Daft Wee Stories (10 page)

So many inventions, so many ideas and discoveries, so many reasons to have that feeling of pride or potential or whatever you'd call it. It's a good feeling, so I wasn't in any hurry to find out if it was justified or not, to find out if any of it was based on fact. I had no reason to doubt these things I'd been told for years by so many people. But it was only a matter of time before I started uncovering the truth.

John Logie Baird, for example. Turns out he didn't invent the telly after all, not really. He invented a sort-of telly. It was useless. It wasn't even an early version of something that was improved upon; it was a dead end, and some other guy came up with something much better. I won't bore you with the science, but in short, John Logie Baird's telly was shite. Then there's Alexander Fleming. I read up on him just a few weeks ago because, to be honest, I don't really know what penicillin is, I just knew that he was the first to discover it. But it turns out that's bollocks as well. Records show that other people discovered it decades before, it's just that Alexander Fleming was the first to, I don't know, get people interested in it or something. And as for the Forth Rail Bridge, we Scots show it off like it's some feat of Scottish ingenuity, but it was actually some English guy that designed it, I think, I don't know, I stopped reading. I don't really care about the Forth Rail Bridge that much.

The bottom line is that my Scottish pride lies in ruins. They built me up. They built me a castle. I never asked for a castle, but they built me one, they told me it was mine, that I could live in it, that I could point to it with pride and say, ‘Look at me, this is what I've got.' And then my castle sank into the fucking quicksand. And now I feel like such a fucking mug.

And maybe that's why I want to share my idea with you today.

I want to restore a bit of that Scottish pride that's been taken, not in some kind of nationalist or
Braveheart
-y way, I don't want my fellow Scots to think that they're better than everybody else, nothing like that. I just want this to stop. I don't want some wee boy or lassie in the future, a Scottish boy or lassie, to have their confidence built on a lie, just for some bastard to tell them the truth, for some bastard to tell them, ‘You'll never amount to anything, because nothing good has ever come out of Scotland, it was all a pack of lies.' I want them to be able to grab that person by the scruff of the neck, shove their face in my book and say, ‘Look. Look right here. That other stuff, the telly, penicillin, you're right, it was all lies. But this idea, maybe the most important idea of the last century, this was his idea. His name was Limmy. And guess what? He was Scottish. I'm Scottish. So I can do anything.'

That's my dream. But of course, that won't happen unless I give you my idea. So, as much as I've still got my reservations about giving it away, here it is.

Here is my idea.

Imagine the day came that we here on planet Earth were to look through our telescopes and see, to our horror, that we were about to be invaded by a giant cat.

Don't send up missiles or fighter pilots in spaceships.

Use orange peels.

Know where all the satellites are? Just cover all that bit in orange peels.

Cats hate orange peels.

‘Good afternoon,' said the call-centre guy on the other end of the phone. ‘My name's Mark, how can I help you today?'

‘Finally,' said Sean. It takes a fucking eternity to get through to somebody these days. It's the menus. Those fucking menus. Press one for this, press two for that. Sounds simple enough. All he wanted was to tell somebody that he was looking to pay his bill but he didn't have his account number handy. He pressed one to pay a bill, but what was the first thing it asked for? His account number. He just sat there doing nothing, waiting for the computer at the other end to realise the number wasn't coming, in the hope that it would pass him on to a human. But no, the computer just sat there at the other end, got itself comfy and waited it out. Eventually Sean just started pressing numbers on the phone, any old numbers just to move things on. The computer apologised and said that it didn't recognise that account number, and asked him to try again. No other option, no option to press another button to take him out of this, he had to rattle in another made-up account number, then again, until it finally washed its hands of him and put him through a living, breathing person.

‘Finally,' said Sean again.

‘Sorry, I hope you haven't been waiting too long,' said Mark. ‘How can I help you today?'

‘Hello, just phoning to pay my bill.'

‘OK, can I have your account number please?'

‘Well,' said Sean, ‘that's the problem. I don't have it. Telling you, mate, see trying to get through those menus without your account number? Is this being recorded? Will they take a note of my feedback and get rid of those menus?'

‘This isn't being recorded,' said Mark, ‘but I understand, and I'll pass your feedback on. Do you know where to find your account number? It'll be on your latest bill, on the top right of the first page. Do you have that around?'

‘Well, that's the other problem. Her. That's the main problem. I don't know where she's put it.'

Mark gave a polite laugh. ‘I see. Well, if you ask her and then call back, we'll be able to get that bill paid for you, OK?'

‘No, I don't want to go through those menus again, just gimme a minute and I'll have a look,' said Sean. ‘Women, eh?'

Mark let out another polite laugh.

‘Know what I mean?' laughed Sean.

Mark said nothing, and after a moment's silence, he could hear Sean open and close drawers and rustle about. A minute later, Sean returned. ‘Nope,' he said.

‘You can't find a bill?' asked Mark.

‘Nope. Not one. No idea where she puts them, mate, no idea at all.'

‘And she isn't in the house, I take it?'

‘Nope,' said Sean. ‘So I've got no idea. No idea where they are. I know where I put them, I remember where I put them, but then she goes and moves them to some other drawer, know what I mean?'

‘Yeah, sounds familiar,' said Mark, and they had a chuckle. ‘Hold on a moment, I might not need your account number, I'll just ask my supervisor.'

‘Brain damage, aren't they?' asked Sean.

Mark said nothing.

‘Brain damage, aren't they, mate?' asked Sean again, before realising Mark was probably away from the desk to talk to his supervisor. A minute later, Mark came back.

‘Hi there, sorry about that,' said Mark.

‘Brain damage, aren't they?' asked Sean, but Mark didn't catch it.

‘What we can do is, do you have the phone you usually use to pay the bill? Your number's currently coming up as withheld.'

‘I don't,' said Sean. ‘My wife usually phones from her mobile, and I don't have her mobile, she does, so …'

Mark let out a wee tut.

‘I know, mate,' said Sean. ‘I know. Brain damage.'

‘No, sorry, I didn't mean that,' laughed Mark. ‘I was tutting at the situation, not your wife. I do apologise.' Mark laughed again. ‘Thank God this isn't recorded. No, I do apologise.'

‘It's cool, mate,' said Sean, laughing along. ‘Seriously. It's her that caused the situation, know what I mean? I bet yours has caused a situation or two, eh? No offence, but you said it sounded familiar, did you not?'

‘Yeah, a few situations. But I've caused a fair share myself.' Mark straightened up and got back to business. ‘OK, let me think. How urgent is it that you pay the bill? Is it overdue?'

‘What kind of situations?' asked Sean.

‘Sorry?'

‘Your wife,' said Sean. ‘What kind of situations has she caused? Sorry to pry, but I could do with a laugh. I need it after today!'

‘Oh, um, you know,' said Mark, half laughing. ‘Just things like what you said, the same as yourself, moving things around, moving my keys, that kind of thing.'

‘The keys! I know, mate, what's the script with that? It's like they get a buzz out of fucking with your head, isn't it?' asked Sean. ‘Isn't it?'

‘You could be right,' laughed Mark, before clearing his throat. ‘OK, well, if your bill isn't that urgent, what you could do is—'

‘Listen, mate,' said Sean. ‘Listen.'

It was time to cut to the chase.

‘You listening?' asked Sean.

‘Yes,' said Mark.

‘They're brain damage.'

‘Yeah. But, if your bill isn't that urgent, you can wait until she—'

‘Mate. It's cool,' said Sean quietly. ‘I get it. I know what you're going through.'

‘Sorry?' said Mark.

‘Me and you. Me and you … are the same.'

There was a long silence from Mark's end. Sean continued, bringing his voice down to a whisper.

‘They'd never make the connection. The police, I mean. They wouldn't have any records, my number's withheld. And this isn't being recorded, remember?'

Silence.

‘There's nothing to connect yours to mine or mine to yours. They'd never think somebody would travel hundreds of miles just to do that. You're down south I take it, aye?'

Silence.

‘Just think of the insurance. Has yours got insurance?' asked Sean. ‘Life insurance? Get insurance. I know it's not about the money, but for all the shite we've had to go through we're entitled to some compensation, d'you not think?'

Silence.

‘By the way, I'm not just some nutter.'

The line went dead.

Sean exhaled a big, long, fed-up breath, and looked down to his Yellow Pages. He drew a line through the company name and number and moved down to the next. He was almost at the bottom. It was taking fucking ages, this.

It's the menus, you see.

Those fucking menus.

She stopped at the shop window for the third time that week. And how could she not? That jacket. Dark grey cashmere with a sumptuous silk lining, sparkling with an all-over sequin embellishment. It was divine. Oh, she hadn't worn anything like that in years, nor parted with that kind of money. £1,950, said the price. She shook her head. She could afford it, but then she wouldn't be able to afford much else. She had her priorities straight. Ha! Changed days.

She caught her reflection in the window. Yes, a lot had changed, both inside and out. There once was a day when all these things mattered, things like this jacket in the window, things like what she was pictured wearing, who she was pictured with and where. There once was a day when she cared more about those things than her own flesh and blood. When she gave up her son. Her baby.

But now her time in the spotlight was over, while her friends bathed in the love of their children and grandchildren. And here she stood alone at a shop window. On the outside looking in. She looked at her reflection once more and wondered if she had left it too late. Where was he now? Her boy. Did he have the same name, the one that she gave him? Did he have children of his own? Did they ask after their grandmother? Did he miss her?

She found out.

It wasn't easy. It wasn't as simple as typing his name into a computer and up came his address. Things were different back then. Back then, if you gave up your child, you gave them up, that was it. They were gone. It was what made them so easy to let go, and so hard to get back. So it cost her. Private investigators, the type of people she thought you'd only find in films. She hired one, who failed, then another, who also failed, until the third one managed to track him down.

Australia.

She wrote a letter, the old-fashioned way. He wrote back, and then they decided to meet. She bought a ticket, got on a plane, and off she went.

‘It's me,' she said when he opened the door. ‘It's Mum.' She spread her arms and welcomed his embrace. It must have been an unremarkable sight to any passers-by, a mum visiting her son, but it was the dream of saying those words that had kept her going when she felt like giving up.

She sat at his dining-room table as he handed her a cup of tea and a biscuit with a smile. They had some small talk. They chatted about the weather, the weather Down Under, the weather back home. They chatted about her journey over and the films she watched during the flight. And he apologised for not being able to pick her up from the airport, due to work stuff getting in the way.

‘Sorry,' he said.

Apologising for his career coming before his own flesh and blood.

‘No,' she said, reaching across the table to hold his hand. ‘I'm sorry.'

He laughed warm-heartedly and squeezed her hand back. He knew what she meant, but he told her it was fine. He knew that things were different in those days, there were fewer choices, there were expectations that women were required to meet. He understood, and it was fine, honestly.

But she apologised again. She apologised for depriving him of a mother, a mother to love and to receive love from. She regretted causing the pain he must have felt, the longing, but she hoped that today could be the start of making up for everything that was lost between them.

He wiped a tear from his eye. He assured her that he was never deprived of a mother's love. He had been blessed with a wonderful adoptive mum and dad who loved him as their own. He'd been very lucky.

She put her other hand over his, and gave it another squeeze, to tell him that she was here now. Mum's here.

He smiled, and said that everything had worked out in the end. In a way, it was better. Now he had two mums.

She pulled her hands away slowly.

He watched her hands leave, and asked if everything was all right. Did he say the wrong thing? She said she was just going to pick up her biscuit, that's all. He laughed.

She didn't.

Then he picked up his iPad and pulled his seat next to hers. ‘So,' he said. ‘How d'you fancy seeing your grandkids?'