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I stand like an idiot. Does he have to make it this hard?
‘And how in the hell did you work that one out? Because I’m telling you, I dinnae have no son.’
‘You donated sperm to my mum, in Sheffield. As in her friend Karen set it up?’ I pull out the envelope from my pocket. ‘You must remember, you like wrote stuff down for me, I’ve got your photo.’ Suppose I’m wrong after all?
He rubs his hand across his screwed-up forehead then butts it with his fist.
‘Karen, Karen.’ He keeps on beating. ‘Big Friendly Dyke, receptionist at Highcliffe’s. Karen.’
‘You do remember.’ I hand him the envelope.
He pulls out the paper with the photo clipped to it. He purses his lips as he scans it, then looks me up and down again.
‘How old are you?’ he asks.
‘Allegedly you agreed I could have it when I was eighteen, which was…. about a week ago? Seems a hell of a lot longer, though. I’ve had a few adventures getting here, I can tell you,’ I can’t stop rambling.
‘And you thought I’d be hailing my long-lost son?’
‘It’s just I wanted to see you, pretty much.’
‘Like I said, I’m no’ much to look at. Whatever you want from me is no’ about to happen.’ He starts to close the door.
‘Wait!’ I put my foot on the step. ‘You think I’m like after a dad at my age? It’s just natural to be curious, isn’t it? Is it such a big deal to talk to me now I’ve come all this way?’ My voice rises with my righteousness.
He pulls his eyebrows into a frown. I have those same straight heavy eyebrows. Can’t he see that?
‘You’ve no’ told me what they call you.’
‘Gethin.’
He scratches his chin.
I’m literally not daring to breathe. He nods his head slowly
‘Well Gethin, I hope you like kippers?’
Don pulls back the curtains and the light falls on his living space. It’s dead neat and orderly, which does surprise me. There’s a sweet little wood stove with a kettle on the top plate, and like a Formica topped table with a tartan tray holding random bits of metal and one of those car pennants with the Scottish flag on a wire stand. He waves me to sit on the narrow bench behind the table, pulls up an old chair without its back and opens the woodstove.
‘I’ll get this lit, then we’ll have tea and a dram?’
‘That’ll be awesome.’
He starts packing the stove with wood and rolled up paper. His moves are slow and precise, like it’s important exactly where each piece of wood sits. I look over at the built-in shelf unit with engine parts lined up where the teacups should be. There’s a couple of oil lamps at either end, and a dinky little bed under the window. Everything has its place, and it’s all scrubbed clean. You wouldn’t think he’d be the house-proud type. Obviously, it’s not genetic.
‘You’ve got it all ship-shape in here,’ I feel the need to say something, even though I would be happy just to sit and absorb who he is.
He takes some long matches, carefully lights the paper and pushes the stove door to. Then he puts the matches away and centres the kettle on the stovetop, before pulling his stool round to face me.
‘Aye, it’s pure a ship’s cabin. When you’ve no’ much room you need everything neat.’ He gets up and unpacks his panniers. There’s a packet wrapped in waxed paper, a pint of milk, a bag of potatoes and a loaf of sliced white. He puts it all away in the built-in cupboards, one of them a tiny fridge. He holds the packet up to his nose. ‘Wood smoked kippers from down the road. We’ll have them in a wee while.’
‘Thanks, I do genuinely…I mean, I should have written or something…?’ I start.
He waves me to stop. ‘You may as well eat now you’re here. I don’t get many visitors, so you’ll excuse the lack of airs and graces.’
‘I’m just interested in who you are, that’s all.’
‘Dinnae be getting ideas over a plate of kippers,’ he growls. He gets all Rab C when he’s riled. Otherwise his accent is lilty and clear.
