Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction)

by Lesley Glaister

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and find you a carpet for your bender.’

  But we both stood motionless looking at the floor.

  ‘Where is your brother?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, Osi? He’s upstairs.’ I aimed for a gay and carefree smile. ‘We’ll pop up and see him, shall we?’

  Naturally, I didn’t want to alarm Spike with the mention of a possible corpse. Now I had him here, another person, another heart, young and strong, beating in the house, driving round its circulation, I felt braver, I told myself, able to tackle whatever we would find.

  7

  IT WAS A few days before Mr Patey returned, and when he did he brought his toolbox to fix the sticking pantry door, which had been driving Mary demented. Osi was in the kitchen for once, and Mary was grating lemon rind for curd so that the very air made your mouth water. Osi was crouching to examine the neatly packed hammers, chisels, saws, all clean and gleaming in their stout pine box. The pantry door was off its hinges and Mr Patey whistled as he planed the bottom; the smell of wood shavings blending with the scent of lemons. It was warm in the kitchen with fingers of dusty sunlight coming through the window and the stove roaring.

  ‘A cup of tea would go down a treat,’ said Mr Patey. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his blue striped shirt so that you could see the muscles in his arms and the dark hairs that curled against his skin. Isis had never really noticed a person’s arms before, not like that, not the way you could see the glide of the muscles under the skin, and she watched entranced. She would definitely give him the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘When you’ve got that door back on,’ Mary said with a grin and stuck her tongue out at him. ‘And you can stop gawping and fill the kettle,’ she added to Isis. ‘And then you children can run along,’ she added.

  ‘Not children,’ said Isis.

  Obediently, Osi got up from the floor and went upstairs.

  ‘And it’s nice in here,’ Isis added. ‘Anyway, Mr Patey, what did the doctor say about George?’

  ‘His ticker gave out,’ Mary said.

  ‘Not very nice for you kiddies.’ Mr Patey stopped and wiped his brow.

  ‘Good job you turned up,’ Mary said, ‘or I don’t know what we would of done.’

  ‘Turned up like a bad penny,’ said Mr Patey. There was a special sort of fizz in the air between them, smiles like promises. He flicked a glance at Isis and raised his eyebrows at Mary.

  ‘What about bringing in a few apples?’ Mary suggested. ‘And then you can have a scone and lemon curd. I don’t expect you’d like one?’ she said to Mr Patey with a dimple.

  ‘You mean, will I leave you alone,’ Isis said and heard a muffled snort from the coalman as she went to collect a basket from the scullery.

  The Indian summer was going on and on. The sky was a splintery blue between the branches, the apples jaunty amongst the golden leaves. Most of the fruit was too high and so she gathered windfalls, flicking away the tiny yellow slugs that clung to the rosy skins. And then she lugged her haul back to the kitchen window and climbed the bricks. The room looked dim inside and the glass was rippled with condensation so she could not see as clearly as she liked, but Mary had propped the window open at the bottom, so Isis could hear their voices and smell the lemons.

  ‘You know he does for all the widows in the county,’ Mr Patey was saying. ‘Least them that’s under 40-odd and don’t look like a barn door.’

  ‘You can’t think I care about him?’ Mary gave a shrill laugh that didn’t sound like her at all. ‘And he doesn’t “do” for me, Wilf. He’s sweet on me, that’s all, and it oils the wheels with the tab and where’s the harm in that?’ There was quiet for a moment and then a clatter. ‘This is nearly done.’

  ‘There’s a dance in the village, Friday.’

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘Mary. You’re throwing your chances away.’

  ‘Oooh, it’s a bit sharp. Nice, though. Taste.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘Nice? Can’t leave them twins, can I?’

  ‘They’re not babies.’

  ‘No?’

  Isis bristled.

  ‘Remember they’re not yours,’ Mr Patey said and there was silence until Mary said:

  ‘Can you get them warmed jars out?’

  After a shuffle of movement, Mr Patey said, ‘Mmm, that’s tasty, that is.’

  ‘You can take that jar.’ There was quiet and then: ‘We haven’t heard from them for weeks. Not a postcard to the twins, not so much as a penny payment. No nothing. And then there’s his lordship turning up, never any warning, expecting to be fed, and the company he keeps! We might as well be a brothel. And Mr and Mrs, well they might of dropped dead for all we know.’

  ‘Hand in your notice, Mary,’ Mr Patey said. ‘I’ll look after you.’

  Isis held her breath. It went quiet and through the steamy window she saw their two dim shapes blend into one. She jumped off the bricks and made a clatter going through the scullery and by the time she got into the kitchen Mr Patey had his cap on. ‘Well, must be off.’ He popped half a lemon curdy scone in his mouth, lifted his hand to Isis and went off whistling.

  Over the days that followed there was still no letter and the Indian summer ended in a gale that blew the rest of the apples off the tree, along with a slate or two from the roof. Osi retreated more into himself than ever and Mary was cross and snappish. Even Victor hadn’t visited for weeks.

  On Mr Burgess’ day, Isis hung over the gate, shivering in the mean and pesky wind, straining her ears for the sound of his van. She was aware of how pathetic she was, so desperate for some sort of diversion that she yearned for the grocer to come. One day I’ll look back on this and laugh, she thought, and sent her mind into a future of school and friends and beaus and marriage and babies. Into the proper sort of life that surely soon must start.

  At last the van arrived, and she opened the gate and ran beside it back up the drive.

  ‘Any letters?’ she asked Mr Burgess as he emerged from his van. ‘And, by the way, Mary knows all about Mr Patey and he certainly didn’t do for his wives. He’s actually a decent chap,’ she added.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been spreading gossip?’ He straightened himself up with the heavy box and she heard the click of vertebrae.

  ‘But you said –’

  ‘No letter,’ he interrupted. ‘But good news. Have you heard? Is it them?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t know!’ His scribbled cheeks bunched up in a smile and his moustache quivered.

  ‘What? What? What?’ she asked as she followed him round to the kitchen, but he would not answer. Mary was at the sink with her back to them, her whole body jiggling with the vigour of her scrubbing at some stain.

  ‘Mary?’ said Mr Burgess.

  She turned, drying her hands on her apron, but failed to treat the grocer to a smile.

  ‘What news?’ Isis said.

  ‘Leave Mr Burgess alone,’ Mary said wearily. ‘And run along now.’

  ‘But what news?’ Isis pestered. ‘He’s got some good news.’

  Mr Burgess waited for both of them to be riveted to him before he gave an answer. ‘Only a big tomb found in Egypt. Heard it on the wireless.’

  Isis felt her mouth open, stiff and gasping as a fish. For a moment she couldn’t speak. Mary was gaping at Mr Burgess too and he was fairly glowing, as proud to be carrying the news as if he had turned up the tomb himself.

  ‘They’ve never gone and found it?’ Mary said, dimpling with disbelief. ‘Oh my giddy aunt. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Mary!’ Isis grabbed her. ‘Oh! If only we had a wireless. Is there no telegram? What shall we do?’

  Distractedly, Mary squeezed Isis tight before she pushed her away. ‘Are you sure?’ she said.

  ‘How shall we find out?’ Isis c
ouldn’t keep still. There was a surge in her like a pulsing light and she wanted to yell or sing and she needed to move.

  ‘I reckon there’ll be a telegram any minute,’ Mr Burgess said. He gave Isis a poke of toffees. ‘You go out and watch for the boy.’

  Isis took the toffees but pelted upstairs. ‘Osi, Osi!’ she shouted. ‘We think they’ve found it! They’ve found it!’ Her voice would hardly come out loud enough. She hurled herself into the nursery before he could stop her. His hands were yellow with paint from the model he was making.

  ‘Go away,’ he said.

  ‘But they’ve found the tomb.’

  He stared at her. He had paint on his face too and looked grotesque otherwise she would have kissed and hugged him. ‘It’s over!’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The wait.’

  ‘Is it true?’ he said. ‘Who says?’

  ‘Ask Mr Burgess if you don’t believe me!’

  The actuality of Osi and his peculiarities threatened to take the shine off her elation and she ran downstairs, forgetting to avoid the broken step so that her foot went through the tread, ripping the side of her shoe, but it didn’t matter one bit because soon there would be new shoes and the stairs would be mended and life would really start and this was really happening. She ran through the kitchen where Mr Burgess was accepting a cup of tea and outside to hang over the gate, mouth crammed with toffee, awaiting the telegram.

  But two days went past with no news and then Mr Burgess came back, moustache adroop, bearing a newspaper. It seemed it had been a false alarm, nothing to do with Herihor at all; the news was about the Carter fellow – though not even he had actually found his Tutankhamen. Evelyn and Arthur must be mortified, Isis thought. They must be livid.

  The disappointment, after the elation, brought a pall down over Little Egypt, darker than ever before. Mary moved slowly through it looking crushed, and Isis tried and tried to cheer her up by being helpful and with games of cards, afraid that she might up and leave, but was so miserable herself that she could scarcely drag herself out of bed in the mornings. With no tutor and no school there was nothing for her to do. There was a whole world going on out there but still they were held in Little Egypt, suspended as if in souring aspic.

  She was surprised to find that she felt cross and sorry on her parents’ behalf about blasted Howard Carter and blasted Lord Carnarvon, and blasted Tutankhamen. She hoped they might come back. If only they would at least write. If only they would give up the whole beastly business and come home and put an end to this awful wait.

  Both Evelyn and Arthur were atheists, but Isis sided with Mary, who knelt to pray to her English God before she went to bed each night. Isis began to do the same, kneeling on the knobbly rug beside the bed and pleading for them to be brought safely back, or at least for a sign or messenger. And whether it was the prayers, or whether it would have happened anyway, Uncle Victor arrived a few days later like a ruined knight, come to release them from their spell.

  8

  MARY SHOOK A clean sheet over Isis’ bed and Isis helped by smoothing and tucking it in, neat and tight at the corners as Mary had taught her. As they started on Osi’s bed, Isis heard a motor drawing up and ran to the window to see the Bugatti.

  ‘Uncle Victor!’ she cried and pelted down the stairs to find him already in the hall.

  ‘Icy,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d drop in for a spot of lunch.’

  Mary came hurrying down, primping her hair with her fingers. ‘Me and the children were only having cold,’ she said.

  ‘Splendid, cold will suit me admirably.’

  Victor’s cheerfulness seemed as out of place in the house, where gloom had been ruling for the past few days, as if someone had walked in speaking in a foreign language. ‘What have you been up to, Icy?’ He grabbed and tickled her and she squirmed obediently, though she wasn’t in the mood for being tickled and was getting far too old for it. ‘Take your uncle for a turn around the garden?’ he suggested. ‘While Mary works her wonders?’

  ‘You’ve been neglecting us,’ Isis complained as they went outside into the cold sunshine. ‘Where have you been?’ When he didn’t answer, she added, ‘George is dead; don’t you know? We found him and it was simply frightful.’

  ‘Evelyn mentioned it in her letter.’

  Isis gaped at him. ‘She wrote to you? She hasn’t written to us.’

  Her pleasure in Victor’s visit was spoiled by a throb of crossness. ‘Why didn’t she write to us? It’s not fair. And then there’s all this Tutankhamen business,’ she added.

  Victor smiled maddeningly and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Of that, more later.’

  ‘What Victor, what?’

  But he would not be drawn. They walked through the tangled weedy orchard.

  ‘Obviously we’re going to need a new gardener,’ Isis said.

  Victor picked up a stick and reached up to hook down a last few stubborn apples.

  ‘Look.’ Isis pointed to the silvery wasps’ nest. ‘Isn’t it perfect?’

  Victor went as if to poke it with the stick.

  ‘Leave it,’ she said sharply. ‘Or they’ll come out in a swarm and do for you, Mary says. And what a bally awful way to go.’

  ‘They’ll be hibernating or whatever they do.’

  He dropped the stick, took a cheroot out of a case in his pocket and made a great business of lighting it. The smoke came out of his mouth in a purple ripple and he leaned back against the wall, not far enough from the wasp’s nest for Isis’ liking, crossed his legs and closed his eyes. With his head tilted back like that, you could see the scar, thick and livid, emerging from his cravat.

  The train went rumbling past and steam leaked through the branches. Since George had died, Isis rarely went right down the garden or anywhere near his shed, and so she hadn’t watched the train for weeks. It seemed rather a childish occupation now.

  ‘Come on.’ She pulled him away from the nest. When they reached the icehouse steps, he stood meditatively breathing smoke and Isis guessed that he was thinking about Mimi – she was remembering, in any case.

  ‘Where’s Mimi?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, we went our separate ways.’

  ‘Did you love her?’ She searched his face for a sign of distress, but he had no particular expression. Did women find his scar and trembling leg repellent? After a war those are things you have to face, she supposed, you have to learn to love.

  Though it was so damply mossy, Victor sat on the top step and patted the space next to him. Looking down at the dank entrance to the icehouse, Isis noticed that the padlock was askew. When she went down and rattled it, it came off in her hand. She stared at its rusty iron face. When she’d been searching for Dixie it had been locked, she was certain. Mary would never have let them open that door. ‘You stay away from there,’ she’d often warned, when they were smaller. ‘You fall down that hole and you’ll be in a right old pickle. No one would hear you from the house.’

  Isis pulled open the door. Of course there was no ice left now. The pit hadn’t been refilled since Grandpa died.

  ‘Someone’s been here,’ she said.

  Victor shrugged. Isis leaned in, breathing the chill earthy smell. It was too dark to see much, except for a few etiolated weeds rooting up from between the bricks. She let the door swing shut, pushed the padlock back into place and went up to sit beside Victor. Her hands stank of rust now, and she scrubbed them on her dress.

  ‘We’ve only had one lousy postcard from them in months,’ she said.

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Darling Beasties,’ she parroted Evelyn’s voice and then her own crept through, with a childish whine. ‘Oh read it yourself. But it’s not fair.’

  ‘You wait,’ Victor said.

  ‘For what? I think we’re going to be here for ever, Osi and me. We’ll be old people
with wooden legs and ear trumpets.’

  Victor hooted. ‘No you won’t,’ he said. ‘Some lucky fellow will sweep you away.’

  ‘Won’t.’

  ‘Beautiful girl like you.’

  ‘What’s beautiful about me then?’

  He put his finger under her chin. ‘Lovely eyes, lovely hair, pretty nose, peachy lips.’ He kissed her on the end of her nose and she pulled back, flushing – partly from pleasure, partly from the shame of having fished for the compliment. You could always get one from Victor, so easily that it scarcely counted.

  He took a last puff of his cheroot, ground it out with his toe, and then he put an arm round her. She leaned into him; it was nice in the chilliness to feel his warmth. His leg was only jumping a little and she put her hand on it and pressed to stop it.

  ‘Poor Victor,’ she said.

  He gave a tight sort of sigh. ‘Dear little Icy.’ They sat quietly for a moment until something felt different to Isis, she didn’t quite know what. Victor stroked her hand and then her knee, which gave her a tickly velvet feeling and felt queer and wrong. She thought of Mimi and her bare white legs and jumped up and started back to the house.

  ‘Come on, Mary’ll go bally mad if we’re late for lunch.’

  Mary had managed to scrape together enough to make a decent table, though there’d be nothing left for supper. They sat in the dining room and ate broth, meat loaf – the end of the lamb padded out with carrot – with dates to follow as a pudding. There was no sherry so Victor drank brandy, his voice getting fat and slurry much quicker than Arthur’s ever did. He was telling them about his car, and how it would do 65 miles an hour.

  ‘Someone’s been in the icehouse,’ Isis announced and a flicker crossed Osi’s face. Mary had stayed in the room, standing with her arms folded as they ate, asking Victor how she was supposed to run a house on nothing. And what about a replacement gardener who would actually garden?