Read Online The Translation of the Bones by Francesca Kay - Free Book Online
Authors: Francesca Kay
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then what should Stella do? Beating its wings against the wood, it would be hurt, but loose it would be even more afraid. She realized that it must be a young bird, disorientated and unable, having landed, to take wing again by itself. It could not be abandoned on its barren nest. She went downstairs, opened the garden door, then ran back up to the little bird. It was frightening to touch it, but she scooped it up into her hands, and it was still between them. Mouse brown feathers, white beneath its chin. An infinitely tender thing. She carried it downstairs and into the twilit garden, where she opened her hands and launched it and it flew.
There was no message from her daughter in her in-box. Be sensible, Stella told herself. That doesn’t mean anything’s happened, it simply means she’s busy. Or that she hasn’t been able to get onto the Internet. Camilla’s last message had mentioned trekking. Stella envisaged her daughter deep in tropical jungle, sipping rainwater from the fluted flower of some exotic plant. Night fell with no warning there, and then the dark was absolute; would Camilla know this, would she stay on the beaten path?
Idiot, said Stella sternly. At eighteen Camilla was already more experienced in some ways than Stella washerself. She had found her own way to the north of Thailand after all; she thought nothing of traveling alone. Stella, on the other hand, had never even eaten dinner in a restaurant by herself. Why was it that a woman eating on her own was somehow sad? Or, if not actually sad, she seemed so. Stella remembered a summer holiday, a beachside restaurant on the Ile de Ré. She and Rufus had been there with the children. There was a woman, English by the sound of her when she spoke in French, on her own and elegantly dressed in a pale pink linen skirt. She had ordered the fruits de mer. The plate came, hugely laden, all those shells and tentacles and claws. The woman ate methodically and with relish, cracking the crab claws, extracting the flesh of mollusks with a pin. Stella, sitting at the table next to hers, surrounded by her happy children—sand on the soles of their feet, their blond hair bleached, enjoying their Cokes and plates of frites—had tried not to stare. Poor thing, she whispered to Rufus. Nonsense, Rufus said, she’s obviously having a lovely time. Those oysters look delicious. But, when the woman had finished, a clumsy waiter clearing plates had overbalanced and tipped hers right into her lap. The woman stood up with a little cry, and other waiters rushed to her, dabbing at her ineffectually with napkins while bits of shell and the juices of fish dripped all down her skirt. The apologies were profuse and the woman gracious, but what would she do now, asked Stella, would she hold her head high and walk back to her hotel through the elegant resort, stinking, stained and wet? Camilla said of course she wouldn’t. She’d simply go to the nearest smart boutique and buy herself a very nice pair of trousers. But Stella couldn’t shake the image from hermind. She saw the woman dressing that morning in her solitary room, choosing the pink skirt, girding herself for a restaurant lunch. She saw her slinking back, rinsing the ruined skirt, resolving to have room service for the remainder of the holiday, eating chicken sandwiches alone, off her bedside table.
Rufus came into the study, saying he needed the computer. He’d do a couple of hours’ work and what would she do, was there anything worth watching on the box? Would it be all right if they had supper fairly late? He must get cracking on with the first draft of his speech.
Stella had never been entirely sure why Rufus chose to go into politics. He used to be a banker. She had asked him, of course she’d asked him, in different ways on many occasions, but his answers were not precise. The fact that an old school friend, one to whom Rufus was still close, had vaulted with apparent ease over every hurdle to become Leader
There was no message from her daughter in her in-box. Be sensible, Stella told herself. That doesn’t mean anything’s happened, it simply means she’s busy. Or that she hasn’t been able to get onto the Internet. Camilla’s last message had mentioned trekking. Stella envisaged her daughter deep in tropical jungle, sipping rainwater from the fluted flower of some exotic plant. Night fell with no warning there, and then the dark was absolute; would Camilla know this, would she stay on the beaten path?
Idiot, said Stella sternly. At eighteen Camilla was already more experienced in some ways than Stella washerself. She had found her own way to the north of Thailand after all; she thought nothing of traveling alone. Stella, on the other hand, had never even eaten dinner in a restaurant by herself. Why was it that a woman eating on her own was somehow sad? Or, if not actually sad, she seemed so. Stella remembered a summer holiday, a beachside restaurant on the Ile de Ré. She and Rufus had been there with the children. There was a woman, English by the sound of her when she spoke in French, on her own and elegantly dressed in a pale pink linen skirt. She had ordered the fruits de mer. The plate came, hugely laden, all those shells and tentacles and claws. The woman ate methodically and with relish, cracking the crab claws, extracting the flesh of mollusks with a pin. Stella, sitting at the table next to hers, surrounded by her happy children—sand on the soles of their feet, their blond hair bleached, enjoying their Cokes and plates of frites—had tried not to stare. Poor thing, she whispered to Rufus. Nonsense, Rufus said, she’s obviously having a lovely time. Those oysters look delicious. But, when the woman had finished, a clumsy waiter clearing plates had overbalanced and tipped hers right into her lap. The woman stood up with a little cry, and other waiters rushed to her, dabbing at her ineffectually with napkins while bits of shell and the juices of fish dripped all down her skirt. The apologies were profuse and the woman gracious, but what would she do now, asked Stella, would she hold her head high and walk back to her hotel through the elegant resort, stinking, stained and wet? Camilla said of course she wouldn’t. She’d simply go to the nearest smart boutique and buy herself a very nice pair of trousers. But Stella couldn’t shake the image from hermind. She saw the woman dressing that morning in her solitary room, choosing the pink skirt, girding herself for a restaurant lunch. She saw her slinking back, rinsing the ruined skirt, resolving to have room service for the remainder of the holiday, eating chicken sandwiches alone, off her bedside table.
Rufus came into the study, saying he needed the computer. He’d do a couple of hours’ work and what would she do, was there anything worth watching on the box? Would it be all right if they had supper fairly late? He must get cracking on with the first draft of his speech.
Stella had never been entirely sure why Rufus chose to go into politics. He used to be a banker. She had asked him, of course she’d asked him, in different ways on many occasions, but his answers were not precise. The fact that an old school friend, one to whom Rufus was still close, had vaulted with apparent ease over every hurdle to become Leader
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