Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) by Lesley Glaister Page B

went down and rattled it, it came off in her hand. She stared at its rusty iron face. When she’d been searching for Dixie it had been locked, she was certain. Mary would never have let them open that door. ‘You stay away from there,’ she’d often warned, when they were smaller. ‘You fall down that hole and you’ll be in a right old pickle. No one would hear you from the house.’
    Isis pulled open the door. Of course there was no ice left now. The pit hadn’t been refilled since Grandpa died.
    ‘Someone’s been here,’ she said.
    Victor shrugged. Isis leaned in, breathing the chill earthy smell. It was too dark to see much, except for a few etiolated weeds rooting up from between the bricks. She let the door swing shut, pushed the padlock back into place and went up to sit beside Victor. Her hands stank of rust now, and she scrubbed them on her dress.
    ‘ We’ve only had one lousy postcard from them in months,’ she said.
    ‘What did it say?’
    ‘ Darling Beasties ,’ she parroted Evelyn’s voice and then her own crept through, with a childish whine. ‘Oh read it yourself. But it’s not fair.’
    ‘You wait,’ Victor said.
    ‘For what? I think we’re going to be here for ever, Osi and me. We’ll be old people with wooden legs and ear trumpets.’
    Victor hooted. ‘No you won’t,’ he said. ‘Some lucky fellow will sweep you away.’
    ‘Won’t.’
    ‘Beautiful girl like you.’
    ‘What’s beautiful about me then?’
    He put his finger under her chin. ‘Lovely eyes, lovely hair, pretty nose, peachy lips.’ He kissed her on the end of her nose and she pulled back, flushing – partly from pleasure, partly from the shame of having fished for the compliment. You could always get one from Victor, so easily that it scarcely counted.
    He took a last puff of his cheroot, ground it out with his toe, and then he put an arm round her. She leaned into him; it was nice in the chilliness to feel his warmth. His leg was only jumping a little and she put her hand on it and pressed to stop it.
    ‘Poor Victor,’ she said.
    He gave a tight sort of sigh. ‘Dear little Icy.’ They sat quietly for a moment until something felt different to Isis, she didn’t quite know what. Victor stroked her hand and then her knee, which gave her a tickly velvet feeling and felt queer and wrong. She thought of Mimi and her bare white legs and jumped up and started back to the house.
    ‘Come on, Mary’ll go bally mad if we’re late for lunch.’
     

     
    Mary had managed to scrape together enough to make a decent table, though there’d be nothing left for supper. They sat in the dining room and ate broth, meat loaf – the end of the lamb padded out with carrot – with dates to follow as a pudding. There was no sherry so Victor drank brandy, his voice getting fat and slurry much quicker than Arthur’s ever did. He was telling them about his car, and how it would do 65 miles an hour.
    ‘Someone’s been in the icehouse,’ Isis announced and a flicker crossed Osi’s face. Mary had stayed in the room, standing with her arms folded as they ate, asking Victor how she was supposed to run a house on nothing. And what about a replacement gardener who would actually garden?
    ‘Y ou’ve been in the icehouse,’ Isis said to Osi.
    ‘So? None of your business. It’s not yours.’
    ‘It’s not yours either.’
    ‘Now then!’ said Mary.
    ‘But it’s not locked. It should be locked,’ Isis insisted. ‘It’s dangerous, what if someone should fall down it?’
    ‘Steer clear is my advice,’ Victor said. ‘You’re neither of you babies.’
    Mary heaved a long-suffering sigh and went out.
    ‘What was in the letter then?’ Isis asked. ‘Are they coming back?’
    ‘No.’ Victor raised his eyebrows and grinned. ‘But how would you like to go to them ?’
    Osi’s mouth fell open as suddenly as if his jaw had snapped.
    ‘Where?’ said Isis.
    ‘ Egypt, you goose. How should you like to visit them