James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

In the betting shop the woman behind the counter used to give him a nice smile. Nothing to do with his being a loser because she had no percentage in the take, she was only a counter-hand. The landlady also liked him. He was always punctual for meals, said a good morning, washed before getting to the dining room table. And she delivered him up the largest portions, the choicest cuts, the additional rashers of bacon and the rest of it. If he was aware of this treatment he never acknowledged it that I knew about. All the lorrydrivers had noticed though. They could be seen weighing up the number of spuds they had in comparison to Charlie, but nothing was ever said — even in a joke.

His failure to get a return on his betting shop outlay was no failure in this sense: he planned it. He bought weekly travel passes and hoarded the dowp-ends of each cigarette he smoked though he didnt give this as a reason for smoking plain cigarettes. I used to mix these dowps in with my own tobacco and roll him a decent smoke because he never managed to learn how to handroll himself a cigarette, and never even bothered to buy one of these cheap rolling devices you can get. He said: I’ve thought about it. Just cant seem to come round to it somehow.

The way he lost his money depressed me. And yet only in retrospect; there was something about those bets he made — they always seemed to show promise. The majority of his selected runners would be going in televised races but he made a point of leaving the last horse to be in an event scheduled to run later in the afternoon. This was for the sake of his nerves. Imagine having four winners, he said, and having to watch that fifth yin run its race out on the telly. Naw. I couldnt stand that.

There was no danger of this ever happening. The nearest he ever got was one afternoon when his first runner romped home at 16/1. And before the runners came under orders for the next he was up and downstairs from his room to the lavatory about ten times. When it was eventually revealed to him that his bet had lost as usual he said: Bastard. Fucked again.

And we settled down to watch television or read books till the following Friday, tapping smokes from the lorrydrivers and the wee woman who helped out in the kitchen, once my tobacco and his dowp-ends had finally run out.

Considering the amount he was punting I told him it might be best to stick it all down on a single horse — possibly spending the whole of Saturday morning just studying form to pick out one stonewall certainty. That’s a thought, he said. And the following Saturday I spent the whole morning huddled over the Sporting Life to come up with three possibles, any one of which I fancied strongly. He agreed about their chances when he came back from work about midday. Eventually he did choose one. But only to include it in a permutation. The horse ran in the first race, and it finished second, beaten only by the favourite. The thing had definitely been unlucky not to win in my opinion. But Charlie said: See what I mean? That would’ve been me fucked before I’d usually have been starting!

And no matter that his next four selections all finished well down the field, he reckoned the point had been settled. I never made a similar suggestion. It did depress me though. He knew nothing at all about horse racing and yet week in week out there he was punting to the limit of his pocket. And considering the maintenance money he owed he was also punting to the limit of his wife and three weans’ pockets. He never spoke of this. After the fourth pint one Friday evening I asked him about them. Closed book that, he said, shaking his head.

About five weeks after his arrival he invited me for a game of snooker instead of crossing the road to the boozer. We went to a place in Oxford Road. And without ever having seen me play, just as he prepared to break the reds, he said: Make it for a pound eh!

I told him no. As usual I was skint, and apart from anything else was already relying on him for the cost of the table. Doesnt matter, he said. You can pay me next week.

Charlie broke the balls and I won easily, that game and the rest. He was a very bad player. Five games we played in two hours which meant I had won myself five quid. I told him it was hopeless. I’m too good for you Charlie, I said.

He shook his head: Not really. I’m just an unlucky bastard. I’ll win it back off you next Friday.

Next Friday I took him for another fiver; and each successive Friday till he left for Folkestone was the same. He played a mad game. Mighty swipes. No positional play. No potting ability. No nothing. Whenever he sunk a red this red would have cannoned off maybe half a dozen other balls and all of the cushions. It was pathetic. And my own game soon degenerated to his level, although never quite enough to lose. But for the first time in my life I was beginning to consider throwing a game on purpose. I didnt though. It would’ve been too embarrassing. On each break of each new game Charlie was setting out with this real possibility of winning. It was apparent in his approach to the table. When he messed a shot badly — miscued or actually jumped the cueball off the table altogether through the unchannelled force of his shot — I was beginning to find it difficult to keep from laughing. While bending to retrieve the ball from beneath our table, or somebody else’s table, I was having to remain below for a minute to set my face straight. It was becoming too much. Charlie just shrugged. His explanation was: Some fucking luck I’m carrying the night!

But I think he knew I was concealing the laughter, and I was a bit ashamed of it although there was nothing I could do. Eventually I offered three blacks of a start. Never taken a handicap in my life, he said. When I do that I’ll know it’s time to chuck it.

Two Saturdays before his departure I landed quite a good turn in the betting shop. I passed him a tenner without saying anything. He promptly lost it on a further permutation. And next Friday he returned me the money. What’s this? I said. That tenner wasnt a loan. I just gave you it.

But he stuck it into the top pocket of my jacket without a word. Come on for a game, he added. I’m due to beat you for a few quid.

Two hours later, with the weekly fiver tucked away in my hip pocket, I told him I was guesting him into town for the rest of the night. Maybe go up a casino or something. Not me, he said.

Fuck sake Charlie you’ve been buying me drink and keeping me going since you got here.

Doesnt mean I’ve got to go into the town, he said.

The following day I gave him a tenner after the last race but still he wouldnt go into town so I went in by myself.

During the coming week I was working out methods of not taking his money. I had finished my tea and was sitting back reading the evening paper when he arrived back from work, a bit earlier than usual. Off to Folkestone the night, he said. The job’s finished here.

Upstairs he went for a wash and shave. He returned carrying his small suitcase; after eating his meal he bade the cheerios to everybody and stuck his head round the lounge door, he tossed me a ten pound note. I enjoyed playing that snooker, he said. Years since I had a go at it but. A wee bit costly.

The hedge was tall but so scrawny we could easily see through it. A huge place. Standing in a jungle of weeds and strange looking sunflowers, big ones which bent at the top and hung backwards to the long grass. It seemed deserted. I hesitated a moment before pushing open the rusty gate. It grated on the cement slab underneath. Freddie and Bob followed me along the narrow path and we stopped at the foot of the flight of steps. I went up and banged the door. And again. Eventually the door opened still on the chain. An old woman gaped out at me. I explained.