Read Online Another Mother's Life by Rowan Coleman - Free Book Online
Authors: Rowan Coleman
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a can of beer in the other. And yet Catherine remembered quite clearly she hadn’t felt intimidated by him. Not even then.
She sat up, pushing her hair off her shoulders, straightening her back a little. She waited.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump,” he said as he sat down on the grass, even though Catherine hadn’t jumped. “I’m just so tired. I work nights on the railway line, repairs and maintenance. I should be sleeping right now, but I can’t. It’s too nice outside. I wanted to come out and sit in the sun for a bit, but every time I relax I fall asleep and I can’t do that. I’ll turn thecolor of your hair and if I miss the start of my shift I’ll get laid off. So I thought I’d talk to you for a bit, if that’s all right. At least while you’re waiting for your friend … boyfriend?” His dark eyes creased as he smiled at her.
“Friend,” Catherine corrected him hastily. For once she was glad Alison was late, because she knew that if her golden friend had been here, this incredible-looking being would not be talking to her. He would not have even seen her.
He sat down on a patch of grass just beyond where the shade of the tree’s canopy ended, the sunlight reflecting off his amber skin.
Catherine had never seen anything or anyone so beautiful in her whole life. The sight of him made her heart stop in anticipation. His dark hair was cut very short into the nape of his neck, his dark eyes set beneath strong, straight brows, and he had the kind of square jaw that Catherine thought only film stars and male models in razor advertisements had.
“My name’s Marc,” he said, leaning back on his arms so the muscles in his shoulders and biceps stood out in sharp relief. “I’m from Birmingham, I go where the work is and this month the work’s here. That’s pretty much my story. I don’t have any hobbies or many friends. I don’t read books or go to movies. I get up, I go to work, I go home—wherever home is that week. This week it’s here.” He smiled at her again and there was something in his smile Catherine recognized. As impossible as it seemed, he reminded her of herself, the outsider. “There’s this postcard stuck to the bathroom wall in the rooming house I’m staying in of a girl floating in a river. I think she’s supposed to be drowned actually.”
“Ophelia,” Catherine said. “It could be Ophelia, a character from Hamlet . She kills herself because loving Hamlet drives her mad. There’s a famous painting of her by an artist called Millais, he made his model, Elizabeth Siddall, lie in the bath for hours at atime until she became so ill she almost died for real. She was only nineteen, not that much older than me.”
“You know a lot, don’t you?” Marc said, smiling. “You know all of that from me describing one postcard, and pretty badly at that. That’s cool.”
Catherine felt her cheeks color. “It’s just something I’m interested in. I like art history. If I get to go to university, that’s what I’m going to study.”
Marc nodded. “You should. What I was trying to say was that you remind me of the girl in the painting. You’ve got the same incredible red hair and pale skin. She’s a beautiful girl, especially considering she is meant to be dead!”
He laughed and Catherine found herself laughing too, glowing at what she thought was the first compliment she’d ever received from a man.
“Tell me more about you,” Marc said, his voice low and gentle. “Tell me everything you know.”
And at his bidding, quiet, shy, awkward Catherine, who up until that point had been unable to hold anything other than the most stilted and awkward conversations, except with Alison, started talking. It was as if by the simple act of noticing her, this handsome, attentive young man had burst a dam in her. Suddenly hundreds of words poured out of her, thoughts and ideas that must have been building pressure somewhere inside her for years. They
She sat up, pushing her hair off her shoulders, straightening her back a little. She waited.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump,” he said as he sat down on the grass, even though Catherine hadn’t jumped. “I’m just so tired. I work nights on the railway line, repairs and maintenance. I should be sleeping right now, but I can’t. It’s too nice outside. I wanted to come out and sit in the sun for a bit, but every time I relax I fall asleep and I can’t do that. I’ll turn thecolor of your hair and if I miss the start of my shift I’ll get laid off. So I thought I’d talk to you for a bit, if that’s all right. At least while you’re waiting for your friend … boyfriend?” His dark eyes creased as he smiled at her.
“Friend,” Catherine corrected him hastily. For once she was glad Alison was late, because she knew that if her golden friend had been here, this incredible-looking being would not be talking to her. He would not have even seen her.
He sat down on a patch of grass just beyond where the shade of the tree’s canopy ended, the sunlight reflecting off his amber skin.
Catherine had never seen anything or anyone so beautiful in her whole life. The sight of him made her heart stop in anticipation. His dark hair was cut very short into the nape of his neck, his dark eyes set beneath strong, straight brows, and he had the kind of square jaw that Catherine thought only film stars and male models in razor advertisements had.
“My name’s Marc,” he said, leaning back on his arms so the muscles in his shoulders and biceps stood out in sharp relief. “I’m from Birmingham, I go where the work is and this month the work’s here. That’s pretty much my story. I don’t have any hobbies or many friends. I don’t read books or go to movies. I get up, I go to work, I go home—wherever home is that week. This week it’s here.” He smiled at her again and there was something in his smile Catherine recognized. As impossible as it seemed, he reminded her of herself, the outsider. “There’s this postcard stuck to the bathroom wall in the rooming house I’m staying in of a girl floating in a river. I think she’s supposed to be drowned actually.”
“Ophelia,” Catherine said. “It could be Ophelia, a character from Hamlet . She kills herself because loving Hamlet drives her mad. There’s a famous painting of her by an artist called Millais, he made his model, Elizabeth Siddall, lie in the bath for hours at atime until she became so ill she almost died for real. She was only nineteen, not that much older than me.”
“You know a lot, don’t you?” Marc said, smiling. “You know all of that from me describing one postcard, and pretty badly at that. That’s cool.”
Catherine felt her cheeks color. “It’s just something I’m interested in. I like art history. If I get to go to university, that’s what I’m going to study.”
Marc nodded. “You should. What I was trying to say was that you remind me of the girl in the painting. You’ve got the same incredible red hair and pale skin. She’s a beautiful girl, especially considering she is meant to be dead!”
He laughed and Catherine found herself laughing too, glowing at what she thought was the first compliment she’d ever received from a man.
“Tell me more about you,” Marc said, his voice low and gentle. “Tell me everything you know.”
And at his bidding, quiet, shy, awkward Catherine, who up until that point had been unable to hold anything other than the most stilted and awkward conversations, except with Alison, started talking. It was as if by the simple act of noticing her, this handsome, attentive young man had burst a dam in her. Suddenly hundreds of words poured out of her, thoughts and ideas that must have been building pressure somewhere inside her for years. They
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