was an
embarrassed silence and then, realizing what was
expected, she fished out her purse and handed him
a couple of notes. He looked at them, grunted and
shuffled away down the corridor, leaving the keys
in the door. She waited till he had gone, and then
turned and stepped into the apartment, taking the
keys and closing the door behind her.
She was in a dark, wood-floored vestibule, off
which opened five rooms – a bedroom, a bath-
room, a kitchen and two others, both piled high
with books. All the windows were closed and
shuttered, giving the place a musty, abandoned
feel. For the briefest moment she thought she
107
could sense a lingering odour of cigar smoke, but
it was too intangible for her to be sure and after
sniffing the air a couple of times she dismissed it.
Probably just polish or something, she thought.
She went through into the main room, switch-
ing on the light as she went. There were books and
papers everywhere, piles of them, like drifts of
leaves. The walls were hung with pictures
of excavations and monuments; in the far corner
sat a dusty cabinet full of cracked earthenware
pots and faience shabtis. There were no plants.
Like somewhere that's been preserved for
posterity, she thought. To show how people lived
in a different time.
She wandered around, picking things up, peer-
ing into drawers, seeking out her father. She found
one of his diaries from the early 1960s, when he
had been excavating in the Sudan, his small,
precise writing interspersed with fading pencil
drawings of the objects he had been unearthing. In
one of the rooms she discovered some of the books
he'd written – Life in the Necropolis: Excavations
at Saqqara, 1955–85; From Snofru to Shepseskaf
– Essays on the Fourth Dynasty; The Tomb of
Mentu-Nefer; Kingship and Disorder in the First
Intermediate Period. She flicked through a photo
album – pictures of a large sandy trench which, as
the album progressed, got deeper and deeper until,
on the last pages, the outlines of what looked like
a stone wall began to emerge. There seemed to be
nothing in the apartment but his work. Nothing
that spoke of warmth or love or feeling.
Nothing of the present.
Then just as she was starting to feel oppressed
108
by the place, two surprises. Beside her father's bed
– hard, narrow, like a prison cot – she found a
photograph of her parents on their wedding day,
her father laughing, a white rose in his buttonhole.
And in the dusty cabinet in the living room,
wedged between two earthenware pots, a child's
drawing of an angel, the edges of its wings marked
out with silver glitter. She had made it years ago at
nursery school, for Christmas. Her father must
have kept it all this time. She took it out, turned it
over and read on the back, in her spidery child's
writing: 'For my daddy'.
She stared at it for a moment and then,
suddenly, uncontrollably, began to cry, slumping
down onto a chair, her body racked with sobs.
'Oh Dad,' she choked. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'
Later, when the tears had slowed, she collected
the photo from the bedroom and put it in her
knapsack, along with the drawing. She also took a
photograph of her father standing beside a large
stone sarcophagus, flanked by two Egyptian work-
men. (She remembered him explaining to her as a
child that the word 'sarcophagus' came from the
Greek for 'flesh eater', an image that had so dis-
turbed her she had been unable to sleep that night.)
She was just debating whether to take a couple
of his books as well when the phone rang. She
paused, uncertain whether or not to answer it.
After a moment she decided she ought to and went
through into the living room, hurrying over to the
desk on the far side, where the phone was sitting
on top of a pile of manuscripts. Just as she reached
it the answering machine clicked on and suddenly
the room was full of her father's voice.
109
'Hello, this is Michael Mullray. I'm away
embarrassed silence and then, realizing what was
expected, she fished out her purse and handed him
a couple of notes. He looked at them, grunted and
shuffled away down the corridor, leaving the keys
in the door. She waited till he had gone, and then
turned and stepped into the apartment, taking the
keys and closing the door behind her.
She was in a dark, wood-floored vestibule, off
which opened five rooms – a bedroom, a bath-
room, a kitchen and two others, both piled high
with books. All the windows were closed and
shuttered, giving the place a musty, abandoned
feel. For the briefest moment she thought she
107
could sense a lingering odour of cigar smoke, but
it was too intangible for her to be sure and after
sniffing the air a couple of times she dismissed it.
Probably just polish or something, she thought.
She went through into the main room, switch-
ing on the light as she went. There were books and
papers everywhere, piles of them, like drifts of
leaves. The walls were hung with pictures
of excavations and monuments; in the far corner
sat a dusty cabinet full of cracked earthenware
pots and faience shabtis. There were no plants.
Like somewhere that's been preserved for
posterity, she thought. To show how people lived
in a different time.
She wandered around, picking things up, peer-
ing into drawers, seeking out her father. She found
one of his diaries from the early 1960s, when he
had been excavating in the Sudan, his small,
precise writing interspersed with fading pencil
drawings of the objects he had been unearthing. In
one of the rooms she discovered some of the books
he'd written – Life in the Necropolis: Excavations
at Saqqara, 1955–85; From Snofru to Shepseskaf
– Essays on the Fourth Dynasty; The Tomb of
Mentu-Nefer; Kingship and Disorder in the First
Intermediate Period. She flicked through a photo
album – pictures of a large sandy trench which, as
the album progressed, got deeper and deeper until,
on the last pages, the outlines of what looked like
a stone wall began to emerge. There seemed to be
nothing in the apartment but his work. Nothing
that spoke of warmth or love or feeling.
Nothing of the present.
Then just as she was starting to feel oppressed
108
by the place, two surprises. Beside her father's bed
– hard, narrow, like a prison cot – she found a
photograph of her parents on their wedding day,
her father laughing, a white rose in his buttonhole.
And in the dusty cabinet in the living room,
wedged between two earthenware pots, a child's
drawing of an angel, the edges of its wings marked
out with silver glitter. She had made it years ago at
nursery school, for Christmas. Her father must
have kept it all this time. She took it out, turned it
over and read on the back, in her spidery child's
writing: 'For my daddy'.
She stared at it for a moment and then,
suddenly, uncontrollably, began to cry, slumping
down onto a chair, her body racked with sobs.
'Oh Dad,' she choked. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'
Later, when the tears had slowed, she collected
the photo from the bedroom and put it in her
knapsack, along with the drawing. She also took a
photograph of her father standing beside a large
stone sarcophagus, flanked by two Egyptian work-
men. (She remembered him explaining to her as a
child that the word 'sarcophagus' came from the
Greek for 'flesh eater', an image that had so dis-
turbed her she had been unable to sleep that night.)
She was just debating whether to take a couple
of his books as well when the phone rang. She
paused, uncertain whether or not to answer it.
After a moment she decided she ought to and went
through into the living room, hurrying over to the
desk on the far side, where the phone was sitting
on top of a pile of manuscripts. Just as she reached
it the answering machine clicked on and suddenly
the room was full of her father's voice.
109
'Hello, this is Michael Mullray. I'm away
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