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 havegrew somemore!’
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’reaff 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?’
