James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

‘She does.’ The girl smiled.

‘What’s up?’

‘I dont advise it at the moment,’ she said quietly, ‘the real cook’s off sick just now and she’s doing it all herself.’

‘Aw aye. Thanks for the warning!’ Eddie dragged on the cigarette again. ‘I smelled a curry there somewhere. .’

‘Yeh, there’s places all around.’

‘Great.’

‘Dont go to the first one, the one further along’s far better — supposed to be one of the best in Glasgow.’

‘Is that right. That’s great. Would you fancy coming at all?’

‘Pardon?’

‘It would be nice if you came, as well, if you came with me.’ Eddie shrugged. ‘It’d be good.’

‘Thanks, but I’m working.’

‘Well, I would wait.’

‘No, I dont think so.’

‘It’s up to you,’ he shrugged, ‘I’d like you to but.’

‘Thanks.’

Eddie nodded. He looked towards the glass-panelled door of the lounge, he patted his inside jacket pocket in an absentminded way. And the girl said, ‘You know if it was a cheque you could cash it here. Mrs Grady would do it for you.’

‘That’s good.’ He pointed at the lounge door. ‘Is that the lounge? Do you think it’d be alright if I maybe had a doze?’

‘A doze?’

‘I’m really tired. I was travelling a while and hardly got any sleep last night. If I could just stretch out a bit. .’

He looked about for an ashtray, there was one on the small half-moon table closeby where he was standing; he stubbed the cigarette out, and yawned suddenly.

‘Look,’ said the girl, ‘I’m sure if you went up the stair and lay down for an hour or so; I dont think she would mind.’

‘You sure?’

‘It’ll be okay.’

‘You sure but I mean. .’

‘Yeh.’

‘I dont want to cause you any bother.’

‘It’s alright.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Your bag’s still there in your room as well you know.’

‘Aye.’

‘Will I give you a call? about 5?’

‘Aye, fine. 6 would be even better!’

‘I’m sorry, it’ll have to be 5 — she’ll be back in the kitchen after that.’

‘I was only kidding.’

‘If it could be later I’d do it.’

‘Naw, honest, I was only kidding.’

The girl nodded.

After a moment he walked to the foot of the narrow, carpeted staircase.

‘You’ll be wanting a cheque cashed then?’

‘Aye, probably.’

‘I’ll mention it to her.’

Up in the room he unzipped his bag but did not take anything out, he sat down on the edge of the bed instead. Then he got up, gave a loud sigh and took off his jacket, draping it over the back of the bedside chair. He closed the curtains, lay stretched out on top of the bedspread. He breathed in and out deeply, gazing at the ceiling. He felt amazingly tired, how tired he was. He had never been much of an afternoon drinker and today was just proving the point. He raised himself up to unknot his shoelaces, lay back again, kicking the shoes off and letting them drop off onto the floor. He shut his eyes. He was not quite sure what he was going to do. Maybe he would just leave tomorrow. He would if he felt like it. Maybe even tonight! if he felt like it. Less than a minute later he was sleeping.

I was there once without enough for a room, not even for a night’s lodgings in the local Walton House. 6/6d it was at the time which proves how fucking recent it was. At the NAB a clerk proffered a few bob as a temporary measure and told me to come back once I had fixed myself up with a rentbook. I got irritated at this because of the logical absurdity but they were not obliged to dish out cash to people without addresses. By the time I had worked out my anger I was skint again (10 fags and some sort of basic takeaway from a Chinese Restaurant). I wound up trying for a kip in the station, then tramped about the ’dilly trying to punt the wares to Mr and Mrs Anybody. When it was morning I headed along and under the bridge to Salford, eventually picking up another few bob in the office across from Strangeways. I went away back there and then and booked in at the Walton for that coming evening, just to be on the safe side.

The middle of July. What a wonderful heat it was. I spent most of the day snoozing full stretch on my back in a grass square adjacent to the House, doing my best to conserve the rest of the bread.

Into the communal lounge about 6.30 p.m. I sat on this ancient leather effort of a chair which had brass studs stuck in it. The other seating in the place was similarly odd and disjointed. Old guys sprawled everywhere snoring and farting and burping and staring in a glassy-eyed way at the television. I had been scratching myself as soon as I crossed the threshold, just at the actual idea of it. Yet in a funny fucking way it was quite comfortable and relaxing and it seemed to induce in you a sort of stupor. Plus it was fine getting the chance to see a telly again. One felt like a human being. I mind it was showing The Fugitive with that guy David Jansen and this tall police lieutenant who was chasing him about the States (and wound up he was the guy who killed Jansen’s wife). I was right into it anyway, along with the remaining few in the room who were still compos mentis, when in walks these three blokes in clean boilersuits and they switched it off, the telly. 10 minutes before the end or something. I jumped out the chair and stood there glaring at them. A couple of the old guys got up then; but they just headed off towards the door, and then upstairs to the palliases. It was fucking bedtime! 10.50 p.m. on a Thursday night. It might even have been a fucking Friday.

He was walking slowly. His pace quickened then slackened once more. He stopped by the doorway of a shop and lighted a cigarette. The floor was dry, a sort of parquetry. He lowered himself down to sit on his heels, his arms folded, elbows resting on his knees, his back to the glass door.

He could have gone straight home and crept inside and into bed perhaps quietly enough not to disturb her and come morning, maybe that hour earlier than usual, and out and away, before she was awake. But why bother. He could simply not return. In this way they would simply not meet, they would not have to meet. And that would be great. He was not up to it. It was not something he felt capable of managing. It was not something he was capable of. He could not cope with it.

But why bother. If he was obliged to do certain things and then failed to do these things then that was that and nothing could be offered instead. He had always known the truth of that. Always; even though he seemed never to have given it voice. Never; especially not with her. She would never have understood.

And then there were his silences. That inability he had to get out of himself. It was not disgust, not contempt; nothing like that. It was something different altogether. But he had no wish to work out what the hell it was.

He had been trying to adapt for years. And now she was there now lying in bed sleeping or awake, about to become awake, to peer at the clockface, knowing she is not as warm as usual, because of course he is not home yet and the time, and her eyes.

He keeps imagining going somewhere else and taking a room perhaps with full board in some place far away where all the people are just people, people he does not know and has no obligation to speak to. There was something good about that. He inhaled on the cigarette then raised himself up and bent his knees a couple of times, before pacing on. After a time he slowed, but was soon walking more quickly.

The milk was bubbling over the sides of the saucepan. He rushed to the oven, grabbed the handle and held the pan in the air. The wean was pulling at his trouser-leg, she gripped the material. For christ sake Audrey, he tugged her hand away while returning the saucepan to the oven. The girl went back to sit on the floor, glancing at him as she turned the pages of her colouring book. He smiled: Dont go telling mummy about the milk now eh!