Read Breaking Light for Free Online

attached to the chair. Carefully, so as not to damage anything, Gabriel picked off the electrodes one by one and put them on the floor next to the open box.
    The kitchen was bright but quite chilly when Gabriel entered. The light from a single overhead bulb was grating against the weak daylight that sieved through the diamonds of a row of leaded windows.
    Michael’s mother was standing by an Aga cooker. She had soft brown hair, styled in waves around her face, and she wore a stripy apron over a green woollen dress. She was very pretty, Gabriel thought.
    â€˜Ah, there you are. You found the way on your own, then?’ Her eyes were large and deep like a deer’s.
    He nodded. It did not occur to him that this might be odd.
    â€˜Come and sit down; Michael is just fetching the jam from the scullery. The maid is off today but I hope you will like the pancakes, all the same.’
    He hesitated for a moment; he could not remember ever sitting at a table other than his mother’s or Uncle Gerry’s. There was a nice smell of frying butter from the stove. She looked up at him and smiled with her doe’s eyes. Michael must have warned her about him but he looked down just the same, letting his fringe fall over his face.
    â€˜Hurry up – they are almost finished; you can have the first one if you sit down now.’ Her voice, too, was different and beautiful – it sang at the end of each word, like some small animal might, and her lips pouted in pronunciation. He thought of his own mother’s lips that grew thin and white when she scolded him.
    He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he whispered at the table.
    â€˜I’m Mrs Bradley, but you can call me Amélie, if you like. Michael told me that you’re his new friend at school. I’m glad you met; it’s not always easy to move into a new area.’
    He was baffled. She wanted him to call her a name he couldn’t possibly articulate and she was glad that Michael was his friend.
    â€˜What are your parents called?’ she asked and put a measure of batter on the frying pan. It frizzled for a moment.
    â€˜My mother’s called Cecilia.’ It felt strange saying a name he used so rarely.
    â€˜And your father?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ he said truthfully. ‘My father went away before the war and didn’t come back.’
    â€˜I am very sorry to hear it. So many died in that awful war …’ She had turned away from the frying pan for a moment and her eyes looked at him in a sad way. It worried him and he wanted to put things right.
    â€˜Oh, but he didn’t die,’ he tried to explain. ‘He didn’t want to come back because of my face.’
    She looked at him oddly. ‘Who told you that?’
    â€˜I don’t know … Everybody, I suppose.’ He couldn’t remember who first told him.
    She was quiet for a moment. ‘What does your mother do?’
    â€˜She works as a secretary for Dr Lennon,’ and, in case she did not know the word, he added, ‘She answers the telephone and takes notes on a pad and pops to Wilkinson’s for the milk.’
    Mrs Bradley put a plate with a beautiful golden pancake in front of him. It smelt delicious and he suddenly remembered: ‘I have an uncle – he’s called Uncle Gerry, but his real name isGerald Askew. He used to be a doctor too, but he’s no good after the war and now he does odd jobs on the farms, taking care of sick animals. He lives up on the moor in a cottage, but often comes to see us.’
    He heard a clattering as she dropped the spatula on the floor. ‘Askew, did you say?’
    He nodded with a mouthful of pancake and got off his chair to fetch the spatula that had left a greasy skid mark on the tiles, but she had already stooped to pick it up. When she stood again, she took a step closer and looked carefully at his face. He felt