Free The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters Page A

pain.
    ‘Not too much for you?’ I asked. ‘I need to move it about a bit, I’m afraid, to get the feel of the injury.’
    The leg was slender in my hands, thick with springing dark hair, but the skin had a yellowish, bloodless look, and in various spots on the calf and shin the hair gave way to polished pink dents and ridges. The knee was as pale and bulbous as some queer root, and terribly stiff. The muscle of the calf was shallow and rigid, knotty with indurated tissue. The ankle joint—which Roderick was drastically overusing, in compensation for the lack of movement above—looked puffy and inflamed.
    ‘Pretty foul, isn’t it?’ he said, in a more subdued tone, as I tried the leg and foot in various positions.
    ‘Well, the circulation’s sluggish, and there are a lot of adhesions. That’s not good. But I’ve certainly seen worse … How’s this?’
    ‘Ouch. Stinking.’
    ‘And this?’
    He jerked away. ‘Christ! What are you trying to do, twist the damn thing off?’
    I gently took hold of the leg again and set it into its natural position, and spent a moment or two simply warming and working the rigid muscle of the calf between my fingers. Then I went through the process of wiring him up: soaking squares of lint with salt solution, fixing these to the electrode plates; putting the plates in position on his leg with elastic bindings. He leaned forward to watch me do it, looking more interested now. As I made a few final adjustments to the machine he said, in a simple, boyish way, ‘That’s the condenser, is it? Yes, I see. And there’s how you interrupt the current, I suppose … Look here, do you have a licence for this? I’m not about to start sparking at the ears or anything?’
    I said, ‘I hope not. But let’s just say the last patient I hooked up to this now saves a fortune on permanent waves.’
    He blinked, mistaking my tone, taking me seriously for a second. Then he met my gaze—met it properly for the first time that day, perhaps for the first time ever; finally ‘seeing’ me—and he smiled. The smile lifted his features completely, and drew attention from his scars. One saw the likeness between him and his mother.
    I said, ‘Are you ready?’
    He grimaced, more boyish than ever. ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘Right, here goes.’
    I threw the switch. He yelped, his leg jumping forward in an involuntary twitch. Then he started laughing.
    I said, ‘Not painful?’
    ‘No. Like pins and needles, that’s all. Now it’s hotting up! Is that right?’
    ‘Perfect. Once the heat begins to fade, let me know, and I’ll turn it up a bit.’
    We spent five or ten minutes like that, until the sensation of heat in his leg had reached a constant, which meant that the current had found its peak. I left the machine to look after itself then, and sat down in the second leather armchair. Roderick began to feel in his trouser pocket for his tobacco and packet of papers. But I couldn’t bear to see him roll up one of his wretched little ‘coffin nails’ again, so I got out my own case and lighter and we helped ourselves to a cigarette each. He took a long draw on his, closing his eyes and letting his head grow loose on his slender neck.
    I said sympathetically, ‘You look tired.’
    At once, he made an effort to sit straighter. ‘I’m all right. I was up at six this morning, that’s all, for the milking. It isn’t so bad in this weather, of course; it’s in winter that one feels it … Having Makins for a dairyman doesn’t help, though.’
    ‘No? Why not?’
    He changed his pose again, and spoke as if reluctantly. ‘Oh, I oughtn’t to complain. He’s had it tough, with this bloody heat wave: we’ve lost milk, we’ve lost grass, we’ve already had to start the herd off on next winter’s feed. But he wants a thousand impossible things, and doesn’t have a clue about how to achieve them. That’s left to me, unfortunately. ’
    I asked, ‘What sort of things?’ He said, with the same touch