by Emma Carroll
Her mouth fell open.
‘And you’re Mrs Mendoza,’ he said to her. ‘Or should I say, Mrs Fulbright.’
She nodded, looking worried. ‘That was my first husband’s name, yes.’
‘Are you following all this, Lil?’ Tulip whispered.
I gulped. ‘I think so.’ Though who knew that two families could be so complicated – and complicated together.
Certainly Mum seemed to grasp what was going on, because she’d got her hankie out and was dabbing her eyes.
Grandad laid out the photographs on the floor for us to see. They were all of a blond-haired boy, sixteen in total, one for each year as a child. He’d got them in date order, starting with a baby in knitted booties, then a toddler on a swing. At least half of the pictures showed the boy holding some sort of silver cup or certificate. The last was of a young man in army uniform: Alex.
It was ridiculous. Totally and utterly.
Yet when I glanced at Mum, she was shaking with tears. ‘All these years you’ve been in touch and never told me?’ she cried, staring at Grandad.
‘My dear, I thought it for the best,’ he replied, though he looked very unsure about it.
Dad kissed the top of Mum’s head, telling her it would all be all right. Alex – Tulip’s brother Alex – looked the most confused of any of us.
‘Well,’ he said, running a hand through his floppy hair. ‘This is rather a surprise.’
‘But you told me your baby was called Ezra,’ I said to Mum.
‘He was, Lil,’ Mrs Mendoza answered for her. ‘He still is. But we call him by his middle name – don’t ask me why, it’s always been that way.’
I felt dizzy. Ever since Mum had told me the secret, I’d been imagining where my brother might now be, and this past week or more he’d been right under my nose. It was really too bizarre to be true. But then, come to think of it, so was a pharaoh’s curse and a three-thousand-year-old heart wrapped up in a jar. ‘Ezra Alexander,’ I said, though I couldn’t begin to think what his surname might be. ‘Gosh … I mean … I’m not sure how to say this, but do you mind being my brother?’
Alex puffed out his cheeks, shook his head, then smiled. ‘Actually, Lil, I’ve been meaning to thank you for the glass of lemonade. You were kind to me that day when you didn’t even know me. So I couldn’t wish for a better, braver sister.’
Tulip grinned. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’
Afterwards Tulip said I’d gone a very funny shade of grey, so I suppose it was the shock. And I was happy, I really really was, though happiness that huge takes a bit of getting used to.
*
But I did get used to it. Our little family suddenly felt stronger and bigger, not just with the addition of Alex, but the Mendozas too. And as I got to know Alex, it helped me understand Dad more and more. There was no denying how delighted he was to find his son, yet I also came to know the signs that showed he loved me just as much. All the pushing, the university talk, it was about wanting me to have the same opportunities, the same chances as any boy would have.
‘When men try to change the world it ends up with fighting,’ he said to me one day when we were on our own making supper. ‘Girls like you and Tulip, you’re the future. You’ll use your brains to get things done.’
It changed the way I saw St Kilda’s. So did the fact that Tulip now came to school, and Millicent Thorpe gave us both a wide berth, which made me wonder if Mrs Emerson-Jones had actually listened the day she birched me. Though nothing – and I mean, nothing – could ever make me like the stupid St Kilda’s felt hat.
Alex, meanwhile, went back to living with the Mendozas, but came to us for his roast lunch every Sunday. Grandad would come along too, and Dad actually didn’t mind. The arrival of Alex had healed their rift, which I suspected had, all along, been to do with the baby they’d given away. Perhaps if Grandad had been here and not in Egypt at the time, things would’ve worked out differently. We’d never know.
It was funny seeing us all together, squashed in our little kitchen. Alex, whose good looks I’d assumed came from Mrs Mendoza, was in fact a dead ringer for Dad. His blue eyes were the same shade as Mum’s, and Grandad’s, though Alex swore he looked just like me. I’d never thought of myself as this-haired or that-eyed, or whether I was half presentable in the face department, but even I knew that being likened to Alex wasn’t going to be bad news, by anyone’s stretch.
And when my parents sat in their chairs each night by the fire, they looked different too. Like a weight had lifted, or a window had opened. They looked happier than they’d ever done.
*
It was at our kitchen table, a few months later, that I heard the latest report from Egypt.
‘That poor man,’ Mum muttered from behind the newspaper.
I assumed she meant Mr Carter, who’d made the headlines again recently when a bust of Tutankhamun was found hidden, all boxed ready as if someone was planning to ship it out of the country. He faced suspicion, it seemed, at every turn.
‘Don’t feel sorry for Mr Carter,’ I said, finishing the last of my toast and getting up from the table. These days I walked the last bit of the route to school with Tulip, and didn’t want to be late.
‘It’s not him this time, love.’ Mum showed me the headline:
‘PHARAOH’S CURSE CLAIMS CARNARVON.’
Underneath, I read the shocking news of Lord Carnarvon’s death in Cairo. In weakened health anyway due to the stresses of the dig, he’d cut open a mosquito bite on his face whilst shaving. The bite got infected, and he’d died of a fever a couple of weeks later. It was a sad end to his big, expensive dreams. And strange how the bite sounded rather like the one Lysandra mentioned on Kyky’s face.
In the news piece, much was made of the curse, and how random people – reporters, writers, an actress – had predicted Lord Carnarvon’s death in the weeks beforehand. All because he’d disturbed a pharaoh’s rest.
For most readers, it was probably a silly, sensational twist to a rather tragic story. But it sent a little warning shiver across my skin. Grandad, I supposed, might’ve got better anyway, though it wasn’t a risk I’d ever wanted to take. We’d been right to fear the curse.
*
One Saturday, when life had settled into its new rhythms, I went to the British Museum with Tulip and Oz. It was a fine sunny day, so we decided on a picnic lunch. Oz, I noted, was wearing an enormous overcoat.
‘It’s so cold today,’ he’d said, dramatically rubbing his arms.
It really wasn’t. It was another of Oz’s quirks, and I’d grown used to them by now. We were meeting Alex, who’d recently got work in the Egyptian Rooms writing up Professor Hanawati’s research findings. Since the professor’s death, the museum had acquired most of his papers, including notes that documented his finds, though we were glad to know there was no mention of an Anubis-headed jar.
Waiting for Alex’s lunch break to start, we strolled through the Egyptian Rooms. As ever, I felt at home here, and was glad that such places existed so we could learn about the world, and the people who’d lived in it. The gold breastplates, the clay pots, the mummified pets, all had stories that we could only guess at. That was part of the mystery. So were the things we’d never dug up, never seen. We didn’t have to understand everything, at all costs.
There was plenty of our own strories we still didn’t know. Like why Maya chose for the light to flood Kyky’s tomb on that particular day. Or why Pepe had named his camels after a movie star. Or what was going on in Alex’s mind when he went to America after the war instead of coming home. Even things like why the Washington Post never chased Mrs Mendoza for her travel expenses incurred on a trip for four to Luxor.
As Grandad himself would say, some things were best left alone.
Mr Carter didn’t agree. In the Valley of the Kings, he’d now started emptying King Tutankamen’s tomb in earnest. But after Lord Carnarvon’s death his relationships with the Egyptians, already tense, got even trickie
r. Or maybe it was the curse having its final say.
The story, though, still captured people’s imagination worldwide. The Times, its exclusive deal done, published pictures of treasures being carried out into daylight, and accounts of all the gold to come. Everyone knew about it. Talked about it. The Egyptian Rooms were busy like never before.
To me, it was still an intriguing tale. But now I was aware of a different side to it, it’d lost some of its shine. Knowing Kyky, Lysandra and Maya were at rest – that to me was the real story, and it was worth more than gold.
*
When Alex finally appeared for his lunch break, sandwich packet in hand, we agreed to go to Russell Square, where we hoped the grass would be dry enough to sit on. What’s more, between us, we had a brilliant selection of sandwiches and cake – so tasty that even Oz couldn’t resist a nibble. The reason for his huge overcoat also became clear when it started moving of its own accord.
I stopped chewing. ‘I say, Oz, you haven’t brought the cat along, have you?’
Nefertiti’s head appeared by way of reply. We all pretended to be shocked, but the two had become pretty inseparable since that day in Grandad’s front parlour. Oz had been going there regularly for tuition, which suited such a pair of history buffs very well indeed.
‘Your grandad didn’t mind,’ Oz said. ‘And Nefertiti certainly didn’t.’
The picnic was soon gone, but the afternoon stretched before us, warm and lazy. Alex was the first to start gathering his things.
‘Lunch hour’s over. I’d better get back.’
‘Stay another five minutes,’ I pleaded.
‘Yes, do,’ agreed Tulip. ‘It’s too nice to be inside.’
Oz nodded. Nefertiti miaowed.
Alex grinned: ‘All right. Five minutes it is.’
It’d taken a long, dusty journey to get to this moment. Sometimes, even now, I just had to pinch myself. If the ancient Egyptians were right, and this life was our practice run for the next, then that was fine with me. My heart was here, in its rightful place.
So we sat – friends, brothers, sisters and a Siamese cat – for a little longer, all together, with our faces turned to the sun.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
‘Tutankhamun’ is a name so famous it’s tricky to do it justice. So much has been written about him, so many interpretations made as to who he was and how he met his fate. Even as I type, new theories about possible undiscovered chambers in his tomb are emerging. It’s a story that keeps on fascinating us.
As a writer of historical fiction, I feel it’s important to clarify that only some of what I’ve included in my story is documented fact. Tutankhamun’s tomb was discovered by Howard Carter in late November 1922. Lord Carnarvon, Carter’s patron, had agreed to fund one last dig, but died of an infected mosquito bite the following April before most of the tomb’s contents were fully documented. His death fuelled rumours of a curse, which only made the Tutankhamun story more intriguing and alluring.
The timing of the tomb’s discovery was extremely sensitive: Egypt had become an independent country in early 1922, yet British and American archaeologists and collectors were soon jostling for a claim on Tutankhamun’s treasure. Howard Carter – stubborn, clever, determined – was known to be a difficult man. His relationship with the Egyptian authorities was strained, to say the least, and worsened after Lord Carnarvon’s death.
Much of what is said about Tutankhamun and his tomb depends on whose accounts you read. Over the years, the pharaoh’s mummy has been unwrapped, X-rayed, scanned. How exactly he died is still up for debate. Some say it was a chariot crash, others suggest he was murdered in a struggle for power. Evidence shows he had an injury to his head and leg. Very unusually for Egyptian burial rites, his heart had been removed. Tests also found him to have various strains of malaria.
This is where the fiction part of my story comes into play. As far as I know, Tutankhamen’s missing heart has never been found, nor has an account of his last days as king. For pace, I have condensed down the events of November 1922. My Howard Carter is brash and rather untrustworthy. As far as I know, no children were present at the first ‘opening’ of the tomb. The time it took to travel across Europe to Luxor is based on accounts from the day and estimations.
My fictional narrator Lil takes her name from the very real Ella Lily Kaye, whose mum bid for her to be a named character in my next book, during the Authors For Grenfell charity auction last year. I hope my Lil lives up to her namesake.
Emma Carroll
May 2018
Q & A WITH EMMA CARROLL
Why did you decide to write a story about Ancient Egypt?
I’ve always been fascinated by Egyptology – the rituals, the religions, the way people lived their everyday lives. Until Howard Carter unearthed his tomb in 1922, Tutankhamun was considered a relatively minor pharaoh. Yet as the world struggled to recover from World War 1, Tutankhamun’s story brought much-needed excitement and glamour, and captured the public’s imagination in unprecedented ways. It was this – why people were so interested in the discovery of a long-dead young man – that intrigued me most of all.
How much research did you do?
I read books on Howard Carter, watched documentaries, trawled internet sites. In 1994, when I’d finished uni, I went backpacking through Egypt. Some of the details in the book are taken from my own experiences. I did enough research to create – I hope – a believable world: things like clothes, food, living conditions, expectations, attitudes. Yet the story always comes first.
Many have dubbed you ‘The Queen of Historical Fiction’. What is it that draws you to writing historical fiction?
I’m a massive fan of reading historical fiction, so that definitely influences what I write. For me, it’s the world-building, the intriguing little customs, sayings, bits of social history that feel both familiar and strange, which make it such a great genre to write. I’d imagine it’s similar to writing fantasy, only with more corsets and candlelight.
Who or what inspired the character of Lil?
Lil is named after Ella Lily Kaye, whose mum bid on the Authors For Grenfell charity auction for her daughter’s name to feature in my next book. The character herself is my own creation. Lil’s a girl very much of the era – on one hand she clings to the past and what she knows, but on the other hand, she’s dying to face the new challenges that come her way.
How did you decide on the title of the book? Do you usually start with a title or does it come later in the process?
Originally the story was called ‘The Lost Boy’, which came to me very early in the writing process, as my titles tend to do. But we then realised quite a few other books had this same title, so I came up with the alternative.
The story has a feminist message – how important was this to the era?
Very. World War 1 meant women had to step into men’s roles, often doing their jobs, managing households, money, etc. By the time the war ended, women had proved themselves as capable as men in all sorts of ways. In 1918, women over thirty years of age with property were able to vote. It was a step in the right direction, yet only accounted for 40 per cent of the female population. If you were young and poor, like Lil and her mum, your voice still wasn’t heard.
Can you sum up the main themes of the book and how you chose these?
Recovery, secrets, putting right past wrongs, friendship, fitting in, having courage to swim against the tide. I wasn’t aware of ‘choosing’ the book’s themes. They grew with each draft of the story.
THINGS TO TALK ABOUT
Do you think Lil was right to open the package?
Lil is sent to an all girls school. What do you think about this?
Mrs Mendoza says the job of reporting on the discovery is ‘a man’s job’. Do you agree?
Lil’s Grandad believes that the jar is cursed. Do you believe that items can be cursed? What makes you reach your conclusion?
‘It’s not right, all this digging up the dead t
o make the living feel better.’ Do you agree or disagree with this statement? Why?
Lil follows her parents to see where they are going. Do you think this is ever OK?
Lil is allowed to take time off school to go to Egypt. Do you think there are circumstances where it’s fine for children to be off school?
Who do the ‘finds’ belong to? Egypt or Howard Carter?
Lil’s father says that men change the world with fighting, where women use their brains. Do you think this is a fair statement? Why?
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This story would still be half-finished on my laptop if it wasn’t for the support, prodding and general cheerleading of the wonderful team at Faber Children’s. Particular thanks go to my editor Alice Swan for knowing when to push and when to listen. Special mentions to my fantastic publicist Hannah Love, to Sarah Lough for clever, inventive marketing, and to the linchpin in everything, project editor Natasha Brown.
Faber is full of brilliant people – Emma Eldridge in design, Lizzie Bishop in rights, Kellie, Mel, Sam, John and the sales team. Julian De Narvaez continues to surpass himself with his cover illustrations. I am so lucky to work with you all.
I’m massively grateful to booksellers and librarians whose skill ensures books find the right readers. To bloggers, journalists, reviewers, you make such a difference to a book’s exposure: thank you.
Huge thanks to the teaching community who’ve embraced reading with such enthusiasm. Your schools should be so proud of you. It’s been a real joy to chat via Twitter and say hello to your students!
To Maz, Kiran, Maya, Perdita, Abi, Ross, Robin, Peter, James, and too many other fellow writers to mention. We look out for each other, and I love that.