by Ross Sayers
The music fades intae a softer song.
‘Ye wur meant tae speak at the cemetery,’ Mum says. ‘So ah want ye tae dae it noo.’
Ah smile and take a sip ae ma pint. Wan ae the staff passes wi a tray ae empties, lookin stressed oot thur box. Servin punters at Christmas shid get ye suhin aff the Queen. OBE, MBE, wan ae them. See if they ever offered me yin, ah’d no take it. Ah don’t know whit they’d be offerin me it fur, but ah’d no take it. Ah’ve iways wanted tae be on wan ae they “25 Celebs Who Refused Honours” Buzzfeed lists.
‘Ye’re kiddin?’ ah say.
‘Ah’m no.’
‘Ye want me tae talk in front ae these folk?’
‘Ye’ll get up and make a speech aboot whit Steven meant tae ye. And ye’ll mean it.’
She crosses her arms as if tae finalise it. Her strength’s come back.
Whit Steven meant tae ye.
‘Aye, fine,’ ah say. ‘If that’s whit ye want.’
She goes tae the corner whaur the mourners urr sat and ah follow. A bigger, makeshift table hus been pit thigether wi a few ae the smaller yins lit pub Tetris. Some order ae services urr scattered here and there. Steven’s face looks oot fae the circular photie on the front, smilin, wearin a gid shirt. It’s recent: his hair salt and peppered, hairline receded, slightly wonky teeth jist peekin oot. He wis jist a guy.
Mum stands in the space by the windae and speaks ower the top ae everyone.
‘Sorry, folks,’ she says. ‘Sorry tae interrupt again. That’s the money behind the bar gone noo, ah wis tae let yeese know. Ah hope everybody got thur drink. And that’s Daisy here. That’s ma daughter. She’s jist gonnae say a few words. Daisy?’
Mum swaps places wi me. Everybody’s wearin thur best sad smile. They don’t know me and ah don’t know them. Well, ah don’t hink they know me. Steven could’ve telt them anyhin aboot me. Folk urr iways speakin aboot me when ah’m no aboot. Ah’m sure ae it.
They don’t even talk about you they’re just glad to have you gone.
‘Awright, everybody,’ ah say.
Mibbe they’ve been cursin ma name aw efternoon. Ah barely recognise anyone. Aw friends ae Steven’s. That wid make sense since it’s him that’s died.
‘Ah’m really sorry ah couldnae be there earlier. Ah heard it wis a beautiful service.’
Everyone nods. That’s an easy yin. Every weddin, funeral and christenin is iways a beautiful service. It disnae matter if it wisnae, it’s jist whit ye say. Thur’s niver been a mingin service, or a disrespectful service, or an overly familiar service. A beautiful service. It’s jist whit ye say.
‘Ah… ah wisnae aw that close tae Steven.’
Mum pinches her mooth and clenches her fists. You asked me tae dae this, Mum. You know whit ah’m lit. Don’t ye?
‘When him and ma mum started goin oot, ah didnae really want tae know. Ye widnae, wid ye? He tried tae invite me tae hings, fitbaw games and race nights at the pub, but ah wis a teenage girl, and he wis an auld bloke.’
Ah could end hings here. Ah could. Wan guy swirls the foam at the bottom ae his Tennent’s glass. Probably debatin if it’s worth stayin fur another since he’s hud his free drink aff ma mum.
‘Ah didnae hink he was gid enough fur ma mum, tae be honest. Mibbe nae man is. He spent aw his time watchin fitbaw or in this place. Fair enough, that’s whit maist guys dae. But whaur wis his ambition? Why did he no want mair than his lot? Ah didnae know why ma mum wid be okay wi that.’
The tears start creepin doon Mum’s cheeks. Folk urr shakin their heids and some get up and heid tae the bar. Why’s naebody stoppin me? Ah wid stop if someone wid jist stop me.
‘Somebdy shut this stupit lassie up,’ wan geezer says. ‘Or ah will.’
His eyes don’t even meet mine. They sway between different bits ae the flair.
‘Is this whit Steven wanted?’ ah ask. ‘Everybody tae sit aroond wi thur faces trippin them? Ah widnae want that. When ah die, ah don’t want folk tae be sad. Ah want them tae be happy.’
The heckler speaks again.
‘Ah can guarantee ye they’ll be happy, hen.’
At the bar, ah see the staff whisperin tae each other, and the volume on the music, which ah didnae realise hud been turnt doon, is noo turnt back up.
‘See that’s whit ah mean,’ ah say, tryin tae make masel heard ower John Lennon. ‘That’s whit we shid be daein. Makin jokes. Aye, mate, gid yin. Ma pals will be happy when ah’m deid. Does that no jist pit a big smile on yer face?’ Ah’m shoutin at this point. ‘Eh? Is that no jist the best hing ye’ve ever heard? We’ll aw be buzzin at my funeral, and yeese urr aw invited. Funerals, thur nuhin tae be sad aboot. Cheer up, aw ae yeese.’
Ah finish ma pint in a few big gulps, then slam the glass on the table. Except thur’s nae space on the table and ma glass smashes intae another empty, and a few tumblers tip ower. It’s lit watchin glass dominos, as mair and mair fall on thur sides, soakin the sausage rolls, glazin the tables wi lager. Folk jump back fae the edges ae the tables, checkin thur troosers fur wetness.
A bell rings. At the bar, a burly guy silences the bell wi wan hawn and points at me wi the other.
‘You,’ he shouts. ‘Oot.’
Mum cuddles intae Mrs Casey.
‘Jist go, Daisy,’ Mum manages tae wail through her sobs.
Ah avoid eye contact wi anyone as ah squeeze through the tightly packed crowd towards the exit. Shakin’ Stevens starts up. Merry Christmas Everyone.
‘Mum,’ ah turn and say. ‘Ah didnae mean…’
But it’s too late. Her and Mrs Casey urr haufway tae the loos.
The staff go ower tae the tables tae help clean up. Steven’s pals shake thur heids and gesture towards me. Paper towels get unwrapped and dispatched whaurever needed. Ah decide no tae offer a hawn. They’d only say naw. Ah pick up the tumbler Robert left behind as ah go oot the door.
It’s baltic ootside. If only ah hud a big, strong man lit Robert here tae wrap his arms aroond me. Ah look forward tae ignorin the message ah receive fae him at three in the mornin a month or two fae noo. Suhin along the lines ae… hiya long time no speak haha wubu2 saw u in tesco earlier but was too shy to speak to u lol x
A few smokers urr bravin the cauld, leanin against the pub.
‘Ye shid dae it,’ a woman says tae her pal. ‘Irish lottery, ah’m tellin ye, ye cannae no win it. The winnins paid fur ma teeth and thur wis enough left ower fur us tae upgrade tae HD Netflix.’
Ah take a sip ae Robert’s pint. Ah wis raised on Blue WKD but when ah turned eighteen, ah saw the light. At this point, ah could chew lager standin on ma heid.
Thur’s a wife ah don’t recognise smokin a wee bit further doon the wall fae me.
‘Awright,’ ah say.
‘Awright, hen,’ she says, tightenin the zip tae the very top ae her leather jaiket. ‘That wis some performance.’
‘Cheers?’
‘Naw, it wisnae a compliment. Ye’ll be apologisin tae yer mother ah shid hope.’
Ah finish aff the dregs ae the pint and sit the glass on the windae ledge. A stray bit ae paint peels aff the ledge and lodges itsel under ma fing’rnail.
‘You a friend ae ma mum’s?’
She stubs oot her fag and adjusts the crushed white floo’er on her jaiket. If ah knew mair aboot floo’ers ah’d take a stab at guessin whit kind it is. Ah know white means peace.
‘Ye could say that,’ she says. ‘Ah knew Steven tae. Ye ken whit, ye were hauf right in there. He will be up in heaven lookin doon at us the day.’
‘How did ye know ah said that?’
She looks me up and doon, then smiles.
‘Ah know a lot ae hings,’ she says. ‘Ah know why aw crisps go oot ae date on a Saturday. Ah know whit the next iPhone is gonnae look like.’
The air aroond us seems tae get caulder. She carries on.
/>
‘Ah know ye’ve got a small circle ae friends, only two or three really, and ye tell yersel that’s a choice. Ah know ye don’t let folk get tae know ye properly, especially men. Ah know ye didnae organise yer date wi that Robbie laddie til efter Steven died.’
The wrinkles roond her eyes and mooth deepen as she braces against the winter wind that sweeps across us.
‘Did ma mum pit ye up tae this?’ ah ask.
An answer disnae come. She jist looks straight aheid. Ah turn away, pretendin ah’m interested in the magpie hoppin doon the road. It’s on its lonesome so ah gie it a quick salute. When ah turn back roond, the woman’s gone.
That leaves me listenin tae the icy wind driftin doon the road and zippin past ma ears. A taxi goes by and ah make a hauf-hearted attempt tae flag it. It drives on.
‘Dick,’ ah say.
Ah take ma phone oot and open up the Livescore app tae check if thur’s any fitbaw on the night. Arsenal v Liverpool’s the eight o’clock kick off; ah completely furgot aboot that. Might pit a wee fiver on Salah first scorer.
‘Ho, hen,’ says a voice. ‘Ye jist flag doon taxis fur a laugh?’
It’s the taxi driver. He’s made a u-turn fur me. That’s a stroke ae luck. Ah need tae be back in the centre soon fur the Boots night oot.
6
‘So basically, we shidnae be debatin if Die Hard’s a Christmas fulm. How many times dae we need tae argue aboot it? It’s the same hing every year. Boring. Let’s move on tae a mair important question. Is It’s a Wonderful Life a fantasy fulm?’
Frances looks at me fur a response. Ah’ve no been properly listenin. When she starts up on wan ae her rants ah usually jist zone oot until it’s ma turn tae speak again and hope she didnae end wi a question. And it’s only me and her at the table right noo so it’s no lit ah can wait fur someone else tae save me. Sam’s away at the toilet and ah’m fairly sure the rest ae them urnae comin back fae the cash machine.
‘Whit wis that?’ ah ask. ‘Die Hard? Aye, Die Hard’s gid. Alan Rickman wi that beard, quite fit.’
Frances shakes her heid and takes a sip ae Heineken. Only You by Yazoo pulses through Jacksons. Bingy Bong Bong Bong Bing Bong Bong Bong. Bingy Bong Bong Bong Bing Bong Bong Bong.
‘Wid ye gie up yer V card fur Alan Rickman?’ Frances asks.
‘Em, ah thought we agreed we wid niver discuss the V card situation in public,’ ah tell her.
‘Calm it, it’s jist us. Whaur’s Sam, anyway?’
‘He’s in the loo,’ ah say. ‘He’s too nervous fur the urinals, mind. He’ll be ages waitin on the stall.’
‘Whit aboot the rest?’
‘They went tae get cash oot aboot an oor ago so ah’m hinkin they’ve patched us a belter.’
‘Dae ye hink it’s cause ae oor chat?’
‘They’ve got a cheek judgin oor patter when Marianne still quotes Ace Ventura on a daily basis.’
It’s absolutely heavin in the pub. Ah’ve no been in here afore. Funny how ye end up goin fur yer Christmas night oot in a place whaur none ae yeese wid normally go.
Ah open ma notes app and start typin.
Friday 22nd December. Went 2 Steven’s funeral, all went ok. Boots Christmas night out in Jacksons followed. To be concluded…
Frances looks bored sittin across the table fae me. Ah feel rude bein on ma phone but thur’s nuhin stoppin her gettin hers oot. Ah save the note then pit ma phone doon.
‘Who organises the Christmas night oot this close tae Christmas anyway?’ ah ask. ‘Too hoachin in here.’
‘Last year they hud it in January,’ Frances says.
‘Tight bastarts.’
Ah get a wee waft ae pish every time the toilet door swings open. Some folk huv families tae travel hame tae at Christmas. Fair enough, no me, but normal folk. Maist ae the Boots crew huv they huge families lit in Home Alone and open thur presents in thur hoosecoats wi cups ae cocoa and wee marshmallows and somebdy’s streamin it live on Facebook fur absolutely nae cunt tae watch.
‘Whaur urr you fur Christmas?’ ah ask Frances.
‘Ma sister’s,’ she says. ‘She’s cookin a vegan turkey and ma da’s awready fumin. He’s gonnae choke himsel tae death on it on purpose jist tae make a point. Whit aboot you?’
Mum did want me tae come home fur Christmas dinner, but then Steven died and she didnae bring it up again so ah hink ah’m in the clear. My Auntie Jean’ll probably be roond the hoose on the day anyway, so she’ll no be on her ain.
‘Ah’m plannin tae sleep the entire day,’ ah say.
‘Nae turkey?’
‘Perhaps of the dinosaur variety, wi a light Heinz ketchup relish.’
Sam arrives back at the table. His hawns urr still wet. He slides the coaster aff the tap ae his pint and starts flippin and catchin it aff the table edge. The coaster rattles tae the flair.
‘Sam,’ Frances says. ‘Is Die Hard a Christmas fulm?’
Sam taps the coaster against his foreheid and Mariah Carey comes on the speakers. Aw she wants fur Christmas is… a human being. That’s quite the demand when ye hink aboot it. Maist folk urr happy wi a Furby.
‘Honestly who cares,’ Sam says. ‘That Bruce Willis is a fud.’
Me, Sam and Frances dae the lates on Saturday’s thigether maist weeks and ah’d huv went doolally withoot them. Ah’m openin up the shop the morra mornin though. A Christmas present fae the management.
‘Aye, he disnae exactly huv the everyman quality anymair,’ Frances says. ‘So ye’re sayin Bruce Willis turnin oot tae be a bit ae a fud later in life retroactively affects yer enjoyment ae Die Hard?’
Ah leave them tae thur conversation and start the short trip tae the bar. Bodies huddle in groups in every possible space. Ah feel roastin jist lookin at the folk in Christmas jumpers. Must be at least three other nights oot in here the night.
‘Scuse me, sorry,’ ah say, weavin through, somehow managin no tae pit ma hawn on anybody’s lower backs. Men, take note. ‘Sorry, scuse me.’
Tall guys everywhaur. Ah enjoy tall guys on Tinder—the idea ae them at least—but when ah’m in a packed pub, whit’s the need fur them? Two per pub shid be the limit, lit school weans in a shop. Same goes fur gigs, sportin events, trains, basically any public space.
Ah reach the bar.
‘Hullo,’ ah say, tryin tae get the attention ae the staff.
‘Merry Christmas,’ a guy next tae me leans doon and shouts in ma ear.
‘And tae you,’ ah say back.
He’s probably gonnae get inappropriate within a few seconds, but ah iways like tae give the benefit ae the doot. It’s Christmas efter aw.
‘You on a night oot?’ he asks.
‘Naw, ah’m huvin a quiet night in.’
He nods multiple times and pretends he heard me. He stares soulfully intae ma chest. Lit ma chebs urr makin a really gid point.
‘D’ye want a drink?’ he asks.
Ah wonder who he’s wi. A carer mibbe. Mair likely he’s the weird guy fae his work who the others want rid ae. Mibbe ah’m the weird yin in Boots who Frances and Sam want rid ae.
You definitely are.
‘Aye, that’s why ah’m in the queue, mate.’
‘Fuck sakes just tryin tae be friendly. Fuckin Grinch, man. Bitch.’
He turns his back on me and ah wander a bit further doon the bar. Ah cannae predict the future but here’s whit ah’d guess: a couple mair pints in him and he’ll come back fur another go. On second thoughts, two tall guys per pub wis bein too generous. It shid be two guys, total, regardless ae height. And even then ah hink ah’m bein too nice.
7
£4.70lighter, ah return tae ma seat wi ma pint and ah only spill a wee amount dodgin revellers on the way. Lydia fae the optician’s counter hus returned. She’s somehow got a pint ae Venom—unmistakable in its greenness—vodka, Southern Comfort,
a Blue WKD and orange juice. Why did naebdy tell me this place did Venoms?
‘Awright there, Lydia,’ ah say.
She disnae even acknowledge me. Ah wonder if ah could manage a couple ae Venoms and still get up fur work the morra. Ah wonder if ah could manage a couple ae Venoms and still huv the power ae speech by the end ae the night.
‘Ma dear,’ Sam says, pittin an arm aroond Lydia. ‘Ye see anyone ye like the look ae in here?’
‘Aye,’ she says, eyes closed. ‘You.’
She snuggles intae his neck. Aw the women love Sam. Aw the men love Sam. And Sam especially loves Sam, but that’s understandable. He’s wan ae they folk ye jist want tae be aroond.
‘Ah posted a selfie the other day,’ Lydia says. ‘And somebdy commented sayin they wanted me tae step on thur neck? Why wid someone say suhin lit that? Ah’m no a violent person am ah?’
Lydia leans forward tae take a sip ae her Venom. Me, Sam and Frances aw share a look. Christmas nights oot urr great fur this. Seein folk in states ye niver get tae see them in. Lydia’s aboot ten years aulder than us and acts lit folk oor age urr numpties and hers were the last great generation. She’s jist on that cusp whaur she disnae quite get everyhin we talk aboot. Ah tried tae explain non-binary genders tae her once and she smiled and nodded but ah could tell fae the look in her eyes ah may as well huv been talkin aboot some Babylon 5 sci-fi concept.
Lydia falls back on tae her seat then leans intae Sam’s shooder.
‘Ye sure ye don’t like sex?’ she asks him, nearly asleep. Sam bein asexual, that was another wan that took some explainin. ‘Ye niver know until ye try.’
‘Mibbe someday,’ Sam says, clearly tired ae this line ae questionin. ‘But ah don’t want tae rush intae anyhin. Ah’ll dip ma toe in wan ae these days.’
