But that was the gist of it. And I can’t remember how long we sat at that table downing egg and chips, and beer. I had my first ever sip of beer that day – Father would never allow alcohol in the house back home. All I know is that we talked and talked. After a while he took my hands in his. He had big, beautiful hands, hands that swallowed mine, that made me feel safe. He said he wanted to know all about me, everything. So I told him. He looked at me as I spoke, his eyes never leaving mine, as if they were windows into my life. I could tell that everything I said seemed to fascinate him, and that amazed me – I never imagined anyone could be that interested in my little world of home: in Aberdeenshire, in the strange Doric language we spoke at home, how Mary and I were like two sides of the same coin, how each would often know what the other was thinking before she even said it. But when I began to tell him something of my work in the hospital, I could see it hurt him to hear about it.
