James Kelman - An Old Pub Near the Angel

‘Sure you can afford it?’ he asked as Charles gave him nine singles. ‘Nine quid from ten leaves one you know?’

‘Take it quickly man.’

‘Okay.’ Mr Joranski smiled, ‘You want to borrow anything later just come down. Not too much though or we’re back to the beginning again, all right?’

‘Bring on the grub John,’ said Charles.

‘Yes, yes bring on the grub. I have good sausage Polish!’ He shook his head. ‘German no good, Hungarian not too bad. Polish?’ he smacked his lips. ‘Mmmm. Here cut some bread.’

Charles sliced through the thick crusty loaf.

‘Any butter?’ he asked.

‘Butter?’ echoed John, ‘Of course butter. What do you think?’

He pulled a packet from his provision bag. The kettle whistled from the kitchen. John rose.

‘I go make some tea.’

Charles buttered a few thick slices of bread and cut some chunks of blue cheese. The landlord returned in a matter of moments with two odd mugs of tea.

‘I’m starving John,’ said Charles.

‘You should eat more,’ he poured some condensed milk into the mugs of tea. ‘Sugar?’ he inquired.

‘No! Good God!’ Charles shook his head. ‘It’ll taste like tablet.

Christ knows how you’ve a tooth left in your head.’

‘Good for you,’ replied John. ‘Cream and sugar. Kill the taste of this lousy tea. Bloody English tea.’ He snorted contemptuously, ‘Ugh, lousy lousy.’

‘British tea,’ corrected Charles out of habit. ‘Why d’you buy the stuff then?’

‘Who knows?’ The landlord bit off a chunk of bread and munched happily.

‘John,’ said Charles, ‘this is the finest sausage I’ve ever tasted.’

‘Back home,’ replied John, mouth filled with salami, ‘back home this is only average.’ He drank some tea. ‘Charles you should go to my country sometime. Food!’ his eyes widened. ‘Ha! In England you oil the machine that right?’

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full man. You remind me of old Jackson up the stair,’ said Charles.

‘He pay me every Wednesday. Every Wednesday never misses.’

‘What’s that got to do with his eating habits? Every time I talk to him when we’re eating I can’t see my tea for his dinner floating around in my cup.’

‘Ah plenty rent no manners,’ the landlord shrugged his shoulders, ‘How bad?’

‘You are all business John, all business,’ Charles shook his head slowly.

‘All business!’ cried the landlord. ‘All business? Eat my sausage and pay me nothing.’ Joranski jumped to his feet. ‘You shout business to me!’

‘Take it easy man.’

‘Easy? If I’m business you’d be in Euston Station, dossing with dossers. Come on get more tea Scotchman.’

‘Get it yourself you immigrant bastard,’ answered Charles in anger.

‘Immigrant bastard?’ repeated John. ‘Get the tea! Get a job! Comb your hair and get it cut and a bath. Come on get some rent money for me,’ he bellowed pounding his chest with a slice of bread.

‘Just gave you nine quid man. What you on about?’

‘Fifteen I want. Five weeks at three is fifteen plus two and six for this food.’ John thumped his table and sat down. ‘You think I’m daft Scotchman. You come and tap me for the money by Sunday morning I know.’

‘You just told me to ask if I needed it for God’s sake.’

‘I’m a bloody fool,’ he whacked his forehead with his hand. ‘Right Scotchman I get the tea.’ He stood up again.

‘That’s okay John,’ Charles got to his feet, ‘I’ll go for it.’

‘Sit!’ bawled the landlord, brandishing the bread knife. ‘I cut your bloody head off.’

‘Okay you get the bloody tea then,’ Charles sat down.

‘Lazy lazy dossing Scotch bastard. Come on why don’t you go home?’

‘This is my home, Joranski. Thought you were getting the tea Daddy?’

The landlord snorted, ‘My son would not be like you.’

He went through to the kitchen and returned with the teapot.

‘No,’ he continued, ‘I throw him out if he is like you.’

Charles said nothing.

‘Come on. Take some more sausage. Plenty cheese.’

‘Thanks.’ Charles cut a slice and passed it to John.

The landlord bit a chunk and grinned, ‘Old Jackson won’t eat sausage. I offer him many times but he says no. Garlic.’

‘Yeah garlic,’ agreed Charles, ‘course he’s English.’

‘Yeah,’ nodded John, ‘he’s English.’

Both men finished and began clearing the table.

‘Well?’ asked Mr Joranski, ‘You going to buy me some beer now?’

‘Okay! With pleasure. Come.’

Charles wakened at 9.30 a.m. and wasted no time in dressing. Good God it’s about time for spring surely. Colder than it was yesterday though and I’ll have to wash and shave today. Must. The face has yellow lines. I can’t wear socks today. Impossibility. People notice smells although they say nothing.

Think I will do a moonlight tonight, I mean five weeks’ rent? He has cause for complaint. Humanity. A touch of humanity is required. He has fourteen tenants paying around £3.00 each for those poxy wee rooms, surely he can afford to let me off paying once in a while. One of his longest-serving tenants. Man I’ve even been known to clean my room on occasion with no thought of rent reduction.

Still he did take me for a meal last night. Collapsed if he hadn’t. Imagine that bloody hotel porter knocking me back. Where’s your uniform? Are you a washer up? Those people depress me. What’s the difference, one meal more or less? I wonder what it is with them? Old John though — what can I say — after the bollicking he gives me for not trying to get a job and some bread together, who expects him to come back thirty minutes later saying, ‘Okay you Scotch dosser. Come and eat,’ what could I say apart from, ‘Fancy a pint first John?’ Yes he has too many good points. Suppose I could give him a week’s money. Depends on what they give me though. Anyway.

Charles left the house and made his way towards the Labour Exchange up near Pentonville Road. It was a twenty-five minute walk but one Charles did not mind at all as he normally received six and a half from the NAB for his trouble afterwards.

Yes spring is definitely around the corner man. Look at that briefcase with the sports jacket and cavalry twill slacks. Already? Very daring. Must be a traveller. Best part of the day this — seeing all the workers — office and site and the new middle-class tradesmen all going about their business. It pleases me.

Can’t say I’m in the mood for a long wait in the NAB afterwards. Jesus Christ I forgot a book. Man man what do I do now? Borrow newspapers? Stare at people’s necks and make goo goos at their children? Good God! The money will be well earned today.

Charles stopped outside the Easy Eats Cafe and breathed in deeply. This fellow must be the best cook in London without any doubt at all. My my my. Every time I pass this place it’s the same, smells like bacon and eggs and succulent sausages with toast and tea. Never mind never mind soon be there.

Charles arrived at the Labour Exchange and entered door C. He took up position in the queue under D.

Well I can imagine it today, ‘Yes Mr Donald there is some back money owing to you. Would you sign here for £43.68p?’ I’d smile politely, ‘Oh yes thank you I had been beginning to wonder if it would ever come through. Thank you. Good day.’ Then I’d creep out and run like the clappers before they discovered their error. God love us, what’s this? What’s this noise? Can’t be somebody farting in a Labour Exchange. Bloody Irish. Don’t understand them at all. Think they delight in embarrassing the English. Everyone kids on they didn’t hear it. Surely they can smell it?