James Kelman - Not Not While the Giro

The old man lowered the glass from his lips and began rolling another cigarette. His eyes never strayed until finally he lit up, inhaling deeply. He stared at me for perhaps thirty seconds then cleared his throat and began speaking. ‘Funny places — pubs. Drank in here for near enough twenty years.’ He paused, shaking his head slowly. ‘Never did get to know him. No. Never really spoke to him apart from Evening Dennis, Night Dennis. Been in the navy. Yeh, been in the navy alright. Torpedoed I hear. 1944.’ He paused again to relight the dead cigarette. ‘One of the only survivors too. Never said much about it. Don’t blame him though.’ He looked up quickly then peered round the pub. ‘No, don’t blame him. Talk too much in this place already they do. Never bloody stop, it’s no good.’ He finished the remainder of his drink and looked over to the bar, catching the barman’s eye who nodded, opened a Guinness and sent it across.

‘Slate,’ said the old guy, ‘pay him pension day.’ He smiled, ‘Not supposed to drink this, says it’s bad for me gut — the doctor.’

‘Yeh?’

‘Oh yeh.’ He nodded. ‘Yeh, said it would kill me if I weren’t careful.’ He was looking at me over the tops of his spectacles. ‘Seventy two I am, know that? Kill me! Ha! Bloody idiot.’

‘Did you like old Dennis though?’ I asked.

‘Well never really knew him did I? I would’ve though. Yeh, I would’ve liked old Dennis if we’d spoke. But we never talked much, him and me. Not really.’ He paused for a sip of the beer, continued, ‘Knew his brother of course — a couple of years older than Dennis I think. And a real villain he was. Had a nice wife. I used to work the racetracks then and sometimes met him down there.’ The old man stopped again, carefully extracting the long dead roll-up from between his lips and putting it into his waistcoat pocket. He took out his tobacco pouch and rolled another. ‘Yeh, Dennis’ brother.’ He lit the cigarette. ‘He was a villain. He used to tell me a few things. Yeh, he made a living alright. Never came in here except to see old Dennis.’

‘How did they get on together, okay?’

‘What was that? Well. .’ He scratched his head. ‘Don’t really know. Didn’t speak much to each other — some brothers don’t you know.’ He was looking over the glasses at me. ‘No, they’d usually just sit drinking, sometimes laughing. Not speaking though. Not much anyhow, probably said everything I suppose. Course, maybe old Dennis would ask after his wife and kids or something like that.’

‘Was he never married himself then?’

‘Maybe. I don’t rightly know. Guvnor’d tell you.’

‘Who, him?’ I pointed at the barman.

‘What. Him! Ha.’ The old guy snorted into his drink. ‘Guvnor! He would like that. Bloody guvnor. No, his brother-in-law, Jackie Moore, he’s the guvnor. But he’s been laid up now for nearly a year. Broke his leg and it’s never healed proper, not proper. Him!’ He gestured at the barman. ‘Slag thinks he’ll get this place if Jackie has to pack it in. .’ The old guy’s voice was beginning to rise in his excitement. ‘No chance, no bleeding chance. Even his sister hates his guts.’

He was speaking too loudly now and I glanced across to see if the barman was loitering, but he seemed engrossed in wiping the counter. The old guy noticed my concern and he leaned over the table. ‘Don’t pay no attention,’ He spoke quietly. ‘He hears me alright. Won’t let on though. Bloody ponce. What was I saying though — old Dennis, yeh, he could drink. Scotch he liked, drank it all the time. Don’t care much for it myself. A drop of rum now and then, yeh, that does me.’ He paused to puff on the cigarette, but had to relight it eventually. ‘Used to play football you know, old Dennis. Palace I think or maybe the Orient. Course he was getting on a bit when the war went on. Just about ready to pack it in. And he never went back after.’

‘Cause of his arm?’

‘Yeh, the torpedo.’ The old man was silent for several moments, puffing on the roll-up between sips at the black rum I’d got him. ‘Funny he should’ve waited so long to do it. Nearly as bleeding old as me he was! Course, maybe the arm had something to do with it. Maybe not.’ He scratched his head. ‘Talk in this place they do. Wouldn’t if Jackie was here. No, not bloody likely they wouldn’t.’ He sucked on his teeth. ‘No, not if Jackie was here behind the bar.’ He inhaled very deeply before looking at me over the glasses. ‘Where d’you find him then. . I mean what like was he when.’ He stopped and swallowed the last of the rum.

‘Well, just like it said in the paper. I was a bit worried cause I hadn’t seen him for a couple of days so I went up the stair and banged his door. No answer, so off I went to the library to see if I could see him there.’

‘The library?’

‘Yeh, he used to go up before opening time, nearly every day.’

‘Yeh, expect he would,’ said the old man, ‘now I think on it.’

‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘I got home about half five and saw the landlord’s daughter. She was worried so I said did she want me to force open the door or what, before her dad came back — should I wait maybe. She said to do what I thought so I went ahead and broke it in, and he was lying there, on the bed. The wrist sliced open.’

‘Yeh. .’ The old guy nodded after a moment, then added, ‘And the eating, it said in the paper. .’

‘That’s right. The doctor, he said old Dennis couldn’t have been eating for nearly a week beforehand.’

‘Bloody fool,’ he sighed. ‘He should’ve ate. That’s one thing you should do is eat. I take something every day, yeh, make sure of that. You got to. A drop of soup’s good you know.’

I ordered two more drinks just on the first bell, we stayed silent, smoking then drinking, until I finished and rose and said, ‘Well, I’m off. See you again.’

‘Yeh,’ he muttered, staring into his glass. He shook his head, ‘Old Dennis should’ve ate eh!’

Charles wakened at 9.30 a.m. and wasted no time in dressing. Good God it’s about time for spring surely. Colder than it was yesterday though and I’ll have to wash and shave today. Must. The face has yellow lines. I can’t wear socks either. Impossibility. People notice smells though they say nothing.

Think I will do a moonlight tonight, I mean five weeks rent — he has cause for complaint. Humanity. A touch of humanity is required. He has fourteen tenants paying around £3.00 each for those poxy wee rooms, surely he can afford to let me off paying once in a while. Man I’ve even been known to clean my room on occasion with no thought of rent reduction.

Still he did take me for a meal last night. Collapsed if he hadn’t. Imagine that bloody hotel porter knocking me back from their staff canteen. Where’s your uniform? Are you a washer-up? These people depress me. What’s the difference, one meal more or less. You’d think they were paying for the actual grub themselves. Old Ahmed though — what can I say — after the bollicking he gives me for not even trying to get a job and some bread together, who expects him to come back half an hour later saying, ‘Okay you Scotch dosser, come and eat.’ No, nothing to be said apart from, ‘Fancy a pint first Ahmed?’ Yes, he has too many good points. Suppose I could give him a week’s money. Depends on what they give me though. Anyway.

Charles left the house and made his way towards the Labour Exchange up near Pentonville Road. It was a twenty five minute walk but one he didn’t mind at all as he normally received six and a half quid for his trouble, later on, from the N.A.B.