Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) (20 page)

23

A
FTER LUNCHEON, MARY
went up to light the bathroom stove, but it took hours to take the chill off the room and by the time the frost on the window had melted the daylight was fading. The iron of the gigantic tub was so cold it cooled the rusty water that chugged from the taps, so we had to fill it twice – as with a teapot – once to warm it so that the next lot of water would stay hot.

When the bath was drawn, I threw in three fistfuls of Evelyn’s Gardenia Bath Salts. I collected all the candles I could find and stood them along the edge of the bath and the candlelight mixed with the scented steam into a thick, sweet mist. Mary stood for a moment staring as if at nothing; she seemed insubstantial, wavering in the steam. She had come down to make lunch without referring to my trespass. As well as a temper she also had a forgiving soul. She was distant though, vague with headache, and had spent most of the afternoon squinting at
Desert Longing
beside the stove. Now she sucked in a sudden breath and frowned, pressing the heel of her hand against her temple.

‘Oooh, that’s really sharp,’ she said. ‘That’s like a fork. Call me when you’re both done and I’ll see if I’m up to getting in myself.’

‘We won’t let the water go cold,’ I promised.

When we were small, Mary used to sit on the lid of the WC and chat while Osi and I wallowed in the tub. We used always to get in together, it was such a big bath, one each end and plenty of room to move our legs, but since we’d got older Mary thought bathing together wasn’t quite decent anymore. She thought that we should have separate bedrooms too. Perhaps we may have done, if things had turned out differently.

It would take too long, I thought, if Mary had to wait for us to bathe separately. The water would be cold. It wasn’t practical.

I found Osi in the nursery hunched in his tiny armchair copying something from a book. I felt a surge of fondness for him and bent over to see with what beautiful neatness he had filled his page.

‘What does it mean, though?’ I asked.

‘This is an informal hieratic script, probably 19th dynasty,’ he explained, and began to read: ‘
The scribe salutes his Lord, the Fan bearer on the right side of the King, re Chief of the gangs in the Place of Truth, Seal Bearer, Chief Priest of the –
’

‘All right, all right.’ I pulled back hastily. ‘The bath’s ready. Come on.’

I didn’t want there to be anything Egyptian about the bath. It was an English bathroom on an English January afternoon and nothing could be further away from Egypt. It was amazing to think that this was the same planet and that all those miles away the Nile was flowing greenly between its banks and the sun beating, glittering down. And the horse and the whiskery dog? Oh I snatched my mind from them.

Osi picked up a fine brush and slicked it with his tongue, leaving a groove of black down the centre of his lower lip.

I pulled him up by the hand. ‘Let’s get in together; it’ll be quicker. Mary needn’t know.’

The bathroom was warm and the particles of steam gleamed in the candlelight. Condensation streamed from the walls and plopped from the ceiling in long drips. I felt rather self-conscious as I took off my layers of woollies, dresses, stockings, liberty bodice and drawers. But the light was dim and in any case, unless it was Egyptian, Osi hardly noticed anything past the end of his nose.

The bath was high and there was a wooden box you had to climb up onto in order to hoist a leg over and step in. I gasped as I sank into the water that was just too hot, a shocking luxury, and I forced my body down into it, gooseflesh riffling up my body till I got my shoulders under and equalised the temperature. As soon as they were warm my chilblains began to throb. Mary’s cure was a raw potato rubbed on, which did help though it stung. I’d ask her to do it for me later. Osi undressed. He had a dark face, neck and hands, though his torso where the sun hadn’t reached was maggot-white – and my skin was marked in the same way. I shut my eyes against the detail of his nakedness as he stepped in.

Once we were both submerged, our legs slid against each other and I caught hold of a foot and lifted it from the water. ‘Your toe nails are a scandal!’ I examined the way they curled under the ends of his toes. Between them the creases were dark with caught-up squirms of dirt. I soaped my finger and began to push it between his toes, but he yelled and splashed at the tickliness and I gave up. I held my breath to submerge my head and then I sat up and scrubbed my hair with soap, splashing one of the candles so that it expired with a smoky hiss. I tried to wash Osi’s hair, but he struggled and snorted and I let him go.

Spits of rain against the window emphasised our cosiness. The water and the gardenia steam lulled us, slid us together, rocked and cradled us as they had through all our childhood bath-times; and my poor itchily throbbing toes buried themselves in the loose scrumple of skin between his legs, the softest gentlest place for toes. For a short time we lay there, comfortable and comforted, just for that moment of twinny peace and closeness, not waiting, not lonely, just
being
.

Then I heard footsteps on the landing, and sat up straight. Mary would be cross that we were in the tub together. I watched the door, waiting for it to open, but the footsteps went away. They didn’t sound quite like Mary’s feet – the tread was heavier.

‘Did you hear that?’ I said to Osi.

‘What?’

‘We should get out,’ I said. ‘Before Mary comes.’

We did not speak as we dried ourselves with stove-warmed towels, or as we dressed, backs to one other. Cold rivulets trickled from my hair down my back and I shivered and coughed. If Osi heard nothing, maybe there was nothing to hear. I must stop imagining things before I drove myself mad.

I was so glad that Osi was there. After a bath, especially in winter, we always used to sit by the stove in the kitchen brushing our hair as it dried, while Mary would make cocoa for us. I coughed again. The air was becoming choky with smoke leaking from a crack in the stove pipe. I would have to tell Mary about the smoke and hang the expense; we would
simply have to have the chimney man in if we were ever to bathe in wintertime again.

‘That was nice,’ I said to Osi and he smiled before he went out – back to his studies, I supposed, though how could he bear to be alone? How could be bear to return to that freezing nursery with his hair all wet? It would turn to icicles. I was encouraged by that crumb though, that smile, just a small proof that he’d enjoyed the closeness too; crumbs were all you ever got from Osi.

Time to call Mary before the water was quite cold. And I would surprise her with cocoa when she came down, that would cheer her up.

‘We’re out,’ I called from the landing, but there was no reply. ‘Your turn, Mary. It’s still warm.’ I waited to hear her coming, but she didn’t and I heard the creaking of a board in one of the rooms, I swear I did, like a cautious footfall and the click of a carefully shutting door. I went shooting down the stairs to the kitchen. I’d never been afraid in the house before, never noticed how much darkness there was, how many places a stranger could hide.
Don’t be silly
. Mr Patey would be with his milliner and why would anyone else be there?

I wished that I could stay put in the warm kitchen and make my cocoa and dry my hair, but Mary – who must be up in her room – should have the bath before it got too cold. Reluctantly I crept up the stairs, skin bristling, ears on stalks. I called up to the attic, but there was no rely. I forced my feet to climb those dark, narrow stairs and my heart was punching.

I tapped on her door. At first there was no reply, then I thought I heard a groan. I called again, but there was nothing. My feet were squeaking the floorboards. I hesitated, teeth chattering, as my eyes adjusted to the scanty moonlight slanting through the skylight.

‘Mary,’ I called and my voice was thin and strange. If someone came up the attic stairs behind me there was nowhere I could run. ‘Mary!’

This time I heard a high-pitched whimper. What if someone was in there with her? Someone could have crept up, perhaps Mr Patey after all, perhaps a stranger. When she moaned again I gritted my teeth and flung open the door.

She was lying on her back with one hand across her eyes, illuminated by a drizzle of moonlight, her hair lit up like choppy water. She was still wearing her clothes, even her shoes. I could smell sickness and saw that she had been ill in the chamberpot. Although it was horrible to see her so, I felt a flicker of relief that she was alone.

‘The bath is waiting,’ I told her.

‘No. My blasted head,’ she whispered in a papery voice. I knelt and stroked her hair, put my hand on her clammy brow, but she winced at my touch and feebly turned her head away.

‘Can I get you something?’ I asked. ‘Cocoa? A cup of tea?’

She groaned at the thought.

‘Have you taken your powders?’

‘Can’t keep anything down.’

‘Do you want a candle? I could fetch you a lamp.’

‘No light,’ she said. When her head was bad, light was like daggers in her eyes.

‘Poor Mary.’ I stood up. ‘You should get properly into bed, at least. Shall I cover you?’ She was on top of the blankets, but I knew her Sunday coat was in the wardrobe. I took it out and spread it over her. ‘Shall I take off your shoes?’

‘Just leave me be.’

‘I’ll empty this.’

I carried the chamberpot away and emptied it and brought her a glass of water in case she should need it in the night.

‘Bless you,’ she whispered, without opening her eyes.

B
UT YOU DO
carry on.

A broken heart can hold together.

Or am I simply hard?

Some time after Spike had left, I don’t know how long, I stoked the stove and made a cup of tea. I couldn’t stomach food. The stirred up silt was filthing up my head. I put the radio on, loud, to try and sink it down, but the adverts for taxis, pop songs, a phone-in quiz all set my teeth on edge. The batteries were old, and Radio 4, where they’re more civilized, would only hiss and buzz.

That Osi could no longer fend for himself was clear. And it was equally clear that I couldn’t cope with going up and down those stairs all day and night, nor could I bring him down and even if I could, he wouldn’t settle. And truth to tell, I didn’t want him in the kitchen: Horus in the kitchen in all his naked glory, squawking like an idiot? No, it simply would not do.

I looked round at the chaos that I live in. I never meant it to be like this; it just crept up. I was ashamed, mortified, now that Spike had seen it – and even
he,
the
anarchist,
was shocked! How had it come to this? I didn’t know what to do with myself. What now? What next? There were the cards stuck in their game of patience for donkey’s years. I can’t remember why I stopped and left it there.

I took a knife and pried it under the cards to loosen them. Those in the pile were all right, if sticky. I lost the backing of some of them, the card fused to the wood. It had been an Egyptian pack with pictures of the Great Sphinx on the backs. The faces of those laid out (most of the hearts) were so splattered with food drips you could hardly read them. But still I played a game of patience. I did not let myself cheat. I played for an answer: if it came out then I’d sell and we would go. I don’t know how long I played for until I won. Fair and square. Some of the cards were missing so I had to make allowances, and some you could not read and had to guess, but still I played and played and fate or luck was with me. The cards decided it. I’d have to sell; we’d have to go. The time had come. In Sunset Lodge it’s home from home and every need is catered for. (Although I fancied Osi might prove something of a challenge.)

So, I would go and see Stephen and tell him yes indeed I’d sell. As soon as that decision was made I was in a lather of anticipation. I could hardly imagine his expression! To give someone what they long for – a gift for the giver, I’d say. If Spike were correct that U-Save would not let anything hold up its progress, then nothing awful would come out. Of course I’d check that Stephen was of the same opinion.

Oh, what a comfort it was to think that soon a bright place, all shiny new, a modern megastore, would lie on top of here, like a sort of temple. All glass and steel and gleam and normal people with their trollies and their wallets, picking out their sofas and their curtains, their beds and scatter cushions right where I sat. Oh yes, I thought, that was the way to go.

The next day was Tuesday, one of Stephen’s days. His routine was to meet me in the U-Save café, first thing in the morning, to see if I was
ready yet
, was how he put it, if I’d
come round
. Oddly, I’d taken to Stephen, though he’s a developer. He said seeing me of a morning was the highlight of his week. (Of course he exaggerated – still, what a charming thing to say.) It makes me smile to think how different from Spike he is, surely as different as it’s possible for two young men to be. In Spike’s parlance, Stephen is an
archetypal sucker
. Curious that I like them both, they’re my best friends. I like young men, I do.

I pushed the trolley onto my bridge and watched the traffic flow beneath me. It was a glittery early morning, sun after rain, sharp enough to cause the eyes to stream. Three police cars, sirens screaming; the lumbering hulks of lorries, snarl of speeders, all moving, rushing somewhere with such purpose. I stood above inert, eyes wet, heart punching; in each of those cars one heart, at least, beating to its destination, all that rush of blood, the road an artery, petrol and oil and blood pumping along it, roaring, always, always, whatever the time of day or night.

A few cigarette butts – someone had been on the bridge. I nudged them with my toe and watched them fly to join the rush. There were two dead things smeared on the road, a crow, one wing flapping in the traffic’s draught, and a poor hedgehog. People could get on the bridge but my gate, with its metal bars, its serrated top, was locked in three places. The postman left my letters in a box, a system that worked, and no one else had any call to mount the bridge but still they did, sight see-ers and council people, developers, vandals with their spray cans and their bikes and so on. But I have my portcullis and I let no one in. True until Spike. Why should I?

No sign of Spike in the service area and I didn’t hang around to wait. I went round the front of U-Save and through the doors that open of their own accord and suck you into warmth and light and wonderful aromas. Always it made my heart lift to enter U-Save, so orderly, so full of goodness and availability. There’s no dark corners, nothing that stinks or crawls. Nothing is there that shouldn’t be there. Really it is like heaven.

In the Ladies I washed my face and hands. No one was there so I took off my cardigan, blouse and vest and had a go under my arms with worms of soap from the dispenser and, with the blower, roared myself hot and dry. I have been caught at my ablutions, but simply stared the culprit out and nobody has ever said a word about it. After all, what harm?

Once I was fresh I went to the café – but it felt different and wrong.
I’m Doreen how may I help you?
was not there. Why I’d depended so on seeing her, I don’t know, but I felt a dip in my spirits. Someone had spilled a drink on the floor by the counter; there was a fizzy orange puddle and a danger sign. A boy I’d never seen before, a youth with stippled skin, brought my cappuccino over without a murmur of complaint. Not so much kindness as a lack of interest. They were short of pastries, no croissants or pains au chocolat, so I choose a muffin – overblown fairy cake with a hard lid of so-called icing on the top.

‘Where’s Doreen?’ I asked him.

‘Ooo?’ is all he said.

‘The usual assistant?’

He merely shrugged, jaw working like a camel’s at his chewing gum. I let him go without a ticking off, without pointing out who I am. I was preoccupied with looking for Stephen, of whom there was no sign, though it was his day. I’d counted on Stephen coming, hadn’t even considered that he might not. What would I do if he did not? The coffee wasn’t its usual cheering self, but cool with scarcely any foam. The muffin was a dry catastrophe. The clock clicked round and Stephen failed to come.

I waved the boy –
I’m Brian
etc. – over from where he was mopping the floor. He dripped a trail across to me.

‘You need to wring it out,’ I said.

‘Uh?’ His mouth hung open to reveal his wad of gum.

‘The mop. Has a young man with a briefcase, touch of the tar brush about him, been here looking for me?’ I asked.

He chomped blankly before deciding, ‘Nah.’

‘It is Tuesday, isn’t it?’ I checked.

‘Nah,’ he said again. ‘It’s Monday innit?’

‘Is it?’

‘Summink else?’ He regarded the coffee, hardly touched and the crumbled ruins of the cake.

I opened my mouth to complain about the quality of my breakfast, to complain about his shoddy service, and the orange drips, but only, ‘No,’ came out. ‘Thank you,’ I added, as an example to him.

I stared out of the window from which you could see the roof of Little Egypt and get a sense of how grand it must once have looked. Now it was cramped between two roads and a railway line, as if on an island, a triangle, trapped in a pell-mell of ceaseless movement. The look of it, the thought of being back inside that house, sickened me.

For once, the brightness of the aisles, the moving floor, the warmth, the ranks of flickering screens in Electrical, the plastic toys, the food, oh all that food, all those cleaning products, the buckets, mops and brooms, the brush-and-dust pans, so neatly, brightly, snugly packaged, held no allure, promised no comfort. I bought painkillers from the Pharmacy, lovely ones, that send you off to sleep, and swallowed some before I set off back.

Outside I looked again for Spike, but still no sign of him. How did I get the day wrong? I never get the day wrong. There was a smell of rotting cabbage and a scrabbling in the skip, not Spike, but vermin. With heavy legs, and oh my knee, I pushed the trolley back, unlocked the gate, entered the house. How dim and filthy and what a din of flies. I got a sudden flash of warmth, of Mary dimpling as she rolled out pastry, but it was only the flutter of a page of memory.

I’d have to go up those stairs again, alone this time.

I took some liver pate for him, had a Breezer as a stiffener, and scrambled up, hauled myself by the banister rails, though some of them were loose, some missing, but
I managed, inelegantly, clawing and clutching, and who cares about blasted elegance, and who ever cared? Hands white with bird muck, eyes astream, knee ascream, I got there and scrambled to my feet. In the bathroom I washed my hands – the sink that once was white and garlanded with roses was grey and black, with the verdant green around the overflow of something thriving.

Before entering the bedroom I allowed myself to procrastinate and had a look inside the nursery, where I had not set foot for many years. Procrastination is the thief of time – well time’s the thief of me.

You couldn’t see much, the window so dirty, but sunshine came through a crack, illuminating the toy box, a shrouded cube of grey. Books were towered and scattered like the ruins of an ancient civilization. Osi’s armchair, a child-sized piece that he hunched his lanky form in, used to be red velvet but had turned to black, springs struggling through a rip, a blurt of horsehair stuffing. Under the dust I knew how deeply stained the rug was; I could not allow myself to think of that. I stepped out and shut the door.

And once more I found myself hesitating on the landing outside a door, trapped between the layers of my own life, thick and airless as the pages of a book.

When I’d gathered myself sufficiently to step into the bedroom with a soothing greeting on my lips, there was no sign of Osi. Not on the bed, not on the floor. He could have left the room, of course, he could have been wandering in the house, but I knew he wasn’t and my feet were drawn towards the gaping window. Standing on the wet squelch of curtain, I looked out and there, below me, on a raft of broken shrubbery he lay, wings spread out, quite still.

Half slithering, knee blasting like a trumpet, feathers rising as if there’d been a massacre of angels, I got downstairs and outside to fight through the undergrowth and get to him. No need to touch to know he’d gone, but still I did, fingers on his stiffened hand, the nails, that shocking tangle, snapped and scattered. Below the beak, amongst the fuzz, there was a shrunken smile. And I knew enough Egyptian claptrap to guess what had happened – Osiris had been transmuted into Horus, and Horus had flown away. I stroked his cold cheek bone. ‘Goodbye, my dearest dear,’ I said. There was a wrenching inside me as if something was being broken off.

My twin was gone.