Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

‘How was he this afternoon?’

‘Ocht, fine,’ she replies, all smiles as she folds a pile of tiny t-shirts and underpants. ‘We caught the tube into the city and went to Hamleys Toy Store.’

‘I bet that put a dent in your wallet.’ I glance around the room, but I can’t tell what he had before and what’s new.

‘It was worth it to see his wee face light up as he ran from one display to the next.’

I can almost see the scene, the delight on his face. He’s taken to my parents like a duck does to water. It’s easy to understand why with my mum. She has that maternal thing going on, all soft and womanly. But he even seems to adore my dad, who is the stoic Scottish kind. Unfamiliar with emotion and more than a little gruff. Meanwhile, my child looks at me like I’m some ogre. I’ve no idea what that’s all about.

I clear my throat. ‘Where’s Da?’

‘Asleep on the sofa. We went to the park on the way home. I think he might’ve strained his back pushing Louis on the swings.’

‘He should be careful.’ I don’t have to say it, but the implication hangs there anyway. He had a heart scare a couple of years ago, retiring shortly afterwards.

‘Away with you! You’d have done the same. Louis’s happiness is infectious. And a balm to hear.’ I’m prevented from what would be the blandest of replies by my son’s voice.

‘Grannnnyyyy!’

‘So. No need to tell you what that means, I think.’ My mother eyes me knowingly.

‘Aye, but he’s shouting for you,’ I say, holding up my hands.

‘I’ve wiped more than enough of my fair share of backsides. It’s about time you started to pitch in.’

‘Pitch in? I thought you were enjoying spending time with your newest grandson?’ Guilt and parenthood go hand in hand.

But not this time as she ignores my tone, concentrating on bundling tiny socks into pairs instead. ‘He’s not my newest grandson. He’s my eldest.’ Her tone is careful, but the implication still smarts. ‘And he’s a lovely wee boy, but we can’t stay here forever.’

‘I know that.’ I swipe a hand through my hair. ‘But—’

‘I’m finishhhhed!’ calls the little voice again.

‘Duty calls, son.’ Despite still concentrating on the laundry, I can see she’s beginning to enjoy my discomfort a bit too much.

‘But—’

‘I need help!’ This time, Louis’s tone is pitiful.

Loosening my tie, I turn on my heel, stomping down the hall to face the music. Or the smell. I push the bathroom door open to find him sitting on the toilet, entirely naked but for a pair of Pokémon socks.

Pikachu, I need you.

‘How you doin’, big man?’ I keep my voice soft as he looks at me with round, frightened eyes. I don’t know what it is, but the wee boy is not comfortable around me in the best of circumstances. Naked and on the toilet? Even less so. I leave the door ajar.

‘Where’s Granny?’ he asks in a small voice.

‘Busy.’ I lower my arse to the edge of the bathtub, feeling unsure.

‘I tried to wipe my bum.’

‘And how’d it go?’ Legs stretched out, I lean forward and pick up a dark grey towel from the floor.

‘Not so well.’ His voice is so small as he answers, and I can’t help but notice him eyeing the towel in my hand. Fuck.

I drop it to the floor again and try not to freak out or shudder at the germs I’m potentially covered in.

‘We all need help sometimes, buddy.’ His brows furrow despite my reassuring tone, and his little shoulders slump until, elbows on his thighs, he props his chin in his hands. I must remember to wash his face. ‘Even grown-ups make a shit job of things.’

‘You said a bad word.’

‘I did? Well, see? Grown-ups make loads of mistakes.’

‘Mama said bad words, too. Sometimes,’ he adds, looking up at me to gauge my reaction.

‘Well, I expect she had reason to sometimes.’ The poor wee bugger nods, trying hard to stifle his tears. ‘It’s okay to cry.’

‘Mama said big boys don’t cwy.’

Christ on a bike. How can I contradict someone who’ll be canonised in his mind?

‘Well, pal, I’m sure she’d cry if the tables were turned. You miss her.’ What a dumb fuck thing to say, but he nods anyway. ‘If you ever want to talk about it . . . or anything, you can, you know?’

‘I m-miss Charles,’ he says, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hand. Sharles is how he pronounces this, his mother’s accent no doubt inherited a wee bit.

‘Is Charles your friend from school?’ Because not only has he lost his mother and his home, his wee kindergarten is too far away to get to from my place.

‘Non.’ Now that was definitely French. ‘He’s my pet. H-he’s s-still at home. Bonny is looking after h-him.’ His tears flow freely now, his chest hiccupping in little sobs.