Sucking on a mouthful of pastry, I keep my smile pent up and listen. Stephen has a sweetness to him, partly youth no doubt, that works on me, in a way that the older men, the over-sympathetic business women who’ve tried to win me round before have never even approached. Previous developers have always seemed my enemy, while charming Stephen has become my friend. He certainly deserves his bonus. Once I’m installed in Sunset Lodge, he’ll visit me, he’s promised, and bring along his travel agent too.
‘What I don’t get,’ he says, gesturing towards the house, ‘is why you would choose that, rather than to live in the lap of luxury.’
‘Lap,’ I say. ‘Why lap, I wonder?’
He starts to frown but transforms it into a grin. He has a disarming grin, a dent at the corner of his mouth, halfway to a dimple. ‘Dunno. Never thought about it. Thing is . . .’ He leans closer, letting his professional mask slip, ‘if you’re ever going to cave, please do it for me. Carly’s getting right broody and there’s a little property we’ve seen . . .’
‘With a garden?’
‘Back and front. And a downstairs loo, which is always handy.’
I nod. ‘Indeed. There’s just one thing I need to check.’
His mouth drops open.
‘Listen,’ I say. I take my time. The hook is quivering just out of his reach, he strains forward, open mouthed, ready for to snatch. ‘Sometimes people have things to hide.’ My hand shakes as I lift cup to lip.
‘Ah?’ Stephen lifts both his hands in eager anticipation, ready to quell any worry I might have.
I put my cup down carefully. ‘Someone told me that these big firms like U-Save and so on, that when they buy land for a project they don’t let anything like . . . Roman ruins, for instance, stand in the way of progress.’
His expression falters. ‘You got Roman ruins?’
‘No, no, that’s an example. Is it true?’
‘What do you mean? Like something in the house?’
‘Hypothetically,’ I say. ‘Or in the grounds.’
Stephen leans forward and actually takes my hand, greasy from the pastry though it is. No one has held my hand like that for years and I shut my eyes for just a moment to savour it. ‘Listen,’ he says, glancing furtively about, ‘off the record and everything, get me?’
I tighten my fingers round his.
‘All they want is to get built and trading with no hold-ups. They’re not interested in what’s there, they’d keep their eyes shut and get it covered over quick.’
‘That’s what Spike thought,’ I say.
‘Uh?’
‘A friend.’
‘Well, yeah,’ he says. ‘Off the record, I’ve heard there is a Roman Fort – or Bronze Age or something – under Cleopatra’s – that’s the big casino next to the station? Illegal, of course, not to report it, but they got the thing flung up that quick.’
I could no longer keep his hand without a struggle so I let it go.
‘Can you promise?’
‘Can’t promise,’ he says. ‘But the likelihood of anything getting in the way of profit . . . and you’ve held them up that long now. They’ll want to be trading by Christmas, I reckon.’
‘I will sign.’
I sit back to luxuriate in his incredulity. Doreen’s watching, face a study, but she snatches her eyes away when she catches me looking.
His eyes are wide. ‘Straight up?’ he says, hand ferreting already in his briefcase.
‘As long as I can go today – to Sunset Lodge.’
‘Today!’ He’s startled. ‘Takes longer than that,’ he says. ‘You’ll need to be assessed and that, they’ll need to have a room for you. And there’s the paper work.’
‘Well, that’s my deal,’ I say. ‘It’s that or nothing.’
‘Ready to sign?’ He has the pen out of his pocket and the papers spread out before me.
I do not take the proffered pen. ‘I’ll only sign,’ I say, ‘if I can move today.’ I remember a phrase of his own. ‘It’s a deal breaker.’
Brow furrowed, he nods. ‘Hang on,’ he says. ‘Let me make some calls.’
He pretends there’s no signal, but he’s made calls from here before. Naturally, he doesn’t want me to hear his negotiations.
‘One other thing,’ I say. ‘You’ll have to take my cat. Unless I can take her with me?’
‘Not a problem. Another cappuccino while you wait?’
He’s in a hurry now. At the counter he orders and points across at me. The look I’m Doreen how may I help you? flicks him as he walks away is one I’ll treasure for the remainder of my days. But she does bring me my coffee. ‘So,’ she says. ‘You’re giving in?’ I was not aware she was so au fait with my business, but then I do conduct it in her café.
‘Giving in?’ I ponder for a moment. ‘Not a bit of it. It’s simply that the time has come. I’m ready for pastures new.’
She nods. ‘Well then, good luck,’ she says and turns away, but not before something like a smile breaks on her face, a real one too, for the first time in all these years! Aghast, I watch her walk back to her position behind the counter and present her usual chisel face to the waiting customer, the sort she hates, the blurred type with chaotic children.
I sip my coffee and stare out of the window at the waving rowan, and I see it’s not a tree at all but Mary, waving her handkerchief at me. I eat the foam. In Sunset Lodge will they have cappuccino of this excellence? I’ll miss the turquoise and orange brightness, the paper serviette dispensers; I’ll miss the comforting roar of the hot air dryer in the Ladies’ Lavatories. And I’ll miss I’m Doreen how may I help you?.
Although I last it for as long as possible, my coffee cup is empty before Stephen returns, all shiny and excited. ‘Phew,’ he said, ‘I knew that money talked, but this is something else!’ There’s a smell of sweat coming off him, hidden behind a freshly squirted miasma of Sure or Lynx or something of that order.
My hands shake and I attempt to knit my fingers tightly but they are too stiff and knobbly, ugly stranger’s hands, not my own at all. ‘So?’ I ask.
‘U-Save’s lawyers will advance to Sunset Lodge your first month’s keep – just on proof of signature. You’ll have to pay an extra month for urgent processing – that OK?’
I nod, loving that expression. Urgent processing. It seems of appropriate weight for this momentous moment.
‘You only have to sign. There’s a room going, nice one, front, view of the river. Hate to think who they’re bumping off to get you in there,’ he quips, rather tastelessly, perhaps.
‘And what about Nine?’
‘Sorry?’
‘My cat.’
‘Yeah. There’s a no pets policy, but I reckon Carly’ll be sweet with having a cat.’ He gets out his pen again. ‘Shall we, then? We need a witness.’ He looks across at Doreen who’s ostentatiously absorbed in doing something to her till.
My breath is short. This is it. He summons Doreen, who stomps grumpily across.
‘What now?’
Stephen explains. The pencilled eyebrows rise like wings. ‘No skin off my nose,’ she says.
‘Incidentally,’ I say, ‘compared to your young colleague yesterday, your coffee is first rate.’
She gives a little moué – pleased, I think.
The pen is thick between my fingers, shiny, hard to hold. My name emerges as a trembly scrawl, the signature of a half-wit. Doreen leans over and puts her name, quite neat and childish underneath.
Stephen sits back, runs his hand through his hair. ‘Phew,’ he says. He glows with triumph and pleasure and some of it reflects on me. ‘Thank you,’ he adds, to Doreen and, of course, to me.
‘Is that the lot?’ Doreen returns to the queue that has been building.
‘Give her a big tip,’ I say and Stephen extracts from his wallet a £10 note.
>
‘Of course, there’ll be lots more paperwork,’ he says, ‘but we can conduct all that from your new home. I’ll pop in tomorrow, shall I? See how you’re settling in.’
Since I am adamant that I don’t want any strangers in Little Egypt till after I have left, we arrange that a taxi will meet me in front of U-Save at 2 o’clock.
‘But what about your luggage?’ Stephen says. ‘You’ll need help with that.’
‘No luggage,’ I say. ‘I want to start anew.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing I can’t get in my trolley.’
‘Fair dos,’ he says and stands. He leaves the £10 on the table and, once I’ve struggled to my feet, he shakes my hand.
‘But you need to come and get the cat,’ I say.
‘I’m on my way to the office . . .’ he says, then shrugs. ‘It’ll have to wait in the car is that OK?’
‘She,’ I say.
I take him onto the bridge and leave him at the gate. Nine is curled as usual on the table. An old cat, shedding hairs, she’s docile and droopy in my arms as I carry her out. Stephen waits on the bridge, leaning over the parapet to watch the flow of traffic. Nine stiffens and her claws come out and catch Stephen a nasty scratch on the chin during the transfer through the gate.
‘See you on Thursday,’ he says over his shoulder as he tussles with the hissing, struggling Nine, and oh I do feel a traitor as they go. But Stephen is a good boy and she’ll be looked after. That’s my last responsibility gone, except for the spudgies, and now I’ll set them free.
OUTSIDE THE ENTRANCE to U-SAVE’s brand new homestore, a brass band plays carols beneath a sparkling giant of a Christmas tree. There’s a carousel in the car park, clowns on stilts, and Santa-hatted assistants in orange and turquoise uniforms distribute sweets and vouchers.
A taxi draws up as close to the doors as it can get, and from its window Sisi gawps. Lovely Surinder, her dedicated ‘friend’ opens the door and, as gently as he can, hauls her out. She’s like a sack of potatoes, she knows it, fattened right up on all the lovely food, pumped up like a tyre with cream cakes every single afternoon and cocoa in the evenings to help her sleep, though sleep’s a waste of time what with all the television she’s got to watch. What a marvellous invention! He hauls her out to stand on the family land.
Inside the colossal structure, she tilts her head back to look up at the walls of glittering glasses, saucepans, mountains of candles and an area the size of the ballroom entirely dedicated to bedding. Surinder takes her up the moving staircase to where they have it all laid out in rooms without walls, where she wanders for an hour, touching fabrics, sliding open drawers, peeking inside empty wardrobes; it’s rather overwhelming. There’s a feeling inside her she doesn’t quite recognize or like. What would Osi say? Is his ghost floating here; bewildered amongst the swatches, the choice of glossy finishes?
If Mary’s here, she’ll like it fine.
There’s no way of calculating where the icehouse would be.
And no way of knowing if they’re still there – Mary, Osi, the missing kitten. A sob rises in her. Surinder takes her arm and rubs her back, the way she likes.
‘Come on, Sisi,’ he says. ‘You’re getting tired. Let’s get you a nice cup of tea.’
The café is vast, and part of it done over for children, with dinky chairs and bright plastic toys. Christmas jingles play and tinsel twizzles above the tables. They find a seat beside the window and Surinder brings her a mug of tea and a flaky mince pie with cream, which goes down well, pushing with it the lump in her throat.
Of course, Osi is not here; he’s gone. As she will be before too long. As even the excited children with balloons will be eventually. And this glittering palace: one day it will be derelict and the bulldozers will do for it. And what will they put here next?
She chomps the last of her mince pie, feels energy returning and smiles. Of course it will change, it will change and change and change and go on changing until the ending of the world.
From the high window, she can see the railway line, and all at once, she gets her bearings. ‘Come on, dear, drink up,’ she tells Surinder. She leads him through the store. If that is the direction of the railway line, then it must be round about here. The icehouse and its contents.
They go downstairs and walk through Storage Solutions and Home Decoration into Lighting, into a dazzle of candelabras, lamps and lampshades; there must be thousands of twinkling bulbs.
‘What are we looking for?’ asks Surinder.
Sisi catches sight of a lampshade and squints. ‘Get me that one,’ she says.
‘You want it for your room?’
He lifts it down and she squints closer and laughs.
‘What?’
She’s bending over now, and laughing in a way that’s more like vomiting or crying, she can’t stop the torrent of hilarity.
‘Is she all right?’ someone asks Surinder.
He stands uselessly holding the bloody lampshade with its Tutankhamen design, and she cannot stop the laughing and doesn’t even care when pee runs hotly down her legs.
‘I’d get her home,’ a woman in a Santa hat advises.
‘This was my home,’ she says, when she can straighten up. ‘You’re only here because of me.’
‘Come on, Sisi,’ Surinder says. He holds her arm in that way he has, gentle and strong, and they take a taxi back right to the lap of luxury.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
With thanks to Andrew Greig, Bill Hamilton, Tracey Emerson, Ron Butlin, Regi Claire and Claire Gilmour. And to the Society of Authors who honoured me with a Somerset Maugham Award in 1991. Without this award, which I used to visit Egypt, I would never have written this novel.
Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) Page 25
