crept through, like this girl. Some teenage New Zealander selling millions, imagine that happening before the internet. She had a whole lifetime of making music ahead of her, a career Logan would never see.
Ellie turned off at Sheriffhall and up Old Dalkeith Road as the new Rihanna tune came on. She was so glad Logan was never into her, at least not that he admitted to. Ellie was all for female empowerment and women should be allowed to do whatever the hell they want, but dancing naked for the titillation of others wasn’t her idea of empowerment. Maybe Logan secretly wanked off thinking of Rihanna writhing around, but Ellie hoped not. She didn’t mind the idea of him wanking. She knew other mums would have wrinkled their noses up at the thought, but it was a natural thing for a teenage boy to be doing, it meant he was developing a normal sex drive. She was more worried about what went on in his head. She hadn’t cared one way or the other whether Logan was gay, straight, bi, whatever, the key thing was respect. Show other people respect, and hope that it comes back your way. But it was so hard to teach boys about respect. Women were depicted everywhere as objects or sluts, often by other women, so how do you get through to your son that girls and women were equal in every way? How did you make a boy emotionally literate? It was all a million miles from her strident feminism of the eighties as a young woman.
But having Ben as a dad had helped, a good male role model made all the difference. Ellie saw the reverse in the playground, then later with some of Logan’s friends. Their dads spouted the usual sexist drivel, jokes and slights, unintentional or otherwise, and the boys mimicked them. She was proud to see Logan squirm at some of the comments of his mates. She would’ve been prouder still if he’d spoken out against them but that was asking a lot of a fifteen-year-old boy, drowning in peer pressure, the emotional chaos of hormones and all the rest. She was confident he would grow into a good man.
‘Would’ve’, she corrected herself, not ‘would’.
So much for the radio drowning out her thoughts.
She turned into the ERI’s car park and struggled to find a space. This was where Jack had been brought, and she presumed Sam had come to see him. What was he thinking, coming here after what he’d done?
She strode to reception and gave Jack’s name. The man behind the desk was almost pension age, thick hands, heavy eyebrows and a tremor in his neck that made his head judder. His nametag said George.
‘Are you a relative?’ he said.
Ellie nodded. ‘Sister.’
That seemed to be all he needed.
George punched his stubby fingers at the keys, squinted at the screen.
‘Your brother’s in Ward 107, G.I. general surgery.’
‘G.I.?’
‘Gastro-intestinal.’
‘He’s not in intensive care?’
‘No.’
That meant it wasn’t too serious, he was going to be fine. He would survive and get out of hospital. Then what?
‘Which way?’ Ellie said.
George looked at his watch. ‘You’re a bit early for morning visiting.’
‘Which way?’
George pointed at the floor. There were a dozen different coloured lines painted on it, heading in different directions.
‘Follow the yellow line to the lift, then up one and look for the signs.’
‘Thanks.’
George called after her. ‘They might not let you see him, depends what mood the ward sister is in.’
Follow the yellow brick road, thought Ellie, as she ducked along corridors and round corners. Eventually she found the lift and went up. Came out and followed the signs. By the time she got to Ward 107 she’d lost her bearings completely, had no idea where she was.
She went through the double doors and was spotted by three nurses chatting around the reception desk.
‘I’m here to see Jack McKenna,’ she said.
‘You’re early,’ said the nearest nurse, Gibbs on her breast badge. Judging by her uniform, she was in charge.
‘Just a few
Ellie turned off at Sheriffhall and up Old Dalkeith Road as the new Rihanna tune came on. She was so glad Logan was never into her, at least not that he admitted to. Ellie was all for female empowerment and women should be allowed to do whatever the hell they want, but dancing naked for the titillation of others wasn’t her idea of empowerment. Maybe Logan secretly wanked off thinking of Rihanna writhing around, but Ellie hoped not. She didn’t mind the idea of him wanking. She knew other mums would have wrinkled their noses up at the thought, but it was a natural thing for a teenage boy to be doing, it meant he was developing a normal sex drive. She was more worried about what went on in his head. She hadn’t cared one way or the other whether Logan was gay, straight, bi, whatever, the key thing was respect. Show other people respect, and hope that it comes back your way. But it was so hard to teach boys about respect. Women were depicted everywhere as objects or sluts, often by other women, so how do you get through to your son that girls and women were equal in every way? How did you make a boy emotionally literate? It was all a million miles from her strident feminism of the eighties as a young woman.
But having Ben as a dad had helped, a good male role model made all the difference. Ellie saw the reverse in the playground, then later with some of Logan’s friends. Their dads spouted the usual sexist drivel, jokes and slights, unintentional or otherwise, and the boys mimicked them. She was proud to see Logan squirm at some of the comments of his mates. She would’ve been prouder still if he’d spoken out against them but that was asking a lot of a fifteen-year-old boy, drowning in peer pressure, the emotional chaos of hormones and all the rest. She was confident he would grow into a good man.
‘Would’ve’, she corrected herself, not ‘would’.
So much for the radio drowning out her thoughts.
She turned into the ERI’s car park and struggled to find a space. This was where Jack had been brought, and she presumed Sam had come to see him. What was he thinking, coming here after what he’d done?
She strode to reception and gave Jack’s name. The man behind the desk was almost pension age, thick hands, heavy eyebrows and a tremor in his neck that made his head judder. His nametag said George.
‘Are you a relative?’ he said.
Ellie nodded. ‘Sister.’
That seemed to be all he needed.
George punched his stubby fingers at the keys, squinted at the screen.
‘Your brother’s in Ward 107, G.I. general surgery.’
‘G.I.?’
‘Gastro-intestinal.’
‘He’s not in intensive care?’
‘No.’
That meant it wasn’t too serious, he was going to be fine. He would survive and get out of hospital. Then what?
‘Which way?’ Ellie said.
George looked at his watch. ‘You’re a bit early for morning visiting.’
‘Which way?’
George pointed at the floor. There were a dozen different coloured lines painted on it, heading in different directions.
‘Follow the yellow line to the lift, then up one and look for the signs.’
‘Thanks.’
George called after her. ‘They might not let you see him, depends what mood the ward sister is in.’
Follow the yellow brick road, thought Ellie, as she ducked along corridors and round corners. Eventually she found the lift and went up. Came out and followed the signs. By the time she got to Ward 107 she’d lost her bearings completely, had no idea where she was.
She went through the double doors and was spotted by three nurses chatting around the reception desk.
‘I’m here to see Jack McKenna,’ she said.
‘You’re early,’ said the nearest nurse, Gibbs on her breast badge. Judging by her uniform, she was in charge.
‘Just a few
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