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By the time we reentered the city, the sun had set and it was noticeably cooler. Rosie’s misery lessened and my arms were tired. I decided she’d do fine on the floor and leaned over to set her down. That was the only reason the first rock missed my head.
Churchill lurched to his left, quickly rolling up the window. More rocks thumped and banged against the car. An instant later, the mob was on us physically, beating on the to
“Stay down!” Thompson yelled over his shoulder.
I heard a whine of fear; I honestly ca
“Get out on your side!” I heard Thompson command, but I was too terrified to move and, in any case, he meant Davis. The light brightened briefly as both front doors flew open, then slammed shut. Roaring, Thompson plunged into the mob, punching any face that came within reach. Davis had a big iron wrench in his hands and brought it down repeatedly. Howls joined the screams and chanting.
Churchill, pink and cheerful, had capped his pen and remained upright in the center of the backseat, watching the mayhem like a spectator at a prizefight. “Seems Lawrence was right,” he observed. “They respect hand-to-hand combat, he said, but don’t pull a pistol on them.”
A rock bounced off the seat, onto the floor. I strangled a scream. Churchill gazed down at me benignly.
“Dachshunds have extraordinarily expressive eyes,” he remarked. “It’s the whites around the iris, I think. Most dogs have no sclera, but dachshunds are possessed of an almost human eye. This is the great appeal of the breed— Thompson! Behind you!”
I looked up. Just beyond the window, I saw a wooden club lifted overhead. Warned, Thompson ducked, and I lost sight of him after his shoulder drove his fist into the belly of the man who’d meant to brain him.
“So, Miss Shanklin!” Churchill exclaimed. “Whom did you vote for?” He might have been speaking Chinese for all the sense this question made to me. “In the presidential election,” he prompted. “Were you taken in by the attractive Mr. Harding, as our Miss Bell suspected?”
A brick shattered the windshield. “Debs!” I screamed. “I voted for Eugene Debs!”
“Debs! Really, Shanklin, you surprise me. I took you for a sensible woman. You should have voted for Cox! He was a better man than Harding in every way, and he stood a chance of wi
“I did no such thing!”
“Yes, you did. It was a foolish choice. A foolish woman’s choice!”
“I am a woman, sir, but not a fool! My choice was just as valid as the next man’s!” I cried, flinching at the dent a truncheon made in the side of the car. “Eugene Debs spoke truth to power!”
“He’s no better than this rabble. He is a radical and a troublemaker who deserved prison.”
“He had every right to speak out against the war and the lies that got us into it. He is a martyr for the Constitution!”
“Hah! He is a Communist and a subversive.”
“He is no such thing! He was for racial equality and workers’ rights. He believed that all men are created equal—even if some of them are women! He believed everyone should have a voice and a vote, even Negroes!”
“Even Arabs like these?”
“Especially Arabs like these! It’s no wonder they’re angry! If powerful people won’t even ask what you want—it’s as if you don’t matter a bit. And that’s not fair, because we all matter the same amount!” I insisted, cringing away from the shrieking, gesticulating men I was defending. “President Wilson was right about that! All nations matter the same amount, even if they aren’t rich and powerful like Great Britain!”
“Piffle.”
“Don’t you ‘piffle’ me!” I said, infuriated. “You ask British airmen what they think, but you don’t ask Egyptians. That’s why they hate you. It’s—it’s like—like oatmeal!” I cried, my voice breaking on the word when a stone thudded onto the back window and came to rest in a spider’s web of crazing. “Oatmeal is a perfectly fine breakfast, but some people just don’t like it. It’s only good ma
Churchill was gri
Assured that Churchill was unharmed, Thompson and Davis conferred with the Egyptian police. Mr. Churchill helped me back up onto the jump seat and leaned over to remove a shard of glass from my shoulder, as though he had noticed a bit of lint there. “How is your dog?” he asked.
Rosie was practically catatonic: trembling and panting, eyes half out of her skull. And those were not the only signs of her distress.
“Oh, my goodness. Oh, I—I’m sorry,” I stammered. “She never— She’s always— Oh, Rosie, you’ve disgraced yourself ! I’m so sorry, Mr. Churchill.”
“Please! Call me Winston.” He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped up the offending material with a flourish. “Quite a common reaction to combat,” he confided, and tossed the linen packet into the street.
Up front, Davis and Thompson cheerfully compared contusions, swapping extravagant stories of earlier brawls they’d enjoyed. As we continued our drive, Winston sat back, thoughtful and removed. I murmured soothingly to Rosie, who buried her head in my lap and shook.
When we arrived at the Semiramis, the car’s battered condition quickly drew a British crowd. Performer that he was, Churchill regaled the assembly with his version of what had happened, making it all seem like a grand day out. Drawn by the excitement, Lawrence appeared at the hotel door. In three quick steps, he was at my side. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low and controlled. “Do you need a doctor?”
“A doctor! Hah! She needs a soapbox! The woman could run for Parliament!” Churchill cried. “Thompson was punching faces and young Davis here was breaking heads with a wrench. And there sat Shanklin: a pillar of moral strength, lecturing me on constitutional law and Arab suffrage!”
“That’s not how it was,” I told Lawrence shakily.
“Battles are always better in the telling,” he said with a wry smile that did not change his eyes. “Do you want to come inside, or would you like to go straight on to your hotel?”
“Back to the hotel, thanks—”
“Nonsense!” Churchill shouted. “She’s been eaten alive by savage Egyptian mosquitoes. No argument, Shanklin! Quinine water is your only hope. Someone get this woman a gin-tonic!”
“It’s not a bad idea,” said Lawrence. “You’re very pale.”
“You should thank her, Lawrence,” Churchill cried. “I’ve decided your friend Feisal can have a kingdom after all. Gertrude! Wilson! Our Miss Shanklin has given me the solution to the election problem in Mesopotamia. Take everything but oatmeal off the menu! They’ll choose what we want them to have.”
For the next few hours, Winston kept my drink topped up during the general merriment he made of our adventure. I was briefly aware that he was eliminating the emptying glass that might have warned me of overindulgence; very soon, it didn’t seem to matter. I rather liked the taste of the gin and tonic, and began to feel quite gay. The terror of the riot was swept aside by conviviality, and everyone was being so nice to me! For the first time in my life I began to understand why people enjoy drinking. Barriers are dissolved. Conversation is easy and un-examined. Nothing you say seems stupid, and everything seems amusing. No wonder gin parties were all the rage back home!