by Ross Sayers
‘D’ye hink Steven’s wi us, Mum?’
She leans back on the couch, hawns finally at peace in her lap.
‘Well, ah’m no sure. Like ye said, thur’s a lot up there tae keep him busy. Mibbe he’s spendin Christmas wi Robin Williams. We cannae exactly compete wi that.’
Ah laugh and cringe at the thought ae me bein such a prick tae her at the purvey.
‘But, aye,’ she says. ‘Ah hink he’s been poppin in tae check on us here and there. Makin sure wur daein okay.’
‘Tae make sure ye didnae burn the roast tatties.’
‘If a roast tattie isnae crisp, whit’s the point in huvin it?’
We laugh and cosey intae the couch and watch the telly. The sky goes fae dark pink tae black and thur’s only the telly light in the livin room, thrown ower us lit a blanket. We discuss the idea that we shid pit a light on but that’d involve gettin up and in the end we stay sat in the dark.
‘It willnae feel lit this forever,’ ah say, tryin tae sound lit an authority on the subject. ‘Cause thur’s order tae the universe, see. Ups and doons. Opposites. Ye need tae huv the really low lows so ye can appreciate the high highs. Does that make sense?’
Mum hus a glance ower at the gateau, still too hard tae get stuck intae yet.
‘Ah agree wi the sentiment,’ Mum says. ‘But thur’s nae opposite tae grief. Thur’s nae opposite tae this feelin. The opposite tae grief isnae happiness. The opposite tae grief is jist… less grief. Days when ye forget fur a while. Ye don’t get so happy that ye lie in bed fur days, greetin yer eyes oot wi happiness. Happiness disnae stop ye in yer tracks when ye’re in the middle ae Asda and make ye leave yer half-full trolley and walk oot the door. Grief is unique. It disnae fit in wi any rules. Does that make sense?’
‘It does, aye.’
Ah slide ma fags fae ma pocket. It is Christmas efter aw.
‘Nut,’ Mum says.
‘Aw, but Mum.’
‘Ah’ll ‘but Mum’, ye. Noo, since it’s Christmas ah’ll let ye smoke, but ye can go ootside and dae it.’
‘But ah’m aw poorly,’ ah say, gesturin tae ma bad arm. ‘Ah might faint wi the exertion.’
‘That’s jist a chance wur gonnae huv tae take. Ooh, Strictly. Ah forgot Strictly wis on. Why’d ye no remind me Strictly wis on?’
Ah leave the warmth ae the couch while Mum tunes intae the dancin. She stretches oot completely and takes up the hale sofa as soon as ah’m oot the livin room and intae the kitchen.
‘Ah want ma seat back when ah come back in,’ ah tell her.
‘Aye, we’ll see,’ she replies.
Ah throw ma jaiket ower ma shooders, step oot the back and close the door behind me. The air bites at ma exposed skin and ah pull ma collar tight. In other gardens, bottles clink and laughter can be heard. In even mair distant yins, fireworks urr poppin and bangin and terrorisin poor dugs everywhaur. Even ah hate the sound ae fireworks. They remind me ae suhin, suhin ah niver want brought tae mind.
BANG.
Ma phone vibrates. The gurls’ group chat’s goin mad wi notifications. Frances hus announced that her sister’s jist got engaged. Her messages come thick and fast.
She’s soooo happy it’s soo cute!!!
But if my bf proposed on Christmas Day I’d be fumin
Total lack of imagination
No that I’m gonnae tell her that
And she’s totally stealing my ‘nearly got hit by a car’ thunder
(thanks again @daisy lolz)
But I’m so happy for her!!
I better be chief bridesmaid
And we will NOT be doing Magaluf for the hen I can say with 100% confidence
Aw she’s went out into the garden to pop the champers
And he didn’t get her anything else for Christmas
The proposal was the present
Which is shite if you ask me
But aye she’s pure buzzing
Happy Christmas gals :D
Ah’m so caught up in the chat, ah don’t realise thur’s somebdy else oot in the garden wi me.
66
‘Weatherwoman says thur’s snow on the way,’ the stranger says.
Ah’d pit her in her mid-sixties. Leather jaiket and knee-high boots. Nae scarf or hat or layers tae speak ae. Her face is kind ae familiar but ah cannae place her. She leans on the blue glass bin.
‘Urr ye lost?’ ah ask. ‘Ah hink ye’ve got the wrong garden. Dae ye want me tae phone somebdy?’
She ignores the question and crosses her arms. A thick, colourful tattoo pokes oot fae under her sleeve and cuts aff when it reaches her hawn.
‘Urr ye no freezin?’ ah try again. ‘No much linin in that jaiket ae yours.’
Jeezo, ah’m startin tae sound lit ma mother and ah’ve only been back a couple ae days.
‘It’s nae gid in this weather,’ she says finally. ‘But it wis forty percent aff in the sale, and ah look dynamite in it.’
‘Fair play. Urr ye a relative ae wan ae ma mum’s neighbours? Mrs Casey mibbe?’
‘That wid be a logical reason fur me tae be here. Ma name’s Eleanor, by the way. Naw, ah’m here fur you, Daisy.’
She takes her weight aff the bin and the bottles inside roll and clink thigether. Me and Mum huv bein gettin on it the last few nights, since thur’s nuhin else tae dae at the minute. Ah said naw at first. Ah even bought an eight-pack ae Pepsi Max. But when Mum opened the first bottle ae red and ah said naw tae a glass, she thought suhin wis up wi me. So ah jist slipped ma hawn aff the tap ae ma glass and let her pour.
Eleanor turns and uses her fing’r tae draw suhin in the frost on the top ae the bin lid.
‘We wur fair impressed at yer handiwork,’ she says.
Ah turn back tae the hoose, reachin ma hawn oot tae the handle tae make sure the door’s closed aw the way ower. Ah peer through the windae. Mum’s still on the couch.
‘Ye’re… fae the subway?’ ah ask her.
‘We’re mair far reachin than that but, aye, that’s part ae oor remit. Ah represent some ae the higher ups.’
And here wis me hinkin Yotta hud made them up. These higher ups that kept her in the dark the same way she kept me in the dark.
‘Whaur’s Yotta?’ ah ask.
‘Who? Aw, wait, aye, “Yotta”. D’ye know whit Yotta means?’
‘She telt me it meant a giant number.’
‘It might. Naw, she came up wi it herself. Yotta. Y-o-t-t-a. Your own time travelling assistant. How cheesy is that?’
A laugh escapes me. It disnae surprise me. Another wan ae her jokes. Ah wid’ve preferred tae hear it fae Yotta hersel, mind you.
‘But that’s the name she wants,’ Eleanor goes on, ‘so ah’ll respect it. Unfortunately, she went a bit aff the rails, lettin two Daisys roam aboot Glasgow and that. Could’ve went pear-shaped, ah’m sure ye understand. We cannae let that kind ae recklessness go unpunished.’
‘So ah’ll no get tae see her again?’
‘Ah widnae hink so. She’s been reassigned. Yellow Ribbon unit.’
Ah take a puff ae ma ciggy. Behind me, ah check again tae see Mum’s no noticed the two voices ootside. She sits content, watchin the judges giein oot 8s and 9s. Everyone’s mair generous at Christmas time.
‘So why urr ye here?’ ah ask.
‘Jist checkin in, Daisy,’ Eleanor says, smilin lit ah’ve asked a daft question. ‘We’ve got tae dae follow ups on oor users, otherwise whit kind ae organisation wid we be? And ah’m here tae wish ye a merry Christmas, of course. It’ll be tough this year, but it’ll get easier. He wis a gid man, that Steven.’
Ah realise whaur ah recognise her fae. She wis the wan ootside the pub. The day ae Steven’s purvey.
‘You’re the yin that knows why crisps go oot ae date on Saturdays,’ ah say.
‘Noo she remembers
, praise the lord.’
‘How long huv ye been watchin me?’
‘No that long. But it wis Yotta’s first project so ah thought ah’d keep an eye on ye tae make sure it didnae aw go tae pot. Looks lit ah shid’ve kept a closer eye near the end there.’
‘And whit urr ye here fur noo? Ah thought ah wis done?’
The first few flakes ae snow appear in the air, jist lit the weatherwoman said. They float tae the groond and land and melt and disappear lit magic.
‘Like ah said, Daisy, ye’ve impressed some ae the higher ups. Despite Yotta’s miscalculations, ye ended up bein a very successful specimen. Some members on the board hink ye might be suited fur a further project.’
Ma hawns start tae shake and ah hope she disnae notice. Ma heart doubles its speed, then doubles again.
‘Back another sixteen days?’ ah ask.
‘It’s no iways sixteen days, ye need tae understand. Sometimes it’s longer, much longer. And sometimes it’s no back at aw. We wur hinkin ye might join us in the Inner Circle.’
Ma mind starts runnin wild wi possible ootcomes tae this chat. Aw ah want right noo is tae be left in peace fur a while tae enjoy the rest ae the year wi ma mum.
‘Whit does that mean?’ ah ask.
‘Ah’ll leave that up tae yer imagination fur the time bein, Daisy. Anyway, ah best be makin tracks, don’t want tae take up any mair ae yer time. You enjoy yer Christmas. Ye’ll be hearin fae us soon.’
Ma heart, ready tae pop, jist aboot jumps oot ma chest when thur’s a rattle at the windae behind me. Mum opens the door and leans oot.
‘Who wur ye talkin tae?’ she asks, rubbin her arms against the cauld.
‘Aw, jist,’ ah say, turnin roond tae find Eleanor disappeared. They aw fuckin love that wee disappearin trick. ‘Naebdy, Mum.’
‘Well, get back inside, it’s fuckin baltic oot here. And look whit’s on. Frances wid say it’s a fantasy fulm, eh?’
Ah adjust ma gaze past her, tae the telly screen. Jimmy Stewart, in crackly black and white, spreads his arms wide tae show how big he wants his suitcase tae be.
‘Perfect,’ ah say. ‘Jist gimme a minute.’
‘Ah’ll open the Quality Street,’ Mum replies, shuttin the door back ower.
Ah finish ma fag and crush it against the wall. The snow gets heavier. It starts tae lie and makes a dusty, white postcaird ae oor back garden. Ah go on ma tiptoes and make ma way ower the slabs and grass ae the garden in ma bare feet.
Ah reach the blue bin. The wee picture Eleanor drew is still jist aboot visible under the first fluffy layer ae snow.
A long flat circle wi a line through it. Eight dots on wan side ae the line, seven dots on the other. Ah wipe it away, soakin ma hawn. It stings in the cauld air.
‘And roond and roond and roond we go.’
END OF THE LINE
RESOURCES & LINKS
If you’re struggling with your mental health at the moment, here are some folk you can get in touch with:
Samaritans
Call – 116 123
Email – [email protected]
App – Samaritans Self-Help
Childline (if you are under 19)
Call – 0800 1111
Switchboard (if you are LGBT+)
Call – 0300 330 0630
Email – [email protected]
Shout
Text – 85258
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ross Sayers is a Young Adult author from Stirling. His previous novels, ‘Mary’s the Name’ (2017) and ‘Sonny and Me’ (2019) are available from all good bookshops and some truly dodgy websites.
You can tweet him @Sayers33, see more of his writing at rosssayers.co.uk, or find him right now, sitting in the corner by that silver lamp you got from IKEA, Lisa. (Bound to give at least one Lisa a fright).
Photo credit: Chris McGowan
Acknowledgements
As ever, a huge thank you to my friends and family who read early drafts of the book when they were under no contractual obligation to do so. (Especially Vari, who wrote the best line in the entire book and let me have it.)
The book wouldn’t have been possible with Cranachan Publishing, the support of #ClanCranachan, and Anne Glennie, the hardest working woman in Scottish publishing.
‘Daisy on the Outer Line’ received a Scots Language Publication Grant, funded by the Scottish Government and administered by the Scottish Book Trust. Thank you to all involved with this debatable decision, for seeing the potential in the book after only a few chapters.
Thank you to Charlie Care (Instagram: @charliecare.art) for the subway image used throughout the book.
Lastly, a retroactive thank you to Pat Mooney for giving me the name ‘Battlefield High’ for the school in my previous book, ‘Sonny and Me’. I forgot to mention him at the back of that one. Better late than never.
