Deed But No Buried
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: No experience is lost on a writer...
_____________________________________________________________________
“Where is she man?” I said to the barman. “She’ll be there pal, patients n that,” he replied with a reassuring certainty. I’d come to the Southsider pub in Newington looking for inspiration. I’d heard a story about a woman who fed pigeons from the window of her second floor flat whilst her neighbour tried to shoo them away from the window next door. Apparently the two pensioners had been at it for years and the story had taken root in local folklore. It was said that you could never see the women’s faces, the windows were low in the room and both covered by eighties looking net curtains, so all you could see is two aged arms coated in pastel knitted cardigan slapping at each other from the safety of their own respective windows. I decided to write an article about the two warring pensioners for the Leither magazine. I stared up at the motionless net curtains and the lifeless rooftop below, sipping a pint of lager (sipping because I couldn’t afford a second) waiting for the battle to begin.
The Southsider decided to provide me with a story, but not the one I was expecting. The patrons who frequented the bar consisted of old men who had made it their local over the years and young students who liked that it was ‘different’ from student bars; they seemed to have the delusion that this was real Edinburgh. These middle England twats had never been further than the Omni Centre at the top of Leith Walk, anything past that was a bit too real for them. Trainspotting put Leith on the map, but middle class students now thought its population were all Francis Begbies.
I sat facing the window lost in my thoughts and trying not to finish my pint. An old timer sat in the booth just to the left of me drank from a magic pint of Guinness that never seemed to recede no matter how many giant gulps he took. Two minutes later the old guy was joined by his pal, bringing with him a large whisky and a jug of water. This is where this story begins. I’m sure that on any other day the pigeon woman would be the most interesting thing about the Southsider but not this day. Brian Collins, the man with the magic Guinness, was a burly guy of around fifty-five, I guessed. His hands were large, rough and worked; they looked like they’d been putting bread on the table for a long time. A proud looking man, clean shaven, smart grey trousers and a blue jersey topped off with a flat cap. His pal Jimmy Jackson, in stark contrast, looked like he’d just been down the mines and was on his lunch break. His face was grey and harsh and his eyes colourless. The beige trousers he was wearing were littered with holes and the thread from the seams of his pockets hung down his leg like the branches of a weeping willow, topped off with a white t-shirt yellowed by tobacco and soup stained.
“How y de’in big yin?” Jimmy started
“No bad Jimmy pal, ya sel?”
“Aye am gid, cauld the day though, eh?”
“Aye there’s a fair breeze oot there the morn.”
Then the conversation took a turn past reality street and up surrealism avenue.
“How’s that daft bird of yours, Elaine?” said Jimmy looking less than interested.
“She’s deed.”
“What d’ya mean deed?”
“A mean deed, broon breed, no longer of this world n awe that.”
“Y mean proper deed, as in deed n buried?”
“Nah just deed, no buried.”
“How d’ya mean no buried? Still in the morgue aye?”
“Nah, she’s in the hoose eh.”
“In the hoose? What the fuck’s she de’in in the hoose?”
“Fuck all Jimmy she’s deed.”
“Why’ve y no had her buried?”
“Are y winding me up? She signed the paper; til death do us part n that.”
“But she’s deed Brian”
“Aye but am no, impatient bastard could’ve waited fi us.”
“How long’s she been deed?”
“A fortnight, she’s in the bath.”
“In the bath?”
“Aye, in formaldehyde.”
“Fucking hell Brian, deed wife in a bath of formaldehyde, are y kidding me on?”
“I’m deed serious, pardon the pun.”
“Haha, so you’re just gonna keep til you pop y clogs aye?”
“Aye, n that’ll no be happenin until I see the Hibbies win the league again.”
“Haha, y’ve got mair chance of seein Maggie Thatcher being carried doon Princes Street in a golden chair by four ex-miners y radge.”
“Doss jammy cunt,” Brian scowled at Jimmy.
Jimmy went to the bar and ordered another large whisky and a pint of Guinness. He looked confused on his way to the bar. On his way back there was a look of intrigue on his face. I’d describe my feeling at the time as shock.
“So ay...what’s it like?” Jimmy said in a prolonged growl.
“Och it’s barry mate eh.”
“Aye?”
“Aye man, y ken how I feel aboot a quiet life eh, nae complainin when am watchin the fitbaw, nae need to make two cups of tea everytime a fancy yin, nae haven’t ti sit through the soaps, nae one snoring like a foghorn in the bed.”
Oh flower of Scotland when will we seeeee..... Jimmy’s phone started to ring to the tune of the national anthem:
“I’m just having a quiet pint wi Brian.”
..............................................................
“Aye I’ll be home the now.”
..............................................................
“Aye man nae bother, loaf of breed and a pint a milk? Nae bother.”
..............................................................
“Aye man stop your blethering, I’m supping up now.”
..............................................................
Jimmy put the phone back in his pocket.
“N best of all, nae belling when I’m in the pub haha,” Brian chuckled.
“Sounds awfy gid that like, I’m a wee bit jealous y ken. But what aboot when folk starting asking questions n that?”
“Dinnae worry aboot that, I’ve got it doon tae an art. If any fucker phones for her, I take a wee message and then I call back and fake a lassie’s voice.”
“N that works aye?”
“Aye nae bother eh, these call centre cunts havnae a clue.”
“What aboot her pals?”
“She’s got nen eh, she’s been agroooo..... aye........... arachnoooo.... aye...... agoraphobic for years eh.”
“Fuck does that mean likes?”
“Means she was scared to go oot the hoose man. Only the daft wifey next door bothered wi her eh but I’ve sorted that n’aw.”
“Well.........?” Jimmy says
“Well what?” Brian replies looking confused
“Mon tae, d y shag her?”
“Get t fuck y pervert, I’ve not poked that in years man.”
“Bloody hell Brian you seems t have this sorted eh, y lucky fucker.”
“Aye am fair pleased wi ma sel likes.”
It’s fair to say by this point I was enthralled, this was the most amazing conversation I’d ever heard. They seemed so blasé about the entire affair. Jimmy sat up from his chair and headed for the door, presumably in a hurry to get home before the wife rang again. Two minutes later Brian got up and headed in the same direction. I had been so deep into the conversation I had forgotten to drink my pint, there was still a good half left. I sat and supped it while frantically writing down the conversation in my notepad. I had told the Leither magazine about the pigeon pensioner story but I was sure they’d be equally happy with this. I finished my pint fifteen minutes later and hurriedly put my jacket on, getting tangled up in the arms as I headed for the door, I couldn’t wait to get this typed up. As I stepped out of the door, drizzle hitting my face, I looked up to see the arm of the pigeon lady. She was passing bread to the birds. The arm was dressed in pastel blue pullover that looked tight. The roof below her windows was now a sea of pigeons. I watched as a hand appeared from the window next door followed by an arm dressed in a pink pastel cardigan. The bodiless arm began to waft indiscriminately amongst the ugly birds. Something seemed strange about the pigeon pensioner, her hands seemed awfully big and rough to be that of an old woman, her arms broad and muscular.....No way, it couldn’t be, could it?
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: No experience is lost on a writer...
_____________________________________________________________________
“Where is she man?” I said to the barman. “She’ll be there pal, patients n that,” he replied with a reassuring certainty. I’d come to the Southsider pub in Newington looking for inspiration. I’d heard a story about a woman who fed pigeons from the window of her second floor flat whilst her neighbour tried to shoo them away from the window next door. Apparently the two pensioners had been at it for years and the story had taken root in local folklore. It was said that you could never see the women’s faces, the windows were low in the room and both covered by eighties looking net curtains, so all you could see is two aged arms coated in pastel knitted cardigan slapping at each other from the safety of their own respective windows. I decided to write an article about the two warring pensioners for the Leither magazine. I stared up at the motionless net curtains and the lifeless rooftop below, sipping a pint of lager (sipping because I couldn’t afford a second) waiting for the battle to begin.
The Southsider decided to provide me with a story, but not the one I was expecting. The patrons who frequented the bar consisted of old men who had made it their local over the years and young students who liked that it was ‘different’ from student bars; they seemed to have the delusion that this was real Edinburgh. These middle England twats had never been further than the Omni Centre at the top of Leith Walk, anything past that was a bit too real for them. Trainspotting put Leith on the map, but middle class students now thought its population were all Francis Begbies.
I sat facing the window lost in my thoughts and trying not to finish my pint. An old timer sat in the booth just to the left of me drank from a magic pint of Guinness that never seemed to recede no matter how many giant gulps he took. Two minutes later the old guy was joined by his pal, bringing with him a large whisky and a jug of water. This is where this story begins. I’m sure that on any other day the pigeon woman would be the most interesting thing about the Southsider but not this day. Brian Collins, the man with the magic Guinness, was a burly guy of around fifty-five, I guessed. His hands were large, rough and worked; they looked like they’d been putting bread on the table for a long time. A proud looking man, clean shaven, smart grey trousers and a blue jersey topped off with a flat cap. His pal Jimmy Jackson, in stark contrast, looked like he’d just been down the mines and was on his lunch break. His face was grey and harsh and his eyes colourless. The beige trousers he was wearing were littered with holes and the thread from the seams of his pockets hung down his leg like the branches of a weeping willow, topped off with a white t-shirt yellowed by tobacco and soup stained.
“How y de’in big yin?” Jimmy started
“No bad Jimmy pal, ya sel?”
“Aye am gid, cauld the day though, eh?”
“Aye there’s a fair breeze oot there the morn.”
Then the conversation took a turn past reality street and up surrealism avenue.
“How’s that daft bird of yours, Elaine?” said Jimmy looking less than interested.
“She’s deed.”
“What d’ya mean deed?”
“A mean deed, broon breed, no longer of this world n awe that.”
“Y mean proper deed, as in deed n buried?”
“Nah just deed, no buried.”
“How d’ya mean no buried? Still in the morgue aye?”
“Nah, she’s in the hoose eh.”
“In the hoose? What the fuck’s she de’in in the hoose?”
“Fuck all Jimmy she’s deed.”
“Why’ve y no had her buried?”
“Are y winding me up? She signed the paper; til death do us part n that.”
“But she’s deed Brian”
“Aye but am no, impatient bastard could’ve waited fi us.”
“How long’s she been deed?”
“A fortnight, she’s in the bath.”
“In the bath?”
“Aye, in formaldehyde.”
“Fucking hell Brian, deed wife in a bath of formaldehyde, are y kidding me on?”
“I’m deed serious, pardon the pun.”
“Haha, so you’re just gonna keep til you pop y clogs aye?”
“Aye, n that’ll no be happenin until I see the Hibbies win the league again.”
“Haha, y’ve got mair chance of seein Maggie Thatcher being carried doon Princes Street in a golden chair by four ex-miners y radge.”
“Doss jammy cunt,” Brian scowled at Jimmy.
Jimmy went to the bar and ordered another large whisky and a pint of Guinness. He looked confused on his way to the bar. On his way back there was a look of intrigue on his face. I’d describe my feeling at the time as shock.
“So ay...what’s it like?” Jimmy said in a prolonged growl.
“Och it’s barry mate eh.”
“Aye?”
“Aye man, y ken how I feel aboot a quiet life eh, nae complainin when am watchin the fitbaw, nae need to make two cups of tea everytime a fancy yin, nae haven’t ti sit through the soaps, nae one snoring like a foghorn in the bed.”
Oh flower of Scotland when will we seeeee..... Jimmy’s phone started to ring to the tune of the national anthem:
“I’m just having a quiet pint wi Brian.”
..............................................................
“Aye I’ll be home the now.”
..............................................................
“Aye man nae bother, loaf of breed and a pint a milk? Nae bother.”
..............................................................
“Aye man stop your blethering, I’m supping up now.”
..............................................................
Jimmy put the phone back in his pocket.
“N best of all, nae belling when I’m in the pub haha,” Brian chuckled.
“Sounds awfy gid that like, I’m a wee bit jealous y ken. But what aboot when folk starting asking questions n that?”
“Dinnae worry aboot that, I’ve got it doon tae an art. If any fucker phones for her, I take a wee message and then I call back and fake a lassie’s voice.”
“N that works aye?”
“Aye nae bother eh, these call centre cunts havnae a clue.”
“What aboot her pals?”
“She’s got nen eh, she’s been agroooo..... aye........... arachnoooo.... aye...... agoraphobic for years eh.”
“Fuck does that mean likes?”
“Means she was scared to go oot the hoose man. Only the daft wifey next door bothered wi her eh but I’ve sorted that n’aw.”
“Well.........?” Jimmy says
“Well what?” Brian replies looking confused
“Mon tae, d y shag her?”
“Get t fuck y pervert, I’ve not poked that in years man.”
“Bloody hell Brian you seems t have this sorted eh, y lucky fucker.”
“Aye am fair pleased wi ma sel likes.”
It’s fair to say by this point I was enthralled, this was the most amazing conversation I’d ever heard. They seemed so blasé about the entire affair. Jimmy sat up from his chair and headed for the door, presumably in a hurry to get home before the wife rang again. Two minutes later Brian got up and headed in the same direction. I had been so deep into the conversation I had forgotten to drink my pint, there was still a good half left. I sat and supped it while frantically writing down the conversation in my notepad. I had told the Leither magazine about the pigeon pensioner story but I was sure they’d be equally happy with this. I finished my pint fifteen minutes later and hurriedly put my jacket on, getting tangled up in the arms as I headed for the door, I couldn’t wait to get this typed up. As I stepped out of the door, drizzle hitting my face, I looked up to see the arm of the pigeon lady. She was passing bread to the birds. The arm was dressed in pastel blue pullover that looked tight. The roof below her windows was now a sea of pigeons. I watched as a hand appeared from the window next door followed by an arm dressed in a pink pastel cardigan. The bodiless arm began to waft indiscriminately amongst the ugly birds. Something seemed strange about the pigeon pensioner, her hands seemed awfully big and rough to be that of an old woman, her arms broad and muscular.....No way, it couldn’t be, could it?
About the Author
Lee Carrick is 25. Originally from Newcastle, he now lives in Edinburgh. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write short stories and his first novel. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors.
Lee’s blog can be found at http://scheemieintheroom.tumblr.com. His poetry can also be read at http://writers-network.com/members/carrick.
Lee’s blog can be found at http://scheemieintheroom.tumblr.com. His poetry can also be read at http://writers-network.com/members/carrick.