James Kelman: A Chancer

Aside from the low droning noise it was quiet in this section of the factory. In the smoke-area around a dozen men were sitting at a big wooden table, involved in a game of solo. Only four were players but the rest gave it their full attention, each positioned so that he could watch the cards of at least one of them. Although voices were seldom raised quite a bit of laughter occurred, controlled laughter, barely audible beyond the smoke-area. One of the players was a man in late middle age by the name of Ralphie. He wore a bunnet and smoked a pipe. While he was tapping a fresh shot of tobacco into the pipebowl somebody told him to hurry up and get a move on, it was his shout. Ralphie nodded then nudged the youth sitting slightly behind him. This was Tammas; he lifted the cards immediately and sorted them out. You’re going a big yin, he said.

Ralphie grinned and exhaled smoke from the corner of his mouth. He took the cards back.

You cant get beat, said Tammas, you’re a certainty.

Ralphie laughed at his three opponents. Yous mob better be listening to this boy of mine’s, he says I’m a certainty!

A few jeers in answer and then the game continued. About an hour on came the sound of somebody whistling loudly and the solo halted. The cards were covered by sheets of newspaper, the men sitting back on the benches. A couple of them rose, yawning and stretching. And the foreman appeared from behind a large machine; he entered the smoke-area carrying a cardboard box under his left arm. Missed yous again! He smiled: Never mind but, one of these days, one of these days.

He took the lid off the box, began issuing each person present with a wage packet. Once he had replaced the lid and was turning to leave a man called: Any news yet?

Nah, not a whisper. . And without further comment the foreman walked out of the smoke-area, the box tucked beneath his arm.

Some of the men had their wage packets open and were checking the contents. Others had thrust them straight into their pockets without breaking the seal. And a general conversation started. Almost at once one of the former solo school rose from his seat and walked a couple of paces towards the exit. He was shaking his head. No use kidding yourselves, he muttered, if that bloody order’s no in now it’ll never be in.

The rest of the men were looking at him.

I’m talking about redundancies, he said, that’s what I’m talking about. And yous better get bloody used to the idea.

One of the men shrugged: Ach well, we knew it was coming.

That’s as maybe but they should’ve gave us notice. Formal. It’s no as if they’ve told us anything. I mean all we’re doing’s fucking guessing and we shouldnt have to be fucking guessing!

Aye but they might no know for sure yet.

Hh! the man frowned then shook his head. He left the smoke-area. A silence followed. An elderly guy coughed and cleared his throat, dropped a mouthful of catarrh onto the concrete floor; he stroked at it carefully with the heel of his boot, at the same time withdrawing a cigarette packet from the bib pocket of his dungarees. Somebody else leaned to lift the newspaper sheets from the top of the table, gathered up the cards and began shuffling them briskly. Come on we’ll finish the game! he said. Eh? might as well.

A spectator volunteered for the vacant playing spot but most of the others who had been watching seemed to have lost interest. And within ten minutes the game ended.

As the solo players got up to leave a couple of former spectators returned and some others were bringing out their wage packets once more. Ralphie took the pipe from his mouth and grunted, Yous and your fucking pontoons!

He was answered with jeers and a younger man lunged at him as though trying to knock off his bunnet. Ralphie dodged past, laughing.

Small piles of coins now lined the table and a man was shuffling the cards very thoroughly and now cutting them and cutting them again, and offering them to the guy sitting next to him so they could be cut yet again. And he dealt the cards, one to each person in the company. First jack takes the bank, he called.

Pontoons began. At the outset the stakes were restricted to a 50 pence maximum but the man holding the bank was also holding the initiative in this. Eventually the limit was raised to £1. Later it was scrapped altogether. The deal was now being held by the youth named Tammas. And as he shuffled the cards he shouted, Hey Ralphie — come on and post for me eh!

The older man had been sitting near to the exit in conversation with a couple of folk. He squinted across then grunted something and got onto his feet, rubbing at the small of his back and making groaning noises. He muttered, I hate this fucking pontoons. The sight of all that money flying about. Goes to my fucking head so it does!

A player laughed: You’re just feart to open your wages ya auld cunt!

Others laughed. Ralphie glared at the man. You trying to say I’m henpecked or something? Aye well you’re fucking right I am!

Tammas held out the cards for the former banker to cut. He said to the other players, Will yous space yourselves out a bit eh!

There was a bit of muttering in response. One of them grunted: Always the same when he gets the fucking deal. We’ve all got to change about just for his convenience.

Aye! Cause I like to watch what you’re fucking doing with these cards!

Ralphie laughed.

One of the other men cried, It’s that auld cunt you should be watching Tammas, no fucking us!

Tammas grinned while beginning to deal.

By 7.30 am most of the non-players, including Ralphie, had gone from the smoke-area to the washroom to get ready for clocking out. Some of the dayshift had arrived already. Two of them were involved in the pontoon game although not having received their wages yet their stakes were minimal. The bank had been won and lost many times since the start, and now it had landed back with Tammas. Within five minutes only two men were left in against him. The other had gone to prepare for going home while the two dayshift workers had lost their money and were now spectating. The first cards had been dealt and Tammas was lighting a cigarette while the bets were being made. One man put down £1 and the other put down £5. Then the second cards were dealt and the bank won both bets. The guy who had gambled the £5 shook his head and stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking. He glanced at the other player and frowned, shaking his head again.

From outside the smoke-area somebody shouted: That’s the two-minute!

What. . The man who had lost the £1 bet cried: Jesus Christ! and grabbed his money from the table; he paused to call: See yous on Monday!

Tammas glanced across at the remaining player. Time we were moving as well Murdie eh?

Aye okay, make the next yin the last.

Tammas nodded, he dealt the cards. Seconds later the dayshift chargehand came striding into the smoke-area and raising his right arm he jerked his thumb: Okay — out!

Last hand, muttered Murdie.

Last hand nothing, you’ll get me fucking arrested.

The two dayshift men who had been spectating moved away from the table and the chargehand looked at the money lying between the players: it amounted to £20. He snorted and shook his head: I dont fucking believe this, yous pair must be crazy!

Last hand, said Tammas, surely we can play it out.

Naw, can you fuck.

Murdie sniffed, then he glanced round at him. Come on man eh? Give us a break.

The chargehand was silent for a couple of moments. Then he muttered, Stick that fucking dough out of sight. . And he turned and walked out of the smoke-area. The two dayshift men had gone before him.