THE LISTENER

by Lynsey Calderwood

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DEPARTURE POINT: KILWINNIN STATION

Yer staunin there, freezin yer ba’s aff, waitin fur this train that’s twenty minutes late. Yer fingers are nippin and yer nipples are like fitba studs, and all the auld man can dae is fuckin moan at ye as if it was yer fault.

‘Ye should’ve wore a heavier jaicket, well,’ says the grumpy auld cunt.

Ye want tae tell him that yer no a weatherman or a fuckin septic peg, but instead ye just say, ‘Yon heavy jaicket makes me look like Paddintaen bear.’

‘And yer mother knitted ye a guid jumper…’ he goes on.

Nag fuckin nag. He’s like an auld wummin. Ye hate that jumper. Big mad itchy thing. Pure new wool. Yev only wore it the once. The auld dear must’ve used hauf a sheep. Makes ye feel like yev got a cactus up yer dukes.

The auld man hums and haws and bumps his gums and every time he opens his mooth ye feel his hot breath scaldin the interior of yer lug. So, just tae wind him up, ye tell him that ye can still smell yon curry that he ate fur his dinner last night.

‘Yer a fuckin liar!’ he barks, ‘Ah brush ma teeth.’

Ye hear a train rumbling up tae the platform. Before ye can even fart, he’s got ye by the airmpit and huckled ye ontae a carriage.

‘And don’t phone,’ he says. ‘Get a taxi. Ah’m at the bowlin the night.’

Ye need a seat. Yer pegs are cripplin ye. So ye tap yer way roon a corner. This train’s no too busy, ye could fair swing a cat in here. Ye swing yer cane fur a laugh. CLUNK. What was that? Ye reach doon and run yer haun along the tap of a…

What IS this? Ye can smell the leather aff it. At first, ye think it’s a suitcase but it’s the wrang shape. It’s right cauld and smooth and…Here, what’s these wee metal bits ye can feel at the side…

‘Do YE mind,’ squeals a guy wi a voice like he’s singing soprano. ‘Don’t touch my eenstrument!’

‘Nae danger,’ ye say. Ye ver’ near shit a brick and build a fuckin opera hoose. He sounds like a right gay boy. Ye sit wi yer arse clenched tight, right up against the back of the seat fur the rest of the journey. Yer no letting him anywhere near ye wi his instrument.

Ye can hear the fitba clowns singin and clappin in the next carriage, bevvied before they even get there. It’s Rangers versus Celtic and thir slagging a wee lassie who’s apparently wearin a Rangers tap. Fuckin animals. Yev got all this tae look forward tae on the way back.

The ticket guy comes roon and gies them intae bother. They settle doon. He’s staunin right in front of ye so ye haud up yer pass, but he doesnae even acknowledge ye. Ye know he’s there but, cause ye can hear him wi his wee clicker thing, clickin the tickets.

FIRST STOP: DALRY STATION.

The sound of fields. Moo fuckin moo, a big posse of coos traipse by. That’s the population of Dalry. Naebody goes there. Naebody wants tae. Ye got aff the train there one time by accident cause some clown announced it was Kilwinnin. A bloody hour ye had tae wait.

The soprano gets aff wi his instrument. He’s probably one of they poofs from the Harbour Arts Centre. Fuckin long haired arse bandits the lot of them. Good, ye can move up next tae the windae seat, noo.

GLENGARNOCK.

The hills are alive wi the sounds of shaggin. There’s nothin else tae dae here.

LOCHWINNOCH.

The doors swish open. A pair of high heels click-clack on by. A wummin sits doon facin ye. She’s got a wean wi her. A wee lassie. Ye can hear her gigglin and jumpin up and doon on the seat.

‘Mummy,’ she’s sayin, ‘That man’s got a big stick.’

Ye can hear the wummin shooshin her and threatening her wi nae sweeties.

‘Sit nice,’ she says, ‘What’ve ye been told? Bee-have. Leave the man’s stick alone.’

‘Aw, it’s o.k.’ ye tell her, ‘Weans are weans. Ah was the same.’

SURPRISE STOP.

Eh? What’s goin on? What are we stoppin fur? Better no have broke doon. Ye sit fur a minute, digging yer nails intae the furry seat cushions. At this rate, yer never goin tae get there. Ye must have miscounted. And they didnae even announce the station. That’s it, as soon as ye get back, yer goin tae write a letter of complaint.

‘Scuse me, could ye tell me what station this is?’

‘Howwood,’ says the miscellaneous wummin wi the high heels.

Aw fuckin Howwood. Fuckin bam. When did they build a station here?

‘Right, cheers.’

The wummin’s nice. She tells ye that she’s just taken the wean tae a nature walk in Lochwinnoch. The wee lassie’s called Lolly, short fur Louise. Ye shuffle in yer pockets and take out a smooth cauld coin. Feel roon the edges. Fifty pee.

‘Here, this is fur a wee sweetie, after ye eat yer dinner.’

MILLIKEN PARK.

The wummin and the wean get aff the train.

JOHNSTONE.

There’s fuck all at Johnstone. It’s just all neds that live there.

NEARLY THERE: PAISLEY GILMOUR STREET.

The train stops at Paisley. Ye can aye tell when yer at Paisley cause there’s a fish’n’chip shop right next tae the station. A big whiff of fish supper gets on the train and reminds ye that yer starvin. Ye think ye might have a bit of chewing gum left so ye delve intae yer shirt pockets, airms stickin out like a chicken, but ye canny find the bastard.

There’s somebody just came on wi a cat, they’ve probably got it in one of they boxes, maybe takin it tae the vet. Ye hope they don’t sit next tae ye cause it’s bad enough that the auld man dumped ye right next tae the pishy toilets, but yer no havin a fuckin mingin cat next tae ye as well.

Ye hear two lassies cluckin away at yer back. One of them smells like French vanilla ice cream and when she sits next tae ye, she brushes against yer airm.

Ooh la la! That fair warmed yer cockles.

‘Oh, watch ye don’t step on that bloke,’ says the other lassie.

'Sorry,’ says the vanilla girl.

She sits doon next tae ye, nudges yer knee wi hers and then sighs before goin back tae her interesting conversation. She’s got a voice like a velvet dream and ye could fair eat her up…covered in melted chocolate…Yer trying tae imagine what she’d look like, dressed in a sexy black French maid’s uniform. Black knee high stockins, sheer stretch nylon, satin finish - Ye wouldnae mind gieing her one wi yer French stick!

Ye turn yer back tae her and lick yer finger on the sly, flatten doon that wee bit of hair that aye sticks up then ye manoeuvre yerself just a wee bit closer and stretch one airm tae kid on that yer yawnin, so’s ye can hear better. Then ye slide yer cane doon the side the seat, just so’s she doesnae see it.

That English burd has a really annoyin accent. Manchester or somethin. Ye hate the fuckin English. It’s the way they talk. She keeps sayin ‘Me mam this’ and ‘Ar Tony’ that. ‘Ar Tony’ just moved intae one of those new independent living flats by himself. ‘Ar Tony’ just got a dog. ‘Ar Tony’ is finding it a struggle on his own but he’s coping. Ye wish she’d just shut up aboot ‘Ar Tony’. He sounds like a right sad case.

‘Ar is the tai chi classes comen along then?’

‘Aye, good,’ says vanilla girl, ‘I can dae seven new positions.’

Ye smile tae yerself. Ye want tae turn roon and tell her that there’s nae need tae try and impress ye.

ARRIVAL: GLASGOW CENTRAL

Ye can tell that vanilla girl really fancies ye by the way she keeps leanin in and touchin yer leg. Ye want tae ask fur her phone number but her manky pal’s there so ye decide tae just leave it fur the day. Ye put yer haun up yer sleeve and feel the silver bumps on yer watch. Five tae seven. Ye were supposed tae meet that guy on the platform twenty-five minutes ago. What’s the chances he’ll still be there?

Ye wait till the lassies get aff the train then run yer haun doon the side of the seat. Shit. Yer cane’s no there. Ye get doon on yer hauns and knees and start pattin the clatty…

‘Ex-scoose meee,’ says the ticket clown, ‘Is there a problem?’

He knows fine well ye canny see but makes nae attempt tae try and help ye. It’s the same clown that treated ye like ye were invisible when he was clickin the tickets, earlier. Ye tell him that ye canny find yer cane. He stamps away then comes back aboot five minutes later.

‘It’s not on the train,’ he says.

‘Ah had it on the seat, it must’ve rolled…’

'It’s nowhere on this train.’

Ye want tae ask him if he’s got any idea who’d steal a fuckin cane because ye had it five minutes ago when those lassies were here. Ye feel like greetin but ye don’t want tae gie the bastard the satisfaction. This has been a shite day, yer late fur yer appointment and yev nae idea how yer getting hame. The ticket clown has just farted, ye can smell it.

He clears his throat, ‘Sir,’ he says, ‘This is the last stop.’

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Lynsey Calderwood has forgotten more about dialect transcription than anyone else will ever learn.