célia?” I asked her. “My word. What a gap in your education.”

“You haven’t played before either,” Célia said snootily.

“Yes, but I pick these things up so easily.”

It had been ages since I’d teased my sister.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to let Yvette win,” she said to James. “Otherwise she gets quite unhinged.”

Croquet, we discovered, was a game of the utmost finessing malice. As such, it suited me and Célia very well. Within half an hour we were reduced once more to a pair of snarling teenagers, both our croquet balls whacked, each by the other, out of play into the dust.

“Espèce de coquine,” Célia said to me.

“Scélérate,” I replied. “Vipère.”

James, who had reached the end of the course some time ago, said, “Time for tea,” with a broad grin.

—

Célia did not stay. She couldn’t leave Peter alone any longer. We deposited her, pink and sparkling-eyed from pique, into the boat.

“Well done,” I said, as we went back to the club ground. “I didn’t think anything could take her mind off him.”

“It was a pleasure to play with such worthy and fair-minded opponents.”

We sat down at a rickety iron table and ordered tea. James leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Oh, Peter. What a mess.”

“I hate 109s.”