by Ross Raisin
Waterline
Ross Raisin
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgements
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .
About the Author
About the Book
Read On
U.K. Praise for Waterline
Also by Ross Raisin
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
One here, a soft fog of flowers painted on the front.
There’s plenty more like that, plus as well the wild flower kinds. Meadows. Bustling hedgerows. A woodland clearing mobbed with bluebells. Hard to imagine there’s this many types of card in the supermarket. A churchyard, quiet and peaceful with brown leaves blowing about. A teddy bear. And another here that’s for some reason a cat gazing out the window at a sea view.
It’s Robbie that wanted to put the cards up. He wasn’t much wanting to do it himself, but Robbie had dug the heels in. What else are you going to do with them? Stick them in a drawer? Leave them lying on the counter with the funeral programmes and the electric bills? So now the pair of them are in the corridor, fixing them up to the red ribbon that Robbie’s fished out from the Christmas cardboard box. The light dimming in the front door. Dull laughter from the living room, where the rest of them are sat watching the television.
‘You know all these people, Da?’
‘No really, being honest. There were some the day even, I don’t know who they were. A few would’ve been from the department store. And then the family, course.’ He nods at the living room wall. ‘I preferred no to ask.’
Robbie is reading inside a card. ‘They could’ve introduced themselves,’ he says, closing the card and pegging it with a red plastic Christmas tree. It’s normally the wife does this, getting up the greetings cards. This same red ribbon drooping off the pictures about the living room; pinned-up spruce as launch bunting around a ship, dutifully awaiting the chop from whichever of the wee begrudging women of the royalty have been sent up.
There’s going to be too many cards will fit in the lobby and corridor. Robbie asks will they get up the rest in the living room when Alan and Lynn are away to their bed. No, he tells him. He isn’t having these cards all about the room when Robbie and Craig are sleeping in there. No that it makes a great deal of sense but. When everything else in the room is some kind of reminder. Fact is, if you start taking down all the things in the place that are fingered with memories, then that’s the whole house emptied.
Dear Mick,
Words don’t say enough. If there’s anything we can do, please let us know. All our thoughts are with you the now.
Love from Derek and Jean and all the family
One thing you can be sure, it’s the women that have written them. Nay chance any of this coming from the husbands. All our thoughts are with you the now. No that it should be but, no that it should be. It was the same story earlier: the women all hats and hands and kind words while the husbands stood in beside them, cloyed up. He would’ve been the same but. No denying it. Silent, listening politely while Cathy said everything that was needed. These were men like him, guys he’d worked with, easier with steel sparks showering on top their head and their mate pattering bullshit in their ear. You can’t blame them. As natural to them, a funeral, as redundancy. And the response aye the same: straight to the bar, boys.
‘I was talking to Claire,’ Robbie says. ‘You know, was with Maw at the store?’
‘I mind her, aye.’
‘She was saying how bad they all took it when they heard. Says the place hasn’t been the same the last year.’ He looks round at the living room door and says in a quieter voice, ‘She couldn’t understand Lynn’s stupid finger food either. Serious, what was all that about?’
‘I missed out on it.’ He takes a peg from the box and looks up at Robbie. ‘They’re trying to help, Rob, that’s all.’
‘Come off it, Da. Mozzarella fucking parcels? In the Empress? Fuck off. There was a whole black bag left afterwards at their end of the table.’
True enough. He’d actually watched Desmond clearing it out afterwards, when everyone had went. A quick sniff and a nibble of Lynn’s various parcels, weighing up the resale possibilities, before dumping them in the bag.
Mick had kept himself in with the main group, huckled together at one end of the spread by the sausage rolls and the cheese sandwiches, Robbie and his wife either side of him like a pair of minders. Craig keeping to himself, away in a corner. Truth be told, he wouldn’t’ve objected trying one of Lynn’s mozzarella parcels, but it would have meant going over the other side of the table, where Alan and Lynn were holding court with the rest of Cathy’s family. Most of they lot he hadn’t even seen since the wedding; so you’re talking thirty-five years ago. And that’s the ones that came. Some of these he’d probably never clapped eyes on in his life. He’d gave a bye to the idea of going over. Leave that lot to themselves, he thought.
It was only the weans, scootling about the place, who moved between the two groups. And the brother-in-law, of course. Man of the people Alan there, he didn’t miss his opportunity to introduce himself. Heartfelt greetings to the ones he knew – quite a few of them from back in the day in the yards – never mind it was him who’d bloody laid them off. Christsake. Smiling away there. No hard feelings, eh? We didn’t want to do it but see that was the times, there was no choice.
Mick had made sure to keep his distance. Took himself away for a pee when it looked one moment Alan was coming over to speak to him. When he’d closed the lavvy door behind, he saw that Desmond had gave a proper clean in there. There were toilet rolls stacked in the windowsill, and he’d moved the rotten rolled carpet that used to be outside the window. The blockages cleared from the urinals. A few extra pineapple-soap chunks. Strange how it goes but that was probably the only moment all day when he was close to greeting, when he saw that. He stood there a moment after he’d finished peeing and for a few seconds just, something got hold of him and it was an effort to stop the tears coming on. This pure strong feeling that you could only describe as utter gratefulness toward the guy because he’d cleaned out his toilets.
When he came back out, the brother-in-law had moved away, his big broad shape over on the other side of the room, doing the rounds. He was like a politician. Getting into the group at the bar, shaking hands, making sure everybody knew it was him had paid for it all.
Robbie is looking at him. ‘It wasn’t on either’ – he jerks his head at the wall – ‘that speech of his.’
Mick doesn’t respond. He pegs up another card, overlapping them a
s they get near the end of the corridor.
‘He barely mentioned you. Craig and me, sure, but anybody could’ve listened to that and thought you and Maw had never met – that she’d lived her whole life up in the Highlands with the sons of fucking lairds chasing after her. She’d have skelped him, if she’d heard it.’
He goes in the box for one of the last tree pegs. He isn’t getting into this the now. No with the guy sat there in the next room. He keeps quiet, and the two of them get on with the job in silence a while.
‘Sorry, Da, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just, mean, he’s a bloody blowhard.’
‘Robbie.’
‘I know, sorry.’
They have done along both sides of the corridor. There is a small stretch just, by the living room door, left to fill.
‘I’ll put these up in the kitchen somewhere,’ Robbie says, holding up his last handful. He walks off, and Mick stands a few seconds looking down the two lines of cards. The sound of the television gets louder, fades away again. There are two cards next to each other, he notices, identical. Foggy flowers in a vase. Intrigued a moment, he steps forward to get a look who they’re from.
Pete and Mary; Don and Sheila. He must have opened these cards himself sometime over the last few days, but he hadn’t took full notice of the names. Both couples were there the day. There hadn’t been much chance to talk but it was good to see them. Familiar faces. The men bloodshot and bald the now but aye familiar. He sees Pete now and then because they stay no that far away still, but Don, he couldn’t have seen him in twenty years. Twenty-one, in fact. He can mind fine well actually the last time he saw him: they were in the Empress, the same stools they’d been stuck to for months, fuck this, fuck that, fuck the brother-in-law, fuck Thatcher, fuck the dunny money, bastards. But they’d took their dunny money and by then they’d drunk most of it, and the last he saw of Don he was steamboats and drawling how him and the wife were moving out of the city. They were back the now, they told him. Found themselves a nice done-up flat in a tenement in Drumoyne, where the landlord wasn’t quite the robber their last one was.
The wives must have read about Cathy in the Southside News. Went to the Co and plumped for the same card. He imagines Mary and Sheila going in for it, putting it on the counter with a paper, pack of fags, Lotto ticket.
He gives Pete and Mary’s card a read:
Mick,
We were so very sorry to hear about Cathy. She was such a wee gem. I still mind fine well the launch days and the pair of us dressed up in our finest, and you and Pete three sheets to the wind! Pete is working on the crane at the old John Brown yard at the moment, of all places. I know the last year must have been very hard on you and the family, Mick. If there’s anything at all we can do,
All our best,
Pete and Mary
He smiles. She does go on, Mary. He puts the card back up on the ribbon. He’s heard about the crane. Turned into a visitor centre. He’s seen it lit up pink and red at night a couple of times when he’s been over near Clydebank. The last he knew, they were talking about putting a restaurant in the jib and making it revolve. He’d read that in the paper. It was part of a project to represent the industrial heritage of the area. A revolving pink restaurant. You’ve got to wonder how they dream these things up. And see the view? That’s one thing for starters they’ll have to change. All very well getting the full panorama but if all you’re looking out on is a puddled wasteland every direction – gangs of weans playing football and smoking, pigeons roosting and crapping over the rusted fabrication sheds – it isn’t going to make your mozzarella parcels taste much the better, is it?
In the kitchen Robbie has put up the cards on top of the microwave. He takes the last lot out of Mick’s hand and arranges them in with the others. Through the wall, next door’s baby is wailing. Mick leans against the counter and looks out the window at the back garden, the tubs of flowers that have gone thin and yellow, overgrown.
‘Don’t feel ye’ve got to stay, Robbie,’ he says.
‘We’ll stay as long as we can, it’s no bother. Anyway, Christ, we’ve come that far, there’s no point us leaving yet.’
‘I know that. But Jenna will want to get back soon. It’s no right spending too long away when they’re that age.’
‘He’s fine at his grannie’s. Knowing Jenna’s maw, she’s probably teaching him how to make homebrew or go tracking through the bush.’ He balances the last card on top of the microwave. ‘Anyway, we’re not leaving you on your own with the Highlanders.’ He is grinning. ‘How long do they plan stopping, you know?’
He’s about to tell him he isn’t sure, they haven’t said, but just then the sound of the television comes loudly from the corridor. There are footsteps, which pause a moment, then continue toward the kitchen. Craig comes in the room without speaking or looking at either of them, and opens the fridge. He crouches, looking inside the door, but he obvious can’t find what he wants and starts moving aside the packs of sausages on the bottom shelf.
‘After a beer, son?’
He doesn’t reply. Keeps looking, next shelf up.
‘They’re in the carrier on the side here, if ye are.’
He gets up, giving a quick look at the cards on the microwave. Then he goes for a can out of the bag over by where Robbie is standing.
‘Thanks,’ he says, snapping the can open as he leaves the room.
He wakes and looks out the window at the dark. A few wee lights on in a few distant multis. It’s awful warm but. He considers a moment getting out of the bed to open a window, and stays a while trying to work up the energy to go do it, but in the end he gives it a miss and stays put where he is. Ye buried the wife today. She died, and ye buried her. Somehow it’s no registering. He repeats it to himself a few times, but it’s as though the words don’t make sense, he can’t get understanding them. What he feels instead is the same as he felt the day last week the hospital telephoned to say she’d passed away. Relief, is what it is. It is a relief the funeral’s over, that it’s went off okay; Craig didn’t put the mix in; he doesn’t have to talk to Alan about arrangements any more. He doesn’t have to imagine her in another bed somewhere while he’s lying here. Course there’s other things he could be imagining but they’re so far off seeming real they’re out in fucking hyperspace. He turns over, sticky, heavy and sticky. It was hot the day too. Obvious enough they were all sweaty and tickling in their hats and their suits, but what can you do – it’s a funeral.
He kept off saying it earlier, but he’s really hoping Robbie and Jenna will stay a while longer before they disappear back to Australia. That he won’t be left alone with these more testy elements of the household. Although surely the Highlanders won’t be here much longer. There’s nothing for them to do now that the funeral is over, and there’s nay danger Lynn is wanting to stop around enjoying the luxuries. Craig – that’s another story. And not one that he’s too keen sharing, that’s clear enough. He’s here the now because Robbie’s told him he has to be here, and probably he’ll be away as soon as Robbie’s gone. No that Yoker is the other side of the world, but the way he’s acting it’s fine well possible that it’ll be Robbie that’s back here again first. He needs to talk with him. Go for a drink. Find out what’s going on in that brainbox of his. They both of them need to do that. And if they do, maybe best for his own part swerving the fact he’s no greeted once since she died; that all he can think is: it’s a relief, and when are all of these lot going to get out of the house.
Chapter 2
The multis stand solid in a row like a picket line, looking down over the red tenement streets filing toward the Clyde. From up on the seventeenth storey, the view’s a beauty. You can see the glimmering glass roof of the Botanical Gardens north of the river. Kelvingrove Park. The Exhibition Centre’s silver armadillo. And further on, the skyline of the Campsie Fells, keeping the city in. Joe doesn’t much look out at these things though. If he’s looking out, it’ll be at Ibrox. The ground’s a
few minutes’ walk from the multi just. On match days, he can see the supporters coming in from all around, crowds growing on the pavements outside the pubs, pouring in through the streets.
This morning but he’s having a see out the window as the sun comes up. Watching the dismal light peter in through the streets that run straight lines toward the river, bending only where they have to go around the stadium, or broken where they’ve took out the tenements and no got round to replacing them. By the river, there’s the twinkling new apartment blocks at Glasgow Harbour, the dry ski centre, and down the water, the shipyards, what’s left of them. Govan, this near side; Scotstoun, across the water. From where he is, he can just make out the top of HMS Defender, sat at her berth at Govan. She looks from up here like an Airfix model, with her miniature gun and helicopter pad on the flight deck. That’s where Joe is headed, the light nearly up now and him away out the flat, clicking shut the front door to go pick up Suggie.
It is six o’clock. There’s never anybody about in the building now except for one queer old ticket he sees on the stair sometimes, who gets up to give his dog a walk. It isn’t so bad, this time in the morning. He’s tired, but it’s fine. The back shift is the one that kills him. He presses the button and the lift doors are straight open. They cleaned it out a week or two ago, so it’s no bogging like it was, but it’s been wrote on already. CUNT, one wall says, nice and simple. He gets out on the ninth floor and goes toward Suggie’s.
He chaps the door. There’s a light on underneath. A good sign. He’s tired enough himself this time the morning, but he’s pure sparkling compared to Suggie. There’s times he’ll be banging five minutes before there’s any answer, and a couple of mornings he’s resorted to giving it a wee clang with the fire extinguisher off the wall fixing. The door’s looked better, in truth. Today though Suggie opens it on the second knock. He’s in his pants still, but he’s up.
‘Come in, mate.’
Joe follows him in and sits on the settee while Suggie goes in the bedroom to get dressed. The television is on and he looks at it without paying much attention. There’s a fair number of empty cans about, on the table, over the floor. Suggie must’ve had some mates round. No the less, he’s dressed quick enough, appearing at the bedroom door in a couple of minutes, red eyes, grinning, his yellow helmet in his hand.
