‘And the postman!’ Murray howled with laughter in their cosy corner of the room as the afternoon wore gently on and the chimney smoked.
All through the evening, as Murray attempted to master brewing tea with the big black kettle that swung over the fire on its hook and as they made short work of the chocolate cake and the last of the cream, Finlay caught himself just before he accidentally remarked aloud how he could get used to this, because that was precisely the one thing he dared not do.
37
Murray woke in the half-light of the mountain dawn to the sound of metal and tin clattering.
He sprang from the bed that Finlay had insisted he take, since the ranger didn’t want to move from the sofa, to find Finlay by a fire newly swept and re-lit, attempting to get the lid off the kettle so he could fill it up.
‘What are you doing?’ said Murray, his feet hitting the cold stone floor.
Startled, Finlay said in dismay, ‘I wanted to make us coffee.’
Murray was by his side in an instant, wrestling the kettle and coffee canister from him. ‘That’s why I’m here! Shift over. Let me.’
Finlay moved reluctantly away. ‘You’ve already done so much.’
Murray looked him up and down from where he crouched before the flames and couldn’t help laughing.
‘Whit!’ Finlay protested.
He’d managed to change into a new pair of pyjama bottoms, heavy green flannel ones, at that, but his feet were bare and there was a woollen jumper pulled over his head and over one arm but ridiculously bunched up above his bad shoulder in its sling, the sleeve inside out. ‘I wanted to wash and dress myself. I’ve been wearing the same thing since that first night…’
There was a smear of toothpaste at one corner of his mouth, and his hair and face were, Murray noticed, damp, and droplets of water clung to the ends of Finlay’s scruffy waves. Murray looked around at the evidence. There was plenty of water on the floor in front of the kitchen sink and a damp towel in a bundle on the countertop.
‘Come here,’ Murray told him, and Finlay obeyed, but not without a lot of grumbling and muttering, which he ignored.
‘Can I?’ Murray asked, before pulling the wrinkled woollen down over Finlay’s bandaged arm, leaving the sleeve inside out.
‘Did you take your painkillers?’ he asked, and Finlay snapped that of course he had.
Murray now took the towel and rubbed it gently and thoroughly all over Finlay’s damp locks. ‘I could have washed your hair, you should have waited till I woke up.’
‘I managed,’ came the reply.
Murray took the opportunity to wipe away the toothpaste from his mouth. ‘Sure you did. Now, where are your fresh socks, hmm?’
Finlay looked forlornly behind him at the clean, balled woollen socks by the sofa. ‘It’s easier getting them off than putting them on again,’ he admitted, his voice smaller than Murray had ever heard it.
‘It’s OK. Just sit.’
Finlay looked like he was ready to protest again.
‘Sit!’
Over by the door, where Nell had been waiting patiently for her morning walk, the dog put her bottom on the floor, wagging her tail to show what a good girl she was being.
The men had to laugh, and Murray helped Finlay lower himself onto the sofa, trying to resist the wicked urge to flex his bicep where Finlay gripped him for support.
‘Daft dug,’ Finlay said, but his tone sounded more like praise than an insult.
‘Did you feed Nell?’ said Murray, kneeling at Finlay’s feet, unballing the socks.
‘Just a bit of jellied chicken from a jar,’ Finlay said.
Murray shuddered. ‘Good, because,ugh! I wasn’t eating that!’
‘One of Laura Mercer’s presents,’ Finlay said, trying to keep the small talk going as Murray decided not to put the socks straight onto his feet but to apply some of the medicated cream the doctor had prescribed for the sore skin around his ankles where the frost had bitten him.
