Take Mum Out. Fiona Gibson

wildly, wondering how to alert my boys to their imminent fate. If only we had some kind of secret family code, like a series of coughs, or knew semaphore or Morse …

      Pretending to study a newspaper from the pile, I squint at the fiendishly difficult, completed crossword. While Mum continues her search for the cordial, I snatch a pencil from an overstuffed jam jar on a shelf and quickly scribble in the margin: BURGERS BAD DO NOT EAT!!!

      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