Daisy on the Outer Line

by Ross Sayers

  Ah open the door.

  ‘I’ll see you soon, Daisy,’ Siobhan says, fae behind me.

  The sound ae a Santa hat jingle-jangling greets me in the corridor. Ah take deep breaths and walk as fast as ah can.

  3

  ‘Did ye see that video ae the person gettin shot in Glasgow? It wis somewhaur on the outskirts.’

  ‘Naw,’ ah answer.

  ‘Why no?’

  ‘Why wid ah want tae watch that?’

  Lookin innocent, he shrugs.

  ‘It’s viral.’

  Ah didnae make it tae the funeral but ah don’t hink Steven’ll huv much tae say aboot it due tae him bein pan breid. Ah can still pit in an appearance at the purvey though, that shid be enough.

  The taxi’s takin us there. When ah say ‘us’, ah mean me and Robert, ma Tinder date. We hud a few drinks in toon and noo we’re aff tae a purvey. Dinner and a fulm’s so… 2016.

  ‘Right, Robert,’ ah say tae him.

  ‘Robbie,’ he corrects me.

  His six-fit-four frame is hunched ower in the backseat next tae me lit an uncracked glowstick. Six-fit-four and the personality ae a wet napkin. It’s hard tae hink ae a mair iconic duo than tall boys and huvin absolutely fuck aw chat. He ordered a pint ae Punk IPA at the pub and probably thought that made him stand oot.

  ‘Robert, thur’s gonnae be some questions at the purvey. Lit whaur we met, how long we’ve been thigether and that.’

  Ah check ma makeup in ma pocket mirror. Ah’m aw wobbly. It’s hard tae tell if the smudges urr on ma face or the mirror. Ah snap it shut.

  ‘The Purvey?’ Robert asks. ‘Is that a pub in East Kilbride?’

  The taxi swings roond wan ae many roondaboots. Ah pinch yin ae Robert’s clean-shaven cheeks. He’s no quite realised whaur we’re aff tae, but he does huv a strong jawline fur a boy fae… whaurever it is he’s fae.

  ‘How come ye super liked me?’ ah ask him.

  He blinks lit a madman. Lit a blinkin madman who niver conceived that ah might actually ask why he opted fur the creepy super like. The only reason ah actually gave him a chance, except fae his height, is the fact that his openin message mentioned his favourite Frightened Rabbit album is The Winter of Mixed Drinks and it’s rare ye meet somebdy wi such a correct opinion.

  But why the super like? The only reasonable course ae action is fur him tae blame it on a slip ae the thumb and fur us baith tae pretend we believe that.

  ‘Ah dunno,’ he says. ‘Ye jist seemed lit a nice girl.’

  Fact: boys don’t super like “nice girls” on Tinder. Boys super like lassies they hink urr gonnae be easy. Ah’m no sayin he wis right or wrong tae use a super like on me. Thur’s been rumours aboot me floatin aboot since high school, but that’s aw they urr.

  ‘It’s ma work’s Christmas night oot the night,’ ah say, plantin the seed that this isnae an aw day affair. ‘Ah’ll get the sack if ah miss ma nine start the morra.’

  Robert frowns.

  ‘Ah thought ye said ye were self-employed when ye’re no at uni?’

  Ah’m findin it hard tae keep track ae whit lies ah’ve telt him. The truth is ah work in the Boots on Sauchiehall Street, but fur some reason at the pub ah said ah had ma ain private investigation business lit Veronica Mars. Ah um a bit lit Veronica Mars as it happens. Apart fae huvin a da that loves me. There ah go again, maskin ma pain wi humour. It must be a cry fur help.

  ‘Ah um self-employed,’ ah reply. ‘But ah’m a really strict boss. Ah’d sack me like that.’

  Ah snap ma fing’rs. Robert’s a simple enough laddie so he nods lit he hinks he’s daein awright. Ah can see it in his eyes that he’s awready been on the lads group chat tae tell them he’s pulled. Pulled an East Kilbride lassie. Probably a joke aboot roondaboots in there as well.

  ‘Ye wur very obligin tae come aw the way tae East Kilbride wi me,’ ah say. ‘But ah’ve misled ye a bit. See we’re no goin tae a pub. Well, we urr. We’re goin tae ma stepda’s purvey.’

  He gies me a blank look. Ah realise he’s no familiar wi the word “purvey”. But—and ah cannae stress this enough—he is still six-fit-four.

  ‘A purvey’s a wake, Robert. Lit… the hing ye huv efter ye bury somebdy.’

  He laughs and flicks the wee air conditioner tree hingin fae the door handle. It jiggles up and doon and side tae side.

  ‘Gid yin,’ he says. ‘Ah’d heard ye were a bit ae a wind-up merchant.’

  The taxi pulls up near the pub. Ah look through the frosted windae and get the fear aboot leavin the warm taxi and steppin oot intae the freezin cauld again. December cauld in Scotland is lit nae other.

  ‘This do ye, here?’ says the driver.

  Ah wonder whit wid happen if ah said ‘naw’. Naw, this willnae dae me here. Take me tae whaur ah actually asked fur and no jist near it, whaur it’s easiest fur ye tae stop. This willnae dae me here.

  ‘Aye, this is grand,’ ah say.

  The driver reaches an arm tae the meter. His forearm is splashed wi a yella lightnin bolt tattoo. It’s faded and obscured by thick hairs. He presses the button and it adds fifty pence tae the total fur nae reason whitsoever.

  Ah hawn ower a twenty quid note. Ah’ll take the hit fur the taxi since Robert paid fur aw the drinks in toon. Ah offered and he said naw. As long as ah make the offer, he cannae complain.

  We step on tae the pavement and Robert slides the taxi door shut.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Robert says, as the taxi shoots aff in the direction ae Glasgow centre. ‘Ye’re jokin, aye? This is lit a, ‘huv a laugh at the guy fae Tinder’ type hing? And ye’re gonnae tweet aboot it later?’

  Ah gesture tae the mourners smokin thur rollies ootside the Montgomerie Arms. It wis Steven’s favourite pub, accordin tae ma mum. And noo there’s auld biddies dressed in black fur him at the smokin bit, some restin wan leg on the loupin staine oot the front.

  ‘Ye’re awready here,’ ah say, leadin him across the road. ‘Might as well come in fur wan.’

  ‘B-but,’ he stammers. ‘We didnae even get oor story straight. Is yer family in there? When did we meet? Whaur did we meet? Urr we in love? Urr we hinkin aboot kids? Am ah gonnae be a stay-at-hame dad? Cause honestly ah’ve iways thought ah’d love that. And hame schoolin is definitely an option.’

  Folk peer at me through the pub windaes. Mibbe ah deserve the stares but mibbe it’s ma stepda that’s up and died so mibbe ah don’t care. Mibbe ah hink too much, or mibbe ah don’t hink enough. Probably somewhaur inbetween the two.

  ‘We’ll jist wing it,’ ah tell Robert.

  Ah grab his hawn and power through the cloud ae smoke. Somebdy must be vapin cause thur’s a raspberry tinge tae the air.

  Pushin open the door, tinsel tickles ma heid. It hings loose whaur the Sellotape’s worn aff.

  ‘But if anybody asks: naw. We’re absolutely, under nae circumstances, hinkin aboot kids. Bad enough that somebdy brought me intae this world. Widnae pass that affliction on.’

  4

  If this wis a fulm, thur’d be a record scratch and the music wid stop and everybody wid be starin at me and Robert. Everybody is starin right enough but Wonderful Christmastime by Paul McCartney’s still goin strong ower the speakers.

  Life isnae a fulm. It’s barely even a story. Thur’s nae such hing as gid guys and bad guys, thur’s jist… guys. Cause sometimes folk dae nice hings, really lovely hings, and then a minute later they dae horrible, break yer heart hings.

  But that widnae be easy tae digest over ninety minutes while ye munch yer popcorn and sook yer Tango Ice Blast. So we pretend thur’s gid guys and bad guys and sort folk intae wan category or the other. We don’t like tae believe thur’s a giant chasm in the middle whaur everybody really sits.

  And, above aw else, we’re absolutely sure we’re a gid guy. Me? Aw, ah’m wan ae the gid guys. Cause the alternative’s no wor
th hinkin aboot. How wid ye get through the day if ye thought ye wur a bad guy?

  Me and Robert trek tae the bar and nuzzle a wee gap in amongst the bodies. It’s Christmastime, so whether somedy’s died or no, the pints urr a-flowin.

  ‘Ah’ll hae a rum and coke,’ ah tell him. ‘And a pint ae Tennent’s.’

  He turns tae face the bar, then slowly twists his heid back roond.

  ‘Two drinks?’

  ‘It’s Christmas, Robert. Baby Jesus widnae want us tae be judgemental durin his birthday week.’

  He shid hink himsel lucky ah didnae go fur suhin mair top shelf, a Schiehallion or suhin. Ah’m too nice, really ah um.

  Somebdy touches ma elbow. Mrs Casey, ma mum’s next-door neighbour, wears a heavy black dress and a sympathetic look on her coupon. The sight ae her, pale as a ghost, wid make ye lose aw Christmas spirit. Mibbe ye shidnae be allowed tae huv funerals this close tae Christmas. Save them aw fur the middle ae January when folk urr needin a day aff thur work.

  ‘Hiya, Daisy, dear,’ she says. ‘Ah’m so sorry fur yer loss.’

  ‘Hullo, Mrs Casey,’ ah reply. ‘Thank you.’

  Mrs Casey rubs her arms and shivers. She’s iways cauld. She reaches a hawn oot towards the heater under the mirror nearby tae check it’s on.

  ‘Barman says it’s on as high as it can go but ah’m no so sure,’ she tells me. ‘Ah didnae see ye at the cemetery?’

  She tilts her heid. Her wee black funeral hat tilts as well. Ah imagine gently liftin ma hawn, haudin it in front ae her face fur a second, then skelpin the hat right aff her napper wi the back ae ma hawn.

  ‘That’s cause ah wisnae there, Mrs Casey.’

  Robert passes me ma rum and coke. It’s filled tae the brim wi ice. Whit a rookie mistake. Ye don’t let them waste the space inside the glass wi ice. Hus this boy ever been oot the hoose afore?

  ‘It wis jist… too much,’ ah say tae Mrs Casey. ‘Too much fur me.’

  She squeezes ma shooder. Then she turns and goes back tae her table. Mrs Casey isnae that bad ah suppose. And that’s wan mourner doon. If ah can keep up this pace, ah can huv rattled through them aw by the time the sausage rolls come oot.

  Jim Hamilton, mum’s pal fae school, is at the puggy. He slips another pound coin in the slot. He’s no on the board but he wants tae be. A few cheers go up nearby. Folk urr at that stage whaur they’re feelin awright tae huv a laugh and a joke cause they’ve done the sad bit, the cemetery bit, and noo life goes on.

  ‘So efter these,’ Robert says, and we break away fae the bar. ‘Will we head somewhaur else? Somewhaur mair private?’

  Ah’ve brought this laddie tae a purvey in East Kilbride and still he supposes this is a turn on fur me. It’s tae be admired, his optimism, ah suppose.

  ‘It is Steven’s purvey, mate,’ ah say. ‘Bit insensitive tae be hinkin aboot gettin yer hole at a time lit this.’

  ‘Who’s Steven?’ he asks.

  ‘Ma stepda. It’s lit ye don’t even know me, Robert.’

  ‘Robbie.’

  ‘Whitever.’

  Afore we can scope oot a wee table fur two, ma mum appears. Her eyes lock wi mine and render me unable tae move. She disnae even bother crossin her arms, as is iways her power move. They dangle at her sides as if too tired tae pit up a fight. She’s stood right under the mistletoe but ah’m no gonnae mention it. Ah can haud back a joke fur once in ma puff.

  ‘Hullo,’ Mum says. ‘Whaur wur ye?’

  The pints ah hud in toon urr mixin wi the rum and coke ah’ve jist tanned and thur hittin me aw at once. Ah blink hard tae try and reset masel.

  ‘Ah ran late,’ ah say. ‘Ah thought it wid be better tae catch yeese here, rather than turn up at the cemetery haufway through. Ah didnae mean tae miss it.’

  ‘He wis yer da.’

  That statement hings in the air. Robert shifts his weight, wan fit tae the other next tae me. He’s decided tae run, ah can sense it, but he’s no got the baws tae dae it yet.

  ‘Well, yer stepda,’ Mum says. ‘But that shidnae matter. No the day. Ye shid’ve been there.’

  ‘Mum,’ ah say. ‘Ah don’t mean this in a bad way, but he wisnae ma da. Ma da walked oot on you and me, and ah don’t want him back, or a new yin. And we don’t talk aboot it and that’s fine. Ah’m no upset aboot it anymair, it’s jist the way it is. Da’s jist urnae on the cairds fur me.’

  Tears huv formed in her eyes. Ah didnae mean it but here we urr. Surrounded by fairy lights and flanked by tinsel. Tis the season fur family and mothers and daughters at odds wi each other, lit a bad episode ae Eastenders.

  ‘Ah shid go,’ Robert says.

  ‘But we’ve only jist arrived,’ ah say.

  Ah hauf-heartedly pat him on the arm.

  ‘Who’s this strange boy ye’ve brought wi ye?’ Mum says, dabbin at her eyes. ‘Ye’ve finally got a boyfriend? And this is how ye introduce him tae me?’

  ‘Ah’m Robbie,’ he says, extendin a hawn. ‘So sorry fur yer loss. But ah dae like the sound ae boyfriend.’

  Mum stares at his hawn. And as if her gaze could move objects, he slowly drops it back doon tae his side.

  ‘Even this random zoomer hus the decency tae offer his condolences,’ Mum says. ‘While you waltz in here late lit it’s an efter party, makin yer jokes, callin everybody “mum’.’

  ‘Whit?’ ah say, genuinely confused.

  ‘Ah know how you young folk speak,’ she says. ‘Ye call each other “mum”, don’t ye?’

  ‘Mum, ah don’t know whit ye’re smokin but ah want some.’

  Ma mum seems tae huv lost the plot a bit. Grief’ll make ye dae weird hings. Ma Auntie Jean stopped wearin socks when her da, ma granda, passed away. That wis it, nae mair socks, ever. She gets horrible bunions. Jist the worst yins ye can imagine.

  ‘Ah don’t want tae cause a scene,’ ah say. ‘We’ll sit in the corner and stay oot the road.’

  ‘A scene?’ Mum yells, and gestures roond the pub, aw eyes on us noo. ‘We widnae want a scene for oor Daisy, wid we? Och naw, we cannae huv Daisy bein uncomfortable.’

  ‘Mum,’ ah say, swappin ma empty tumbler fur the Tennent’s Robert’s haudin. ‘Ah’m sorry ah missed the day, but we baith know me and Steven wurnae that close.’

  ‘Don’t start wi that. This wis his funeral and ye’re a grown lassie noo. Nineteen goin on nine, aye, but ye’re an adult. Ye cannae jist avoid anyhin that makes ye feel a wee bit awkward. This is how the world works and like it or naw, ye’re part ae it. Ye’re an adult and that means daein whit’s expected ae ye.’

  Mr Brightside starts up on the sound system. Slightly gassed folk raise thur fing’rs in the air tae indicate they know it’s a belter. Ah wonder if it wis mum or the pub that chose the playlist. It’s really easy tae be hilariously insensitive and accidentally stick on Another One Bites the Dust or Going Underground.

  ‘Ah’m uncomfortable,’ Robert says.

  Ma mum gies him a death stare. Is ‘death stare’ an insensitive term at a purvey?

  ‘So… ah’ll head aff,’ he says. ‘Message ye later, Daisy?’

  He begins buttonin up the jaiket that he niver got the chance tae take aff.

  ‘Naw, Robert,’ ah say. ‘Naw, ah’ll pit this tae bed noo. Ah’ve decided ah actually don’t fancy ye lit ah thought ah did. Ma mistake, sorry.’

  He fiddles wi his scarf and looks puzzled but nods.

  ‘Aw, awright,’ he says. ‘Catch ye then.’

  He’s walkin away. He didnae even try fur a gidbye kiss. This disnae seem right. This is too easy.

  ‘By the way,’ he says ower his shooder, placin his hauf drunk pint doon on a windaesill by the door. ‘Ye’re fat and ah niver fancied ye anyway.’

  There it is. Ah gie him a thumbs up as he ducks under the archway ae the exit and disappears. In ma limited experience, ah’ve found that men
urr incapable ae bein rejected withoot turnin tae insults and pretendin they niver actually found ye attractive in the first place. Ah widnae huv got closure if he’d no called me fat. The lanky prick.

  5

  Maist folk in the pub urr watchin us noo. Even the regular punters that urnae here fur the purvey look on, glad ae some entertainment. It’s lit a Christmas skit.

  ‘Ah thought no turnin up wis bad,’ Mum says. ‘But noo this. Ye know, ah thought ah saw ye there. Ah saw a flash ae red hair in the cemetery, and jist fur a minute ah thought, mibbe oor Daisy isnae bein selfish fur once in her life. But ah shid’ve known better. Ye’ve made it aw aboot yersel, as usual, congratulations. Steven’ll be rollin in his grave.’

  ‘Aw aye, ah’m sure he’s fumin,’ ah say. ‘First week in heaven and he’s stormin aboot the clouds giein it “fuck sake cannae believe ma stepdaughter that ah niver talked tae showed up tae ma purvey a bit gassed, can ye believe this, Robin?”’

  Mum raises a flat hawn up near ma face.

  ‘Ah’d be giein ye wan ae these across yer puss,’ she says. ‘If it wur any other day. Who’s Robin?’

  ‘Robin Williams. Whit, urr ye sayin ye don’t hink he’s in heaven lit?’

  Noo she rolls her eyes tae make it clear she’s jist completely sick ae me. The song changes again. The Darkness—Don’t Let the Bells End. The guitars urr so loud, we don’t try and speak ower them.

  Ah see ma reflection in the mirror next tae us. Ah imagine, fur just a minute, that ah’m no Daisy. Ah imagine ah’m somebdy else, a stranger. Ah imagine ah’ve walked intae this pub and thur’s a lassie wi red hair and ah’m introduced tae her. Her name’s Daisy Douglas. We shake hawns. Folk don’t seem tae like her. Even her pals urnae that fussed aboot her. They slag her aff when she goes tae the toilet. Some say she’s a slut, but others say she’s actually niver hud sex. She gies aff this vibe that she disnae care whit anyone hinks or says aboot her. It’s mair than a vibe actually, she’s constantly statin it as fact. Ah imagine us talkin and her makin the conversation aw aboot hersel and efter ten minutes ah make an excuse so ah can talk tae somebdy else. Ah imagine this kind ae situation in ma mind quite a lot, as it happens. Ah imagine it so much cause every time ah dae, ah cannae help but come tae the conclusion that ah widnae be pals wi Daisy. If ah wis somebdy else, ah widnae want tae be aroond me.