James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

One feels as though one is going daft. I should have gone straight to the social security in order to get money. Firstly I must sign on at the labour exchange and get a new card and then go to the social security office. I shall take my B1 and my rent book and stuff, and stay calm at all times. They shall make an appointment for me and I shall be there on time otherwise they will not see me. My nerves get frayed. My wife knows little about this. I tell her next to nothing but at other times tell her everything.

I do not feel like telling my wife I am no longer the warehouseman and that next Friday I shall not receive the sum of twenty five pounds we had been expecting. A small wage. I told the foreman the wage was particularly small. Possibly his eyes clouded. I was of course cool, polite. This is barely a living wage I told him. Wage. An odd word. But I admit to having been aware of all this when I left the labour exchange in order that I might commence employment there. Nobody diddled me. My mind was simply blank. My year was up. One year and six weeks. I could have stayed unemployed and been relatively content. But for the social security. I did not wish to risk losing my temper. Now I shall just have to control myself. Maybe send the wife instead. This might be the practical solution. And the clerks shall look more favourably upon one’s wife. Perhaps increase one’s rate of payment.

I found the job on my own. Through the evening times sits vac col. It was a queer experience using the timecard once more. Ding ding as it stamps the time. I was given a knife along with the overcoat. For snipping string.

I am at a loss. At my age and considering my parental responsibilities, for example the wife and two weans, I should be paid more than twenty five pounds. I told the foreman this. It is a start he replied. Start fuck all I answered. It is the future which worries me. How on earth do I pay the monthly rent of £34.30. My wife will be thinking to herself I should have kept the job till securing another. It would have been sensible. Yes. It would have been sensible. Right enough. I cannot recall the how of my acceptance of the job in the first instance. I actually wrote a letter in order to secure an interview. At the interview I was of course cool, polite. Explained that my wife had been ill this past thirteen months. I was most interested in the additional news, that of occasional promotional opportunities. Plus yearly increments and cost of living naturally. Word for word. One is out of touch on the labour exchange. I knew nothing of cost of living allowance. Without which I would have been earning twenty two sixty or thereabouts.

It is my fault. My wife is to be forgiven if she. . what. She will not do anything.

There were five other warehousemen plus three warehouselads, a forklift driver, the foreman and myself. At teabreak we sat between racks. An older chap sat on the floor to stretch his legs. Surely there are chairs I said to the foreman. He looked at me in answer. Once a man had downed his tea I was handed the empty cup which had astonishing chips out of its rim. It was kind of him but I did not enjoy the refreshment. And I do not take sugar. But the tea cost nothing. When I receive my first wage I am to begin paying twenty five pence weekly. I should not have to pay for sugar. It does not matter now.

Time passes. My children age. My wife is in many ways younger than me. She will not say a word about all this. One is in deep trouble. One’s bank account lacks money enough. I received a sum for this morning’s work but it will shortly be spent. Tomorrow it is necessary I return to the labour exchange. No one will realise I have been gone. Next week should be better. If this day could be wiped from my life or at least go unrecorded I would be happy.

The warehousemen were discussing last night’s television. I said good god. A funny smell. A bit musty. Soggy cardboard perhaps.

The boss, the boss — not the foreman — is called Mr Jackson. The foreman is called George. The boss, he. . The trouble is I can no longer. Even while climbing the subway stairs; as I left the house; was eating my breakfast; rising from my bed; watching the television late last night: I expected it would prove difficult.

Mr Jackson, he is the boss. He also wears a shirt and tie. Eventually the express carriers had arrived and all of we warehousemen and warehouselads were to heave to and load up. It is imperative we do so before lunch said Mr Jackson. I have to leave I said to him. Well hurry back replied George. No, I mean I can no longer stay I explained. I am going home. And could I have my insurance cards and money for this morning’s work. What cried Mr Jackson. George was blushing in front of Mr Jackson. Could I have my cards and money. It is imperative I go for a pint and home to see the wife.

I was soon paid off although unable to uplift my insurance cards there and then.

The problem is of course the future — financing the rearing of one’s offspring etcetera.

It was my own fault. My planning never seems to allow of action of an intentional nature. I can always bring myself right to a point where some sort of precipice appears odds on to be round a corner. But this bringing-of-myself appears to be an end in itself; nothing further happens which can squarely be laid as an effect of my own volitions. Terrible state of affairs. I had arrived back in London fine, as conceived, was ambling around the Kings Cross Area quite enjoying seeing the old places. Next thing a publican was calling Time Gentlemen Please and I was stranded. Nowhere to go. Nothing fixed. Never anything fixed. This fixing business. .I dont know about this fixing business at all. Obviously getting here was sufficient otherwise something further would have been transpiring. And something further could easily have been a straightforward sign-in at a cheap bed & breakfast of which the Kings Cross Area has more than a few. The money right enough. The money could have been one subliminal motive for my lack of the leap forwards. I wasnt too well fixed. Fixed. Not fixed again.

I was watching this drop of water on the tip of an old woman’s nose. It didnt quiver. We were sitting on a bench at a busstop outside St Pancras Station. The rain had stopped some twenty minutes ago. I got a bar of chocolate from a machine. Fifteen pence it cost me. The old yin took the piece I offered and chewed on it for a long time. She had no teeth and was probably allowing this chocolate to slide back and forth over her gums, wearing it down while increasing the saliva flow. She never spoke. Stared straight ahead. I was to her right. I doubt whether she knew I was watching her; doubt whether it would have bothered her anyway. She didnt smoke and I found this surprising. I lighted my own. Although she moved slightly her gaze never altered. The drop of water had gone from her nose. Then the rain again, a slow drizzle. I rose from the bench, making more noise than necessary when I lifted my bag; for some reason I reckoned a quiet movement might have disturbed her.

Along towards Euston I walked. Night lights glinting on the pavement, on the roads and on the roofs and glass fronts of office buildings. And on the moon as well; a moon in full view, to be beheld during this drizzle. I was no longer ambling now. And a good thing this; it was somehow sending me on ahead of myself. Yet at the same time I was aware of the possibility of missing out on something a more leisurely stroll could perhaps have allowed me to participate within. On up, Tavistock way. Nobody about. A brisk pace. My boots were fairly able; no misgivings about stepping into puddles. Across and towards the British Museum and around the back in the shadows, and around the front and back around the back and back around the whole thing again for Christ sake.