Page 48 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter thirty-seven

The banner outside the Hyndland shop fluttered in the breeze, its shiny capital letters spelling out WELCOME BACK in gold against a pink background .

Daniel shivered, regretting his decision to leave his jacket at the office.

It might be July, but this was Scotland, where a coat could be as necessary in summer as in the dead of winter.

Joe emerged from the shop, a wrap in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. He took a hearty bite of the wrap, releasing a wave of pungent fumes. His latest culinary fixation was the shop’s homemade falafels, generously drenched in tahini garlic sauce, sauerkraut on the side.

Daniel took a discreet step forward, edging beyond the smell’s reach.

“Cannae lie,” Joe said, chewing as he spoke. “I’ve had ma total fill o’ the public.”

Daniel smiled. “Aye? What’ll you miss most about Glasgow’s fine folks?”

For the past seven weeks, Joe had been covering for Liza at the Hyndland shop. Today marked his last shift before returning to Stuffed! HQ for a few months, then heading off on his long-anticipated sabbatical.

Joe leant against the shopfront, gesturing with the wrap as if it were a pointer in a lecture.

“Och, where dae I even start? Is it the schoolkids fae that posh private school who all seem tae be called Tarquin or Sophie, jabbering away about how the olive oil here’s never as good as the stuff in Provence?

Or maybe it’s the West End mummies wanting aw the gluten-free stuff because they’re ‘wheat intolerant.’”

He raised his voice to a falsetto, mimicking one of the customers. “‘Oh, wheat makes me so gassy,’ they say, then gie me a look like I’ve dragged in dog shite when I ask, ‘Does that mean ye fart a lot?’ ”

Daniel snorted. Across the road, a dog barked, straining against its lead, as it leapt up, front paws paddling the air while its owner—a guy in a hoodie and black jeans—yelled at it to shut up.

Joe barrelled on, warming to his rant. “And dinnae get me started on the folk who ask for wraps wi’ five different fillings, then lose their minds when ye tell them the price.

‘Whit? For a silly wee sandwich?’ Even though there’s a massive sign above the counter telling them exactly how much everything costs!

“Tell ye what—ma respect for Liza, already high, is now double, triple, quadruple what it was. It’s a bloody miracle she doesnae bash someone o’er the heid wi’ a rolling pin every day.”

Joe took another bite of his wrap, a fresh wave of garlic fumes drifting back toward Daniel, who shuffled sideways again. Give it a few hours, and that heady mix of cabbage, garlic and chickpeas would be making its grand exit—an aromatic assault of fruity farts.

A Volkswagen Vista car pulled up. Liza leaned out of the open window, her face lit up with a wide grin.

“All right, Joe? Gaffer?”

Daniel stepped forward. Josh, Liza’s partner, sat in the passenger seat.

He raised a hand in a sluggish wave. Even that small gesture seemed to drain him.

Once, Josh’s sandy-blonde hair had been thick and lustrous.

Now, it clung to his scalp in thin, greasy strands, and his gaunt face—skin stretched too tightly over prominent bones—was a stark reminder of how close he’d come to death.

After the accident, he’d spent days in a medically induced coma, followed by extensive surgery.

A broken leg in three places, a dislocated shoulder, a shattered elbow, cracked ribs and a skin graft on his thigh had left him battered in every sense.

Weeks of gruelling rehabilitation had only recently brought him back to walking, though each step was a painful effort.

Liza had warned Daniel earlier. “When we show up, let him help me out of the car. It’ll take forever, but he cannae stand feeling helpless.”

Josh pushed the passenger door open and reached for the crutch that had become an extension of himself.

He climbed out slowly, limping as he made his way around the car.

His grimace deepened with every step, and Daniel had to fight the instinct to intervene, channelling his tension into a light-hearted exchange with Liza about how the Hyndland shop had gone downhill since Joe took over.

Josh popped open the boot. Inside lay Liza’s wheelchair, its bulk and awkwardness a challenge even for someone fully able-bodied. With a crutch propped against the car, Josh clung to the boot lid for balance as he wrestled the chair out, inch by painstaking inch.

A passing pedestrian shot a scathing look at Daniel and Joe, clearly horrified that they weren’t rushing to help. Daniel’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

The wheelchair hit the tarmac with a thud. Joe started forward, but Liza’s brisk shake of the head stopped him mid-step. He backed away before Josh could notice.

Crouching carefully, Josh steadied himself on his good leg and unfolded the chair with deliberate precision. He wheeled it to the driver’s side, where Liza already had the door open and her legs swung out, ready.

This part, at least, was routine. Liza twisted with practiced ease, shifting her weight until she landed firmly in the chair.

Josh grabbed the handles and pushed her down the short stretch of pavement to the shopfront. Liza glanced up at the banner strung across the entrance. Her expression twisted.

“Fuck’s sake! What a fuss over nothing.”

But the glassy sheen in her eyes betrayed her. Joe stepped forward, holding out a bouquet of flowers.

“Welcome back.”

He pulled out his phone. “Shall we take a wee photo to mark the occasion?”

No one seemed particularly enthused, but it would look good on Stuffed! ’s social media. Liza was a familiar face to the Hyndland regulars, and whatever Joe said about the locals, most of them were decent enough. They’d all been shocked to hear about the accident.

The photo was quickly snapped, Josh already back in the car by the time Daniel opened the shop door. They had half an hour until opening.

The shop had changed little in the past twenty years.

Like many buildings from the late 19th or early 20th century, it boasted soaring ceilings and a sense of quiet grandeur.

Shelves lined the walls, crammed with packets of pasta, bottles of olive oil, speciality flours and tins of beans and sardines.

Behind the tightly packed goods, glimpses of marbled blue and white tiles peeked through—just visible if you knew to look—leading the eye up to a ceiling ringed with intricate cornicing that spoke of a more elegant era.

Liza wheeled herself in, coming to a stop in front of the deli counter. In an unguarded moment during one of their recent phone calls, she’d confided in Daniel.

“I hate being a carer. Stuck at home, looking after everything. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Josh’s looked after me nearly a’ my adult life, and now it’s turn-about, and I cannae stand it.”

Now, she brushed her fingers against the glass-fronted cabinet like it was a museum artifact. “How’s turnover these days?”

Daniel filled her in on the stock and takings from the last two months while Joe disappeared into the back to find a vase for the flowers.

“And how’s Nell doing?” Liza asked, her tone casual but her eyes too intent.

“Aye, she’s fine,” Daniel replied quickly, steering the conversation away before she could dig any deeper. “Joe’s staying with you for the first few hours to get you up to speed. Will you manage after that?”

“I’ll be fine. Joe said Marty’s coming in later. I’ll hae him to boss around and dae the heavy lifting.”

Marty had worked in the shop nearly as long as Liza.

They were a bit of a double act—he handled the grunt work: stacking shelves, hauling down goods from the higher reaches, and keeping the place ticking over.

Liza took care of the rest: ordering stock, balancing the till and charming the customers with her brisk efficiency.

Joe reappeared, holding the flowers in a vase so large it covered half his torso. “Been testing some new sandwich and wrap combos this week. You wouldnae believe how popular they’ve been!”

Daniel and Liza exchanged sceptical glances. Joe’s tastes were far too eclectic to align with the mainstream.

Bidding them farewell, Daniel stepped into the brisk morning. Barky Dog Guy was still there, glued to his phone, while the staffie reared up on its hind legs again, the favoured breed of neds across Glasgow and beyond.

The guy glanced up, met Daniel’s eye and shot him a filthy look.

As the man shifted, his profile caught the light, and something niggled at Daniel’s memory. Clyde Confidential and its grainy front pages, the endless parade of alleged gangland figures. Was he one of the Kellys?

Daniel took another look, but the guy had already yanked his hood back up, leaving only the tip of his nose visible before he turned and strode off.

Ach, whatever. Daniel shook it off and headed east toward the office.

His route took him past a private nursery, where polished SUVs and glossy saloons lined up to deposit small children in miniature puffa jackets, their parents hurrying off to work.

A man about Daniel’s age stepped out of a sleek black Land Rover, a phone wedged between his ear and shoulder.

His voice carried across the pavement, clipped and irritated.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll make sure they don’t let him sleep.

If you’re that worried, maybe you should’ve dropped him off yourself instead of making me late for work. ”

He yanked open the back door and wrestled a wailing toddler out of a car seat—a boy no older than three, thrashing and screaming. “No, no! Don’t want to! Where’s Mummy? Mummy!”

Ignoring the child’s pleas, the man strode toward the nursery, his jaw tight. A low curse, which if it wasn’t, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” did an excellent job masquerading as it, escaped as the boy’s tiny fists pounded his shoulders.

Nearby, a woman stood holding the hand of a perfectly composed little girl dressed in a yellow-and-green sundress and matching hat.

She stared after the scene, her expression equal parts horrified and judgmental.

“Some people don’t deserve kids, do they?

” she remarked to no one in particular. “Did he think it was going to be easy?”

Her questions hung in the air, rhetorical. Daniel gave a noncommittal shrug and continued on his way.

What kind of father would he have made? He imagined himself in the Land Rover dad’s shoes, and the answer wasn’t flattering.

The past seven weeks had been the busiest of his life.

Liza’s absence had been a major factor, but it wasn’t the only one.

The long-shot supermarket pitch had resurfaced, just when it seemed like they’d missed their chance.

Joe and Holly had initially cancelled the bid after Josh’s accident, assuming the opportunity was lost. But the buyer had come back, surprisingly understanding.

“A key staff member’s absence due to personal circumstances—we can take that into account,” she’d told Daniel.

“Why not come to Leeds in a month and pitch the idea yourself?”

And so he had.

The effort paid off. Stuffed!’s organic hummus, sour cream and chive dip, and hand-cut crisps—flavours like salted, sea salt and balsamic vinegar, and vintage cheddar and onion—were about to hit the shelves in the supermarket’s branches across Scotland.

If things went well, the range could expand to stores across the UK next year.

It was a triumph for the business, but at what personal cost? The more he achieved, the clearer it became. Work consumed his life. Would he ever have time—or patience—for fatherhood? If the Land Rover dad was any indication, he wasn’t sure he would be any better.

In all that time, Nell hadn’t uttered a single objection to his broken promises. She never complained when he rose at five a.m. and didn’t return until eight, nine, sometimes ten at night. When he suggested working Sundays as well as Saturdays, she simply shrugged.

She’d even taken a week off in late June to accompany her parents on a trip to Newquay.

Cate had spent her childhood summers in Cornwall and had been reminiscing about the place more and more.

Nell and Bobby hoped that immersing her in those familiar surroundings might not restore her memory but at least bring her some happiness.

A van roared past, windows down, blasting a late ’90s hit dubbed a drinking anthem, though the songwriter had never meant it that way. The song triggered a memory so vivid it stopped him in his tracks, a longing for the past so intense it left him sighing. On a whim, he pulled out his phone.

“Nell?”

“Hey, you. How was Liza’s first day back at work?”

“Fine. Listen… d’ye fancy a night out? At Trashed . Tonight?”

She paused. “Good God. Trashed . Seriously? We’d be at least twenty years older than everyone there.”

“Not twenty, ten maybe. I was just thinking about the fun we used to have.”

“It was only fun because we were off our faces on coke half the time.”

“I could probably still track some down if I gave Mark a call,” he said, half-joking.

She giggled—a sound so rare these days it caught him off guard. “No thanks. There’s something deeply tragic about middle-aged folk taking drugs. But a night out? That sounds amazing.”

“Great. Dig out your glad rags, and I’ll be home by four.”

They said their goodbyes, and he ended the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

A spontaneous night out with his wife. Something utterly unattainable for the Land Rover man or anyone else saddled with small children. The thought brought him back to the mantra he repeated to himself almost daily:

Who wants kids anyway? Too much hard work for too little reward. I’d have been like that Land Rover-driving arsehole—grumpy, resentful, me and Nell bickering constantly. It’s just as well Nell’s going through an early menopause.

Just as well.

But the words rang hollow. Somewhere deep inside, he knew he was trying to convince himself. One day, perhaps, his subconscious might finally believe him. One day, that yawning, empty chasm in his soul might heal.