That night in bed my brain kept whizzing. You did it, Lil, I told myself. You found the translation. But it wasn’t the end of the story, was it? There was no mention of how Kyky died, or his funeral or the burial, which made me think there was still more to this account, even now.
Then there was the curse. Kyky’s injuries from the chariot accident were too similar to those of the Washington Post’s reporter who’d crashed his car. Head injuries, fractured legs – it was no coincidence. Anyone with a special interest in the Tutankhamun story seemed to be at risk from the curse. And that included us.
I lay there, my heart booming, thinking this over. At least the translation did give us a better idea of where Kyky’s tomb might be. The accounts of Mr Carter’s dig said his search was on the valley floor, yet Maya’s chosen place was high up in the rock face. It suggested two tombs, then, not one.
It was bizarre to think Mr Carter himself didn’t know this. But then, didn’t the professor say that Mr Carter had dismissed the jar as ‘insignificant’ all those years ago?
He’d be kicking himself now.
Yet as far as the newspapers were concerned, he was already a national hero. Which made me remember something Grandad said:
‘They called King Louis XIV of France the Sun King because of how important he thought he was. His mission in life? To dazzle everyone. Yet don’t forget, Lily, underneath those wigs and gold brocade, he was just a man with flat feet and bad breath. That Howard Carter, he’s like a sun king. Everyone thinks he’s a go-getting explorer, but he’s a sly one, mark my words. He’s got secrets by the bagful.’
*
I wondered how Mr Carter managed to keep his secrets to himself. All weekend I tried my very best to keep our plans secret. But by Sunday it was getting exhausting.
‘What’s wrong with that last spud, Lil?’ Dad asked as we ate our roast lunch.
‘Nothing.’ I shoved it in my mouth quick before he could pinch it. I mean, it was a very decent lunch. We had lamb, potatoes done in lard, carrots, tinned peas and gravy thick as treacle. Mum was good at roasts, but this one was especially nice, almost as if we were celebrating something. Even I, with my head full of Egypt, couldn’t fail to notice.
When lunch was finished, I went down to swill our dishes under the tap in the back yard, and when I came upstairs again, Mum and Dad were discussing me. Since the kitchen door was ajar, I hovered there to listen.
‘She could come with us, Reg,’ Mum was saying. ‘It might be nice to do it as a family this year.’
‘What about her schoolwork?’ Dad replied. ‘St Kilda’s won’t tolerate her falling behind. I wonder sometimes if she realises just how lucky she is?’
I groaned. St Kilda’s again. The work I had to do, the gratitude I was expected to show. Dad never seemed to talk about anything else.
Except then he said, ‘We agreed never to tell her, remember?’
‘She’s older now,’ Mum pointed out.
I was all ears: what were they on about? It didn’t sound like St Kilda’s any more.
The kitchen door opened fully. Dad came out, saw me and for a second looked almost lost.
‘There you are!’ he said, forcing a smile. His hands were shaking badly. Seeing I’d noticed he quickly stuffed them in his pockets.
‘Dishes are done,’ I muttered.
‘Good girl. Your mother and I are popping out for a stroll, all right? It’s best that you stay here and get your prep done.’
*
The second my parents left, I slumped face down amongst my schoolbooks. I couldn’t concentrate. I was now anxious about where they’d gone. They never went out together. Dad went to the pub on a Friday evening and once a month Mum played cribbage with her work pals from Woolworths: that was it.
The only thing I could think was that they’d gone to visit Grandad, though it seemed unlikely. Grandad and Dad couldn’t bear to be in the same room as each other. That made me worry even more. If they had gone to the hospital, then it must be for the very worst reason, that Grandad was dying and Dad had gone to settle their differences.
On the brink of tears, I got up and put on my coat. If Grandad was that ill then I had to see him too. He must know I was trying my very hardest to get the jar back to Egypt, with my friends’ help. If he could just hang on for a few more days, he’d see – though how I’d say all this with Mum and Dad at the bedside I’d no idea.
*
In the street, I soon spotted my parents. I was about to run to catch them up when I realised they’d passed the bus stop. They weren’t going to the hospital, after all. What relief I felt quickly turned to confusion, because they were certainly going somewhere.
Swithin’s Street itself was busy with kids out on their bikes or playing hopscotch on the pavement. After weeks of cold weather, it was a bright, warm day. There were people chatting on doorsteps, a couple of cats stretched out on a wall in the sunshine. It was, all told, a nice afternoon for a stroll.
Yet my parents weren’t strolling. Dad was going so fast Mum kept having to break into a run to stay with him. And so did I, as I followed on behind. Just when I could feel a stitch coming on, Dad turned down St Mary’s Lane, a little road that ran behind the cutlery factory, before it stopped in a dead end at the churchyard and convent.
We never went to church as a family. Once, when I’d asked why not, Dad replied: ‘Passchendaele. No god would’ve let that happen.’
Today, though, my parents were heading for St Mary’s. They had to be. There was nothing else down there. It was a funny little place. Jammed in by the factory wall on one side and the convent on the other, it had the greenest, most overgrown graveyard you ever saw. Long ago, during the Black Death, it’d been a plague pit. Nowadays, it was where you’d see couples on their break from the factory having a quick smoke or a kiss. As far as I knew, neither of these was a reason for my parents to go there. Nor was the obvious one: all the dead people in our family were buried at the big cemetery near the Heath.
By the time I reached St Mary’s, they were already in the churchyard. Dad had slowed down and was reaching out to take Mum’s hand, making me realise they wanted to be alone. So I hid behind the gatepost.
On either side of the path were ancient gravestones that had fallen over in the long grass or sunk into the soil. I was dying to see which one Mum and Dad would stop in front of. Perhaps an army chum of Dad’s was buried here. You often heard about men who’d returned from the war, who despite being back home with their families never recovered from their injuries.
Not too far along the path, they did stop. Mum said something to Dad, who took off his hat and held it to his chest. Then he spoke to her – I couldn’t hear what he said, above the blackbirds and trams going by on the main road and someone in a nearby garden calling to their cat.
The strange thing was, neither of them seemed to be looking down at a grave. They were gazing straight ahead at the long whitewashed wall, behind which was the convent. Standing there, they looked different: not their usual weary selves, but so full of emotion they were shaking with it. And it frightened me, rather. I’d never seen them react like this to anything, or anyone, before.
They didn’t stay long. On the way out, when they passed my hiding spot, I froze in case they saw me. But they were so lost to their thoughts that neither of them even looked up from the path. All the way back down Swithin’s Street, they walked in silence. I followed at a safe distance.
Then, at the bottom of our street, they stopped outside the pub.
‘A sweet sherry before closing time?’ I heard Dad ask.
It was pretty brazen of him, to be honest. Women round our way didn’t go to the pub. It was where men went to escape their wives, and where wives were glad to send them, Mum always said. But that sweet sherry was a godsend, because it gave me a chance to get home before they did.
*
They didn’t come back for ages, long enough for my mind to drift to tomorrow, and the telegram I’d be sending. The post office wouldn’t open till nine, so I’d have to miss the first lesson, and my St Kilda’s uniform, I knew all too well, stuck out like a pimple. This time I decided not to take any chances. Mum, I knew, had a plain black skirt which I could wear then, afterwards, change back into my uniform.
It wasn’t that my parents’ room was out of bounds – more that it was theirs, not mine. It smelled of Mum, and Dad’s hair oil, and sometimes, if the window hadn’t been opened in a while, of last night’s cooking. It was the only other proper-sized room in our flat. As I tiptoed through the door, I felt instantly guilty. Mum would’ve lent me her skirt if I asked. But I couldn’t without her wanting to know why.
In the corner of the room was a curtain: behind it, on pegs, hung my parents’ few clothes. There was the black skirt, shiny with wear, but what caught my eye was Mum’s little cardboard suitcase on the floor beneath. It was covered in dust because no one ever used it. Seeing it there, I thought of Tulip and Oz, who were probably packing for tomorrow’s trip right at this moment. I felt envious. Worried. Glad of our crazy plan. As I unhooked the skirt, I let myself dream, just for a second, that I was going with them, and I’d come in here to borrow Mum’s suitcase.
I picked it up. Just to try it. Though the handle creaked dryly, it was thrilling to hold. I imagined loading it on to a train or a ferry, and covering it with stickers to show all the countries we’d passed through. I didn’t realise the latches on the case weren’t clicked shut until the lid swung open, hitting me in the shin.
‘Ouch!’ I hissed, rubbing my leg.
A piece of paper fell out, fluttering to the floor. It looked like a receipt or a ticket until I picked it up. On it was written:
BOY 8 LBS 6 OZ
Born 19th November 1899
St Mary’s Convent,
Islington, London
An odd feeling crept through me. Somehow, I didn’t think I was meant to see this bit of paper. If the dust was anything to go by, it’d been inside the suitcase for years. Nor did it seem a coincidence that 19 November was today’s date: the baby’s birthday.
Was this why Mum and Dad had gone to St Mary’s Convent, or at least stood outside, looking so upset? And was it the reason for our super-special Sunday lunch?
I’d no idea, but my head started reeling. Something was going on here, something shadowy and private. And in my own family too!
Footsteps were coming up the stairs.
Panicking, I pushed the suitcase back in place, grabbed the black skirt and ran. I made it to my bedroom just as the front door opened. Mum and Dad took their coats and hats off, went wearily to the kitchen. The smell of sherry and tobacco trailed behind them, as did I, once I’d hidden the black skirt under my bed.
‘Hullo, love,’ Mum said, seeing me in the doorway. ‘I’ll make us all a nice cuppa, shall I?’
‘Been working hard, she has, look,’ Dad said proudly, pointing at my books on the kitchen table.
‘I have,’ I agreed.
It was only a half lie. But it came out easily, especially now I wasn’t the only one with secrets.