Free Call Me Sister by Jane Yeadon

vacancy and smell of beeswax.
    A man, dwarfing Marion, appeared at her shoulder. They made a handsome couple, she with her fair good looks whilst he was tall and dark. ‘Ah! Sister.’ He glanced towards me, then added, ‘Or should I say, Sist ers , eh? Ha ha!’ He rubbed his hands in a jovial fashion but his smile didn’t reach his eyes and I sensed we weren’t welcome.
    Sister Shiach wasn’t fazed. ‘I’ve got an extra pair of hands just now so I thought I’d introduce you to Sister Macpherson. She’s a modern miss – believes dads should have a hand in baby care.’
    I nodded my head vigorously. ‘It must double the pleasure whilst halving the work.’
    ‘Ha ha! Halving work, eh? I could do with more than a half hand myself, and that’s just for work. Dads helping? Crikey! Not always easy when you’re already a working man, and self-employed at that.’
    She might have the delicate look of a Christmas fairy but there was a note of steel in Marion’s voice as, bending down to pick a thread off the carpet, she said, ‘Well, but I do help you, Neil. Who keeps the house as well as doing your typing?’
    Ignoring this, Mr Ogg bared his teeth and looked at his watch. ‘Time’s the thing, eh, Sister? Look at me. Already I’ve given up some of the valuable stuff just to meet up with you.’
    Immune to his piercing blue eyes and chiselled jaw, Sister Shiach was forceful. ‘Well, you’re just lucky we ’ve the time. Now I’d like a wee word with your wife. Sister here,’ she said, nodding towards me, ‘is going to help build up your confidence handling Andrew. He’s old enough to cope with you bathing him now.’ Taking Marion’s arm, she steered her away from us. ‘You go on, Neil. Take Sister Macpherson to see your son. I know you’re both going to enjoy the training session.’
    He threw his hands open and sighed in exasperation. ‘Oh well, if you insist. But I hope this isn’t going to take long.’ Opening the previously closed door he waved me into the room as if he were a traffic policeman.

10
A FATHER’S ROLE
    We were in a nursery with a military-looking Donald Duck marching across one of its lemon walls.
    â€˜Who’s the artist?’ I asked, wondering if I should step on or around the natural-coloured shag pile rug beside Andrew’s cot. I looked down at the baby and saw an identical version of that boy in the Boots picture, except this one was asleep and had no tears.
    â€˜Marion. She knitted that too.’ Mr Ogg nodded at a white and lemon crocheted cot blanket covering the baby. His laugh was bitter. ‘She did it before he was born. Kept her options open as to the sex, but not for the fact it mightn’t be normal.’
    Usually mothers were shown how to bath their baby, either at their ante-natal classes or in the post-natal wards. Very few Sixties dads were offered the chance to get this experience and child rearing, in Dingwall at least, was still considered women’s prerogative. Judging by his combative stance, Mr Ogg saw no reason to change the status quo.
    Still, he was a captive audience and I couldn’t have asked for a better-equipped place to give a demonstration. There was even a sink in the room. Next to it was a stand, holding a baby basin with enough towels and talcum powder in it to start a chemist’s shop.
    â€˜Right,’ I said, readying for work, ‘let’s waken our wee pal and see what he’s to say for himself.’
    Folding his arms and leaning against the door, Mr Ogg watched as I stroked Andrew’s face and spoke to him, ‘Morning, Wee Andrew. We’ve a special treat for you today. Your daddy’s going to bath you. You’ll need to be patient with him, mind. He’s not very experienced.’
    â€˜I don’t know why you’re talking to him. You’ll not get any response.’ Mr Ogg spoke irritably.
    â€˜Oh, I dunno. Look.’ I lifted Andrew out, and rubbing my cheek against his,