by Alam, Donna
‘Because, without an invitation, I think that’s called assault,’ Dylan purrs.
‘Ocht. There they are!’ We all turn to the sound of June’s voice. A little less clear than it once was, but still all June.
‘And there’s ma’ girl!’ Rory swoops in with a smacking kiss. Hands curled around the armrests of her wheelchair, he studiously ignores the delicate white handkerchief she holds to the left corner of her mouth. June’s stroke left her with some paralysis down one side of her body, and while she acknowledges she’s lucky to be alive, she’s still coming to terms with her partial paralysis.
‘Cheeky.’ June pinches his cheek with her good hand.
‘Hey, Sam.’ As Fin greets June’s day nurse, Rory makes a very Scottish noise. Neither Dylan nor Rory are overly keen on the man, often making disparaging comments regarding his taste in scrubs and his man bun. Sour grapes, I’m sure, as the man is as lovely natured as he is looking. ‘Nice kilt. Is that your clan tartan?’
Before Sam has a chance to respond, my less-than-lovely aunt is indeed upon us.
‘There you are. Weel , if this isn’t such a lovely picture. I was only just sayin’ to your mother that you’re lookin’ braw now you’ve lost the baby weight, Ivy.’
Yeah, so during the latter part of my pregnancy I might’ve become a little round. Contentment, I think it’s called. Beside me, Dylan stiffens because this isn’t the first of her observations she’s blessed me with today.
‘I kinda like my wife with a few extra pounds. It’s just a pity she can’t seem to keep them on for all the bedroom exercise we get. That’s sex, by the way.’ His green eyes sparkle as he slips his free hand around my waist, tugging me close.
I think my mouth is agape, and I’m not sure whether I should be laughing or smacking him when the June express rolls into crazy town.
‘Cock! C-c-cock! Cock!’ Bright blue eyes shining under her newly pink dyed bangs, she beings rocking in her wheelchair. ‘Cock!’
‘Oh, goodness me,’ splutters my annoying auntie. ‘I-I-’
‘Cock!’
‘I think June wants another swing around the gardens,’ says Rory, trying not to laugh. ‘Was it the peacocks you were after seeing again, hen?’
‘C-cock!’
‘Nah, it’s more likely the sight of all these kilts,’ says an amused Natasha, coming up from behind my stricken face aunt. ‘She wants a keek underneath a few. You’ll no doubt have heard the joke,’ she says, turning to Dylan. ‘An American lassie asks Jock, Is anything worn under the kilt? And Jock responds, Why don’t you stick your hand under there, hen, and find out. Oh, sir, says she, ‘tis gruesome! And Jock replies—’
‘Hen ,’ interjects Rory, beating her to the punchline. ‘If you stick your hand under there again, you’ll find it’ll have grew some more !’
My aunt makes a small sound; a strangled squeak. ‘I-I can see Father Murphy. I need to have a word with him.’
‘Now that we’ve gotten rid o’ that busybody, I’ll have a wee cuddle of my boy,’ says a completely coherent and now none rocking June.
‘Ah, June I did’nae know you cared!’ Rory replies, pretending to climb onto her lap.
‘Away with your sauce!’ June responds, slapping his arm. ‘Before I smack your bum.’
‘She’s serious,’ adds Nat. ‘Just ask Sam.’
Sam ducks his head, flushing the colour of June’s pink cardi, but doesn’t confirm. Not that he needs to.
‘You’re aff your heid ,’ Dylan says, chuckling and laying his accent on thick.
Off your head. Crazy! This lot? Absolutely.
Filming in Scotland has left my husband toying with all kinds of dialogue, including Scot Gaelic. Mo chridhe . My heart. Tha gràdh agam ort. I love you. It’s all very swoon-worthy.
Shaking his head at our crazy clan, Dylan lays our sleeping bundle in June’s lap, his dark downy head cradled by her good arm, and his mouth a trembling rosebud pout.
‘Milk drunk,’ she says softly. ‘We can tell where you’ve been.’ Dylan and I exchange glances over June’s head, heat crawling up my neck at what I can see in that piercing gaze. ‘My braw boy,’ she coos, smitten. ‘Hello, my wee Alisdair.’
‘That’s a good name,’ agrees Rory. ‘A strong Scots name.’
‘And I’m sure the next one will be just a lovely. I see a June in your future,’ adds . . . June.
‘The next one what?’ I ask, perplexed. ‘Summer?’ The month of June is ages away.
‘Why, the next bairn,’ she replies, her blue owl-like gaze blinking back up at me.
‘We’ve no plans for extending our family just yet,’ I begin but am cut off by Nat.
‘And y’ can’t call a baby June in this day and age!’
‘Why not?’ June’s tone is uncharacteristically sharp. ‘What’s wrong with my name?’
‘For a start, it’s no good for a boy.’
‘June Euphemia is a lovely name,’ she continues, ignoring her granddaughter.
‘Yeah, maybe we’ll see in a few years,’ replies Dylan. ‘But we’re planning on spoiling little Al here as an only child for a while.’
‘You’re sure?’ She purses her mouth—well, as best as she’s able—her gaze falling to the general vicinity of my midsection.
‘No!’ My hands fall to the flat plane of my stomach—a stomach I’ve been working hard at since Alisdair’s birth. ‘I can’t be—not after all the burpees and yoga, and Pilates!’
‘And sex,’ whisper-coughs Nat, covering her mouth with a fist. ‘Bunny central over here. What?’ she asks all faux innocence. ‘Who knew castle walls were so thin?’
Dylan’s mouth falls open, but before any of us have time to process, comment, or in my case, run for the hills screaming, a commotion from the other side of the room draws all our attentions. There, next to the bar set up for today’s momentous occasion, Rory’s mirror image stands . . . wrapped around Bea, Fin’s friend and former roommate—Doctor Bea! And if that’s not shocking enough for someone who keeps his cards so close to his chest they’ve practically become skin, Bea attended the christening today with her long-term boyfriend. A long-term boyfriend who’s just stormed out of the room.
The great hall is almost silent, the five-piece band playing background music coming to a sudden halt, and the waiting staff frozen in their places. But the pair currently the focus of attention don’t notice, wrapped so deeply in themselves.
‘What’s comin’ for ye, will no’ pass you by,’ whispers a smitten June to our son. ‘Best be getting ready to share your toys, little Alisdair, because I see twins arriving soon.’
I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or run for the hills.
Acknowledgements
Thanks, as always, go to my family. You’re a strange and unusual bunch but you’re my bunch. Just remember; never look over my shoulder when I’m on the internet . . .
Thanks once again to Natasha Harvey. You’re a fabulous sounding board, a fantastic side-kick, and just an all-round good egg. You talk funny, but that’s okay. And you also fit into the ‘strange’ category with my lovely family, but all the best people do. And speaking of strange, Aimee Bowyer; thanks so much for your eagle eyes. Two Wrongs wouldn’t have been as tidy without your eye-bizzles. Yes. Strange, by your own admission. But also lovely.
Thanks to my author village; to the lovely Lambs. Long may you continue to read and enjoy my stuff, and thanks for keeping me entertained. To Kelsey, Jess, Brii, Nan, Vickie, Eli, Mae, and anyone I might’ve forgotten!
Finally, thanks for reading, whoever you may be. Without you, I’d be talking to these voices in my head in some looney bin, probably.
About the Author
Donna writes about exotic locations, and the men you aren’t married to but might sometimes wish you were. Escapism reads with heart, humour, and plenty of steam.Hailing from the North of England, she’s a nomad at heart moving houses and continents more times than she cares to recall. She once worked at a school like the
one described in her Pretty Series, where the wheels of her imagination began to turn. Donna can usually be found procrastinating on Facebook, posting nonsense on her page , or here , or else hanging around the Lambs Group making a nuisance of herself.
When not messing about with a keyboard, she can usually be found, good book in hand, hiding from her family and responsibilities. She likes her wine and humour dry, and her mojitos muddied.
If you’re feeling so inclined, drop her an email at [email protected]
DonnaAlam.com
