Caedmon’s Song Read Online Free PDF Page B

looked down on her with a mixture of love and relief.
    ‘Hello, Daddy,’ she said.
    He reached out and she felt his soft hand close on hers, just like when they used to go for walks in the woods when she was a child.
    ‘Oh, Kirstie,’ her mother said, taking out a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbing her eyes. ‘We were so worried.’
    Her father still said nothing. His touch told Kirsten all she needed to know.
    ‘What about? Where . . .’
    ‘Don’t try to speak,’ her father said softly. ‘It’s all right. It’s all over now. Everything’s going to be all right.’
    Her mother was still patting away at her eyes and making little snuffling noises.
    Kirsten rolled onto her back again and stared at the scar on the ceiling. She licked her dry lips. Sensation was returning to her bit by bit. Now she could catch the clean, white, antiseptic
smell of the hospital room. She could also feel her body. Her skin felt taut, stretched too tightly over her flesh and bones. In places, it pinched at her as if it had snagged on something and
puckered.
    But worse than that was the burning ache in her breasts and in her loins. She had no sensation of the tight flesh there, just of a painful, throbbing absence.
    The door opened and a white-coated man walked over to her. She flinched and tried to roll away.
    ‘It’s all right,’ she heard someone say. ‘The doctor’s here to take care of you.’
    Then she felt her sleeve pulled up, and a cool swab touched her arm. She didn’t feel the needle going in, but it made a sharp prick when it slid out. The pain began to recede. Warm,
soothing waves came to carry it far out to sea.
    Her senses ebbed and the long darkness advanced to reclaim her. As she slipped away, she could still feel her father’s hand in hers. She turned her head slowly and asked,
‘What’s happened to me, Daddy? My skin feels funny. It doesn’t fit right.’
     
9
    MARTHA
    When Martha got downstairs for breakfast the next morning, the other guests were already seated. Only one small table, set for two, remained. Beyond the bay window, the sun was
shining on Abbey Terrace, and the sky was blue again.
    By the door stood a help-yourself trolley: jugs of orange or grapefruit juice; milk and miniature packets of Corn Flakes, Special K, Rice Krispies, Alpen and Frosties. Martha took some Alpen,
poured herself a glass of juice and sat down. She helped herself to a cup of tea from the stainless-steel pot on the table. Judging by its colour, the tea had been stewing too long. She looked at
the place opposite her and hoped that no one would join her for breakfast. Never very cheerful first thing in the morning, she had just about managed to nod and say hello to the others.
Conversation would be out of the question.
    As she sipped the bitter tea, she cast her eyes around the room. In the bay window sat an old couple. The man’s dark brown hair was swept straight back from his wrinkled forehead and
plastered down with Brylcreem. He had smiled when she came in, showing a set of stained and crooked teeth. His greyish face had the lined and hollow look of a fifty-a-day man, and his breath came
in short emphysematic gasps, confirming the diagnosis. His wife hadn’t smiled. She had simply stared at Martha with suspicious, beady eyes, as if to say, ‘I know your type, young
lady.’ Blue-grey hair hovered around her moon-shaped head like mist.
    By the opposite wall sat a young couple, probably on their honeymoon, Martha guessed. They both looked very serious. The man was thin, swarthy, bearded, and precise in his tea-pouring; the
woman’s face, as she sat bowed forward, was almost completely hidden by a cascade of glossy black hair. When she looked up at him, a shy, secret smile lit her eyes. They hadn’t even
noticed Martha come in.
    Most of the noise came from the third table, near the serve-yourself trolley, where a tired-looking young woman and an equally exhausted man both struggled to put on a brave