Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) (2 page)

1

I
SIS WANDERED INTO
her parents’ bedroom, stretched out on the stripped, stained mattress and stared at the ceiling. She could hear a faint stipple of birdsong from outside and Mary banging round the house with her broom – she was always in a temper when Evelyn and Arthur left, till she got things ship-shape. Apart from that it was quiet, except for the usual creaking and settling of the house, as if it too breathed and shifted into another mood with the departure.

From where Isis lay, the wardrobe mirror reflected only a dull blue swatch of cloud. Crushed in behind it were all the gowns and frocks that Evelyn shunned, preferring trousers – often Arthur’s own. When she was small, Isis had sometimes crept in to watch her parents dress. They hadn’t cared and went on just as if she wasn’t there at all. As they’d talked – usually about bloody Egypt – Arthur would stride about, hair stamped across his chest like two grubby footprints, thing jiggling and sometimes jabbing out like a fried sausage. Evelyn’s bosoms were like empty socks, her belly hair a puff of mould. The hard muscles in her long shins reminded Isis of the fetlocks of a horse.

Sometimes Isis pictured her mother as a horse, of the thin haughty variety, and Arthur as a big whiskery dog, trotting obediently at her heels.

They had left in high spirits, convinced more than ever that
this
time, after all the years, all the false trails, all the disappointments, they would find the tomb of Herihor. Evelyn said she felt it in her bones, and Arthur always expressed great faith in her bones. Besides, they had a new guide now, a Mr Abdullah, a topping fellow who really knew his onions.

Their leave-taking had been the usual kerfuffle of luggage and lists and last minute panics, the scrunching of wheels on gravel – and swearing this time, when Arthur broke the tread of the third stair while lugging down a trunk. And then the quiet. Only now a trapped fly began to buzz and bat itself against the window and Isis roused herself to let the poor thing out.

She paused to finger the ornaments on the sill – a shiny black scarab, its base covered in minute columns of hieroglyphs; an ankh of lapis lazuli, and her favourite, Bastet, a cat-headed woman, gold inlaid with turquoise and lapis and carnelian. This last really belonged in the British Museum in Arthur’s opinion, but these were Evelyn’s special treasures.

Once the house had been full of Grandpa’s collection of Egyptian statues and ornaments, even an enormous gilded mummy case at the turn of the stairs, but over the years Evelyn and Arthur had sold almost anything of value to raise money for their quest.

Snarling through the quiet came the sound of an engine and Isis peered out of the window in time to see the drawing up of a low, bright yellow motorcar. Once it had stopped, the figure inside, like a gigantic insect in hat and goggles, sat motionless staring up at Little Egypt.

‘It’s Uncle Victor!’ Isis cried as she pelted down the stairs.

For days, Victor, Evelyn’s twin, had been expected back from the nursing home, where he’d been ever since the war. He was still unfolding himself from the motor as Isis launched herself at him, rubbing her face against the stiff twill of his jacket, ‘Oh I’m so glad,’ she said, ‘so, so glad.’

‘Steady on,’ he said. ‘By God Icy! You’ve grown!’

‘‘Well we haven’t seen you for
years
!’ She stepped back from him.
He
seemed smaller than she remembered and rather old and stooped. ‘We’d almost given up on you,’ she added.

He took off the goggles and helmet and tilted back his head. ‘Good to see the old place again,’ he said. ‘Didn’t always think I would.’ He blinked. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘They’ve only just gone,’ Isis said, ‘
literally
. This morning. Evelyn hated to go without seeing you – but they had to catch their boat.’

‘But she wrote they’d be here till the 27th.’

‘That was the day before yesterday,’ Isis said. ‘Our
birthday
, we’re thirteen now,’ she reminded him.

Before the war, when they were small, Victor had never forgotten the twins’ birthday, always sending something silly and expensive – and nothing to do with Egypt. As the only other person in the family who wasn’t obsessed by Ancient Egypt, Victor was her ally.

‘Blast,’ Victor said in a dwindling voice. ‘Not much of a hero’s welcome then.’

There was a pause and Isis shifted awkwardly, wondering what to say to this man who looked so different now, and so cast down. The lines on his brow and around his eyes were sharp as knife cuts and his skin was grainy grey.

‘What a lovely motor,’ she offered and it was the right thing, for Victor brightened and patted the bonnet as if it was a horse.

‘Yes. Bugatti. Quite a stunner, eh?’

The interior was upholstered in pale lemon leather and the dashboard was a glamorous glossy wood, intricate with complex whorls of grain. ‘Walnut,’ he said. ‘Pigskin. 16-valve engine.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ She stooped to sniff the leather interior. ‘It smells of money.’

‘Dear little Icy.’ Victor reached out to give her a proper hug. ‘
Thirteen
,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it.’ Squashed against his chest, she saw the two of them reflected, in grotesque distortion, by the curve and shine of chrome, and below her ribcage felt a pang, a qualm, and pulled herself away.

Mary came out drying her hands. The sunshine lit up her fair curls and she was smiling. ‘Welcome back,’ she said. ‘You’ve missed Captain and Mrs Spurling. Will you be staying? Only I’m not set up for visitors what with the laundering and them only just gone.’

‘You’re looking well, Mary,’ he said. ‘Does a chap good to see those dimples again.’

Blushing, Mary dipped her head. ‘I’m tolerable. It’s only soup. I expect I can eke it out and we’ve got a bit of ham.’ She slid Isis a look. ‘You can help by laying the table, Miss.’

‘I’ve only just had the tablecloth off,’ Mary grumbled. ‘If I’d known I could of stretched it for another day. He’ll have to make do with second best.’

‘I don’t s’pose he gives a fig.’ Isis took an embroidered cloth from the sideboard and, together with Mary, flapped it over the table.

‘And I had that ham lined up for your tea,’ Mary said, straightening the cloth.

‘But don’t you think it’s nice to see someone else?’ Isis said. ‘And he
was
nearly killed, you know.’

Mary nodded and went out and Isis wished she could bite her tongue off. Mary had been married briefly to a Gordon Jefferson. They’d tied the knot in July 1914 before he went off to the front. They’d had one weekend together in Hastings, and then he’d sailed off and got himself shot at the Marne. There was a photograph of the wedding day beside her bed, Mary with a smaller, sharper face clutching the arm of Gordon Jefferson: short, uniformed, bespectacled and stern. Mary still wore the ring, a band of gold, thin as wire, embedded in the work-worn puffiness of her wedding finger.

After she’d washed her hands and combed her hair in readiness for lunch, Isis found Victor standing in the hall, a blank look in his eyes. She paused on the stairs to watch him; he stood as if lost, hands hanging limply at his sides, mouth a little open as if he was stupid, which he most certainly was not.

‘You’ll never guess what we got for our birthday,’ she said extra brightly, bounding down to take his arm.

Victor flinched.

‘Come and see.’ Isis pulled him towards the drawing room. She flung open the door to reveal a cage dangling from a stand and inside it, two bright budgerigars – one blue, one green.

‘What beauties,’ Victor said. ‘Bit lost in here though, eh?’

The drawing room was only used when Evelyn and Arthur were home and Mary had already swathed all the furniture in dustsheets so that the poor creatures were surrounded by nothing but hulking white shrouds.

Isis made kissy noises through the bars and the birds moved away from her with disconcerted chitters and huddled together in a puff of feathers. ‘I hate to see birds in a cage though,’ she said. ‘You’ll never guess what Osi’s gone and called them.’

‘Something Egyptian at a wild stab?’

‘
Rameses
and
Nefertari
,’ Isis said. ‘Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?’

‘
You
could call them something else,’ Victor pointed out. ‘They’re hardly going to know the difference.’

‘Mary was livid,’ Isis told him, and mimicking Mary’s voice: ‘
What we need’s a new tutor for the twins, someone else to help about the house, a lad to help George in the garden and what do they come up with? A couple of blasted budgies
!’

‘Fair point,’ Victor said.

‘Thing is, Uncle Victor . . .’ Isis took his arm again. She didn’t know how to put it, not quite. ‘I worry that Osi . . . that he might . . .
get
them.’

Victor frowned. ‘Don’t catch your drift.’

But Isis stopped. One of the budgies and then the other began to cheep, hard chips of glassy noise that rattled against her teeth.

‘Lunch,’ called Mary.

‘Coming,’ Isis yelled back, sending the birds into a frenzy.

She knew she should not worry Victor. Anyway, she had a plan to keep the budgies safe.

At the table, Isis noticed how the spoon shook in Victor’s hand, and as he moved his head, the silk cravat slipped down to reveal a scar, like a livid bacon rasher sizzled to the side of his neck. Dizzied, she put down her spoon. The soup was too thin with the water Mary had added to make it stretch. Peas and cubes of carrot floated on the surface. It was a grudging soup – you could always tell Mary’s mood from the way her food came out.

Victor was trying to have a conversation with Osi. ‘Been out and about?’ he said.

Slurping, Osi shook his head.

‘Have a fine time when the folks were home?’

Osi nodded eagerly and opened his mouth to tell him all about Herihor, but Victor held up his hand and grinned at Isis, almost like his old self for a moment. ‘No Egypt over lunch, if you don’t mind old chap?’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Isis.

Osi scowled at her. ‘Have you got your medal with you?’ he asked Victor. ‘Why aren’t you wearing it?’

‘Prefer to leave all that behind me.’

Isis saw that the tablecloth was jumping where he sat. He saw her looking. ‘My bally leg,’ he said, a note of panic in his voice. ‘It jerks and jumps, I can’t . . .’ He was leaning on it and pressing with all his weight.

‘It’s all right,’ Isis said. ‘Have a slice of ham, Cleo’s having kittens, perhaps you’d like one? There’s dates in the pantry, Mary makes a lovely date and walnut loaf but she says there’s enough dates there to last us till judgement day . . .’

Victor snorted dryly. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘No need to gabble.’ But he continued to press down on his leg and pushed his soup aside. He said nothing more and they sat in silence except for Osi’s terrible slurping.

‘Don’t take any notice of me,’ Victor said at last. ‘Didn’t mean to be so sharp.’

‘It’s quite all right! After luncheon perhaps we could go for a walk? Or perhaps a drive? It’s a lovely motor Osi, you should go and look.’

Mary came in, pushing the door with her hip and carrying a bowl and jug. ‘I’ve resurrected a bit of stewed apple for you, and there’s cream,’ she said. ‘And I expect you’d like some coffee.’

‘And a spot of brandy,’ Victor added.

‘Very
good,
Sir
.’
The
door
banged
a
little
too
emphatically
as
she
went
out
and
Isis
darted
a
look
at
Victor
to
see
if
he
minded,
and
saw
that
his
eyes
had
gone
lost
again,
and
cloudy.

‘It seems unfair of Evelyn not to wait and see me,’ he said. ‘It was an arrangement.’ His leg began jumping again.

‘They’d booked their passage,’ Isis said. ‘Will you take some apples? And she really was upset to miss you.’

‘Nothing’s as important as their blessed expedition though,’ said Victor.

‘No,’ agreed Isis. ‘Never.’

Osi pulled a gruesome face at her. He was eating with his mouth open as usual and she saw the churn of apples on his tongue. ‘Don’t be so putrid,’ she said.

‘Don’t be so stupid then.’

‘I’d rather be stupid than putrid and anyway I’m neither.’

‘Are.’

‘Not.’ This was unspeakably childish but Isis could not help it. ‘You bloody idiot,’ she said.

‘Now then.’ Victor’s face had gone ghastly grey. He picked up a spoon but it dropped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. He bent to retrieve it but couldn’t reach. He was half under the table, contorted, arm stretched out towards the spoon, panting with frustrated exertion – as if it mattered!