'Fine.'
'I almost bought you some, but I minded the last time I got them you said they were the wrong sort.' I vaguely recalled a set of piping-trimmed Y-fronts I’d be scared to get run over in. 'I brought you this as well.' She handed me a blue shirt still in its cellophane wrapping. 'I got it for your dad, but he never got the chance to wear it.'
It was the kind of shirt that would look good with an off-the-peg from Slaters, a shirt for a nine-to-five man, the kind of shirt I never wore.
'It’ll mebbe be a bit big for you but I thought you could wear it under a jumper.'
I took it in my hand smoothing the slightly brittle cellophane.
'Aye, it’ll be grand in this weather.'
'That’s what I thought. Keep the chill out.'
We sat in silence for a moment. Neither of us touched our coffee.
'I bought it for your dad to wear to Lorna’s wedding, but he went before that came round.'
I bowed my head. Every time there was a crisis Mum would begin to reminisce about my dad’s death, as if reassuring herself with the knowledge that the worst had already happened.
She lifted her teaspoon and began to peel back the skin that had started to form on the top of her drink. 'Almost two pounds each these coffees and we’ve not even touched them.' I lifted my cup and took a sip. 'I almost had him buried in that shirt, but in the end I dressed him in plain white. I don’t know why, blue always suited him better. White just seemed more appropriate for a funeral.'
'There’s no point in fretting over it now. I’ll wear it under a jumper.'
'Aye,' she laid aside the teaspoon and looked me straight on. 'Or mebbe you should keep it in the packet and save it for your own funeral.'
'What’s that meant to mean?'
'Look at the state of you, son.'
'I’m fine.'
'You don’t look it.'
'Well, I am.'
I sat up a little straighter hoping improved posture would convince her. But I knew what she meant. I’d looked in the mirror before I left my room and seen my face puffy from the night before, my skin pale from days spent indoors, my cheeks jowlier than they’d been in Berlin.
'Why are you here, William?'
'That’s a nice question.'
Her face wore the same stern look she’d used to coax the truth from me when I’d been a wee boy.
'You’re not in trouble are you?'
For a second I wished I could tell her everything. The thought almost made me laugh. It was like an urge to put a finger in an electric socket or the impulse to jump under a subway train. I knew it would be fatal but the temptation still beckoned. I took a sip of my coffee, looked her in the eye and said, 'Of course not.'
The straight stare worked no better than when I’d been a kid.
'It’s nothing to do with drugs is it? Your dad was always worried about you being in showbiz. I told him you were a sensible laddie but he said it was high risk for drugs. I mean look at Elvis.'
She smiled at my dad’s folly, agreeing with him all the same.
'It’s not drugs, Mum, honest.'
'Honest?'
She took another sip of her drink, uncertain but wanting to be reassured.
'Honest.' I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. 'You need to keep a clear head in my line.'
'Aye, I suppose so.'
'How’s Bobby?'
Her face brightened.
'He’s grand. Mrs Cowan’s laddie’s going to take him out when he comes in from school.'
'I didn’t know they were letting dogs into school these days.'
It was a poor joke but she did me the grace of laughing.
'You know what I mean. Though mind you, he’s as clever as some folk I’ve met.'
'More intelligent than Mrs Cowan’s laddie that’s for sure.'
'Ach, you’re terrible, William. He’s doing his standard grades now.'
'That’s good.'
I sipped my coffee, pleased the conversation had moved to neutral ground. I should have known better. Mum let me relax, then hit me again with the old verbal one-two.
'Is it a girl, son?'
