by Heather Reid

“Have whatever you want, Mother. Treat’s on me.”

My eyes skimmed the expanse of the menu. The print

was rather smaller than I liked. If I’d been alone, I would have

slipped my glasses out of their wallet by now; if I’d been

alone, I wouldn’t have been in ‘Garland’s’...

“There’s certainly a lot of reading in this, isn’t there?”

Tom grunted assent. He didn’t lift his head from his

survey of the menu. I peered at the lank strands, straggling

from my son’s scalp. What did he see in that style? I still

remembered him with his neat cap of fair hair, inherited from

his father. Tom’s eyes rose to meet mine, ducking away too

quickly.

“Have you decided? The chicken’s usually good.”

I swerved my attention to the task in hand; I was spoilt

for choice.

Spoilt.

A good word for Tom, I know. But what would you do

if your only child was all you had left? And anyway, he

would find his feet financially,… eventually.

It was about time.

It occurred to me that I had better settle my mind on

the main courses, before irritation crept in. Squinting at the

middle of the page, I could just about focus on the choice

available. Humming an attempt at nonchalance, I debated

the chasseur of beef versus the loin of pork. It really was

extremely difficult to know which would be the less

disappointing. Experience informed me that, whichever one I

plumped for, would be the wrong one. Something from a

pre-prepared carton, anyway, I suspected.

“What do you think dear? You always know best.”

Gripping the menu, Tom exhaled noisily. “Have you

forgotten them again? Your glasses, I mean.”

“No, no, they’re in my bag, somewhere...it’s much

easier if you just do it for me. The chicken, you said, was it?”

The selection made, I watched Tom’s fingers as they

skliffed the table restlessly, preparing to smooth his way.

Some no man’s land was what we needed while we waited;

anything to keep me from assailing his position before he

was ready.

Too late.

“How is the office, Tom? Your father used to keep me

up to date regularly with all the news…is Sandra still working

for you? He so relied on her grasp of the filing system. You

know how difficult he found it to be bothered with that side

of things.”

“Why d’you need to know? You think I can’t handle it,

don’t you? You needn’t worry. I spent long enough in

Father’s company to make sure I was bored rigid by every

detail.”

“Tom…there’s no need to be so defensive. I’m just

showing an interest, darling.”

Too much, cover blown too easily.

Drinks arrived. As I sipped, Tom’s fixed expression staring

past me, I was glad I had come prepared to settle our

account. I eased my position on the banquette, my bones

protesting. If only easing my mind could be achieved as

effectively.

© Heather Reid (Crossford), November 2004

Heather Reid is a member of Clyde Valley Writers.