Her feet were fine.

She might manage to paint her toenails, scarlet perhaps or gold, and then at least some part of her would be pretty. It was wonderful lying here. Until you knew what it was like to feel heavy as lead you couldn't appreciate the lovely lightness when you were supported by warm scented water, even a mere bathful. It was a pity about the plastered arm, but the rest of her was enjoying this. She lay, luxuriating, a dopey half-smile on her face, until the water began to cool. Normally she would have stretched over and run more hot, but that would be awkward, and she had probably been in long enough. When she sat up she winced at the pain in her ribs. She must climb out the way she had got in, with extreme wariness. It should have been possible, she only had to reverse her movements, but it was not going to be easy. Getting in she had slid slowly down. She had to haul herself up to get out, and most of the oil seemed to have settled at the bottom of the bath. She squirmed, gasping, realising that she would have to make a mighty effort, and suddenly slithering so that her head went under and she came up choking, eyes smarting, sick from the wrench on her broken arm. Now the gashed arm was aching too. Soaking had softened the scar and she felt that any strain might burst it open. She couldn't get out of the wretched bath. She might work the plug loose if she could get her toes round the chain, but it hurt to move and emptying the water wouldn't lift her up. She shouted 'Mother!' and saw that she had knocked the bottle of bath oil into the water. She hadn't bothered to replace the cap and now the liquid was pouring out in a widening emerald pool. If her mother and father were listening to the television alone they probably wouldn't hear her. They could give her another hour's 'resting' at least. There wouldn't even be a commercial break, the film was on B.B.C. By the time anyone came upstairs she was going to be sitting in