just wash it. Don't make a fuss, please.’
‘All right, miss. I'll show you.’
Catherine followed the woman down a corridor, past a number of sculptures and paintings, and up a flight of stairs. She opened the door into a large bathroom. In one corner was a bath with a massive oak shower cabinet at its head; there was a window with stained glass in it, a window seat, some cane chairs and stools, and a large basin with a mirror.
‘You sit down there, dear,’ said the woman, pulling up a stool. ‘I’ll clean it up for you.’
The sight of her face in the mirror was a shock. Her small bob hat was awry; and under it, ragged fingers of blood trickled down a paper-white skin. She took off the hat, astonished. She didn't feel bad - how could her face be such a mess?
She had a small, delicate face with large deep-set eyes and dark pageboy hair, which her hands tried to pat into place. The overall effect was normally of a sort of elfin beauty. Now she looked as though she had been torn by a cat.
The housekeeper ran some warm water into the basin and began to dab at her forehead gently with a flannel. ‘There’s a few cuts just under your hair, she said soothingly, but not too bad. Heads always bleed a lot. I remember my son once …’
Catherine did not listen. Sean did this, she thought. Did he see me in the car? Would he still have thrown the bomb if he had? A week ago he kissed this face. She remembered how it had felt …
They had met in her first term at University College, in October. As one of only thirty-two women among some hundred and sixty men studying medicine, she had been plagued by youths inviting her to ceilidhs, picnics, tennis parties - quite enough to satisfy her father, if these had been the sort of young men he had had in mind. But Catherine, like the other women, had been more serious about her studies than most of the men - predictably, for it had been a hard struggle to get in - and she had rejected most of the invitations as distractions.
Sean had seemed to her one of the more serious students. She remembered the first time they had met. He had sat next to her in a lecture, and afterwards asked if he could buy her a cup of coffee. Then he had started to talk, not about anything trivial or flirtatious, but about the subject of the lecture, the structure of the colon and small intestine.
It was one of many subjects which she found very difficult to discuss with male students. Either they avoided it altogether, because it was indelicate, or they became defensively childish, elaborating on all the most repulsive details to see if she would be embarrassed.
But Sean had been simply interested - and, it turned out, a little confused. After a few minutes' conversation she found herself having to repeat most of the lecture over to him again, illustrating the main points from her notes. There were quite a few things Sean had not taken in, or had misunderstood. And he had not been insulted by this, merely grateful.
‘I do take notes,’ he said. ‘But he goes so fast, don't you think? That's hardly fair, when it's all new stuff.’
‘I don't know,' she said. ‘I suppose they expect us to read it all ourselves, as well. That’s what I do. I look up the titles of the lectures to see what’s coming, and then try to read about it beforehand. Then the lecture's clearer; it comes as a sort of revision.’
‘Mary and Joseph! Whenever do you find the time?’
‘Oh, I don't know. In the evenings.’ She realized how priggish her explanation had sounded, and tried to make amends. ‘I’m alone a lot. I probably don't have so much to do as you do.’
‘No.’ He had regarded her with a rather quizzical, fetching grin. Soft hazel eyes, smooth, brown, carefully back-combed hair, a little dimple appearing on his cheek. Two months later, in the Viceregal Lodge, she could remember that grin clearly; at the time, it had had a definite unsettling effect on her pulse. ‘I’ve got the books, of
‘All right, miss. I'll show you.’
Catherine followed the woman down a corridor, past a number of sculptures and paintings, and up a flight of stairs. She opened the door into a large bathroom. In one corner was a bath with a massive oak shower cabinet at its head; there was a window with stained glass in it, a window seat, some cane chairs and stools, and a large basin with a mirror.
‘You sit down there, dear,’ said the woman, pulling up a stool. ‘I’ll clean it up for you.’
The sight of her face in the mirror was a shock. Her small bob hat was awry; and under it, ragged fingers of blood trickled down a paper-white skin. She took off the hat, astonished. She didn't feel bad - how could her face be such a mess?
She had a small, delicate face with large deep-set eyes and dark pageboy hair, which her hands tried to pat into place. The overall effect was normally of a sort of elfin beauty. Now she looked as though she had been torn by a cat.
The housekeeper ran some warm water into the basin and began to dab at her forehead gently with a flannel. ‘There’s a few cuts just under your hair, she said soothingly, but not too bad. Heads always bleed a lot. I remember my son once …’
Catherine did not listen. Sean did this, she thought. Did he see me in the car? Would he still have thrown the bomb if he had? A week ago he kissed this face. She remembered how it had felt …
They had met in her first term at University College, in October. As one of only thirty-two women among some hundred and sixty men studying medicine, she had been plagued by youths inviting her to ceilidhs, picnics, tennis parties - quite enough to satisfy her father, if these had been the sort of young men he had had in mind. But Catherine, like the other women, had been more serious about her studies than most of the men - predictably, for it had been a hard struggle to get in - and she had rejected most of the invitations as distractions.
Sean had seemed to her one of the more serious students. She remembered the first time they had met. He had sat next to her in a lecture, and afterwards asked if he could buy her a cup of coffee. Then he had started to talk, not about anything trivial or flirtatious, but about the subject of the lecture, the structure of the colon and small intestine.
It was one of many subjects which she found very difficult to discuss with male students. Either they avoided it altogether, because it was indelicate, or they became defensively childish, elaborating on all the most repulsive details to see if she would be embarrassed.
But Sean had been simply interested - and, it turned out, a little confused. After a few minutes' conversation she found herself having to repeat most of the lecture over to him again, illustrating the main points from her notes. There were quite a few things Sean had not taken in, or had misunderstood. And he had not been insulted by this, merely grateful.
‘I do take notes,’ he said. ‘But he goes so fast, don't you think? That's hardly fair, when it's all new stuff.’
‘I don't know,' she said. ‘I suppose they expect us to read it all ourselves, as well. That’s what I do. I look up the titles of the lectures to see what’s coming, and then try to read about it beforehand. Then the lecture's clearer; it comes as a sort of revision.’
‘Mary and Joseph! Whenever do you find the time?’
‘Oh, I don't know. In the evenings.’ She realized how priggish her explanation had sounded, and tried to make amends. ‘I’m alone a lot. I probably don't have so much to do as you do.’
‘No.’ He had regarded her with a rather quizzical, fetching grin. Soft hazel eyes, smooth, brown, carefully back-combed hair, a little dimple appearing on his cheek. Two months later, in the Viceregal Lodge, she could remember that grin clearly; at the time, it had had a definite unsettling effect on her pulse. ‘I’ve got the books, of
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