Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) (23 page)

‘It’s against the law,’ I said.

‘Whose law?’

‘British Law. The law of the land.’

‘How do you know?’

I stared at his red, crusted nose.

‘It’s what happens, Osi. Dead people have funerals and are buried in graveyards.’

‘Soulless affairs,’ Osi said and I recognised Arthur’s
voice getting into his, ‘the so-called decent Christian burial. I
want to do it the proper way, otherwise,’ and just
in time, before I lost my temper, his voice became
anxious and his own again, ‘otherwise she’ll end up in
the next world with
nothing,
Icy. She has to be
preserved. She needs her
things
with her.’ He looked up
and met my eyes. ‘But
I’ve made a mess of it.’

He put down his spoon and swallowed. I heard the hard click in his throat, and then he pushed his chair back and went out of the kitchen
,
and I listened to the creaking as he went back upstairs. I didn’t know what to say or do. He was only doing what he thought was best for Mary, I understood that, and knew I should not to blame him, though it made me sick.

At that moment I could easily have hated him. If he hadn’t looked so scared I would have hated him. He had ruined everything. He had ruined the rest of our lives, though I didn’t understand that then. All I knew then was that this would have to be kept secret, if Osi wasn’t to end up in asylum, or both of us in prison. I sat staring at my porridge as it congealed.

Mr
Burgess
had
a
toothache,
his
jaw
muffled
in
a
tartan
scarf.
He
stepped
into
the
kitchen
smelling
of
eucalyptus,
with
a
dewdrop
on
the
end
of
his
nose
that
trembled
as
he
went
on
about
the
night
he’d
had
of
it.
Everyone
had
the
cold,
he
told
us,
it
was
going
round
like
wildfire
and
what
with
this
weather,
we
should
be
bally
grateful
he
could
do
his
rounds
at
all.
He
put
the
box
of
groceries
on
the
table
and
looked
around
for
Mary.

‘Chew
a
clove,’
I
said.
‘It’s
what
Mary
does
for
toothache.’
I
winced
as
I
spoke
her
name.
‘Do
you
want
one?
She’s
gone
to
her
sister’s.’

He
looked
at
the
kettle,
moustache
drooping
glumly,
but
I
only
handed
him
the
list.
The
dewdrop
fell
from
his
nose
onto
his
scarf.

‘I
don’t
know
nothing
about
a
sister,’
he
said.

‘Could
you
send
the
telegram
please
and
add
it
to
the
bill.’
My
mind
was
flocking,
with
what
I
could
put.
Not
Mary
dead,
of
course,
not
now.
‘A
telegram
to
my
parents,’
I
said.

‘Saying
what?’

‘I’ll
write
it.’
I
picked
up
the
pencil.
Mary
gone
stop
,
I
put,
immediate
return
vital
stop.
I
was
pleased
with
the
concision.
Surely they would take notice of that?

I held my breath as Mr Burgess took in my words. ‘She went away unexpected then?’ he said.

‘Her sister was taken poorly,’ I said. ‘Very poorly.’

‘How did she get word? I don’t recall a letter.’

I stared at him. A new drip was gathering. ‘Someone came for her,’ I said.

‘It’s rum that she’s never mentioned a sister,’ he said. ‘I seem to remember her saying she had no one in the world, besides you two.’

‘They didn’t speak for years,’ I improvised. ‘Some falling out – and then they . . . fell back in again.’

He was looking at me suspiciously. ‘Who was it came to fetch her then?’

‘Goodness!’ I said. ‘What does it matter? The fact is, she’s had to go, so you see we need to telegraph our parents.’

‘When’s she coming back then?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘She’s very cross, you know, about not being paid and so on.’

He believed that, at least.

‘She might not ever come back.’ My voice cracked and I had to look hard at the table and crunch my teeth together to keep from wailing.

He stared at me with his bleary eyes. ‘Will you manage on your own?’

I sniffed and got my voice under control. ‘Uncle Victor’s coming – with a lady,’ I said. ‘We’ll be right as nine-pence.’ I forced a smile. ‘And Ma and Pa will be home before you know it.’

Mr Burgess glanced wistfully at the kettle.

‘That’ll be all then,’ I said.

‘She left no word for me?’

I shook my head.

‘Well, when you hear from her send her my . . . best regards,’ Mr Burgess said. ‘Oooch.’ His hand shot to his jaw.

‘Sure you don’t want a clove?’

He shook his head and tightened his muffler. I waited till he was out of the door and then ran up to our bedroom, scritched a space in the frost with my fingernails, and watched his van blur into white.

27

A
ND THEN, DRAGGING
my feet, I went to find Osi. It took all my will to push open the nursery door, but he was not there. Mary was; I’d had a wild magical idea that she would somehow have gone, but she lay as we’d left her, covered with the counterpane, a pale puff of curls escaping from one end. So cold and stiff,
chilled to the marrow
, she would have said, and now that was really, literally true.

I found Osi sitting up in bed, shivering, arms clutched round
The Egyptian Book of the Dead.

‘I’ve done it wrong,’ Osi said, voice cracking. ‘I’ve messed her up.’

He’d lost his nerve. I understood; he had always dreamed of mummifying a human being and had woken from the dream to the reality of Mary dead and himself, a childish amateur with a knife, expecting a neat diagram of a body rather than the loose, unruly, stinking thing it is once you cut through the skin.

I slumped down on my own bed and blew my nose. I longed to be warm. I longed not to have to think. In truth, I longed to climb into bed and stick my head under the pillow and not come out till this was all over. But it would never be over. The idea of running away flashed through my mind. But I had no money and no idea, really, how to go
about
running away, especially in such bitter cold. Running away with Osi in tow would have been impossible – and leaving him even more so. I was his sister and I was responsible, and despite all and everything, I did love him. Not a love that I had decided on, but a deep and visceral tugging in my guts and in my veins. Osi needed me and always would.

His eyes were fixed on m, waiting for me to speak. At that moment I had the sensation of something, some sort of guard, falling away inside me as I admitted the thought that we would have to complete the process; that it was the only thing we could do. We could not, after all, undo it. We could not put Mary back together. We could not call police and doctors and all the normal things that people do when a loved one dies.

It would be the best thing to get her neatly wrapped, rather than to leave her loose and oozing. She would be more comfortable, more complete, stupid to even think it, but somehow
warmer
that way; cared for, at least.
Tucked up. Snug as a bug in a rug
. And it would be something that Arthur and Evelyn would understand. They could scarcely be angry with Osi, or even surprised, that after all their encouragement he’d taken to behaving like an ancient Egyptian.

And I thought it must be good for him, better for him, to complete the process he had started. I didn’t want him to feel that he had failed. Failed himself, failed Mary, just
failed
. So I told him he would have to finish. At first he refused, said he could not do it. I had to pull him out of bed and force him to get dressed. I could still make Osi do things in those days. And then I dragged him to the nursery.

Jars and more salt was what he needed – though there wasn’t any more salt – and he’d need hundreds of bandages, which we didn’t have. He said he could not, would not, do it and so I locked him in the nursery with Mary. It sounds cruel, but it was the best thing for him. He didn’t bang on the door or shout like a normal person. He would carry on the process, I knew he would, it would be only thing he’d be able to think of to do.

And the best thing.

Dizzied with disbelief at what I was making happen, I went down to the pantry. He was right that there was no salt. Mary had wondered why we got through so much and now I understood that Osi had been purloining it for such an opportunity as this. I emptied out currants and tea and split peas for the canopic jars. I took the best linen sheets, beautifully ironed and folded by Mary, out of the press and all day, till my hands were raw, I cut and ripped them to ribbons. White mounds grew around me on the kitchen table, tumbling onto the floor, to be trampled on and nested in by Cleo into great bandage tangles. I didn’t know how many we would need, but I spared only the sheets that were on the beds, becoming hypnotised by the sound of tearing cotton.

It was the time that Mary would have sat down with a cup of tea and put her feet up for five minutes, before I went up to check on Osi’s progress. When I unlocked and opened the door he stood up. There were great bruisy shadows under his eyes and he looked sick, desperate and dazed.

‘Are you done?’ I kept my eyes averted from the figure on the floor.

‘Nearly.’

‘Come then.’ I led him downstairs and sat him by the stove. He stared at the heaps of cotton that were like a snowdrift in the kitchen.

‘Will there be enough?’ I asked. ‘You need something to eat.’ I buttered him a piece of bread that he stuffed whole into his mouth. ‘It’s the right thing you’re doing,’ I said. ‘You look tired. Should we wait till tomorrow to do the wrapping?’

‘No. Tonight.’

I put two big potatoes in the stove for later. Osi stood and stretched and I heard the popping of his vertebrae. He roamed around the kitchen gathering grave goods. Flour and sugar and currants wrapped in twists of paper; her rolling pin; a silver spoon.

‘We have to make some shabtis,’ he said

‘What?’

‘Servants for her, little people, so she doesn’t have to work her fingers to the bone.’

Our eyes met when he said that, sounding for an instant like Mary herself.

‘Like dolls?’ I asked.

He nodded.

‘From what? Pegs? I could make peg dolls. Or she could have my old dolls.’

‘The more she has the better – and get things from her room. Her treasures. Anything she’ll want to take with her.’

I was pleased that he’d regained his energy for the task, but it was with reluctance that I left the warmth of the kitchen to go up to the attic. I lit a candle, and keeping my eyes from the dip in her pillow, I snatched up her wedding photograph, the little album, her brush and mirror set, her powder compact. There was a string of peeling pearls that she wore on high days and holidays, her photographs, a desiccated iris, a felt hat and a dangerous looking hat pin with a bumble bee design. As I gathered these items it was as if someone was behind me, breathing coldly on my neck, and once my hands were full I bolted down the stairs.

On the landing I stopped. There was the sound of an engine outside. I threw Mary’s things on my bed and ran downstairs. Victor had come in through the front door and was standing in the dim light of the hall. He looked vast in his coat and driving helmet.

‘Dear little Icy,’ he said, voice blurring drinkily.

‘Have you got a lady with you?’ I asked.

He shook his head and I gulped with relief.

‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you something,’ I said.

‘Where’s Mary?’ He peered behind me.

‘Still poorly.’

He staggered and pulled a face. ‘Must be bad.’ He pulled off his gloves, scarf and helmet and threw them on a chair.

‘It’s her head,’ I told him. ‘And we’ve both got fearful colds. Mr Burgess said it’s going round like wildfire.’

‘Poor little Icy. We must make you a hot toddy.’

He followed me into the kitchen where there were still mounds of sheeting strips on the table and tumbling onto the floor. ‘What the devil?’ he said.

‘Cut up for dusters,’ I said, which was ridiculous, you don’t dust with skinny rags like that, but he was not domesticated and anyway, too drunk to care. It gave me an idea, if I could get him even drunker he’d fall asleep and we could continue.

While Victor shucked off his coat, I poured him a big glass of brandy.

‘I should go up and see Mary,’ he said. ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, what a contrary minx she is.’

‘She’s sleeping now,’ I said quickly. ‘I just went. She’ll bite your head off if you wake her.’

‘She is a firecracker, that one,’ he agreed. ‘What’s for eats?’ He sat down at the table and shoved some ribbons out of the way.

‘I’m making potatoes in their jackets, but they won’t be ready for ages. I’m only doing two, but we can share them. Where’ve you been?’

‘Oh . . .’ He swallowed his brandy in one gulp and grimaced. ‘Poor show. Get Mary to order Cognac next time. Around and about, don’t you know? I posted the letter.’

It took me a moment even to remember what he meant.

‘Do you know,’ he said, wrinkling his nose at his glass, ‘what I’d really like is a cup of tea. Any cake?’

I shook my head. ‘You look tired,’ I said. ‘Have you come to stay?’ My eyes kept going to the door; any moment Osi might come in and give the game away.

Victor sipped his drink and nodded. ‘Thought I’d put up here for a day or two.’ Elbows on the table, he sagged his head into his hands. He looked grey, exhausted, scoops of shadow under his eyes and the light gleaming on the bony ridges of his eye sockets and the thin bridge of his nose. He looked uncannily like Osi had done as he sat in the same chair an hour before, shattered by his gruesome task.

I filled the kettle and put it on the stove.

‘I’ll just get these out of the way.’ I scooped up armfuls of bandages and carried them upstairs. I kicked the nursery door till Osi opened it, and shoved them into his arms.

‘Victor’s here,’ I said. ‘Don’t come down. I’ll bring your food up. We’ll have to wait till he’s asleep. I’ll keep him busy till then.’

He darted me a startled look before I shut the door.

Victor
was
absorbed
in
reading
one
of
the
old
newspapers.
He’d
moved
nearer
the
stove,
and
I
was
glad
to
see
he’d
topped
up
his
brandy.
I
watched
his
eyelids
grow
heavy
and
the
nod
of
his
head
as
he
kept
approaching
the
precipice
of
sleep,
but
always
he
pulled
back.
When
the
potatoes
were
ready,
I
slavered
them
in
butter,
pepper
–
there
was
no
salt
–
and
shared
them
between
three
plates.
I
took
a
plate
up
to
Osi,
and
watched
Victor
shovel
his
down.
He
left
the
skin,
as
usual,
and
I
put
on
more
butter
and
rolled
it
into
a
delicious
tube.
I
thought
it
quite
a
marvel
that
part
of
me
could
stay
hungry
and
normal
when
I
knew
what
was
going
on
upstairs.

‘Cup of tea, Icy?’ Victor asked. I’d managed to deflect him so far, afraid that tea might perk him up, but now I had an idea. Some of Mary’s headache powders were on the kitchen windowsill. She rarely took them since they knocked the stuffing out her, she said. I bleated feebly as the horribly apt expression entered my mind.

‘What’s funny?’ Victor asked.

‘Nothing.’ I waited till he’d looked back at the paper before I unfolded a dose of powders and sprinkled it into his tea. I wondered about giving him two, to make sure, but didn’t want to kill him. And then I filled a hot-water bottle.

‘Why don’t you get cosy in bed?’ I said. ‘You can take your tea up. You do look tired, Victor, what you want’s a good night’s kip.’

He was sitting forward in such a way that he could lean his weight on his jumping leg, and he looked up at me with a weary twist of humour. ‘Quite the little housekeeper, aren’t you, Icy? When you’re not going round spreading slander.’

It was as if I’d been slapped. ‘I said I was sorry,’ I muttered.

He got to his feet with a stagger. I put the hot-water bottle into his arms and he carried it upstairs, while I followed with his cup of tea.

On the landing, beside the attic door, he paused. ‘Perhaps I should go up and see Mary,’ he said.

‘She won’t thank you,’ I told him. The tea was spilling into the saucer with the tremble in my hands. I could sense Osi frozen by our voices behind the nursery door. ‘Have your tea first,’ I urged. ‘Honestly, she just wants to be left alone.’