Read Online Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) by Lesley Glaister - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lesley Glaister
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sensation.
Mary handed Isis the empty beaker and lay back down. ‘Wilf’ll be here soon – he’ll take charge.’
‘We don’t want him here.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘But . . .’
‘He’ll help.’
‘But, but Mr Burgess said . . .’
‘Blast Mr Burgess,’ Mary muttered.
‘Well I for one don’t trust Mr Patey,’ Isis said stubbornly, and waited for Mary to ask her why, but Mary said nothing. In the distance there was the sound of a pony’s hooves and of wheels on gravel.
‘There you see, that’ll be him now.’
Mr Patey was already in the kitchen when Isis got down. ‘Proper Indian summer,’ he greeted her.
‘Mary’s ill,’ she said.
‘In bed? I’ll go up and see her.’
‘ No .’ Isis stood in front of the door, though he could easily have thrown her aside. ‘She can’t see you today, but she wants you to help us with something.’
‘What?’
‘George.’
‘That old bugger.’ He’d taken his cap off and was smoothing his glossy black hair. There was a smell of clean sweat and coal dust coming off him.
‘Mary said you’d help us.’
‘Did she now?’ He narrowed his bright brown eyes – they didn’t look like murdering eyes – and she was struck by the thick sootiness of his lashes.
She turned her back on him and went outside. He followed her to the potting shed where Osi was sitting at the threshold muttering over his book.
‘Get out the road,’ Mr Patey said. Scowling at Isis, Osi inched himself aside.
Mr Patey knelt down and touched the old man’s cheek.
‘Osi found him, just a little while ago.’
‘He’s gone all right,’ Mr Patey said. ‘Mary not been down?’
‘No.’
‘One of her famous heads, I reckon?’ he said and Isis nodded. ‘Right then.’ He frowned and rubbed his hands. ‘Let’s get this sorted. Does he have a missus?’
Isis shook her head. ‘She died years ago.’ She watched Mr Patey’s face for a reaction to that, but there was none that she could see. ‘Will you get the police?’ she said.
‘What I reckon I’ll do is take him to the village. To the doctor’s. No one else around?’
Isis shook her head.
‘Then you kiddies’ll have to help me shift him.’
‘Or we could see to him here,’ Osi said.
‘ Osi !’
‘Might as well get on with it.’ Mr Patey crouched down to get hold of George under his arms, the dead head lolling against his abdomen, and as he stood up the twins each took a leg. He wasn’t a heavy man and through the thick tweed of his trousers the shins felt thin and hard as sticks. His boots were like something historical and there was a smell of wet beds about him, and a damp patch left on the floor where he’d been lying. They managed to lug him to the cart and prop him in the back amongst the sacks of coal. Despite herself, Isis was impressed by the efficient, fussless way Mr Patey handled the corpse and trotted it away so briskly in his cart.
‘Mr Burgess said that Mr Patey killed two wives,’ she said to Osi, once the creaking and clopping had diminished. The statement sounded ridiculous brought out into the light of day. ‘Of course, I don’t believe him, but I should tell Mary, don’t you think?’
Osi failed to reply. He was staring longingly after the cart.
‘By the way Osi, do you know where Bastet is?’
Still he didn’t answer and, irritated, she swung the gate hard in the hope of catching him with it, but he jumped out of the way, stuck out his bottom lip and stalked off. Riding on the gate, she let her head hang back and it was as if she soared, dizzied, up into the cloudless blue. George’s was the first dead body she’d ever seen, human anyway, and her eyes still hurt with the grit in his.
There was a light scrunch of gravel and Mary came out, wraith-white and shading her eyes.
‘Mr Patey took him,’ said Isis.
‘He coming back?’
‘Didn’t say.’
Mary winced at the rusty grating of the gate and Isis jumped off and hugged her until she
Mary handed Isis the empty beaker and lay back down. ‘Wilf’ll be here soon – he’ll take charge.’
‘We don’t want him here.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘But . . .’
‘He’ll help.’
‘But, but Mr Burgess said . . .’
‘Blast Mr Burgess,’ Mary muttered.
‘Well I for one don’t trust Mr Patey,’ Isis said stubbornly, and waited for Mary to ask her why, but Mary said nothing. In the distance there was the sound of a pony’s hooves and of wheels on gravel.
‘There you see, that’ll be him now.’
Mr Patey was already in the kitchen when Isis got down. ‘Proper Indian summer,’ he greeted her.
‘Mary’s ill,’ she said.
‘In bed? I’ll go up and see her.’
‘ No .’ Isis stood in front of the door, though he could easily have thrown her aside. ‘She can’t see you today, but she wants you to help us with something.’
‘What?’
‘George.’
‘That old bugger.’ He’d taken his cap off and was smoothing his glossy black hair. There was a smell of clean sweat and coal dust coming off him.
‘Mary said you’d help us.’
‘Did she now?’ He narrowed his bright brown eyes – they didn’t look like murdering eyes – and she was struck by the thick sootiness of his lashes.
She turned her back on him and went outside. He followed her to the potting shed where Osi was sitting at the threshold muttering over his book.
‘Get out the road,’ Mr Patey said. Scowling at Isis, Osi inched himself aside.
Mr Patey knelt down and touched the old man’s cheek.
‘Osi found him, just a little while ago.’
‘He’s gone all right,’ Mr Patey said. ‘Mary not been down?’
‘No.’
‘One of her famous heads, I reckon?’ he said and Isis nodded. ‘Right then.’ He frowned and rubbed his hands. ‘Let’s get this sorted. Does he have a missus?’
Isis shook her head. ‘She died years ago.’ She watched Mr Patey’s face for a reaction to that, but there was none that she could see. ‘Will you get the police?’ she said.
‘What I reckon I’ll do is take him to the village. To the doctor’s. No one else around?’
Isis shook her head.
‘Then you kiddies’ll have to help me shift him.’
‘Or we could see to him here,’ Osi said.
‘ Osi !’
‘Might as well get on with it.’ Mr Patey crouched down to get hold of George under his arms, the dead head lolling against his abdomen, and as he stood up the twins each took a leg. He wasn’t a heavy man and through the thick tweed of his trousers the shins felt thin and hard as sticks. His boots were like something historical and there was a smell of wet beds about him, and a damp patch left on the floor where he’d been lying. They managed to lug him to the cart and prop him in the back amongst the sacks of coal. Despite herself, Isis was impressed by the efficient, fussless way Mr Patey handled the corpse and trotted it away so briskly in his cart.
‘Mr Burgess said that Mr Patey killed two wives,’ she said to Osi, once the creaking and clopping had diminished. The statement sounded ridiculous brought out into the light of day. ‘Of course, I don’t believe him, but I should tell Mary, don’t you think?’
Osi failed to reply. He was staring longingly after the cart.
‘By the way Osi, do you know where Bastet is?’
Still he didn’t answer and, irritated, she swung the gate hard in the hope of catching him with it, but he jumped out of the way, stuck out his bottom lip and stalked off. Riding on the gate, she let her head hang back and it was as if she soared, dizzied, up into the cloudless blue. George’s was the first dead body she’d ever seen, human anyway, and her eyes still hurt with the grit in his.
There was a light scrunch of gravel and Mary came out, wraith-white and shading her eyes.
‘Mr Patey took him,’ said Isis.
‘He coming back?’
‘Didn’t say.’
Mary winced at the rusty grating of the gate and Isis jumped off and hugged her until she
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