Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) (21 page)

24

I
WAS SHIVERY
FROM
the bath and my hair was still wet, but at least the kitchen was warm. In fact the stove was roaring, sounding dangerous,
eating coal
, Mary would say, and I closed it down a bit. I went into the pantry for the milk to make cocoa. There was an odd grimy smell in there as if something was going off, and I couldn’t see.

I’d turned to go and fetch a candle, when the door slammed shut. I went for the handle but there was someone there, the scratch of tweed, an off smell and I screamed and screamed until a hand clamped over my mouth.

‘Shut up,’ said a voice, not Mr Patey’s, but Victor’s.

I gasped for breath, my legs gone watery. He let me go. ‘Now shut up,’ he said again.

‘What are you doing?’ I blurted into the pitchy blackness. ‘I nearly died of fright.’ It was as if my heart would fling itself right out of my chest. His breath rasped hotly by my ear.

‘I knew there was someone here,’ I said.

I heard him swallow. The stench of him was overpowering.

‘Uncle Victor, can we open the door?’

‘
Uncle
,’ he mocked, but he did open it. I stepped out into the kitchen, never so grateful for a bit of light in my life.

‘You little cunt,’ he said.

I staggered back against the table. I’d never heard the word, and didn’t know the meaning of it, but I understood that it was a terrible thing to say.

‘How could you have told them that?’ he said. ‘You fucking little liar.’ He was snarling at me, lips pulled back from dirty teeth. He was filthy, bearded, hair wild and stiff, eyes far too wide, far too red.

I couldn’t speak. I backed away, stumbling on Cleo who shot off with a yowl. I pushed myself back against the burning heat of the stove. He stank of strong drink as well as sweat, tobacco, grime and I don’t like to think what else.

‘It was you,’ was all that I could say, ‘who took the cheese . . .’

‘Cheese!’ Spit flew from his mouth, hitting me on the lip but I didn’t dare wipe it away. ‘Do you know what you’ve done?’ he said.

My throat had closed up now and I had to try again before I could make any words come out. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ I said. The ball of spit seemed to burn and I had to scrub it off if it was the last thing I did.

He grabbed the top of
my arms. ‘Because of your fucking lies I have to
stay away. If I come anywhere near you, she says,
my sister’s husband, my own twin sister’s husband
,
will set
the police on me. The
Police
,
Isis. After all I’ve
done for this country.’ More spit was coming from his
mouth and I shrank back into the corner beside the
stove, feet sliding on the messy pile of newspapers. ‘And
all because of a stupid lying little bitch.’ His sour
breath was getting in my nose and I could see
red veins standing out in the yellow-white of his eyes.
His fingers dug painfully into my flesh.

I kicked his shin as hard as I could and he yelped and let me go and I scrubbed the spit away and made sure to get the table between us before I said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll tell them I was wrong. Honestly Victor, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

‘
Why
did you say it?’ He was bellowing so loudly that I thought surely Osi would hear and come down. Sometimes he would react to things, and I prayed that now would be the time.

‘I was
confused
,’ I said. ‘Honestly Victor.’

‘Confused!’

His head was jerking now, spasms that tore it back and sideways on his neck, as bad as it had ever been, and it was my fault.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I will tell them. ‘l’ll write. Tonight, you can watch me. I’ll tell them I was wrong. I didn’t mean it.’

He was leaning against the table now, watching me with eyes like dying fires.

‘You didn’t mean it,’ he repeated flatly. ‘Oh that’s all right, then.’

‘Don’t hate me, Victor,’ I said. ‘I was confused.’

‘Confused!’ he mocked, but he was losing energy. He staggered and steadied himself with a hand on the table. ‘So what did happen to you exactly?’

‘I don’t know, I honestly don’t know. I don’t even know if it was anything at all.’

‘
What
?’

‘Evelyn kept on and on at me. I had to say something. If I’d said it was Selim or any of the Arabs he would have had his hands chopped off. You told me.’

We stood staring at each until I tore my gaze away.

‘Victor.’ I struggled to quell the tremble in my voice. ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’

‘Something stronger,’ he said, and slumped down at the table.

Though I was scared to go back in there, I went into the dark of the pantry and stood on a stool to reach the bottles of strong drink, fumbling in the cobwebby space till my fingertips encountered the brandy. I brought it out and before I could fetch a glass he’d snatched it, wrenched the top off and was swigging it back.

I edged around him, quiet as could be, slicing bread, grating the remains of the cheese. Mary made Welsh rarebit properly with a white sauce and Lea and Perrins, but I was too trembly to do it properly, too aware that Victor might shout at, grab at, me again. But for now he seemed to have forgotten I was there and sat with one hand round the bottle, the other loose on the table, staring at something that I couldn’t see.

As soon as the toast was ready, I called Osi down and waited in the hall for him.

‘Victor’s here,’ I whispered, ‘and he’s angry, he’s really angry with me, and drunk.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said and pushed past me into the kitchen. ‘Hello, Victor.’ He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jumper.

‘Use a handkerchief,’ I snapped, keeping behind him.

Victor’s mouth stretched into something like a smile. He was halfway through the bottle now.

‘Where’s Mary?’ Osi glanced at the miserably scanty toasted cheese. He looked quite dreadful in the kitchen light, hair much too long and dried into messy tails, nose red and chapped.

‘In bed with her head,’ I said.

‘Fortunate head,’ Victor slurred and gave an ugly laugh.

Osi munched his food, but Victor pushed his away.

Now that Osi was there I felt a mite braver and sat down and took a bite of toast. ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked Victor. ‘I
knew
someone else was in the house, I told you Osi, didn’t I?’

‘I’ve
got
every
right,’
Victor
slurred.
His
face
sagged
and
dragged
against
his
supporting
hand.
It
was
as
if
all
his
bones
had
melted
and
his
face,
apart
from
the
shock
of
the
eyes,
had
gone
into
a
stubbly
blur.

‘But
where
have
you
been?’

‘Blue
Room.’

‘But
I
tried
the
door.’

‘I
know!’
Again
the
ghastly
attempt
at
a
smile.

Osi
was
looking
at
Victor’s
plate.

‘Go
on.’
Victor
pushed
it
towards
him.

‘Are
you
sure?
Surely
you
should
eat?’
I
said.

But
he
only
shrugged
and
so
I
shared
his
rarebit
between
myself
and
Osi.
If
it
wasn’t
delicious,
it
was
at
least
filling
and
still
warmish.

Victor’s
arm
gave
way
and
he
let
his
head
down
on
the
table
and
before
we’d
finished
eating,
he
was
asleep,
drool
spilling
from
his
slackened
lips.
How
shocked
Mary
would
be
to
find
him
in
the
morning,
and
how
cross.
But
I
didn’t
dare
disturb
him.

Once
Osi
had
finished
eating
and
gone
back
to
the
nursery,
I
took
out
a
pen
and
some
paper
and
wrote
the
letter
to
my
parents
at
their
post
restante
address
in
Luxor
so
that
Victor
would
see
it
as
soon
as
he
woke.
He
could
take
and
post
it
tomorrow.
I
wrote
that
I’d
been
wrong
and
absolutely
certain
that
Victor
hadn’t
gone
near
me
in
the
tomb,
and
that
in
all
my
life
he
had
never
been
less
than
a
jolly
good-
and
kind-hearted
uncle
to
me
and
Osi.
And
I
begged
them
to
forgive
me,
and
to
forget
the
awful
muddle,
and
please,
please,
please,
to
come
home
soon.

I
left
the
letter
open
on
the
table
and
cleared
up
quietly
round
Victor
who
was
snoring
now,
in
and
out
as
regularly
as
someone
sawing
wood.
And
then
I
went
to
bed,
wishing
I
could
secure
the
bedroom
door
–
but
Osi
would
want
to
come
to
bed
eventually,
and
I
could
hardly
lock
him
out.

25

I
N THE MORNING,
for the first time since we’d been home, there was no frost on our bedroom window. I was cheered by this, though it was still hideously chilly and damp. I jumped out of bed, and, leaving Osi asleep, put on another layer of clothes and hurried down to the kitchen. It was dull and cold; the stove gone out. My letter had vanished and there was no sign of Victor except for the empty bottle on the floor.

Today he would post the letter and all would be well. And what relief there was in that. Mary was still not down, so I decided to try and light the stove myself, to save her the trouble and to take her up a cup of tea. The day after one of her heads, she was always peaky and sluggish. Today she could sleep in for as long as she liked. I would insist; in fact, I would take charge. And later, she could come down and sit beside the stove. She could sit there all day if she wanted to, she could finish
Desert Longing
, or simply doze, just as she liked, and I would make a fuss of her. I prayed Victor would not return today, since that would aggravate her, but if he did come, I would say she needn’t worry about laying up the table in the dining room, she needn’t take any notice of him at all.

I fetched coal and kindling from the outhouse and struggled with the stove. Mary had the trick of lighting it, and the trick of coaxing it to stay alight. It took me ages to get it going, but in the end I did manage. I put the kettle and the porridge pan on the stove-top, and went upstairs to see how she was.

On my way up, I knocked on the Blue Room door just to check whether Victor was still there. The Blue Room was the room farthest from Osi’s and mine, at the other end of the gallery. It was a pretty, spacious room papered with bluebirds, with windows on two sides, and pale blue velvet curtains.

The door wasn’t locked and the room was empty, though the pillow was dented and the eiderdown trailed on the floor to show that he had gone up to bed at some time in the night, but there was nothing to indicate whether he planned to return. The view from the back window carried the eye right down the garden past the orchard, the vegetable patch, the obscured icehouse and over to the railway line. I pressed my face against the damp glass – everything out there was still caked in white, but there was a glimmer of pallid sunshine.

It was as if, since we’d been home, we had all been frozen solid, but now the sky was streaked with lemon and pale blue and it seemed possible that things could change, that spring could come. I felt a surge of optimism, borne out of the relief of having faced Uncle Victor, of having had it out with him, as Mary would say, and of telling the truth in my letter. I could make it all right again for him with Evelyn again, and I would.

So it was in a state of precarious cheerfulness that I went up the attic stairs to Mary’s room. I tapped at the door and, as I waited, heard from the roof the welcome whoosh of thawing snow. I tapped again. I would leave her if she were asleep. When I opened the door, very quietly, just to take a peep, I saw that she hadn’t moved since I’d left her. The room was very still and the sudden hard hammering of my heart echoed as if in a cave.

‘Mary,’ I murmured, but I knew already. ‘Mary?’ Her eyes were half open showing little slits of shine and her lips were blue. Thin sunlight shone on the whiteness of her cheek. I put my finger down to touch her, and she was icy cold. ‘Mary!’ I said. ‘Mary!’ and stupidly and uselessly I shook her, as if I could wake her from this, and her mouth started to open and just for a second I thought . . . but it was only the shaking that caused it, and I recoiled from a glimpse of teeth.

‘Wait there,’ I whispered, crept out of the room and fled down the stairs. I could not get down fast enough and stood on the landing staring at our bedroom door. I looked along the corridor towards the Blue Room, wishing that Victor were still here. What to do? What to do?

Osi was sleeping on his back, snoring through his blocked nose and I shook and thumped him. He always took ages to wake up properly – his eyes would open blankly, only gradually tuning in. I stood and shivered, waiting for him to become fully conscious, and then: ‘Mary’s dead,’ I said through chattering teeth.

He lay staring up at me, still blank.

‘Mary’s dead,’ I shouted and the shout rang on and on.

As he sat up my legs went weak and I rested down on the edge of his bed. A gust of wind rattled the window, strange after the frozen stillness we’d grown so used to.

‘And Victor’s gone away again. I don’t know what to do.’

Osi wiped his nose on his pyjama sleeve. ‘
M
,’ he said. ‘The owl means
M
.
M
for Mary.’

‘
Don’t
!’ I screamed, shocking myself with the sound. I jumped up. ‘None of your Egyptian rubbish now,
please
.’

He sniffed, seeming to consider.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘She might not be. I need you to come and see.’ I snatched his hand and dragged him out of bed. I made him put on his slippers and dressing gown, and we went out into the corridor. The house seemed to stretch, to yawn hugely round us as we made our way up the attic stairs.

Mary lay in exactly the same position, her face, possibly, a little bluer and her lips drawn further back. Osi poked her cheek with his forefinger. ‘She’s dead, all right,’ he said.

I was shocked by the heat of the tear that was rolling down my cheek. ‘Don’t poke her like that,’ I said, because he was jabbing her harder and harder with his long-nailed finger: neck, chest, stomach. There was a fascinated glitter in his eyes. I grabbed his arm, pulled him out of the room and shook him. ‘Osi!
Please
. Be
normal
. I need you to be normal now.’

The light in his eyes dimmed and he looked properly at me. ‘Poor Mary,’ he said, and sneezed horribly against the wall.

The stove had stayed alight and the kitchen was warm, the kettle coming to the boil and the porridge pan bubbling. On the dresser was Mary’s list for Mr Burgess: onions, carrots, potatoes, blancmange powder, soap flakes, gravy browning and ‘br’. Beside it lay a pencil chewed at the end. Mary always chewed a pencil while pondering the list.

‘What shall we do?’ I said, I kept saying, really to myself. I didn’t expect any help from Osi, but I did want him with me. With the shock and the grief and the fear, too many things, too strong, to feel, I was hardly feeling anything at all. ‘I don’t know what we’re
supposed
to
do,’
I
said,
hearing
as
if
from
outside
myself
the
pathetic
whimper
of
my
voice.
And
then
I
did
feel
something
–
anger.
‘There
should
be
a
parent
here!’
I
said.
‘This
is
not
fair!
Now
we’re
all
alone,
what
are
we
supposed
to
do?’
The
rage
was
a
relief;
something
definite.
I
stamped
my
foot.
‘How
can
they
leave
us
like
this?
What
are
we
going
to
do?’

‘Is
Victor
coming
back?’
Osi
asked.

‘How
am
I
supposed
to
know?’

I
was
thinking.
This
was
Sunday.
Mr
Burgess
would
be
here
tomorrow.
Could
we
leave
her
till
tomorrow?
And
Victor
might
return,
he
might
be
back
at
any
moment.
And
then
he’d
drive
to
the
village
for
the
doctor.
I
thought
with
a
shudder
of
Mr
Patey,
and
his
dead
wives.
If
Mary
had
married
him,
she’d
be
yet
another
to
add
to
his
list.
Mr
Patey,
the
conscientious
objector
and
his
trail
of
death.
It
was
her
blessed
head.
It’ll
be
the
death
of
me
.
She’d
said
that
often
enough.

If only there was a
telephone – Arthur had talked so often of installing one,
but always ‘next time we’re home’ and naturally he never
had. Of course we must send Evelyn and Arthur a
telegram; that’s what you do in emergencies. Mr Burgess would
help us with that, even if Victor didn’t return, and
then they’d have to come home. In spite of everything,
I felt a little leap of pleasure at the idea.
This was so serious that they would surely have to
come home and not leave us again, not without Mary.
There was a gulp stuck in my throat like a
rock that wouldn’t move.
Without Mary
. We had never been
without her in Little Egypt. Osi was staring at me,
waiting for what I would say or do.

‘I
suppose
the
police
must
know,’
I
said.

‘They
might
take
us
away,’
he
said.

I
was
so
unused
to
him
considering
practical
things
that
it
was
a
surprise
when
he
spoke
sense.

‘There’s
probably
something
wrong
about
children
living
on
their
own,’
I
agreed.
‘Not
that
we’re
quite
children
any
more.
They’ll
simply
have
to
come
home.’

I
picked
up
Mary’s
frayed
pencil
to
compose
the
telegram.
I
remembered
from
telegrams
in
the
war
that
each
word
cost
a
fortune
and
didn’t
you
have
to
put
stops
in?
Since
Mr
Burgess
was
already
owed
money
again,
we’d
have
to
keep
it
short.
Urgent
stop
Mary
dead
stop
come
home
stop?
Did
the
stops
cost
anything?
Did
we
need
them?
I
found
that
I
was
chewing
the
softened
end
of
the
pencil,
woody
flecks
coming
off
between
my
teeth.
I
spat
them
on
the
table,
thinking
of
germs,
of
Mary’s
germs
and
remembering
with
a
jolt
that
she
was
actually
upstairs
dead.
That
this
was
real.
I
swallowed
hard
but
the
rock
in
my
throat
was
lodged
tight.