The Courier & Advertiser (Perth and Perthshire Edition)
Her voice rose. “Have you any idea what time it is? I’ve been so worried
Aquestion. “Do you think I’m fat?” The sleeping form twitched, stirred, rolled over. “I-an…” More urgent this time. A face appeared from under the duvet. An eye blinked open. “Wha-at?” “Fat,” Wilma persisted. “What?” The form jerked upright. Her husband ground his fists into his eyes, craned towards the luminous dial of the clock on the bedside table. “It’s the middle of the night, Wilma.”
“I know,” she let out a sigh. “And I’m sorry, pet, waking you up like this. God knows, you’ve an early enough start. It’s just…you know how I’m wanting to help Maggie out?”
“Ye-es.”
“Well, we were talking about it today. How she could make it work an that, the husband’s wee business…” She broke off. .“And?” Patient voice.
“I offered to help. With the computer stuff, like, an mebbe other wee bitties o’ things.”
“Did you?”
“Aye. But now I’m not so sure.”
“Why’s that?”
“It was you.”
“Me?” Ian reached for the bedside light, switched it on. “How?” He wondered what he’d done this time.
Speculated
“What you said: the size of me and the size of her…” “It was a joke, Wilma.”
“So you say. But…it’s just, that Maggie Laird, she’s such a neat wee thing. So…trim, I suppose is the word I’m looking for.”
Ian speculated as to what was coming, but kept his counsel. “She makes me feel like an elephant.”
He burst out laughing. “Don’t you dare laugh.” Wilma’s voice wobbled. He adjusted his face into an expression of benign concern. “What’s brought this on?”
“I dunno.” She wiped a tear from one cheek. “It’s just the more I look at her, the more I realise I don’t fit in.”
“How? Where?”
“Here. Mannofield.” She threw up her hands. “It’s a whole other world for me.”
“Come off it. Didn’t you think Maggie Laird was like that – a bit snooty – when you first moved in? And now look at the two of you. You’ve been in and out of her house ever since…”
“Well, somebody has to. Woman doesn’t seem to have anybody else.”
“All I’m saying is you seem to get on well, the pair of you. And if you’re serious about going into business together…”
She turned on him. “Thought you were dead against it.”
“I was.” He yawned. “Am. If somebody as solid as George Laird couldn’t make a go of it…”
“What can two middle-aged wifies…” She finished the sentence for him. “Forty isn’t middle-aged.” He landed a kiss on the tip of her nose. “And that’s not what I was going to say. But knowing you, Wilma, if you’ve set your mind to it, you’ll do it regardless.” “How can I? That’s what I’m asking myself.” “What’s stopping you? If it’s the money, I could…” “It’s not the money. I’ve a wee bit saved.” “What, then?”
“It’s…Maggie Laird’s that well-educated, compared to me,” Wilma groaned. “Makes me feel ignorant, the things she knows.”
“Well, look at you, the experience you’ve had.” “Is that what you’d call it? Slopping out behind a bar, cleaning other folk’s houses, emptying bedpans at Foresterhill?”
Delicate
Ian laid a hand on her arm. “It’s all grist to the mill, Wilma. Look at the people you’ve had to deal with.” She hooted. “Drunks?”
“Not just drunks. You’d have to have social skills to manage all those patients in the hospital. People who are seriously ill, terminal, even. Their families, too.
“They all need delicate handling. And you’re so caring, pet. Big-hearted. You can’t deny that.” “I guess.” Grudging voice.
“And the stuff you know: weights and measures, stocktaking, all those numbers…”
Wilma knitted her brow. “I suppose.”
“Plus you have loads of drive. Self-confidence. You couldn’t say you were exactly…” Ian chose his words with care, “backwards in coming forwards.” Wilma chuckled. “That’s true.”
“You’ll be able to put all that to good use, you know, if you make a go of this detective thing.”
She bristled. “What d’you mean thing?”
“Och, Wilma…” Ian was exasperated now. “You know perfectly well what I mean.” He yawned again. “Can I go back to sleep now?”
“No.” Petulant voice. “Why not?” “Because you haven’t answered my question.” “What was that again?” Puzzled look. “Do you think I’m fat?” He sighed. “No, of course I don’t think you’re fat. I think you’re beautiful.”
“Beautiful?” Wilma’s voice was filled with disbelief. “You don’t think I need to lose weight?”
“Don’t you dare. A fella needs a bit of flesh to hang on to.” She hoiked up her nightie. “Not this much.”
“Listen…” Ian leaned over her. “I love you, ya daft quine.” And he buried his face in the folds of her belly.
Playing Hooky
“Where have you been?” Maggie whirled from the sink when she heard the sound of the back door. “Nowhere.” Colin slunk in sideways, his back to her. “What d’you mean “nowhere”?” Her voice rose. “Have you any idea what time it is? I’ve been so worried.”
There was a muttered response. “And turn round so I can hear what you’re saying to me.” The boy shifted from one foot to the other. Dropped one shoulder. Swivelled slightly, chin on chest. “What’s that on your face?”
“Nothing.”
“Let me see.” Maggie grabbed hold of her son’s chin and yanked his face round towards her. She let out an involuntary gasp. A bloodied gash ran from Colin’s left eyebrow up into his hairline.
“Oh, Col,” she reached up to gently brush the hair from his eyes. “What on earth have you been up to?”
“Nothing.” The boy looked away. She gazed into his young face. “It can’t have been nothing to leave you with an eye like that.”
Her son’s mouth set in a stubborn line. Colin looked so like his father when he made that face. Maggie took a deep breath. “I want to know where you got that cut on your head.”
Colin shuffled his feet. “Can’t tell you.”
“You listen to me, Colin Laird, you’ll tell me if we have to stand here all night.” He studied the fingernails of one hand.
“Well? I asked you a question.” Her son lifted his chin. “Seaton Park.”
“But that’s miles from school. What on earth were you doing down that end of town?” “Hanging out.”
“Who with?”
“Other schoolkids. Students too. Didn’t want to get caught uptown playing hooky.”
“And how often have you been “playing hooky”, tell me?”
“Once or twice.”
“Right. So if I go to your guidance teacher and ask to see your attendance record…”
“A few times.” A flush crept up her son’s neck.
“If that’s the case, why hasn’t the school been in touch?” “I put in sick notes,” he muttered.
More tomorrow.