one. Just an island bobby.”
“No.” Cameron swallowed. I heard the painful little sound. Then, as if realising how his refusal might come across, he put out a hand to catch mine, lightly entangling our fingers. “Look, I haven’t done… I’d never do anything to hurt you or your grandfather, okay? But the police would make it worse.”
I shrugged. I didn’t want him to see how deeply his most casual touch could move me. “Fair enough. We’ll just have to rely on your brilliant camouflage, then.”
“Oh, God. Maybe I should try and dye it back.”
“I wouldn’t—not yet anyway. It might just fall out.” I should let go of his hand. His fingers were so warm in mine, though—a clever, tensile waiting strength, as if there were all kinds of things his hands might be capable of. “Try not to worry, eh? We really are on the far shore of creation here. And I can lend you a woolly hat, like the Edge off U2. You’ll be okay.”
“Okay. Jesus, what did you do to your knuckle?”
“Caught it on the gate. It’s nothing.”
“I think I can see bone.” His grip tightened. I couldn’t resist him. When he set off for the house I followed him. “Come on, big tough farmer boy. My turn to patch you up.”
Chapter Six
The weather held, not just over the next few days but into the following fortnight. No one came to track down and wreak vengeance on Cameron, and I did not blunder again through his barricades. Brightening mornings came and went, each sunrise a little sooner than the last. Cam launched himself out of bed at the same time as Harry and me, and although at the breakfast table he sometimes looked like a half-fledged bleached sparrow chucked out of its nest too soon, a cup of instant and a fry-up sent him staunchly to work by my side.
Winter gave way to a rare island spring. We got them like this once every decade or so—primroses on the turf outside the back door, ravens pairing off to take a punt on an early breeding season, rolling and tumbling on the air above the roadside trees. I’d been starting to think my memory of the last fine transition from February to March had been a childhood dream, but here it was, swelling the ash buds, painting the birch twigs purple.
One morning Shona Clyde appeared, looking like Persephone and clearly thriving in her widowhood. Too much of a lady to notice Harry’s dreadful winks and efforts to leave us alone together, she offered us the use of her three strapping farmhands to get us through the lambing. She was refitting her house and all her outbuildings, she told us, and the lads were just under her feet. At her expense, of course, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’d tried to say no anyway—stupid West Isles pride—but at that moment she’d spotted Clover in a patch of sunlight by the barn door, nursing three fat kittens. One of those wee rat-catchers would do as payment, Shona said, when it was weaned.
The luck of the farm returned in triplicate. Now when I tried to sleep I had four contestants for the quilt, the offspring mewling and farting and wrestling while their mother looked on in serene and perfect pride. I didn’t care. My days were suddenly so much easier I felt lightheaded, almost sick with relief. We still had vicious frosts and sudden stillbirths, but with Cameron and Shona’s boys to help, my shifts came down from eighteen hours to a perfectly reasonable twelve, and I began to look about me.
The house was a mess. Some of it was inevitable, but there was no need for the rest of it—no need for us to live like we were camping out, shivering through the March nights. One morning I thought I heard my mother singing in the kitchen. This seemed so ordinary that I went down unquestioning, to find Cam there with the radio on, crouched thoughtfully by the stove. And after all it was an easy enough job to fix. We didn’t talk much. I hadn’t told him the roots of my reluctance to tackle it, and I wondered if he guessed,
“No.” Cameron swallowed. I heard the painful little sound. Then, as if realising how his refusal might come across, he put out a hand to catch mine, lightly entangling our fingers. “Look, I haven’t done… I’d never do anything to hurt you or your grandfather, okay? But the police would make it worse.”
I shrugged. I didn’t want him to see how deeply his most casual touch could move me. “Fair enough. We’ll just have to rely on your brilliant camouflage, then.”
“Oh, God. Maybe I should try and dye it back.”
“I wouldn’t—not yet anyway. It might just fall out.” I should let go of his hand. His fingers were so warm in mine, though—a clever, tensile waiting strength, as if there were all kinds of things his hands might be capable of. “Try not to worry, eh? We really are on the far shore of creation here. And I can lend you a woolly hat, like the Edge off U2. You’ll be okay.”
“Okay. Jesus, what did you do to your knuckle?”
“Caught it on the gate. It’s nothing.”
“I think I can see bone.” His grip tightened. I couldn’t resist him. When he set off for the house I followed him. “Come on, big tough farmer boy. My turn to patch you up.”
Chapter Six
The weather held, not just over the next few days but into the following fortnight. No one came to track down and wreak vengeance on Cameron, and I did not blunder again through his barricades. Brightening mornings came and went, each sunrise a little sooner than the last. Cam launched himself out of bed at the same time as Harry and me, and although at the breakfast table he sometimes looked like a half-fledged bleached sparrow chucked out of its nest too soon, a cup of instant and a fry-up sent him staunchly to work by my side.
Winter gave way to a rare island spring. We got them like this once every decade or so—primroses on the turf outside the back door, ravens pairing off to take a punt on an early breeding season, rolling and tumbling on the air above the roadside trees. I’d been starting to think my memory of the last fine transition from February to March had been a childhood dream, but here it was, swelling the ash buds, painting the birch twigs purple.
One morning Shona Clyde appeared, looking like Persephone and clearly thriving in her widowhood. Too much of a lady to notice Harry’s dreadful winks and efforts to leave us alone together, she offered us the use of her three strapping farmhands to get us through the lambing. She was refitting her house and all her outbuildings, she told us, and the lads were just under her feet. At her expense, of course, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’d tried to say no anyway—stupid West Isles pride—but at that moment she’d spotted Clover in a patch of sunlight by the barn door, nursing three fat kittens. One of those wee rat-catchers would do as payment, Shona said, when it was weaned.
The luck of the farm returned in triplicate. Now when I tried to sleep I had four contestants for the quilt, the offspring mewling and farting and wrestling while their mother looked on in serene and perfect pride. I didn’t care. My days were suddenly so much easier I felt lightheaded, almost sick with relief. We still had vicious frosts and sudden stillbirths, but with Cameron and Shona’s boys to help, my shifts came down from eighteen hours to a perfectly reasonable twelve, and I began to look about me.
The house was a mess. Some of it was inevitable, but there was no need for the rest of it—no need for us to live like we were camping out, shivering through the March nights. One morning I thought I heard my mother singing in the kitchen. This seemed so ordinary that I went down unquestioning, to find Cam there with the radio on, crouched thoughtfully by the stove. And after all it was an easy enough job to fix. We didn’t talk much. I hadn’t told him the roots of my reluctance to tackle it, and I wondered if he guessed,
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