shave.
‘Gets them every time,’ said Gifford, lookingpleased. ‘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 cliché about women being gentler 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 ontheir 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 thebaby 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
‘Gets them every time,’ said Gifford, lookingpleased. ‘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 cliché about women being gentler 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 ontheir 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 thebaby 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
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