Greyhound for Breakfast

  GREYHOUND FOR BREAKFAST

  Also by James Kelman in Polygon

  The Busconductor Hines

  A Chancer

  ‘And the Judges Said . . .’ Essays

  Not not while the giro

  An Old Pub Near the Angel

  This eBook edition published in 2012 by

  Birlinn Limited

  West Newington House

  Newington Road

  Edinburgh

  EH9 1QS

  www.birlinn.co.uk

  First published in 1988 by Farrar Strauss & Giroux.

  This edition published in 2008 by Polygon,

  an imprint of Birlinn Ltd

  Copyright © James Kelman, 1988

  The moral right of James Kelman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-84697-054-2

  eISBN 978-0-85790-146-0

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

  Contents

  Old Francis

  A History

  The one with the dog

  of the spirit

  Renee

  Fifty Pence

  Even Money

  Home for a couple of days

  Manchester in July

  not too long from now tonight will be that last time

  Forgetting to mention Allende

  Samaritans

  Foreign language users

  Let that be a lesson

  Good intentions

  Cute Chick!

  The Small Family

  End of a Beginning

  Leader from a Quality Newspaper

  A Sunday evening

  Benson’s visitor

  Governor of the Situation

  The Band of Hope

  This man for fuck sake

  Half an hour before he died

  In with the doctor

  That Other

  More complaints from the American Correspondent

  Where but what

  The guy with the crutch

  undeciphered tremors

  The wee boy that got killed

  Incident on a windswept beach

  A Rolling Machine

  The Red Cockatoos

  The Failure

  Dum vivimus, vivamus

  The wean and that

  Even in communal pitches

  An old story

  dear o dear

  A Hunter

  Sunday papers

  Getting Outside

  John Devine

  ONE SUCH PREPARATION

  Greyhound for Breakfast

  Old Francis

  He wiped the bench dry enough to sit down, thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and hunched his shoulders, his chin coming down onto his chest. It was cold now and it hadnt been earlier, unless he just wasnt feeling it earlier. And he started shivering immediately, as if the thought had induced it. This was the worst yet. No question about it. If care wasnt taken things would degenerate even further. If that was possible. But of course it was possible. Anything was possible. Everything was possible. Every last thing in the world. A man in a training suit was approaching at a jog, a fastish sort of jog. The noise of his breathing, audible from a long way off. Frank stared at him, not caring in the slightest when it became obvious the jogger had noticed and was now a wee bit self-conscious in his run, as if his elbows were rotating in an unnatural manner. It was something to smile about. Joggers were always supposed to be so self-absorbed but here it seemed like they were just the same as the rut, the common rut, of whom Francis was definitely one. But then as he passed by the bench the jogger muttered something which ended in an ‘sk’ sound, perhaps ‘brisk’. Could he have said something like ‘brisk’? Brisk this morning. That was a fair probability, in reference to the weather. Autumn. The path by the side of the burn was deep in slimy leaves, decaying leaves, approaching that physical state where they were set to be reclaimed by the earth, unless perhaps along came the midgie men and they shovelled it all up and dumped it into the midgie motor then on to the rubbish dump where they would sprinkle aboard paraffin and so on and so forth till the day of judgement. And where was the jogger! Vanished. Without breaking stride he must have carried straight on and up the slow winding incline towards the bridge, where to vanish was the only outcome, leaving Francis alone with his thoughts.

  These thoughts of Francis’s were diabolical.

  The sound of laughter. Laughter! Muffled, yes, but still, laughter. Could this be the case!! Truly? Or was it a form of eternal high jinks!!

  Hearty stuff as well. Three blokes coming along the path from the same direction the jogger had appeared from. They noticed Francis. O yes, they soon spotted him. They couldnt miss him. It was not possible. If they had wanted to miss him they couldnt have. And they were taking stock of him and how the situation was in toto. They were going to get money off of him, off of. One of them had strolled on a little bit ahead; he was wearing a coat that must have belonged to somebody else altogether, it was really outlandish. Francis shook his head. The bloke halted at the bench and looked at him:

  You got twenty pence there jim, for the busfare home?

  Francis was frowning at the bloke’s outfit. Sorry, he said, but that’s some coat you’re wearing!

  What?

  Francis smiled.

  Funny man.

  Sorry, I’m no being sarcastic.

  A funny man! he called to his two companions. He’s cracking funnies about my coat!

  Surely no! said this one who was holding a bottle by its neck.

  Aye.

  That’s cheeky! He swigged from the bottle and handed it on to the third man. Then he added: Maybe he likes its style!

  The first bloke nodded, he smiled briefly.

  And he wants to buy it! Heh, maybe he wants to buy it! Eh, d’you want to buy it?

  Frank coughed and cleared his throat, and he stared at the grass by his shoes, sparish clumps of it amid the muddiness, many feets have stood and so on. He raised his head and gazed at the second man; he was dangerous as well, every bit as dangerous. He noticed his pulse slowing now. Definitely, slowing. Therefore it must have been galloping. That’s what Francis’s pulse does, it gallops. Other cunts’s pulses they just fucking stroll along at a safe distance from one’s death’s possibility. What was he on about now! Old Francis here! His death’s possibility! Death: and/or its possibility. Was he about to get a stroke? Perhaps. He shook his head and smiled, then glanced at the first bloke who was gazing at him, and said: I didnt mean you to take it badly.

  What?

  Your coat. Frank shrugged, his hands still in his pockets. My comment . . . he shrugged again.

  Your comment?

  Aye, I didnt mean you to take it badly.

  I never took it badly.

  Frank nodded.

  The second bloke laughed suddenly. Heh by the way, he said, when you come to think about it, the guy’s right, your fucking coat, eh! Fucking comic cuts! Look at it!

  And then he turned and sat down heavily, right next to him on the bench; and he stared straight into his eyes. Somebody whose body was saturated with alcohol. He was literally smelling. Literally actually smelling. Just like Francis right enough, he was smelling as well. Birds of a feather flock together. And what do they do when they are together? A word for booze ending in ‘er’. Frank smiled, shaking his head. I’m skint, he said, I’m out the game. No point
looking for dough off of me.

  Off of. There it had come out again. It was peculiar the way such things happened.

  The two blokes were watching him. So was the third. This third was holding the bottle now. And a sorry sight he was too, this third fellow, a poor looking cratur. His trousers were somebody else’s; and that was for fucking definite. My my my. Frank shook his head and he called: Eh look, I’m no being sarcastic but that pair of trousers you’re wearing I mean for God sake surely you could do a wee bit better, eh?

  He glanced at the other two: Eh? surely yous could do a wee bit better than that?

  What you talking about? asked the first bloke.

  Your mate’s trousers, they’re fucking falling to bits. I mean look at his arse, his arse is fucking poking out!

  And so it was, you could see part of the man’s shirt tail poking out! Frank shook his head, but didnt smile. He gestured at the trousers.

  He is a funny man right enough! said the second bloke.

  Instead of answering him the first bloke just watched Frank, not showing much emotion at all, just in a very sort of cold manner, passionless. If he had been unsure of his ground at any time he was definitely not unsure now. It was him that was dangerous. Of the trio, it was him. Best just to humour him. Frank muttered, I’m skint. He shrugged and gazed over the path towards the burn.

  You’re skint.

  Frank continued gazing over the path.

  It’s just a couple of bob we’re looking for.

  Sorry, I really am skint but.

  The second bloke leaned closer and said: Snout?

  Frank shook his head.

  You’ve got no snout! The bloke didnt believe him. He just didnt believe him. He turned and gave an exaggerated look to his mates. It was as if he was just not able to believe it possible. Frank was taken aback. It was actually irritating. It really was. He was frowning at the fellow, then quickly he checked what the other one was doing. You never know, he might have been sneaking up behind him at the back of the bloody bench! It was downright fucking nonsensical. And yet it was the sort of incident you could credit. You were sitting down in an attempt to recover a certain inner equilibrium when suddenly there appear certain forces, seemingly arbitrary forces, as if they had been called up by a positive evil. Perhaps Augustine was right after all? Before he left the Manicheans.

  Twenty pence just, said the first.

  Frank shook his head. He glanced at the bloke. Look, I’m telling you the truth, I’m skint.

  You’ve got a watch.

  What – you kidding! Frank stared at him for a moment; then he sniffed and cleared his throat, gazed back over the path.

  He has got a watch, said the second bloke.

  And now the third stepped across to the bench, and he handed the bottle to the first. Frank had his hands out of his pockets and placed them onto his kneecaps, gripping them, his knuckles showing white.

  Did you miss your bus? asked the first.

  Did you miss your bus! laughed the second.

  And the third bloke just stared. Frank stared back at him. Was he the leader after all? Perhaps he was the one he would have to go for first, boot him in the balls and then face the other pair. Fucking bastards. Because if they thought he was going to give them the watch just like that then they had another think coming. Bastards. One thing he was never was a coward. Bastards, he was never fucking a coward. He flexed his fingers then closed them over his kneecaps again, and he sighed, his shoulders drooping a bit. He stared over the path. It was as if they were aspects of the same person. That was what really was the dangerous thing.

  The second bloke was speaking; he was saying, I dont think he even goes on public transport, this yin, I think he’s a car-owner.

  A car-owner! Frank grinned. I’m actually a train-owner! A train-owner! That was really funny. One of his better witticisms. A train-owner. Ha ha. Frank smiled. He would have to watch himself though, such comments, so unfunny as to approach the borderline.

  What borderline? One of irrationality perhaps. A nonsensicality. A plain whimsy. Whimsy. There was a bird whistling in a tree nearby. D d d dooie. D d d dooie. Wee fucking bird, its own wee fucking heart and soul. D d d dooie. What was it looking for? It was looking for a mate. A wee female. A wee chookie. Aw the sin. My my my. My my my. And yet it was quite upsetting. It brought tears to the eye. If Frank could just heave a brick at the tree so it would get to fuck away out of this, this vale of misery. God. I need a drink, said Frank to the first bloke. He gestured at the bottle: D’you mind?

  The man handed him the bottle.

  The second looked at him, biding his time, waiting to see the outcome.

  And the third bloke put his hands into his trouser pockets and strolled across the path, down to the small fence at the burn, where he leant his elbows.

  The noise of the water, the current not being too strong, a gush more than anything, a continuous gushing sound, and quite reassuring. This freshness as well, it was good. The whole scene in fact, was very peaceful, very very peaceful; a deep tranquillity. Not yet 10 o’clock in the morning but so incredibly calm.

  There was no label on the bottle. Francis frowned at this. What happened to the label? he asked.

  It fell off.

  Is it hair lacquer or something?

  Hair lacquer! laughed the second bloke.

  It looks like it to me, replied Francis.

  You dont have to fucking drink it you know!

  Francis nodded; he studied the bottle. The liquid looked fine – as much as it was possible to tell from looking; but what was there could be told about a drink by looking at the outside of its bottle? He couldnt even tell what colour it was, although the actual glass was dark brownish. He raised the neck of the bottle, tilted his head and tasted a mouthful: Christ it was fiery stuff! He shook his head at the two blokes, he seemed to be frowning but he wasnt. WWhhh! Fucking hot stuff this! he said.

  Aye.

  Francis had another go. Really fiery but warming, a good drink. He wiped his mouth and returned the bottle. Ta, he said.

  I told you it was the mccoy, said the second bloke.

  Did you?

  Aye.

  Mm. It’s fucking hot, I’ll say that!

  Know what we call it?

  Naw.

  Sherry vindaloo!

  Francis smiled. That was a good yin, sherry vindaloo. He’d remember it.

  The first bloke nodded and repeated it: Sherry vindaloo.

  The second bloke laughed and swigged some, he walked to hand it to the third who did a slightly peculiar thing, it was a full examination; he studied the bottle all round before taking a sip which must have finished it because the next thing he was leaning over the fence and dropping the bottle into the burn. Francis glanced at the first bloke but didnt say anything. Then he shivered. It was still quite cold. High time that sun put in an appearance, else all would be lost! Francis grinned. The world was really a predictable place to live in. Augustine was right but wasnt right though obviously he wasnt wrong. He was a good strong man. If Francis had been like him he would have been quite happy.

  The first bloke was looking at him. You’ll do for me, he said.

  What was that?

  I said you’ll do for me.

  Francis nodded. Thanks. As long as you didnt take offence about that comment.

  Och naw, fuck.

  Francis nodded. And thanks for the drink.

  Ye kidding? It’s just a drink.

  Aye well . . .

  The bloke shrugged. That’s how we were wanting to get a few bob, so’s we could get a refill.

  Mm, aye.

  See your watch, we could get no bad for it.

  Frank nodded. There was no chance, no fucking chance. Down by the fence the second bloke was gazing at him and he shifted on his seat immediately so that when he was looking straight ahead he was looking away from the three men. He didnt want to see them at the moment. There was something about them that was frightening. He was rec
ognizing in himself fear. He was scared, he was frightened; it was the three men who were frightening him, something in them together that was making him scared, the sum of the parts, it was an evil force. If he just stared straight ahead. If he stayed calm. He was on a bench in the park and it was 10 a.m. There was a jogger somewhere. All it needed was somebody to touch him perhaps. If that happened he would die. His heart would stop beating. If that happened he would die and revelation. But if he just got up. If he was to just get up off of the bench and start walking slowly and deliberately along in the opposite direction, to from where they had come. That would be fine if he could just do that. But he couldnt, he couldnt do it; his hands gripped his kneecaps, the knuckles pure white. Did he want to die? What had his life been like? Had it been worth living? His boyhood, what like was his boyhood? had that been okay? It hadnt been too bad he hadnt been too bad, he’d just been okay normal, normal, the same as anybody else. He’d just fallen into bad ways. But he wasnt evil. Nobody could call him evil. He was not evil. He was just an ordinary person who was on hard times who was not doing as well as he used to and who would be getting better soon once things picked up, he would be fine again and able to be just the same, he was all right, he was fine, it was just to be staring ahead.

  A History

  When from out of the evening the quiet reached such a pitch I had to unlock the door and wander abroad. At this time the waves ceased pounding the rocks and the wind entered its period of abeyance. Along the shore I travelled very casually indeed, examining this, that and the other, frequently stooping to raise a boulder. That absurd and unrealized dream from childhood, that beneath certain boulders . . .

  I was going south to south east, towards the third promontory. It was where I could take my ease at times such as this. A fine huddle of rocks and stone. There were three little caverns and one larger one, a cave; this cave would presently be dry. It always afforded a good shelter. From it I could gaze out on the sea. I withdrew my articles from my coat pocket, a collection of shells. Even now I retained the habit, as though some among them would prove of value eventually. I leaned close to the entrance of the cave and chipped them out in a handful, not hearing any splash due to the roaring of the waves. Yet there too had been a striped crab shell of a sort I was unfamiliar with, about five inches in diameter. I kept an assortment of items at home to which this crab shell might have proved a fair addition. In all probability, however, the stripes had simply been a result of the sea’s turmoil. Or perhaps it had been wedged in between two rocks for several centuries. I doubted my motives for having thrown it away. But I had no history to consider. None whatsoever. I had that small collection of things and too the cottage itself, its furnishings and fittings, certain obvious domestic objects. But be that as it may not one of these goods was a history of mine. My own history was not in that cottage. If it could be trapped anywhere it would not be there. I felt that the existence of a dead body would alter things. Previous to this I had come upon a dead body so I did have some knowledge. It had been a poor thing, a drowned man of middle age, a seaman or fisherman. I made the trip to the village to convey the information then returned to the cottage to await their arrival. I had carried the body into there and placed it on the floor to safeguard against its being carried back out on the tide. The face was bearded, no boots on the feet though a sock remained on the left foot. A man in the sea with his wits about him, ridding himself of the boots to assist the possibility of survival. He would have had a family and everyday responsibilities whether to them or to his shipmates; that amazing urge to survive which is itself doomed. He would have been dead in twenty minutes, maybe less. If I had been God I would have allowed him to survive for twenty hours.