Logan frowns at my scrawling. ‘Shit,’ he breathes.
‘What’ll I do?’ Fergus whispers, dark eyes wide. This is the tricky bit. We can’t eat them, obviously, but nor am I keen on incurring Mum’s wrath. Would it be possible for us to somehow dispose of our burgers, perhaps by throwing them out of the window, if she happens to leave the table? Could I send her off on a fake errand – to find us a different kind of sauce, or a selection of fine pickles? No, she doesn’t exactly run around fetching things for people, and anyway, the small kitchen windows are all painted shut. Could we feed the burgers to Brian? I slide my gaze over to where he is eyeing us from his ironing board hidey-hole. No – that wouldn’t be fair. Even if he did manage to guzzle them, they might poison or even kill him, and I’d never forgive myself for that. We all take our seats at the table as Mum slides the burgers into four rolls.
‘There’s one spare,’ she announces. ‘Who wants the extra?’
‘No thanks,’ the boys blurt out.
‘Aren’t you having one, Mum?’ I ask as she brings a small plate of crackers, and a slice of the industrial dyed orange cheese she allows herself as a treat, to the table.
‘Oh, I can’t be doing with all that rich food in the middle of the day.’
‘Um, I’m not that hungry either, Grandma,’ Logan says meekly. Poor boy, usually so full of swagger. In less than an hour he’s been reduced to a husk.
‘Come on, a growing lad like you needs to eat.’ She cuts a tiny triangle the size of a Trivial Pursuit piece from her cheese, and pops it into her mouth.
Fergus clears his throat. ‘I’ve been thinking of becoming vegetarian. Or even vegan and, you know, just eating plants.’
Mum laughs dryly. ‘Whatever for?’
‘Because I don’t think such a big proportion of the earth should be used for cows to graze on.’
‘Well, you can be vegan at home,’ Mum says, prompting him to throw me a stricken expression which says:
HELP
. As both boys nibble at the edges of their rolls, I pick up mine and give it a discreet sniff. It smells oddly sweet, and I picture Erica-the-Inspector’s face if she were to examine it.
‘Well, tuck in,’ Mum prompts us.
I pause, feeling her curranty eyes fixed upon me across the table, and aware of the boys throwing me panicky looks. I’ve always known what to do in a crisis; I’ve managed to eradicate verrucas, threadworms
and
nits, and didn’t even freak out when Fergus plucked King Nit from his head and made me watch it writhing on his history jotter. Yet now, when they depend on me to be quick-witted, I am useless. What kind of mother sits back while her children ingest rancid flesh? Then a small miracle happens. Having emerged from behind the ironing board, Brian prowls towards us across the kitchen. He gives each of us a sly look, then stops on the murky Aztec-patterned rug where his entire body appears to spasm. While I’ve never been one to derive pleasure from seeing an animal in distress, his actions – causing Mum to leap up and hurry towards him – give me just enough time to snatch all three of our burgers from their buns and ram them into the small side pockets of my cashmere cardigan.
‘Is he okay, Mum?’ I ask as Brian vomits and the boys convulse with silent mirth.
‘He’s been doing this a lot lately,’ she mutters, wiping up the small pool of puke with the cloth from the sink. ‘He’s been on a cheaper brand of food since your father left and it’s not agreeing with him.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘I can’t afford his trout pâté any more,’ she adds.
I take a big bite of roll, hoping that any beef residue is minimal. ‘That’s a real pity.’
‘Poor Brian,’ Fergus adds for effect. ‘Maybe he should see a vet, Grandma.’
‘As if I can afford that,’ she exclaims, rinsing out the cloth at the sink while I give my cardi pockets a tentative pat. Grease is already seeping through the fine raspberry knit. I could grumble about this, and point out that it’s the
only cashmere garment I’ve ever owned
– but its ruination is a small price to pay for my boys’ wellbeing.
As I finish my bare roll, my mobile rings. ‘Excuse me a sec, Mum,’ I say quickly, marching to the back door and letting myself out into the scrubby back garden.
‘You okay to talk for a minute?’ Kirsty asks.
‘Yes, but I’m at Mum’s …’ I fill her in on the rank burger incident, knowing that Kirsty, who hasn’t eaten ‘anything with a face’ for twenty-five years, will be sufficiently appalled.
‘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
?
‘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.’