James Kelman - If it is your life

Are all knees dimpled?

But how did she manage it! How could it be! Mon amee! Such compo-zure! Such aispeer-yons! Such aileegons.

Needless to report she had nice legs. All stewardesses have nice legs. Given that the uniform skirt is not conducive, should not have been conducive.

I challenge that. They are so conducive!

But conducive or not, 100 per cent female, women’s skirts. And what about her vacant stare? And could it be drawn. Hold it there a minute. Miss would you please be vacant a little longer. But why had I to unspread my own knees? Why! Why indeed, because I was getting hard. An erection occasioned, was occasioning, been brought about, effected by, the presence of these knees, and what and what, oh, what lay not so much

the knees of this woman, this stewardess whose stare was not at all vacant, or if it was yet concealing a most interested smile, a smile of daring, of daring — design!

Is design too strong a word?

The sense of the irresistible. Not by nefarious design aforethought, simply the non-reflective act of a free man. No no no. It was more than that. I was unspreading my knees for her, for her! She had been reading a magazine and pretended not to notice. And her knees my God stuck together, how could it be!

Now that surely was unnatural. Women surely are not programmed to keep those knees jammed together. Mine might be closed but not jammed. Hers were jammed. Jammed! Why?

Why indeed.

Now that had been unfair advantage. But the phrase ‘vacant stare’. Perhaps that stare was not so vacant. Perhaps that stare was a stratagem. How to deal with male intimidation. And it was. I had desired that she notice my masculinity. It was true. Who knows, maybe she would slip her phone number into my hand as we departed the plane.

Men have that over women. The freedom to open one’s legs. Not even in trousers will a woman open her legs, not like that, spread; spread knees. ‘Spread knees’ could be the name of an audacious new deodorant.

Had I been a copywriter. Mercy me. In the days when one travelled alone. One had yet to become a threesome. Lindsey and I had met but were yet to form a relationship. We had slept together. We had slept together. Sigh. One could only sigh. A reflective exhalation.

Sounds, what were the sounds. Banging through the wall. Who lived through the wall? Ye gods. The mystery of it, and to remain so; destined as such.

I heard this banging at odd hours. An old-fashioned author was required to make of that a mystery so dreadful, of such awe-inspiring

Oh my, more banging.

I focused closely on visual rather than aural matter.

In the backcourt parts of the ground had been cemented over. There were also dirt patches and here weeds blossomed. Bits of charred wood, remnants from the fire last month, strewn among rusted push-pram parts and holey bedspreads.

Jesus Christ a ragman! An actual ragman! I thought they had died out centuries ago! This guy! A fucking ragman! He was dragging a sack behind him and stopping every two or three strides to poke under articles. He was doing it on the off chance. Spoiled articles. Old newspaper or linoleum, it looked like linoleum. And his dog was there. That was odds on, a dog. Ragmen always had dogs. Oft times they were known as ‘rag and bone’ men. That would be the nineteenth century when bones lay about the streets in the name of God.

But I remembered those men from childhood, rummaging around for stuff, any kind of stuff, every kind of stuff. I hadnt seen one for years.

Mercy me he was going to leave! Hold it! Hold it hold it. Hold it hold it hold it.

The ragman stayed barely a minute. Three balloons for your coat and hat. Any bones? The dog sniffing at his heels. The dog had that hopeful demeanour one expects from the canine as opposed to the feline.

Two wee boys were watching all this from behind a dyke. They would have stones, were about to hurl said stones. The ragman had not seen them. Neither had his dog. This dog was mean. I hoped it would bark at them and chase them.

Nearby the empty space, where part of the dyke was demolished such a very long time ago. A section had collapsed and crushed a child. Why not say it. Killed the child. The child was beneath the dyke. Bigger children had climbed onto the dyke. I got the story from Lindsey who heard it from Mrs McAuley. The bigger children had run away after the ‘accident’. In case they got blamed.

Accident! The word had to be challenged. It did not do justice to the fact.

None ever was adjudged culpable. Not anyone. A freak of fucking nature. Council business. People had demanded the dyke’s demolition. Oh naughty dyke. What did they put it on Trial! Naughty naughty dyke. Then did the Council act.

I had a wee child. If such a thing ever happened, if it ever happened.

I had sketched this dyke on numerous occasions. What was there about that dyke? Nothing. Bricks and mortar a soul doth not own. Obviously not. Nevertheless, I sketched it.

Dead weans and old dykes, a traditional Glasgow story

The ragman approached the close entrance to the derelict tenement. Aha.

Just to see what was what.

The place was reeking! I could have told him. I had been inside it a fortnight ago. The concrete floor was rutted and wet, urine and shite, animal and human. The walls running damp, initials and dates knifed into the plaster, gang slogans on the ceiling. Empty buckie bottles and bricks and mortar, bricks and mortar, gen-yoo-oine bricks and mortar. I laid down the sketch pad and crayons, massaged the small of my back. The baby’s nappy needed changing. I should have done it an hour and a half ago. Then I could have gone for a walk, pushed the pram. I quite enjoyed that. I did enjoy it. I enjoyed it a lot!

Now Lindsey was due home.

In the background the drone of the radio. It came from through the wall. This was the radio programme, every lunchtime the broadcast. Who could believe people listened to such nonsense? But they did, in their hundreds of thousands. This person or persons through the wall from us; one’s neighbours, they listened to it on a daily basis. Probably I had seen them on the street. Ordinary people, no irregular habits, except this compulsion to listen to extraordinary crap. Was this not the most extraordinarily crap programme in the radio universe!

The door the door the door. The front door was being unlocked. I went quickly to the cot and lifted out the baby, sniffed the nappy and knelt to the floor, dragging across the waterproof changing mat, laying the baby aboard, still sleeping my God, amazing. The room door opened.

Hiya Lindsey! I said, surprised as fuck.

She peered at the wee one: Sleeping?

Yeh.

She smiled, taking care not to glance at what I had been doing. That was enough. To not glance. I attempted a smile but really, people doing that, very difficult, very very difficult. What is it about life, life can be so affected, and how it affects us.

Want a cup of tea? Lindsey said.

I nodded, because out the corner of my eye, what I was working on, it was just obvious, just getting closer, I just had to get closer. How could I get closer! Always the damn problem!

Black soot ingrained sandstone tenements formed a rectangle. For every two closes there was a midden containing three square metal containers which should have been emptied weekly.

Can soot be other than black? Yes, this had been answered. Soot is anything. I no longer had difficulty with that. Or did I! Of course not.

Yes sir I might have known the baby was awake. Lindsey was here and the nappy, just a new nappy, the baby was looking at me, big fucking eyes. I was aware that my stomach was something or other, that it was me, me to blame.