James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

In this factory in the north of England acid was essential. It was contained in large vats. Gangways were laid above them. Before these gangways were made completely safe a young man fell into a vat feet first. His screams of agony were heard all over the department. Except for one old fellow the large body of men was so horrified that for a time not one of them could move. In an instant this old fellow who was also the young man’s father had clambered up and along the gangway carrying a big pole. Sorry Hughie, he said. And then ducked the young man below the surface. Obviously the old fellow had had to do this because only the head and shoulders — in fact, that which had been seen above the acid was all that remained of the young man.

The long feud between the Melveille Twins was resolved by a duel in which stipulations of rather obvious significance had been laid down, the two men were bound back to back by a length of thick hemp knotted round their waists. Having gained choice of weapon the elder had already decided upon the cutlass and insofar as the younger is noted as having been ‘corrie-fistit’, [1] To be ‘corrie-fistit’ in certain parts of Scotland, is to be left handed — even in the present day. to infer a hint of possible irony may not be misguided. Few events of a more bloodthirsty nature are thought to have occasioned in the country of Scotland.

When the handkerchief fell the slashing began; within moments the lower part of each body was running red with blood. While wielding the weapon each held the empty hand aloft as though unwilling so much as to even touch the other. Eventually the small group of men silently observing, made their way off from the scene — a scene that for them had soon proved sour.

Only one man remained. He seems to have been a servant of some sort but little is known of his history aside from the fact of his being fairly literate.

The affair appeared at an end when the elder twin stumbled and together they landed on the ground. But almost immediately each had rolled in such a manner they were lying on the hands that grasped the weapons: for a brief period they kicked at each other. Coming to them with a jug of fresh water and strips of a clean material, the man bathed their wounds. He then lifted and placed the weapons outwith their arms’ reach; he departed at this point. Whether the actual duel ended here is an open question. We are only certain that the feud ceased.

A load of potatoes was stacked and waiting for me first thing that morning. I got right into it. The farmer’s boy brought the jug of tea and once he had gone I sat down to roll a smoke. It was empty, the tin, just a bit of dust it contained. I jumped back at the work. Later he returned for the jug and though he would’ve seen I hadnt touched it he said nothing. I steamed into the weighing and packing, not stopping at all although when the lorry arrived in from the fields there was still plenty of the original left. The farmer helped the Frenchmen lug it in to my area while I continued. They finished. The farmer stood watching me work for a time. Yes, he said, we’re getting a fair crop scotti.

I nodded as I carried across another tub of spuds to the weighing machine. I didnt notice him leave. I might have heard the lorry revving or something, gears maybe — the driver was hopeless.

Each tub or barrel of potatoes weighed out 281bs so it wasnt too bad except if the farmer was about which meant it could only be 281bs and nothing more or less. It was the constant bending fucked me. The shoulders get it, and the belly muscles. And the heat was terrific — the sweat I mean, I dont know how hot it was in the barn though outside maybe 70 to 80 degrees. I was working stripped to the waist. Clouds of dust all the time, streaks of sweat, the tidemarks everywhere. When dinner time came I wasnt hungry anyway. A bottle of cider would’ve went down fine right enough but apart from that nothing, nothing at all bar the smoke, of course, tobacco would’ve been ideal. Not so good being without it, there was just dust in the tin.

The Frenchmen were lugging in the next load. Only French worked the fields, some women with them and — when one of the men needed a slash for christ sake he just carried on never mind the women being there or not, a couple of girls amongst them but no, it never bothered them at all, just got on with it. Maybe that’s healthy, who knows. Though the women never helped with the lugging off the lorry, they usually — christ knows, maybe off for a piss for god sake.

Warm out scotti! The farmer was there. I hadnt seen him. I was swinging a sack down from the pile and getting it across to the empty tubs in a movement. He stepped to the side just in time. Fair crop, he was saying.

I had dumped an empty next to the machine and was rolling in the spuds and while I topped it to the 28 mark I said; Can you loan me a nicker?

What was that scotti?

A nicker. Can you loan me a nicker? — a pound I mean, eh?

I knew he was looking at me but I continued with the work. A moment later he said, Yes, I told you about that, these Frenchmen, wily set of buggers, you have to watch it with these dominoes.

What — aye, yes, aye, can you loan me it then? take it off the wages and that.

He lit his pipe and exhaled, Dare say so scotti yes.

Fine.

Well then, he said. And while I was swinging across another sack he wound up by adding, Back to the field I suppose.

Moments later the lorry was revving. I couldnt believe it. By the time I ran out into the sun I saw it turning out onto the main drag, all the Frenchmen and women sitting on the back of it, laughing and joking quietly. A couple of them gave me a brief wave. I shook my head. A hen or a cock or something came walking across out of a fence thing. I looked at it. I went back into the barn. When the boy came with the afternoon jug I asked him if his old man had left anything for me. He stared at me. A message son, I said, did your old man leave a message for me?

No.

He was supposed to — a pound note it was. Maybe he left it with your mother eh? Away and ask her.

He wont have.

Ask and see.

But he wont have.

Christ sake son will you go and do what I’m saying.

He came back in five minutes, shaking his head. He probably had walked about the place and not bothered even seeing her. He stood watching me for a bit then said, When’re you taking the tea scotti?

Eh. . does she smoke son, your mother?

No.

Christ.

She wants to finish the washing up. The jug.

What. I stopped the weighing and turned and the fucking barrel fell, the spuds all rolling about the fucking floor. The boy stepped back out the road. It’s okay son, it’s okay, just take the thing away.

The next load was the last for me although the French would be picking until 8 p.m. Their morning began at 5 a.m. I wouldnt’ve worked hours like that. The farmer had asked me a couple of days back. Are you interested in a bit of overtime for fuck sake! 5 till 8. Why in the id of christ did they do it! The dough of course. By the time I had cleared and swept the area and shot off home and got back the following morning another load of fucking sacks would be stacked there ready and waiting.

The farmer was hovering around again. He went off and I heard him calling over a couple of Frenchmen to give me a hand with the travail. I got the time on one of their watches. I stopped work. I looked at the farmer. Well scotti, he said, taking the pipe out of his pocket. A good day’s work eh? See you in the morning then.

I couldnt believe my ears. I stared at him. He was patting the tobacco down and when he noticed me he added, Alright?