Power on Her Own Read Online Free Page A

lowered voice.
    Kate smiled, and held out her hand. ‘I’m Kate Power. Cassie’s niece. You must be Mrs Mackenzie?’
    â€˜That’s right.’ Her accent was more Barbados than Jamaica but mostly Brum. So much for Cassie’s judgement – Kate wondered how many years she’d been over here. ‘Now, what you been doin’ to yourself? All that blood?’
    Kate looked down. Now she came to think of it, her thigh was throbbing.
    â€˜I fell over. Thought I’d just bruised it. Must have landed on some broken glass.’
    â€˜You just step inside, Kate girl. Come your ways in. Here.’
    Kate followed.
    After the gloom of her aunt’s house, this was a revelation. To be sure, not all the furniture would have been Kate’s choice, but the rooms looked twice as large as those next door. Amazing what a coat of light paint could do. New, by the smell of it.
    â€˜It’s the radiators. First time I’ve had the central heating on since they were painted. Into the kitchen and take down those pants. Royston, we have a visitor. Now, Miss Kate’s hurt herself and I’m going to patch her up, so don’t you come back in here without you knock first.’
    The lad – about sixteen, Kate supposed – slipped something into a drawer and put his hands behind his back.
    â€˜Hi, Royston.’ Kate held out her hand.
    He stared as if she were offering him a bad fish and went out.
    â€˜Royston! What I tell you about manners? Come back here!’
    Royston returned. ‘Hi.’
    â€˜Hi! Nice to meet you.’ She spoke to his departing back. Why did it look so guilty?
    Mrs Mackenzie shrugged, and busied herself with an impressive first aid box. ‘Let’s see. No, not so bad as it could be.’ She put on gloves and swabbed gently.
    Kate peered. She had a neat cut in her thigh. She decided to look at Mrs Mackenzie instead: in the bright light of the kitchen she looked younger than she had outside – forty-five, perhaps. She’d had her hair relaxed, and wore it pulled back into a neat knot.
    â€˜Anti-tet?’ she asked, looking up.
    â€˜Last year. It doesn’t need a stitch, does it?’ It wasn’t the stitching she dreaded, but the three or four hours in casualty. The jog had made her sleepy and hungry, she couldn’t tell in which order.
    For answer, Mrs Mackenzie produced butterflies. ‘That should do you. Though your trousers may never be the same again.’
    â€˜I don’t think they owe me anything. I’m so grateful, Mrs Mackenzie. Thank you.’
    â€˜My job, Kate, girl. What’s an extra five minutes on top of two hours’ unpaid overtime, eh? How’s the old lady?’ She stripped off her gloves, dropping them inside out into the pedal bin, and turned on the taps.
    â€˜Good as she’ll ever be. She’s going to stay in the home, though. She might have every last marble but her body’s – well, you know what arthritis can do.’
    â€˜Very cruel it can be, Lord knows. What’s that you got?’ Drying her hands, she pointed at Kate’s supper. ‘Can’t cook in that kitchen of hers, eh?’
    â€˜Not much of a kitchen. Not like this.’ Kate looked around her.
    â€˜This my husband’s redundancy. Twenty-five years a teacher and – she drew a finger across her throat. ‘But then he walks straight into another job, and hey presto! Like it?’
    â€˜Lovely. Gives me ideas for mine. Aunt Cassie’s been really kind – she’s given me the house, you see.’
    Mrs Mackenzie looked at her sideways. ‘Well, there’s gifts and there’s gifts,’ she said. ‘When I was a girl in school, they made us learn these poems. There was this one about an albatross.’
    The tired, damp smell hit her as soon as she opened the front door. Neglected house plus old person smell. She’d met it in countless houses;