Take Mum Out. Fiona Gibson

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      ‘My translator,’ he mutters, scowling at the gadget’s tiny screen.

      ‘Oh, what’s that for?’

      ‘For translating,’ he replies, rolling his coffee-brown eyes as if to say, Who is this bloody fool?

      ‘He likes buying old gadgets from charity shops and trying to get them to work,’ I explain.

      ‘That’s, um, resourceful,’ Erica says unconvincingly as Logan blows his nose on a square of kitchen roll.

      ‘Anyway, boys,’ I say firmly, ‘could you leave us for a minute please? This is important. Remember I told you—’

      ‘It has translations for thirty-six thousand words,’ Fergus cuts in, ‘in seven languages.’

      ‘Wow, that’s impressive,’ Erica says, checking her watch.

      ‘Tell it to say something,’ he demands.

      Our visitor’s jaw tightens. ‘Er – hello, how are you?’

      Fergus prods a few buttons. Ich bin diabetika, it chirps robotically. He touched my breast—

      ‘It said it’s diabetic,’ Fergus starts.

      ‘And someone touched its breast,’ Logan chuckles, twanging the elasticated waistband of his trackies.

      ‘Yes, we heard that.’ My posh voice has disappeared and now I, too, am sweating as I try to figure out how I might remove my sons from the kitchen without shouting or manhandling them in front of Erica.

      ‘It doesn’t have any,’ Fergus sniggers.

      ‘Have you been groping it?’ Logan ribs him. ‘’Cause it wouldn’t say that unless there was a reason—’

      ‘What are you on about?’ Fergus retorts.

      ‘You must’ve assaulted it,’ his brother exclaims as the darn thing starts up again: Ich bin diabetika. He touched my breast. Ich bin—

      ‘Fergus,’ I bark, ‘please put that thing away. We don’t need it right now …’

      Logan rubs his upper lip where the faintest moustache is beginning to sprout. ‘We’ll never need it. It’s obsolete. What’s the point of a piece of crap like that when there’s Google Translate?’

      ‘Logan!’ I try to shoo him away with a fierce glare.

      ‘Well,’ Erica says dryly, ‘I suppose it has a certain retro appeal.’

      ‘What does non posso mangiare che mean?’ Fergus asks, mouth-breathing over the screen.

      ‘I’ve no idea,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t speak Italian.’

      Erica clears her throat. ‘It means “I can’t eat that.”’

      ‘Great line for a meringue company,’ Logan snorts. ‘Maybe that should be your slogan, Mum.’

      ‘You can’t speak German either,’ Fergus reminds me, ‘or Polish or Dutch …’ No, because, clearly, I am an imbecile. There are many cockroaches in my hotel room, the translator bleats. I require police assistance immediately. Help! Help! Where is the nearest unisex hair salon? Ich bin diabetika—

      ‘Type in “goodbye”,’ I snap. ‘Type in, “It’s been very nice to meet you, Erica, but now I am going to leave you both to get on with important things.”’

      I have been raped! the machine squawks, at which Logan honks with laughter.

      ‘Excuse me a second.’ Grabbing Fergus by his clammy hand, I march him out of the kitchen and into the living room where I hiss, ‘Stay here until she’s gone, okay? I’m trying to create a good impression and you’re really not helping.’

      He fixes me with a challenging stare. ‘It’ll be useful on holiday if I can fix it.’

      ‘You’re going to the Highlands with Dad, remember? As far as I’m aware, they speak the same language as us.’

      ‘I don’t mean for Easter,’ he calls after me as I leave the room. ‘I mean our summer holiday. Are we going anywhere this year?’

      ‘Haven’t decided yet.’

      ‘We never go abroad,’ he bleats. He’s right – but how far does he think we’ll get on the bit of fluff I have left in my purse at the end of each month?

      By the time I’m back in the kitchen, Logan has returned to his bedroom and Erica is clutching her brown leather briefcase in readiness for leaving. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if it would really be so terrible if the translator suffered an unfortunate accident, such as tumbling from our second-floor window and being run over by a car.

      ‘Well, Alice,’ Erica says coolly, ‘I’m pleased to tell you that your premises have passed.’

      It takes me a moment to process this. ‘You mean everything’s okay?’

      She nods. ‘Yes, you’re ready to go.’

      ‘Oh, that’s great! Thank you.’

      Her clear blue eyes skim the room, settling momentarily on the scrunched-up piece of kitchen roll which Logan deposited on the table. Then, just as she makes for the door, another small object catches her eye. She frowns, and I follow her gaze towards the cooker – or, more precisely, to the small, turd-like object that’s poking out from under it.

      It’s a bit of old sausage. Time seems to freeze as we stare at it. It hasn’t been there long, I want to explain. Or I could joke about cutting it open to date it, the way you can count the rings in a tree. But instinct tells me that Erica wouldn’t find that amusing so, mustering a brazen smile, I saunter towards it and send it scooting under the cooker with a sharp kick. Our eyes meet and she smirks. ‘Well, good luck with your meringues,’ she says. ‘I think it’s a great idea for a business. And I do hope your son manages to get his translator fixed.’

       Chapter Two

       Four months later

      It’s a cool, breezy afternoon as I leave Middlebank Primary where I work as the school secretary. Having texted the boys, who’ll head straight home from their nearby secondary school, I take a short detour via Betsy’s, a smart, airy cafe housed on the ground floor of a converted chapel. In recent years, there’s been an explosion of quaint tea shops here in Edinburgh. While there is no shortage of cupcake suppliers, meringues appear to have novelty appeal, which has proved good for business. Betsy’s is owned by an eager young couple who look like they’re barely out of college.

      ‘Just wondered how it’s been going this week,’ I tell Jenny, who offers СКАЧАТЬ