Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [64]
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
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For once, Emerson’s consuming passion for excavation yielded to an even greater passion. A man of iron discipline, he went out to the dig every morning—dragging most of them with him—but he could hardly wait to get back to his new toy. Emerson’s reasons for dismembering it made a certain amount of sense—manhandling an entire motorcar onto and off of a flatcar had certain built-in risks, given the makeshift methods the Egyptians employed—but Ramses suspected his father had done it partly because he wanted the fun of taking it apart and putting it back together. He didn’t even object to the audience that collected every afternoon. Few Luxor men had ever seen a motorcar. They sat round in a circle, round-eyed and breathless, watching every move Emerson and Selim made. After the first afternoon Ramses and David became part of the audience, since they weren’t allowed to do anything. Naturally, a number of essential bolts and nuts had gone missing. Selim managed to find replacements. You could find almost anything in Egypt, or, if necessary, find someone to make it. Selim was an expert mechanic, but the process took a lot longer than it ought to have done, with Emerson “helping.”
His mother bore the circus with surprising equanimity. Once or twice Ramses thought he saw a suppressed grin, as she stood at the barred door watching. They were besieged with visitors, not only local people but foreign residents and tourists offering advice and assistance. Emerson ignored the advice and refused the assistance, but he was perfectly willing to stop and talk, answer questions, and generally show off. The children did their best to get out and join in the fun; the only one who managed to elude the watchers was Davy, who was snatched up by Emerson as he was reaching for a spanner. He tucked the child under one arm, a procedure Davy found immensely entertaining, and carried him back to the house.
“Good Gad, Peabody, why did you let him out?” he demanded. “He could hurt himself with those heavy tools, you know.”
His wife raised her eyes heavenward. “Yes, Emerson, I do know. If you had had the elementary good sense to move the motorcar to the stableyard, out of sight of the children—”
“Bah,” said Emerson. “One would suppose that four women could keep track of a few little children.”
Her lips tightened into invisibility, but she said only, “I will take steps, Emerson.”
What she did was pen the children into an area at the far end of the veranda. The barricade consisted of furniture and boxes; any one of them could climb over or squirm under them, but not without alerting an adult. Inside the enclosure she placed their toys, cushions and rugs, and a child-sized table and chairs borrowed from the twins’ room. Their initial indignation faded when she explained that this was their own special place, into which no grown-up could enter without an invitation, and handed over a box of crayons and a pile of blank paper.
“Now we will see who can draw the best picture,” she said.
Ramses thought it would take more than a few boxes to keep Davy penned in, so he volunteered for watch duty and took a chair next to the barricade. After approximately fifteen minutes he wished his mother hadn’t added a challenge to what was otherwise an excellent scheme. Paper after paper was thrust at him, and admiration demanded. Except for Dolly’s, which were very good for a boy that age, he couldn’t even tell what the scribbles were supposed to be. Evvie’s were as unidentifiable as those of his children. He tried not to be glad of that. He hadn’t been much concerned about the twins’ inability to communicate, but having Evvie around chattering like a magpie invited invidious comparisons. Women—mothers—couldn’t help making such comparisons, he supposed. They even counted teeth. He had been informed by Nefret that Charla had two more than Evvie.
Late Thursday afternoon the final bolt was tightened