Not Not While the Giro Read online

  NOT NOT WHILE THE GIRO

  Also by James Kelman in Polygon

  The Busconductor Hines

  A Chancer

  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 1983 by Polygon Books.

  This edition published in 2007 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd

  Copyright © James Kelman, 1983

  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: 978-1-84697-038-5

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-147-7

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

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

  for Marie

  Contents

  He knew him well

  An old pub near the Angel

  Ten guitars

  Nice to be nice

  The bevel

  Charlie

  The house of an old woman

  Away in Airdrie

  The chief thing about this game

  Remember Young Cecil

  The habits of rats

  The block

  Jim dandy

  Acid

  The Melveille Twins, page 82

  Zuzzed

  A wide runner

  No longer the warehouseman

  Keep moving and no questions

  Double or clear plus a tenner

  A notebook to do with America

  The hitchhiker

  Wee horrors

  le jouer

  Roofsliding

  not not while the giro

  He knew him well

  The old man lowered the glass from his lips and began rolling another cigarette. His eyes never strayed until finally he lit up, inhaling deeply. He stared at me for perhaps thirty seconds then cleared his throat and began speaking. ‘Funny places – pubs. Drank in here for near enough twenty years.’ He paused, shaking his head slowly. ‘Never did get to know him. No. Never really spoke to him apart from Evening Dennis, Night Dennis. Been in the navy. Yeh, been in the navy alright. Torpedoed I hear. 1944.’ He paused again to relight the dead cigarette. ‘One of the only survivors too. Never said much about it. Don’t blame him though.’ He looked up quickly then peered round the pub. ‘No, don’t blame him. Talk too much in this place already they do. Never bloody stop, it’s no good.’ He finished the remainder of his drink and looked over to the bar, catching the barman’s eye who nodded, opened a Guinness and sent it across.

  ‘Slate,’ said the old guy, ‘pay him pension day.’ He smiled, ‘Not supposed to drink this, says it’s bad for me gut – the doctor.’

  ‘Yeh?’

  ‘Oh yeh.’ He nodded. ‘Yeh, said it would kill me if I weren’t careful.’ He was looking at me over the tops of his spectacles. ‘Seventy two I am, know that? Kill me! Ha! Bloody idiot.’

  ‘Did you like old Dennis though?’ I asked.

  ‘Well never really knew him did I? I would’ve though. Yeh, I would’ve liked old Dennis if we’d spoke. But we never talked much, him and me. Not really.’ He paused for a sip of the beer, continued, ‘Knew his brother of course – a couple of years older than Dennis I think. And a real villain he was. Had a nice wife. I used to work the racetracks then and sometimes met him down there.’ The old man stopped again, carefully extracting the long dead roll-up from between his lips and putting it into his waistcoat pocket. He took out his tobacco pouch and rolled another. ‘Yeh, Dennis’ brother.’ He lit the cigarette. ‘He was a villain. He used to tell me a few things. Yeh, he made a living alright. Never came in here except to see old Dennis.’

  ‘How did they get on together, okay?’

  ‘What was that? Well . . .’ He scratched his head. ‘Don’t really know. Didn’t speak much to each other – some brothers don’t you know.’ He was looking over the glasses at me. ‘No, they’d usually just sit drinking, sometimes laughing. Not speaking though. Not much anyhow, probably said everything I suppose. Course, maybe old Dennis would ask after his wife and kids or something like that.’

  ‘Was he never married himself then?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t rightly know. Guvnor’d tell you.’

  ‘Who, him?’ I pointed at the barman.

  ‘What. Him! Ha.’ The old guy snorted into his drink. ‘Guvnor! He would like that. Bloody guvnor. No, his brother-in-law, Jackie Moore, he’s the guvnor. But he’s been laid up now for nearly a year. Broke his leg and it’s never healed proper, not proper. Him!’ He gestured at the barman. ‘Slag thinks he’ll get this place if Jackie has to pack it in . . .’ The old guy’s voice was beginning to rise in his excitement. ‘No chance, no bleeding chance. Even his sister hates his guts.’

  He was speaking too loudly now and I glanced across to see if the barman was loitering, but he seemed engrossed in wiping the counter. The old guy noticed my concern and he leaned over the table. ‘Don’t pay no attention,’ He spoke quietly. ‘He hears me alright. Won’t let on though. Bloody ponce. What was I saying though – old Dennis, yeh, he could drink. Scotch he liked, drank it all the time. Don’t care much for it myself. A drop of rum now and then, yeh, that does me.’ He paused to puff on the cigarette, but had to relight it eventually. ‘Used to play football you know, old Dennis. Palace I think or maybe the Orient. Course he was getting on a bit when the war went on. Just about ready to pack it in. And he never went back after.’

  ‘Cause of his arm?’

  ‘Yeh, the torpedo.’ The old man was silent for several moments, puffing on the roll-up between sips at the black rum I’d got him. ‘Funny he should’ve waited so long to do it. Nearly as bleeding old as me he was! Course, maybe the arm had something to do with it. Maybe not.’ He scratched his head. ‘Talk in this place they do. Wouldn’t if Jackie was here. No, not bloody likely they wouldn’t.’ He sucked on his teeth. ‘No, not if Jackie was here behind the bar.’ He inhaled very deeply before looking at me over the glasses. ‘Where d’you find him then . . . I mean what like was he when.’ He stopped and swallowed the last of the rum.

  ‘Well, just like it said in the paper. I was a bit worried cause I hadn’t seen him for a couple of days so I went up the stair and banged his door. No answer, so off I went to the library to see if I could see him there.’

  ‘The library?’

  ‘Yeh, he used to go up before opening time, nearly every day.’

  ‘Yeh, expect he would,’ said the old man, ‘now I think on it.’

  ‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘I got home about half five and saw the landlord’s daughter. She was worried so I said did she want me to force open the door or what, before her dad came back – should I wait maybe. She said to do what I thought so I went ahead and broke it in, and he was lying there, on the bed. The wrist sliced open.’

  ‘Yeh . . .’ The old guy nodded after a moment, then added, ‘And the eating, it said in the paper . . .’

  ‘That’s right. The doctor, he said old Dennis couldn’t have been eating for nearly a week beforehand.’

  ‘Bloody fool,’ he sighed. ‘He should’ve ate. That’s one thing you should do is eat. I take something every day, yeh, make sure of that. You got to. A drop of soup’s good you know.’

  I ordered two more drinks just on the first bell, we stayed silent, smoking then drinking,
until I finished and rose and said, ‘Well, I’m off. See you again.’

  ‘Yeh,’ he muttered, staring into his glass. He shook his head, ‘Old Dennis should’ve ate eh!’

  An old pub near the Angel

  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 either. Impossibility. People notice smells though 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. 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 from their staff canteen. Where’s your uniform? Are you a washer-up? These people depress me. What’s the difference, one meal more or less. You’d think they were paying for the actual grub themselves. Old Ahmed though – what can I say – after the bollicking he gives me for not even trying to get a job and some bread together, who expects him to come back half an hour later saying, ‘Okay you Scotch dosser, come and eat.’ No, nothing to be said apart from, ‘Fancy a pint first Ahmed?’ 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 he didn’t mind at all as he normally received six and a half quid for his trouble, later on, from the N.A.B.

  Yes, spring is definitely around the corner man. Look at that brief-case with the sports’ jacket and cavalry twills. 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, yes, all going about their business. It pleases me.

  Can’t say I’m in the mood for long waits though. 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’s going to 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. Everytime 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 to take up position in the queue under D.

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

  Charles stepped out the queue and tapped the culprit on the shoulder. ‘Hey Mick that’s a hell of a smell to make in a public place you know.’

  ‘Ah bejasus,’ he sighed, ‘it’s that bloody Guinness Jock. Sure I can’t help it at all.’

  ‘Terrible stuff for the guts right enough.’

  ‘Ah but it’s better than that English water they sell here. Bitter!’ He shook his head, ‘It’s a penance to drink it altogether.’

  ‘Aye. You been waiting long?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He shook his head again and spat on the floor, wiping it dry beneath his boot. ‘Want a smoke?’

  ‘You kidding?’

  ‘What you going on about. Here.’ He took out a packet of Woodies and passed it to Charles. ‘Take a couple Jock – I’ve plenty there and I’ll be getting a few bob this morning.’

  Charles accepted, sticking one behind his ear. He said, ‘You been over long?’

  ‘Ah too long Jock, too long.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Still skint.’ He struck a match off the floor and they lighted the cigarettes. ‘Aye, if I’d been buying that Guinness in shares instead of pints I’d be worth a fortune and that’s a fact – the hell with it.’

  ‘Heh, you’re next Mick.’

  The Irishman went to the counter and received the signing-on card from the young girl clerk. He signed and was handed his pay slip then he walked over to the cashier where he was soon receiving the money, and he vanished. Charles followed the man who was next in line and was astonished to receive a pay slip. Normally he got a B1 form for the N.A.B. He asked the girl whether he would still be getting it. She smiled, ‘Not this week anyway Mr Donald.’

  Charles strode to the money counter and stole a quick look at the pay slip. Good God! He looked again. He studied it. ‘God love us,’ he said loudly.

  £23.82. Jesus. Oh you good thing. Nearly twenty four quid. Man man that must be near eighteen back pay! What can one say God? Mere words are useless.

  He passed the slip under the grill to the older woman with the fancy spectacles. Once he had signed at the right place she counted and passed him the bundle of notes and coins.

  ‘My sincere thanks madam,’ he said.

  The cashier smiled, ‘That makes a change.’

  ‘You have a wonderful smile,’ continued Charles folding the wad. ‘I shall certainly call back here again. Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning.’ The cashier watched him back off towards the exit.

  He closed the door. Yes, maybe chances there if I followed it through. A bit old right enough. Maybe she just pities me. With that smile she gave me! Impossible.

  He walked up Pentonville Road and decided to go for a pint rather than a breakfast. Half past eleven. Not too early.

  ‘Pint of bitter and eh – give me . . .’ Charles stared at the miserable gantry, ‘just give me one of your good whiskies eh!’

  The ancient bartender peered at him for a moment then bent down behind the bar to produce a dusty bottle of Dimple Haig. ‘How’s this eh?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Charles, ‘that’s fine. How much is it?’

  ‘Seven bob,’ muttered the bartender rubbing his ear thoughtfully.

  ‘Well give me twenty Players as well and that’s that.’

  The bartender passed over the cigarettes and grabbed the pound note, mumbling to himself. Very friendly old bastard. Must hate Scotsmen or something. He brought back the change and moved around the counter tidying up. ‘Hoy!’ called Charles after a time. ‘Any grub?’

  ‘What’s that?’ cried the bartender, left hand at his ear.

  ‘Food, have you any food?’

  ‘What d’you want, eh?’

  ‘Depends. What’ve you got?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ He thought for a moment, ‘Potato crisps?’

  ‘No chance,’ said Charles. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Shepherd’s pie? The missus makes it,’ he added with a strange smile.

  Wonder why he’s smiling like that. Poisoned or something?

  ‘Homemade eh . . .’ Charles nodded, ‘Aye, I’ll have some of that.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now for heaven sake.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Okay okay, just take a seat a minute, I’ll go and tell her eh?’ He shuffled away. As he passed through the door in the partition he glanced back at Charles who gave him a wave.

  Kind of quiet place this. Wonder when it gets busy. Strange I’m the only customer at nearly twelve o’clock on a Thursday morning. The ancient bartender returned and cried, ‘Bout ten fifteen minutes eh?’ Charles nodded. The other resumed wiping some glasses.

  Man man who would’ve thought of me getting paid back money like that. Brilliant. Let me see, 11.50 a.m. By rights I should still be si
tting in the second interview queue at the N.A.B. The fat woman’s kids’ll be rolling on the floor and she’ll be reading the Evening Standard dog-section. Yes, I’ll be missed. They’ll think I’ve gone to Scotland. Or maybe been lifted by the busies. No, won’t have to go back there for a while. Thank Christ for that.

  A huge woman appeared from behind the partition holding a great plateful of steaming shepherd’s pie. ‘One shepherd’s pie!’ she shouted. Her chins trembled and her breasts rested on her knees as she bent to plonk it down in the centre of Charles’ table.

  ‘This looks wonderful,’ he said, sniffing at it. He smiled up at her. ‘Madam, you’ve excelled yourself. How much do you ask for this delicious fare?’

  ‘14 p.’ She pointed to her husband. ‘He’ll give you the condiments. Just shout, he’s deaf occasionally.’

  ‘Many thanks,’ replied Charles, placing thirty pence on her tray. ‘Please have a drink on me.’

  ‘Ta son,’ she said and toddled back through to the kitchen.

  Charles ate rapidly. He thoroughly enjoyed the meal. ‘Hoy!’ he called, ‘Hoy!’

  The bartender was standing, elbows propped on the counter, staring up at the blank television screen. ‘Hoy!’ shouted Charles getting out of his seat. He walked to the bar.

  ‘Yeh yeh, yeh! What’s up eh?’

  ‘Another pint of bitter. And have one yourself.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Jesus what’s up here at all. Listen man get me a pint of bitter please and have one with me, eh! How’s that. Eh?’

  ‘Fine son, I’ll have a half. Nice weather eh . . .’ The ancient fellow was showing distinct signs of energy while pulling the beer taps. ‘Pity about the Fulham though eh! Yeh, they’ll be back, they’ll be back.’ He took a lengthy swig at his half pint, eyes closed, a slow stream trickling down his partly shaven chin and winding its way round the Adam’s Apple on down beneath his frayed shirt collar. ‘Yeh,’ he said, ‘Poor old Chelsea.’ And he finished the rest of the drink.

  ‘What about the old Jags though eh? I mean that’s even worse than the Fulham surely!’