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‘And your lovely cardi’s ruined?’ she laments. ‘That’s awful. Ugh. Anyway, this’ll cheer you up. I think I’ve found a man for you …’
‘Who is he?’ I glance at the row of industrial beige knickers wafting gently on Mum’s washing line.
‘His name’s Stephen and he’s our new dentist …’
‘A dentist,’ I repeat.
She laughs. ‘Keep an open mind. He’s brilliant with the kids – they actually look forward to going now. And I ran into him again at a birthday do Hamish was invited to. You know how most dads tend to hide away in corners at kids’ parties?’
‘Tom never went to any,’ I say with a snort. ‘It’s a miracle he actually showed up to Logan and Fergus’s.’
‘Well, Stephen was great,’ she declares, ‘getting stuck in with the games, being the wolf in What’s the Time, Mr Wolf? and helping the kids to build a fire at the bottom of the garden. He had them all toasting marshmallows …’
‘Wow,’ I breathe, unable to decide whether this is a hugely attractive quality, or smacks of over-zealous and eager to please. Perhaps I’m just not used to party-fabulous dads.
‘His daughter Molly’s around eight,’ Kirsty goes on. ‘She’s in Hamish’s class. He’s a single dad, has been for years as far as I can make out …’
‘And you’re sure he wants to meet someone?’
‘Oh yes. We got chatting and I told him all about you. What else? Um, he’s tall, slim, fairish hair, greenish eyes … he’s just nice, you know? Good-looking but not intimidatingly so.’ She pauses. ‘I did warn him that you’re a pusher of meringues and he seemed fine with that.’
I laugh, my spirits rising as I fish the burgers from my pockets and fling them one by one, like miniature frisbees, over the drystone wall.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but can we leave it until the boys are away on their jaunt with Tom? I feel bad, expecting Logan to look after Fergus all the time.’
‘Yes, like, about once a month,’ she says, not unkindly.
I bite my lip. ‘It’ll just be simpler that way.’ This isn’t entirely true; after amuse-bouche night, I need time to rev myself back up into a dating frame of mind.
By the time I’m back inside, Mum has produced a collection of illustrations showing Scotland in the Middle Ages. The scene – of the boys dutifully studying the creased, fly-speckled pictures that she’s spread out on the table to show them – twists my heart.
‘That’s amazing, Gran,’ Logan says gamely.
‘Yeah, they’re really cool,’ Fergus adds, stifling a yawn.
She turns to him and smiles. ‘Before you go, let me have a look at that translator of yours.’ He hands it to her and, while she takes the thing to pieces and prods at its innards, I select a leather-bound book from a shelf and flip it open at a random page:
With hym ther was his sone, a yong squier
A lovyere and a lusty bacheler …
A lusty bachelor! Could a child-friendly dentist fit into this category? We all wait patiently as Mum fiddles about with the gadget’s innards, then finally puts it back together. ‘There,’ she says, handing it to Fergus.
‘Is it fixed?’ he gasps.
‘Yes, just needed resetting. Go on, ask it a question.’
He turns to me, perhaps fearful of what it might say.
‘Er … “Where is the station?”’ I ask nervously. He taps some buttons. Où est la gare? it chirps.
‘Wow, Grandma.’ Fergus grins. ‘That’s amazing. You’re so clever.’
‘It really wasn’t difficult,’ she blusters, as if unaccustomed to praise. We say our goodbyes then, all heading outside where I give her a hug; it’s like trying to cuddle an icicle. She is a little more receptive to Logan and Fergus’s hugs, and doesn’t appear to notice their eagerness to jump into the car.
Before I climb in, perhaps in an attempt to spark a glimmer of warmth between us, I add, ‘Oh, I meant to tell you, Mum – that was Kirsty who called earlier. She’s setting me up on a blind date.’
‘Really?’ Mum fixes me with small pale grey eyes. ‘Who with?’
‘Some dentist guy.’
‘A dentist,’ she repeats, clearly impressed. ‘Ooh, you’ll be glad I gave you that diet then.’ So what’s she implying now? That I have fat teeth?
Chapter Six (#ulink_bd13a86a-d40c-5a5e-b604-f0f0597346ab)
‘That was so embarrassing,’ Logan declares as we pull away. ‘Never put me in a situation like that again, Mum. Can’t believe you did that to me.’
Like I flaunted the use-by date on those burgers!
‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I stopped you being poisoned, all right? I might’ve even saved your life. And I ruined my best cardi.’
‘That’s disgusting,’ Fergus crows from the back seat, ‘putting cooked food in your pockets. You’d go mad if we did that.’
Jesus Christ. We reach the main road and I speed up, the cigarette and gin scenario becoming more appealing by the minute.
‘There wasn’t an awful lot of choice, Fergus. Anyway, I think you had the right idea. Next time we go, I’ll tell her we’ve gone vegetarian …’
‘You mean we’re going again?’ Logan whines.
‘Well, at some point, yes. I mean, that wasn’t the last time you’ll ever see Grandma.’
‘No, I know that,’ he says gruffly.
‘And she loves our visits,’ I add. ‘Being around such vibrant young people brings sunshine and sparkle into her life.’
Fergus cackles with laughter, and the fuggy weight of the day starts to lift as we head along the main Edinburgh-bound road.
‘What would she give us,’ Fergus muses, ‘if we pretended to be veggie?’
‘God knows. A tin of potatoes, maybe.’
‘You can’t get tinned potatoes,’ he retorts.
‘Oh yes you can. You’ve been spoilt, that’s your problem …’
He barks with laughter. ‘Well, they sound better than stinky old meat …’
‘Maybe,’ Logan muses, ‘she’d be better in an old people’s home.’
I cast him a sharp look. ‘Grandma doesn’t need to go into a home. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with her. She’s as strong as an ox, you know – managed to erect that fence at the front all by herself …’
At the term ‘erect’, both boys dissolve into cackles. ‘They’re actually not that bad,’ Logan adds.
‘What aren’t?’
‘Old folks’ homes. Blake’s granddad’s in one.’
‘Yes, I know, love …’
‘They’re allowed to sit around and watch telly all day and at Christmas they get a Santa.’
I splutter with laughter. ‘Oh, Grandma would love that. She’s only sixty-six and a world authority on Beowulf. She doesn’t need a patronising old bloke asking what she wants for Christmas.’
‘What’s Beowulf about?’ Fergus asks from the back.
‘Er … I think there’s a monster in it.’
‘Yeah, but what happens?’
‘A bit like Little Red Riding Hood, is it, Mum?’ Logan enquires.
I throw him a quick sideways look. Smartarse. Bet he doesn’t know about Beowulf either. The two of them just enjoy exposing me as a fluff-brain, capable only of whisking up eggs and manning a school office – which is actually bloody complicated, what with the endless paperwork and the diplomatic handling of tricky parents.
‘Talking of which,’ I say with a smile, ‘how’s the revision going, Logan? It’s, what, three weeks till your first exam?’
‘It’s going fine,’ he says between his teeth.
‘Are you sure? Can I help at all?’
He snorts.
‘Seriously, love. I wish you’d let me. I could be a useful resource.’
‘I don’t think so, Mum.’
‘I’m starving,’ Fergus reminds me. ‘I only had a bare roll …’
‘… With a greasy stain on it,’ Logan adds. ‘That was a nice touch.’
‘I know,’ I reply, ‘and I plan to fix that as soon as I can.’ Shutting my ears to further grumbling, I turn off the main road and follow the narrow country lane towards the nearest village. ‘Isn’t it lovely around here?’ I muse.
‘’S’all right,’ Logan says.
‘I mean, the countryside. It’s so pretty and peaceful …’
‘Don’t see the point of it really,’ Logan says. ‘Anyway, where are we going?’
I pull up in front of a small parade of shops where there also happens to be a chip shop. ‘Here.’
The mood lifts considerably as, installed in a booth, we tuck into steaming platefuls of fish and chips. As we chat and giggle, eking out the pleasure of our unscheduled stop, it strikes me how lovely these unplanned events can be. You can feel as if you’re losing your children as they grow up, shunning your attempts to help with revision and regarding you as if you’re a particularly troublesome boil. Then there are occasions like this when, completely unexpectedly, you’re drawn back into being a family again. It no longer seems to matter that my own mother thinks I’m a fat dimwit or that my sole date this year recommended four grand’s worth of facial enhancements. Right now, it’s just me and my boys all happy and stuffed with delicious fish and chips.
The day improves even further as we set off back to Edinburgh and pass a farm where some pigs are copulating, at which the boys shriek with laughter. It’s moments like this, I always think, that a parent should cherish.
*
My mobile starts trilling as I let us into the flat.
‘I’ve found someone!’ Viv shrieks. ‘Am I first? Bet I’m first …’
‘You mean for our thing?’ I hiss.
‘Yes! Bet the others haven’t found anyone yet …’
‘Well, Kirsty called when I was at Mum’s …’ I turn towards Logan and Fergus who are regarding me with rapt interest. ‘It’s all right, boys, thank you. I’m just having a private conversation with Viv.’
‘A private conversation,’ Logan repeats mockingly as they slope off to their respective bedrooms. ‘Bet that’s thrilling.’
‘Yes, we’re discussing the best way to fold tea towels,’ I call after him. ‘God,’ I mutter to Viv. ‘I’ll never be able to bring a man back here with those two policing me. I’ll have to wait until Fergus leaves for uni.’
‘How long away is that again?’ she asks.
Heading for the relative privacy of the kitchen, I pull off my jacket which retains its fuggy smell from Mum’s house, mingling with the vinegary tang of the chippie. ‘Only five years. Half a decade. I’ll be forty-four by then.’
‘Isn’t Tom taking the boys away soon?’
‘Yes – on Thursday, when they break up. But I’m not planning to bring anyone back and jump on them the minute they’re gone, Viv.’
‘No,’ she giggles, ‘you’d better at least wait until his car’s gone round the corner.’
‘Camper van actually. He’s hired some amazing, top-of-the-range model …’
‘He’s moved up in the world, hasn’t he, from that leaky two-man Argos tent?’
‘Yes, but he married well, remember …’
‘There you go then,’ she says triumphantly. ‘You’ll have an empty flat. Perfect opportunity.’
‘For what?’ I ask, laughing. ‘I’m not planning to rush in, Viv.’
‘Why not?’
Because it’s too sodding traumatic, that’s why.Because – if truth be known – I can barely remember which bits go where.
‘I just want to take things slowly,’ I say feebly.
‘Hmm. So, who’s Kirsty found for you? One of her beardy single-dad mates?’
‘She didn’t mention a beard,’ I say with a smile, ‘but, yes, he is a dad …’
