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Back When I Was Ten Save as PDF
Chapters (79)
  1. Cover
  2. WHEN I WAS TEN
  3. Dedication page
  4. Epigraph page
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. PART ONE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. PART TWO
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. PART THREE
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  78. WHEN I WAS TEN
  79. Also by Fiona Cummins

Catherine opened the door to the wood burner and built a lattice of kindling over the grate. She unwrapped a firelighter and tucked it between the sticks, the kerosene fumes making her cough. She was concentrating on what she was doing, only half an ear on the television.

The tempo of the programme changed to the strains of the ITV morning news bulletin. Catherine fumbled with the matches and dragged one across the box’s striking surface. It flared into life. As she leaned forward to throw it into the stove, the newscaster began to read the headlines.

Catherine’s back was to the screen, and, at first, the words didn’t penetrate. But as the man’s voice echoed around the room, she froze, mid-breath, an animal caught in a hunter’s cross hairs.

The delivery of each sentence was crisp and precise and dispassionate. Catherine did not move, could not. But inside, her body betrayed her. Blood charged through her veins, flushing her face and filling her ears with a roaring sound that drowned out the television. She felt her heart crashing in her chest, a sensation of light-headedness. Her mouth was dry. The chill from the room crept under her skin and into the marrow of her bones.

Her life – the ordinary, dull, precious life she had fought so hard to build – tilted sideways.

But still Catherine could not move, not even when the match she was holding burned down to its nub, blistering the skin of her thumb.

3

My name is Brinley Booth. When I was twelve, I was struck by lightning.

Aunt Peg insists it was God’s doing, that he fired a thunderbolt at me for telling a lie. I thought it was because I’d been stupid enough to stand under the oak tree at the top of Saltbox Hill, but she’s said it so many times over the years I’m almost convinced she’s right.

Mind you, Aunt Peg blames God for everything. For allowing my useless lump of a father to run off with Maureen Connolly. For giving Mum a tumour that ate up her insides. For making my thighs rub together when I walk. How can God be responsible for how many biscuits I eat? Everyone worries about me being fat. Except me. I worry about running out of Ginger Nuts.

Being struck by lightning doesn’t smell like roast pork cooking, before you ask. And everyone does. Instead, I steamed like a pudding in a pot, electricity vaporizing the rain on my skin, and the sweat on my nearly teenaged body. My ears filled with ringing bells, my body engulfed in a halo of white. Mum’s necklace was so hot it burned my neck, although I can’t remember much more than that. I do know it felt like being thumped on the back.

Ah, yes, my back.