Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) by Lesley Glaister

quivered.
    ‘What? What? What?’ she asked as she followed him round to the kitchen, but he would not answer. Mary was at the sink with her back to them, her whole body jiggling with the vigour of her scrubbing at some stain.
    ‘Mary?’ said Mr Burgess.
    She turned, drying her hands on her apron, but failed to treat the grocer to a smile.
    ‘ What news?’ Isis said.
    ‘Leave Mr Burgess alone,’ Mary said wearily. ‘And run along now.’
    ‘But what news?’ Isis pestered. ‘He’s got some good news.’
    Mr Burgess waited for both of them to be riveted to him before he gave an answer. ‘Only a big tomb found in Egypt. Heard it on the wireless.’
    Isis felt her mouth open, stiff and gasping as a fish. For a moment she couldn’t speak. Mary was gaping at Mr Burgess too and he was fairly glowing, as proud to be carrying the news as if he had turned up the tomb himself.
    ‘They’ve never gone and found it?’ Mary said, dimpling with disbelief. ‘Oh my giddy aunt. I don’t believe it.’
    ‘Mary!’ Isis grabbed her. ‘Oh! If only we had a wireless. Is there no telegram? What shall we do?’
    Distractedly, Mary squeezed Isis tight before she pushed her away. ‘Are you sure? ’ she said.
    ‘How shall we find out?’ Isis couldn’t keep still. There was a surge in her like a pulsing light and she wanted to yell or sing and she needed to move.
    ‘I reckon there’ll be a telegram any minute,’ Mr Burgess said. He gave Isis a poke of toffees. ‘You go out and watch for the boy.’
    Isis took the toffees but pelted upstairs. ‘Osi, Osi!’ she shouted. ‘We think they’ve found it! They’ve found it!’ Her voice would hardly come out loud enough. She hurled herself into the nursery before he could stop her. His hands were yellow with paint from the model he was making.
    ‘Go away,’ he said.
    ‘But they’ve found the tomb.’
    He stared at her. He had paint on his face too and looked grotesque otherwise she would have kissed and hugged him. ‘It’s over!’ she said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘The wait .’
    ‘Is it true?’ he said. ‘Who says?’
    ‘Ask Mr Burgess if you don’t believe me!’
    The actuality of Osi and his peculiarities threatened to take the shine off her elation and she ran downstairs, forgetting to avoid the broken step so that her foot went through the tread, ripping the side of her shoe, but it didn’t matter one bit because soon there would be new shoes and the stairs would be mended and life would really start and this was really happening. She ran through the kitchen where Mr Burgess was accepting a cup of tea and outside to hang over the gate, mouth crammed with toffee, awaiting the telegram.
     

     
    But two days went past with no news and then Mr Burgess came back, moustache adroop, bearing a newspaper. It seemed it had been a false alarm, nothing to do with Herihor at all; the news was about the Carter fellow – though not even he had actually found his Tutankhamen. Evelyn and Arthur must be mortified, Isis thought. They must be livid.
    The disappointment, after the elation, brought a pall down over Little Egypt, darker than ever before. Mary moved slowly through it looking crushed, and Isis tried and tried to cheer her up by being helpful and with games of cards, afraid that she might up and leave, but was so miserable herself that she could scarcely drag herself out of bed in the mornings. With no tutor and no school there was nothing for her to do. There was a whole world going on out there but still they were held in Little Egypt, suspended as if in souring aspic.
    She was surprised to find that she felt cross and sorry on her parents’ behalf about blasted Howard Carter and blasted Lord Carnarvon, and blasted Tutankhamen. She hoped they might come back. If only they would at least write. If only they would give up the whole beastly business and come home and put an end to this awful wait.
    Both Evelyn and Arthur were atheists, but Isis sided with Mary, who knelt to