November Cold | Short Story

My father disappears on the train between Neilston and Kilmarnock. He does this without leaving my side, without his elbows ever lifting from the plastic tabletop where they prop up his phone. Dad vanishes in a carriage busy with beery, jostling men talking to him about Killie’s injury crisis and whether I am his wee lassie.

In the pub Dad stands pint in hand, watching the horseracing. I’m given a packet of Quavers and the barmaid asks what time my mum is getting back from her Girls Night Out. Then, the weary walk through the terraced houses as the gloom gathers and the November cold creeps. Dad holds my hand loosely as the pavements become crowded.

At the stadium I tell Dad that I need a wee; he neither smiles nor frowns. He carries me over a floor awash with piss and stands with his back to me as I go.

On the terraces, breath plumes from what looks like a thousand, thousand mouths. I’m freezing even before the whistle – my fingertips hurt and my teeth chatter. I huddle as people – my dad included – make the wanker sign at the referee. Then, a rising tide, a hoarse chorus of ‘Go on then!’, an eruption of fists and noise and the players celebrating right in front of me!

And Dad, my dad again but not quite as before, bellowing in my face, his eyes wild as he lifts me up. He laughs, we laugh together, in the November cold.

Thanks for reading, folks. My recent short stories include ‘Sunset Hours‘ and ‘Crib Stuck‘.

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Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Cafelit, Best MicroFiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, The Wild Word, and Shooter magazine. He has a Professional Doctorate in Education. Matthew blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com.