James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

Beckoning her to follow they crept upstairs without switching on any lights. This place was known as a respectable bachelors-only house. It was wholly maintained by an eighty eight year old Italian lady who preferred older, retired if possible, gentlemen. She had only allowed him in through her husband whom he had met playing dominoes in the local pub. ‘Steady boy,’ he told his wife. But it was clean and quiet and during the short while he had been staying he hardly set eyes on another tenant. On another occasion, just after closing-time, somebody had bumped against his door and seemed to fall upstairs. When he investigated whoever it was had vanished. He had concluded that the person was living directly above but could not be sure. The rent was £3.50 a week for this medium sized room containing a mighty bed which resembled his idea of what an orthopaedic bed must look like. It was shaped like a small but steep hill; four feet high at the top and half that at the bottom. Occasionally he woke up with his feet sticking out over the end and his head about eighteen inches below the pillows. An unusual continental quilt covered it all. The interior of the mattress seemed to be stuffed with potato crisp packets and startling crinkling noises escaped whenever he turned onto his side. It was extremely comfortable! Although there was no running water there was an old marble-topped table of some kind and an enormous jug and basin; underneath the table stood an eidl bucket, and all three vessels plus the battered electric kettle were filled daily with fresh water. There were no cooking facilities. Under no circumstances was cooking allowed in the house, even if he had gone out and bought his own cooker. The landlady was totally opposed to it. At first he would buy things like cheese and cold meat but recently he had discovered tinned frankfurters and boiled eggs. He emptied the frankfurters into the electric kettle and also one or two eggs. Once the water had boiled for three minutes the grub was ready for eating. The only snag was the actual kettle which was a very old model, it had a tiny spout and a really wee opening on top, maybe less than three inches in diameter. This meant he had to spear the frank-furters out individually with a fork which required skill, frequently leaving bits of sausage floating about after; and often the eggs would crack when dropped down onto the kettle bottom which caused the water to become cobwebby from the escaping egg white. Fortunately the flavour of the coffee never seemed all that impaired. He was secretly proud of his ingenuity but was unable to display it to the girl having neither frankfurter nor egg. Still, she did seem pleased to get the chair and the coffee. He switched on the gas-fire.

‘Very quiet,’ she said presently.

‘Haunted.’

She smiled her disbelief.

‘You don’t believe me? There’s things go bump in the night here, I’m telling you.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Okay. .’ Sitting on the carpet he began twiddling the knobs on the transistor radio. ‘What’s Luxembourg again?’

‘208 metres. If I believed everything you told me I’d go mad or something.’

‘Doesn’t bother me if you’re too nervous to hear.’ He switched off the radio and continued in a low growling kind of stage-voice. ‘One dark winter’s evening just after closing time around the turn of the century, an aged retired navvy was returning home from the boozer. .’

‘Retired what?’

‘Navvy. And he was still wearing his Wellingtons, returning from the boozer quietly singing this shanty to himself when he opened the front door and climbed the creaky stairs.’ He paused and pointed at the door. ‘Just as he passed that very door on his way up he stopped in terror, at the top he saw this death’s head staring down at him. Well he staggered back letting out this blood curdling scream and went toppling down the stairs banging on that door as he went to his doom.’

‘Did he?’ she said politely.

‘Yeh, really! They say to this day if you climb the stair occasionally just after closing-time you’ll sometimes see a death’s head wearing a pair of Wellington boots. I know it’s hard to believe but there you are.’

She gazed above his head.

‘Too much bloody interference at this time of night,’ he muttered, back with the transistor radio. ‘You want Radio I?’

‘There’s nothing on after seven. I don’t really mind.’ She had begun humming this tune again to herself. Why the hell didn’t she go! Sitting there like Raquel Welch. Anyway if she really did fancy him surely she’d want to kip up with him — at least for the night. Good Christ. And it was nearly 12 o’clock probably. Still, he didn’t have to get up for work in the morning. But what would happen if they locked her out or something? Get chucked out the nurses’ home? And he would get chucked out this place if Arrivederchi Roma found out.

‘Want another coffee?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Well yes or no?’

‘If you’re having one.’

‘I’m not having one but if you want one just go ahead and say so.’

‘I’m not fussy.’

Jesus why didn’t she get up and go? ‘Plenty of books there if you want a read. .’ He gestured vaguely beneath the bed where a pile of paperbacks was lying.

‘No thanks.’

He ripped a piece of newspaper and stuck it through the grill of the gas-fire to get a light for his cigarette, and said, ‘Did you never smoke?’

‘Yes, quite heavily, but I gave it up last Christmas.’

‘Mmm, good for you. I sometimes. .’ He lacked the energy to finish the sentence.

‘There’s jobs going in the hospital for storemen and porters,’ she said.

‘Is that right?’

‘Yes, and they’re earning good wages. The man you see is a Mister Harvey. They’re desperate for staff.’

Perhaps she was only seeing him in an attempt to recruit him for the position of porter. She had begun humming that song again. He looked at her. ‘What tune’s that again?’

‘Ten guitars. I’ve always liked it. It was only a B side. My big sister had it.’

Wish to Christ she was here just now. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I like the fast numbers myself.’

‘You would,’ she laughed. She actually laughed! What was this? A note of encouragement at long last. What was he supposed to do now? He had not that much desire to start playing around again, too bad on the nerves. Anyway, she didn’t have the brains to drop hints. She didn’t even have the brains to. .

‘What was that?’ she cried.

‘What?’

‘That noise.’ She stared at the door.

‘Ssh. Might be that old one creeping about, checking up on everybody. If she finds you here I’m right in trouble.’

‘Oh,’ she replied, relieved.

‘You didn’t believe that death’s head twaddle did you!’

‘Of course not — I’m used to you by now.’

What did she mean by that? He stood to his feet and walked to the cupboard to get the alarm clock. He began to wind it up. After setting it down again he stared at the back of her shoulders as she stared at the gas-fire, humming that song to herself. He had to try once more. It was getting ridiculous. Stepping over to her chair he kissed the nape of her neck. She did not move. Her blouse fastened at the back and he unbuttoned the top buttons and fumbled at the hook on her bra.

‘What d’you think you’re playing at?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. I’m taking off your blouse, but I’m stuck.’ Then he discovered the catch thing and added, ‘No I’m not.’ He continued on the blouse again and she allowed it to slide off her shoulders and then folded it up and placed it neatly on the carpet. Meanwhile he held both strap ends of the bra. But he had reached this point before in the alley behind the hospital, and on the very first night after the dance he had managed to get his fingertips beneath the rim of her pants. What had been going wrong since? He stepped round the chair to face her. He took both her hands and pulled her to her feet and kissed her. Still unsure but almost letting himself believe this could only be it. Then he paused. She unzipped her skirt at the side and walked out of it, and climbed onto the bed and under the quilt. She reached back and slung the bra over the back of the bed.