The First Cut

40 Kirsten

When Kirsten stood on the platform and watched the Intercity pull out at 12:25 on January 3, she felt frightened and desolate. Despite an awkward beginning, Christmas at Brierley Coombe that year had turned out to be the best time she had enjoyed since the assault. She had been glad to have Sarah around, especially as a counter to all the uncles, aunts and grandparents who had treated her as if she were a half-witted invalid.

The village itself looked like a Christmas-card illustration. The snow that began on December 22 went on for almost two days and settled a treat, particularly out in the country, where there was little traffic and no industry to spoil it. It lay about two feet thick on the thatched roofs, smooth and contoured around the eaves and gables; and in the woods, where Kirsten often took Sarah for early-morning walks, the snow that rested on twigs and branches created an image of two worlds in stark contrast, the white superimposed on the dark.

They went into Bath once more to do some shopping at the Boxing Day sales and have drinks with Laura Henderson, whom Sarah liked immediately. Also, one night they shocked the locals in the village pub. Sarah wore her FISH ON A BICYCLE T-shirt, and everyone looked embarrassed. There she was: the careless tangle of blond hair, the pale complexion and exquisite features that looked as if they had been expertly worked from the finest porcelain, then smoothed and polished to perfection, and, to cap it all, that great advertisement for the redundancy of the male sex scrawled across her chest.

Nobody bothered them, like the Lancashire lads in Bath had, but the village men glanced over and muttered nervously among themselves, some of them smiling superciliously. It was the most uncomfortable evening of the holiday for Kirsten. Her enjoyment of crowded pubs didn’t seem to have lasted long. She could relax with Laura and Sarah, but the proximity of men still made her tense and angry. And when they looked over with those superior smiles on their faces, her cheeks burned with fear and anger. After all, a man had taken what other men wanted from her. Somehow, she reasoned, they were all implicated in that.

On New Year’s Eve, Kirsten’s parents went to a party. Kirsten and Sarah were invited, but neither of them fancied spending the evening with a bunch of drunken old stockbrokers, their bored wives and Yuppie offspring, so they decided to stay at home and celebrate by themselves.

The cocktail cabinet was well stocked, a log fire blazed in the hearth and they turned out the lights and lit candles instead. The open curtains of the French windows revealed the snow-covered garden and trees. Kirsten brought some of her records and tapes down from her room to play on her father’s stereo, and everything seemed perfect. They sat on the thick rug in front of the spitting fire, listening to Mozart, with the cognac bottle beside them.

“What are you going to do?” Sarah asked as she poured out their second drinks.

“With my life, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t made any plans.”

“You can’t just stay here forever, you know.” Sarah looked around the room, where the candles and fire tossed shadows like dark sails in a storm, and out of the windows at the fairy-tale garden in the snow. “Nice as it is, it isn’t real life. Not yours.”

“And what is my life?”

“For Christ’s sake, you got a First, a good one. You’re not going to waste your education, are you?”

Kirsten laughed. “Listen to yourself. You sound like a bloody guidance counselor or something.”

Sarah bit her lip and looked away.

“I’m sorry.” Kirsten reached out and touched her shoulder. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I haven’t thought about it. I suppose I’ve put the future off and I resent being made to dwell on it.”

“Why don’t you go back to university, do your MA? It needn’t be up north if you don’t want. There’s plenty of other places would be glad to have you.”

Kirsten nodded slowly. “I won’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind. But I couldn’t start till the next academic year. What would I do in the meantime?”

Sarah laughed. “How the hell should I know? What do you think I am, a guidance counselor? But seriously, you could get a job, something in Bath. Just to keep you going and take you out of yourself. You’ve got too much time to brood on the past hanging around this village. What about a bookshop, for example? You’d probably like that.”

“But what would my mother think?” She put on a finishing-school accent: “I mean, it’s awfully common being a shopgirl, dear.”

Sarah laughed. “Is that why she’s so frosty toward me? Maybe I should tell her my father owns half of Herefordshire. Think that would help?”

“I’m sure it would. She’s such a snob.”

“Seriously though, Kirstie, you’ve got to do something, get out of here. What about Toronto? You could go out there and join Galen.”

Kirsten topped up both their drinks. It was eleven thirty. Mozart’s Requiem had just ended and the world outside was silent and still.

“Well?” Sarah repeated. “What about it? Or is it over between you?”

Kirsten stared into the fire. Flames licked the wood like angry tongues. If I don’t tell her now, she thought, I probably never will. She looked at Sarah, so lovely in the winter firelight with red and orange and yellow flames dancing in her eyes and flickering over her face. Her skin looked almost transparent, especially where the fire seemed to shine a delicate coral through her nostrils and over her cheekbones. And she had it all: not just the looks, but a whole body. She could make love and have orgasms and have children.

“What is it?” Sarah asked softly.

Kirsten realized that a tear had trickled from the corner of one eye. Quickly, she wiped it away. She would have to stop this crying business. Once was all right, it had helped drain her of tension, but it mustn’t become a habit, a weakness.

Over another cigarette, she finally told Sarah all about the damage to her body. Sarah listened in horror and couldn’t find anything to say. She poured more cognac. They leaned back against the sofa, and Sarah put her arm around Kirsten and held her close. There were no more tears. They sat like that, content and silent for a while, sipping Rémy. Finally, Sarah swore softly: “Shit, it’s ten past twelve. We’ve forgotten the new year.”

Kirsten looked up and the spell was broken. Her back ached from the position she’d been sitting in. “So it is. Never mind. I’ll get the Veuve Clicquot and we’ll have our own new year a bit late.” She stood up, rubbed her aching muscles and went into the kitchen.

And so they had poured champagne, sung “Auld Lang Syne” and wished each other a Happy New Year at twenty past twelve.

And now Sarah was gone. Kirsten walked aimlessly around Bath, its streets quiet with postseasonal depression, and thought over what Sarah had said about the future. She decided that she would resume her studies, or at least apply for next year. It would be a good cover, and it would keep her parents off her back.

In the meantime, she was going to attempt to find out who had crippled her. It might take months, she realized, but at least now she had discovered that the knowledge was there, locked inside her. Of course, she must take care that no one suspected what she was really up to; she had to appear as if she was simply getting on with her life and putting the past behind her. She didn’t know yet what she was going to do if she did discover anything, but she had to find the key, unlock the voice, and then…First, though, she had a lot of thinking and a lot of planning to do.