James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

‘Aye.’

‘Right kid, then off you go, and we close at two remember.’

‘At two?’

‘Aye, two. Remember!’

‘But John’s always home before eleven.’

‘Aye that’s John kid.’ The crew-cut man grinned. ‘Anyhow, take it away.’ He pushed the bag along the counter and Tommy walked after it. One of the youths held the strap out and he ducked his right arm and head through. The youth helped him to manoeuvre it to the edge of the counter and then he looked down at him rather worriedly.

‘Okay son?’ he asked.

Tommy nodded and straining he heaved it off from the counter. The bag of papers plummeted to the floor like a boulder, carrying him with it. Everybody in the hut roared with laughter as he lay there unable to extricate himself. Eventually the thin man cried, ‘Give him a hand!’

Three boys jumped forward. They freed him and hoisted the bag back up onto the counter. Tommy gazed at the men. After a moment the thin man said to the crew-cut man, ‘Well Jimmy, what do you think now?’

‘Ach the kid’ll be okay.’

‘Give him a weer run,’ suggested the big man, ‘that six is a big bastard. Somebody else can do it.’

‘No mister,’ said Tommy, ‘I can do it. I’ve helped my brother before.’

The crew-cut man nodded then smiled. ‘Right Wee MacKenzie. Put the strap over one shoulder just. The left’s the best. Don’t put your head under either, that’s how that happened. It’s a question of balance. Just the one shoulder now. Okay?’

Tommy nodded, pulled the strap on, and the crew-cut man pushed the bag to the edge of the counter. ‘Ready?’

‘Aye.’

‘Right you are kid, take it away.’

Tommy breathed in deeply and stepped away from the counter, bending almost horizontal beneath the weight. He struggled to the door, seeing only the way as far as his feet.

‘Open it!’ shouted the thin man.

As the door banged shut behind him he could hear the big man say: ‘Jesus Christ!’

Tommy reached the top of Garscadden Road and turned into Drumchapel Road by the white church. His chest felt tight under the burden and the strap cut right into his shoulder but he was not staggering so often now. It was getting on for 5.30 a.m. When he looked up he saw the blue bus standing at Dalsetter Terminus. About fifty yards from it he looked again, in time to see the driver climb up into the cabin. Tommy tried to run but his knees banged together. The engine revved. He half trotted in a kind of jerking motion. The bus seemed to roll up the small incline to the junction. Fifteen yards now and Tommy was moving faster on the downhill towards it. An oil-tanker passing caused the bus to stay a moment and Tommy went lunging forwards and grabbed at the pole on the rear platform. The bus turned into the main road and he swung aboard with his right foot on the very edge, managing to drag on his left, but he could not pull up the bag. The weight strained on his shoulder. It was pulling him backwards as the bus gathered speed. Nobody was downstairs. His chest felt tighter and his neck was getting really sore. The strap slipped, it slipped down, catching in the crook of his elbow. He clenched his teeth and hung onto the pole.

Then a cold hand clutched him.

‘PULL!’ screamed the old conductress.

He gasped with the effort. She wrenched him up onto the platform where he stood trembling, the paper-bag slumped between his legs, unable to speak.

‘Bloody wee fool!’ she cried. ‘Get inside before you fall off!’ She helped him and the bag up the step and he collapsed onto the long side-seat with the bag staying on the floor. ‘I don’t know what your mother’s thinking about!’ she said.

He got the money out of his trouser pocket and said politely, ‘Tuppny-half please.’

At the foot of Achamore Road he got down off the platform first and then got the paper-bag strap over his left shoulder again and he dragged it off. He heard the ding ding as the conductress rang the bell for the driver. On the steep climb up to Kilmuir Drive he started by resting every twenty or so yards but by the time he had reached halfway it was every eight to ten yards. Finally he stopped and staggered into the first close and he straightened up and the bag crashed to the concrete floor. He waited a moment but nobody came out to see what had happened. A lot of the papers had shifted inside the bag and he heaved it up and bumped it down a bit, trying to get them settled back, but they did not move. His body felt strange. He began doing a funny sort of walk about the close, as if he was in slow motion. He touched himself on the shoulder, his left arm hanging down. Then he walked to the foot of the stairs and sat on the second bottom one. He got up and picked out a Sunday Post but it stuck halfway it was so tightly wedged; when he tugged, the pages ripped. Eventually he manoeuvered it out and he read the football reports sitting on the step. Then he did the same with the Sunday Mail . A long time later he returned the Reynolds News and stood up, rubbing his ice-cold bottom.

He completed the first close in five minutes then dragged the bag along the pavement to the next. At the faraway flat on the top landing, as he pushed through the rolled up Post, Mail and World , the dog jumped up snapping and yelping and he jammed three fingers in the letter-flap. He sucked them walking downstairs. At the third close he left the newspapers sticking halfway out. At the fourth he dragged the bag on to a point between it and the fifth and he delivered both sets of papers at once. He was down to about two to three minutes a close now.

About three quarters of the way through the delivery he noticed the dairy had opened at the wee block of shops. Some of his customers had paid him at the same time as he was giving in the papers so he had enough for an individual fruit pie and a pint of milk. In the newsagents he bought a packet of five Capstan and a book of matches. After the snack and a smoke he raced around the rest of Kilmuir and finished the first part. He had twelve Sunday Mail extra and was short of eight Sunday Post plus he had different bits of the Observer and the Times .

On the long road home he had to hide up a close at one point when he saw Mrs Johnstone the Sunday school teacher passing by on her way to church. As soon as he got into the house he rushed into the bathroom. He brushed his teeth to get rid of the smell of smoke then he sat down to toast and egg. His father was still in bed. At about this time John would usually have finished the run completely and be in the process of cashing in down at the paper-hut. His mother did not make any comments about it. Shortly after eleven he made the return journey to Kilmuir Drive and began collecting the money. There were also some outstanding sums to collect which John had left notes on. One family owed nine weeks’ money. Tommy had delivered papers to them in error, against his brother’s instructions and they never answered the door when he rang and rang the bell. Other people were not in either. Some of them he managed to get in when he went back but by the end of it all he still had a few to collect. He got a bus back to Dalsetter Terminus. The conductor told him it was quarter past three.

He walked slowly up to the junction at the white church. He had money in three of his four jeans’ pockets. One of the ones at the front had a hole in it. In the other front one he had a pile of pennies and ha’pennies and threepenny bits; all his tips. In the two back pockets he was carrying the sixpences, shillings, two-bob bits and half crowns. He had the 10/- notes folded inside the Capstan packet which he held in his left hand. There were three fags and a dowp left in it.

The three men were alone in the hut. They were sitting up on the counter smoking and drinking lemonade. The big man stood down. ‘You made it!’ he cried.