Whiteout - Ken Follett [49]
She did not even look up from the magazine. “Every one of these women is shaved!” she said, embarrassing him further. “So creepy.”
“You can see into the kitchen,” he persisted. “Over here, where the flue from the Aga comes up through the ceiling.” He lay flat and looked through a wide gap between the boards and a metal shaft. He could see the entire kitchen: the hall door at the far end, the long scrubbed-pine table, the cupboards on both sides, the side doors into the dining room and the laundry, the cooking range at this end, and two doors on either side of the range, one leading to a big walk-in larder and the other leading to the boot lobby and the side entrance. Most of the family were around the table. Craig’s sister, Caroline, was feeding her rats, Miranda was pouring wine, Ned was reading the Guardian, Lori was poaching a whole salmon in a long fish kettle. “I think Aunt Miranda’s getting drunk,” Craig said.
That caught Sophie’s interest. She dropped the magazine and lay beside Craig to look. “Can’t they see us?” she said quietly.
He studied her as she stared through the gap. Her hair was pushed behind her ears. The skin of her cheek looked unbearably soft. “Have a look, next time you’re in the kitchen,” he said. “You’ll see that there’s a ceiling light right behind the gap which makes it difficult to make out, even when you know it’s there.”
“So, like, nobody knows you’re here?”
“Well, everyone knows there’s an attic. And watch out for Nellie. She’ll look up and cock her head, listening, as soon as you move. She knows you’re here—and anyone watching her may catch on.”
“Still, this is pretty cool. Look at my father. He’s pretending to read the paper, but he keeps making eyes at Miranda. Yech.” She rolled on her side, propped herself on her elbow, and fished a packet of cigarettes out of her jeans pocket. “Want one?”
Craig shook his head. “You can’t smoke if you’re serious about football.”
“How can you be serious about football? It’s a game!”
“Sports are more fun if you’re good at them.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” She blew out smoke. He watched her lips. “That’s probably why I don’t like sports. I’m such a spastic.”
Craig realized he had broken through some kind of barrier. She was talking to him at last. And what she said was quite intelligent. “What are you good at?” he asked.
“Not much.”
He hesitated, then blurted out, “Once, at a party, a girl told me I was a good kisser.” He held his breath. He needed to break the ice with her somehow—but was this too soon?
“Oh?” She seemed interested in an academic way. “What do you do?”
“I could show you.”
A look of panic crossed her face. “No way!” She held up a hand, as if to ward him off, although he had not moved.
He realized he had been too impetuous. He could have kicked himself. “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling to hide his disappointment. “I won’t do anything you don’t want, I promise.”
“It’s just that I’ve got this boyfriend.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Yeah. But don’t tell anyone.”
“What’s he like?”
“My boyfriend? He’s a student.” She looked away, screwing up her eyes against the smoke from her cigarette.
“At Glasgow University?”
“Yes. He’s nineteen. He thinks I’m seventeen.”
Craig was not sure whether to believe her. “What’s he studying?”
“Who cares? Something boring. Law, I think.”
Craig looked through the gap again. Lori was sprinkling chopped parsley over a steaming bowl of potatoes. Suddenly he felt hungry. “Lunch is ready,” he said. “I’ll show you the other way out.”
He went to the end of the attic and opened a large door. A narrow ledge overhung a drop of fifteen feet to the ground. Above the door, on the outside of the building, was a pulley: that was how the sofa and tea chests had been brought up. Sophie said, “I can’t jump from here.”
“No need.” Craig brushed snow off the ledge with his hands, then walked along it to the end and stepped two feet down on to a lean-to