by James Kelman
The tea was lukewarm; he gulped it down and replaced the cup on top of the television, then stretched out beneath the blankets. Sandra came in from the lobby dressed in her going-to-the-office clothes. She smiled: I thought you’d gone back to sleep.
Naw.
When she noticed him still watching her she said, I’m meeting mum in town remember – to do a bit of shopping. Christmas, she mouthed.
O aye, aye.
Mind and give him something to eat.
Hines nodded, and got out of bed.
I dont mean just now Rab – before he goes to the nursery. She smiled. Stay in bed if you like . . . I better hurry or I’ll be late.
He continued dressing, went to the tallboy for a fresh pair of socks and a T-shirt. Then Paul kicked open the door, carrying an armful of toys and stuff. Hines looked at him and made to say something but he shrieked and jerked his shoulders back the way. Sandra: she had come behind him and put her arms round him. Jesus christ.
O Rab I didnt mean it!
The fucking buttons Sandra, freezing.
She grinned.
He shook his head. He laughed, and drew her into him, held her closely. Trying to kill me woman. Heart attacks etcetera – at least wait till I get myself insured!
She chuckled. I better go . . . She hurried to Paul and kissed him on the head.
These feminist career women! no time to kiss their weans properly! Dont worry wee man, just call me mummy from now on.
Paul grinned. Hines winked at him.
Conspiracies as usual, muttered Sandra with a smile.
Aye well we’ve got to stick the gether, said Hines, following her into the lobby; he gripped her shoulders for the last couple of steps; and at the door he kissed her again – until Paul tugged at his trousers. Jealous wee . . . He stepped back to lift him up.
The front door was open and Sandra on the outside landing. Watch out for these bastarn salesmen, he cried.
Ssh Rab.
Mummy, shouted Paul. Kiss!
O God. She returned quickly. Hines was laughing; he also kissed her. Away and put your socks on, she said, you’ll catch pneumonia.
Aye aye sir.
Paul was down onto the floor and off and running ben the front room before Hines had locked the door. He went to join him, by the window, seeing her appear on the pavement, and crossing the street, going to the corner where she paused to turn, and wave.
The water was on to boil for coffee. But when he opened the tin he saw it to contain only enough for two cigarettes; he rolled a thin one. He studied it. He stuck it behind his ear and shut his eyelids. One should have fucking guessed. No, naw son, naw it’s okay, definitely not, no need to panic I mean your auld man’s just going to jump out the fucking window but everything’s fine, honest I mean . . . He leapt out the chair and strode to the tallboy then to the kitchen-cabinet and to the draining board at the sink, the mantelpiece and the top of the television set and to the front room and the places where money may be found, then to the wardrobe in the lobby, the pockets of the clothes inside there.
Back in the kitchen Paul glanced at him when he tugged open the top drawer in the tallboy again.
There’s no smokes son and there’s no fucking money to buy them. What am I supposed to do? Did your mummy tell you that! Eh?
Paul raised his left arm.
A smoke, I’ll be needing a smoke, and there’s no fucking cashbag. No good telling me to shut up. What in the name of christ am I going to do? The neighbours – nah, not at all, no chance wee man no chance. The fucking Pawn! Brilliant – christ sake, mature boy for 4 right enough! Well done the wee Paul fellow. Here, get your coat.
Hines had sat down already and was knotting his bootlaces. But Paul was still kneeling amongst his stuff on the floor. He took the cigarette from behind his ear and lighted it, he collected his uniform jacket. Paul!
The boy jumped up and raced ben the front room, Hines right behind him: When I tell you to do something you do it – eh? you listening? Right?
Paul didnt answer, his face red.
Okay?
He nodded, avoiding Hines while getting his coat from the settee. Hines fixed the buttons for him then got the suit from the wardrobe.
Going downstairs he had the boy on his shoulders and was jumping the steps 2 and occasionally 3 at a time. And they were both laughing when they reached the close. On the pavement he lowered him to the ground and took him by the hand across the street. Round the corner and along and Paul kept pausing and rubbing at his ears. Hines told him to stop it, but he began doing it again. I told you to stop that!
Paul stared at the pavement.
After a few strides Hines stopped. Okay; what’s up?
They’re sore daddy.
What d’you mean sore? d’you mean cold?
Paul didnt reply.
Ah christ, up in the Arctic they’d be falling off. Frostbite, so cold it makes things like ears fall off. And your toes if you’re no wearing plenty of socks.
Clearing his throat he spat a mouthful of catarrh into the gutter. The Eskimos son, they wear a lot of fur and that to keep the cold out. Wrap it about their ears and toes. See if they didnt, that’d be them, finished. They have to go about the whole year wearing them as well because of that fucking weather they’ve been landed with. They eat whales and stuff. Use up every bit of the bodies – oil out the skins; and this oil they make into various items, fuel and that. Short people with stumpy legs though maybe it’s the furs makes them look so fucking stumpy I dont know. If they unwrapped all their clothes and that they might be skinny underneath. Skinny by christ. Aye but that’s it about the ears son I’m no kidding you, they have to wear stacks and stacks of clothes. Never catch a cold either. I mean imagine somebody from this bloody dump going up to where they live son, they’d be dead in a matter of moments – pneumonia or some fucking thing. Unless they started doing the same as the locals. And vice versa down here I mean they’d probably wind up catching a disease. Really desperate. Poor auld fucking Eskimos son it makes you sick so it does.
¾lb beef links, 1lb of potatoes, 2 onions medium sized and 1 tin beans baked. And that’s you with the sausage, chips and beans plus the juicy onions – and they’re good for your blood whether you like it or no. This big pot with this grill type container is for the chips, it lets them drip so the fat goes back into the pot. Simple economics. And even if your mummy’s sick to death of chips, what should be said is this: she isnt the fucking cook the day so enough said, let her go to a bastarn café. 2 nights on the trot is okay as long as it’s not regularly the case. Fine: the items should get dished no more than 4 times per week but attempt to space it so that 1 day can pass without. 7 days in a week. What is that by christ is there an extra day floating about somewhere? Best to ignore fixed things like weeks and months and the rest of it. That’s the time thing they set you up. Just think of the days. The minimum to cover all of the things i.e. breakfast, dinner, tea. Right: chips number 1 day, 3 day, 5 day, 7 day; missing 0 day, 2 day, 4 day and 6 day. Alright, 8 times a fortnight. But 7 every 14 days. So there you are you can maybe get left having them twice on the trot but being a chip lover you just ignore it. Let’s go then: right; Monday is fish day – rubbish. Monday is mince and potatoes. Simple, get your pot. Item: 1 pot. Item: ¾lb mince. Item: 2 onions medium sized, then a ½lb carrots, a tin of peas and also a no – not at all, dont use a frying pan to brown the mince; what you do is fry it lightly in the same pot you’re doing the actual cooking in. Saves a utensil for the cleaning up carry on. So: stick mince into pot with drop cooking oil, lard or whatever the fuck – margarine maybe. Have onions peeled and chopped. Break up mince with wooden spoon. Put pot on at slow heat that it doesnt sizzle too much. While breaking up mince all the time in order that it may not become too fucking lumpy. Toss in onions. The pepper and salt to have been sprinkled while doing the breaking up. Next: have your water boiled. Pour a ½ pint measure in which you’ve already dumped gravy cube viz crumbled into the smallest bi
ts possible. Stir. When mince brownish add mixture. Stir. Place lid on pot. Having already brought to boil. Then get simmering i.e. once boiling you turn gas so’s it just bubbles and no more. Pardon. Once you’ve got ½ pint gravy water poured in you’ll probably need extra. Lid on. Handle turned to inside lest accidents to person. Then sit on arse for following hour apart from occasional checks and stirring. 30 minutes before completion you get the spuds peeled and cut into appropriate sections and fill the other pot with boiling water, having already dumped said spuds into pot while empty for fuck sake otherwise you’ll splash yourself. Stick on at hot heat. Sit on arse for 15 to 20 minutes. Open tin peas of course. The bastarn fucking carrots. At the frying mince and onion stage you’ve got them peeled and chopped and you add to same. The peas get placed in wee saucepan and can cook in matter of moments. When time’s up you’ve got mince, potatoes and peas set to serve from trio of pots.
He stared across the street between the curtains, watching the frost glint on the roof guttering of the tenement. On his way back he paused by the cot. Paul’s feet poked out from the blankets. He tucked them under.
Once in bed he lay on his front, on his elbows, the side of his head resting on his knuckles. A slight sigh from Sandra and she moved, her leg touched his. He shifted to kiss her on the tip of the nose. A smile on her face. Her eyelids flickering: What time is it?
Eh, about half two I think . . . He watched her for a spell; she hadnt replied. She was genuinely asleep – as though nothing could disturb her.
After a while he turned onto his back, gazed sideways, to the long line of light on the wall, it entered the space between blind and window-frame. He grinned.
Honest, he was saying, I just walked in the door and bang, 63 duty – a 2-hour dinner-break. Best shift I’ve had in years!
She looked at him for a moment, then laughed and kissed him.
Heh – anything in the pot?
O God, just some soup. I could make a quick omelette?
Naw, the soup’s fine . . . He followed her into the kitchen. Where’s the wee man?
Bed; I put him down half an hour ago.
He’ll be asleep then eh?
If he’s not he should be.
While she went to the oven he took off his uniform jacket and with a loud sigh he lifted the Evening Times from her chair and flopped down onto his own. Then he got up and got his tobacco tin and matches from the jacket, put them on the floor beside the chair. Jesus, he said, this is wonderful.
Sandra laughed. She was opening the cabinet and getting two slices of bread. I was thinking, she said, just before you came in Rab, you know that wallpaper in the front room?
Aw naw.
I knew I shouldnt’ve said anything.
Too late! He glanced at her and grinned: Only kidding.
No, I was just thinking
Hang on, before you go any further: if we take down the stuff that’s up the fucking building’ll collapse!
I thought that was what we wanted!
Another thing: with our fucking luck we’d probably get word of a new house as soon as we’d stuck up the last roll!
She was looking at him.
Naw, on you go.
After a moment she said: Actually I’d be happy to do it myself – these nights you’re away on backshift.
Like tonight for instance, aye.
She smiled. To tell you the truth Rab I’m sick to death of seeing that design. I think it’d be worth doing – even if we were only here another six months.
Ah we’ll be long gone by then.
Will we?
Course.
You never know though. Even just painting it. Anything to cover it up; it’s awful. I’m surprised Paul doesnt get nightmares just from seeing it. Can you imagine having to lie there night after night!
Hines nodded.
And it isnt as if it would cost much . . . The soup had reheated. She switched off the gas, ladled the soup into a bowl and quickly spread margarine on the bread. In fact a 2½ litre tin might do it all.
I’ll get you one for Christmas.
O thanks!
He grinned, taking the food from her, and he began to eat. Back at the oven she got the kettle; then she laughed suddenly. Rab – God – mind I was telling you about Doreen the cleaner the other day? the one with the three grandchildren? what a scream she is. This afternoon at tea-break – you know how Mr Buchanan’s away down in London just now – o God. Sandra laughed. Jean had sent her out for cream doughnuts, for herself and me and Mrs Monaghan . . .
And Sandra continued with this tale about the cleaner coming back from the baker with the 4 cakes and going on about this the cakes, her coming back with the cakes and not the cream doughnuts it was, she was continuing on about this, the Cleaner Being Sent For The Cream Doughnuts And Not The Cakes while Mr the erstwhile fucking Buchanan was off down in London on a Brief Business Trip very strictly speaking in all probability not playing about at all, no, just being forced into it of course, he would much rather be staying at home in the nice Suburbs having by no means any notion of gallivanting about the place, yes, 1 thing about auld Bufuckingcanan, he’s the salt of the bastarn Earth. I dont know what it is with you Sandra I really dont I mean . . . He shook his head. He had glanced away from her. And he placed the soup and the bread up on the mantelpiece. Then he turned: I mean something definitely stinks about sending a woman like Doreen out for cream doughnuts. A grandmother for christ sake. Out for cream fucking doughnuts; Jesus christ almighty! He flung the Evening Times from his lap and grabbed the tobacco, getting the lid off the tin, seeing the fingers twitch, the fingers twitching away, in their grasp at the lid, of the tin.
DANGER: HM Govt. Health Depts’ WARNING
THE MORE YOU SMOKE
THE MORE YOU RISK YOUR HEALTH.
The door closed. The door had been closing. And its bang. He pressed a forefinger against a nostril of his nose and blew through the other. There is a gas-fire such that 3 sections exist, each containing 24 toty rectangles behind which lurk several 100 pointed particles of an unknown nature but that they glow whitely when at hot heat; this gas-fire can be leaking mysteriously. The occasional whiff 1st thing in the morning. It is the gas. The inhalation of such fumes doth annihilate the white corpuscles of one’s bloodstream. Hence the cause of death. In you come night after night and slump into your chair – a chair you have been positioning as close to the feedpipe as is surreptitiously possible – and so on till the loss of the white fills your being with total red unto black. Get yourself insured and that’s you the bona fide articles for the etceteras, the wife and 38 weans being provided for. All you need is a short note: Dear Sandra, As I’ve often told you in the past, most people either know they’ve got to die and wont believe it or believe they’ve got to die and know they wont, but what I want to say is this – 1 thing and 1 thing only, and you can give us an aye or give us a naw – re. you and the boy, the wee Paul fellow, you and him, aye, just the pair of you, I want to talk to yous a minute, you and him, no other cunt, nobody, nobody else, none, forget the lot of them cause it’s just the pair of you, no other cunt at all, they dont matter the bastards, the dirty fucking bastards, not
a no chance, not an iota the bastards
Sandra was standing at the door. Listen, she had said. She was still wearing the pale-coloured blouse, the tan-coloured skirt, the top three buttons of the blouse being undone still. Standing with her arms folded beneath her breasts and the nipples firm against the material there. She was saying how Hines didnt have the right to say what he had said, that he hadnt the right, that he was treating her like somebody that, somebody that. She was not able to make contact in this part of it, not able to say just how she saw herself being treated by him but that this treatment she regarded as totally wrong, as really unjustified. A crucial factor: the cleaner has always finished a certain part of her work in time for tea-break so she can join in the chat with the office-staff, that she likes a cake the same as the next person, that it’s neve
r a question of her being sent but that she offers and is usually doing nothing till commencing the next part of her work, that . . . Doreen.
Hines looked away. He stared at the soup and began rolling a cigarette.
He looked at her and shook his head, closed his eyelids; he opened them and replaced the cigarette makings in the tin and shut it. O fuck . . . he rubbed at his eyes and gazed at the fire.
Rab. She had come across, parting his knees and resting her knees on the edge of his chair. She gripped his shoulders, forcing him to meet her gaze.
He laughed; it was derisive and become a low snorting sound. She made him continue facing her. Then she gave him a shake! Jesus. He shook his head. Sorry.
Shut up. She hated him saying that. She leaned to whisper into his ear and he embraced her quite roughly, his face averted; and he sat forwards so her position would be more easy to maintain but it wasnt, and she fell on him and he went against the back of the chair. Both laughed, and she pretended to nibble the lobe of his ear till he shook her off from it. I wonder why you dont like me doing that? she chuckled.
Too tickly.
Liar.
What d’you mean! He kissed her again, attempting to make it last a while but not able to do so because of a shortage of breath, being unable to breathe properly, and having to stop and try to breathe more regularly before continuing. He tugged the blouse out from the waistband of her skirt, and got the catch unclipped at the back of her bra. Hang on . . . and she got off the chair, arms snug to the sides of her body, stepping to the sink to draw the blind.
These helicopters, everywhere.
She smiled; saucily, it was a saucy smile she was giving him; it was really great to look at. He grinned at her noticing his watching her. She was balancing herself – the right hand on the arm of the chair – to take off her tights – at the last stage of that manoeuvre. She was sticking her tongue out at him; and a smile – but not directly to him – while turning to get into bed. There she shivered. A mime. Come on, she shivered, while getting the blankets to her chin.