of purest glass, snow sparkled an inch on every leaf, icicles hung four feet deep. Suddenly, an old woman, her arm in plaster, came running out of an outhouse beside the farm.
‘Doctor!’ she screamed, ‘thank God ye’ve come, it’s me wee cow.’
‘Careful, you’ll slip,’ said Finn, taking her good arm.
‘What’s the matter with her?’
‘She’s started calving and things dinna look too well. Angus went to the mainland for help, but he’s not back yet.’
‘I’ll have a look at her,’ said Finn, going into the outhouse.
A terrified, moaning, threshing cow was lying in the corner.
‘Easy now,’ said Finn soothingly, and went up to her. He had a look then called, ‘She’s pretty far gone, Bridget.’
The old woman promptly started crying and wailing that it was their only cow.
‘Go back to the house,’ Finn told her, ‘I’ll do what I can. You’ll only be a hindrance with that arm. Come on,’ he added to me, ‘you can help.’
‘I can’t,’ I squeaked. ‘I don’t know anything about cows. Shall I take the boat back to the island and get help?’
‘It’s too late,’ said Finn, rolling up his sleeves. As he spoke, the cow gave another terrified moan of pain.
‘Oh, all right,’ I said sulkily. ‘Tell me what to do.’
‘Hold on to the calf’s legs,’ said Finn, ‘and when I say “pull”, pull hard.’
‘Gawd,’ I muttered. ‘What a way to spend a Thursday.’
The straw was already sticky with blood and there was only one 30-watt bulb to work under. Finn barked out instructions.
‘Haven’t you got any Pethedine for her?’ I said.
Finn didn’t answer. I supposed he was used to delivering babies. But women in labour don’t usually flail and lurch around like cows do.
‘I’m sure she’d be less uptight if the bull had been present at the birth,’ I joked weakly, as I picked myself up from the stinking straw for the third time.
After that I stopped making jokes, but just gritted my teeth and followed Finn’s instructions, aware that despite his Herculean strength, he could be surprisingly gentle. Then, at last, a thin, long-legged calf was lying safe on the straw, being proudly licked by its mother.
‘Oh, isn’t it sweet?’ I said, tears pricking my eyelids.
‘Well done,’ said Finn. I felt as though he’d given me the Nobel Prize. ‘Come inside and have a wash. Bridget’ll give us a cup of tea.’
On the boat home he said, ‘You look absolutely whacked.’
‘It isn’t often I spend the afternoon playing midwife to a cow,’ I said.
‘Come along to the surgery tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’d like to have a look at you.’
I blushed, absurdly flattered at his concern.
‘How’s the hospital going?’ I asked.
‘Fine. Three wards completed already.’
‘You must be run off your feet.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve got a new intern starting next week which’ll help.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘It’s a she.’
‘Oh,’ I said, momentarily nonplussed. ‘What’s she like?’
‘Very attractive. I chose her myself.’
‘For yourself?’
‘Bit early to tell. I’m a romantic, I suppose. All part of the Celtic hang-up. I don’t think the man-woman thing should be conducted on a rabbit level.’
The lights were coming on in Penlorren now, pale in the fading light. I felt stupidly displeased at the thought of some glamorous woman doctor working with Finn. I saw her with slim ankles, and not a hair out of place, white coat open to show an ample cashmere bosom.
‘What happened to your marriage?’ I asked.
‘My wife liked having a Harley Street husband, and giving little dinner parties in the suburbs with candlelight and sparkling wine.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said, giggling. ‘Not quite your forte?’
‘On the contrary, I look very good by candlelight. It was my fault as much as hers. She was beautiful, capable and absolutely bored me to death. I married her without really knowing her. Most people don’t love human beings anyway. They just love an idealized picture in their heads.’
I looked at his face, softened now. I’ve never liked red hair, but Finn’s was very dark and thick and grew beautifully close to his head. I’ve never liked freckles either, or broken noses, but he had extraordinary eyes, yellow-flecked, with thick black lashes, and his mouth, now it wasn’t set in its usual hard line, was beautiful. The wind was blowing his trousers against his hard, muscular legs. He was in great shape, too. In spite of his size, he moved about the boat like a cat.
‘Are you coming to Coco’s party tonight?’ I asked.
‘I might,’ he said. ‘Depends what’s up at the hospital.’
‘Please come,’ I said, then blushed. ‘I mean, if you’re not too busy.’
Chapter Eighteen
Rory was in the bath when I got back, wearing my bath cap but still managing to look absurdly handsome.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I’m indecent. Where have you been?’
‘Out and about,’ I said. ‘Can I have that bath after you?’
I went into the bedroom. I didn’t want to tell him about Finn.
He followed me, dripping from the bath.
‘Where’s my white silk shirt?’ he asked.
‘Oh, er, I’m glad you asked that question.’
‘Is this it?’ he said, pulling a crumpled pink rag of a shirt out of the pillowcase of washing on the bed.
‘Well, it could be,’ I said.
‘God,’ said Rory. He went on pulling crumpled pink shirts out like a conjurer whipping out coloured handkerchiefs. ‘How do you manage it?’ he asked.
‘I left one of my red silk scarves in the machine by mistake,’ I said, miserably.
‘Next time you want to do some dyeing, just count me out,’ he said, and starting to get dressed, he put both feet into one leg of his underpants and fell over, which didn’t improve his temper.
‘How was Edinburgh?’ I said, knowing that Marina had her singing lesson there once a fortnight.
He paused a second too long. ‘I’ve been to Glasgow,’ he said, evenly.
Rubbed raw with rancour, we arrived at the party. It was a dazzling affair, all the locals done up to the eyeballs in wool tweed. I was wearing about a quarter as much clothing as everyone else.
‘Pretty as a picture,’ said Buster, coming and squeezing me.
‘Happy Birthday,’ said Rory. ‘I thought of buying you a book, Buster, but I knew you’d already got one.’
I heard someone laugh behind us. It was Marina, looking ravishing in a high-necked, amber wool dress with long sleeves. I’d forgotten about her being so beautiful. Since Christmas, she had become, in my tortured imagination, a sort of man-eating gorgon, with snakes writhing in her hair and corpses strewn about her feet. She smiled into Rory’s eyes and went over to say hello to Coco.
Even the high-necked dress couldn’t conceal two dark bruises under her chin.
