James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

Aye, you cant beat it.

She looked at me.

The tea, I said, you cant beat it — very very good.

Yes.

She refused a cigarette and when I had my own smoking she asked: You work.

Aye, yes.

Not stay? She gestured at the window. The rain pounding at it.

Naw, not stay. I grinned: I stay in Glasgow.

Ah, she nodded, my friend is Glasgow.

Great place Glasgow. You like it?

Glasgow very good.

Great stuff, have another cup of tea immediately.

She looked at me.

Tea — more tea?

She shook her head. You ah. . You. . She continued in french and finished with a shrug: I cannot say this with english.

I shrugged as well and as soon as I had swallowed the last of the tea I rose to put the cups on the draining board at the sink. The girl said, You go now.

I smiled. I go now.

Yes.

In the morning, tomorrow morning I’ll be here.

Yes.

I paused at the door.

She half smiled. Tired, tired tired tired.

I nodded and said, Goodnight.

Both of them were washed and ready to leave when I woke up next morning. When Sammy was out of earshot I asked Chas if he thought he would mind if I was a bit late in. Ask him and see, was the reply. Sammy scratched his head when I did. He said: Okay but dont be all morning. I pulled the blankets up to my chin but as soon as I heard the car engine revving I got out of the bunk and dressed. Brushed my teeth, shaved.

Outside it was dry, fresh, a clear morning in June. Across the loch puffy clouds round the Ben. In the hotel bar the previous night Sammy had forecast a return of the warm weather, and it looked like he was going to be right. There was no reply when I chapped the door. I chapped again and went inside. Clothes strewn about the place, as if she had unpacked every last item. And her smell was here now.

She was sleeping on her side, facing into the wall. I stepped back out and chapped the door loudly. Rustling sounds. I clicked the door open.

No!

It’s me.

No!

I remained with my hand on the door knob.

Come!

Her hair rumpled, a pair of jeans and a Tshirt she was wearing, eyes almost closed; she moved about picking things up off the floor and folding them away into the rucksacks; so much stuff lying it seemed odds against the rucksacks being able to take it all. I filled the kettle and shoved it on to boil the water. She looked up: Tea?

Aye, yes, tea.

Your friends?

Work.

Ah.

She stopped clearing up, she yawned while sitting down on the bunk with her back to the wall and her legs drawn up, resting her elbows on her knees. She gazed over her shoulder, out of the window, murmuring to herself in french.

You sleep okay?

Yes, she replied.

She had the plastic container out, the sandwiches ready, when I came back with the tea.

I said, It’s a great morning outside, really great. The morning, outside, the weather, really beautiful.

Ah, yes. . She looked out of the window again and spoke in french, she shrugged.

Tea good?

Very very good, she smiled. She passed me the plastic container.

Fine sandwiches, I told her. What kind of stuff is this?

Pardon?

I parted the 2 slices of bread.

O. Sausage. You like?

It’s good.

Yes. Suddenly she laughed, she laughed and held up the sandwich she was eating: In Glasgow piece — a piece. Yes?

Christ.

She laughed again, flicking the hair from her face: My friend in Glasgow she say peez, geez peez pleez.

That’s right geeza piece, I grinned. Heh, more tea? fancy some more tea?

She nodded.

At the turnoff for the Mallaig Road we shook hands in a solemn sort of way, and she headed along in that direction, her gaze to where the boots were taking her. I watched until she reached the first bend on the road. She hadnt looked back at all.

When I banged out the signal the hammering halted and I crawled through the short narrow tunnel into the big chlorine tank we were relining. I climbed the scaffolding. The two of them were now sitting on the edge of the platform, their legs dangling over, having a smoke. Without speaking I got the working gear on, pulled the safety-helmet, the goggles and the breathing mask into their right positions about my head. While tugging the sweatband down to my brow a loud snort came from Sammy, and he said: Looks like he’s decided not to speak.

Aye, said Chas.

Waiting for us to ask I suppose.

Must be.

God love us.

A moment later Chas glanced at me: Well?

Well what?

Well?

Well well well.

Hh, Christ.

Ach never bother with him, grunted Sammy.

But Chas said: Did you or didnt you?

What? What d’you mean?

Did you or fucking didnt you?

Did I or didnt I what?

Sammy sighed: Aye or naw, that’s all he’s asking.

Is it? I laughed.

Orange bastard, muttered Sammy.

So you did then, Chas asked.

Did what?

Ah fuck off.

What’s up.

What’s up! Chas said, Are you going to tell us? aye or naw!

I had a look at the hammer to make sure it was properly adjusted onto the pressurised air-hose, then got myself a chisel. By the way, I said, thanks for bringing my gear up from below, makes a difference having good mates on a job like this.

Sammy gazed at me. He said to Chas: You wouldnt credit it — look at him, he’s not going to tell us anything right enough. Tell you something for nothing Chas it’s the last time the cunt’ll even smell one of these tea bags of mine.

That goes for my duffel coat, grunted Chas.

I fixed the chisel into the nozzle of the hammer, and began whistling.

Fuck off, cried Chas.

Ach. Never bother, muttered Sammy, never bother. Who’s interested anyhow!

I slung the hammer across my shoulder, tugging the airhose across to the place I had stopped at the day before. Both of them were watching me. I winked before pulling the goggles down over my eyes, triggered off the hammer.

The backcourt was thick with rubbish as usual. What a mess. I never like thinking about the state it used to get into. As soon as a family flitted out to the new home all the weans were in and dragging off the abandoned furnishings & fittings, most of which they dumped. Plus with the demolition work going on you were getting piles of mortar and old brickwork everywhere. A lot of folk thought the worst kind of rubbish was the soft goods, the mattresses and dirty clothing left behind by the ragmen. Fleas were the problem. It seemed like every night of the week we were having to root them out once the weans came in. Both breeds we were catching, the big yins and the wee yins, the dark and the rusty brown. The pest-control went round from door to door. Useless. The only answer was keeping the weans inside but ours were too old for that. Having visitors in the house was an ordeal, trying to listen to what they were saying while watching for the first signs of scratching. Then last thing at night, before getting into bed, me and the wife had to make a point of checking through our own stuff. Apart from that there was little to be done about it. We did warn the weans but it was useless. Turn your back and they were off downstairs to play at wee houses, dressing-up in the clothes and bouncing on the mattresses till all you were left hoping was they would knock the stuffing out the fleas. Some chance. You have to drown the cunts or burn them. A few people get the knack of crushing them between thumbnail and forefinger but I could never master that. Anyway, fleas have got nothing to do with this. I was down in the backcourt to shout my pair up for their tea. The woman up the next close had told me they were all involved in some new den they had built and if I saw hers while I was at it I was to send them up right away. The weans were always making dens. It could be funny to see. You looked out the window and saw what you thought was a pile of rubble and maybe a sheet of tarpaulin stuck on the top. Take another look and you might see a wee head poking out, then another, and another, till finally maybe ten of them were standing there, thinking the coast was clear. But on this occasion I couldnt see a thing. I checked out most of the possibilities. Nothing. No signs of them anywhere. And it was quiet as well. Normally you would’ve at least heard a couple of squeaks. I tramped about for a time, retracing my steps and so on. I was not too worried. It would have been different if only my pair was missing but there was no sight nor sound of any description. And I was having to start considering the dunnies. This is where I got annoyed. I’ve always hated dunnies — pitchblack and that smell of charred rubbish, the broken glass, these things your shoes nudge against. Terrible. Then if you’re in one and pause a moment there’s this silence forcing you to listen. Really bad. I had to go down but. In the second one I tried I found some of the older mob, sitting in a kind of circle round two candles. They heard me come and I knew they had shifted something out of sight, but they recognised me okay and one of the lassies told me she had seen a couple of weans sneaking across to Greegor’s. I was really angry at this. I had told them umpteen times never to go there. By rights the place should’ve got knocked down months ago but progress was being blocked for some reason I dont know, and now the squatters and a couple of the girls were in through the barricading. If you looked over late at night you could see the candle glow at the windows and during the day you were getting the cars crawling along near the pavement. It was hopeless. I went across. Once upon a time a grocer had a shop in the close and this had something to do with how it got called Greegor’s. Judging from the smell of food he was still in business. At first I thought it was coming from up the close but the nearer I got I could tell it was coming from the dunny. Down I went. Being a corner block there were a good few twists and turns from the entrance lobby and I was having to go carefully. It felt like planks of wood I was walking on. Then the sounds. A kind of sizzling — making you think of a piece of fucking silverside in the oven, these crackling noises when the juice spurts out. Jesus christ. I shouted the ids of my pair. The sound of feet scuffling. I turned a corner and got a hell of a shock — a woman standing in a doorway. Her face wasnt easy to see because of the light from behind her. Then a man appeared. He began nodding away with a daft smile on his face. I recognised them. Wineys. They had been dossing about the area for the past while. Even the face she had told a story, white with red blotches, eyes always seeming to water. She walked in this queer kind of stiff shuffle, her shoes flapping. When she stepped back from the doorway she id the cuff of her coat sleeve across her mouth. The man was still giving his daft smiles. I followed. Inside the room all the weans were gathered round the middle of the floor. Sheets of newspaper had been spread about. I spotted my pair immediately — scared out their wits at seeing me. I just looked at them. Over at the fireplace a big fire was going, not actually in the fireplace, set to about a yard in front. The spit was fashioned above it and a wee boy stood there, he must’ve been rotating the fucking thing. Three lumps of meat sizzled away and just to the side were a few cooked bits lined in a row. I hadnt noticed the woman walk across but then she was there and making a show of turning the contraption just so I would know she wasnt giving a fuck about me being there. And him — still smiling, then beginning to make movements as if he wanted to demonstrate how it all worked. He was pointing out a row of raw lumps on the mantelpiece and then reaching for a knife with a thin blade. I shook my head, jesus christ right enough. I grabbed for my pair, yelling at the rest of the weans to get up that effing stair at once.