The thought of those nights dizzied him now. The way he’d been accepted, desired, cared for. Yes, Finlay had known a lot of good men, but that had been a long time ago.
He examined his jawline, patted his tummy, dismayed with himself. What was he doing, keeping Murray here like this?
He swiped some of the honey butter stuff over his face, surprised at it melting in so quickly, and he tried the door. The handle wouldn’t turn.
‘Murray? The handle’s slipping with this stuff on my hand. Can you…?’
Murray pulled the door open, a towel over his arm, gesturing for him to step into the kitchen where he’d set a table for lunch.
‘Welcome, sir,’ he was saying, bowing like a maître d’.
Finlay stepped into the room, his reservations from a moment ago dissolving all over again. Murray was one big salve, one huge soothing presence. Finlay had never been so hungry for more of something in his life.
Murray flapped a napkin, which turned out to be a tea towel, and placed it over Finlay’s lap as he sat at the low table right before the fireplace.
‘That’s one of my emergency candles,’ Finlay told him, seeing the fresh white taper flickering in the middle of the small table.
Murray ignored him, whisking around the room, presenting him with a steaming dish. ‘Soup d’tomate,’ he said.
‘What language is that?’
‘French?’ Murray tried, not giving a monkey’s. ‘And there’s salad de canned tuna and boildy œufs for mains.’
‘Oh aye, boildy’s just how I like them.’ Smiling, Finlay lifted his spoon, mirroring Murray, now seated opposite.
‘None of your cutlery matches,’ Murray told him.
‘Does it need to?’ Finlay tasted the soup.
Murray seemed to accept this answer, and he tried the soup too.
There were big wedges of bread which Murray was about to reach for when Finlay stopped him. ‘Hold on,’ he said, pointing to the toasting fork hanging on its fireside hook. ‘It’ll want freshening up a bit.’
Murray got the message, spearing two of the thickest slices on the prongs and holding them close to the fire.
‘You look like a garden gnome with his fishing rod, sittin’ like that,’ Finlay told him, from behind their low table out of scale with the two mismatched dining chairs, decades old and creaky.
Murray laughed and turned the fork near the flames.
Their lunch passed in companionable, happy ease until all the bread was toasted, slathered with good Scottish butter, dunked and devoured, and the tuna and egg salad was gone too. Finlay had taken pains to make sure Nell was slipped as many scraps as he could manage without Murray telling him he was spoiling her.
After the dishes were washed, not easy with one arm in a sling, but still Finlay did his best to help, and Murray had swept up the crumbs and stood the broom back in the corner, the inevitable moment came.
Frantic, Finlay thought of ways to detain him.
‘Do you think you could return my books, please?’ he asked, pointing to the book tote hanging on the hook on the back of the door.
‘Oh, aye,’ Murray said, bubbling with intrigue. ‘To your pals down at the library?’
‘I dinnae like getting a fine.’
‘Do you want me to pick you up any new books?’ The question was innocent enough.
Finlay considered this. ‘Judy knows the kind of books I like. She said she’d put aside a few for me, actually. You could bring those, if you like?’
He tried to say it like it was no big deal, but there were two or three volumes he’d been looking forward to ever since Judy had described them to him.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Murray, reaching for the book bag. He looked inside, just as Finlay had feared.
