James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

On umpteen occasions it has happened with my wife. Two nights ago for instance; I’m standing washing the dishes and I drops this big plate that gets used for serving cakes, I drops it onto the floor. It was no careless act. Not really. I had been preoccupied right enough and the thought was to do with the plate and in some way starting to look upon it not as a piece of crockery but as something to be taken care of. This is no metaphor; it hasnt got anything to do with parental responsibility. My wife heard the smash and she came ben to see what was up. Sorry, I said, I’m just going off my head. And I smiled.

THE INITIAL REBELLIOUS BEARING IS SEEMINGLY AN EFFECT OF THE UNIFORM’S IRRITATION OF WHICH AMPLE EVIDENCE IS ALREADY TO HAND. BUT THIS KNOWLEDGE MAY BE OFFSET BY THE POSSIBILITY OF BEING TOUCHED BY GLORY. AT THE STAGE WHERE THE INCLINE BECOMES STEEPER THE ONE IN QUESTION STARED STEADFASTLY TO THE FRONT. HIS BREATHING, HARSH AS BEFITS AN UNDERGOING OF THE EXTREME, NEVER BETRAYED THE LEAST HINT OF INTERIOR MONOLOGUE. THERE WAS NO SIGN OF A WISH TO PAUSE AND NOR WAS THERE ANY TO REDUCE OR TO INCREASE PACE. HIS CONTROL WAS APPROPRIATE. THE AIR OF RESIGNATION GOVERNING HIS MOVEMENT CONTAINED NO GUILT WHICH INDICATED AN AWARENESS OF OUTSIDE INFERENCE. IT WAS AT THIS PRECISE MARK THE SATISFACTION EMERGED IN THE PROCEEDINGS. HIS ARMS AROSE STIFFLY UNTIL THE FINGERTIPS WERE PARALLEL TO THE WAISTBAND. HIS GAZE HAD BEEN DIRECTED BELOW BUT HE CONTINUED STARING TO THE FRONT AS IF EXPECTING OR EXPERIENCING A REACTION. WHAT WAS THE NATURAL SUMMIT MIGHT WELL HAVE BEEN INTERPRETED AS OTHERWISE.

Ronnie held the dog on a short lead so it had to walk on the edge of the pavement next to the gutter. At a close near the corner of the street two women he knew were standing chatting. They paused, watching his approach. Hullo, he said. When they peered at the greyhound and back to him he grinned and raised his eyebrows; and he shrugged, continuing along and into the pub.

The barman stared while pouring the pint of heavy but made no comment. He took the money and returned the change, moved to serve somebody else. Ronnie gazed after him for a moment then lifted the pint and led the dog to where four mates of his were sitting playing Shoot Pontoon. He sat on a vacant chair, bending to tuck the leash beneath his right shoe. He swallowed about a quarter of the beer in the first go and then sighed. I needed that, he said, leaning sideways a little, to grasp the dog’s ears; he patted its head. He manoeuvred his chair so he could watch two hands of cards being played. The game continued in silence. Soon the greyhound yawned and settled onto the floor, its big tongue lolloping out its mouth. Ronnie smiled and shook his head. He swallowed another large draught of the heavy beer.

Then Mclnnes cleared his throat. You looking after it for somebody? he asked without taking his gaze from the thirteen cards he was holding and sorting through. Ronnie did not reply. The other three were smiling; they were also sorting through their cards. He carried on watching the game until it ended and the cards were being shuffled for the next. And he yawned; but the yawn was a false one and he sniffed and glanced towards the bar. Jimmy Peters had taken a tobacco pouch from his pocket and started rolling a fag. Ronnie gestured at it. Jimmy passed him the pouch and he rolled one for himself. He was beginning to feel a bit annoyed but it was fucking pointless. He stuck the finished roll-up in his mouth and reached for a box of matches lying at the side of the table. Heh Ronnie, said Kelly, did you get it for a present?

What?

I’m saying did you get it for a present, the dog — a lot of owners and that, once their dogs have finished racing, they give them away as presents — supposed to make rare pets.

Aye. Ronnie nodded, inhaled on the cigarette.

I’m serious.

Aye, said Tam McColl, I heard that as well. Easy oasy kind of beasts, they get on good with weans.

Ronnie nodded. This is a good conversation, he said.

Well! Tam McColl grinned: You’re no trying to tell us it’s a fucking racer are you! McColl chuckled and shook his head: With withers like that!

Withers like that! What you talking about withers like that! Ronnie smiled: What do you know about fucking withers ya cunt!

The others laughed.

My auld man used to keep dogs.

Aye fucking chihuahuas!

Are you telling us you’ve bought it? asked Kelly.

Ronnie did not reply.

Are you?

Ronnie dragged on the cigarette, having to squeeze the end of it so he could get a proper draw. He exhaled the smoke away from where the greyhound was lying. Jimmy Peters was looking at him. Ronnie looked back. After a moment Jimmy Peters said, I mean are you actually going to race it?

Naw Jimmy I’m just going to take it for walks.

The other three laughed loudly. Ronnie shook his head at Peters. Then he gazed at the dog; he inhaled on the cigarette, but it had stopped burning.

Does Babs know yet? asked McInnes.

What?

Babs, does she know yet?

What about?

God sake Ronnie!

Ronnie reached for the box of matches again and he struck one, got the roll-up burning once more. He blew out the flame and replied, I’ve just no seen her since breakfast.

Tam McColl grinned. You’re mad ya cunt, fucking mad.

How much was it? asked Kelly. Or are we no allowed to ask!

Ronnie lifted his beer and sipped at it.

Did it cost much?

Fuck sake, muttered Ronnie.

You no going to tell us? asked Kelly.

Ronnie shrugged. Eighty notes.

Eighty notes!

Ronnie looked at him.

Jimmy Peters had shifted roundabout on his seat and he leaned down and ruffled behind the dog’s ears, making a funny face at it. The dog looked back at him. He said to Ronnie, Aye it’s a pally big animal.

Ronnie nodded. Then he noticed Kelly’s facial expression and he frowned.

Naw, replied Kelly, grinning. I was just thinking there — somebody asking what its form was: oh it’s pally! a pally big dog! Fuck speed but it likes getting petted!

That’s a good joke, said Ronnie.

The other four laughed.

Ronnie nodded. On you go, he said, nothing like a good fucking joke. He dragged on the roll-up but it had stopped burning once again. He shoved it into the ticket pocket inside his jacket then lifted his pint and drank down all that was left of the beer. The others were grinning at him. Fuck yous! he said and reached for the leash.

McInnes chuckled: Sit on your arse Ronnie for fuck sake!

Fuck off.

Can you no take a joke? said Jimmy Peters.

A joke! That’s fucking beyond a joke.

Kelly laughed.

Aye, said Ronnie, on ye go ya fucking stupid bastard.

Kelly stopped laughing.

Heh you! said McInnes to Ronnie.

Ah well no fucking wonder!

Kelly was still looking at him. Ronnie looked back.

McInnes said, You’re fucking out of order Ronnie.

I’m out of order!

Aye.

Me? Ronnie was tapping himself vigorously on the chest.

Aye, replied McInnes.

It was just a joke, said Jimmy Peters.

A joke? That was fucking beyond a joke. Ronnie shook his head at him; he withdrew the dowp from his inside ticket pocket and reached for the box of matches again; but he put it back untouched, returned the dowp to the ticket pocket, lifted the empty beer glass and studied it for a moment. He sniffed and returned it to the table.

The others resumed the game of Shoot Pontoon.

And after two or three minutes Tam McColl said, Heh Ronnie did you see that movie on the telly last night.

Naw.

We were just talking about it before you came in.

Mm. Ronnie made a show of listening to what McColl was saying, it was some sort of shite about cops and robbers that was beyond even talking about. Ronnie shook his head. It was unbelievable. He stared at the cards on the table then he stared in the direction of the bar, a few young guys were over at the jukebox.