I nearly phoned to tell them, but Dad would have hmphed and hawed. 'The phone’s for important stuff. It’s no a bloody toy.' The receiver would clunk back onto the cradle to emphasize his point. Anyway, I wanted to see their faces. I perched on my train seat as fields of wheat, cow-dotted pastures, and small woods crept past. Where had all these nagging local station halts come from? I kept checking my watch. The train slowed even more as the line took us into the edges of the city, the countryside giving way to suburban bungalows with neat gardens that yielded, in turn, to high-rise blocks of flats. The diesel engine finally eased into Glasgow Queen Street and I got off, lost for a moment in the hurly-burly, then found a bus-shelter.
After an age, an old double-decker creaked into the station and I leapt on board. Twenty minutes and I would be home. At the second stop, an old wifie got into an argument with the bus-driver. Her change was five-pence short. I dug my fingernails into the seat in front. It was nineteen-ninety, for God’s sake. Was there not a more efficient way to run public transport? I checked my watch again, tapping to make sure it was still working. The driver gave in, and the woman stamped along the passageway, grimly triumphant. We took off, and at long last reached my destination. I jumped onto the pavement. My heart thumped.
Mom and Dad were in the living room, each in their usual chairs, basking in front of the electric fire. Only one element was glowing. 'D’ye think we’re made of money?' Dad said when I suggested the indulgence of both bars.
I had only been in the house five minutes but could not wait any longer. 'I’ve a bit of news,' I said.
'What’s that, son?' Mom said.
'I got my PhD. I’m officially a Doctor of Psychology.'
Dad rolled his eyes. 'You still at that kidology? Time you got a job. It’s no work unless you make something with your hands.' He held out his blunt, square-shaped fingers, criss-crossed with the scars of a lifetime as a welder.
'That’s nice,' Mom said. 'Does that mean they’ll put a wee brass plate on your door?'
'No, Mom.'
'Och well, never mind. Do you still get use out yon umbrella we got for your graduation present? It was only three years ago. There must be plenty life left in it.'
'Yes, Mom.'
'Well that’s all right then. I’ll go ben the kitchen and put the kettle on.'
I slumped down onto the couch, trying to hide my disappointment. Maybe in the grand scheme of things, it was not really a big deal after all.
'I’m away for my paper,' Dad said.
'I’ll come too,' I said. He put his jacket and bunnet on and I followed him out. He was a head shorter than me. Had I grown, or had he shrunk? But his shoulders were still twice the width of mine.
When we got to Jamesie’s Corner Shop, Dad went in first and nodded hello to the man behind the counter. He nodded back.
'How’s it going?' Jamesie said. 'Anything happening?'
'No,' Dad said, paying for his Mirror. 'Nothing to report from the front lines.' I bit my lip. He could at least have mentioned it.
Jamesie turned to me. 'What’s it you’re after, son?'
'I’d like a Times please.'
Jamesie glanced up at the clock on the back wall. 'You’re too early for the Times. It’s only half-past-ten.'
'But all the other papers are here,' I said, pointing at the racks in front of the counter.
'I know. Because it’s half-past-ten.' Jamesie raised his eyebrows at my Dad.
'What I mean is, if the others are here, why isn’t the Times?' I said.
Jamesie scratched his bald spot. 'Because it’s the middle of the morning.'
Dad shoved back the peak of his bunnet and stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, his head turning from me to Jamesie and back again, like a wee hardman watching an especially boring tennis game.
'That’s my point,' I said. 'It’s the middle of the morning.'
Jamesie was watching me cautiously. 'No. That was my point.'
'Don’t you stock it?'
'Of course I stock it.'
'The why isn’t it here?' I asked, pointing at the newspaper display.
'Because... '
'Don’t tell me. Because it’s half-past-ten?'
'Exactly,' Jamesie said, pleased to have finally won the match.
I turned to Dad, looking for help. He grunted. 'Jamesie, you’d better tell him why it’s no here.'
'Well.' Jamesie said. 'There’s a reason it’s called The Evening Times.'
I laughed. 'Oh no, no. I meant the London Times.'
'The what?' Jamesie said. 'Never heard of it.'
'But... '
Dad interrupted, 'We’d better get back or your mom’s tea will be stewed.' Jamesie was watching me, his brows creased in puzzlement. Dad jerked his thumb over his shoulder at me. 'Just ignore him. He’s all brains and no common sense.'
Jamesie placed his palms flat on the counter so he could lean over for a better look. 'That explains it,' he said.
But then Dad grinned up at me proudly. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and all those years of hard work, of putting food on the table and a roof over our heads, and the quiet words of encouragement when things seemed to me impossible, were reflected there. 'That’s my son, the doctor,' he said.
As we left the shop Dad patted me on the shoulder. It was all the celebration I needed.