The Book of Secrets (40 page)

‘Yes, I see. That was unfortunate. But you like your new mother?’

‘She’s okay.’

‘That’s good, then.’ She would have liked to give him something, but she couldn’t think of anything that a boy of twelve or so might like.

Still he hung back. ‘Can I come back some other time?’

‘If you like,’ she said. ‘But you mustn’t get yourself into trouble.’

‘I’ll be back. Fix the window, G’bye.’

And he was away, running down the path, glancing towards the hill where his friends might or might not be watching. So straight,
she thought, not a sign of a limp. No blemishes. It was a myth that the mark was there forever. The generations were getting stronger. This boy had to be Christie’s son, and yet in an odd sort of way it hardly mattered. He didn’t look especially like anyone, except for the pale touch of copper in his skin. She sensed the vitality. He was his own person. A new kind of person, without allegiance to a particular group or race. He would make new choices.

‘
Beannachd
,
Ross,’ she said, though he couldn’t hear.

The pain had persisted for several hours. At first she thought: I can bear this, it is part of growing old. As it grew worse it occurred to her that she had been stubborn in the past and had suffered for it. She was suffering now. And I have so much to live for yet, she told the bird when she could breathe. The pain surged up again. Oh. This. This is. So hard to bear.

She heaved herself out of bed. Holding the bedpost, she took the walking stick and with trembling hands peeled the pillowslip from her pillow. It was so thin it nearly fell apart in her hands. One knot. Over another. There, that should hold.

The catch had stiffened with the years. She pushed and pushed until it gave under her hands. The stick was now poised on the edge of the sill.

I have done it.

But the bed with the feather mattress seemed a long way away.

The
window
is
open
but
the
bird
stays
until
morning.
There
are
some
crumbs
to
find
by
the
early
light.
The
sky
looms,
so
big.
Another
bright
day.
The
bird
cannot
resist,
cannot
wait
longer
for
flight.

Fiction

A Breed of Women
A Needle in the Heart
Paddy's Puzzle
Ricochet Baby
The Captive Wife
The Infinite Air
The Trouble With Fire
True Stars

 

Memoir

At the End of Darwin Road
Beside The Dark Pool

 

Poetry
Where Your Left Hand Rests

Fiona Kidman has published over twenty books, including novels, poetry, non-fiction and a play. She has worked as a librarian, creative writing teacher, radio producer and critic, scriptwriter for radio, television and film, but primarily as a writer.
The New Zealand Listener
wrote: ‘In her craft and her storytelling and in her compassionate gutsy tough expression of female experience, she is the best we have.’
She has been the recipient of numerous awards and fellowships; in more recent years
The Captive Wife
was runner-up in the 2006 Montana Book Awards Deutz Medal for Fiction, and her short story collection
The Trouble with Fire
was shortlisted for both the NZ Post Book Awards and the Frank O’Connor Award. She was created a Dame (DNZM) in 1998 in recognition of her contribution to literature, and more recently a Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres and a Chevalier of the French Legion of Honour.
‘We cannot talk about writing in New Zealand without acknowledging her,’ wrote
New Zealand Books
. ‘Kidman’s accessible prose and the way she shows (mainly) women grappling to escape from restricting social pressures has guaranteed her a permanent place in our fiction.’

For Amelia Herrero-Kidman