Page 171

It’s a perfect Saturday in July, and my parents’ back garden is in full bloom. Dad’s roses are out along the fence. We’ve strung bunting from the apple tree to the drainpipe, and a banner over the patio doors says Happy 2nd Birthday, Iris in glittery pink letters.

Everybody is here. Davie is on the bench beneath the apple tree with his wife, Stephanie. Emmy and Niamh have the swing seat, while Liam and Imran have planted themselves on a pair of deckchairs on the lawn. Innes is at the garden table with Dad and me, and Michelle has found herself a chair near the patio doors.

Ryan’s slice of cake sits on the table. He’s only managed a single bite of it so far. The moment Iris finished her own, she took him by the finger and led him off to play with her new car.

It’s a little red push-along thing with a yellow roof, and she thinks it’s the best present she has ever received. Iris sits at the wheel. My husband—six foot something of tattooed, broken-nosed fighter—is folded practically in half behind her, pushing her round the lawn.

“Right, where are we off to now?” I hear him ask, entirely serious. “The shops?”

“No.”

“The park, then?”

“No, Daddy. Gwanny’s.”

“We’re already at Granny’s.”

She considers this, then shrugs as if it’s his problem.

“Fair enough. Granny’s it is.”

She has his eyes, big and green and watchful. But the hair is all mine, a riot of strawberry-blonde curls that refuse to stay in any clip I put in them.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Dad slipping something under the table.

“Dad! Are you feeding Penny again?”

“Just a wee cocktail sausage. Last one, I promise.”

Penny licks her lips and gazes up at him appreciatively. She’s eleven now, but she hasn’t changed all that much over the years. She’s a little slower when she runs, and she sleeps more than she used to. Then again, she always did love her sleep.

“Mummy!” Iris bangs the steering wheel. “Look at me dwiving!”

“I see you! You’re very good at it.”

She waves at me. I wave back, my wedding and engagement rings catching the sun.

The car trundles towards the bench under the apple tree. Davie sets down his tea, leans forward, and holds up his palm at Iris’s height.

“Right, wee yin. Punch that. Hard as you can.”

Ryan stops the car. Iris looks at Davie’s hand for a moment, then she draws back her tiny fist and smacks it.

“Ooft. Strong arm on you.”

She hits it again.

“That’s it. You’re a natural.”

“Oh. A bit young, isn’t she, Davie?” Mum says. She’s smiling, but I know her well enough to recognise the concern behind it.

“Never too young,” Davie replies. Iris strikes his palm once more, and he winks at her.

But then, just like that, Iris loses interest in both the punching and her new car. She climbs out of it, spots the swing seat, and hurries over to it. Niamh scoops her up and sets her down between herself and Emmy.

Iris puts both hands flat on Emmy’s bump, which is enormous. “Baby!”

“That’s right,” Emmy says, laying her hand over Iris’s. “Baby’s in there.”