James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

When regulars spoke of the Small Family they did so in a wryly amused fashion. In those days an odd camaraderie existed between us. I am of the opinion that this was the case because of the tacit assumption that in stations like ours the queerest occurrences might take place right beneath one’s nose but that in the very act of perception the substance of such an occurrence would have slipped, as it were, ‘round a corner’. I should point out that I am very aware of the pitfalls in nostalgia. But I doubt whether it is necessary to state that the Small Family in itself was never a source of amusement to us. The truth of the matter is that we regulars admired if not marvelled at them. Above all did we esteem the little mother. In conversation with an old friend recently we were discussing this; he made the strong point that simply to have been a parent of the large boy would have tested a man’s resources. This is not, of course, in any sense, to excuse the absence of a male parent; it was intended as a testimony to the character of the tiny woman. In those days things were more tough than they are now and she could not have had an easy time of it. My friend reminded me that the family seemed to earn their living by gathering and that often they were to be seen carrying large bundles of soft goods. It is possible they may have kept a stall in one of the lesser street markets in the area to the south of the Tron.

I told my friend of a dream I used to have in which the large mound or hill in the station had become hollow and was fashioned out as a makeshift home for the Small Family. Inside it the floors were carpeted and the kitchen contained every domestic and labour-saving convenience. The rationale of the dream is fairly obvious but my friend also pointed to an element of reality insofar as the back end of the mound would have afforded a degree of shelter. He also reminded me that any form of shelter was always welcome in the old station because of the tremendous rushes of air. This most definitely was the case and of the more amusing side-effects of the illusion, as experienced by visiting travellers, perhaps the most striking was the sensation that true equilibrium would be achieved only by crawling on all fours.

I had wanted to speak to my friend of an incident that occurred many many years ago. In matters like this it is far better to move straightaway to the core of the subject otherwise we run the risk of losing our way. My desire was basic, to have the subject aired. It is my opinion that to air a subject, to present the question, is to find oneself on the road to solution. I may well be wrong. In itself the incident is of no major significance, neither then or now. But it is one that remains to the forefront of my memory and has done for more than thirty years. It concerns my own children.

I have had five children, the eldest of whom is a daughter. At the time I speak of she was 9 or 10 years old but even then had looks of a striking quality. She also regarded herself as quite grown up, as quite the young lady. I must confess that both myself and my wife regarded the girl in a similar light which is not at all uncommon, she being the eldest of the five.

The day of the incident was a Sunday and my wife was not feeling a hundred percent; she decided to remain home with the youngest two while I set off with the other three on a visit to an elderly relation. All children loved the old subway system and mine were no different. Even yet I can recall their excitement as we tramped downwards, down the long flights of stone steps, thoroughly enjoying the onrush of air, the strange smells and echoing sounds. Once onto the platform we ‘ascended’ the large mound or hill to stand hand in hand, peering into the blackness of the tunnel, awaiting the arrival of the next train.

In our group as a whole I should say there had been close on twenty folk, and by ‘group’ I simply refer to those on the platform who were intending passengers, as opposed to the Small Family. They had appeared suddenly, from nowhere it seemed. I myself travelled but rarely on Sundays and I confess to rather a shock on discovering they were here in the station on that day as though it were any other. The other travellers must have been experiencing an unease similar to my own. Not to put too fine a point on it there most certainly was a general strain, and we stood as though rooted to the spot. But gradually I became aware of a pressure on my hand. It was being caused by the child whose hand I held and she in turn was being affected by the child whose hand he was holding who in turn was being affected by my eldest daughter’s hand. My eldest daughter was very uncomfortable indeed, but not agitated and by no means in any distress. It was the large boy, he was staring at her. He had halted at the rear of his family and was standing stockstill, staring at her in an entirely un-selfconscious manner. It was the most peculiar thing. I see the moment clearly and distinctly and the two figures are in isolation. Beyond that is a blur, until I hear my daughter’s voice:

‘Dad, I want to put her on the mantelpiece!’ and she pointed to someone in their group, either a child or I suppose, perhaps, the tiny woman.

There are many aspects of this incident I regard as worthy of comment, as worthy of discussion. Over the years I have dwelt on the matter periodically but without ever allowing it to become an obsession. I would like, however, to speak of it with my friend. I have wanted to do so for quite some time but the subject I find difficult to approach, that is, the core of the subject for I find it all too easy to discuss topics peripheral to it.

As the years pass I have become close to overwhelmed by an ever-increasing burden of guilt. There is no one cause. I think that if I could isolate different events, the experiences I derived from them, if I could bring these out into the open then perhaps I would be on the road to assuaging such feelings and ridding myself of the burden. I am also aware that the sensation of guilt — even chronic guilt — is part and parcel of the ageing process and in neither case does a cure exist. Ultimately, however, to have said that is to have said very little.

Roddy closed the door and bounded upstairs to the kitchen. 7.30 — surely the place would be empty. Open door is a good sign. One empty kitchen! He whistled as he poured the contents of the tin of minced beef into his new saucepan. First Friday night in London and free. Free. Nobody at all. Nobody knows. I know nobody but the silent landlord and his noisy children. Can return at all hours without reproach or guilt. No angry or martyred parent. Not one single solitary person but whom I may meet tonight. Alone and almost in Soho.

He carefully mussed his hair in front of the cracked mirror that balanced on a shelf. Hearing the saucepan begin to sizzle on the black stove he remembered coffee. He turned the gas down low and returned to his room for the large jar of Nescafé.

Such a small room for the money, plus slot electricity. One mouldy Hank Jansen found under mattress next to an ancient sock. Clean sheets and almost clean floor though not enough for bare feet. Dressing table painted flat green with barber’s surplus mirror joined on by unscrew nails. Deep armchair sagging in centre caused by too many overweight bums. Old stiff newspapers with dust and hairs imprinted between pages, found under dark greasy cushion. One grey-green crust of bread discovered wedged between bed-leg and wall. Left wedged.

Lucky to find any place let alone Number 7, Ashdown Ave., Kilburn. Mother would surely take to fellow lodgers. Thick as thieves with silent landlord complete with hanging braces and unshaven chin. Deeply love the rich Sligo tongue and manners. Roddy smiled briefly.

Dear Mother,