My name is Jo, and I’m studying English and Journalism at the University of Stirling.
I’m 21 years old and have only recently rediscovered my love for creative writing, putting pen to paper (on something other than essay writing) for the first time since leaving school.
The story below is somewhat inspired by the town I grew up in. Having been listed as one of the most-deprived areas in Scotland, Greenock has slowly shut down over the years. My story draws from this negativity and the sadness that I’ve felt as I’ve watched my home town become increasingly destitute.
However, I say ‘somewhat inspired’ for a reason: Greenock is also a place full of inspiring stories and wonderfully interesting characters and settings, which I very much look forward to exploring in future writing.
I have been here once before, years ago.
We had taken our nana for lunch a few weeks after Papa died. She wore a stained blouse and seemed quiet, but somehow the company and greasy food conjured a smile. An afternoon away from a widow’s loneliness would do that, I suppose.
Now, under the haze of ageing lampshades and the caliginosity of night, the pub is different.
It sits in the centre of town, where the light of the clock tower casts an amber tint over the vacant streets and cobblestone roads. I hate that clock: it has been stuck at twelve minutes past three since long before I left, and it used to confuse me when I was learning to tell the time.
The laminated menus stick to the table, except at their curling corners. My chair wobbles and the material scratches through my tights, creating an itch which manners don’t permit me to scratch. The air is stale and there’s a smell that I can’t quite figure out, perhaps an ancient mixture of spilled drinks and tobacco that has seeped into the very being of the building.
Nostalgia is the only reason I can think of for them choosing this place to meet; memories they hold of late nights and stumbling home, whilst I was locked away in my dorm. University was isolating, but I was determined not to get stuck here, and a degree was the first step in making sure that didn’t happen.
I’m getting a drink. They’re late and I need something to tide me over.
The bar’s surface is damp from all the unattended glasses that have accumulated throughout the day, sweating their condensation onto the surface below.
“Do you serve cocktails?”
The bartender laughs in my face.
“I’ll have a whisky, then. Over ice, please.”
When in Greenock, as they say.
The only other person at the bar is a woman, hunched over and clutching a half-empty wine bottle. Something about her makes me uncomfortable.
Her hair is short, with large chunks of dandruff and grey strands protruding sporadically, like an old scrubber brush. Yellowing under the armpits, her white shirt sits untucked from her trousers which are torn and damp at the bottom. The ring on her left hand, though, I recognise.
“Miss Sharp?”
The news of her engagement had spread fast around the school, but it was those of us in sixth year who were most excited. After all, we had teased her relentlessly about him back when they had first met. I was one of the first to find out, because she taught my first class on a Monday.
She turns to me wearing a far off look which morphs into recognition, and crooked teeth show through a stained, red-wine smile.
“Little Janey Moffat. Last I heard you were living it up in the big city. Wh-”
She cuts herself off with a hiccup, jolts forward and for a moment I think she’s going to be sick. Then she finishes, “Why the fuck would you come back here?”
Her accent is harsh, with a twang that I haven’t heard in a long time. This is not a version of Miss Sharp that I’ve seen before.
The one I knew was sweet and sensible, an amazing teacher without whom I wouldn’t be who I am today. She was supportive, passionate, driven. She was not the type to get drunk alone in a pub, mid-week.
“I’m in town for a couple of days, supposed to be meeting some friends here. You remember Hannah, don’t you? Hannah Marsh?”
“Was that the wee girl wi the pink hair?”
“That’s the one.”
She might still have pink hair, for all I know. It’s been ages since we saw each other.
“You two always talked too much.”
Oh, the irony.
“Do you still teach?”
She lets out a loud scoff and chuckles, “Aye right.”
She moves a seat closer to me and leans in, so near that I can smell her pungent breath. For the first time, I get a proper look into her eyes. They’re bloodshot and heavy, as though she’s spent the last couple of hours crying, and the dark bags that hang from underneath make it look like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Purple veins map the deterioration of her face.
Saliva dribbles out from the creases at the edge of her mouth as she speaks, following them down her chin and onto her shirt, where diluted red blotches decorate her collar.
“Them fuckers chucked me when Joe died.”
She never did tell us his name, not even when they’d gotten engaged.
“How long had you two been married?”
She recoils, disgusted.
“Married? Why would I marry my son?”
My ears start to burn.
“I’m so sorry, I- I didn’t realise you’d had any children. I thought you were talking about your husband.”
“Aye, well, he’s gone too. He never stuck around for long after it happened.”
“After what happened?”
Too curious for my own good. Always have been.
“He- Joe, he was missin for six and a half months. They found him in an old farm house up the hills…suicide.”
She struggles to get that last part out.
We used to walk those hills with the school for charity, the sixth years would dress up and help look after the first years. Hannah and I went as Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
“I’m surprised you didn’t know. It was all over the place when they finally managed to track him down. The folk fae the paper wouldn’t leave us alone.”
I had stopped listening to local news. Too many fiftieth wedding anniversaries and baby photos. A waste of my time.
“Must have missed the headlines that week. Work is always keeping me busy, I barely have any time to myself.”
A grunt to acknowledge me, then she turns her attention once again to the wine bottle. I keep staring at her; I can’t help it.
The scraping of my whisky glass being pushed across the bar distracts me.
“It’s been nice to see you again, Miss Sharp.”
I move back to my sticky, empty table and take a gulp of my drink. My mouth is terribly dry.
Featured Image Credit: Culturetrip.com / Flickr user ctj71081
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