James Kelman - If it is your life

1] She thought nice things about me concerning the opposite of moral cowardice

2] She performed a movement of her shoulders that was characteristic.

Naybody else in the whole world did it. Except her grannie. But she had died ten years back. Cath was alone. Unless the lasses maintained the tradition. Still and all I found it weird how this one solitary manoeuvre might force me into saying things I did not want to say. I refer to commitments. I did not want to commit myself to a single damn thing!

What is it? she said.

What is what?

You shook your head.

Oh did I?

She sighed.

Cath, it doesnay matter.

What doesnt?

I unclasped my wristwatch, laid it on the mantelpiece. I reached to switch on the radio but paused, and asked first. Mind if I put on the radio?

I would prefer if ye didnt.

Aw.

If ye dont mind.

Of course

I’m going to lie down, she said.

She had taken the cardigan from her shoulders, she laid it along the foot of the bed. She did this to keep her feet warm. I lifted the cardigan and returned it to her bedside chair, and replaced it with a smallish blanket.

Thanks, she said without smiling, and added, Did ye go to the pub?

I told you I didnt.

You were a bit late home.

Yeh.

She continued watching me.

I shrugged. She was waiting. I just walked up and down, I said. I got off the bus and just eh, I walked up and down for a wee bit; coming to terms with things I suppose.

So you did get sacked.

I returned her look then glanced at the radio. No fancy a bit of music?

But she was not going to give up, gony gie up, she wasnay gony. People are strange. Wives especially; their tenacity makes them doubly so. I wonder if they are like that with other women, or is it just with men. It aint a question. I call it a noggin-shaker, as in ‘one shakes one’s noggin’.

Cath, I said, I need to say something: it was important what happened with that shit. I’m no taking crap off the likes of him. What because he’s my gaffer I’m supposed to shut my mouth! Never. It is not life or death, granted, but we still cannay allow it. I am not going to allow it. Right-wing fucking bastard, I am telling ye, guys like him, Labour Party bastards, they put the Tories to shame, fascist cunts. That is who they put in charge, that is so-called Britain and the fucking ppolitical system.

Cath watched from the safety of the sheets and duvet.

But it is a serious thing, I said, we are talking here about working-class representation. Bloody joke.

Yes well write yer book, she said, ye’ve wasted enough time.

I shall write it.

Fine.

Some of us are not going stand for it any longer. I mean are we supposed to let them walk ower the top of us? Fucking bunch of gangsters. You think I’m past it, well I’m no past it. If you think I am, I’m no.

No what, past what, did I miss something?

I dont actually care, I said, honestly, I dont. I’m forty-two years of age. Do ye know what we talk about during a typical tea-break in one’s typical factory warehouse? How effing glad we shall be to reach one’s seniority; in other words our chief desire is to become old-age pensioners. What happened to all our hopes and dreams! That is what happened to them. This is what I am talking about, give me the happy pills. Great Britain today, the existential nightmare that would have driven my poor old father off his fucking nut if he hadnay had the good sense to die at the advanced age of sixty-one and three quarters. So-called Scotland, be it known, a complete waste of space: I refer here to one’s existence.

I wish I was a pensioner already. I want to go to a green field and just lie down. I want to get put out to graze like these old horses that win the Grand National, nay hustle and bustle, just chewing the cud. Mind you, I said, pausing with one’s hand on the bedroom door handle. I would like to get him. Preferably down the back of the storeroom, thoughts of shifting spanners and skulls, crunch de la crunch.

Cath was looking worried re sanity, her partner’s.

You dont know whether to believe me or not, I said.

He certainly is getting to you.

Oh jees.

He is.

Yeh, I said, I wake up thinking about him, go to sleep thinking about him. Fucking ratbag! Ach well. Want a cup of tea?

Eh …

Hot water with lemon?

How did ye guess?

I smiled. I’m gony have toast, d’ye no want some? Take some toast. The little essentials in life, toast and marmalada madame, eh, you want, you want me I serve you brekadafast ladeee, my leetil dandeelion senorita.

Cath looked at me.

Ye sure? I said.

No thanks.

Sorry about this stupid male shite.

Mm.

I continued into the kitchen, filled the kettle, standing next to the sink. And the window. From here I looked straight upwards, over the tenement roofs facing. It was a flight path. I enjoyed seeing the planes, these long-haul destinations, desert islands and nice hotels. Month holidays. People needed month holidays in foreign domains. No bosses, no gaffers, no Scottishness or Britishness.

There was a sound behind. Her arms were round me while I was dumping the teabag into one’s mug. I stopped what I was doing. She held me tightly. She was wearing only her nightdress. I cannot move, I said.

I’m not letting ye move.

You are so warm and cuddly.

Just relax.

I have to get the milk, I said.

Relax.

I did relax. After a moment I sighed. My shoulders drooped. Man, fuck, I felt it, man, for fuck sake man oh man gaffers and all sorts, out the fucking windi

amazing, how I felt, how it happened. I heard the water approach boiling point and freed my right arm, ready to pour it into the mugs. That is our rightful tradition, I said, to be felt by others as we feel them

You just cannot relax, she said.

I can, I’m just eh preparing to pour the water.

She sighed, irritated. She was, and it was my fault. She walked to collect her cigarettes. They were next to the microwave. We had a wee hi-fi system beside it. Not fancy some music? Put something on, I said.

What?

Anything.

What like?

I scratched down beneath the lobe of my ear then my scalp, watching her light a cigarette. She had a range of nightdresses. They were all kind of silly, with bunny-rabbit patterns, teddy bears. With her figure they were a bit incongruous, thank christ, she didnay have what they call a girlish figure. She skipped through the CDs, barely reading their covers. The Karelia’s a cassette, I said.

Oh I’m not playing a cassette.

Well whatever, whatever ye like.

You always want Sibelius.

I dont always want Sibelius, I’ll take Hazel Dickens.

If you want the cassette go and get it. I can never find anything in there, it’s a complete mess.

I watched her inhale on the cigarette, a really long sort of deep inhalation as befits one who enjoys a smoke, like myself, who wrapped it all in a year ago and have regretted it ever since, unlike one’s nearest and dearest who has a fancy card pinned on the wall which reads: This belongs to a Happy Smoker!

Hurreh! That is what I shout whenever I see it. Now she gied me a wifely look. Is that smoke good? I said.

She winked.

Blow it ower here will ye! I clutched at the smoke and inhaled loudly. Ye know something, I said, things havenay been the same in the factory since Jimmy Robertson retired.

Mm.

That’s the truth.

Cath nodded.

I mean really, old Jimmy, christ. You never saw him but ye knew he was there. That last year, they put him out in the gatehouse.

That wasnt fair.

I nodded.

It wasnt.

Naw. Although he preferred it … he said he did anyway — fuck, that guy was a beacon. Ye aye knew: here is one guy that still exists in the world, a proper reader, a proper thinker, somebody that knows pppolitics and fucking fuck knows what, history! Everything!