‘It’ll all come out right in the morning, you’ll see,’ Isis said. ‘We can all keep warm together.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Victor gloomed.
‘See the dog star?’ Osi said, and his pale forefinger pointed upwards. ‘That’s Sopdet. I can’t see …’ He got up and stumbled and stood head back, muttering away about Sah and Soped and other soapy-sounding names. ‘In one story, let me see, 5th century I believe, Isis calls herself Sopdet and states that she will follow Osiris to heaven.’
‘So Sopdet is my star?’ Unexpectedly, Isis felt her interest snagged. ‘Which one?’
He pointed and tried to describe, and she strained to follow, but it was impossible and the prickling of the brimming sky caused her eyes to smart.
‘Between the First Intermediate Period and the Late Middle Kingdom, coffin lids were commonly decorated with star clocks or calendars …’ Osi’s voice had changed from that of a boy to a machine with Arthur’s intonation which could, and probably would, go on and on for the rest of the night. ‘Flawed by their failure to take account that their measured year was six hours short …’
‘At least someone’s happy,’ Victor whispered, his breath a hot tickle in her ear.
Isis let her eyes close. Secretly, she let tears leak between her lashes for all Mary’s wasted ironing and smoothing, for the ivory soap and the humbugs and the fresh clean dress and stockings. But there was no value in dwelling on it, as Mary herself would say.
Osi’s voice droned on and on until eventually Victor was snoring. She rested her head against his arm and may, despite everything, have managed to sleep till dawn – except that she was suddenly hurled from sleep by the flail and scream of Victor, who stood and staggered about, hands over his head as if to protect himself from gunfire. He was like an animal and Isis, who hardly knew where she was, caught at his arm and shouted to try and wake him, but he was dangerous to be close to.
She and Osi crammed tight into the compartment where the trunk was not, their bodies going into their twin shape, her softness against his hard edges, and together they heard Victor vomit and maybe jump, maybe fall off the lorry, and the opening of the door and the voice of Haru, and a sound like a slap to the face, maybe, and terrible sobbing that seemed to come from somewhere deep, not something as insubstantial as a person, but more like a cave, or a crack in the ground and then, eventually, it was quiet again though Victor didn’t return.
Crammed in their compartment, Isis could feel Osi’s heart, slower than her own, beating so closely it seemed to be pumping her blood, and as they fell asleep she went into the wet squirm of her pre-birth dream where she was half of one whole with two heartbeats once again.
13
THE MORNING AIR was cool and clear and there was quite a breeze. Osi was already sitting up squinting at a book. Isis uncramped herself and stood stretching and yawning, watching the sway and struggle of palms fronds on some distant trees.
‘Morning.’ Victor’s voice made her jump. He grinned up at her over the side of the lorry. His eyes were squinty pink and his chin peppered with grey and gingery bristles.
‘You had a nightmare,’ she said. Victor acknowledged the truth of this with a nod. ‘All better in the light of day,’ she said and ran her tongue round her teeth, furry from lack of a toothbrush. She picked the sharp grit of sleep from the corner of her eyes. Osi’s hair was standing up on end where he had rubbed his hands through it and the seat of his trousers was filthy, but so was her own dress filthy, her hair stiff with sweat and sand.
‘We must look like a gang of bally tinkers,’ she said, and almost gaily, for they must keep their spirits up. ‘Oh for a good old wash and brush up!’
Haru appeared beside Victor looking miraculously fresh, the whites of his eyes clear between his glossy lashes.
‘We must apologise for the theft of your trunk,’ Haru said, bowing his head a fraction. ‘We can only suppose it happened when we were in the café yesterday.’
‘That’s all right,’ Isis said in a small voice.
‘And I offer apologies for my bad temper of yesterday. You see Mr and Mrs Spurling promised me payment and now I must borrow money to get you there.’
‘Victor’s got money,’ Isis said.
‘I’m hardly rolling in it, Icy,’ Victor said. ‘But my funds will cover hotels and whatnot. You get us there safely, Haru, and I guarantee that Mrs Spurling will pay you double.’
‘But the lorry is no good for a big drive, I think.’
‘Then you must hire another.’
‘That will cost too much.’
‘The train?’
‘Too much and we are far from the station now.’
Akil’s disembodied voice rattled round from the front of the truck.
‘My uncle suggests we take a boat,’ said Haru.
‘That would be fun!’ Isis said. ‘After all, it’s what was planned. Would you like that, Osi?’
But Osi was staring into the distance. Looking in the direction of his gaze she saw that he was absorbed with watching a big ragged bird, a vulture or an eagle, tearing at something with its bloody beak.
The lorry coughed clouds of black exhaust as Haru cranked the engine, but it did start. Isis took a sip of the remaining water and passed the bottle to Osi, watching the bulge in his thin, grubby throat as he swallowed it down. They all resumed their positions for the drive, and in only an hour or so, Haru had delivered them to a small, bustling place on the banks of the Nile. Immediately they stepped out of the lorry and their white faces were seen; pedlars and beggars surrounded Victor and the children in a frightening jostle, but Haru and Akil sent them packing with waving arms and a fierce volley of invective.
Victor was keen to do business with an English speaker, rather than get himself fleeced, and the only suitable available person was an elderly American lady, quite miniature, wearing trousers and a striped boy’s shirt. Her hair was cropped grey and her face shrunken, crinkled like a monkey’s. Her name was Miss Rhoda Vandercamp, she told them, and her dhow was called Marguerite, after her dear, dead friend.
Haru’s plan had been for them to hire the boat from her and for him to sail it, but that she would not allow.
‘I’m the Captain of this tub,’ she said, ‘and I don’t let her out of my sight.’ Haru gave up, muttering something that sounded very rude and spitting in the dirt. Rhoda caught Isis’ eye and smiled and Isis moved towards her.
‘I’m Isis,’ she said, ‘and this is Osi, and this is Uncle Victor.’
Rhoda choked. ‘Isis? And Osi – don’t tell me – Osiris?!’
There was silence for a moment and Isis caught a smile flicker across Haru’s face before he turned away.
‘We can’t help it,’ she said hotly.
‘Poor kids,’ Rhoda said.
‘If you’re going to be so rude –’ Isis began, but Victor cut across her.
‘Do you know the Spurlings, by any chance?’ he asked.
‘Oh yeah, I know the Spurlings,’ Rhoda said. She was eyeing the twins with an amused twist to her face. ‘That adds up. And isn’t the little guy the goddam image of the mom?’
Osi stared at her blankly.
‘Are you friends then?’ Isis asked.
Rhoda’s face was asymmetrical, so that the wry expression was permanent. Perhaps she’d had an accident? Her small eyes were like currants pressed into a leathery bun.
‘I know of them,’ she repeated. ‘Known of them for years. They’re quite a legend, your folks.’ The way she said it was not entirely nice, Isis was afraid, but perhaps the peculiarly squinty face just made it seem so.
For the journey, Haru bought flat discs of bread, white cheese and dates. Sitting with the sun glinting off the river and the breeze lifting her hair, Isis rolled dates and cheese in the bread and crammed her mouth and it was the most heavenly breakfast she had ever had. These dates had not the withered, dusty texture of the pantry ones, but a crisp, fresh sugaryness. There was clean water to drink, and
if you are thirsty, that’s the best thing, as Mary always maintained.
By now the sun was high in the sky and the thin sharp air of morning had turned thick and hot so that it was refreshing to be out on the river, where there was breeze enough for the Marguerite to skim.
Isis silently forgave Rhoda for her scorn, after all they were stupid names for English children, and it was a relief and a comfort to be in female company. Rhoda seemed all made up of strings and gristle, but was strong and agile, not like an old person at all, nothing like Mrs Grievous, and it cheered Isis to know that there were other women who wore trousers and no lipstick and who talked and acted and smoked like men. Perhaps Evelyn wasn’t such an oddity as she had supposed; perhaps in Egypt that was de rigueur? She took a surreptitious sniff of Rhoda’s arm when it was near her nose and the female smokiness caused a fierce dart of longing for her mother.
Marguerite was an elegant dhow, the tall sail scarlet as a runner-bean flower. There were places to sit at both ends and a covered section in the middle with canvas screens you could pull across. As soon as they cast off, Victor went under the cover and slumped down as if he’d been shot, while Osi hung over the side gawping. Haru and Akil didn’t help at all, but sat and smoked and spat, grumbling and eyeing Rhoda coldly, but she clearly didn’t give a fig and looked back at them with an equal measure of contempt. Isis stayed at the back of the boat with Rhoda who was navigating deftly between other boats – dhows, fellucas, rafts and the small crowded steamers run by the Cooks’ holiday people. Rhoda said there was a craze for Egypt since the war and raised an eyebrow comically as if that was stupid.
It was cool on the river, the smooth green glide so much nearer and more intimate than the sea had been. The water bucked and writhed beneath the boards at first, but as they progressed they settled into an even slide. The rising smell of the water reminded Isis of ink, when you put your nose to the neck of the bottle – a dark, swilling breath of unborn words.
‘In what way are they a legend?’ she asked Rhoda.
‘Huh?’
‘Our parents.’
Rhoda was smoking a thin black cigarette, and she let smoke plume from her mouth before she spoke, in the very manner Evelyn did, as if the smoke was part of the process of the thought itself.
‘I only meant that they’re well known.’
‘For what?’ Isis said.
‘For their enthusiasm.’
Isis frowned, not quite liking the way she said the word, as if there was something wrong with enthusiasm.
‘Once they’ve found Herihor–’ Isis began, but Rhoda choked on her smoke.
Politely, Isis turned away to let her recover herself. ‘They really will be a legend then,’ she said.
Rhoda threw the end of her cigarette into the water. ‘There are all types of folks scrabbling to dig up the tombs these days. There’s crooks and looters and treasure hunters, there’s scholars, there’s millionaires with nothing better to do with their money.’ She paused, lifted her hand to shade her eyes. ‘And then there’s fools.’
Isis frowned at the glitter of the river. A pink flower floated past, and then a playing card and then a sandal. Perhaps someone’s boat had gone belly up.
‘And which are they?’ she asked quietly.
Rhoda lit another cigarette, her thin lips crinkling into a starburst. ‘It’s all changed,’ she said, ‘since Independence, it’s not so easy for amateurs and,’ she lowered her voice, ‘they resent the British coming in and taking all the loot, their heritage,’ she corrected herself. ‘And if you want my opinion, they’ve got a point.’
Isis blinked. It had never occurred to her that it might be wrong to take treasure out of the tombs and out of Egypt.
‘It’s more dangerous lately,’ Rhoda continued. ‘People like your folks, well, tell the truth, they’re out of their depth. Carter has the right idea,’ she added. ‘Bona fide foreman for his workers, funding from some nob – but even then there’s –’
‘Mummy,’ Isis surprised herself with the word, ‘is funding it all herself, from her estate.’ More playing cards, a ribbon and what might have been a glove swept by. ‘Look at all the things,’ she added.
Rhoda nodded.
‘Which are they?’ Isis said again.
‘Well,’ Rhoda thought for a moment. ‘They’re not the greatest scholars, but they sure do make up for it in enthusiasm.’
‘You said that. What’s wrong with that? Mr Carter must be enthusiastic too.’
Rhoda lifted her hand to greet a white robed man on the bank. He shouted something in Arabic and she replied, her voice harsh and rattly and they both laughed.
‘And they do nothing but study and read and search – they must be quite good scholars,’ Isis said hotly. ‘I should say they’re very good scholars indeed. I shouldn’t like to call them amateurs. ‘
A Chinese fan went past, flapping on the ripples like the wing of a bird.
‘Well, like I say, there are some unscrupulous folks about,’ Rhoda said. ‘Folks that might take advantage of enthusiasm.’ She steered the dhow past an island lush with trees and flowers, lit another cigarette and seemed disinclined to say any more.
Crossly, Isis moved away to where Osi was pestering Haru with unwanted information about the Temple at Abydos, which they had recently passed. He’d wanted to stop and look, but Rhoda said she wasn’t in the business of doing a guided tour; she simply wanted to get there and back.
Isis put her head against the wooden side of the boat and gazed at the banks of the Nile as they slid past like a biblical frieze: palm trees, long horned oxen tilling the soil, figures in robes with baskets on their heads, goats and sheep and corn, ibis, and sometimes a bird that looked like an eagle, swooping low. She watched a group of women kneeling by the banks wringing out clothes and spreading them on rocks to dry as their children played at the river’s edge. Isis waved and one of the women lifted her hand and her child jumped and squealed and splashed excitedly.
She was still smarting with Rhoda’s implication. Or perhaps it was more than an implication? But no, she surely couldn’t mean that Evelyn and Arthur were fools? It was only the odd twist of her face that carried through into her voice that made it seem so. Rhoda was scornful of everyone, after all: the Cooks’ tour people, Haru and Akil, probably Osi and Isis too. It was just her way. But she was right about one thing. It did seem wrong that foreigners could come into a country and take away its treasure. It was a fresh idea.
The worrying began to make her head ache and to distract herself she listened to Haru trying to tell Osi about Queen Hatshepsut, and Osi spoiling the story by interrupting and contradicting in an infuriatingly superior voice: ‘I think you’ll find …’ until Haru grew quite sick of him and moved off to smoke and spit and mutter with Akil.
Everything will turn out in the wash, she told herself. Look on the bright side. It was lovely to watch the wake unfurling like watery ferns behind them, and the other craft sailing past. Sometimes a small boat would come close, trying to sell fish or trinkets, but Haru would send them off with a shout and a threatening jerk of his hand. And once there was a legless child hand-paddling a tiny raft and begging for baksheesh. Isis’ heart hurt to see him, but all she could do was look away, just like the others.
As the day wore on, the heat pressed down and Osi’s nose turned a nasty crimson. They should have sun hats. Victor should have thought of it. He wasn’t really looking after them at all. He had his own Panama that he kept in a tube like a fat cigar, which popped into shape when he released it, and Isis had been looking forward to receiving one the same. Now the sun beat down and she could feel her skin burning, her hair seeming to sizzle in its own grease. When she talked and smiled, she could feel the skin of her cheeks pull tight. The sun reflected off the water like daggers in her eyes. She did not feel quite well, she realised – perhaps a touch of sunstroke.
She lay down on one of the wooden benches with her handkerchief over her face. She could see dots of ligh
t coming through the weave and it made her think of the neat rows of holes in the Cribbage board and of Mrs Grievous saying goodbye to her son, and fancy a mother going all that way for that reason, while Evelyn and Arthur had not even bothered coming to meet them at all.
The voyage took three days. At night Rhoda slept aboard the Marguerite, Akil and Haru went goodness knows where and Victor found rooms for himself and the children, poor rooms that scuttled with scorpions and black beetles, where bed was a shelf and a sheet, sometimes not even a pillow. They grew used to kneeling on the floor to wash their hands and faces with cold water from a bowl and eating in darkened rooms or sitting outside in the cool of the evening when bats and great moths swooped and looped in the air around them. In the garden of one such place, Isis was entranced to see a swarm of fireflies rise from a shrub, so that it seemed the bush itself was rising and flickering, and settling back elsewhere.
As they neared Luxor, they stopped at a place run by American friends of Rhoda’s, who sold ice-cream which was heavenly, though as she ate her dish of creamy yellow, Isis was made uncomfortable by the dark eyes of the other customers watching her in the too-tight frock where her chest itched and grew, looking at her legs where the skirt was rather too short. She felt grubby and cramped and childish, but not in a pretty, pettable way any more. It was as if the hot sun and the fertility that oozed out into the desert from the Nile was forcing her, like a hothouse flower, to swell till she did not fit herself.
14
‘GOOD LUCK, KIDS,’ Rhoda said when they had disembarked at Luxor. ‘You’re sure gonna need it.’ She pinched her cigarette between her lips as she reached forward to tie a rope around a stanchion. Isis watched her clever monkey fingers tighten and secure the knot.
‘Why don’t you come and have a cup of tea with us?’ she said, finding herself unwilling to say goodbye. ‘My folks will certainly want to thank you.’
Little Egypt Page 11