Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) (22 page)

It
would
still
be
ages
till
they
got
home.
How
could
we
bear
to
wait
till
then?
‘I’m
sure
Victor
will
be
back
soon,’
I
said.
‘He’ll
take
charge.’
The
lid
of
the
porridge
pan
lifted
and
clanked
with
the
steam
and
I
got
up
and
stirred.
‘We
should
eat,’
I
said,
surprised
by
a
wisp
of
hunger
stirred
up
by
the
oaty
smell.

The
porridge
was
lumpier
even
than
Mary’s
most
angry
porridge,
but
I
dished
it
out,
and
put
milk
and
sugar
on
the
table.
Osi
shovelled
his
down
as
usual.

‘You
should
get
properly
dressed,’
I
said.
‘And
I
do
wish
you’d
shut
your
mouth
when
you
eat.
It
will
put
any
lady
off,’
I
bothered
to
add,
I
don’t
know
why.
Although
there
was
hunger
in
my
stomach
I
could
hardly
squeeze
the
porridge
down
my
throat.
I
made
cocoa
for
us
both
and
loaded
it
with
sugar,
flinching
against
the
ghost
of
a
voice:
that
don’t
grow
on
trees
.

Osi
drank
his
cocoa
while
it
was
still
too
hot
for
me
to
swallow
and
then
he
got
up.

‘Don’t leave me alone,’ I pleaded, and then, pulling myself together, ‘I mean, you need to help today. You need to help me in the kitchen.’

He looked at me, eyes wide and green as grapes. ‘Later,’ he said. I heard him sneezing as he went upstairs. I guessed he would go back to his work now, as if nothing had happened. If he were thinking about Egypt, nothing else would be in his head. I was almost envious. There was nothing
I
could concentrate on so fiercely and completely. I cradled the hot cup in my hands and sipped my cocoa. While we waited for our parents’ return – which would be weeks – what should we eat? I’d have to do a list and I’d have to learn to cook properly quick smart.

I sat in Mary’s chair beside the stove and started a new shopping list.
Cheese
, I wrote,
eggs, potatoes, chocolate, sugar, bananas, candles
. I added the items Mary had put, wondering about the ‘br’ – brawn? Brisket? Brandy? I should get some for Victor anyway. And with that thought I dropped the pencil, drew my knees up to my chest and allowed myself to cry. I sobbed and groaned and tried to pray. If it were the other way round, Mary would pray for me. I thought I should go up and see her, pay my respects in some way, take her a flower – though nothing outside was blooming – not leave her up there, cold and alone. But I didn’t dare. I scarcely dared to leave the kitchen. Cleo crept onto my lap and we huddled together until the morning sun had passed the windows. Every now and then an icicle snapped like a bone and crashed past the glass.

Eventually I had to get up to visit the WC. And then, in order to finish my list, I checked the pantry. There was not much bread, though plenty of flour and yeast. The kitchen was plenty warm enough for proving, so I thought to try and make a loaf.

I struggled for hours with the mixture, my tears dripping into the bowl and salting the dough. Mary’s strong hands and arms would knead and stretch and slap the dough about and if she was in a fanciful mood she’d make plaits of bread or even – when we were smaller – sheep and flowers and funny bun people with currants for their eyes. I realized how puny the muscles in my own arms were as I stopped to rest and scrub my wet face with a floury hand. But it was good to be doing something real and helpful, and after all we had to eat. I could just hear Mary saying that. My head clamoured all day with things she would have said.

While waiting for the dough to rise, and then the loaf to cook, I went outside and fed the birds. I put on Victor’s greatcoat and stood with sparrows and finches hopping on my hands and shoulders, smelling the change in the air. The sky was already flushing with the start of sunset. The packed and frozen snow was wet and slithery, and there was a symphony of drips and tinkles, cracks and scatters, as snow and icicles descended from the roof and from the trees.

I fed the ballroom birds, averting my eyes completely from the mirrors, and then I shut myself in the kitchen once more, played patience, and read old newspapers, boring things about Germany defaulting on its reparations, more interesting things about fashions by Chanel, even sweaters can be chic, and a list of the sumptuous treasures from Tutankhamen’s tomb. I screwed that paper up and shoved it in the stove.

By the time the bread was steaming on the rack, the sky was dark. The loaves were so good, so well risen, so golden and crusty, they made me cry again. Mary would have said they were humdingers. I cut the end off one, even though you should leave bread to cool before you cut it, slathered it with butter and found that I could eat now, in fact that I could hardly stop myself.

I called Osi down but there was no answer. It took a vast effort of will for me to venture back upstairs, keeping my eyes averted from the door to the attic. I tried the nursery door, but he had pushed something against it.

‘Osi,’ I called. ‘I’ve made bread.’

‘Not hungry.’

‘Come down and have a warm then. What’s in the way of the door?’

But he wouldn’t come out. I could have forced the door open but I didn’t want to go into that cold, depressing room. ‘Busy,’ was all he that he would say.

It might seem that Osi was unfeeling, but I knew he was upset about Mary. He might even have been crying in there, not wanting me to see. And keeping busy always was his way.

‘Osi?’ I said again. ‘Are you warm enough?’ But my voice sounded so small and lonely and the gloom of the house engulfed me so that I hurried back down to the warm kitchen and stayed there, reading and eating – I believe I finished a whole loaf – and vainly straining my ears for the sound of Victor’s car, until it was evening. I felt shivery and my throat was growing scratchy, as Osi’s cold got into me. I made a hot water bottle and, much earlier than usual, carried it, with a stock of candles, up to bed.

On the way, I tapped on the nursery door again. ‘Are you all right?’ I said. ‘Osi, you need to come out and eat something.’

‘I will,’ he said.

‘Are you all right?’

Silence.

‘Please Osi, come out and eat something and come to bed.’

It was as if on both sides of the door we were holding our breaths and then I heard him blow his nose.

‘I hope you’re using a hanky,’ I called, and losing patience, went into our room and slammed the door.

I lay, fully dressed, between damp sheets, my feet burning on the bottle, chilblains itching, head filling up with cold, listening for the sound of Victor’s car, or for Osi to emerge from the nursery, but I heard nothing except an occasional owl screech and the sorrowful murmurings of the house. Cleo scratched at the door and I let her in. I often did, though Mary hated it, but now it didn’t matter, and that was awful. Cleo curled up at my side and comforted me with her purr. I left three candles burning. I could not stand to be in the dark. There was no moon or starlight, only the dark out there.

26

W
HEN
I
WOKE,
the sky was light, the window whited out with frost again and Osi absent. His bed was undisturbed. It was freezing, and utterly still. And now my head was thick with cold. I was baffled by a sense of unease or the taint of a bad dream – and then, with a lurch, remembered. I lay stunned, frozen as the day for a long silent stretch before I was able to force myself from bed.

No one else
would see to the stove or make the breakfast or
be ready for Mr Burgess when he came.

In my drawer
was a pile of handkerchiefs, ironed into lovely squares by
Mary. I blew my nose, put my coat over my
crumpled clothes, a pair of socks over the stockings I’d
slept in. I didn’t look at the door to the
attic as I passed it.
No use dwelling
. That’s exactly
what she would have said, in fact I could almost
hear her.
Just buck up and get on with it
. And that’s what we had to do,
best foot forward,
just send the telegram and keep ourselves alive till Arthur
and Evelyn came home. Why should we not be able
to do that? We were not helpless; we were not
babies.

Once our parents (or even Victor) had returned, Mary would
not be our responsibility any more and then I could
be, would be, properly, normally, sad. But I must hold
it at bay till then or everything would fly apart.
It felt like an actual inner manoeuvre, holding the pieces
together by sheer force of concentration and will.

‘I’m making porridge,’ I called as I passed the nursery door. I went along the corridor to tap on the door of the Blue Room, and when there was no answer I pushed open the door with a tiny flare of hope – but the bed was empty and untouched since last I’d looked.

Down in the kitchen, I opened the vent on the stove. To my amazed relief, it contained a glowing heap of ash – enough to coax into another blaze. I put a couple of sticks in, as I’d observed Mary doing, carefully balanced little coals on them and shut the door. I pressed my ear against the warm iron to listen and soon, sure enough, there was the crackle and catch of flame. I felt an odd little sensation of satisfaction that despite all and everything, one thing had come out right at least. I noticed that there was a scatter of salt on the table and that the cutlery drawer was lolling open. Last night it had been shut. So Osi must have been down and eaten something, and that was good.

When I went outside to fill the coal scuttle, I found the ground littered with broken icicles. The air was thin as glass again, too cold to breathe. The snow, in its melt, had slid like lazy eyelids over the windows and frozen there, as if the house itself had given up and gone to sleep.

Back inside, I poured oatmeal into the pan, adding water and a handful of raisins from a jar, as Mary had done sometimes for a treat. And I stirred the porridge this time, to stop it getting lumpy, and when it had glugged and thickened I pushed the pan off the hot plate and went upstairs to fetch my brother. This time I would not take no for an answer. He had to eat and I must make sure of it. Although only minutes older than him, I was the big sister, I was
the capable one; I would be responsible until I was relieved.

I
noticed
water
on
the
landing
floor,
not
water
but
drips
of
ice.
I
followed
them
to
the
bathroom.
The
door
was
open
and
the
bath
was
full
of
half
frozen
water.
Scattered
on
the
floor
was
more
salt.

Passing
the
door
to
the
attic
stairs,
I
saw
it
was
ajar.
The
nursery
door
was
shut.
I
stopped
outside.
The
handle
was
made
of
brass,
so
cold
under
my
hand
that
it
made
my
fingers
ache
as
I
hesitated,
building
up
my
resolve.
I
had
to
see
what
I
would
see
though
I
longed
to
run
to
my
bed
and
bury
my
head
beneath
the
covers.
I
turned
the
handle
and
pushed
hard
enough
to
move
the
chair
that
he
had
jammed
against
the
door.
As
the
door
opened
I
saw
my
brother
kneeling
on
the
floor,
looking
up
at
me
–
and
even
he
seemed
shocked
by
what
he’d
done.

I
shut
the
door
against
the
sight,
and
stared
at
the
paint,
pale
blue
as
on
all
the
doors,
chipped
at
the
edge
with
nibble
shapes
as
if
a
mouse
had
been
at
it.
I
breathed
in
and
out
three
times
watching
the
airy
feathers
bloom
and
vanish
before
I
opened
the
door
again.

‘Stop,’
I
said,
though
he
did
seem
already
to
have
stopped.
I
could
see
the
long
pale
blur
of
nakedness
at
the
edge
of
my
vision
and
also
blood,
roses
of
it,
on
the
carpet.

‘I’m
preparing
her
for
her
journey,’
he
said.

‘No!’
I
shouted
and
now
my
eyes
went
to
the
body,
the
arms
and
legs
jutting
at
stiff
angles,
the
hard
blue
bosoms,
the
cut
that
gaped
up
the
left
side
of
her
abdomen.
Osi
stood
up.
His
hands
were
bloody.
‘I’ve
done
it
wrong,’
he
said,
‘you’re
supposed
to
remove
the
lungs
and
the
intestines
and
. . .’

‘No,’
I
said,
my
voice
odd
and
wobbly.
‘No,
you’re
not.’

Osi
held
his
fingers
apart
and
stared
at
them.
Would
the
blood
freeze
onto
him?
Does
blood
freeze
like
water?
By
his
feet
was
a
heap
of
something
dark
and
sticky.

‘I can’t find her liver. I don’t know which thing is which.’

The light in the nursery was dim from the overhanging snow and yet it sparkled with a cruel clarity. I struggled to keep my voice level. ‘What you have to do is come and wash your hands and have your breakfast.’

He blinked as if he’d just woken from a trance and looked down at Mary and at his hands and then at me, pupils stretched so huge his eyes were black.

Someone might think he killed her
, I thought. That’s what it will look like. No one normal could possibly understand this.
Or even that we killed her together
. Despite her gaping abdomen there was still a slit of shine in Mary’s eyes, one open a bit more than the other, and between her lips there was the glint of teeth.

‘There isn’t enough salt,’ he said.

‘Stop it, Osi.’

‘I need to find her liver.’

‘
Stop!
’

A long shiver travelled from the soles of my feet to the skin of my scalp. I took a deep breath, the air rasping my sore throat, and a strange dream-like species of calm settled on me. I went into the bedroom and pulled the counterpane from Osi’s bed and then I covered Mary where she lay.

‘Come and wash.’

I stood outside the bathroom door and watched him run his hands under the tap, red water becoming pink, becoming clear. ‘And empty the bath,’ I said. The gurgling was loud as the water ran away in a prolonged and greedy gulping, leaving splinters of ice, and a nest of Mary’s curls tangled in the plug hole.

I dished up the porridge, put two dishes on the table, sat down and indicated that Osi should do the same.

‘Now eat.’

I took a mouthful, warm and sweet with a sudden juicy squelch of raisin between my teeth – I flinched at the sensation. Osi ate steadily as always, almost mechanically. Spoon in, pause, and swallow. Spoon in, pause
,
and swallow.

‘You know it’s wrong, don’t you?’ I said.

‘Why?’ He put his spoon down. He seemed revived by the porridge.