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 and 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 color, 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 grayish 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-gray 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 face as they tried to control two finicky youngsters. The children looked like twins: same blond coloring, same whiny voices: “I don’t like Shreddies, Daddy! Why aren’t there any Sugar Puffs? I want Sugar Puffs!” “Have some Frosties,” the pale mother said, trying to placate them, but to no avail. She glanced up and smiled weakly at the others. The father, dressed for a day on the beach in white slacks and a pale blue sports shirt showing the curly ginger hairs on his forearms, looked over and gave Martha a what-can-
you-do-with-them shrug.
The owner’s wife came in to take their orders. Not that there was much choice: you could have your eggs soft or hard, your bacon medium or crispy. There was a determined set to the woman’s mouth, and she moved about her business with a brusque, no-nonsense certainty, all the while managing to smile and respond to small talk about the weather. Perhaps if anyone wore the pants around here, Martha thought, it was the wife. Her husband probably had a day job and only happened to be around because Martha had arrived late in the afternoon. Perhaps he was even a fisherman. If she could get a chance to chat casually with him, she might be able to find out something about how the local operation worked.
Just after she had given her order for crispy bacon and medium-poached eggs, the final guest came down, ordered and helped himself to cereal and juice, which he brought over to Martha’s table and plonked down opposite her. He was tall and athletic-looking, probably a jogger, with a deep suntan, thin face, aquiline nose and lively blue eyes. His short, curly black hair still glistened from the shower. He smelled of Old Spice aftershave.
He poured some tea and grinned broadly, showing a perfect set of dazzling teeth, the kind one rarely sees in English mouths. My god, Martha thought, a morning person. Probably been for a run around the town before breakfast. She managed to muster a tiny, brief smile, then looked away again to see how the couple were coping with the two kids.
“Sleep well?”
“Pardon?”
The young man leaned forward again and lowered his voice. “I said, did you sleep well?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh?”
“Just put me right next to the bathroom, didn’t they? Six o’clock the blooming parade starts-one after the other-and they all have to flush the loo. I think the pipes run right through my bed. Talk about clatter and bang. Keith’s the name, by the way.” He stuck out his hand and smiled. “Keith McLaren.” His accent was Australian, certainly, Martha thought, but as she had specialized only in regional British accents, she couldn’t pin it down to any specific area.
Martha took his hand reluctantly and gave it a quick, limp shake. “Martha Browne.”
“And before you ask, yes, I’m an Aussie. I’m just taking a little time off from university to travel this lovely country of yours.”
“You’re a student?”
“Yes. Master’s degree in surfing and sunbathing at Bondi Beach University.” He laughed. “Not true. Wish it were. I’m studying law, not half as interesting. I’m making my way up the coast to Scotland. Got some family there.”
Martha nodded politely.
“Seagulls, too,” Keith said, apropos of nothing, as far as Martha could make out.
“What?”
“Bloody seagulls kept me awake too. Didn’t you hear them?”
“Seagulls, you say?” The owner’s wife arrived at their table and set down two plates, which she held with worn oven gloves. “Mind, they’re hot. Seagulls, eh? You get used to them if you live here. Have to.”
“They never wake you up?” Keith asked her.
“Never. Not after the first couple of months.”
“ ’Fraid I won’t be here that long.” He looked at Martha again. “Moving on tomorrow. Traveling by local buses whenever I can. Walking or hitching if I can’t.”
“Well, good luck to you,” the woman said, and moved on.
Keith stared at his plate and prodded a dark medallion of reddish black stuff with his fork. “What’s that?” he asked, turning up his nose and leaning forward to whisper. “Whatever it is, I don’t remember asking for it.”
Martha examined the contents of his plate. They were the same as hers: bacon, egg, grilled tomato and mushrooms, fried bread, and the thing that Keith was pointing to. “Black pudding, I think,” she said. “Must be today’s special.”
“What’s it made of?”
“You don’t want to know. Not at this time in the morning.”
Keith laughed and tucked in. “Well, it sure tastes all right. That’s what I like about staying at these places. They always give you a breakfast that sets you up for the entire day. I won’t need much more than a sandwich till the evening meal. Are you eating here?”
“Not in the evenings, no.”
“Oh, you should. I usually come back. Well, I say usually, but this is only my third day. They do a decent spread. Good value, too.”
When he went back to his food he stopped talking and left Martha in peace. She ate quickly, hoping to get away before he started up again, even though she knew a rushed meal would give her indigestion. Across the room, one of the children flicked a slice of tomato at the wall with his spoon. It splattered on the faded rose-patterned paper and slithered down, leaving a pink trail behind. His father reddened and took the spoon from him angrily, and his mother looked as if she were about to die from embarrassment.