The Time of the Ghost
“Sally—no, she was not Sally, she must be Imogen or Fenella—hung among the buzzing flies in the empty kitchen room, trying to consider some of the things she now knew. But as before, her intelligence as a ghost seemed as limited as a narrow torch beam. What was outside it hardly seemed to exist. The flies seemed to exist more, and the fading breakfast smells from beyond the green door.
None of the sisters seemed to be awake yet. There was silence apart from the flies and a distant hum from Schoo...l. Outside the window the apple trees gusted and the hens pecked in one of those windswept, hot gray days when every color looks bleak and ordinary. It was ominous, as if the day was expecting something. From time to time the windows were covered with blisters of the fine rain.
The ghost hung, trying to recapture some of the seven years between now and the hospital. It was a time of fruitless mistakes. It had been dominated on one hand by Himself, always angry but seldom there, and on the other hand by Julian Addiman, always laughing, always demanding more and more.MoreLess
None of the sisters seemed to be awake yet. There was silence apart from the flies and a distant hum from Schoo...l. Outside the window the apple trees gusted and the hens pecked in one of those windswept, hot gray days when every color looks bleak and ordinary. It was ominous, as if the day was expecting something. From time to time the windows were covered with blisters of the fine rain.
The ghost hung, trying to recapture some of the seven years between now and the hospital. It was a time of fruitless mistakes. It had been dominated on one hand by Himself, always angry but seldom there, and on the other hand by Julian Addiman, always laughing, always demanding more and more.MoreLess
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