James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

Down in the bar the conversation went on, with John taking his part, listening and occasionally nodding, rarely talking. As the merits of each greyhound was discussed for the fourth race I could hear the time dog being rejected mainly on the basis of its draw, it was to run from Trap 6. This dog was also an uncertain trapper — which means it sometimes started fast and other times started slow. Also, it liked to run its race on the wide outside of the track and so did the dog next to it, the one drawn in Trap 5. Also, this Trap 5 was known as a speedy trapper and thus more or less guaranteed to steal the ground from Trap 6. So what with this, that and the next thing Trap 6 wasnt reckoned much of a bet.

The warning bell sounded for the end of the dogs’ parade and the company dispersed to lay out the money. John muttered, What d’you reckon Jock?

I had been half expecting it. How d’you mean? I said.

Them big wide runners, they’re doing fuck all tonight. What d’you reckon? he sniffed. Reckon we should leave it out?

What?

He shrugged. And when I didnt reply he added. No use fucking throwing it away.

Ach! I shook my head and we left the bar, hurrying along to the betting-ring. They were making Trap 6 an 8/1 chance and as we stood there they moved it out to 10/1. See what I mean? he said, a no-hoper Jock — save the dough.

You must be joking.

He pursed his lips and paused, then made to say something but I shook my head and stepped over to the nearest bookmaker, and took the 10/1 for the £40. I held up the ticket for him to see. He indicated a bookie a few pitches along the rank who was making Trap 6 a 12/1 chance. He shook his head at me. I shrugged and left the betting-ring, went up to our place in the Stand. Shortly before the off he was there beside me, and that instant prior to the traps opening he told me he had backed the favourite.

Trap 2 was the favourite. The punters had gambled it off the board; from an opening show of 6/4 the weight of money going onto the thing had reduced its odds to 1/2. John didnt tell me how much he had stuck on the dog but at that kind of price he must have done it for plenty. According to the conversation in the bar the dog was a certainty to lead at the 1st bend and get the best of the going up the back straight; and by the time it hit the last bend the race would be all over bar the shouting. There was no shouting. Trap 6 shot out and led from start to finish — the kind of race when you can hear the dogs puffing and panting, because of the silence, the crowd totally stunned by what they’re having to witness. I was also watching in silence. I collected my winnings and met him in the bar.

He had a drink ready for me but was apparently too engrossed in his racecard to make any comment. It was the first time we had ever been there beyond this fourth race. I began footering about with my own rececard, marking in comments on the running of the previous race — this was something I often did to pass the time.

John was watching me.

What’s up? I said. I smiled.

He shook his head.

Ah well John, you’ve got to mark in the form and that.

Mark in the form. . he said; you cunt! mark in the form!

Ach come on for fuck sake, I’ve backed a winner and you’ve backed a loser, it’s as simple as that.

As simple as that! As simple as that. . You cunt! He left his drink on the bar and strode out of the place. I stayed where I was. Before the start of the fifth race I walked up to the Stand and stood where we usually stood but he wasnt there and he didnt arrive back in the bar afterwards. Outside the track I had a quick look in a couple of the local pubs but he wasnt in any of them. I took a taxi up West.

I didnt bother going into the college on Monday or Tuesday, and I stayed away from the pub. On Wednesday we kept out of each other’s road but from the way the manageress of the refectory gave me the tinfoil package for him I knew he had kept the thing secret. Towards clocking-out time he came looking for me while I was out pushing a stationery barrow. He apologised immediately. What a cunt, he said, always have been. You ask anybody Jock, they’ll tell you.

I shrugged. It was just one of these things.

Several days later I was handing the uniform back into the ex-R.A.F. man and saying cheerio in the lodge. Even without the incident I would still have been leaving. It was a good few quid I had gathered, and the weather progressed, a nice hint of spring in the air. John was back hitting the betting shop every afternoon; as far as I heard he was taking a hammering. It was totally daft, the results were still far too erratic. And leaving that aside, there was only about a month to go before the start of the flat season . John was like me in that respect, things like the jumping season and greyhound racing only helped fill the winter break.

Ascot was his favourite course — for the Royal Meeting. Without fail he took his holidays in June each year. Well you got to go, he said, them’s the best racehorses in the world.

He was superstitious about it. On numerous occasions he had been skint and June rapidly approaching. Then at the last possible moment he would get a turn, and everything would be fine. Yeh, he said, you believe it you dont believe it, it’s all the same to me — but I’ve seen me, in it right up to the fucking eyeballs — cant show my face or the cunts, they’ll be taking swipes at it, yeh — then bingo! right out the fucking blue — and I’m down there. Go on Lester! Go on my son!

That punters’ dream again, the summer sunshine with strawberries and champagne, and Lester going through the card.

What matters is that I can no longer take gainful employment. That she understands does not mean I am acting correctly. After all, one’s family must eat and wear clothes, be kept warm in the winter, and they must also view television if they wish — like any other family. To enable all of this to come to pass I must earn money. Thirteen months have elapsed. This morning I had to begin a job of work in a warehouse as a warehouseman. My year on the labour exchange is up — was up. I am unsure at the moment. No more money was forthcoming unless I had applied for national assistance which I can do but dislike doing for various reasons.

I am worried. A worried father. I have two children, a wife, a stiff rent, the normal debts. To live I should be working but I cannot. This morning I began a new job. As a warehouseman. My wife will be sorry to hear I am no longer gainfully employed in the warehouse. My children are of tender years and will therefore be glad to see me once more about the house although I have only been gone since breakfast time and it is barely five o’clock in the afternoon so they will have scarcely missed me. But my wife: this is a grave problem. One’s wife is most understanding. This throws the responsibility on one’s own shoulders however. When I mention the fact of my no longer being the warehouseman she will be sympathetic. There is nothing to justify to her. She will also take for granted that the little ones shall be provided for. Yet how do I accomplish this without the gainful employment. I do not know. I dislike applying to the social security office. On occasion one has in the past lost one’s temper and deposited one’s children on the counter and been obliged to shamefacedly return five minutes later in order to uplift them or accompany the officer to the station. I do not like the social security. Also, one has difficulty in living on the money they provide.

And I must I must. Or else find a new job of work. But after this morning one feels one. . well, one feels there is something wrong with one.

I wore a clean shirt this morning lest it was expected. Normally I dislike wearing shirts unless I am going to a dinner dance etcetera with the wife. No one was wearing a shirt but myself and the foreman. I did not mind. But I took off my tie immediately and unbuttoned the top two buttons. They gave me a fawn dusk or dust perhaps coat, to put on — without pockets. I said to the foreman it seemed ridiculous to wear an overcoat without pockets. And also I smoke so require a place to keep cigarettes and the box of matches. My trouser pockets are useless. My waist is now larger than when these particular trousers were acquired. Anything bulky in their pockets will cause a certain discomfort.