James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

Onwards. Figures appearing hailing taxi-cabs, going home to their places out the rain. More lighting now, brighter on the main road. Through into the rear of Soho where my pace lessened. Smaller buildings, narrower pavements, railings and basements; rain drops plopping off the edges of things; occasionally sharp lighting giving out from windows where folk would be gathered, snugly. One basement in particular with its iron gate at the top lying ajar. Downstairs I went slowly. A sign on the wall: two quid to enter. Music. One please, I said to this guy inside the lobby who gave out no ticket and stuffed the money into this pocket on the breast of his shirt, buttoning the flap down on it.

The push door made a creaking sound. The lighting dim. A girl singing in this English voice. An English traditional song she was singing in this icy voice. An odd voice; not a voice without feeling. A direct voice, and reminiscent of a singer whose id I couldnt quite rake out although I used to hear her fairly often at one time. All the people there; a lot sitting down on the floor with their backs to the wall, others lying with their hands clasped behind their heads or sitting cross-legged. Couples with arms about shoulders and heads on shoulders. All listening to the girl singing her song.

I sat down in a space next to the back wall and after a moment closed my eyelids. When I opened them again the space to my right had increased to around five yards and a girl was kneeling on the floor with her arms folded. She was alone — but in this direct fashion. Her head stiffly positioned, the neck exactly angled. Only her shoulders twitched. The position must have been uncomfortable. The small of her back there — I can make the curved motion with my hand. And yet only her shoulders made any movement whatsoever!

I closed my eyelids. Footsteps. It was a man making towards her, his manner of moving was only to her though he walked loosely as he threaded the way between people. And now the girl’s shoulders were not even twitching. She had edged her feet from her shoes. Her toes seemed to be maintaining a sort of plumb point — and her arms! — folded in this direct fashion. Jesus.

He paused a fraction when he arrived, then dropped to his knees, his hands placed on the floor to balance, fingertips pointing on to the side of her limbs he was facing her. But she continued to stare at the singer. Poised there, only her toes working.

He could kneel by her all night but it would still be finished. I could have told him that. She half turned her shoulder and said about three words; her eyes had remained in the direction of the singer. Then the shoulders returned to their former position. His time was up. Your time’s up I said without opening my mouth.

He left, but he was not making a retreat. He was just making his way away from her. Eventually the girl swivelled her knees to stretch out her legs, moved to rest her back against the wall. She opened her handbag but after a brief glance inside she closed it over. She placed it to the blind side from me. I could see her toes now exercising, her knees, and her neck; until finally she relaxed. A bit later I rose to see if they served coffee; I left my chattels lying on the spot.

I bought two and back inside I handed one across to her. Put it to the side of her. Look, I said, all I’m doing is giving you this coffee. Nothing else. Just a coffee. Just take a drop of this coffee.

She didnt reply.

I’m leaving it lying there, I said. You should drink it. I’m not doing anything. Just giving you this coffee to drink.

She lifted it. The eyes passed over me. She took a little sip at it.

Jesus Christ; well well well.

Pardon, she said.

I didnt answer. I lighted a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Too much for me. Everything. The way she could do it all. Even the man. He could do it all as well. Jesus. It was bad. I had the arrival for a plan. An arrival! Dear God. Hopeless. It was bad.

Pardon?

What. . I glanced at her. I must have spoken aloud. Maybe the bad or the hopeless.

Nothing. . I said. I was only. . Couldnt even finish the sentence. With a slight nod she looked away from me. I closed my eyelids. But they opened immediately. Look, I said, will you take a smoke? I saw you footering around in your handbag and I was going to offer then but decided against it — not a real decision — not something I. . A cigarette. Will you take a cigarette from me?

She nodded. I passed her one.

My coffee was lukewarm. It had never really been hot either. I shuddered on draining the last third of it. I dont mind lukewarm tea but never seem to have got the taste for lukewarm coffee. The singer had stopped for a breather and her band were playing a medley of some kind. Some of the audience had risen and were moving around on the floor.

I glanced at the girl. She was smoking in a serious way although she let out big mouthfuls of smoke before inhaling; and when she exhaled this last stuff she did so making an O shape of her mouth so that the smoke came out in firm columns. Food. A meal, I said, fancy a meal. Nothing startling. Just a plate of chips or something in a snackbar. Nothing else involved. I just feel like a plate of chips and taking you for one as well, eh? Fancy it. That coffee was murder polis.

Pardon?

That coffee. Terrible. Lukewarm to begin with I think. No chance of enjoyment from the start. Fancy a plate of chips?

Scotch?

Aye, yes. what d’you say? — you coming?

She hesitated, another cloud of smoke before the inhaled lot emerging in its fixed shape. She said, To be honest I. .

Nothing else involved. I’m not doing anything. Look, I said, all I want to do is get a plate of chips and take you for one as well. Too much for me. All of it.

What?

Ach. Fuck it. What a carry on. I dont know. . can never really get it all connecting in an exact manner. Out it all seems to come. She was not bothering though. Knew what I was saying, she knew it fine well. I was just. . passes the time: I said. Keeps you warm — plate of steaming chips and a piping hot cup of fresh tea.

You’ll have to wait till I collect my things, she answered; I’ll meet you at the door.

The guy with my two quid in his breast pocket was standing pretending not to have noticed me there hanging about with my bag. She came along carrying an enormous suitcase. Jesus, must be emigrating or something.

Pardon?

Your suitcase — looks like it contains the life possessions.

O. I was staying with friends over the week. Just got back this evening. She pointed at my effort.

I nodded: Deceiving bag this. Takes everything, all of the chattels. Good buy. Got it in a sale a couple of years back. Strong stuff it’s made out of.

I held the door open and we went upstairs. The rain still drizzling down. I could not think of where to go for allnight snackbars. There is one, she said, not too far.

Suitcase — it looks heavy. I’ll take a hold of it for you, eh?

No, I can manage.

What a surprise.

Pardon?

Nothing. . I was just. . I’m starving. While since I ate anything.

While she was walking she looked straight ahead, and always somehow half a pace in front or behind me. Buildings and basements and the rest of it: none of this interested her whatsoever. On she went. A place near Charlotte Street. I ordered the grub. No words spoken during the eating. I made to get another two cups of tea but she said: No — not for me.

There were other people in the snackbar, many were chatting and she must have been aware of this in relation to herself and the situation because she began glancing at the door.

Well, I said.

I better be going home.

I know that. Nothing else of course. I wasnt worrying about that.

We’re not supposed to be out late, she said.