seven shrivelled greenish lemons.
He jabbed a finger stump at her. ‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ he said, snatching up next week’s list.
6
H OWEVER BAD HER head, Mary would usually drag herself downstairs in the morning, but today, even by the time the morning train juddered past, there was still no sign of her. Isis ventured up to her room and found her lying with the curtains drawn, a chamber pot with sick in it by the bed.
‘Mary?’ she whispered, but the only response was a groan. Isis took the chamber pot away, tipped the contents down the WC, and then sat with Mary, wiping her brow with a dampened flannel, the way Mary did for her when she had a fever, that cool dampness so terribly soothing.
‘Don’t fret,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to our lunch and so on.’
‘Wilf might come,’ Mary murmured. Isis’ eyes went to Mr Patey’s iris, quite desiccated now, on the bedside table.
‘I’ll send him away.’
Softly, Isis closed the door and stole downstairs. She stood on the landing listening to the quiet of the house, not quiet really, always a squeak or a creak or a gurgle of pipes as if the house kept up its own mumbling story. Idly, she wandered into Evelyn and Arthur’s room. On the dressing table sat the scarab and the ankh – but there was no sign of the cat goddess. When was the last time she’d seen it? Not for a while, certainly. Perhaps Mary had put it away? Or Osi had it?
Isis opened the nursery door onto an empty room that stunk of unwashed boy and goodness knows what else. It was very rare for her to be there when Osi wasn’t. Though it had been the playroom for the two of them when they were small, it had become entirely his domain, a small dank outpost of ancient Egypt. Like a trespasser, she entered, holding her breath against the smell. The tree-of-life rug was ruined with a dark stain of ink or paint. The walls were scrawled with hieroglyphs and pinned with layers of scrolls. Books were piled everywhere, with tongues of bookmark sticking out in all directions, and there were brushes and paints and stacks of exercise books and papyrus scrolls; the vast brow and nose of some broken sandstone god propped against the wall, and on every surface a clutter of Osi’s ornaments – or artefacts, as he insisted on calling them – wooden dolls and animals, shards of broken pot and faience, stones with scratches. But there was no Bastet. Shutting the door behind her, she went downstairs and outside to look for her twin.
After the stuffy peculiarity of the nursery, it was a pleasure to be outside. The sun was hot and the air fresh, with just the first twinge of autumn. She stooped to pick an apple from the tangle of long grass in the orchard – there were plenty of windfalls. Soon they would gather them and Mary would start to turn out her chutney and apple cheese and apple cake – which at least would make a change from everlasting date. Munching the apple – too hard and sour and with seeds that were still white – she noticed a wasp’s nest on the wall, a clever papery thing, empty now? She put her ear against it and was startled to hear a grumble, a rustle, life still there amongst the fragile cells. Jumping away, she scrubbed her ear against the ticklish fizz of sound.
Osi wasn’t in the orchard, or the vegetable patch, or down by the fence. Passing the icehouse she checked that the padlock was secure before she went round to the potting shed. As she opened the door she was saying, ‘Sorry to disturb you, George, but,’ and then she stopped, hands crammed to her mouth. George was on the floor. He was lying neatly, hands on his chest, eyes open, quite plainly dead.
As if to make up for his stilled heart, her own set up a hard, fierce clamour. She would have to do something, tell someone, disturb Mary; and then there was a sound, a creak, as if someone else was there and, despite the heat, the hairs on her arms rose stiffly.
‘Hello?’ she said with a sudden dizzying whoosh of
He jabbed a finger stump at her. ‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ he said, snatching up next week’s list.
6
H OWEVER BAD HER head, Mary would usually drag herself downstairs in the morning, but today, even by the time the morning train juddered past, there was still no sign of her. Isis ventured up to her room and found her lying with the curtains drawn, a chamber pot with sick in it by the bed.
‘Mary?’ she whispered, but the only response was a groan. Isis took the chamber pot away, tipped the contents down the WC, and then sat with Mary, wiping her brow with a dampened flannel, the way Mary did for her when she had a fever, that cool dampness so terribly soothing.
‘Don’t fret,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to our lunch and so on.’
‘Wilf might come,’ Mary murmured. Isis’ eyes went to Mr Patey’s iris, quite desiccated now, on the bedside table.
‘I’ll send him away.’
Softly, Isis closed the door and stole downstairs. She stood on the landing listening to the quiet of the house, not quiet really, always a squeak or a creak or a gurgle of pipes as if the house kept up its own mumbling story. Idly, she wandered into Evelyn and Arthur’s room. On the dressing table sat the scarab and the ankh – but there was no sign of the cat goddess. When was the last time she’d seen it? Not for a while, certainly. Perhaps Mary had put it away? Or Osi had it?
Isis opened the nursery door onto an empty room that stunk of unwashed boy and goodness knows what else. It was very rare for her to be there when Osi wasn’t. Though it had been the playroom for the two of them when they were small, it had become entirely his domain, a small dank outpost of ancient Egypt. Like a trespasser, she entered, holding her breath against the smell. The tree-of-life rug was ruined with a dark stain of ink or paint. The walls were scrawled with hieroglyphs and pinned with layers of scrolls. Books were piled everywhere, with tongues of bookmark sticking out in all directions, and there were brushes and paints and stacks of exercise books and papyrus scrolls; the vast brow and nose of some broken sandstone god propped against the wall, and on every surface a clutter of Osi’s ornaments – or artefacts, as he insisted on calling them – wooden dolls and animals, shards of broken pot and faience, stones with scratches. But there was no Bastet. Shutting the door behind her, she went downstairs and outside to look for her twin.
After the stuffy peculiarity of the nursery, it was a pleasure to be outside. The sun was hot and the air fresh, with just the first twinge of autumn. She stooped to pick an apple from the tangle of long grass in the orchard – there were plenty of windfalls. Soon they would gather them and Mary would start to turn out her chutney and apple cheese and apple cake – which at least would make a change from everlasting date. Munching the apple – too hard and sour and with seeds that were still white – she noticed a wasp’s nest on the wall, a clever papery thing, empty now? She put her ear against it and was startled to hear a grumble, a rustle, life still there amongst the fragile cells. Jumping away, she scrubbed her ear against the ticklish fizz of sound.
Osi wasn’t in the orchard, or the vegetable patch, or down by the fence. Passing the icehouse she checked that the padlock was secure before she went round to the potting shed. As she opened the door she was saying, ‘Sorry to disturb you, George, but,’ and then she stopped, hands crammed to her mouth. George was on the floor. He was lying neatly, hands on his chest, eyes open, quite plainly dead.
As if to make up for his stilled heart, her own set up a hard, fierce clamour. She would have to do something, tell someone, disturb Mary; and then there was a sound, a creak, as if someone else was there and, despite the heat, the hairs on her arms rose stiffly.
‘Hello?’ she said with a sudden dizzying whoosh of
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