James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

My hands were trembling. I clasped them, rubbed them on the sweat rags I wore round my waist.

Something wrong then?

Something wrong! What d’you mean something wrong! My christ that’s a fucking good yin right enough, a miserable bastarn nicker as well you’d think it was the crown fucking jewels or something.

He went tugging on the stem of his pipe. I grabbed my T-shirt and walked out the place. I heard him start and exclaim: The pound. Scotti! The pound. Sorry.

He was digging into his hip pocket for that big thick wallet and the Frenchmen standing smiling but curious as well. Forgot all about it, said the farmer, coming towards me while unwrapping a single.

Sorry. Sorry by christ, that is a good yin, a beauty. I continued on and out of the yard and kept on until about halfway between the farm and the turnoff, heading up towards the site where the tent was pitched. Then I stopped and sat at the side of the track. I sat on the turf, my feet on the caked mud in the ditch. I had forgotten to parcel a few spuds for my tea. Also the tin but it only had dust in it anyway. I had also forgotten a piece of string for my jeans. I was meaning to buy a belt, I kept forgetting and the threads at the cuffs of the jeans were dragging when I walked. The string would do meantime then I could get the belt. I got up, stiff at the knees. I strode along swinging my arms straight and on beyond the shortcut between hedges further on up to the front of the field where the tent was and left wheeling across the place, a few holiday-makers were wandering about with cooking utensils.

I was lying on top of the groundsheet, cool, the breathing coming short, in semi gasps maybe. I relaxed. Slowing down, slowing down, allowing the shoulders and the belly and the knees, letting them all get down, relaxing, the limbs and everything just slackly, calm, counting to ten and beyond, deep breathing exercises now, begin, and out in out in out in hold it there and the pulse rate lessens the heart pumps properly slowly does it slowly does it now yes and that fresh air is swirling down in these shadowy regions cleaning the lungs so now you can smoke and be okay and live to a ripe old age without having to halt every few yards to catch your breath, yes, simply continue and.

The sacks were piled high next morning. The lorry long gone to the fields. My mouth was sticky. I opened the tin and sniffed the dust. The boy had poked his head in and disappeared as soon as he saw me. Away to tell his mother probably. Fuck the pair of them. Later the crashing of gears and the lorry coming in. The Frenchmen with the load. I was getting a few looks. Fuck them as well. Then the farmer. Looking as unamazed as he could. Fuck you too. I laid down the barrel I was filling and went over. A nicker, I said, that’s all I’m asking, till payday, just deduct it.

Of course scotti. . He was taking out the pipe.

I mean just now, you know, it’s just now I need it.

He nodded and got the wallet out, passed me a single.

Great. Fine. I nodded, I’m just going.

He looked at me.

The wee shop in the village just, I’ll only be a minute. . I grabbed the T-shirt.

By the grassy verge beneath the veranda of the local general store with the morning sun on my shoulders, the tin lying open at one side and the cider bottle uncorked on the other, and the cows lowing in the adjacent meadow, and the smoke rolled and being lighted and sucking in that first drag, keeping the thrapple shut to trap it there; with no bout of coughing, not a solitary splutter, the slight zuzz in the head. Instead of exhaling in the ordinary way I widened my lips and opened the throat without blowing so that the smoke just drifted right out and back in through my nostrils. Dizziness now but the head was clear though the belly not so good, and a shudder, fine. Then the cider, like wine it tasted and not too pleasant, just exact, and ready now, the second drag.

Time had passed. The lorry. It came into view, chugging along, the farmer at the wheel. I gestured at him with the bottle and the smoke, but as a greeting only. He returned it cheerily. The French on the back, the women there. I waved. Bon, I shouted. Once it had passed from view I swallowed the remainder of the cider and got up to return the bottle. I walked back to the farm, the tea would soon be coming.

I was in London without much cash and having to doss in the porch of a garden shed; it lay behind the shrubbery section of a grass square which the locals referred to as a park. The man who maintained it was called Kennedy. When he found me asleep he didnt kick me out but wanted to know what was what, and he left some sacking for me that evening. Next morning he brought John along with him; inside the shed he brewed a pot of tea. It was good and hot, burned its way down — late autumn or early winter. He got me answering the same questions for John’s benefit; when I finished he looked to him. John shrugged, then muttered something about getting me a start portering if I wanted, interview that afternoon maybe. With a bit of luck I could even be starting the following morning.

Christ that’s great, I said.

If he cant do it then nobody can, chuckled Kennedy. He’s the blue-eyed boy in there!

John grimaced.

Yeh. Kennedy winked at me. Gets away with murder he do!

John shook his head, moments later he left.

At 8 a.m. next day I was kitted out with the uniform then being introduced to the rest of the squad in the porter’s lodge. The place was a kind of college and the duties I performed were straightforward. For the first few days John guided me round; we pushed barrows full of stationery and stuff though in his position — Head Porter — he wasnt supposed to leave the vicinity of the marble entrance hall. He also fixed me up with a sub from the Finance Office, one week’s lying time being obligatory. It was a surprise; I hadnt asked him to do it. That’s great, I said, I’ll buy you a pint when we finish.

He glanced at the clock in the lodge and shrugged, Just gone opening-time Jock, buy me it now if you like.

Kennedy was on a stool at the bar. I ordered pints for the three of us and he nudged me on the ribs. Yeh, didnt I tell you? blue-eyed boy he is!

Leave off, muttered John.

But Kennedy continued chuckling. You’ll be moving to a new abode then?

Aye, thanks — letting me use the shed and that.

He laughed. Us sassenachs arent all bad then eh!

Silly fucker, grunted John.

After work they showed me to a rooming house they reckoned might be suitable. The landlady was asking a month’s rent in advance but they had prepared me for it and eventually she did settle for the same sum spread over the following four weeks. It was an ideal place for the time being. The college was less than 10 minutes’ walk away. Round the corner lived Kennedy and his family while John rented a room further down the road, in a house managed by a middle aged Irish couple who tended to make a fuss of him — things like laundry and making a point of getting him in for Sunday dinner every week. They were a nice couple but John got slightly irritated by it. Yeh, he said, you’re into the position where you got to go; you’re letting them down if you dont.

It turned out his wife had been killed in an accident several years ago. I didnt discover the exact details but it seems to have been an uncommon kind, and made the newspapers of the day. One night he was drunk he told me he could never have married again, that she had been the greatest thing in his life. To some extent this would explain why people reacted to him as they did. And Kennedy was also right, John did get away with a lot.

Inside the college an ex-R.A.F. man had overall charge of the hourly-paid workers; he treated those under him as though they were servicing the plane he was to pilot, but he shied clear of John. Our dinner hours were staggered between 11.45 a.m. and 2.45 p.m. Unless totally skint John spent the entire three hours in the pub. If the ex-R.A.F. man needed to contact him he made a discreet call to the lodge and sent one of the older porters with the message. Not surprisingly a few people resented this special treatment; yet nothing was ever said directly to John. He was in his early sixties, as thin as a pole, his skin colouring a mixture of greys and yellows. He could be a bit brusque, short tempered, frequently ignoring people who were speaking to him. I got on fine with him. Once he realised my interest in horse racing wasnt confined to the winning and losing of money we got on even better. Money was probably the main reason why he affected people; John had won and done vast sums of the stuff; and while I was hearing many stories from him I was also hearing quite a few about him — and not always to his credit. A fair amount of respect was accorded him but often it would be tinged by that mixture of scorn and vague annoyance which non punters and small punters can display whenever the exploits of heavy gamblers are discussed. Kennedy was an example of this. Although he genuinely liked John, and enjoyed recounting tales of his past wins, he would finish with a wink and a snort. . Yeh Jock, then me and the Mrs had to feed him for the next bleeding month.