The Next Stop Is Croy

His father was dead. He went back to Scotland to bury him. The arrangements – the funeral and wake, in other words – went smoothly. The house was almost empty now; there were only a few pieces of furniture left, the sofa and the bed in the spare room – his old room. But there was still so much on his mind, so many things to take care of, so many loose ends to tie up. He had time. He didn’t have a return ticket. He didn’t know how long he would be staying. In any case, it was too soon to leave.
+++He hadn’t been drunk yet.
+++
Falkirk High. The train was a few minutes late. It wasn’t important. He had arranged to see a friend. It was someone he had never met, but they had shared a lot – you can imagine where. They had been corresponding since the previous summer. Alan had received more than he had given, which was his way. A meeting had been a matter of time; it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, though. He found a window seat, facing forwards. No sooner had they pulled out of the station than a voice came over a speaker somewhere near his head.
+++This train will call at Croy, Lenzie, Bishopbriggs and Glasgow Queen Street.
+++The announcement was scrolling across an electronic display attached to the ceiling. Customer Service. They tell you where you’re going when it’s too late to change your mind. He settled back into the seat and watched the Central Belt, this part of it, rushing past. Rushing into the past. It was the first time he’d been back in twenty years. Almost half a lifetime. The view hadn’t changed much – fields and hills. Green. So green, with a promise of more to come. Houses with pointed roofs. Sheep. Lambs. The way to Glasgow. It was a smooth ride, smoother than he remembered. He felt as if he were gliding.
+++The train suddenly groaned. He hoped it was nothing to worry about. He leaned closer to the window and watched the tracks twitching and weaving.
+++
Cliff was waiting on the other side of the barrier. Alan recognised him from the photograph on his page. They shook hands. Alan would have embraced him, but caught himself short. ‘I was going to phone you,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t want the funeral to be…’
+++‘I understand,’ said Cliff. ‘You’re absolutely right.’
+++Alan knew he was right. Absolutely. He took no comfort in it. Relationships based on death, with death as the cornerstone, are doomed from the start. He stopped on the pavement at the other side of the Tron. Wasn’t there a bar along here, what was it called…? His feet had led him here after all this time. God, what was it called? His student days. Alan and his girlfriend. She would be a woman now, right enough. Back then she had been a girl. Eighteen. He hadn’t been much older. It didn’t last long. Sometimes mistakes are thrust upon you, you’re a victim of circumstance. Mistakes are allowed when you’re young. Hopefully, you learn from them.
+++‘Isn’t there a pub called Smith’s near here?’ said Alan. He knew he had a memory of it. A memory of something.
+++Cliff looked across the street. ‘Aye, there used to be,’ he said. ‘It closed years ago. Come on, there’s a good place round the corner.’
+++Indeed there was. It was called The Pot Still. They were the only customers. Cliff got the first round in. Alan was on Newcastle Brown, but he would be sampling the whisky later – the gantry was a sight to behold. They moved to a table in the depths.
+++Cliff arranged his pint on the mat and looked at him. ‘It really is lovely to see you,’ he said. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your father. It must have been quite a shock.’
+++Alan didn’t want to talk about it. Yes, he did. ‘He’d been ill for a while,’ he managed. He did want to talk about it. Of course he did. He needed to. The only people he’d spoken to since he got back were funeral directors and lawyers. And cousins. Business and platitudes. But when could he mention what was on his mind? There was no one specific thing, he just needed to talk, that was all. Cliff would listen. He had shared so much with Alan; Alan had helped him get through a difficult time. But where were the words? They talked about work, then about Cliff’s problem, which was solved, more or less. Alan had one ear trained on the silences. It was difficult to start in on something important without sounding desperate. Hear me, hear my grief. It was too soon. Even though they’d been writing to each other for months, they’d only just met. They were no more than strangers. Perhaps that should have made it easier.
+++
The place was beginning to fill up. It was time for whisky. Although it wasn’t quite dark, the barman switched on the lights. He placed both hands on the counter. ‘What’ll it be, then, gents?’
+++Alan ordered a Laphroaig, but Cliff spotted a porcelain bottle on the middle shelf. The barman took it down and uncorked it. ‘Try this for size,’ he said, and passed it to Alan. ‘Smell the peat? Ten pound a nip, mind.’
+++Alan laughed and handed the bottle back.
+++‘Make it a double,’ said Cliff. ‘And a double Balvenie for me.’
+++They returned to the table. Maybe now’s the time, thought Alan. Maybe this was the way. The Scottish way, over a dram. He took a deep breath. I gave the Eulogy at my father’s funeral, he didn’t say. He wanted to, though. Why did he want to? He wanted to tell Cliff, this stranger who wasn’t. He wanted to share something with him. He had told everyone in the church that he loved his father, which was more than he had ever told the man himself. He had wanted to say it so often, but had been unable to bring himself to. What was the point? Love is a feeling. You feel it, you don’t have to say it. Not in Scotland, anyway, not to your dad.
+++Was that true? Alan had been away a long time, and had exotic ideas of how sons talked to their fathers. He’d been away so long that Scotland was exotic. Maybe things had changed. Maybe nowadays Scottish fathers  and their sons were all over each other, smothering one another in kisses and words. But that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what other people did or didn’t do. What mattered was how he felt, here and now, this. And it was too late. It was done, it was finished. Too late for anything but inner monologues and regrets. At least he had kissed him. He had laid his fingers on his father’s forehead, which was cold, like glass, as he knew it would be. He had leaned and placed his lips on the flesh where his fingers had been.
+++Cliff reached across the table and touched him gently on the arm. ‘It’s alright if you don’t want to talk,’ he said. ‘I understand.’
+++Alan removed his tobacco pouch from his pocket.
+++‘You’ll have to go outside if you want to smoke,’ said Cliff.
+++‘I know,’ said Alan. ‘It’s the same in Greece. We’re all European now, right?’
+++Cliff smiled.
+++‘Am I allowed to take this outside?’ said Alan. He was talking about his drink.
+++‘I don’t think so,’ said Cliff. ‘We’re not that European. It’ll be alright, though. I’ll hold the fort till you come back.’
+++Glasgow was beautiful on the pavement. The windows across the street were glowing in the rays of a setting sun. It reminded Alan of something, or someone. There was so much going on, it was difficult to determine which emotions went where. He was rationing them out. The Scottish way. He’d been so long in another place that he didn’t know how to react. He couldn’t let it out, like a Greek; he wasn’t Greek. But he didn’t want to bottle it up, like a Scot, like the person he was. Like the person he thought he was. He felt lost. Lost inside his own head. Thinking about things that couldn’t be changed; useless things. A sunset in Glasgow. A pub called Smith’s. The girl he used to know. That was years ago. I’ve moved on since then. So has she.
+++But she was a part of it.
+++Part of what?
+++You know. Think. She was part of that time.
+++What time, I don’t
+++She was there when everything fell apart. Think. Damn you. How can you not know this?
+++I’m trying, but
+++Glasgow. Your student days.
+++…..
+++She was there when they came looking for you.
+++…..
+++She was sitting on your bed, Alan. She was beautiful. She was just a girl.
+++…..
+++When they chapped your door.
+++…..
+++To tell you about your mother.
+++
+++The cigarette burned his fingers. He watched it fall to the ground.
+++
They were leaning on the bar. Alan had shouted the drinks.
+++‘Can I ask you something?’ said Cliff.
+++Alan regarded him over the top of his glass. The time for conversation was over. He’d got what he came for, even though he hadn’t been looking for it.
+++‘Why did you leave?’ said Cliff.
+++‘Leave?’ said Alan. He knew what Cliff was talking about. Of course he did. ‘Leave where?’
+++‘Scotland,’ said Cliff.
+++It was the question they always asked, sooner or later. ‘I was twenty four,’ said Alan, which was the answer he always gave, sooner or later. But that wasn’t it. It was part of it, but that wasn’t it. He knew what ‘it’ was. He did, now. Perhaps he always had. Death had played a part in his leaving, just as it had in his coming back. Death was playing games with him. It had brought him back here to face up to himself.
+++I left because I couldn’t cope with my father’s grief.
+++I ran away.
+++I’ve been running ever since, trying to keep one step ahead of my shame.
+++‘I was twenty four,’ he said. He touched the glass to his lips. Peat smoke stung his eyes. He was in The Pot Still. With Cliff. Talking. Two men together having a drink. They’d had a few. More than a few. There was no subtext to this; no history. They were almost friends. There had been no time for betrayal. That was something that could be avoided. All it needed was care.
+++
+++
It was time to go. It wasn’t the last train, but it was time to go. They found the way back to Queen Street. It was closer than he wanted. The train was waiting, being boarded by exhausted looking men in business suits. He turned to Cliff. Words. It’s been great seeing you. Cliff stood there. He offered a hand. Alan didn’t take it; he embraced him, as if he were trying to keep him there, desperately, but he was past caring. It made things real. For Alan, at least.
+++
+++
A woman’s voice. He nodded himself awake. The woman’s voice again. It wasn’t a girl. The sign over the aisle. The next stop is Croy. He wasn’t getting off. He was very drunk. Flying. He was going all the way. No, he wasn’t. He was getting off at Falkirk. Half way. Not all the way. Going all the way. A journey into the unknown. It wouldn’t be the first time. But the destination, the destination that wasn’t his, wasn’t unknown. It was Edinburgh, the terminus, the end of the line. Not all the way. Half way. Going home. He wasn’t going home. He was going back to the house where he grew up, which was nothing but an empty shell. Dark. He would have to switch the lights on. The echo of his own voice, a monologue. Alone. He met Cliff. It was like a dream, as if it had never happened. He knew he could have opened up more. But it was over. He should have given more of himself. His father was dead.
+++Try it for size.
+++My father is dead.
+++He should have talked more. They should have talked. He shouldn’t have run away. They had left so much unsaid.
+++He pressed his forehead to the window. It was cold. Glass. All he could see was darkness. Darkness, and himself.
+++
+++
The next stop is Croy.
+++
+++
Life.
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Andrew McCallum Crawford grew up in Grangemouth, an industrial town in East Central Scotland. He studied Science and Philosophy at the University of Edinburgh and went on to take a teaching qualification at Jordanhill College, Glasgow. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lines Review, The Athens News, Junk Junction, Ink Sweat and Tears, McStorytellers, Weaponizer, New Linear Perspectives, Spilling Ink Review, Drey 2 (Red Squirrel Press), The Legendary, the Midwest Literary Magazine and the ‘The‘. His first novel, Drive!, was published in 2010. He lives in Greece. Andrew also has a collection of short stories coming out in September.

His  blog is Wee Fictions: andrewmccallumcrawford.blogspot.com