James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

Yes, spring is definitely around the corner man. Look at that brief-case with the sports’ jacket and cavalry twills. Already. Very daring. Must be a traveller. Best part of the day this — seeing all the workers, office and site and the new middle class tradesmen, yes, all going about their business. It pleases me.

Can’t say I’m in the mood for long waits though. Jesus Christ I forgot a book. Man man what do I do now? Borrow newspapers? Stare at people’s necks and make goo goos at their children. Good God! the money’s going to be well earned today.

Charles stopped outside the Easy Eats Cafe and breathed in deeply. This fellow must be the best cook in London, without any doubt at all. My my my. Everytime I pass this place it’s the same, smells like bacon and eggs and succulent sausages with toast and tea. Never mind never mind soon be there.

Charles arrived at the Labour Exchange and entered door C to take up position in the queue under D.

Well, I can imagine it this morning, ‘Yes Mr Donald there is some back money owing to you. Would you sign here for £43.68?’ I’d smile politely, ‘Oh yes thank you, I had been beginning to wonder if it’d ever come through. Yes. Thank you. Good day.’ Then I’d creep out the door and run like the clappers before they discovered the error. God love us! What’s this? Can’t be somebody farting in a Labour Exchange surely! Bloody Irish, don’t understand them at all. Think they delight in embarrassing the English just. Everybody kids on they didn’t hear. But surely they can smell it?

Charles stepped out the queue and tapped the culprit on the shoulder. ‘Hey Mick that’s a hell of a smell to make in a public place you know.’

‘Ah bejasus,’ he sighed, ‘it’s that bloody Guinness Jock. Sure I can’t help it at all.’

‘Terrible stuff for the guts right enough.’

‘Ah but it’s better than that English water they sell here. Bitter!’ He shook his head, ‘It’s a penance to drink it altogether.’

‘Aye. You been waiting long?’

‘Not at all.’ He shook his head again and spat on the floor, wiping it dry beneath his boot. ‘Want a smoke?’

‘You kidding?’

‘What you going on about. Here.’ He took out a packet of Woodies and passed it to Charles. ‘Take a couple Jock — I’ve plenty there and I’ll be getting a few bob this morning.’

Charles accepted, sticking one behind his ear. He said, ‘You been over long?’

‘Ah too long Jock, too long.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Still skint.’ He struck a match off the floor and they lighted the cigarettes. ‘Aye, if I’d been buying that Guinness in shares instead of pints I’d be worth a fortune and that’s a fact — the hell with it.’

‘Heh, you’re next Mick.’

The Irishman went to the counter and received the signing-on card from the young girl clerk. He signed and was handed his pay slip then he walked over to the cashier where he was soon receiving the money, and he vanished. Charles followed the man who was next in line and was astonished to receive a pay slip. Normally he got a B1 form for the N.A.B. He asked the girl whether he would still be getting it. She smiled, ‘Not this week anyway Mr Donald.’

Charles strode to the money counter and stole a quick look at the pay slip. Good God! He looked again. He studied it. ‘God love us,’ he said loudly.

£23.82. Jesus. Oh you good thing. Nearly twenty four quid. Man man that must be near eighteen back pay! What can one say God? Mere words are useless.

He passed the slip under the grill to the older woman with the fancy spectacles. Once he had signed at the right place she counted and passed him the bundle of notes and coins.

‘My sincere thanks madam,’ he said.

The cashier smiled, ‘That makes a change.’

‘You have a wonderful smile,’ continued Charles folding the wad. ‘I shall certainly call back here again. Good morning.’

‘Good morning.’ The cashier watched him back off towards the exit.

He closed the door. Yes, maybe chances there if I followed it through. A bit old right enough. Maybe she just pities me. With that smile she gave me! Impossible.

He walked up Pentonville Road and decided to go for a pint rather than a breakfast. Half past eleven. Not too early.

‘Pint of bitter and eh — give me. .’ Charles stared at the miserable gantry, ‘just give me one of your good whiskies eh!’

The ancient bartender peered at him for a moment then bent down behind the bar to produce a dusty bottle of Dimple Haig. ‘How’s this eh?’

‘Aye,’ replied Charles, ‘that’s fine. How much is it?’

‘Seven bob,’ muttered the bartender rubbing his ear thoughtfully.

‘Well give me twenty Players as well and that’s that.’

The bartender passed over the cigarettes and grabbed the pound note, mumbling to himself. Very friendly old bastard. Must hate Scotsmen or something. He brought back the change and moved around the counter tidying up. ‘Hoy!’ called Charles after a time. ‘Any grub?’

‘What’s that?’ cried the bartender, left hand at his ear.

‘Food, have you any food?’

‘What d’you want, eh?’

‘Depends. What’ve you got?’

‘Don’t know.’ He thought for a moment, ‘Potato crisps?’

‘No chance,’ said Charles. ‘Is that it?’

‘Shepherd’s pie? The missus makes it,’ he added with a strange smile.

Wonder why he’s smiling like that. Poisoned or something?

‘Homemade eh. .’ Charles nodded, ‘Aye, I’ll have some of that.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now for heaven sake.’ He shook his head.

‘Okay okay, just take a seat a minute, I’ll go and tell her eh?’ He shuffled away. As he passed through the door in the partition he glanced back at Charles who gave him a wave.

Kind of quiet place this. Wonder when it gets busy. Strange I’m the only customer at nearly twelve o’clock on a Thursday morning. The ancient bartender returned and cried, ‘Bout ten fifteen minutes eh?’ Charles nodded. The other resumed wiping some glasses.

Man man who would’ve thought of me getting paid back money like that. Brilliant. Let me see, 11.50 a.m. By rights I should still be sitting in the second interview queue at the N.A.B. The fat woman’s kids’ll be rolling on the floor and she’ll be reading the Evening Standard dog-section. Yes, I’ll be missed. They’ll think I’ve gone to Scotland. Or maybe been lifted by the busies. No, won’t have to go back there for a while. Thank Christ for that.

A huge woman appeared from behind the partition holding a great plateful of steaming shepherd’s pie. ‘One shepherd’s pie!’ she shouted. Her chins trembled and her breasts rested on her knees as she bent to plonk it down in the centre of Charles’ table.

‘This looks wonderful,’ he said, sniffing at it. He smiled up at her. ‘Madam, you’ve excelled yourself. How much do you ask for this delicious fare?’

‘14 p.’ She pointed to her husband. ‘He’ll give you the condiments. Just shout, he’s deaf occasionally.’

‘Many thanks,’ replied Charles, placing thirty pence on her tray. ‘Please have a drink on me.’

‘Ta son,’ she said and toddled back through to the kitchen.

Charles ate rapidly. He thoroughly enjoyed the meal. ‘Hoy!’ he called, ‘Hoy!’

The bartender was standing, elbows propped on the counter, staring up at the blank television screen. ‘Hoy!’ shouted Charles getting out of his seat. He walked to the bar.

‘Yeh yeh, yeh! What’s up eh?’

‘Another pint of bitter. And have one yourself.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Jesus what’s up here at all. Listen man get me a pint of bitter please and have one with me, eh! How’s that. Eh?’