is searching for something more romantic, something written, perhaps, by a woman. Were there no silly women in the colonel’s day? Ah, yes, here is a copy of Mrs Beeton, two by Emily Brontë, one Daphne du Maurier and several Reader’s Digest compilations. Not nearly silly enough for her.
‘Can I help you, my dear?’
One of the white-haired old ladies turns a cross, thin face towards Kirsty. ‘Was there anything?’
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘Well, we can’t help but be disturbed with you poking and prodding away in the background. What a nuisance. What is it you are looking for anyway?’
‘I’m looking for something to read.’
‘Well surely it doesn’t take long to find something to read. There’s hundreds of books on those shelves and all very worthy I’m sure. But this is supposed to be a quiet room
‘Yes, I know and I’m sorry.’
The old lady tuts and looks away, her gnarled old hand reaching grumpily for the silver teapot. ‘Oh, before you go, you could fill up my cup, if you would be so kind.’
‘Certainly, madam.’
Hardly aware of what books she picks up, Kirsty hurries to obey.
‘It’s so difficult when your bones get old,’ says the old lady unpleasantly, lifting a sugar cube with the tongs. And a dismissive, ‘Thank you, dear,’ as Kirsty hastily leaves the room.
She leaves the fat orange book called Magdalene until last. During the next couple of evenings she forces herself to get through the others, although the first one loses her completely, clearly a clever literary work, and the second is all about the Boer War: blood, dead horses and heroes.
‘I’m going to Truro on Monday, I’ll get you some Mills and Boons from the library,’ says Avril. ‘Anything to stop you moaning.’ Kirsty has put Magdalene aside, fearing the worst; it’s a waste of time. ‘I can’t think why they don’t sell books in the hotel foyer,’ says Avril. ‘You’d think they’d sell out in this weather.’
‘What about you, Bernie?’
‘You could get me the latest TV Quick and a Take A Break, they’ll do.’
Bernie, a bird-brained beautiful butterfly, has skipped through life without reading a paper or listening to the news. ‘Now what would I want to do that for?’ She laughs it off. She can name the present prime minister and she knows where Liverpool is on the map, but she runs out of ideas when she reaches the leader of the opposition. Ask her who Bach is and she hasn’t a clue. ‘Was it your school?’ Kirsty muses. ‘Will my kids end up daft as you? Or is it because you’re so self-obsessed?’
‘Obsession keeps me thin,’ says Bernie, casting an unkind glance at Avril.
‘I’d rather be fat than in your sort of love,’ Avril sneers. ‘Uncanny and unnatural, that’s what you are.’
Bernie does every quiz she can find just to read questions about herself, delve into herself, test and judge herself by the pitiful answers on page forty-nine. She devours all horoscopes as though she’s starving for news of her future. And it isn’t that she’s stupid, far from it, it is just a complete lack of interest.
But although Kirsty knows she is limited with her easy reading and low expectations, how she wishes, now, that she had made more of her education. If she’d had a decent career she’d have had the confidence and the means to leave Trevor years ago. If she had bothered with exams she wouldn’t be making the beds of strangers, with no prospect of a home for her kids. Even the poor, defeated Avril has managed to get an office job and is au fait with computers, despite lacking good looks and normal communication skills. Poor Avril is as dated as the Queen, overprotected, childlike, still stuck in the Fifties when children walked towards rainbows with their Clarks sandals properly fitted.
Oh my God.
This book is so utterly compelling she cannot believe what she’s reading.
Never has she…
‘ And the petty roundabout a woman must
‘Can I help you, my dear?’
One of the white-haired old ladies turns a cross, thin face towards Kirsty. ‘Was there anything?’
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘Well, we can’t help but be disturbed with you poking and prodding away in the background. What a nuisance. What is it you are looking for anyway?’
‘I’m looking for something to read.’
‘Well surely it doesn’t take long to find something to read. There’s hundreds of books on those shelves and all very worthy I’m sure. But this is supposed to be a quiet room
‘Yes, I know and I’m sorry.’
The old lady tuts and looks away, her gnarled old hand reaching grumpily for the silver teapot. ‘Oh, before you go, you could fill up my cup, if you would be so kind.’
‘Certainly, madam.’
Hardly aware of what books she picks up, Kirsty hurries to obey.
‘It’s so difficult when your bones get old,’ says the old lady unpleasantly, lifting a sugar cube with the tongs. And a dismissive, ‘Thank you, dear,’ as Kirsty hastily leaves the room.
She leaves the fat orange book called Magdalene until last. During the next couple of evenings she forces herself to get through the others, although the first one loses her completely, clearly a clever literary work, and the second is all about the Boer War: blood, dead horses and heroes.
‘I’m going to Truro on Monday, I’ll get you some Mills and Boons from the library,’ says Avril. ‘Anything to stop you moaning.’ Kirsty has put Magdalene aside, fearing the worst; it’s a waste of time. ‘I can’t think why they don’t sell books in the hotel foyer,’ says Avril. ‘You’d think they’d sell out in this weather.’
‘What about you, Bernie?’
‘You could get me the latest TV Quick and a Take A Break, they’ll do.’
Bernie, a bird-brained beautiful butterfly, has skipped through life without reading a paper or listening to the news. ‘Now what would I want to do that for?’ She laughs it off. She can name the present prime minister and she knows where Liverpool is on the map, but she runs out of ideas when she reaches the leader of the opposition. Ask her who Bach is and she hasn’t a clue. ‘Was it your school?’ Kirsty muses. ‘Will my kids end up daft as you? Or is it because you’re so self-obsessed?’
‘Obsession keeps me thin,’ says Bernie, casting an unkind glance at Avril.
‘I’d rather be fat than in your sort of love,’ Avril sneers. ‘Uncanny and unnatural, that’s what you are.’
Bernie does every quiz she can find just to read questions about herself, delve into herself, test and judge herself by the pitiful answers on page forty-nine. She devours all horoscopes as though she’s starving for news of her future. And it isn’t that she’s stupid, far from it, it is just a complete lack of interest.
But although Kirsty knows she is limited with her easy reading and low expectations, how she wishes, now, that she had made more of her education. If she’d had a decent career she’d have had the confidence and the means to leave Trevor years ago. If she had bothered with exams she wouldn’t be making the beds of strangers, with no prospect of a home for her kids. Even the poor, defeated Avril has managed to get an office job and is au fait with computers, despite lacking good looks and normal communication skills. Poor Avril is as dated as the Queen, overprotected, childlike, still stuck in the Fifties when children walked towards rainbows with their Clarks sandals properly fitted.
Oh my God.
This book is so utterly compelling she cannot believe what she’s reading.
Never has she…
‘ And the petty roundabout a woman must
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