Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) (13 page)

13

T
HE MORNING AIR
was cool and clear and there was quite a breeze. Osi was already sitting up squinting at a book. Isis uncramped herself and stood stretching and yawning, watching the sway and struggle of palms fronds on some distant trees.

‘Morning.’ Victor’s voice made her jump. He grinned up at her over the side of the lorry. His eyes were squinty pink and his chin peppered with grey and gingery bristles.

‘You had a nightmare,’ she said. Victor acknowledged the truth of this with a nod. ‘All better in the light of day,’ she said and ran her tongue round her teeth, furry from lack of a toothbrush. She picked the sharp grit of sleep from the corner of her eyes. Osi’s hair was standing up on end where he had rubbed his hands through it and the seat of his trousers was filthy, but so was her own dress filthy, her hair stiff with sweat and sand.

‘We must look like a gang of bally tinkers,’ she said, and almost gaily, for they must keep their spirits up. ‘Oh for a good old wash and brush up!’

Haru appeared beside Victor looking miraculously fresh, the whites of his eyes clear between his glossy lashes.

‘We must apologise for the theft of your trunk,’ Haru said, bowing his head a fraction. ‘We can only suppose it happened when we were in the café yesterday.’

‘That’s all right,’ Isis said in a small voice.

‘And I offer apologies for my bad temper of yesterday. You see Mr and Mrs Spurling promised me payment and now I must borrow money to get you there.’

‘Victor’s got money,’ Isis said.

‘I’m hardly rolling in it, Icy,’ Victor said. ‘But my funds will cover hotels and whatnot. You get us there safely, Haru, and I guarantee that Mrs Spurling will pay you double.’

‘But the lorry is no good for a big drive, I think.’

‘Then you must hire another.’

‘That will cost too much.’

‘The train?’

‘Too much and we are far from the station now.’

Akil’s disembodied voice rattled round from the front of the truck.

‘My uncle suggests we take a boat,’ said Haru.

‘That would be fun!’ Isis said. ‘After all, it’s what was planned. Would you like that, Osi?’

But Osi was staring into the distance. Looking in the direction of his gaze she saw that he was absorbed with watching a big ragged bird, a vulture or an eagle, tearing at something with its bloody beak.

The lorry coughed clouds of black exhaust as Haru cranked the engine, but it did start. Isis took a sip of the remaining water and passed the bottle to Osi, watching the bulge in his thin, grubby throat as he swallowed it down. They all resumed their positions for the drive, and in only an hour or so, Haru had delivered them to a small, bustling place on the banks of the Nile. Immediately they stepped out of the lorry and their white faces were seen; pedlars and beggars surrounded Victor and the children in a frightening jostle, but Haru and Akil sent them packing with waving arms and a fierce volley of invective.

Victor was keen to do business with an English speaker, rather than get himself fleeced, and the only suitable available person was an elderly American lady, quite miniature, wearing trousers and a striped boy’s shirt. Her hair was cropped grey and her face shrunken, crinkled like a monkey’s. Her name was Miss Rhoda Vandercamp, she told them, and her dhow was called
Marguerite
, after her dear, dead friend.

Haru’s plan had been for them to hire the boat from her and for him to sail it, but that she would not allow.

‘I’m the Captain of this tub,’ she said, ‘and I don’t let her out of my sight.’ Haru gave up, muttering something that sounded very rude and spitting in the dirt. Rhoda caught Isis’ eye and smiled and Isis moved towards her.

‘I’m Isis,’ she said, ‘and this is Osi, and this is Uncle Victor.’

Rhoda choked. ‘Isis? And Osi – don’t tell me –
Osiris
?!’

There was silence for a moment and Isis caught a smile flicker across Haru’s face before he turned away.

‘We can’t help it,’ she said hotly.

‘Poor kids,’ Rhoda said.

‘If you’re going to be so rude –’ Isis began, but Victor cut across her.

‘Do you know the Spurlings, by any chance?’ he asked.

‘Oh yeah, I know the Spurlings,’ Rhoda said. She was eyeing the twins with an amused twist to her face. ‘That adds up. And isn’t the little guy the goddam image of the mom?’

Osi stared at her blankly.

‘Are you friends then?’ Isis asked.

Rhoda’s face was asymmetrical, so that the wry expression was permanent. Perhaps she’d had an accident? Her small eyes were like currants pressed into a leathery bun.

‘I know
of
them,’ she repeated. ‘Known of them for years. They’re quite a
legend,
your folks.’ The way she said it was not entirely nice, Isis was afraid, but perhaps the peculiarly squinty face just made it seem so.

For the journey, Haru bought flat discs of bread, white cheese and dates. Sitting with the sun glinting off the river and the breeze lifting her hair, Isis rolled dates and cheese in the bread and crammed her mouth and it was the most heavenly breakfast she had ever had. These dates had not the withered, dusty texture of the pantry ones, but a crisp, fresh sugaryness. There was clean water to drink, and if you are thirsty, that’s the best thing, as Mary always maintained.

By now the sun was high in the sky and the thin sharp air of morning had turned thick and hot so that it was refreshing to be out on the river, where there was breeze enough for the
Marguerite
to skim.

Isis silently forgave Rhoda for her scorn, after all they
were
stupid names for English children, and it was a relief and a comfort to be in female company. Rhoda seemed all made up of strings and gristle, but was strong and agile, not like an old person at all, nothing like Mrs Grievous, and it cheered Isis to know that there were other women who wore trousers and no lipstick and who talked and acted and smoked like men. Perhaps Evelyn wasn’t such an oddity as she had supposed; perhaps in Egypt that was
de rigueur
? She took a surreptitious sniff of Rhoda’s arm when it was near her nose and the female smokiness caused a fierce dart of longing for her mother.

Marguerite
was an elegant dhow, the tall sail scarlet as a runner-bean flower. There were places to sit at both ends and a covered section in the middle with canvas screens you could pull across. As soon as they cast off, Victor went under the cover and slumped down as if he’d been shot, while Osi hung over the side gawping. Haru and Akil didn’t help at all, but sat and smoked and spat, grumbling and eyeing Rhoda coldly, but she clearly didn’t give a fig and looked back at them with an equal measure of contempt. Isis stayed at the back of the boat with Rhoda who was navigating deftly between other boats – dhows, fellucas, rafts and the small crowded steamers run by the Cooks’ holiday people. Rhoda said there was a craze for Egypt since the war and raised an eyebrow comically as if that was stupid.

It was cool on the river, the smooth green glide so much nearer and more intimate than the sea had been. The water bucked and writhed beneath the boards at first, but as they progressed they settled into an even slide. The rising smell of the water reminded Isis of ink, when you put your nose to the neck of the bottle – a dark, swilling breath of unborn words.

‘In what way are they a legend?’ she asked Rhoda.

‘Huh?’

‘Our parents.’

Rhoda was smoking a thin black cigarette, and she let smoke plume from her mouth before she spoke, in the very manner Evelyn did, as if the smoke was part of the process of the thought itself.

‘I only meant that they’re well known.’

‘For what?’ Isis said.

‘For their
enthusiasm.
’

Isis frowned, not quite liking the way she said the word, as if there was something wrong with enthusiasm.

‘Once they’ve found Herihor–’ Isis began, but Rhoda choked on her smoke.

Politely, Isis turned away to let her recover herself. ‘They really
will
be a legend then,’ she said.

Rhoda threw the end of her cigarette into the water. ‘There are all types of folks scrabbling to dig up the tombs these days. There’s crooks and looters and treasure hunters, there’s scholars, there’s millionaires with nothing better to do with their money.’ She paused, lifted her hand to shade her eyes. ‘And then there’s fools.’

Isis frowned at the glitter of the river. A pink flower floated past, and then a playing card and then a sandal. Perhaps someone’s boat had gone belly up.

‘And which are they?’ she asked quietly.

Rhoda lit another cigarette, her thin lips crinkling into a starburst. ‘It’s all changed,’ she said, ‘since Independence, it’s not so easy for amateurs and,’ she lowered her voice, ‘they resent the British coming in and taking all the loot, their
heritage
,’ she corrected herself. ‘And if you want my opinion, they’ve got a point.’

Isis blinked. It had never occurred to her that it might be
wrong
to take treasure out of the tombs and out of Egypt.

‘It’s more dangerous lately,’ Rhoda continued. ‘People like your folks, well, tell the truth, they’re out of their depth. Carter has the right idea,’ she added. ‘Bona fide foreman for his workers, funding from some nob – but even then there’s –’

‘
Mummy
,’ Isis surprised herself with the word, ‘is funding it all herself, from her estate.’ More playing cards, a ribbon and what might have been a glove swept by. ‘Look at all the things,’ she added.

Rhoda nodded.

‘Which are they?’ Isis said again.

‘Well,’ Rhoda thought for a moment. ‘They’re not the greatest scholars, but they sure do make up for it in enthusiasm.’

‘You said that. What’s wrong with that? Mr Carter must be enthusiastic too.’

Rhoda lifted her hand to greet a white robed man on the bank. He shouted something in Arabic and she replied, her voice harsh and rattly and they both laughed.

‘And they do nothing but study and read and search – they must be quite good scholars,’ Isis said hotly. ‘I should say they’re very good scholars indeed. I shouldn’t like to call them amateurs. ‘

A Chinese fan went past, flapping on the ripples like the wing of a bird.

‘Well, like I say, there are some unscrupulous folks about,’ Rhoda said. ‘Folks that might take advantage of
enthusiasm.
’ She steered the dhow past an island lush with trees and flowers, lit another cigarette and seemed disinclined to say any more.

Crossly, Isis moved away to where Osi was pestering Haru with unwanted information about the Temple at Abydos, which they had recently passed. He’d wanted to stop and look, but Rhoda said she wasn’t in the business of doing a guided tour; she simply wanted to get there and back.

Isis put her head against the wooden side of the boat and gazed at the banks of the Nile as they slid past like a biblical frieze: palm trees, long horned oxen tilling the soil, figures in robes with baskets on their heads, goats and sheep and corn, ibis, and sometimes a bird that looked like an eagle, swooping low. She watched a group of women kneeling by the banks wringing out clothes and spreading them on rocks to dry as their children played at the river’s edge. Isis waved and one of the women lifted her hand and her child jumped and squealed and splashed excitedly.

She was still smarting with Rhoda’s implication. Or perhaps it was more than an implication? But no, she surely couldn’t mean that Evelyn and Arthur
were fools? It was only the odd twist of her face that carried through into her voice that made it seem so. Rhoda was scornful of everyone, after all: the Cooks’ tour people, Haru and Akil, probably Osi and Isis too. It was just her way. But she was right about one thing. It did seem wrong that foreigners could come into a country and take away its treasure. It was a fresh idea.

The worrying began to make her head ache and to distract herself she listened to Haru trying to tell Osi about Queen Hatshepsut, and Osi spoiling the story by interrupting and contradicting in an infuriatingly superior voice: ‘I think you’ll find . . .’ until Haru grew quite sick of him and moved off to smoke and spit and mutter with Akil.