Little Egypt (Salt Modern Fiction) Read Online Free PDF Page A

listened to the high trill of a skylark, the faint swish of breezy leaves – and at last there was the sound of an engine and Mr Burgess’ grocery van came puttering along. Mr Burgess was very proud of the vehicle, though Isis was sad not to see his horse anymore. It had been a funny horse, mottled like a rainy pavement, with a hot velvet nose that would nuzzle in her pockets for biscuit crumbs. The motor van, which Mr Burgess boasted could do 25 miles an hour, was painted with beautiful swirly letters: Burgess and Son, General Provisions.
    Isis held open the gate and Mr Burgess saluted as he drove through. She began to call ‘Mary!’ but Mary was already approaching, a bowl half full of peas in her arms, her hair all snarly, cheeks pink and dimpling.
    Mr Burgess doffed his hat. ‘Mary.’ He was beaming so hard that his moustache quivered as he went round to the back of his van to fetch the carton of groceries.
    ‘Any letters?’ Isis asked. Mr Burgess’ wife ran the village Post Office and Mr Burgess delivered the post to the far-flung customers on his round. Not that many letters came to Little Egypt. There were bills of course, but Arthur and Evelyn rarely sent anything except a hasty postcard.
    ‘Not today,’ Mr Burgess said and yelped as Dixie, the black kitten, ran up his leg.
    ‘Isis, shut that little beggar in the scullery and finish picking the peas.’ Mary put the bowl in Isis’ hands. ‘Fill it to the brim, there’s a dear, while I get Mr Burgess his cuppa.’
    Isis unhooked Dixie’s claws from Mr Burgess’ corduroy trousers, and snuggled her face in his silky fur. His body was tiny as a bird’s and he never stopped moving. She carried him out to the scullery, where Mary tried to keep the kittens shut up, and then she crept to the kitchen window and climbed onto the pile of bricks she’d constructed as a vantage point. Mary was laughing as she put cups and saucers on the table, and her hands went to her hair, patting and smoothing.
    Isis got down and sat on the bricks. With her thumbnails she popped a peapod and ate the five green peas, starting with the biggest, and then she crunched the pod between her teeth and spat out the stringy bits. Eventually she dragged her feet to the vegetable garden to pick more peas. She sneaked past the potting shed – there was no sign of George, for which she was grateful. Mary didn’t especially like George either, not because he was idle and ancient, but because he was half mad and most dreadfully rude. Though Osi would sometimes trail him round the garden, oblivious to the snapping and snarling and outrageous cursing this provoked.
    The garden was a scandal, Mary was always saying, but mention it to George and you’d get your ear bitten off. Arthur was supposed to be hiring a lad to help, but no lad ever arrived and now there was bindweed clambering over everything, quite smothering the raspberry canes, and dandelions and nettles between the rows of beans and peas. Isis stung her wrists trying to reach the pods. She soon gave up and went back inside.
    Mr Burgess’ hat was on the table but he was in the pantry with Mary and they were laughing. His was a pleased sounding chortle and Mary’s a high false trill. There was a fly crawling on his slice of cake and she let it.
    The kitchen door opened and Mr Patey, the coalman, put his head round. ‘Hello, there? Anyone home?’ He was holding an iris, just one, dark blue and splashed with yellow.
    Mary stepped out of the pantry, cheeks aflame. ‘Wilf!’ she said.
    ‘Mary.’ He handed her the iris and she smiled at it, at him, and at the floor. Though he had a dirty neck, Mr Patey was far more handsome than Mr Burgess, and younger too. His hair was dark, his skin smooth, his eyes warm and toffee brown. He had what Evelyn would call a common accent, while Mr Burgess, Isis grudgingly considered, spoke quite well for a grocer.
    Mr Burgess stepped out of the pantry, pinching his moustache.
    ‘Patey,’ he said