‘Yeah, butdancing?’
‘It’ll be fun,’ she assured him.
‘We’ll see.’ His tone implied that it definitely wasn’t going to happen, but if she plied him with a wee dram or two of whisky, she thought she might get him on the dance floor.
Along with the dancing, the putting the stone competition (which was similar to the shot put, but involved an eighteen-pound actual stone instead of a steel ball) and the long jump were going ahead at the same time. Each attempt was accompanied by lots of cheering and clapping. The spectators were having as much fun as the participants, and with a crowd a couple of thousand strong, the noise was incredible.
Then an even louder roar went up as the over-the-bar entrants were called onto the field.
‘What is over the bar?’ Rocco asked.
‘See that contraption? The one that looks like the highest high jump in the world? That’s the bar. The aim is to stand with your back to it and throw a fifty-six-pound weight over it. Like the high jump or the pole vault, the bar will get higher each time.’
When the ceremonial chieftain (who was overseeing the games) announced that the bar was currently sitting at fifteen feet ten inches, there was a collective gasp and a round of applause.
‘Dear God, I don’t think I could lift fifty-six pounds, let alone throw it into the air over my shoulder!’ Rocco exclaimed. ‘That’s…’ He squinted. ‘Four stone, or twenty-five kilos!’
‘I’m sure you can lift more than four stone,’ she teased. ‘I bet you could even pick me up.’
‘I expect I could, but I couldn’t throw you far.’
‘Anyway, if you think that’s heavy, wait until you see the caber. It’s one hundred and twenty-five pounds and about sixteen feet long.’
‘You lot are nuts. Who was the first person who saw a tree and thought,I know, I’m going to pick that up and toss it? And then turn it into a sport!’
But Giselle noticed that he cheered and clapped and laughed and groaned along with everyone else, as cabers were lifted and tossed – ornotlifted, in some cases. One poor chappie actually toppled over backwards when he tried to carry it. And when the current favourite stepped up to the mark, Rocco joined in with the rhythmic clapping.
Giselle found she was having as much fun watching Rocco’s delighted face as she was watching the games itself.
‘Aren’t you glad you stayed for this?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely! This is so much fun.’
‘It’s not over yet. Look, they’re getting ready for the tug of war.’
With much stamping of feet and digging heels into the ground for purchase, the two teams lined up along a length of rope, their supporters egging them on with lots of shouting and screaming. Rocco was shouting as loudly as anyone.
‘Which team are you rooting for?’ she yelled above the noise.
‘I don’t care who wins,’ he replied, whistling as one team dragged the other across a line only the umpire could see.
He was hoarse by the time the games drew to a close. ‘I need a drink,’ he rasped.
‘Let’s go for something to eat,’ Giselle suggested; the hot dog she’d consumed for lunch seemed like an awful long time ago.
‘Good idea.’
‘Most places will be packed, so I’m up for a fish supper if you are. We’ll celebrate your last evening on Skye in style.’ She couldn’t believe he was leaving tomorrow, and she’d been trying not to think about it all day. The thought of him not being around was poking a hole in her heart.
‘About that…’ he began. ‘Would you mind if I stayed a while longer?’
Would she mind? Hell, no!
Was it wise? Again, hell, no.
Was it delaying the inevitable? It was, but she didn’t care. She felt like a prisoner who’d been given a stay of execution.
‘I don’t mind.’ Her voice was hardly above a whisper.
