Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena Read online

  Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena

  By A.D. Phillips

  Published by Action Girl Books (Manchester, UK)

  E-mail: [email protected]

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  Copyright Notice

  Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena

  First Published in 2014 by Action Girl Books

  Copyright © A.D. Phillips 2014

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by Action Girl Books (using GIMP)

  Using Images Licensed from Shutterstock

  Background: 100704244 Copyright © Nejron Photo

  Woman: 110544194 Copyright © Poznyakov

  While the novel is partly based on actual historical events, the narrative and characters are fictitious. Any similarity to real-life individuals is purely coincidental.

  1924 - The Year of Discovery

  Chapter One: Little Sister

  I hate Father. For going on silly trips round the world. For spending more time with his pretty assistant than Mother. For leaving me with my sister again. I’m barely fourteen, and he expects me to babysit a five year old.

  I turn to check on Irene. With her short-cut blonde hair, she’s every bit the flapper girl. Her head’s already above my hips. Give her another five years, and she’ll outgrow me. Irene’s arms are as strong as most boys’. She could probably pass as one if the knee-length black dress didn’t give her away. I’m the traditional young lady of the family, wearing a long, white frock with matching gloves and stockings. About the only thing we have in common are our royal blue cloche hats.

  “This is stupid,” my sister moans. “I want to go.”

  “Father told us—”

  “Father’s not here!” Irene yells, turning away. We’ve only been here five minutes, and already she’s complaining. But it’s hard to argue when I agree with her.

  Flags flutter as a strong breeze comes through. My sandy brown hair tickles my neck, and I have to hold onto my hat to prevent it blowing away. It’s a wonder Irene’s not caught a cold. Her arms are completely exposed, yet I’m the one shivering. Father could at least have gotten us tickets near the front. We’re in the top section of the Empire Stadium, with only a few rows and flagpoles behind us. There’s no roof to shelter us from wind or rain. It’s sunny right now, but it always rains eventually.

  “I’m bored,” says Irene, biting her thumbnail.

  More grumbling. I’ve got a whole afternoon of this to look forward to. At least the venue’s impressive. The oval-bowled arena, like most large buildings at the exhibition park, is built from reinforced concrete. I don’t know how many have squeezed in for the opening ceremony, but the stadium can hold a lot of people. I remember reading in The Times that two hundred thousand attended last year’s cup final.

  The spectators fall silent in anticipation. “We come here today with the Queen,” a man says over the loudspeaker, “for the purpose of opening the British Empire Exhibition.”

  I think that’s King George. I stand on my toes, hoping to get a better view. Everyone in front does the same though, and all I see are cloaks and hats. Maybe if I lift Irene above—

  She’s gone! I look up the aisle, but can’t see her. Where is she? That little— There! The other side, near the end. A girl in a royal blue cloche moving through the crowd. She must have snook past me.

  “Irene!” I scream. “Get back here!”

  People turn to look. There’s a long pause where nobody talks, not even the king. Have I ruined his speech? Thankfully the ceremony goes on.

  “Excuse me,” I say, squeezing past a startled woman.

  Little Irene can go places I cannot: around the backs of people, under their shoulders. She’s already fifteen yards in front. I barge through the spectators, and soon lose sight of her. By the time I reach the central steps, I’ve picked up three knocks, almost fallen over twice, and made a dozen apologies.

  Irene’s vanished. There’s no exit above me, and I can’t see my sister in the crowd. She must have gone down to the lower level. I set off after her.

  “Irene!” I call out.

  Why are people staring at me? They’d be frustrated too if they had to chase a silly girl down these steps. It’s a tiring slog in my high heels, but I make it to the bottom. From there it’s an about turn, followed by an equally exhausting descent through the tunnel.

  I come out directly above the stadium’s main entrance, on a balcony that connects the two enormous domed towers. From my elevated position I have a clear view of the exhibition park. The pavilions are spectacular, each one themed around a country or colony of the British Empire. But I don’t have time for sightseeing. I need to find my sister. Fortunately the pockets of visitors along the footpaths are quite spread out, and an isolated blonde girl is easy to spot.

  Irene went outside? By herself? I’ve a good mind to… I rush downstairs, and out through the exit turnstile. Luckily my sister’s still in the same spot as before.

  I chase Irene down and grab her waist in a tight hug. She groans, fighting to free herself. Her sharp fingernails cut a hole in my glove.

  “Stop it,” I say.

  I have to repeat myself twice before Irene listens. In the meantime she gives my knees a good kicking. I set her down, finally getting chance to catch my breath.

  “How many times have I told you, little sister?” I scold her. “You’re not to go off by yourself.”

  “I’m not little!” she screeches.

  “You’re smaller than me. That means you’re little. And you do as I say.”

  I sound like an angry parent. But who else is there to look after Irene? Certainly not Father - he’s at the museum. Mother’s bedridden. Which leaves me.

  “Come here,” I say, clutching Irene’s hand tight. “Let’s make you presentable.”

  She’s a mess. Her chin’s dirty, and the right loop of her dress has come off. I blame the rebellious ladies Father invited to last year’s furniture sale. Ever since then my sister’s had the flapper bug. She can’t be seen in a public place looking like this. I take Irene aside to straighten her clothes.

  “Leave me alone,” she cries, shrugging me off.

  I wish she’d stop being difficult. It wasn’t my idea to come to this silly exhibition. I need to cheer my sister up.

  “See those flags?” I indicate the stadium roof. “How many can you count?”

  “Lots.”

  A half-interested reply, but at least she’s stopped her tantrum. I wipe her chin with my handkerchief while I think of something else to say.

  “Every one of those countries is part of the Empire.” I point out the few I recognise. “That’s us in the middle. There’s India, and Australia.”

  “How big is the Empire?” asks Irene.

  A good question, and it’s my turn to give a clever one word answer. “Very.”

  The geography lesson settles Irene down, but all my hard work is undone by a rumble of thunder. Ominous, dark clouds block out the Sun. It’s going to rain, and we don’t have our umbrellas.

  “I want to go,” says Irene.

  Father said he’d collect us at six. It’s much too early, but my sister’s already in a foul mood. If we get caught in a storm…

  “Come on then,” I say. “We’ll go meet Father. He’s at the museum, with his Pharaohs.”

  “What’s a fair—” Irene struggles with the word.

  “Dead old men they dig up from the sand,” I explain as best I can. “Rulers of ancient Egypt. They’re more important to Father than me, you, or Mother. He�
��s always leaving her to go on his trips. He doesn’t care about us.” Now I’m the one complaining. Bad weather can make anyone grumpy.

  We should get moving if we want to beat the rain. I take Irene’s hand and lead her along a tree-lined path. Behind us there’s a loud cheer. Probably King George V finishing his speech, but there’s no way to know.

  “What are they?” Irene asks, pointing to two ugly grey buildings up ahead.

  “More exhibitions.” I try to sound bored. Once my sister gets started with questions she doesn’t stop, and it’s a long walk to Wembley Park Station.

  “Edith, look!” shouts Irene. “A palace!”

  She tugs my wrist. It’s then I realise she’s looking off to the right. The Indian pavilion has a smaller copy of that white marble building in Delhi, the one with the dome and pointy towers. I forget the name, but this one’s just as beautiful.

  “Can we go in?” my sister asks. Her cheerful voice makes it hard to say no.

  There’s another rumble of thunder, louder this time. It’s getting colder, too. I don’t want to be outside when the rain falls.

  “You wanted to leave,” I say, in no mood for debate. “So we’re leaving.”

  “No!” Irene yells, tugging harder.

  If I take her in we could be here for hours, and I’ve had enough of this place. Mother told me the real reason for this exhibition. I can’t really explain it to a five year old, but I try.

  “All this is for show,” I say. “We’re not interested in being friends with these countries. We want their tea, sugar, spice, and—” I can’t think of anything else. “Things! We just had a big, long war, and now the Government will do anything for money. Just like Father. That’s why our house is so empty, and why he’s never here.”

  I didn’t intend to go on that long, but I couldn’t stop myself. Irene looks confused. She’s too young to understand, but one day she will.

  “Now come along,” I say. “We don’t have time to see the Empire.”

  I take my unhappy sister along the path, through a fenced garden, and into Wembley Park Station. As part of the London Underground, the Metropolitan Railway is a main route into the city. We can go as far as Baker Street, but we’ll have to take a bus from there. I pay the ticket office man, keeping one eye on my sister. She’s still upset we didn’t go inside the Indian pavilion, and I don’t want her wandering off again.

  I hold Irene close as we negotiate the crowd. The platform is down a flight of steps, past a series of electric lamps. It’s slightly less busier on the inbound side, giving us more space to breathe. My skin feels sticky in the stuffy air. A bright and colourful poster bears the slogan It’s warmer underground. I agree. The long, circular tunnel is hotter than a kitchen oven.

  “I’m only looking out for you, little sister.” I pull her back from the platform edge. “Nobody else is. No matter what Father says, he’s only bothered about his work. That’s why he left us by ourselves - to keep us out of the way.”

  Irene folds her arms, totally disinterested. I’m talking to myself. Should I tell her about last night? Why not? She’ll forget by the time we get to the museum, and there’s nothing else to do down here.

  “Father found something on his last dig,” I say. “I overheard him talking about it on the telephone.”

  I miss out some bits: Father’s shouting waking me up, tiptoeing downstairs in my nightgown and slippers, peeking through the study door. And I’m not telling Irene about all the empty bottles on his desk. A little girl doesn’t need to know her father’s a drunk.

  “What was it?” Irene asks.

  The first of many questions? Maybe I should have kept quiet and let my sister sulk. But I didn’t, and now I’ll have to answer her.

  “He said it was—”

  I stop. We’re in public, with a dozen other people around us. Nobody’s looking except for a boy in a scruffy, oil-stained jacket and newsboy cap. And he quickly loses interest when he finds another girl to stare at. Still, I should be careful. I lean closer to Irene, dropping my voice to a whisper.

  “The find of a lifetime,” I say, repeating the phrase Father used.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Something big.”

  A faint rumbling comes from the tunnel. Tiles gets brighter, lit up by an approaching train. Its wheels screech as the shiny black engine - Sarah Siddons Number 12 according to the nameplate – comes to a stop.

  “Choo choo,” my sister says.

  That’s what she calls trains. This one’s electric, not steam, but I don’t even bother trying to explain that.

  Irene dashes to the nearest wooden carriage, reaches up, and pulls the door handle. Three startled passengers disembark. Are they shocked to see her, or that she got it open by her little self? I never find out. The men are in a rush, and leave right away.

  The step’s a bit high for my sister, but she’s never been one to shy away from a challenge. I give Irene a helping boost inside – much to her annoyance - and close the carriage door behind us. Bell-shaped electric lights make it easy to find a spare seat half way in. Irene climbs on the upholstery, pushing away a boy who moves to assist her.

  Someday I’ll have to teach her to act proper. No room for me, so I stretch my arm up, and grab hold of a dangling leather loop to support myself. The station disappears behind us as the train shunts off.

  “How big?” Irene shouts over the rumbling. Is she talking about what I said earlier? What Father found?

  “I’ll tell you later,” I reply bluntly. I’d rather not discuss it in public.

  We both stay quiet for the remainder of the journey. After numerous stops, we alight at Baker Street. This station platform is above ground, and much less congested than Wembley Park. It’s a pleasant walk to the street outside. That’s until Irene sees a bright red, open-top omnibus, and runs off to catch it with me in pursuit.

  The sky has darkened since our train ride. The air is moist, and specks of rain patter my dress. It’s about to pour it down. I pay the bus conductor, and get on via the rear platform. I’m about to suggest we sit inside, but Irene has already raced up the spiral steps. My legs are worn out from all the chasing, so I rest a moment before making the climb to the upper deck.

  The drizzle turns to a heavy downpour as I sit beside my sister on the front seat. Rainwater drains off the soggy rim of my cloche. I pull my arms in, shifting my dress to protect my stockings. We’re getting soaked out here. People in the streets run for cover, sheltering under shop fronts. I’ve no chance of getting Irene below. She’s always been one to brave the weather. Brave anything, really.

  “How big?” That question again. Irene won’t give up until I answer.

  I look around. The few people that were upstairs have gone below. Of course they have. Who’d want to be out in the rain apart from my little sister?

  “He said it was a puzzle,” I say. “And that if he solved the puzzle, it would make King Tut seem a small find.”

  “King who?”

  I can’t remember his full name! All I know is I’m getting drenched.

  “A Pharaoh,” I explain. “Remember how I said they were these dead old men?”

  Irene nods. She probably doesn’t, but I decide to play along.

  “This one was a boy,” I say. “About the same age as me. They found his tomb two years ago. It was in all the newspapers. With pictures of his gold mask.”

  “Did Father find gold?” I can tell my sister’s excited.

  “Maybe. On the telephone, he said it was worth a fortune.” That last word confused her, so I rephrase it. “A lot of money.”

  Father didn’t find gold, but letting Irene think he did keeps her happy. And quiet. I’ve not told her the full story of what happened yesterday evening. I go over it again in my head.

  I was in the hall, watching through the half-open study door. Even though Father was seated, I could see his untidy brown hair and shoulders above his leather-backed chair. He was holding a ball, studying it
under his reading lamp. I only saw it briefly, but I remember it being about three to four inches wide. Black, smooth and reflectionless, with strange markings on the surface. Then Father stood up and put the object in his safe - a giant steel box with the chunky, three-pronged handle.

  “Forget Mishter Carter and hish boy king. Thish ish a real dishcovery.” Father may have used slightly different words, but that was the gist of it. I do know his speech was slurred, and he’d had far too much to drink.

  I only remember parts of the telephone conversation that followed.

  “It’s worth a forshune. I’ll meet you at the musheum. Tell nosbody else about thish,” were Father’s last words before he put down the receiver.

  Father came out looking all flustered. I hid behind the coat stand as he staggered upstairs. When he’d gone I crept into the study, somewhere I’d never gone before without permission. But I simply had to know more about the mysterious metal ball.

  These days Father’s private office is emptier than it’s ever been, with no furniture but the oak desk, two chairs, and a half-stocked bookcase. Where statues once stood, there are dark patches on the wooden floor. Over the last year I’ve watched Father’s collection dwindle as he sold it off. First less valuable pieces, then more expensive ones, then the display cabinets. All so he could… I’m getting distracted, allowing my thoughts to wander.

  The only thing I was interested in last night was the safe. I approached it slowly, slippered feet quiet on the hardwood tiles. The study lights were off, and I didn’t dare switch them back on.

  My memories of what happened next are hazy and disjointed. Bumping noises upstairs. Waiting until it was completely quiet. Feeling stupid when I realised the safe was locked, and I couldn’t get inside.

  I searched the desk drawers, finding all sorts of junk as I hunted for the key: loose paper, feather quills, copper pennies. And lots of empty bottles, of course. The only item of interest was an old leather-bound book with a cracked front cover. I risked switching on the desk lamp, and angled the beam so it shone on the faded yellow pages.