S Bolton: Sacrifice

'I'd heard you didn't drink,' said Gifford, as he put a large glass of red wine down in front of me. He sat and ran his fingers through his hair, sweeping it up and back, away from his face. Allowed to fall, it just brushed his shoulders. It was fringeless and layered, a style you sometimes see on men who've never quite got over the rebellion of their youth. On a member of the Royal College it seemed ridiculously out of place and I wondered what he was trying to prove.

'I didn't,' I replied, picking up the glass. 'That is, I don't. Not much. Not usually.' Truth was, I used to drink as much as anyone, more than many, until Duncan and I started trying for a family. Then I'd taken the pledge, and tried to persuade Duncan to do the same. But my resolution had been increasingly weakened of late. It's just so easy to tell yourself that one small glass won't hurt and then, before you know it, one glass becomes half a bottle and another developing follicle is seriously compromised. Sometimes I wish I didn't know quite so much about how the body works.

'I think you have a pretty good excuse,' said Gifford. 'Have you read Walter Scott's Ivanhoe?'

I shook my head. The classics had never really been my thing. I'd struggled with, and eventually despaired of, Bleak House whilst studying for O-level English. After that, I'd concentrated on the sciences.

Gifford picked up his drink, a large malt whisky. At least that's what it looked like, but for all I knew, it could have been apple juice. Whilst his attention was elsewhere I allowed myself to stare. His face was a strong oval, the dominant feature being his nose, which was long and thick, but perfectly straight and regular. He had a generous mouth, rather well drawn, plump and curved with a perfect Cupid's bow; one could almost say a woman's mouth were it not far too wide to suit a woman's face. That evening it sat in a half smile and deep indentations ran from the corners of his nose to its edges. Gifford was not a good-looking man by any standards. He certainly couldn't measure up to Duncan, but there was something about him all the same.

He turned back to me. 'Pretty nasty thing to happen,' he said. 'Are you OK?'

He'd lost me. 'Umm, finding the body, getting dragged into the post-mortem, or being deprived of Ivanhoe?' I queried.

Around us the pub was getting busy; mainly men, mainly young: oil workers, without families, seeking company more than drink.

Gifford laughed. He had large teeth, white but irregular, his incisors particularly prominent. 'You remind me of one of the characters,' he said. 'How are you settling in?'

'OK, thanks. Everyone's been very helpful.' They hadn't, but this didn't seem like the time to grouse. 'I saw the film,' I said.

'There've been several. That yacht's in very shallow water.'

He was looking over my shoulder out of the window. I turned round. A thirty-foot Westerly was sailing close to the shore. It was keeled over hard and if the skipper wasn't careful he'd end up scraping his hull. 'He has too much main up,' I said. 'Do you mean the woman played by Elizabeth Taylor?'

'You're thinking of Rebecca. No, I meant the other one, Rowena the Saxon.'

'Oh,' I said, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn't. In the voe the Westerly crash-tacked and sped off at an obtuse angle to its original course. Then someone on board released the halyard and the main- sail collapsed. The jib started flapping and a rush of movement in the water behind the stern told us he'd started his engine. The boat was under control and heading towards a mooring but it had been a close shave.

'Gets them every time,' said Gifford, looking pleased. 'Wind pushes them too far to the western shore.' He turned back to me. 'Quite an experience you've had.'

'Can't argue with that.'

'It's over now.'

'Tell that to the army digging up my field.'

He smiled, showing his prominent incisors again. He was making me incredibly nervous. It wasn't just his size; I am tall myself and have always sought the company of big men. There was something about him that was just so there. 'I stand corrected. It'll be over soon.' He drank. 'What made you go into obstetrics?'

When I got to know Kenn Gifford better, I realized that his brain works twice as fast as most people's. In his head, he flits from one topic to another with absurd speed, like a humming bird dipping into this flower, then that, then back to the first; and his speech follows suit. I got used to it after a while but at this first meeting, especially in my keyed-up state, it was disorientating. Impossible for me to relax. Although, come to think of it, I don't think I ever relaxed when Kenn was around.

'I thought the field needed more women,' I said, sipping my drink again. I was drinking far too quickly.

'How horribly predictable. You're not going to give me that tired old cliche about women being gender and more sympathetic, are you?'

'No, I was going to use the one about them being less arrogant, less bossy and less likely to jump on their dictatorial high horse about feelings they will never personally experience.'

'You've never had a baby. What makes you so different?'

I made myself put my drink down. 'OK, I'll tell you what did it for me. In my third year I read a book by some chap called Tailor or Tyler – some big obstetrical cheese at one of the Manchester hospitals.'

'I think I know who you mean. Go on.'

'There was a whole load of bunkum in it, mainly about how all the problems women experience during pregnancy are due to their own small brains and inability to take care of themselves.'

Gifford was smiling. 'Yes, I wrote a paper along those lines myself once.'

I ignored that. 'But the bit that really got me was his dictum that new mothers should wash their breasts before and after each feed.'

Enjoying himself now, Gifford leaned back in his chair. 'And that is a problem because…'

'Do you have any idea how difficult it is to wash your breasts?' From the corner of my eye, I saw someone glance in our direction. My voice had risen, as it always does when I'm sounding off. 'New mothers can feed their babies ten times or more in twenty-four hours. So, twenty times a day, they're going to strip to the waist, lean over a basin of warm water, give them a good lather, grit their teeth when the soap stings the cracked nipples, dry off and then get dressed again. And all this when the baby is screaming with hunger. The man is out of his tree!'

'Clearly.' Gifford's eyes flicked round the room. Several people were listening to us now.

And I just thought, "I don't care how technically brilliant this man is, he should not be in contact with stressed and vulnerable women."'

'I completely agree. I'll have breast-washing taken off the post- natal protocols.'

'Thank you,' I said, feeling myself starting to smile in response.

'Everyone I've spoken to seems highly impressed with you,' he said, leaning closer.

'Thank you,' I said again. It was news to me, but nice news all the same.

'Be a shame for you to be thrown off course so early'

And the smile died. 'What do you mean?'

'Finding a body like that would unsettle anyone. Do you need to take a few days off? Go visit your parents, maybe?'

Time off hadn't even occurred to me. 'No, why should I?'

'You're traumatized. You're handling it well, but you have to be. You need to get it out of your system.'

'I know. I will.'

'If you need to talk about it, it's better that you do so away from the islands. Actually, much better if you don't do it at all.'

'Better for whom?' I said, understanding, at last, the real reason for our cosy little chat down the pub.

Gifford leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. For several seconds he didn't move; I even started to wonder if he'd fallen asleep. As I watched, his mouth, not his nose, became the most prominent feature of his face. It almost became a beautiful mouth. I found myself thinking about stretching out a finger, gently tracing its outline.