Ross Raisin - Waterline

Above his head, somebody is walking about. He puts the box back by the bin and gets the kettle on, returns to his seat at the table. And again, the same thought that keeps coming back: he is alive. He’s the picture of bloody health sat at the kitchen table. The floor creaks again above his head. And no just him as well, still alive.

That evening they all sit in the living room with the television on, eating the spaghetti Bolognese that Lynn has made. Everybody agrees it is good and tasty, except for Lynn, who says it should have garlic and it should have tomato purée and it should have whatever else in it. She hadn’t thought to get these things when she was in the supermarket. If she’d known there was none in the house she would have bought them. She isn’t acting it there; they’ve bought no end of other unnecessary stuff. Parmesan, wine vinegar, three different kinds of bread. It must have cost a fortune. When they arrived back and got everybody outside helping unload the dozens of carriers from the boot, he and Robbie gave each other a look over the top of the car, the meaning of which was clear enough. How long do they think they’re staying? They then proceeded to organize the putting away of the messages, cheerily deciding what was to go where, chucking out whatever dregs or no-good-enoughs were already on the shelves, as if by buying in all this better class of groceries, the kitchen was now theirs to do with as they wished.

The news is on. They sit watching and eating in quiet. It is the fifth night now Robbie and Jenna have brought through the chairs from the kitchen so they can all be in here, and they are in the habit already of keeping to the same seats. Alan and Lynn take the settee and, opposite, Mick sits between Robbie and his wife, the three of them sat close together like a row of naughty schoolweans sent to the headmaster’s office. Craig is over in the armchair by the window, the head down, concentrating on his plate.

‘It’s some place now, the shopping centre at Braehead,’ says Alan, setting his empty plate on the carpet in front of him. ‘All new stores since we were last down there.’

The three of them look up and agree.

‘I suppose it will be,’ Mick says. ‘I never go.’

‘It’s a great M&S,’ says Lynn. ‘Two levels, and a decent café. We stopped in for a sandwich when we’d done. And there’s a dry ski slope down there now, I couldn’t believe it. You should go over there and take a look, Mick.’

The weather comes on. It has been record temperatures for August, the guy says, and September is going to continue the same. Mick minds the time Cathy went down to the M&S, and what she’d thought about it, coming home with a single carrier of potatoes and mince. She wasn’t impressed. It’s too bloody expensive, was the verdict.

‘You’ve seen the new apartments at Glasgow Harbour as well, have you?’ Robbie says after a while, looking at Lynn.

‘Yes. You pointed them out, didn’t you, Alan? Very modern. About time they made more use out of all those dead areas along the river.’

‘You think?’ Robbie says, putting in a mouthful of Bolognese.

‘I do,’ Jenna breaks in, likely sensing Robbie’s mood. ‘Better developing than leaving it a wasteland.’

‘There you are, then, Da. You should get one. You could have a wee balcony to sit on and look out over the water.’

Jenna gives Robbie a look, which because they are sat so close is right in Mick’s face.

‘There’s no point leaving it to decay like it has been. Those cranes, and the berths all crumbling. It’s not safe, for one thing. You’re just being a mule, Robbie, you know it.’

He is feeling uncomfortable, these two starting to argue around him. He gets off his seat. Plus he needs to go up and check how much is in his wallet, to give toward the messages. As he leaves, he starts picking up the empty plates from the floor. Jenna is immediately helping him, reaching down for the Highlanders’ plates before he has the chance. Maybe it isn’t on purpose, but you never know. She’s sensitive to things, Jenna; she knows the score.

In the kitchen they stack the plates by the sink. They’re about to turn and go out when she presses her hand gently on top of his on the counter.

‘You’re pretty quiet today, Mick. How are you?’

‘Coping on, I suppose.’

She smiles. ‘It can’t be easy, not when there’s’ — she raises the eyebrows a little — ‘a houseful.’

He feels awkward, their hands touching there like that. Guilty, somehow, daft as it is.

‘You shouldn’t feel afraid to talk to these boys, you know. Even Craig. He’s grieving, that’s why he’s being like he is.’

He tries to smile. She’s a good girl, Jenna. Cathy was aye fond of her. She’s down the line, is what it is. Honest. She’s like Robbie that way, only less of the argle-bargle tendencies.

‘It isnae that simple. He blames me.’

‘He shouldn’t. He’s being selfish.’

‘Aye, well. Maybe.’ He looks away down the corridor. ‘He keeps it inside himself. It was his maw he talked to.’

‘Bulldust. You’re here. And Robbie. He can talk to you.’

She takes her hand away.

‘Come on,’ she says, ‘let’s see how the party’s going.’

‘Okay. I’ll be through in a moment, I’m going the toilet just.’

He goes upstairs to the bedroom. A ten-pound note, plus a bit of smash, it’s all he’s got on his tail. He can’t offer that. If he gets up early again in the morning, maybe, he can nick out to the cash machine before any the rest of them are up. See what’s in the account, then give Alan his share when he gets back. He’ll tell him later the night that’s what he’s doing.

It’s no exactly cheery, the mood in the living room. They’re all sat there in the same positions, the television noisily on in the corner. It’s like walking into a hospital waiting room, a bunch of edgy strangers pretending they’re interested in the telly adverts — see maybe what he should do is bring in some old magazines for them to have a rummle through, distract themselves with the horoscopes and out-of-date TV listings.

He takes his seat. Looks around the room. Jesus. How long is this going to go on?

Jenna speaks. ‘When are you back at the garage, Craig?’

They all turn to look at him. He keeps his eyes on the television.

‘Don’t know yet. Couple days. Depends how much is booked in.’

‘Will you stay here or go back to your flat?’

‘Go back. Too far to travel in from here.’

She doesn’t push him. That’s clear enough all he’s going to say on the subject, and the room is silent again as they get back to their television watching. A quiz show. Two families in Englandshire competing one against the other for the incredible cash prize. A bald proud uncle with the spotlight on him now, chosen as the family expert on geography matters. A bit of patter with the show host as the countdown appears in the corner of the screen. Are you feeling confident? he gets asked. He is. It’s his favourite category on the Trivial Pursuits at Christmas. Wee smiles along the family row.

It is the television that has become the centre of their movements. Up until yesterday it was Cathy. Her bed on the ward, when it had just been Robbie and Jenna here in the house, and then when she went, the arrival of the Highlanders and all the funeral arrangements to be sorted: undertakers, cemetery, wake spread; GP, register office, council. Now that it’s all finished though, there’s nothing for them to do but stick the TV on. Fact is, if it was to stop working they would be royally fucked. Or go home, maybe. He gives a keek over at Craig. He’s sat with the arms folded, no expression, just staring. Don’t come near me, is what he’s saying. Don’t come near me or I’ll stiffen ye. He needs to get a moment to speak to him, Jenna is right about that. He’ll be away without a word otherwise and then Christ knows what happens after that. Silence, probably.