Mummies and Daddies
The Egyptian rooms of The British Museum are my favourite place to sketch.
I usually start in the galleries where the colossal statues stare down at the hordes of tourists, their stone eyes seeming to see everybody at once.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with all things Egyptian. There was something about the shapes of the hieroglyphs and the graceful figures from their ancient tombs that fired my imagination at school. That’s when I started drawing my own pharaohs and mummies and writing stories about them. Ever since I discovered the collection at the British Museum, I’ve visited at every opportunity. It’s a constant source of inspiration for the books I now write and illustrate.
And here I am again, collecting last minute notes and sketches for a children’s book, climbing the west stairs towards my favourite haunt. I remember how much Matt used to hate me coming here.
‘You spend more time with those mummies than you do with me!’ he’d shout. I never tried explaining my fascination with the mummies to him because he’d never understand. As far as Matt could see, my books were just a nice little hobby. He didn’t even bother to look at them when they were published. I’m glad I never dedicated one to him.
Walking through Early Mesopotamia, I remember the last time Matt shouted and me—calmly and quietly—telling him, ‘Please be out of my flat by the time the British Museum closes. That’s eight-thirty on a Thursday,’ I’d added, ducking to avoid the football he’d thrown. I wouldn’t miss those lying around the flat, I’d thought as I left, seeking sanctuary in the Egyptian galleries for the hours until my home was my own again.
That was three months ago and I still can’t believe that I fell for him. How ridiculously optimistic love can be sometimes. We were so different and yet I’d always thought it would work out somehow. But I was Egypt and he was Everton.
As I enter the Egyptian rooms, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s always such a welcome sight and it’s busy today, which is fun for me because I’m a great people-watcher. I get my sketchbook out and make a start. At first, I focus on the cabinets filled with mummies but I inevitably find myself drawn to the tourists. There’s a young couple with their arms around each other’s waists, moving as one through the room; a young mother with a toddler and her pale face and red eyes tell me she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep for some time; and then there’s a father with his young son—and I can’t help noticing how handsome the father is. And he has the cutest smile I’ve seen in a long time.
I watch them. The father’s taking time to explain things to his son. He points out the colours, the materials—the blazing golds and rich lapis lazulis and, like most of the other tourists I’ve watched over the years, they’re taking great pleasure in spotting the familiar figures: there’s Horus the falcon-headed god, and Anubis with his jackal head.
I continue watching the father as he calmly answers each of his son’s questions, quickly scanning the cards in front of the objects and hastily gaining the information his son wants.
‘What’s that?’ the son asks, pointing into one of the cabinets.
‘Er—’ the father falters ‘—that’s a shabti.’
‘What’s a shabby?’
‘Well—’ his eyes quickly dart for information ‘—it’s a little model in the shape of a mummy that was thought to come to life after death. They were used as servants. The more you had buried with you, the better.’
The son looks absolutely fascinated and I look across at the brilliant blue shabti, turquoise like a summer sky, and wish I had a team at home to help me with the chores, which always get left in favour of my drawing.
The father and son move to another exhibit—the cabinet with the fabulous golden mummies. They stand in front of the largest, with its long ebony hair and huge almond-shaped eyes rimmed with black. Her passive face stares into eternity and she is almost smiling, but not quite. She reminds me of the Mona Lisa—there’s that sort of peace about her. She’s one of my favourites.
‘Look at the gold!’ the father says.
I smile. It’s obvious to me that this is their first visit and they’re both as captivated by the mummy as I was when I first saw her. The boy’s mouth has dropped open into a wide ‘o’ and the father’s eyes have gone quite round with wonder. And I suddenly realise that I’m drawing them both. My pencil is flying across the page: the father’s kind, open face and his wavy, slightly wild hair, and the boy’s sparkling eyes and his inability to stand still for longer than three seconds.
Once my sketch is more or less complete, I move through to the next room, where I know there’s a bench near the mummy known as Ginger. I sit down, glad to have the weight off my feet for a while. This room’s much bigger and lighter, less oppressive than its neighbours but no less crowded. My eyes travel—inevitably—towards Ginger—the body of an ancient man who’s been naturally mummified in the desert sands. He always pulls in the crowds.
Today, he attracts the father and his son I’ve been sketching.
‘Hello,’ the father says as he spies a seat next to me. ‘Mind if I sit here?’
I look up from my sketchbook, disarmed by his cute smile. ‘Not at all.’
We look around the room together as his son stands, fascinated, by Ginger.
‘You know, I could come here every day,’ the father says suddenly and I smile. ‘Couldn’t you?’
I bite my lip, not daring to tell him that I almost do. ‘It’s one of my favourite places,’ I say instead.
He then notices the sketchbook on my lap. ‘Can I see?’
I find that I’m blushing as I show him my scribbles.
‘They’re really good,’ he says. ‘Is this what you do for a living?’
I smile shyly. ‘I’ve had a few books published.’
‘Really?’ He looks surprised and I’m wondering if that’s a good thing.
‘Just for children.’
‘Just? They’re the toughest audience.’
I nod. ‘I guess they are.’
‘You like children, then?’ he asks.
‘Oh, yes! I love them. I’d like some of my own one day.’ And then I blush. How awful did that sound? He smiles at me and I’m heartily relieved that I haven’t sent him running for the nearest exit. ‘How old’s your son?’ I ask quickly.
‘Billy’s eight tomorrow. This is our big day out today. Can you believe, I offered him the whole of London and he chose to come here? Wanted to see the mummies.’
For a moment I want to ask about Billy’s real life mummy but it would look much too forward, wouldn’t it?
‘And what will you be doing to celebrate tomorrow?’
‘He’ll be at his mum’s,’ he says.
My eyes widen a fraction.
‘We’re divorced,’ he explains.
‘Oh.’ I fish around for something slightly less inane to say but nothing comes to mind.
‘He’s having a party over there. Cake, friends, entertainer—the works!’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘Don’t you believe it! Fifteen eight-year-old boys and girls crammed into a thirties terrace is anything but fun!’ He laughs and tiny crinkles spread around his eyes like little