by Ross Sayers
Siobhan scribbles fur a while efter ah’ve stopped. She hus a content wee smile on her face. Ma hawns urr shakin, and ah’ve got this feelin that if ah tried tae stand up right noo, ma legs widnae support me and ah’d land flat on ma face. Ah suppose this is whit it feels lit when ye’re open wi somebdy. Comin oot ma shell, exposin ma soft belly, hopin Siobhan’s no gonnae splat me. People need shells, but they need people as well.
‘I know this is going to sound cliché,’ Siobhan says. ‘But this is really good progress. Even if it’s just opening up a little bit at a time. We’re on a journey here, you and me, Daisy. One that’s never really going to end, even when our sessions do. You’re never finished becoming the person you are. No one is ever complete, not even me. It means we always have something to strive towards. You’re complete when you’re dead. Until then, you’ve got time.’
‘D’ye no feel a lot ae pressure?’ ah ask. ‘Lit, it’s yer job. Tae stop folk fae wantin tae be dead. Tae keep folk alive.’
The smile which appears on her face isnae wan ah’ve seen afore.
‘That’s not my job, I’m afraid,’ Siobhan says. ‘I can hopefully help people better understand what they’re feeling, and why they’re feeling it. Maybe make people be kinder to themselves, if I’m lucky. But keeping you alive? Nope, that’s on you, Daisy.’
She suddenly checks her watch.
‘Aw, sorry,’ ah say. ‘Huv ye another person due?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I’d love to keep chatting, but, based on what you’ve said there, don’t you have somewhere to be?’
59
Lingerin at the back wis niver suhin ah wis gid at. Nae matter how many times ah’d tell masel: jist keep quiet, be the strong and silent type, it niver did work. Ah cannae help but talk and talk and afore ah know it, attention’s on me again. But mibbe ah can change that. Cause Daisy didnae turn up tae Steven’s funeral. She went on a date wi a random laddie called Robert, who wis very tall but didnae agree that Shrek 2 wis the pinnacle ae fulm-makin in the last century. Daisy didnae go so that means ah cannae go either, in case it messes everyhin up.
So insteid ae bein able tae go and stand by ma mum’s side, stand by Steven’s casket, ah’m stood as far away as ah can get. Right on the edge ae the cemetery, whaur the grass meets the trees and the groond underfit is so hard a bolt ae lightnin couldnae break through.
Fae here, the folk urr jist shapes. The huddle ae bodies makes it hard tae see exactly whit’s goin on. The claithes urnae uniformly black, though, a few folk darin tae try and bring a bit ae colour tae the occasion. The sound ae cars fae the main road swooshes through the hedges. Ma mum’s cryin and ah can hear that above everyhin else. Her face appears fur a minute, in between the shooders ae the taller folk, until she buries it in the jaiket ae Mrs Casey.
Ah want tae run tae her, tae apologise, tae try and explain. But fur noo, ah jist stand on ma ain and watch.
When ah’m sure the very last mourner’s driven oot the gates, ah walk across the wide expanse ae grass tae the rows ae heidstaines and dotted floo’rs.
The dirt on Steven’s grave is fresh and so urr the bouquets which dress the heidstaine.
In loving memory of
Steven Andrew McDaid
Beloved partner and brother, dearly missed.
29.12.1968 – 15.12.2017
Did he ever tell me he hud a brother? Ah knew he didnae huv kids ae his ain, but the rest ae his family… Did ah ever ask? Ah’ve niver been able tae decide whether ah wid’ve wanted siblings or no. Iways seemed tae me that they’d only bring mair hassle and drama. Me and Mum hud enough between us.
Ah huv a swatch aroond. Thur’s folk dotted here and there, but thur visitin other folk. Naebdy gies me a second look as ah stand ower Steven’s plot.
‘Hiya, Steven,’ ah say, ma view briefly obscured by ma breath, made real by the cauld. ‘It’s me. Rose. Surprise. Bet ye didnae see that yin comin.’
Again, ah check the surroundin area tae make sure naebdy’s listenin in tae me makin a tit ae masel.
‘Ah feel a bit ae a tube daein this, but here we urr. Ah’m sorry. Ah suppose ah shid be mair specific aboot that sorry, probably got a lot tae apologise fur. Ah’m sorry ah niver gave ye a chance. Ah’m sorry fur the way ah wis. Ah didnae get tae know ye as well as ah shid’ve. Who knows, the way hings huv been goin lately, mibbe ah’ll get the chance someday.’
It’s funny, the hings ye’ll say tae a heidstaine but ye willnae say tae a counsellor. Or jist tae yersel when thur’s naebdy else aroond.
‘Ye know, that night, when ah ran doon tae the subway and this aw started? Ah hud this thought in ma heid. That… ah wis drunk, ye know, so… it widnae huv been ma fault. Folk urr iways fallin on tae the tracks. Ah wis trippin aw ower the place that night, everybody could see that. Ah wis steamin. Wan wrong step and that wid’ve been me. On the tracks. Ah wid’ve found oot if the tracks urr hot or cauld. It wid’ve been an accident. Everybody wid’ve thought it wis an accident. Naebdy could’ve proven otherwise. But… that widnae huv been the end ae it. Mibbe fur me. But no fur Mum, and Frances and Sam. Ah once met a lassie that left her life behind. Left everybody wonderin whaur she went. It’s the folk ye leave behind. That’s why ye stay. Ye stay fur them until ye learn tae stay fur yersel.’
Ah wipe the tears fae ma cheeks wi ma sleeves.
‘Anyway, thanks fur listenin. You wur wan ae the gid guys. And ye loved ma mum, so that makes ye awright by me. Rest easy there, mate.’
Ah place doon the purple and white floo’rs ah got fae the Tesco Metro in amongst the rest. A gentle breeze whips across ma face. If ah can believe in time travel, then mibbe ah can believe the deid can send messages through the wind. Or mibbe ah’m properly startin tae lose it.
‘The Clan won at the weekend, by the way,’ ah say. ‘Shame ye missed it.’
Ah walk through the heidstaines, in various states ae decay, diggin ma heels in tae crack the frozen groond and no lose grip. These shoes urnae practical fur a cemetery. And thur no the exact same as ah wore on ma date wi Robert, but ah don’t hink anyone at the pub’ll notice. The next stop on the Daisy Douglas apology tour.
60
The odd car rolls along the road ootside the pub. The East Kilbride Christmas lights dangle and rattle in the wind above ma heid. A cat, thick wi its winter coat, pads its way across the road then disappears intae a bush wi a rustle.
Ah stand across the road, leant against the painted windae ae the One O One offie, and look on at the mourners scurryin in and oot ae the pub. They move fast, scared in case the cauld gets intae thur bones and invites the winter bug that’s goin roond wi it.
A taxi arrives and Daisy and Robert hop oot. The glaikit look on Robert’s face makes me smile. He checks his reflection in the taxi windae jist afore it takes aff, and he seems tae be happy wi whit he finds there. Daisy disnae check her face, cause she’s fairly sure she’s lookin lit a stone cauld stunner the day.
‘Ye shid appreciate that face,’ ah whisper. ‘While ye’ve still got it.’
A while later, when ma fing’rs huv jist aboot lost aw feelin, Robert comes back oot. His face is trippin him. He looks left and right in vain fur a taxi then pits his hawns in his pockets and starts walkin wi purpose, in the wrong direction if he’s lookin fur a taxi. Ah watch him turn a corner and disappear. It’s funny who ye get tae see fur the last time, twice.
Ten minutes later, Daisy leaves the pub. Ah hide in the shadow ae the big tree ootside the Village Steakhouse tae make sure she disnae happen tae see me.
She finishes the rest ae her drink and talks tae a woman and looks even mair smug than ah could ever huv imagined masel lookin. Ah check ma phone. It’s nearly time. When ah look back up, Daisy’s on her ain. She flags a taxi and leaves, so ah cross the road.
Mrs Casey’s the first tae notice me, as she comes back oot the toilets.
‘Ye’ve got some nerve comin
back in here efter that,’ Mrs Casey says. ‘Yer mother’s cryin her eyes oot in that toilet and it’s aw your fault. And ye’ve changed yer shoes.’
Mrs Casey disnae miss a trick.
‘Ah know,’ ah say, ‘ah jist need…’
In the corner, Steven’s pals urr finishin up, pittin on thur coats and shakin hawns and makin heid gestures that mean that’s me away up the road. The barman sees me.
‘Here, you,’ he says, ‘ah thought ah telt—’
Ah run tae the space at the windae fur ma encore.
‘Excuse me,’ ah say. ‘Excuse me, folks, ah jist need tae say wan mair hing.’
A big hulk ae a guy, his scarf lit a bit ae string roond his neck, shouts for aw tae hear.
‘Listen, lassie, ye need tae shut yer mooth and leave.’
‘Ah know, trust me, ah wish ah wisnae up here tae. But ah jist need ye tae know… Steven wis a gid guy. Ah used tae hink thur wis nae such hing as gid guys and bad guys. And mibbe that’s still true fur the maist part, but… Steven wis a gid guy.
‘Whit ah said afore, it wis true. At first, ah didnae hink he wis gid enough fur ma mum. Ah thought he wis… well, ah niver even cared whit he wis.’
A few folk make fur the door.
‘But ah wis wrong. Ah wish ah could say mair aboot him, but ah niver took the chance. Ah’m sure thur’s folk in the room that could tell me stories aboot him. But ah did get tae know him a wee bit. Ah know that he loved the hockey.’
This raises a few smiles in the pub. Thur wis a purple and white Clan scarf draped ower the heidstaine.
‘And ah know he telt shite jokes. Ah know he hud a gid heart and he’d go oot ae his way fur his pals, and even folk he didnae know. And maist importantly, ah know he loved ma mum.’
She’s come back oot the toilet and watches me, the tears briefly paused in her eyes.
‘And ah hink, as well as bein a gid guy, that made him a really smart guy.’
Her mooth scrunches up and ah’m no sure if she’s gonnae punch me or strangle me once this is ower.
‘So ah know ah don’t deserve tae make a toast tae him, that’s no really ma place, and yer drinks urr empty noo anyway. But ah’m sorry fur whit ah said earlier. And ah’m sorry ah niver said mair tae Steven. Ah hink we could’ve been pals. And, eh, ah hink that’s jist aboot me done.’
Ah look aroond the pub and try and make eye contact wi folk. Some avoid it. Thur’s certainly nae love in the air but thur’s less hatred, which is suhin.
‘And mine’s is the next roond,’ ah say. ‘So everybody order whitever ye want.’
Some tension leaves the room. Jaikets urr slipped back aff. Ah’ll be lucky tae huv any ae ma Liverpool winnins left efter this.
61
Ah could really go a drink right noo but ah’ll gie it a minute in case it ruins the effect ae the speech. A couple ae folk come up and gie ma a wee pat on the shooder and thank me fur thur pint but nae huge signs ae affection, which is aboot the best ah could’ve hoped fur.
Ah slowly pace through the pub towards Mum.
‘Urr ye comin?’ Mrs Casey says tae her. ‘Jim’s jist gettin the car.’
‘Ah’ll be oot in a minute,’ Mum replies.
Mrs Casey leaves and Mum stays. Some ae the tables whaur Steven’s pals wur sat urr empty noo, and thur’s a few seconds afore the groups that wur crowded at the bar seep oot and get a well-earned seat. Bags and jaikets get dumped and thrown across chairs tae bagsy places fur the rest ae the day and night.
‘Did ye mean aw that?’ Mum asks.
Her lips quiver and she raises a hawn tae her mooth as if tae haud them still.
‘Aye,’ ah say. ‘Look, ah niver telt ye this, but me and Steven… we went tae a hockey game thigether recently.’
‘Whit? Why?’
‘Well. Fur… fun ah suppose. We wur gonnae tell ye, but we wanted it tae be a surprise. We jist wanted tae make sure we wur on gid terms afore… we wanted tae be a family. Ah’m sorry we niver got the chance.’
Ah iways hear the term “glassy eyed” but ah’ve niver really understood it afore noo. Mum’s eyes shimmer and it looks lit the lightest tap wid shatter them tae a million bits.
‘Widnae ae mattered anyway,’ she says. ‘Daisy, naebdy knows this, right, so don’t you dare tell a soul.’
‘Ah swear.’
‘Steven didnae die last Saturday night. He died the night afore, on Friday. Ah got called tae the hospital cause he’d hud a heart attack. The paramedics said…’
She raises her hankie tae her mooth. Two tears race each other doon her cheeks.
‘They said he’d been wi some young lassie. It must’ve been the same lassie ah found him textin. Some lassie called Rose. She ran aff when the ambulance arrived. Steven hud telt me he jist needed tae go back tae work, he’d forgotten suhin. Then we wur meant tae go tae yer flat tae surprise ye wi lunch. But, naw. He wis wi some twenty-year auld.’
The tears come quicker, thicker and faster, and a stream threatens tae leak oot her nose.
‘Ah cannae believe it happened again,’ she goes on. ‘Ah mean, how stupit can ye be? He wis laughin at me. He disnae deserve any those words ye said. God, ah’m such a joke.’
Ah take her intae ma arms and let her wail intae ma jaiket. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas plays in the pub, the original Meet Me in St. Louis version wi the sad lyrics. Ah guide Mum intae the alcove afore the toilets.
‘Mum,’ ah say. ‘Listen tae me. Steven wisnae cheatin on ye.’
‘Oh aye ah’m sure he wisnae.’
‘He wisnae, Mum, look at me.’
We lock eyes. The pain in hers shoots in red, bloodshot lines tae aw corners.
‘That lassie he wis wi? She wis… a friend ae mine.’
Her eyebrows crease in confusion and a hint ae anger.
‘A friend?’
‘Ah met her at uni. She’s no fae aroond here, ye widnae know her. She wis… huvin money problems. Ah mentioned her tae Steven and he insisted he wanted tae help.’
‘Steven gave her money? How much money?’
‘Lit, a few hundred quid or suhin. She needed enough tae get the train back hame. Her da’s sick.’
Ah practised these lies ower and ower again in ma heid ootside the pub and ah jist hope ah’m a better actress than a daughter.
‘Naw, naw,’ she says. ‘Steven wid’ve telt me. We telt each other everyhin. He widnae take oor money lit that.’
‘Ah asked him no tae, Mum. Ah knew it wis a lot ae money and ah wis gonnae pay him back and ah jist thought ye’d be angry at me. It wis the first time ah’d properly spoken tae him and it wis tae ask fur help, ah wis embarrassed. Ah’m sorry. It’s me ye shid be angry at, no Steven. He wisnae sleepin wi anybody else. He loved you, Mum. He loved ye mair than ye know.’
Mum’s eyes huv dropped tae the flair and a few tears follow but it’s too dark tae see the marks they make. Ah rehearsed whit ah wis gonnae say and that’s me said it aw noo. But thur’s still wan mair hing she deserves tae know.
‘Ma pal, Rose,’ ah say, ‘she’s back hame noo, but she telt me. Afore the paramedics arrived. Steven said… said tae tell ye…’
Ah swallow.
‘He said tell Annie ah love her.’
Christmas lights blink green and yella and pink and blue aroond us. Judy Garland’s voice trembles through the speakers. Folk aw aboot us laugh and chat and scream wi the delight ae makin it through another year. Drinks urr poured and drunk and spilt and poured again. Auld friends and new friends shake hawns and get in each other’s roonds. A merry type ae feelin warms the pub and makes everybody take thur layers aff and haud close tae them the wans they care aboot the maist.
And ah hug ma mum tighter than ah’ve ever done afore. She cries intae ma shooder and we might be stood here til Hogmanay and that’s awright wi me.
62
The Cowcaddens underpass isnae somewhaur ah’d choose tae spend a lot a time. Even in the daylight it’s somewhaur tae race through and get tae the other side afore any shadowy hawns get a hawnful ae yer claithes. In the dark, it’s the kind ae place that stragglers and folk doon on thur luck end up. Folk lit me, as it happens.
Ah stand haufway up the path, on the opposite hill fae whaur Daisy’s due tae go heid ower heels. Ah crack open ma can ae Jack Daniels and coke and take a sip. It’s Christmas efter aw, and it’s no lit ah didnae huv time tae kill between the purvey and original me leavin Jacksons. It’s jist wan drink. It’s jist the wan. It’s no lit Siobhan’s gonnae see me.
A pair ae fitsteps approach. It’s no Daisy. A guy appears at the top ae the opposite slope, his feet seemingly comin doon at random as he descends. His suit jaiket is slung ower his shooder and he laughs tae himsel.
Then he spots me.
‘Hiya,’ he says, wavin a hawn.
‘Evenin,’ ah say, takin a step back, ready tae run.
‘D’ye know whit way the subway is?’ he asks.
He drops his jaiket then stumbles tryin tae pick it up and hits the deck. It’s a popular spot fur it.
‘Ye awright there pal?’ ah ask.
‘Ah’m graaaand,’ he says, raisin himsel tae his feet, a slight scrape on his cheek. ‘Jist need ma scratcher. Subway?’
Ah consider giein him wrong directions but it seems cruel. This guy disnae seem lit he could get in Daisy’s way and ah’ve still got time in case ah need tae get rid ae him.
‘Through the underpass and on the left,’ ah say. ‘Ye sure ye’re awright?’
He manages a thumbs up and disappears intae the yella light ae the tunnel.