Sands of Time (31 page)

He touched the drawing lightly for a second time then he turned to look at the mummy. ‘They did this so their bodies would be OK to use again, right?’

‘Something like that.’

‘What happens if they don’t save the body? What happens if it gets incinerated? What does the person do when they come back and it’s not there?’ The intensity of the questioning, and the sudden anguish in the blue eyes made her catch her breath.

‘We don’t believe in the same things as the Egyptians did,’ she said carefully. ‘We don’t believe we need our bodies to be preserved. We don’t believe we need to take things with us to the grave like they did.’

This was too deep for her suddenly; the rest of the party had moved on into the next room. The gallery was quiet again.

And then the insight came. She put out her hand and took his. For a moment she thought he’d pull away but he didn’t, he moved a step closer and she realised suddenly that a tear was trickling down his cheek. ‘My little sister. She died.’ He strangulated the words, ashamed of the need even to speak them out loud. ‘My mum put her teddy bear in with her. In case she needed it.’ Another tear spilt over. ‘Then they burned her in the box.’

Stephanie was appalled. She didn’t know what to say. Ducking down she leaned the sketchbook against the glass case and put her arms round him, feeling the shoulders, belying the rounded cheeks, painfully thin beneath the grey sweatshirt. ‘They shouldn’t have done that, should they, miss?’

‘It’s what we do, in our culture,’ she whispered awkwardly down into the soft short-cropped hair. ‘We believe we won’t need the same body again. We believe we’ll get a new one in heaven.’

‘Then they were wrong?’ He nodded towards the mummy.

‘I think they were wrong.’

He was trembling and she tightened her hold on him, desperately seeking to give comfort.

‘But we don’t know. We might be wrong. I don’t want to be burnt!’ It came out as an anguished whimper. ‘I’m older than her. A lot older, so I could die, couldn’t I? Like that boy – ’

She hugged him closer. ‘I think you look fine to me. I think you look like someone who could live to be an old, old man before you die – ’

She broke off as a hand appeared from behind her and grabbed the boy’s arm, wrenching him away.

‘Let go of this child! How dare you! I’m going to call the police!’

It was the teacher. The furious woman facing her suddenly was tall and thin, dressed in a denim skirt and Indian cotton top, with sensible flat shoes and a heavy dragging rucksack on her shoulder. Her face, lined and exhausted, was at this moment, red with anger.

‘Go and wait with the others, Mick. Now!’ She made no attempt to find out why he was crying.

Stephanie stared at her in shock. ‘You don’t understand. He was asking me – ’

‘Oh yes, I understand all right!’ The woman was positively spitting at her. ‘People like you can’t get a real man, so you try and seduce a child!’ Her voice rose hysterically.

‘What do you mean? I didn’t! You’re wrong!’ Stephanie was aware suddenly of a crowd gathering round her. The gallery attendant was heading their way. The children were streaming back towards them. Other people were staring. Shaking their heads. Muttering.

‘Look, he spoke to me first. He was looking at my sketches. I put my arms round him because he started to cry – ’

The woman wasn’t listening. She was shouting now. Calling for witnesses, demanding again that someone fetch the police.

And then as suddenly as it had started, it was all over. The attendant was there at their side. ‘I saw it all,’ he said firmly. He calmed the woman down. He explained what he had seen. He soothed and cajoled and pacified. In minutes she was walking away, Mick, subdued and defiant, trailing behind her, the other children already streaming ahead.

‘You OK?’ The attendant looked at Steph. ‘Don’t you worry about that. Too much responsibility, too little pay. No one to help her. Poor woman doesn’t know if she’s coming or going. All she can do is count them again and again and hope she hasn’t lost any.’ He paused. He had gentle brown eyes in a richly wrinkled black face and she saw him studying her with a shrewdness which disconcerted her. ‘You’re more upset than she was, you know that?’

Steph nodded, blinking back tears. ‘It was that boy. His sister had died. He was confronting death for the first time and he was so afraid.’

‘And he had no one to talk to?’

She shook her head. ‘No one, I suspect. Just a brokenhearted mother who had enough grief to cope with herself.’ She sniffed. ‘He saw my drawing of the boy.’ Stooping she picked up the sketch pad. ‘And somehow he identified with it –’ She paused, staring at the page. The child’s mummy was there, in the centre of the blank sheet, neatly sketched in minute detail, perfect for an illustration. She fumbled at the pages, turning them over, searching frantically. ‘I don’t understand it. He’s gone. The boy I drew has gone!’

‘He steal it?’ The attendant nodded after the departing figures. The rest of the crowd had melted away.

‘No. No! Of course he didn’t steal it. He wouldn’t have. Couldn’t have. There’s no page missing. It is as though it was never here!’ She closed the book and stared at him. ‘I can’t have imagined it. Can I?’

Shrugging, he looked round the gallery for a minute or two in thoughtful silence. ‘Working here, day after day, I see a lot of strange things. I’ve seen figures walking between the glass cases when there was no public in here. I’ve seen eyes looking at me from inside some of those mummies, and the eyes followed me round the room. I’ve seen things inside the cases move. There were some ear rings. Beautiful. Gold. The kind of thing a pretty lady would love. One day they were in there – ’ he nodded towards a side case full of artefacts, ‘the next they were there, where they should have been, with her.’ He gestured towards the mummy of a young woman.

Stephanie stared at him, unsure whether to believe him. ‘Doesn’t anyone notice?’

‘Apart from me?’ He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to one side. ‘Sometimes. Then they blame whoever arranged the exhibits. Whoever got the labelling wrong.’ He chuckled.

‘And my drawing. How do you explain that?’

‘Who knows? But nothing happens by accident. The lad in that glass case, the little kid, Mick. You. You all needed each other at that moment. You gave the boy life in that sketch. You gave Mick the hug he needed. And, who knows, maybe you needed one too!’ He grinned at her.

‘You’re quite a philosopher, do you know that?’

He shrugged. ‘I’d have to be, to work here.’

She watched him walk away, then she turned back to the glass case and stared down at the wide-eyed blank stare of the mummy. She couldn’t get the memory of the thin, vulnerable bones of the child she had held so briefly in her arms out of her head. He had been outwardly all that she detested in children. Noisy. Aggressive. Challenging. Somehow out of control, and yet beneath that exterior he had been hurting so badly; pleading for reassurance. And he had come to her.

Slowly she slipped the sketchbook into her bag. One of the sketches would be right for the article. She had done enough. In the corner of the gallery the attendant was talking to a group of women. There were several French students clustered near her now. The school party had long gone.

She thought suddenly of Dan – his quiet pleading, his patience as he tried to explain how much he wanted a child, his anger when she refused even to discuss it. Did he feel this strange need to bring security and love to a small vulnerable human being?

She turned towards the entrance, glancing towards the attendant again and she saw him smile and lift a hand. She hadn’t changed her mind. It wasn’t that easy. Too many strange things had happened in the space of the last hour even to comprehend them all. But maybe, just maybe, it would make her think again.

‘Bye!’ She didn’t realise she had spoken out loud to the mummy in the sterile glass case till she saw someone a few paces away glance up at her, startled. She shrugged apologetically.

The murmured farewell in her ear had been after all, surely, purely in her imagination.

Day Trip

This story is true. Well, more or less. But you must look away, gentle reader, if rude words offend you, for this story can only be told as it happened, with the real dialogue. Asterisks just will not do! It happened one day in autumn.

As Caroline pocketed her car keys and made her way onto the platform her heart sank. It was a small station; often she was the only person to board the train here, especially when she left for London mid-morning, but today the worst happened. There was another passenger waiting as the train drew in – James Campbell, the owner of the huge, immaculate house at the end of the winding lane where Caroline’s cottage stood in its quarter acre of wild garden. There was no time to walk to the other end of the platform. The train was stopping. He was already opening a door, smiling at her with that cold superior smile of his, and bowing slightly to indicate she should enter the carriage ahead of him.

It is hard to incline one’s head graciously while carrying a shoulder bag, a heavy tapestry portmanteau and an A1 black plastic portfolio, especially while dressed in a long flapping skirt which threatened to tangle with her sexy high-heeled boots, but she managed it. With a creditable attempt at dignity she walked to the only set of empty seats and sat down, facing what used in days of old to be called the engine. If he had any tact at all, any discretion, any sense of decency and good manners he would move to the other end of the carriage.

He didn’t. He came and sat down opposite her.

She wasn’t sure quite when her antagonism for this man had begun to develop. The day she moved into the cottage probably. Independence meant an enormous amount to her. This was her first real home and no one, but no one, was going to interfere in the way she decorated it. Or lived her life in it.

She had had an idyllic childhood in her parents’ home. She would be the first to admit that she really had no grounds for complaint at all. No abuse. No deprivation. But she had not at any time been allowed to express her own personality in the decoration of her room. Her nursery, her bedroom, her teenage den – the same room, different incarnations – had all been decorated and furnished to her domineering mother’s taste. Which was attractive. Stylish even. In anyone else’s home she would have admired it. In her own it represented oppression of her individuality and her spirit. Her marriage had been to an interior designer. Perhaps inevitably, given her longing to create her own environment, it had been a disaster. In the house she shared with him she wasn’t even allowed to choose the colour of her own toothbrush. The marriage lasted no time at all.

And then at last she was free. Her mother, her father and even, for heaven’s sake, her ex-husband offered to help her house hunt. When she found the cottage all three felt she had made a mistake. Her mother thought it too twee for words, her father felt it was hopelessly impractical and a bad investment and Phil, her ex, had just one word for the thatch, the honeysuckle, the small leaded windows. Naf.

Undeterred (in fact, if truth were known, greatly encouraged), she embarked on an orgy of do-it-yourself. Decorating, embellishing, improving. Rejecting the share of tasteful furniture due to her as the marital home was divided she settled instead for a dollop of wonderful cash and began to haunt antique shops and car boot sales, country craft fairs and rural art galleries. That was when she discovered she could paint – and, to her astonishment, sell – the wild colourful amazing tangles of flowers which rampaged round her garden.

The first and, to be honest, only dampener on her exuberance outside her own family had been: James Campbell.

‘I trust you intend to do something about those thistles, Mrs Evans.’ His patrician profile had appeared over her gate one day as she was sitting, her face shaded by a broad-brimmed straw hat, sketching the offending plants. He had spotted her and them from his Range Rover and stopped especially to speak to her. No, hello; no, I hope you’re settling in OK; no, welcome to the neighbourhood. Just instant criticism followed by a curt nod before he turned back to his barouche.

Seething, she planned to make a midnight visit to his own regimented acres at dead of night later in the summer. With pockets full of thistle down.

Their relationship from that moment on had steadily deteriorated, his only remarks on the rare occasions they met were patronising and critical and on one occasion were actually conveyed via a formal complaint about her flowering hedges to the Parish Council. Apparently her blackthorn and her holly, her roses and her honeysuckle were scratching the barouche as he drove past.