Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) (19 page)

‘The first World War?’

I nodded.

‘
For sure?
Did European history at High School,’ he said. ‘That’s cool.’

‘I’ll tell you all about him,’ I said. ‘One day.’

We went out onto the landing and I shut the Blue Room door, the firm click of it stirring up a turmoil in my belly. Osi would be all right for tonight. He was warm and fed. But how to manage him from now on I could not even begin to think. And all at once it was too much for me. My head was reeling with too much feeling and I had to be alone. I felt an urgent need to get downstairs away from all the memories that hung like sheets, invisible, to snag and tangle me.

Spike helped me down the stairs and then I sent him away.

I sat in Mary’s chair beside the stove, hunched around my broken heart. Nine tried to jump on my lap but there was no room for her, what with all the grief. Osi still alive. His life continuing like this was almost worse than his death would have been.

I simply did not know how to carry on.

21

B
EING OUT IN
the
world had changed me. On our return, I saw Little Egypt through new and disappointed eyes. I had become more
worldly.
I had so looked forward to being home, to seeing Mary, to returning to my own skin – but my skin was different now, coloured by the sun and with a stain that went deeper, that soaked right through to my bones. The house, though rattling huge and empty, seemed
littler
in some important way.

It was mid-January and the very air froze and crackled in our lungs. Icicles fanged the gutter and dangled perilously above the door, and all the bedroom windows were thickly frosted with ferns. It was as if the house had fallen under a frozen spell, and to my own surprise, I missed the sun and the desert heat most dreadfully, and found it hard to believe that I had ever complained of being too hot.

‘You’d never credit the heat,’ I remarked to Mary one morning, a few days after we’d returned home. She had come upstairs where Osi and I were still in our beds, to call us down for breakfast.

‘You never stop flaming mentioning it,’ Mary muttered.

Osi was tightly sealed in sleep and I had my blankets pulled right up to my chin, loath to get out into the cold – and besides, I’d gone to bed in my clothes and didn’t want Mary to know. She was standing by the window, silhouetted by the fuzzy light, hair standing out in a glistening cloud. As I watched, she put her palm against the frosty glass to melt a space and stooped to peer through it.

‘What are you looking for?’ I asked, knowing the answer. Of course it would be Mr Patey.

‘Your porridge is ready,’ is all she said, and as she went out, slammed the door hard enough to make icicles crack and tinkle from the gutter.

The day before, I’d heard the rattle of Mr Patey’s pony and cart and looked down from here. As I’d watched, Mary had appeared outside and they’d stood a little distance from each other, oddly formal. Mr Patey had been muffled in coat, hat and scarf so that I could barely see his face. Mary must have been freezing, hugging her arms, dressed only in her frock and cardigan. Though I could hear nothing, I saw the clouds of their words rise between them before he stepped forward and held her. She seemed to sag against him. But by the time I arrived in the kitchen to say hello, Mary was alone.

‘I thought I heard Mr Patey,’ I said.

Her lashes were wet and there was a finger streak of coal dust on her cheek. ‘He’s delivered the coal and that’s that,’ she snapped and turned away to hide her face. My heart hurt for her. I understood love now, having seen the world, having read about it, and for Mary I wanted a happy ending.

The kitchen was the warmest place in the house, but in this deep wintry weather, even it wasn’t all that warm, and despite layers of clothing, I was shivering as I sat down at the table. Mary banged a bowl of porridge in front of me. The worse Mary’s mood, the lumpier the porridge; as I stirred milk and sugar into it, I saw that her mood must be very bad indeed.

I chewed my way through the clumps as Mary stood with her back to me scraping burnt toast into the sink. I believe the smell of burnt toast is one of the most dispiriting in the world. I tried to think of something to cheer her up, but could feel the gloom settling on me as well.

Here we were again, just as before: Evelyn and Arthur away – Arthur had delivered us home and gone haring straight back to Egypt – and us stuck here waiting. Not even waiting any more, not me. I knew they were on a wild goose chase; that they had been taken for fools. There in my mind was the twist of Rhoda’s face when she’d said as much; there was the blind white flash of the pedlar’s eye.

But now at least I was older and I could see that the end was in sight. That was a comfort. I must be patient for just a few years more, and then I would up and leave. I’d work if I had to, make my own living. Perhaps I could teach something – but what? Or work in a shop. Of course, the horse would bridle at the idea – I laughed at that and wished there was someone to whom I could repeat the pun.

Mary kept a pile of the unsold papers that Mr Burgess brought her, and they were full of King Tut and all the treasures from his tomb. There was a craze for Egyptian fashion. I saw Cleopatra dresses in printed silk; there were Egyptian moving picture shows and dances and cocktails and there was even an advertisement for Palmolive Soap with a lady emerging from a sarcophagus.

Mary buttered her toast and sat down at the table. She had lost her rosy cheeks and the skin around her eyes was puffy. She crunched her toast, put it down and squeezed the heels of her hands against her temples.

‘Not your head again?’

She winced and nodded.

‘You should put your feet up.’

‘I reckon I’ll soldier on.’

‘Why don’t we play cards when we’ve cleared away? I could teach you cribbage.’

She stood up, grating back her chair. ‘The blinking washing don’t do itself. The broom don’t get out of the cupboard and sweep the floor, the scuttle don’t march in full of coal . . .’

‘Shall I pour the tea?’ I broke in, trying to stop her going through
all
the chores and working herself into a frenzy. I poured a cup for each of us, though I didn’t much like tea then. It would be friendly, I thought, if we sat and drank tea, two women – because I was a woman now – two women drinking tea together. Soon Mary would realise how much I’d grown up and begin to treat me differently. We could become friends and confide in each other, be a comfort to each other till the end of the waiting. I tried to think of something womanly to say. I did not dare to ask about Mr Patey, though the question was on the tip of my tongue.

The tea was awful, both weak and stewed and only with three spoonsful of sugar could I bring myself to drink it.

‘Go easy on the sugar,’ she grouched. ‘It don’t grow on trees.’

‘Well, it nearly does,’ I pointed out. ‘On canes, at least.’

The ghost of a dimple hovered on her cheek.

‘We had some to chew,’ I said, and remembering the sensation of those sweet and stringy fibres in my mouth brought back the lorry ride, and with it a sharp memory of Victor beside me in the cab. He’d been tired and drunk that day, stinking and drooping heavily against me. I put my tea down. I didn’t know what, if anything, Mary knew about Victor. Possibly nothing at all. Nobody had mentioned him since we’d been back.

‘I’ll help you today,’ I said.

‘You
could
help
me
by
writing
a
letter
to
your
pa
telling
him
I
can’t
take
much
more
of
this.
If
anyone
ever
was
taken
for
granted
–’

‘I will, but –’

But Mary was getting in a proper paddy now. ‘And what about the help I’ve been promised? And he needs to pay me up to date and settle up for the coal. We’ll be running out before too long and if this weather keeps on we’ll perish.’

‘I’m sure
Mr Patey
wouldn’t let you perish,’ I said.

She glared.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Mind your business.’

‘I’ll go and feed the birds,’ I said.

‘You’ll catch your death,’ she remarked, but didn’t try and stop me.

She was chopping onions now and, skirting round her angry elbows, I collected a dish of breadcrumbs and some chop bones for the birds to peck at. In the scullery the water in the WC was frozen. I crammed my slippered feet into a pair of galoshes and put on the thickest coat I could find – an army greatcoat of Victor’s. Cleo had been sleeping on it and it was coated in tabby hairs that flew off when I shook it and made me sneeze. The smell of cat battled with the smell of war in the stiff serge coat, which was wildly too big for me so that it trailed the ground.

Outside everything creaked and glistened. No breeze, no bird song; old snow in frozen heaps beside the door, puddles like plates of iron, hoar frost sugaring every twig and blade of grass. The weight of the icicles, long as walking sticks, had pulled part of the gutter away from the roof. What would Selim make of it, I wondered, but could not picture him here, all muffled up and wearing boots and socks instead of sandals.

I held out my hands and soon there were chaffinches and coal tits and a busy fluster of sparrows, their icy claws skittering on my icy fingers.

My footprints were clearly printed on the frost, despite the scuffing coat hem – and other footprints too. Mary’s, and a man’s big boots – Mr Burgess’ – and the footprints of another man wearing narrower shoes that must be Mr Patey’s. It had snowed since I’d seen him, so perhaps he’d been back and Mary was keeping his visits secret. I was sorry I’d said anything about the dead wives now. It was Mr Burgess’ fault – I realised now that he was only jealous and wanting Mary for himself.

I wandered back through the kitchen. Mary had burnt the onions, and I didn’t dare speak to her. I went into the ballroom to feed the inside birds – the two budgies had been joined by a little flock of sparrows, which had got in through the broken windows. Later they were to breed and I called them spudgies – sparrows with blue and yellow feathers flecked through the brown.

The tall windows were so thickly frosted that the light was white and solid in the room and there were even faint frost ferns growing on the mirrors. The birds were perched on the chandelier, fluffed and huddled for warmth. Beneath the chandelier was a miniature mountain range of droppings and feathers. I caught my reflection between the ferns, red-cheeked and ridiculous in the floor-length coat, my head tiny between the military shoulders. I was disappointed by what a child I still looked, and what a sight my hair – grown out of shape and stringy with grease. I was itchy under my arms but couldn’t get to them to scratch inside the heavy coat.

Mary had long since given up cleaning the ballroom and the piano was thick with dust and droppings. After I’d fed the birds, I lifted the lid and pressed my finger on a high C sharp, and the note hung and shimmered on as if it didn’t want to die. I dropped the lid with an echoing bang and caught a shiver of movement in one of the mirrors, like the hem of a dress sweeping past. It brought back a party there, when the ballroom was warm and full, alive with music and voices and dancing feet. Osi and I had been small enough to hide under the piano with our plate of iced fancies and watch the stockings and trousers swishing past, and feel the fuzzy thumping of the music through our skulls.

I hurried from the ballroom before I could catch myself – or anything – in the frosty mirrors.

22

M
ARY WAS IN
the pantry. ‘Can we have a bath today?’ I called.

She came out scowling.

‘You’ve been at the Cheddar,’ she said.

‘Have not!’

‘Well it wasn’t Jack Sir flaming Frost.’

‘Honestly, I haven’t.’

‘Well, most of it’s gone and I was planning on doing a colly cheese for your lunch.’

I pushed past her and went into the dim smelly space, where the wax-papered shelves held crocks of flour and salt, slabs of butter and lard, wire baskets of vegetables, jars of jam, currants and honey. I hadn’t been in at all since we’d been home. The wire cheese-cover was off and there was only a small wonky wedge left – and Mary always sliced things with beautiful precision.

‘Osi?’ I said, doubtfully.

‘You know as well as me he only eats what’s put in front of him.’

‘Well it honestly wasn’t me,’ I said.

Mary sighed. ‘I’ll do a soup. That’s not like you. And get that filthy old coat off. Whatever do you look like!’

‘That’s because it wasn’t me. And who cares what I look like?’

‘Well it wasn’t a blooming mouse.’

I was tempted to shout, or to flounce away and slam the door, but I didn’t want to make her headache worse, or her temper, and besides I liked to think I’d grown beyond such behaviour. Instead I went into the scullery and hung up the coat. Back in the kitchen, despite a discouraging look from Mary, I sat down beside the stove.

She stood with her back to me scrubbing the burnt pan with a fistful of wire wool. The scratch of it put my teeth on edge, but I made my voice sound warm and friendly.

‘I’ve got a book you’d like,’ I said. ‘It’s called
Desert Longing
.’

She sniffed and turned on the tap.

‘It’s frightfully romantic,’ I said.

‘I reckon I’ll give it a go.’

‘It’s about a love affair between a Lord and Lady and there’s this handsome Arab Prince and –’

‘Don’t spoil it, then.’ She turned off the tap.

‘I’ll get it for you.’ I stood up. ‘And later on you can have a lovely read beside the stove.’

Mary put the scrubbed pan on the draining board and wiped her hands on her apron.

‘We haven’t had a bath since we got home,’ I pointed out. ‘I feel quite putrid – and as for Osi . . .’

She scritched her fingers through her hair and sighed. ‘Oh, reckon I could do with a spruce up myself.’ And to my relief she gave a weary smile.

I ran upstairs to fetch the book. Seeing the garish cover, battered and stained from its travels, brought back the inside of my tent, the heat and dirt and tedium of the desert, which hardly seemed part of this same world at all. In my dreams there was the wet of paint, breath on my neck, a plummeting sensation from which I would wake with a startled jolt. But when I was awake I was able not to think about the tomb, or rather to remember it as something from a story. No more real than
Desert Longing
. I flicked through the pages and saw my dirty fingerprints, smudgy daisy patterns on the flyleaf. Compared with Victor’s nightmares my dreams were nothing. Poor Victor. My belly twanged with guilt.

I noticed that the place where Mary had melted a space on the window had frozen thinly over. And then I saw that another space in the frost had been scratched away, higher up and more recent. Only Osi was here and why would he want to look out? There was nothing to look at, only whiteness through a fence of icicles.

I went into the nursery where he was lying on his stomach reading.

‘Did you make a hole in the frost?’ I said.

He had to crick his neck to scowl up at me. ‘What?’ He clearly had no idea what I was talking about.

‘Did you pinch some cheese?’

The end of his beaky nose was red, and he was sniffling. If he had a cold it was no surprise, he didn’t bother about trying to keep warm at all.

‘Did you?’

‘No.’ He resumed reading his blasted hieroglyphics.

‘Well, someone did.’

He shrugged one shoulder as if it was no concern of his. I felt like kicking him. I took
Desert Longing
downstairs for Mary, but I was thinking. What if someone else was in the house? A man with narrow feet. I could only guess that it was Mr Patey. And that’s why Mary wouldn’t talk about him – because she’d hidden him here. And that must be where the cheese had gone – I was surprised she couldn’t work that out for herself. Wasn’t she feeding him?

She was chopping another lot of onions for the soup. She was still pale, but smiled when I returned to the kitchen and put the book on the table. Once she’d read it she’d realise that I knew about love affairs now and perhaps she would confide in me.

‘That looks good,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if I can get that bathroom stove lit this afternoon. See if we can’t work up a bit of a fug.’ There were tears in her eyes, but they were only onion tears.
You don’t need to keep him secret
, is what I wanted to say, but didn’t dare. Instead I went upstairs to search.

There were seven bedrooms, two bathrooms and the nursery on the first floor, and in the attic a maze of cramped servants’ quarters, including Mary’s room. In Grandpa’s heyday there had been a full staff, but by the time he was old there was only one manservant, a housekeeper, a cook and a tweenie – Mary. And now there was only Mary.

Most of the first floor bedrooms and one of the bathrooms had been locked for years. I had been walking past them without a thought all that time, but now, suddenly, it seemed dreadful to imagine all that stale and boxed-in air, all that dead space. All those mirrors with nothing to reflect.

But Mary would be keeping him in the attic, of course, perhaps even in her room. Perhaps they were keeping each other warm at night. I went up the attic stairs calling, softly, ‘Mr Patey?’ And I thought I heard a movement. I hesitated half way up, straining my ears. At the top I called, ‘It’s all right, Mr Patey, I know you’re there.’ Cautiously, I pushed open the door. But there was no one. Mary’s bed was messy and unmade and her clothes piled untidily on a chair, papers from her headache powders were scattered about, which was not like her. I looked round – the wardrobe would be too small for a man to hide in – the only place he could be was under the bed, but there was only a suitcase and a box, a chamber-pot and a pair of shoes.

And then I heard footsteps on the stairs and Mary came storming in. ‘What the flaming hell are you up to? Can’t I have one room in this blasted mad house to call my own?’

‘I was looking for Mr Patey.’

Her mouth opened and closed and opened again, the vapour of her breath fogging the air between us. ‘You
what?
’

‘I know he’s here.’

‘Stop this nonsense. Mr Patey indeed! Have you lost your wits!’

‘I’ve seen his footprints,’ I said doubtfully.

She was shaking her head at me. ‘That foreign sun must have addled you brains good and proper. If you must know, Mr Patey’s marrying a milliner from town what he got in trouble and apart from dropping off the coal I haven’t seen him for weeks.’

I stared at her. ‘A milliner?’

She shut her eyes and squeezed her hands against her temples. ‘What with everything else and what with my bloody head,’ she said. ‘How am I supposed to cope? Now get downstairs.’

I left the room, closing the door behind me and heard the squeal of bedsprings as she flung herself down – not to cry, I hoped.