James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

Late by Christ it must be near — Ach, doesnt matter.

Outside the snackbar she was set to go off alone. Half turning to me she said: Thanks.

No bother. Hang on and I’ll get you home. And dont worry. I’m not. .

Honestly, she said, I’ll make it all right on my own. I dont live far from here. Bye.

Too much for me. Absolute nonsense. Far too much. Plate of chips and a cup of tea I mean that was precisely the case and nothing else involved. Same as the walking home, passes the time. I’m not, Jesus, ach.

But I’m only round the corner, she said.

Fuck all to do with me where you are. I’m not doing anything. Just hanging about till it all begins this morning. Still dark as well, you’re best taking no chances — never know who’s around.

She shrugged: Alright then, thanks.

Back along in the direction of the British Museum till she halted outside of a place, the place where she lived. It’s run by nuns, she said. I must go in.

Aye.

At the top of the short flight of stairs she half turned but without actually seeing me. She said: Bye.

Aye.

When she closed the door after her the light went on in the hall. I hung about waiting for a time. Nothing whatsoever happened. The light went out. But no other light came on upstairs. Maybe she lived at the back of the building or in the basement. More than quarter of an hour I stood there until eventually I caught myself in the act of taking up position on the second bottom step. I walked off. Returned to St Pancras Station where I sat on the bench. No sight of the old woman. Nobody about; nothing at all. The rain had gone off. Maybe for good. I checked my money. The situation was not fine. I concentrated on working out a move for morning. And already there were signs of it; a vague alteration in the light and that odd sense of warmth the night can have for me was fast leaving.

Aside from the constant drone it was quiet in this section of the factory. In the smoke-area a group of men sat round a wooden table; a game of Solo was in progress. Although only four players could be directly involved the rest of the men gave it their utmost attention, each being positioned so that he could watch the cards of at least one of the four. The game was played quietly but laughter occurred, controlled, barely audible beyond the smoke-area. One of the players was a man by the id of Albert who smoked a pipe and had the habit of doffing and donning his bunnet all the time. While he was tapping a fresh shot of tobacco into the pipe bowl he was told to get a move on. It was his shout. He nodded to the youth sitting next to him who then lifted the cards and rapidly sorted through them, eventually saying: A bundle Albert, you’re going for nine.

Albert grinned, exhaling smoke from the corner of his mouth he took the cards. So I’m to win nine am I, he said.

You’re a certainty. Cant get beat.

Albert laughed at the other three players. You mob better be listening to this apprentice of mine.

He was answered by jeers, the game continued. About an hour later the sound of somebody whistling was heard and the Solo stopped abruptly; newspapers covered the cards and the men began chatting together, sitting back on their seats. The foreman entered, dressed in a white dustcoat he was holding a cardboard box from which he distributed the wage envelopes. While he did so he half smiled, Missed yous again eh. Ach well, one of these days, one of these days. . As he turned to leave somebody asked if he had heard any news. Not a word, he shook his head. No even a whisper.

Without waiting for further comment the foreman left. The men examined the contents of the envelopes or thrust them unopened into their pockets. The conversation became general. Then a man who had been playing Solo rose to his feet, went a couple of paces and paused. It’s no use kidding yourselves on, he said, if that order isnt in by now it’ll never be fucking in.

The men were looking at him.

Redundancies, he continued; there’s definitely going to be redundancies. So yous better get used to the idea.

Ach we knew it was coming, muttered Albert.

The man glanced at him: That’s as maybe but they should’ve given us notice. Formal. It’s no as if they’ve told us anything. All we’re doing is guessing, and we shouldnt have to be fucking guessing.

They might no know for sure but, remarked somebody.

The man looked at him then left the smoke-area, shaking his head. A short silence followed. A small man spat on the floor and stroked it carefully with the heel of his boot. Another was lifting the newspapers from the cards on the table. He said, Come on, we’ll finish the game.

One of the spectators quickly volunteered to take the place of the man who had mentioned redundancies, but the other spectators were no longer as attentive as before; within ten minutes the game ended. Some of those who had gone drifted back to the table. Albert and another player got up to make space for them and the former grunted, Yous and your fucking pontoons. . He returned the pipe to his mouth and raised his bunnet.

The men still seated were grinning as they stacked columns of coins in front of them. Somebody was already shuffling the cards and he dealt one to each person to resolve who was to become the first banker. At the outset the stakes were restricted to a maximum of 50 pence but the banker would hold the initiative in this; later the figure was raised to £1 and eventually limits were scrapped altogether. The deal was being held by Albert’s apprentice. He had called the older man across and asked him to assist in posting the bets.

Collecting in the fucking money you mean. Albert grinned briefly. When the apprentice did not reply he went on to say, I hate this game — the sight of all the cash flying about goes to my head.

A player snorted, You’re just scared to open your wages ya cunt ye.

A few people laughed.

Albert glared at the player: You trying to say I’m feart of the wife or something? aye well you’re fucking right I am. Bringing out a box of matches he relighted his pipe and muttered, I’ll enjoy taking in your dough anyway ya cunt.

The player chuckled. When he finished shuffling for the first round of his deal the apprentice got the previous banker to cut the cards then gazed round the table and said, Will yous space yourselves out a bit?

Christ, said somebody; always the fucking same when he gets the deal — we’ve got to arrange ourself out for his convenience.

Aye you’re fucking right, replied the apprentice. I like to see what yous’re doing with the cards.

That’s my boy, grinned Albert.

The cards were dealt.

At 7.30 a.m. Albert, in company with other non players, had gone off to the washroom to clean up in preparation for clocking out. Some dayshift workers had already clocked in, two of them sitting in at pontoons although not having received their wages yet their stakes were minimal. The bank had been won and lost many times during the game. It had returned to the apprentice. And when a man told them it was 7.40 a.m. only he and two nightshift workers were left at the table. Lighting another cigarette he waited for them to evaluate the strength of their first cards and make their bets. One of them laid £15 down and the man who had told them the time said: Jesus Christ.

The apprentice won that bet and the rest. A round later and someone called to say that the nightshift were waiting to clock out. He paused with the cards and glanced at the men. The one who had bet the £15 did not react but the other jumped up, grabbed his money and headed off to the washroom. See yous on Monday, he cried.

What d’you think? the apprentice asked the other man. Time we were moving?