James Kelman - An Old Pub Near the Angel

‘Hullo there! Hullo you good thing.’ I burst out laughing and threw myself on the bed holding the pound note in the air. Guilt! Guilt pangs? That girl’s hard-earned bread. Who are you kidding man, handful for a short time? Jesting! Might not even be hers. Could be the cleaner’s? Christ it gets worse. No! Must be the girl’s. Girl? Must be near thirty man. Anyway.

I lay back staring at the ceiling. When she finds out she’ll know it’s me. Suss that out right away. Well, well, well. Some thief. Some bloody thief right enough.

I stood up and decided to return it immediately. Anonymously would be best. I crept along the corridor and quietly inserted it in her letter box then I returned to the lavatory and resumed where I had left off.

About half an hour later, back in my flat, I had managed to get involved in the book when there came a knock on the door. I opened.

‘Hullo,’ she was still wearing the floral dressing gown. ‘Did you find this?’ she asked, holding the pound note out.

I nodded and blushed.

‘Here,’ she smiled handing me a ten bob piece, ‘thanks a lot.’

‘No!’ I shouted, ‘No thanks, that’s all right,’ mumbling now.

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah. I’m OK. Yes thanks.’ My neck was beginning to ache with the amount of nodding my head was doing.

‘Well if you’re sure,’ she smiled seriously. ‘Thanks very much.’

I closed the door still nodding my red head. What a stupid bastard. I lay back on the bed utterly spent. Ten bob. Not even a fag. I jumped to my feet, opened the door and marched down the corridor. I knocked loudly on her door. It opened almost immediately.

‘Have you a cigarette to spare,’ I faltered then added lamely, ‘Don’t have any. None at all.’

She smiled, ‘You should have said. Come in.’

I entered. A man stood by the far window watching quietly. An older woman sat on the settee with a drink in one hand.

‘What’s your name?’ the girl asked.

‘Jimmy.’ I nodded, ‘Jimmy.’

She turned and introduced me. The man smiled pleasantly remaining silent, he was over six feet tall but kind of thin.

‘Jimmy found the pound,’ she looked at me quite proudly, ‘I’m Joan; Alice, pour him a sherry.’

I accepted the drink to be sociable and Joan gave me a Rothman King Size, motioning me to take a seat on the long settee.

‘Well girls,’ the tall man crossed the room, ‘that’s settled then?’

Joan shrugged, ‘If you like.’

Alice gestured from the settee with her sherry glass, muttering to herself. Frowning, he made as if to say something, changed his mind and left.

The door had barely closed when Alice snorted loudly, ‘Good bloody riddance!’ I half expected him to come back. He must have heard her. ‘I don’t know Joanie,’ Alice continued, ‘I really don’t. He expects too much. Far too much.’ She looked across at me. ‘Too bloody much. So he does.’ I sipped the sherry. Never seen the bloke before and yet he had to be the pimp. ‘Anyway,’ Alice stood up and drained her glass, ‘I’m off to do some shopping.’ Joan yawned as she lifted the bottle of sherry.

‘OK, Alice,’ she said, leaning over and topping up my glass.

‘Cheerio,’ I said.

‘Bye lad,’ replied Alice staring at me.

The door closed behind her and I sat back enjoying the drink and smoke.

‘Is she at it too?’ I asked.

Joan nodded with big eyes.

‘Is she not a bit old?’ Good God what a ridiculous question.

‘Too old for what?’ she smiled at me, ‘Alice isn’t even forty.’

‘She should be settled down by now,’ I said by way of an explanation.

‘She was married. Three kids as well. She left them all about two years ago,’ Joan walked to the sink. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes thanks,’ I answered, ‘Where’d you meet her?’

Joan busied around the oven for two or three minutes and I was beginning to think she had not heard. Then she turned mock dramatically.

‘She’s my auntie.’

‘Your auntie?’

She burst into laughter at the expression on my face.

‘Do you want to hear a sob story?’

I held out my glass for a refill. ‘Not particularly.’

‘Just as well, don’t know any anyway.’ Joan came over and sat facing me. I thought she had been wearing a bra earlier. Must have been mistaken.

‘He’s gay.’

‘What?’

‘Him!’ she pointed to the door. ‘He’s bent.’

‘Oh!’ I was surprised. ‘Are you sure?’

She looked at me like I was daft or something.

‘Did you not notice?’

‘Well it crossed my mind.’

‘Bloody liar.’ She was laughing at me again.

‘Well sometimes it’s difficult to tell.’

‘That’s probably why he rushed away,’ she continued.

‘Why?’

‘Jealous. That’s why.’

‘Ha ha ha,’ I said finishing the drink to cover my blushes.

‘No,’ she said, ‘Young fellow like you.’

‘Good stuff this,’ I waved to the bottle playing for time.

‘Home brew,’ she poured me another. ‘Never mind that label, it’s very potent stuff.’

‘Aphrodisiac qualities?’ I laughed half heartedly. ‘I mean has it? Eh?’

‘Alice made it so it’s very possible,’ she said pouring herself one.

‘Randy old bugger she is. You want to watch her too.’

The kettle shrilled and she walked over to the cooker.

‘Still want some coffee?’

‘No, not for me, thanks,’ I replied.

Standing with her back to me for a few moments, she switched off the gas, absentmindedly it seemed.

‘Nice of you to return that pound. Don’t suppose you’ve got any money either.’

‘Well it’s pay day tomorrow,’ I explained.

Old Alice’s brew was beginning to take a hold of me.

Wonder what she put in it? I poured myself another.

‘Like it?’ asked Joan sitting back down on the settee.

I nodded and passed her one of her cigarettes, taking one myself. My hand was shaking uncontrollably as I reached across to give her a light.

‘All right?’ she asked behind those big, big eyes.

‘Whoo I’m okay. Powerful stuff that stuff.’

My hand was not shaking because of the bloody drink. No, no, no! Her dressing gown had opened almost down to her waist as she leaned forward to light up. What a pair of tits she had on her!

‘You have a fine pair of, eh! breasts there, Joan. You really have.’

‘Thanks but they are a bit small.’

‘What are you talking about? Whoo they’re perfect.’

She smiled gracefully.

I placed my glass carefully on the carpet and as I leaned across to her, knocked it over.

‘Don’t mind it,’ said Joan, ‘just leave it lying.’

Her gown lay precariously round her shoulders, she jerked forward slightly and it fell on to the cushions behind her.

I placed a forefinger on each of her nipples feeling remarkably fine for a Wednesday.

By the time he had found his front door key, Mr Joranski the landlord approached carrying a bag of groceries.

‘Well Charles,’ he asked, ‘get paid?’

‘Yes John, I’ll be able to give you three weeks.’

‘What?’ Mr Joranski was astonished.

‘They gave me a tenner for some reason.’

‘Very nice. Very nice. You want some food?’

Charles nodded, ‘Yes. Great, I’ll be down in a minute.’

Mr Joranski departed to the basement and Charles climbed the steep stairs leading to his room on the third floor. He changed into his best trousers and jumper and pulled on his newly purchased black socks.

By the time he had reached the basement the landlord had the table set and the meal almost ready.

The basement consisted of a communal sitting room with a television, an old decrepit couch and odd chairs dotted around the walls. One enormous peculiar table lay propped against one wall. Everything from poker games to shove halfpenny took place on this table. If there were unexpected guests or perhaps a big game on at Wembley every bed and chair in the house would be occupied and the landlord would throw a blanket on his table and sleep there himself. He had been a soldier. Rumour had it he had carried this table all the way from Warsaw through two concentration camps, walked across Europe, come by rowing boat to Aberdeen and from there hitchhiked his way to King’s Cross. No one could understand how he had managed to get it down the basement stairs and through the narrow sitting-room door.