the fucking creeps.’ The pigeon had perched on the bannister and was studying us coldly with the round bead of its eye.
‘I quite agree,’ I said, thinking uneasily of my spudgies. But there was no need for him to see those.
We crunched along to the bedroom and stood outside the door. My poor heart had slowed now to a small, cold throb and my eyes were streaming.
‘This is like a dream,’ Spike muttered, and though his face was greenish white, there was a twist of something like amusement in his voice, or the promise of amusement to come when he related this tale to his friends.
‘Shall we?’ I said.
‘Sure.’
But we stood a few moments longer. Vainly I strained my ears for a sound of movement from behind the door, but there was nothing. My hand shook as I put it on the handle, and all those other times I’d stood on this landing came back to me; the years in layers pressing me in wafered versions. The house is full of moments, frozen. Oh pull it down, I thought, and welcome. Here’s to a great reverberating crash! Bring in the bulldozers. Bring them in; raze Little Egypt to the ground.
PART TWO
9
T O HER OWN surprise, Isis loved being on the ship. It was a good place to be a child and she wagged like a puppy from group to group, pretending to be younger than she was, shamelessly begging to be petted, spoiled, and fed with tit-bits.
Victor left her to it, there was a lady on board he had his eye on, and Osi spent most of the time in their cabin, being sick, or reading and making notes. He was writing a diary in hieroglyphs – though since he did nothing but sleep and vomit, she could not imagine what he was putting.
Aboard the Hieronymus she loved the dipping of the deck beneath her feet, and felt proud not to feel even a whiff of nausea when the ship lunged and creaked and lumber crashed and rumbled in the hold. The Hieronymus was a cargo ship that took some passengers, just twelve or so, who had a portion of deck segregated from the crew.
She loved the smells of the ship: gravy seeping up from the galley, wood and oil and the smell of wind that has scoured the sea for hundreds of salty miles. Sometimes she’d go up on deck, even in the stormiest weather and pretend to be a figurehead, stand with her face in the gusts, eyes streaming, hair stiff and tangly from the salt.
Mrs Grievous – at least, that’s how Isis understood the name – was the best bet for tit-bits. She and her husband (who had grey hair but a black moustache) had ‘never been blessed to have such a pretty, clever, little girl.’ They had one son, but he was a man now, and they were on their way to visit him. Mrs Grievous was plumply silky and smelled of talc, and though really too big to be so babyish, Isis liked to snuggle against her and accept pieces of Turkish Delight from her handbag. Evelyn would have snorted with derision if she could have seen. Mrs Grievous had colourless moles on her neck which hung like fleshy tears. When her husband was there, she stammered – making a pickle of saying Isis – Sisisisis would come out first – but the stammer went away when Mr Grievous did. Mrs Grievous taught Isis to play cribbage, something she vowed to take home to teach Mary as a change from whist and rummy.
Isis and Mrs Grievous were sitting in a cold, sunny part of the deck one day, starting a game. Mrs Grievous had a rug over her knees and she had just dealt the cards into her own tartan lap, when Victor strolled past, behind the trailing scarf of Melissa, an actress with yellow curls and circles of pink on her cheeks. Victor flicked Isis a look and a wink.
‘My Uncle’s a sex maniac,’ she told Mrs Grievous, whose hand flew to her mouth.
‘My goodness,’ she said, ‘that’s not the sort of language little girls should use.’
‘Sex or maniac?’ Isis asked, though she knew perfectly well. She had heard the expression from Mary once in an eavesdropped conversation with Mr Patey, and had been longing for a
‘I quite agree,’ I said, thinking uneasily of my spudgies. But there was no need for him to see those.
We crunched along to the bedroom and stood outside the door. My poor heart had slowed now to a small, cold throb and my eyes were streaming.
‘This is like a dream,’ Spike muttered, and though his face was greenish white, there was a twist of something like amusement in his voice, or the promise of amusement to come when he related this tale to his friends.
‘Shall we?’ I said.
‘Sure.’
But we stood a few moments longer. Vainly I strained my ears for a sound of movement from behind the door, but there was nothing. My hand shook as I put it on the handle, and all those other times I’d stood on this landing came back to me; the years in layers pressing me in wafered versions. The house is full of moments, frozen. Oh pull it down, I thought, and welcome. Here’s to a great reverberating crash! Bring in the bulldozers. Bring them in; raze Little Egypt to the ground.
PART TWO
9
T O HER OWN surprise, Isis loved being on the ship. It was a good place to be a child and she wagged like a puppy from group to group, pretending to be younger than she was, shamelessly begging to be petted, spoiled, and fed with tit-bits.
Victor left her to it, there was a lady on board he had his eye on, and Osi spent most of the time in their cabin, being sick, or reading and making notes. He was writing a diary in hieroglyphs – though since he did nothing but sleep and vomit, she could not imagine what he was putting.
Aboard the Hieronymus she loved the dipping of the deck beneath her feet, and felt proud not to feel even a whiff of nausea when the ship lunged and creaked and lumber crashed and rumbled in the hold. The Hieronymus was a cargo ship that took some passengers, just twelve or so, who had a portion of deck segregated from the crew.
She loved the smells of the ship: gravy seeping up from the galley, wood and oil and the smell of wind that has scoured the sea for hundreds of salty miles. Sometimes she’d go up on deck, even in the stormiest weather and pretend to be a figurehead, stand with her face in the gusts, eyes streaming, hair stiff and tangly from the salt.
Mrs Grievous – at least, that’s how Isis understood the name – was the best bet for tit-bits. She and her husband (who had grey hair but a black moustache) had ‘never been blessed to have such a pretty, clever, little girl.’ They had one son, but he was a man now, and they were on their way to visit him. Mrs Grievous was plumply silky and smelled of talc, and though really too big to be so babyish, Isis liked to snuggle against her and accept pieces of Turkish Delight from her handbag. Evelyn would have snorted with derision if she could have seen. Mrs Grievous had colourless moles on her neck which hung like fleshy tears. When her husband was there, she stammered – making a pickle of saying Isis – Sisisisis would come out first – but the stammer went away when Mr Grievous did. Mrs Grievous taught Isis to play cribbage, something she vowed to take home to teach Mary as a change from whist and rummy.
Isis and Mrs Grievous were sitting in a cold, sunny part of the deck one day, starting a game. Mrs Grievous had a rug over her knees and she had just dealt the cards into her own tartan lap, when Victor strolled past, behind the trailing scarf of Melissa, an actress with yellow curls and circles of pink on her cheeks. Victor flicked Isis a look and a wink.
‘My Uncle’s a sex maniac,’ she told Mrs Grievous, whose hand flew to her mouth.
‘My goodness,’ she said, ‘that’s not the sort of language little girls should use.’
‘Sex or maniac?’ Isis asked, though she knew perfectly well. She had heard the expression from Mary once in an eavesdropped conversation with Mr Patey, and had been longing for a
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