James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

‘Fine son, I’ll have a half. Nice weather eh. .’ The ancient fellow was showing distinct signs of energy while pulling the beer taps. ‘Pity about the Fulham though eh! Yeh, they’ll be back, they’ll be back.’ He took a lengthy swig at his half pint, eyes closed, a slow stream trickling down his partly shaven chin and winding its way round the Adam’s Apple on down beneath his frayed shirt collar. ‘Yeh,’ he said, ‘Poor old Chelsea.’ And he finished the rest of the drink.

‘What about the old Jags though eh? I mean that’s even worse than the Fulham surely!’

‘What’s that Jock?’

‘The Thistle man, the old Partick Thistle, they were relegated last season.’

‘Ah, Scotch team eh! Don’t pay much heed.’

‘Yeh, you’re right and all. Not much good up there.’

‘Bloody Celtic and Rangers,’ he shook his head in disgust. ‘Get them in here sometimes. And the bloody Irish. Mostly go down Kings Cross they do. Bloody trouble they cause eh?’

‘Give us another of these Dimples.’

‘Yeh,’ He smiled awkwardly, ‘Like them do you?’ He pursed his lips.

Charles got it and returned to his table near the wall, and sat quietly for about five minutes. ‘Hoy!’ he shouted.

The bartender had regained his former position beneath the television set. He gave no indication of having heard.

‘HOY!’

The old fellow jumped and turned angrily. ‘What’s up then? What’s this bleeding hoy all the time eh?’

‘Well you’re a bit deaf for Christ sake.’

‘No need to bloody scream like that though.’

‘Alright alright, sorry. Look, I’m just going to go out for a paper a minute. Keep your eye on my drink eh?’

The bartender began muttering then started to polish glasses.

Charles had to visit three newsagents before obtaining a copy of the Sporting Life . Nothing else could possibly do with all that back money lying about. When he returned to the pub he noticed another customer sitting at a table facing him, just at the corner of the room. She was around ninety years of age.

‘Morning,’ called Charles. ‘Good morning missus.’

The old lady was sucking her gums and smiled across at him, then she looked up at the bartender. ‘Goshtorafokelch,’ she said.

The bartender looked from her to Charles and back again before replying, ‘Yeh, I’ll say eh?’

Bejasus thank God I’ve got a paper to read. This must be an old folk’s home in disguise. He quickly swallowed the remains of the whisky and then the remains of the beer. ‘Hoy!’ he shouted. ‘What time is it? I mean is that the right time there or what?’

The bartender frowned and then said, ‘Must be after twelve I reckon eh?’

Charles got up and carried the empties across. ‘Think I’ll be going,’ he said.

‘You please yourself,’ he muttered. ‘Going to another shop are you eh?’

‘No, it’s not that man, I’ve just got to go home, get a bath and that.’

‘Will you be back then eh?’

‘Well, not today. Maybe tonight though, but if not I’ll definitely be back sometime.’

‘Ah — who cares eh?’ The bartender poured himself a gin then said, ‘Want a short do you eh?’

‘WHAT?’

‘Another short, one of them.’ He pointed at the dusty Dimple Haig. ‘Bleeding thing’s been there for years,’ he said and poured a fair sized measure out. ‘Yeh, glad to get rid of it eh?’

Charles took the tumbler and looked at it. The bartender watched him drink some and asked, ‘You really like it then eh Jock?’

‘Aye, it’s a good whisky.’

The barman opened a bottle of sweet stout and pushed it across to him. ‘You pass that down to her,’ he said.

‘Right you are.’ Charles walked over to the corner and put it down next to the old woman’s glass. ‘Here you are missus, the landlord sent it.’

She looked up and glanced at him with a smile and a nod of the head. ‘Patsorpooter,’ was what she said.

‘Aye,’ Charles grinned. ‘Fine.’ He went back to the bar to finish the whisky. ‘Okay then,’ he said, ‘that’s me, I’ll be off. And I’ll be back in again, don’t worry about that.’

‘Hm.’ The bartender polished the counter. He moved on to another part of it.

‘Listen,’ called Charles, ‘I’ll be back.’

The ancient fellow was now polishing a large glass and seemed unable to hear for the noise of the cloth on it.

‘I’ll see yous later!’ shouted Charles hopelessly.

He collected the newspaper and cigarettes from the table and made for the door. Christ this is really terrible. Can’t understand what it’s all about. Maybe. . No, I haven’t a clue. Sooner I’m out the better.

He stopped at where the old lady was sitting. ‘Cheerio missus, I’ll be in next week sometime. Okay?’

She wiped a speck of foam from the tip of her nose. ‘Deef!’ she cried, ‘deef.’ And she burst into laughter. Charles had a quick look round for the bartender but he must have gone through the partition door, so he left immediately.

They stopped outside the gates to the Nurses’ Home. He could see the night-porter peering through the window trying to identify the girl. The rain pattered relentlessly but not too heavily, down on her umbrella. ‘I better go in,’ she said, with a half smile, staring in at the little porter’s lodge.

‘Thought you were allowed till twelve before the gates were shut?’ he asked.

She shrugged without replying and, shuffling her feet, began humming a song to herself.

‘Come on we’ll walk up the road a bit where there are no spies.’

‘Oh Danny doesn’t bother.’ She had stepped backwards into the shadows, expecting him to follow. The night-porter turned the page of a newspaper with his left hand; he held a tea cup against his cheek with the other. Perhaps she was right. He didn’t appear the least bit interested.

‘Fancy a coffee?’

‘In your flat I suppose!’ she smiled.

‘Well it’s only a room, but it’s warm, and I’ve got a chair.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

He turned his coat collar up before answering. ‘Listen, if you know any cafes still open we’ll go there.’ He could not be bothered. What he did want to say was listen, why don’t you go in or why don’t you come out, I’m getting tired and really, what’s the diff anyway? But she was always having to play little games all the time.

‘I’m only kidding,’ she said.

‘Yeh,’ he smiled. ‘Sorry. Come on then, let’s go and drink coffee, I’m too tired to rape you anyway.’

‘Very funny!’ she laughed briefly.

He had met her at the hospital dance four weeks ago and this was the sixth time they had been out together. Cinema twice. Pub thrice. This evening she hadn’t finished until 8 o’clock so they had dined in an Indian restaurant, had a couple of drinks afterwards and strolled back in the rain. He didn’t find her tremendously attractive but she seemed to quite like him. They had had no sex yet. At the beginning he had attempted to get it going but this was waning and now amounted to little more than jokes and funny remarks on the subject. She was half a head shorter than him, dressed quite well if 6 months behind in style, had short black hair and wore this brown corduroy coat he liked the first times but not so much now. She had a sharp wee upturned nose, was nineteen years old, kissed with sealed lips and came from Bristol.

‘No females allowed in here you know!’ he said, quietly turning the key in the lock of the outside door. ‘Under any circumstances.’

She giggled, gazing up and down the street. ‘I can only stay ten minutes,’ she whispered, peering into the gloomy and musty smelling hallway.