Beneath The Skin Episode 20

They had cappuccinos and carrot cake, which was good: moist with a hint of cinnamon and butter cream so sweet it made his teeth ache. The waitress incident hadn’t done much to lift the black mood.

He could feel it tightening his jaw; Mouse was giving him the silent treatment. It hadn’t been like this in his head.

When he’d invited her to do something normal he’d imagined easy conversation in a cosy diner, just the two of them.

He hadn’t really taken into account her situation. She focused entirely on her son, leaning in to brush the floppy hair from his eyes, listening to his chatter about school and telly programmes.

He envied how they were with each other, communicating without words in the way families do: a nod, a lift of the shoulder, a look.

It reminded him he’d had all that, and he’d messed it up.

Sipping his coffee, he said: “Has it always been just you and him?”

Mouse looked affronted and he rushed on: “I just wondered... You’re very tight, the two of you.”

Her eyebrows shot up. William sucked up the last of his drink through a straw, breaking the tension with a noise like a bathtub emptying.

“William! If you’re finished you can go through and look in the shop.”

He didn’t need telling twice. He jumped up, almost knocking over his empty glass and disappeared.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She shrugged. “He’s a bit sensitive about the father issue. He’s curious, and I can’t always deal with it.”

“Oh aye. I’m sorry about... before. I didn’t mean to get in a bad mood. It happens. It just happens.”

“Walt. Stop apologising.”

She leaned closer, put her elbows on the table and smiled at him. She had a wide smile when she used it, one that made you feel good inside, warm.

“I phoned that number you gave me, the one for the MoD. You never told me you’d been medically discharged.”

“We all have things we don’t want to talk about, don’t we?”

They shared a moment of perfect understanding, and for the first time since he’d arrived in Edinburgh he felt a measure of peace. He broke the silence first.

“So tell me, who’s the daddy?”

That made her laugh, as he knew it would.

“Oh God.”

She heaved a sigh, jammed her fingers into the sides of her hair and stared at the table. “We were students, and he freaked out when I told him I was pregnant.

“He wanted to run a mile, and so I decided to let him.”

“What were you studying?”

“Nursing. My mum was a nurse in Inverness, before she met my father. I kind of always wanted to be a nurse too. I remember she kept her old uniform and we used to try it on, Alys and me.

“We’d put on grown- up shoes and bandage up our dolls. The hat was all lacy ... Alys snatched it off me once and tore it and Mum gave the whole lot to the charity shop.”

She was looking out of the window. He watched the memories play out behind her eyes.

“Alys wasn’t interested in anything, but Mum taught me how to make beds, you know, with hospital corners?”

He nodded. He knew about hospital beds.

“She used to say: ‘Fitted sheets and duvets – fiddlesticks! It’s lazy bed-making, like you don’t care enough.

“You want a smooth sheet, Maura. Not a wrinkle in the sheet. Wrinkles cause redness, leading to bedsores.

‘Skin is everything – you must keep it in tip-top condition. Look after a patient’s skin and you’re half way to winning the battle.’”

Mouse gave a little laugh. “I never really knew what the battle was.”

“Skin keeps us together, lass,” he said. Even when we’re coming undone inside.

“I suppose it does. I never thought of it like that.”

“When did she die?”

His bluntness shook her out of the past; she sat up straighter. “Just before William was born.”

There wasn’t much that he could say to that really. Sympathy was overused and pointless. Instead he said: “You’d make a good nurse.”

She blushed. “You don’t even know me!”

“I just meant you’d look good in the uniform.”

This time she laughed out loud, and the old lady at the next table looked up and smiled.

She was starting to get him; that was progress.

“I’d better go and see what William is up to,” she sighed. “He’ll have spent all his pocket money on Victorian thimbles or something!”

She started to get up and paused.

“You know, he goes round the house searching for things, like kids do at Christmas – prying into cupboards and drawers, going where he shouldn’t go.

“And now he’s checking up on my Facebook page! I sometimes think he’s looking for evidence of who he is.

“Like he wants to fill in the gaps, the things I can’t tell him.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I’ll see you in a minute.”

Walt drained his coffee, suddenly thoughtful. He felt for the button in his pocket.

Rain was beginning to collect on the window, and he sat for a few minutes, watching the passersby trudging along, bundled up in coats and hats.

Eventually, he got up from the table and wandered across the lobby to the flea market. Edging past a middle-aged guy in black biker leathers who was sorting through a box of vinyl LPs, Walt spotted William and his mother at the far end of the shop.

On impulse, Walt flipped the button from his pocket and approached the counter, where Mr Flea ‘n’ Tea was leafing through an old theatre programme. He looked up when Walt approached. “Can you identify this?”

The guy didn’t really fit the shop. He had the look of the outdoors about him, slightly weathered, with a sturdy physique.

His hair was strangely brassy, like the wedding ring on his third finger; both looked fake.

More tomorrow.

She put her elbows on the table and smiled at him. She had a wide smile when she used it, one that made you feel good inside, warm

Beneath The Skin, by Sandra Ireland, is published by Polygon, £8.99. Her latest book, Sight Unseen, is out now.