Artists Town

ARE YOU THE COOL GIRL HERE? The A75, August 1990“When I’m eighteen and a proper, proper grown-up, the world will be at my feet; I won’t need to go anywhere I don’t want to. I’ll do what I wish all the time.” The thought must have flitted across her mind a hundred or so times in the last few hours. It began urgently, belligerently and then segued into what the eighteen-year-old Daisy would do with her freedom. She would not, no way in the whole wide world, sit in the back of a car heading for Nowheresville. This, she promised herself. The would not’s were easier to think up than the would’s. Her imagination found the alternatives trickier to flesh out. Maybe she and a mystery friend closed the front door behind them and darted off, parent-free, to seek out adventures. Perhaps they were parties. There might even be…boys. “Years ago, a lot of artists lived in this town.” Oh, God. Incoming, incoming dull info alert. Her father used his special voice, the ‘family, listen carefully; I’m going to tell you something interesting’ tone. Daisy wondered how her mother put up with it. Daisy had only endured it for the last ten years if you didn't count ages 0 – 5 when presumably she hadn't taken account of such things. Her mum, on the other hand, must have listened to him drone on for the last seventeen years. Urgh. She glanced out of the car window. The scenery hadn’t improved. Trees, fields, grass, water. Times twenty. It had looked the same for the last two hours. They had turned off the main road, the fields giving way to houses that gradually got closer together. A sign welcomed them to the town, her father informing them that the man pictured there was a saint, Cuthbert, and he carried the decapitated head of an olden-days king. Matthew, luckily for him, had fallen asleep at Carlisle. His head lolled, sometimes to the side, sometimes falling onto her shoulder. When it did, she shrugged it off as quickly as possible. Her mum turned in her seat now, her expression anxious and concerned. Daisy hated that. “Daisy, do you want to do a blood test, love? We haven’t done one since this morning.” We? What's this ‘we’ thing? I don't see you stabbing your finger to get it to bleed. “I'm all right.” She did her best to make her voice sound neutral. Too aggressive, and her mum would insist she does the test, convinced she knew better than her daughter. Too flat, the same thing. You couldn't bloody win when it came to sodding blood tests. The car had stopped outside a terraced house, its exterior displaying a sign: ‘Vacancies. Enquire within’. “Inquire.” “What's that, love?” They had all exited the car, Matthew having been shaken grumpily awake. The four of them stood in the street, looking up at the sign, Braemar Quality B&B. Vacancies. Enquire within. Quality was an optimistic description, Daisy reckoned. The place was tiny—the windows meanly small and draped with dirty-looking lace curtains. One curtain twitched, and the front door (red paint flaking) swung open. “Aye?” The woman crossed her arms. “Mrs Burnett?” Her dad embarrassed her all the time. Now he was doing it again. He said Mrs Burnett like, Ooh, Missis Burrrnettt. The woman looked at him scornfully throughout. “That’s me.” She stamped her feet on the mat, wiping them back and forth several times. “We’re the Walkers. We’re booked in for ten days?” “C’mon in. You’re early.” Daisy’s dad turned to face them and smiled widely, encouragingly. He followed Mrs Burnett into her B&B, making sure to wipe his feet as vigorously as she had. He, Daisy’s mum and Matthew traipsed upstairs, Mrs Burnett telling them when they could expect breakfast and what it included. “I will do you a Scottish cooked breakfast. But you need to ask the night before. One sausage, one rasher of bacon, one egg, beans and toast. Otherwise, cereal and fruit.” About to follow them, Daisy grimaced and then turned her head. A teenage girl lounged against the wall in the hallway, her expression louche. “Enquire/inquire?” She grinned. “You snotty wee cow.” Daisy, insulated from her own rudeness most of the time because she was too scared to say it out loud, grinned back. “Are you the cool girl here?” The cool girl smirked, her mouth moving up, stopping and then tilting upwards once more. It was almost a smile. “No.” She leant forward, the movement enabling her to whisper in Daisy’s ear. “You cannae be cool here. This place is a dump.” Daisy wondered if she meant Braemar Quality B&B or the town itself. ‘Dump’ could apply equally to both. The Quality B&B was no more impressive inside than it was out. It smelled of burnt toast, and the hall carpet had dirty footmarks on it. There were also lots of pictures of Scottie dogs, their cheeriness in complete contrast to their host. And the town? Well, she’d only seen a bit of it so far, and none of it included a cinema, clothes shops or a McDonald’s. The cool girl said she wasn’t cool. Daisy, however, had an instinct for cool girls: mainly because she wasn’t one. How could she be, her mother hovering anxiously over her all the time? And being dragged along on family holidays at her age. Daisy wasn’t one of her school’s in-crowd. She longed to be. “What’s your name?” Cool girl was back leaning against the wall, arms folded. “What’s it tae you, posh girl?” See, this is what cool girls did. Daisy answered questions straight, imbuing a questioner with automatic authority. As for being called posh; that was the worst insult, wasn’t it? Cool was never, ever posh. Greatly daring, she gave the cool girl the bird, pushing down on her forefinger hard to emphasise the gesture. Cool girl grinned again. “Katrina. Ma friends call me Kit-Kat. You can call me Katrina. And you? Lady something? Bo-peep?” “Daisy. My friends call me Daisy. You can call me Your Royal Highness.” Katrina laughed—the noise, a dark, dirty cackle that sounded weird coming from a teenage girl. Mrs Burnett had reappeared at the top of the landing, her three guests joining her to peer over the railing at Katrina and Daisy. “Kitty,” she said sharply. “You’ve no’ finished tidying up the back bedroom.” The girl looked up and then back at Daisy, who raised her eyebrows. “Lovely to meet you, Kitty,” emphasis on the word ‘Kitty’, the person in question responding with something only Daisy could see, a flip of the bird back at her. She started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Watching her go, Daisy admired her thin legs. She wore a printed dress, much shorter than Daisy would ever dare. As Katrina/Kitty reached the landing, the old woman startled Daisy by ruffling the girl’s hair. “Hurry up, aye? And then you can go out.” “Alright, Gran,” she replied. Daisy liked building up stocks of information on people. To date: rude teenage girl; knows about inquire/enquire; name Katrina (likely); known as Kit-Kat (in her dreams); called Kitty by everyone (yup); helps at the B&B, the B&B owner is her granny. “Come on up, Daisy!” Daisy’s mum did her best not to make it sound like an order. “We’d better get all your stuff unpacked.” Mrs Burnett looked at her first and then back at her mum. Daisy read her mind. What stuff? She’s only got a backpack on. She thought about flinging the rucksack up with the instruction: You unpack it then. Best not to. Upstairs, the décor was terrible. There were yet more Scottie dog pictures on the walls of the room she was in and several creepy china dogs on the mantelpiece above the fireplace and lots of china ladies in long dresses. Daisy felt like pushing them as far back on their shelves as possible. They seemed to teeter perilously close to the edge where small boys might knock into them and send them catapulting skywards and then downwards. The wallpaper print was enough to give her a headache. It clashed with the curtains and the carpet. And she was sharing with Matthew, who’d already bagged the bed next to the window. On the other hand, it was bigger than her room back home, and it was right next to the B&B’s bathroom. Daisy usually needed to get up once or twice during the night to go to the loo. At home, this meant traipsing all the way downstairs. Her mum opened the door now. “Right, we’d better ask Mrs Burnett to store your medication in the fridge. And get lunch. We’re a bit later than usual. Are you okay?” Daisy gave her the same “I’m fine” reply she’d delivered earlier, careful to avoid aggression or lethargy in her tone. Downstairs, Dad was already telling Mrs Burnett how much he liked what he’d seen of the town so far. She looked bored. Presumably, as a native, she knew the town’s charms. “Mrs Burnett?” Her mum sounded anxious. “Is there somewhere near here we can get something to eat?” Mrs Burnett glanced at the watch on her wrist and sighed, shaking her head regretfully. “Aye, well you’re a wee bit late for most places. They stop serving at two o’clock. Try the Gordon Arms and if no’, the chippie might still be open.” She looked offended when Daisy’s mum grimaced at the mention of the chippie. “Well,” Daisy’s dad clapped his hands together decisively. “I’m sure we’ll find something. Thanks so much for all your help, Mrs Burnett.” Mrs Burnett was back to staring at him scornfully. Maybe even she knew the help she had offered so far had been shit. “Well, see you later,” she opened the front door wide and shooed them out. As they spilt out on the street, Daisy’s dad remembered to shout back, “Where is the Gordon Arms, Mrs Burnett?” But the door had closed. The Walkers were expected to find their own way there.