Page 11 of A Wish For Jo
'Just joking, Mum! Dad, there's no need to check my temperature, honestly. I'm fine. Absolutely fine.'
'It's not exactly seaside weather,' said her mum, peering out of the window. 'Wouldn't you rather stay cosy indoors? We could watch something together, or play cards. We've plenty of cake, and I can rustle up something with leftovers.'
Jo stood next to her mum at the window. Sure enough, a smattering of rain streaked its surface, and the sky suggested a heavier downpour on the horizon. But Scotland prided itself on chucking more than one season in per day — and the Scots prided themselves on getting on with it, regardless of Mother Nature.
'Aw, come on, Mum. If the worst comes to the worst, we can eat our fish and chips in the car with the windscreen wipers going full pelt. Just like the old days.'Swoosh, swoosh,they'd gone, hypnotic in their rhythm, as a young Jo chewed a malt vinegar-soaked chip and listened to her parents' good-natured bickering about why they'd ended up dining in their car on a rain-lashed summer's day.
'If that's what you want to do, that's what we'll do.' Her dad nodded at her mum, who nodded back. Two peas in a pod; occasionally rubbing each other up the wrong way, but united in the things that mattered.Mushy peas. Jo giggled at the double meaning.
'Right, waterproof jackets needed, then. Neil, go and turn Betty's engine over; she’s been playing up, and the last thing we need is for her to conk out en route. Jo, your hair could do with a brush, love. I'll just pop some lipstick on, and your dad could probably do with a shave.’
Neil rubbed his stubbly chin and got to his feet. 'Right, I'll crank up Betty and run my razor over this handsome face.'
Ten minutes later, they were on their way. Snuggled up in the back with a tartan throw over her legs, as Betty's heating was unpredictable, Jo savoured the moment. Her mum switched on the radio and the raspy voice of Rod Stewart singing 'Have I Told You Lately’ filled the car. Jo hummed along, happiness filling her from head to toe.
CHAPTER13
Joand her parents strode along the Victorian promenade, buffeted by the wind, yet exhilarated by the bracing sea air. The weather had cleared, a watery sun peeking out from behind the clouds.
'Shall we skim stones?' said her dad, with all the enthusiasm of a young boy released from the stuffy confines of a classroom.
'You're a bit long in the tooth for that nonsense, Neil,’ her mum said, good-naturedly.
'What do you mean?' her husband retorted. 'I'm barely a day over fifty, and all my teeth are my own.'
Jo linked arms with them both. Her dad's was solid and muscular, her mum's slender and surprisingly warm through her quilted jacket. She knew her dad was nearer sixty than fifty, but he was still as fit as a fiddle. At least, he was back then.
'Let's eat first; I’m absolutely starving,' said her mum. 'Besides, Jo and I will trounce you at stone-skimming.'
They stopped for a moment to look at the shingly beach. A few hardy souls were perched on plaid blankets. Armed with Thermos flasks and shielded by wind-breakers, they nibbled on home-made sandwiches and chatted.
'After all that breakfast you scoffed? Jo, I swear your mum's got a second stomach. Mind you, I'm peckish. There's something about the air here that stirs the appetite.'
Jo squeezed her dad's arm in agreement. Largs might not be big-city glamorous, but it wore a cloak of charm scented with salt, vinegar, and other smells that tickled the tastebuds. She hadn't been in years, too afraid to revisit the past. But now the past was the present: one special day to treasure for as long as she inhabited this earth. A gift that few received, unless they had a genie rattling round their home.
'Nardini's?' her dad asked, and raised an eyebrow.
‘Nardini’s,’ they replied in unison. 'Where else?'
* * *
'This is the life.'Jo's dad stretched out his long legs, nearly tripping a young waitress scuttling past with a laden tray. 'Sorry, love,' he said, drawing his legs back under the table.
'What are we all having?' Jo put down the menu. She'd decided on her choice before they'd set foot in the place: battered haddock, chips, mushy peas, and lashings of tartare sauce.
Another waitress appeared, notepad and pen at the ready. Are you ready to order?' she asked. 'We have scampi on the menu today, and our desserts include tiramisu and Black Forest gateau.'
Jo smiled inwardly. Such things were the epitome of sophistication back in the nineties, or possibly even earlier. Funny how the culinary world had evolved, with exotic ingredients now commonplace. Artichokes, avocados, quinoa and hummus, which Jo vaguely remembered her mum bringing home one day. Such excitement — although neither she nor Dad had been smitten by the taste.
'Haddock for me.' Jo reeled off her side-order requirements. Her mum opted for the same, while her dad dithered for a few seconds before settling on scampi. Drinks-wise, they each chose a shandy, then settled back in their chairs, eagerly anticipating the feast to come.
'This is nice,' declared her mum, scanning the Art Deco-style room. Babies squirmed in highchairs, their mothers spooning in indeterminate mush and attempting to shovel in their own cooling food between reluctant mouthfuls. Couples shared bowls of multi-hued ice cream, the intimacy of spoons being passed to and fro a painful reminder of Jo's single status. Not her current single status, of course. At eighteen, she'd never given a thought to being married or in a steady relationship. Boys had come and gone while Jo focused on her studies at Lanarkshire Catering School. Relatively new, it had given Jo the qualification she needed to pursue her passion for food, and eventually, run her own business.
'Aye, it is nice,' said her dad, taking a swig of his shandy. 'You can't beat a day by the seaside with two of the most gorgeous women on the planet.'
'You silver-tongued rascal,' chided her mum. 'Don't think I didn't spot you eyeing up that glamorous blonde in the corner when we came in.'
'What blonde?' replied her dad, sipping his shandy with casual indifference. 'Surely you don't mean that buxom creature over there?' He nodded towards a heavily made-up woman of around sixty, sharing a table with a younger man: perhaps her son or toy boy. No, definitely the latter, as she squeezed his knee in a most unmaternal manner. He gazed adoringly at her — or rather, her tanned, impressive cleavage.
