Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) (7 page)

‘I was meaning to say,’ Mr Burgess bluffed. ‘I would of said.’

‘I should congratulate you and Mrs Burgess,’ said Mary. ‘Now I need to lie down.’ You could tell from the sogginess in her voice that she really was at the end of her tether. ‘Show Mr Burgess out, please. The list’s on the table as per usual.’

Mary went out, hand groping along the wall as if she’d gone blind, which was part of the migraine, and Mr Burgess and Isis returned to the kitchen. ‘She does gets real humdingers,’ she explained. She stared at his face. Above the beige moustache his cheeks were scrawled with red and blue, tiny veins that looked like scribble.

‘Are you
really
having a baby?’

He gave an irritated puff. ‘Patey been round and about much?’ he asked.

‘Now and then.’ Isis was cautious. Mary hadn’t said another word about the coalman, but after he’d visited she would be especially bright and cheerful, almost glittery, making jam
tarts, and even finding time for a game of gin rummy at the kitchen table.

‘There’s things she should know about her precious Patey,’ Mr Burgess said. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ He looked towards the kettle.

‘You can have water,’ Isis said. ‘And I dare say I could stretch to a biscuit.’ She took the last one from the tin. It was soft and only fit for the birds, but he chomped it as she ran him a cup of water. ‘
What
should she know? I don’t want her getting married either,’ she added.

‘Married!’ The word barged out of him on a spray of crumbs.

‘There’s been no talk of it,’ she soothed. ‘Just me wondering where it will all end.’

Mr Burgess sat down at the table, putting his bowler in its usual place. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, for one thing, did you know he was a shirker?’ He left a pause for her reaction, which was none. ‘A
shirker
,
a slacker
. Meaning he never fought. He left it to others to do his dirty work and most of ’em never came back.’ He looked down at his mangled hand, and his voice mangled along with it. ‘Lost both my brothers in France.’

‘Oh dear,’ Isis said. His moustache flopped lifelessly over his lips and his eyes filled up. She left a decent interval before she said. ‘Mary does know he didn’t go to war.’

‘Nay, but I don’t reckon she can know the whole story.’

‘What is the whole story then?’

‘He worked at the pits.’

‘I know. He was a miner before he was a coalman.’ It seemed to her a perfectly logical progression.

Mr Burgess sent out his big wet tongue to fish a crumb from his moustache. ‘He didn’t have to go, mining being what they called a reserved profession, but he
could
of gone. Most of his fellows went. He’s a coward, that’s what he is.’ He leant forward, ‘
A
nd worse.’

‘What’s worse?’ Despite herself, Isis was intrigued. ‘Did you know Mary’s husband died at the Marne?’ she added.

‘Aye.’ He shook his head. ‘And now she’s consorting with
a coward.’

‘But what did Mr Patey do that was worse?’
she urged, fascinated.

‘He had to get married
,
if you catch
my drift.’

She didn’t but nodded sagely.

‘Though there’s those that say
she tricked him into it. Lost the babe and her
looks with it. Then,’ Mr Burgess leant towards her, a
repellent gleam in his eyes, ‘he started carrying on with
Mrs Burke, widow of the coal
merchant. Well, his missus goes
and dies, doesn’t she, terribly convenient that, and before she
was cold in her grave, he ups and marries Mrs
Burke, though she had a good ten years on him.
More.’

‘So he’s married?’

Mr Burgess sat back, swollen with significance. ‘That’s
the best of it. No sooner are they wed than
she pops her clogs too. What do you say to
that?’

‘How
terribly,
terribly
sad,’
Isis
said.
‘Poor
Mr
Patey.’

‘It’s
blasted
fishy,
that’s
what
it
is.’

Isis
stared
at
him.
Surely
he
couldn’t
mean
that
Mr
Patey
killed
both
his
wives?

‘I’ve
said
nowt,’
Mr
Burgess
said.
‘And
you
never
heard
nowt
from
me
neither.
But
. . .’
he
let
the
word
hang
significantly,
‘if
Mary
should
happen
to
find
out
. . .?’

‘She
probably
does
know.
She
knows
him
quite
well,
after
all.’

He
exhaled
noisily.
‘She
can’t
know
the
ins
and
outs.
I
can’t
think
that
of
her.
And
she
should
be
careful,
don’t
you
think?’

‘He’s a Quaker,’ Isis said. ‘That’s partly why he didn’t go. She told me. He was brave enough, standing up to all the insults, if he got one white feather shoved at him, he must have had a hundred, that’s what Mary said.’

‘Brave!’ Mr Burgess stood up abruptly and seized his hat. ‘Brave!
Quaker!
Exactly. Couldn’t have put it better myself.’ He wobbled his hand. ‘Quaker, shaker, trembler, coward.’ His cheeks had gone dark as beetroot. He buttoned his jacket with fumbling fingers. ‘Well, time I got on. Tell Mary there’s a gift in there.’ He nodded at the box. ‘Lemons. Only a bit spoiled.’

‘I’ll tell her,’ said Isis.

‘You think on what Mary should know for her own good,’ he added, picking up his hat.

‘But it’s gossip,’ Isis said uncertainly. She began taking groceries from the box – a huge bag of salt, a string of onions, a slab of lard and six or seven shrivelled greenish lemons.

He jabbed a finger stump at her. ‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ he said, snatching up next week’s list.

6

H
OWEVER BAD HER
head, Mary would usually drag herself downstairs in the morning, but today, even by the time the morning train juddered past, there was still no sign of her. Isis ventured up to her room and found her lying with the curtains drawn, a chamber pot with sick in it by the bed.

‘Mary?’ she whispered, but the only response was a groan. Isis took the chamber pot away, tipped the contents down the WC, and then sat with Mary, wiping her brow with a dampened flannel, the way Mary did for her when she had a fever, that cool dampness so terribly soothing.

‘Don’t fret,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to our lunch and so on.’

‘Wilf might come,’ Mary murmured. Isis’ eyes went to Mr Patey’s iris, quite desiccated now, on the bedside table.

‘I’ll send him away.’

Softly, Isis closed the door and stole downstairs. She stood on the landing listening to the quiet of the house, not quiet really, always a squeak or a creak or a gurgle of pipes as if the house kept up its own mumbling story. Idly, she wandered into Evelyn and Arthur’s room. On the dressing table sat the scarab and the ankh – but there was no sign of the cat goddess. When was the last time she’d seen it? Not for a while, certainly. Perhaps Mary had put it away? Or Osi had it?

Isis
opened
the
nursery
door
onto
an
empty
room
that
stunk
of
unwashed
boy
and
goodness
knows
what
else.
It
was
very
rare
for
her
to
be
there
when
Osi
wasn’t.
Though
it
had
been
the
playroom
for
the
two
of
them
when
they
were
small,
it
had
become
entirely
his
domain,
a
small
dank
outpost
of
ancient
Egypt.
Like
a
trespasser,
she
entered,
holding
her
breath
against
the
smell.
The
tree-of-life
rug
was
ruined
with
a
dark
stain
of
ink
or
paint.
The
walls
were
scrawled
with
hieroglyphs
and
pinned
with
layers
of
scrolls.
Books
were
piled
everywhere,
with
tongues
of
bookmark
sticking
out
in
all
directions,
and
there
were
brushes
and
paints
and
stacks
of
exercise
books
and
papyrus
scrolls;
the
vast
brow
and
nose
of
some
broken
sandstone
god
propped
against
the
wall,
and
on
every
surface
a
clutter
of
Osi’s
ornaments
–
or
artefacts,
as
he
insisted
on
calling
them
–
wooden
dolls
and
animals,
shards
of
broken
pot
and
faience,
stones
with
scratches.
But
there
was
no
Bastet.
Shutting
the
door
behind
her,
she
went
downstairs
and
outside
to
look
for
her
twin.

After the stuffy peculiarity of the nursery, it was a pleasure to be outside. The sun was hot and the air fresh, with just the first twinge of autumn. She stooped to pick an apple from the tangle of long grass in the orchard – there were plenty of windfalls. Soon they would gather them and Mary would start to turn out her chutney and apple cheese and apple cake – which at least would make a change from everlasting date. Munching the apple – too hard and sour and with seeds that were still white – she noticed a wasp’s nest on the wall, a clever papery thing, empty now? She put her ear against it and was startled to hear a grumble, a rustle, life still there amongst the fragile cells. Jumping away, she scrubbed her ear against the ticklish fizz of sound.

Osi wasn’t in the orchard, or the vegetable patch, or down by
the fence. Passing the icehouse she checked that the padlock was secure before she went round to the potting shed. As she opened the door she was saying, ‘Sorry to disturb you, George, but,’ and then she stopped, hands crammed to her mouth. George was on the floor. He was lying neatly, hands on his chest, eyes open, quite plainly dead.

As if to make up for his stilled heart, her own set up a hard, fierce clamour. She would have to do something, tell someone, disturb Mary; and then there was a sound, a creak, as if someone else was there and, despite the heat, the hairs on her arms rose stiffly.

‘Hello?’ she said with a sudden dizzying whoosh of dread, thinking it might be Mr Patey. There was only one place the person could be, and that was behind a projecting shelf of flowerpots. She swallowed. She had never fainted in her life but wondered if she might be about to do that now, the edges of her vision melting and a sort of buzzing inside her skull.

And then Osi stepped out, clutching a book. ‘He’s passed on, Icy,’ he said.

She exhaled dizzily. ‘I can see that, you clot.’

They both stared down at him.

‘What are you doing out here?’ Isis said.

‘I found him.’

‘When?’

‘He was just sitting there with his pipe in his hand.’

The deckchair was empty, the pipe was on the floor, a scatter of ash beside the bowl.

‘Did you put him on the floor?’

Osi knelt by the body and had his face about an inch away from George’s, which looked just as bad tempered in death as in life. It was disappointing how much the same he looked.

‘Move back,’ she said.

He looked up at her, baffled. ‘Why?’

‘Why didn’t you come and tell me?’ she said.

‘I wonder how old he was.’ Osi poked George’s cheek.

Isis crouched beside Osi and grabbed his hand. ‘Don’t touch,’ she said, peering at the body. The skin was waxy, the pale blue of the eyes dull. Flecks of dust or tobacco had settled on their surface, causing her to blink in sympathy.

‘We’ll have to tell Mary,’ she said. ‘But she’s having one of her heads. Even Mr Burgess would have been a help today.’ To her own mortification she began to cry, getting up quickly so as not to splash George with her tears.

‘We don’t have to tell her.’ Osi followed her out of the shed and caught hold of her sleeve, his nails catching and scratching.

‘Of
course
we do!’ She got hold of him by both arms. ‘Osi, be normal,’ she pleaded. His eyes were exactly the same greenish dun as Evelyn’s and were acutely focussed, as if he was really here, tuned in to this moment, and not in ancient Egypt for once. He looked not so much a child as a shrunken old man with his pallid indoor skin and stringy hair. The volume clutched to his chest was
The Egyptian Book of the Dead.

‘We could send him on his journey, Isis, to the next world, with his spade and trowel pipe and food and –.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t be so . . .’ she struggled to find the word, ‘
grotesque
!’

After the bright sunshine, Isis was hardly able to see inside the house, and as she hurried upstairs to Mary’s attic, her sight was swimming with pallid after-images of George’s face. She tapped on Mary’s door before she opened it to find Mary lying in exactly the same position as before, eyes shut tight.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she whispered, hating herself for feeling a sort of pride to be the bearer of such momentous news, ‘but George has passed on.’

Mary opened her eyes, squinting against the light.

‘Are you sure?’ she murmured.

Isis nodded. She strained against the wail that wanted to come out and made a strangled gulping sound. Her cheeks were itching with the tears and she scrubbed them away. ‘What shall I do?’

Mary tried to sit up, clutching at her skull. ‘Oh Lord above,’ she said.

‘No,’ Isis said. ‘You don’t have to move only I don’t know what to do.’

Mary lowered herself back down. ‘Just a minute,’ she whispered. She lay thinking. ‘I’ll have another dose of powders.’

The doctor had been called out to Mary years ago, and had diagnosed migraine. The powders he’d given her didn’t help much, but Mary liked them and sometimes, she confided, took one when she didn’t have a headache so that she could enjoy it more.

Now, Isis unfolded one of the little paper envelopes and tipped it into a beaker of water. Mary sipped it slowly, eyes shut, grains of powder sticking to her lip.

‘You’re
sure
he’s gone?’

‘He’s on the floor with dust in his eyes and they’re open,’ Isis said, scrunching her own eyes against the sensation.

Mary handed Isis the empty beaker and lay back down. ‘Wilf’ll be here soon – he’ll take charge.’

‘We don’t want
him
here.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘But . . .’

‘He’ll help.’

‘But, but Mr Burgess said . . .’

‘Blast Mr Burgess,’ Mary muttered.

‘Well I for one don’t trust Mr Patey,’ Isis said stubbornly, and waited for Mary to ask her why, but Mary said nothing. In the distance there was the sound of a pony’s hooves and of wheels on gravel.

‘There you see, that’ll be him now.’

Mr Patey was already in the kitchen when Isis got down. ‘Proper Indian summer,’ he greeted her.

‘Mary’s ill,’ she said.

‘In bed? I’ll go up and see her.’

‘
No
.’ Isis stood in front of the door, though he could easily have thrown her aside. ‘She can’t see you today, but she wants you to help us with something.’

‘What?’

‘George.’

‘That old bugger.’ He’d taken his cap off and was smoothing his glossy black hair. There was a smell of clean sweat and coal dust coming off him.

‘Mary said you’d help us.’

‘Did she now?’ He narrowed his bright brown eyes – they didn’t look like murdering eyes – and she was struck by the thick sootiness of his lashes.

She turned her back on him and went outside. He followed her to the potting shed where Osi was sitting at the threshold muttering over his book.

‘Get out the road,’ Mr Patey said. Scowling at Isis, Osi inched himself aside.

Mr Patey knelt down and touched the old man’s cheek.

‘Osi found him, just a little while ago.’

‘He’s gone all right,’ Mr Patey said. ‘Mary not been down?’

‘No.’

‘One of her famous heads, I reckon?’ he said and Isis nodded. ‘Right then.’ He frowned and rubbed his hands. ‘Let’s get this sorted. Does he have a missus?’

Isis shook her head. ‘She died years ago.’ She watched Mr Patey’s face for a reaction to that, but there was none that she could see. ‘Will you get the police?’ she said.

‘What I reckon I’ll do is take him to the village. To the doctor’s. No one else around?’

Isis shook her head.

‘Then you kiddies’ll have to help me shift him.’

‘Or we could see to him here,’ Osi said.

‘
Osi
!’

‘Might as well get on with it.’ Mr Patey crouched down to get hold of George under his arms, the dead head lolling against his abdomen, and as he stood up the twins each took a leg. He wasn’t a heavy man and through the thick tweed of his trousers the shins felt thin and hard as sticks. His boots were like something historical and there was a smell of wet beds about him, and a damp patch left on the floor where he’d been lying. They managed to lug him to the cart and prop him in the back amongst the sacks of coal. Despite herself, Isis was impressed by the efficient, fussless way Mr Patey handled the corpse and trotted it away so briskly in his cart.