Read Online Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) by Lesley Glaister - Free Book Online Page B

struggled free. ‘Get on with you,’ she said. ‘So the poor old boy has really gone?’
    ‘Even dead he looked just as cross as ever.’ Isis remarked as she latched the gate. ‘Are you feeling better?’
    ‘Barely. Least I’m still here though.’
    Isis took Mary’s hand and led her back into the kitchen. ‘You sit down,’ she said.
    ‘The stove needs filling.’ Mary sank down onto her chair.
    Isis rattled coal from the scuttle into the stove and put the kettle on the hob. ‘Have you seen Evelyn’s Bastet?’ she asked.
    Mary blinked. ‘Her what?’
    ‘The jewelled cat?’
    ‘Oh that thing. No, not now I come to think of it.’
    ‘It’s worth a fortune,’ Isis said.
    ‘I expect Osi’s got it.’
    On the other hand, Isis thought, having strangers like Mr Patey about the place, going up the stairs, well you never knew what might go missing.
    ‘Mr Burgess said Mr Patey killed both his wives,’ she said, looking not at Mary but at the blackened kettle as she spoke. But when she sneaked a look, Mary’s expression was merely weary.
    ‘Poor Mr Patey’s been bereaved twice, and I for one know about bereavement,’ she said, and buried her face in her hands.
    Isis took two cups and saucers from the dresser and put them on the table. Neatly she poured a drop of milk into each. As soon as she’d been tall enough to reach the kettle, Mary had taught her to make a good cup of tea, which, she’d predicted, would be a comfort to Isis all her life. She tipped out the old leaves, rinsed the pot and warmed it with the nearly boiling water.
    ‘Careful,’ Mary said, when she lifted the kettle. ‘Always pour away from you.’ Her voice was still frail from her migraine and with the twist in it there always was when Gordon Jefferson was in her mind. Isis was sorry to have reminded her of him, but she couldn’t quite let the subject drop now that she had dared to broach it.
    ‘Do you know how they died?’ Isis spooned fresh leaves into the pot. The tea caddy was nearly empty. ‘We need to put tea on the list,’ she added.
    ‘There’s more in the pantry,’ Mary said. ‘The second Mrs Patey had the influenza.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘And the first was to do with down below,’ Mary’s hand went to her own curved belly. ‘That and her nerves, I believe, poor thing.’
    Isis filled the teapot and squeezed the knitted cosy onto it. ‘That’s what he told you .’
    ‘Don’t you go listening to that bally grocer.’
    Isis was silenced. She studied the tea cups, chipped along their rims and faded inside from years of Mary’s scourer. All right then, he didn’t do for his wives. Of course he didn’t. Not with that kind brown light in his eyes. She’d never really thought he had.
    ‘He’s still a coward though,’ she said, in an effort to retain some grudge.
    Mary gave a sort of yawning sigh. ‘He’s a Quaker and them’s pacifists. You know that. He’s entitled to his beliefs.’
    Isis knew she should drop the subject, but she was in a fidget of irritation at Mary’s refusal to hear a bad word about Mr Patey. ‘Uncle Victor’s no pacifist, he’s a hero with a medal,’ she said.
    ‘And don’t we all know it,’ Mary muttered, adding, ‘Give it another moment to brew,’ as Isis lifted the pot. ‘There’s heroes and there’s heroes.’
    ‘Even Mr Burgess went to war,’ Isis said. ‘Did you know he lost his brothers as well as his fingers? What if everyone in England was a pacifist? Where would we be then?’ She was proud of this argument, that she’d once heard Evelyn voicing. ‘A colony of Prussia,’ she added more uncertainly. ‘Ruled by the blessed hun.’
    ‘Get on with you and pour that tea,’ said Mary.

I T WAS SO peculiar to take another person into Little Egypt, I cannot tell you. It was like opening a door in my skull and letting someone into my brain to tramp their boots and jab their elbows, to spy and judge the murk. I nearly changed my mind, but Spike was right behind me,