Page 169

“Jab, cross, slip.”

I jab, cross, slip.

“Ever thought about having any of your own?”

I nearly miss the pad. “What?”

“Weans. You and Briony ever talked about it?”

“Fuck’s sake, Davie. I only met her in May. Only been seeing her since July.”

“So?” He lowers the pads. “I’ve known you since you were fourteen, son, and I can read you like a book. You know she’s the one. I know she’s the one. Might be worth finding out if you both want the same things, eh?”

“Jab, cross, hook,” I say, bringing my hands up. But he doesn’t lift the pads. Just stands there, waiting.

Shite.

I drop my hands and sigh. “What would I know about being a dad?”

Davie snorts. “That’s your argument, is it?”

“I wouldnae say it was an argument so much as a question.”

“Fine. Then let me answer your question. I’ve seen you wi’ the weans here. And I’ve seen you wi’ Briony’s wee dug. Soft as anything round the thing. You’ve got what it takes, lad.”

“Christ, Davie. There’s a difference between a dug and a baby.”

“Aye, there is. But you learn what you need to know when you need to know it. You think I had any idea what I was doing when Niamh came along? None at all. But she’s turned out all right, hasn’t she? And you’ve no turned out so bad either. I’d like to think I played a small part in that.”

He pulls the pads off and tucks them under his arm. “Anyway, that’s me done talking about feelings till next year.” He pats my shoulder. “Go and stretch. You’re twenty-nine in a couple of months, son. Got to keep limber.”

Then he’s away across the gym towards a group of teenagers who’ve just come out of the changing rooms, barking at them to stop gabbing and get warmed up.

I’m left on the mats thinking, A small part? Well, that’s the understatement of the century.

Aye, I never had a dad, but I had Davie. Don’t know that I could have done much better.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should be finding out if me and Briony want the same things.

Fuck it. The stretching can wait. Suddenly, seeing Briony feels pretty urgent.

It’s barely gone four, and it’s already dark by the time I park on Rowanbank Street. The shop is lit up like a lantern.

She’s done the window, and it looks even better than the sketches did. Silver birch branches strung with tiny warm lights, big white trumpet-shaped flowers on tall stalks, red berries, moss, wee glass baubles hanging at different heights so they catch the light.

The bell goes when I open the door. There are winter plants on every surface and buckets of greenery by the door. Holly, I recognise. The rest, not a clue.

Briony’s at the counter with a customer, a red-flowered plant in a pot between them. Her curls are piled up in a messy bun with a strand of green tinsel wound round it.

“Keep your poinsettia somewhere bright, but out of any draughts,” she says. “And don’t drown it. Wait till the top of the soil feels dry. If you look after it, it should stay looking lovely well into the new year.”

Penny trots over to greet me. She’s in a red collar with a wee felt Brussels sprout dangling from it. I crouch down, and she’s all over me, licking the salt off my wrist like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.

“All right, Pen. Aye, it’s good to see you too.”

She doesn’t stop. I let her get on with it and give her a wee scratch under the chin.

The customer leaves with her new plant, and then it’s just the three of us.