EVAN LAW – After graduating from his Linguistics & English Language degree last year, Evan has been enjoying making the time to rekindle his passion for writing and recalibrating what he wants to express. Coloured by his upbringing in West Lothian, he is interested in how the image of a contemporary Scotland can be negotiated between the extremes of the branded, mythologised cultural export and the deprecating report of social deprivation. This collective affinity for both Scottish Exceptionalism and Scottish Cringe serves as frequent muse for him. More generally, his tastes favour speculative fiction, bleak children’s media, Another Flavour by The Sundays, and a Murdoch Allan buttery.

 

It’s Fur the Weans

 

Ma granny keeled err at Easter. Ah goat a row fur sayin that roon ma maw an da, that yer meant tae say she passed away or we lost her or other shite lit that. There’s a few reasons ah’ve no been yaisin that kinnae talk, namely: Wan, we didny lose her so much as she lost her fittin oot the back gairden, so Two, she quite literally did jist keel err an die, an Three, her ain pals that died ae heart attacks, cancer, covid and the like were aw solemnly mourned ba her as huvin keeled err anaw. Ma da telt me no tae wind up ma maw, an that it wis her mither to grieve how she wanted tae. It wis ma gran aswell but.

 

She wis active year roon, but the Spring intae Summer period wis her at her peak. She started in April wae a big fuck off Easter bash, pure gazebos an egg decoration an hunts. Aw tasteful like, according tae her, no lit the Proddy wans who never even kent the first hing aboot Easter an jist goat blootered. Ah personally dinny ken anycunt who gits pished at Easter bar ma da, but he’s steamin at Wester, Northster, an Southster anaw if ye git wit ah’m sayin. Granny wis auld school an wid start oan ye if ye let oan ye cared mare aboot the sweeties an presents at Easter an Christmas than the religious significance, but it wis clear she didny exactly object tae spoilin us rotten either. That never happened this year, obviously.

 

Coupla days afore the Sunday, ma Uncle Eck, ma maw, an ma Aunty Caroline were aw geein ma gran a hawn wae loadin chocolate eggs intae ma maw’s motor, so she could divvy them oot oan her behalf. There’s eighteen grandweans, and half ae us huv weans ae oor ain, so there wis a gid thirty or so eggs fur delivery. As ma maw minds it, they had a wee production line gawn where, cause the parking at ma gran’s bit is a nightmare an ye hud tae park five minutes away, they’d each carry a few at a time while ma gran sorted which eggs were gawn tae which hoose. That rotation, she says, worked well. Till, upon Eck’s return, he foond ma gran kippin oan the slabs, wae a few manglet Cadbury’s boxes unner her. She wis away wae it, an still bletherin away, but the blood pure freaked him oot. She passed away in the ambulance.

 

Course it’s been a fuckin mental scrap ever since. The only hing the three ae them agree oan is that ma gran laughed aw cheeky like an went “noo, who pit they buckin eggs there?”.

 

Ma maw blamed Eck, who she wis sure wis leaving his share oan the back step so that “wan ae us fannies could dae the traipsin aboot fur him”. Rocket. Ma Uncle Eck, mare reasonably took ma gran’s comment as a confession ae her ain daftness, an absolution. Less reasonably, he took ma maw’s contempt and suspicion as an allegation ae some sort ae…foul play.

 

“Ah hud some sort ae issue wae yer maw, is that wit yer sayin, Elaine? An a stuck ma fit oot. Or gied her a wee poke. Played bastardin jenga wae the chocolate boxes? Coupla banana peels anaw. Ya arse.” Ah heard him doonstair wan time.

 

His rage had ma maw gunnin fur him even mare, which tae be honest, wis prolly jist a release ae a decade ae resentment fae her.

 

“If the shoe fits, Eck, ye wear it. An ye’ve been wearin they fuckin clown shoes ever since ah’ve kent ye. That’s aw ah’m sayin. Ye didny hink tae shift some boxes away fae an eighty-eight year auld’s gairden path, naw?”

 

An it’s been gawn oan lit that fur the past three months. Ma poor Aunty Caroline’s been shot wae nerves ever since. She’s goat it in her heid that it wis her who left the eggs oan the back step an she canny mind if she telt her maw or no. She canny be mare than mid-forties, but she’s so gone ye’d hink she wis demented. Her an Derek huv three weans, aw unner fifteen, so he’s huvin tae work daft hoors while she’s signed aff wae the stress.

 

So, ah guess ye could say that wis granny’s biggest Easter event yet. Oot wae a bang. Or a splat. Crack. Keel err. At the funeral, ma big cousin made a sheepish joke aboot her resurrecting fae the coffin three days oan. Rolling the stone away, except it’d be that tacky headstone. Uncle Tam as oor Doubting Thomas. It wis quality patter, fantastic material, ah thought. Ah started to crease, but ma Uncle Tam slapped Ollie square across the coupon after he said it, an the day wis back tae bein door as fuck.

 

Normally after Easter, gran fired right intae May, in which ten oot ae eighteen ae the OG grandweans’ birthdays were. She liked tae pit in loads ae graft fur each ae oor birthdays, mare than oor maws n das did tae be honest. Buffets, cakes, cash, buntin – it felt lit ye were oan wan ae they stupit American Sweet Sixteenth shows where lit Aretha Franklin or somecunt wid jist be there. Well mibby no as big names since we’re in a deed mining toon, so the likes a Michelle McManus wid be mare realistic. Even then, a hink ah’d pass oan that. Suffice tae say, nae such birthdays were celebrated this year. Ma cousins Gemma an Sophie were at uni up north, and Stefan wis away galavantin in Germany. The other seven ae them goat hee haw apart fae the two primary age wans, an even they were jist a wee trip tae the pictures or suhin. Ma birthday’s in August, an nane ae the others’ are, which as a wee boy ah loved. At twitty-three noo, ah still love it, but a ken it’ll no be the same withoot ma gran tae make a big deal aboot it.

 

It’s June noo. The final stretch ae ma gran’s hospitality talents wid culminate at the gala-day. It’s a day fur the weans tae celebrate community pride wae fancy-dress an a themed procession roon the streets. Tunes, sweeties, the shows, races. Jist a class day if yer the right age fur it. An if yer no the right age, yer the right age tae get absolutely fuckin mortal. Up tae this year, and prolly longer hud God allowed it, ma gran wid, wae a wee twinkle in her eye, ask “Ye’ll be comin back fur the gala-day, eh?”. There wis only ever wan right answer.

 

An too right cause it wis some bloody spread she’d pit oan. If ye thought the birthdays were big, the gala-day wis suhin else. Ma gran’s hoose wisny even that big, but the capacity fur attendance wis ostensibly unlimited. Days in advance, she’d draft in aw the wummin an delegate roll-butterin tae so-an-so, pie collection tae Aunty Random, an gie the probationers cutlery countin or dilutin juice makin. Nane ae them could be particularly arsed wae the faff, but they could be particularly mare arsed wae upsetting ma gran. Ma maw wid go “Yer no needin tae dae aw this, ye ken that eh?”, an ma gran, wae a martyrdom ae ambiguous sincerity, wid simply go “Och, it’s fur the weans.”

 

After the procession, the entire family wid go roon. The five weans. That is, ma maw, Caroline, Tam, Paul, an Trisha. It should be six, but ma Aunty Val went apeshit ten year ago when ma granda died an hasny been aboot since. That’s how Eck’s still cutting aboot, lookin’ after the weans. It sounds lit a shitshow when ah relay it aw back, which it is, but it’s aw water under the bridge ah suppose. Any tensions ae the year were diluted by the summonin ae cousins, partners, relatives ancient an infant, posties, butchers. Fur better or worse, anycunt wis welcome.

 

 

When ah wis wee-er, these gaffs used tae be a bit mare ae a laugh but suhin hud changed in the past few year. Ma uncles an aunties wid chat away happily tae me asking me about life an that, an it felt genuine enough, if a bit superficial. Towards the end ae uni, when ah’d show up as a young man an no a spotty wee laddie, they’d struggle tae talk tae me. Wit wis previously an interest in their nephew’s dreams wis noo mare ae a sizin up, seein if a wis competition fur them. Joabs were scarce roon oor way, but dreams were even rarer. Pure anxious like, if ye were protective wae yer ambitions they’d probe till ye caved. If ye dreamed ae middle management, ye were a threat, if ye dreamed ae the city or the arts, ye were delusional. An if ye didny ken wit ye wanted tae dae, ye needed tae sort yer life oot an get in a trade.

 

 

It wis a reckoning. If ye were expected and didny show, ye’d better huv a gid excuse. Otherwise, hell mend ye. That’s prolly why ah’m here the day. Habit, obligation, respect. Ah did promise ah’d be back fur the gala-day. Ah’m no even convinced she herself willny make an appearance still. But ah’m too feart tae show face at the hoose. No cause ah’m feart folk’ll be there, but cause ah’m feart they’ll no be.

 

So ah’m sat oan the waltzers, half-cut, jist gittin absolutely cunted aboot while a foreign accent barks “Screaaaam if you wanna gooooo fastaaaaaaa”. Skint lit ah’m fourteen again, ah hink ye shouldae went tae Danger Night. Instead ah’m shellin oot eight quid a go oan the Tagada. Fuckin hell. Ah wonder if it wis true that Danger Night wis so cheap cause ye were gittin guinea-pigged tae see if the rides were awright or if they’d send ye fleein. A pound fur a catapult sounded awright tae me noo but.

 

Throughout the night, ah see a few folk I kent in primary school. If they talk tae me, ah’ll talk tae them, but maist ae them huv wee wans wae them so ah leave them be otherwise. Ah’m queuein fur the dodgems fur prolly wit should be the last time the night when ah git a tap oan the back.

 

“John? Thought that wis you! How ye doin?”

 

It’s Stefan.

 

“You no supposed tae be in Deutschland, mate?” ah say, a bit less friendly than ah meant. He’s aboot four year aulder than me, an we were closer as laddies but it’s borderin oan awkward wae how long it’s been.

 

“That I am. Canny miss the gala-day but, can ah?”

 

It’s defos the drink but ah nearly start greetin. Savin me fae the riddy, he goes “So, wit ye been up tae?”

 

“Well, ah’m back fur the gala-day anaw. Ah’ve no shown face wae the rest ae them yet though ken, just wae everyhin that’s-”

 

“Naw, mate. Wit huv you been up tae?”

 

Ah’d forgotten how sound he wis. We catch up oan the dodgems jist pure rammin intae folk an chattin absolute guff. We finished aff a poke ae chips an stood ootside the scary funhoose. It wis a bit intense fur young wans, but ah kent it hadny bothered me back then. A group ae cacklin witches, animatronic vultures, crumblin gravestones. A meek voice mumbles fae the booth, belongin tae a specky wee boy. Baith ae us crease err, when he goes “Sorry gents, this wan’s jist…

it’s fur the weans”.