Not Not While the Giro

by Kelman, James

  Having received the giro on the Friday morning I was normally skint on the Friday evening and Charlie began taking me along to the boozer where he would buy me the same drink as himself. He always seemed glad to make the move back to the house. The following afternoon I tagged along with him to the betting shop and watched the performance. It was dismal.

  Once or twice I had gained a few bob on the Friday afternoon and so could have a go on my own but this was rare; the usual thing was my being skint and watching Charlie. He never won. Whatsoever. Never received one solitary return during the weeks I knew him. He bet in permutations to the precise extent of what lay in his pocket. If he had twenty two quid his bet was a £2 yankee which at eleven bets would amount to the full £22.00. Twenty six quid and he would place a £2 canadian to equal the £26.00. If he had twenty nine quid in his pocket then he would make out the line as a 50 pence heinz amounting to £28.50 and toss in the extra 50 pence on the accumulator bet. It had to be that his pocket contained nothing bar pennies after the day’s business. Anybody happening to observe his bets would say something like: When Charlie knocks it off, he’ll do it in a Big Way.

  In the betting shop the woman behind the counter used to give him a nice smile. Nothing to do with his being a loser because she had no percentage in the take, she was only a counter-hand. The landlady also liked him. He was always punctual for meals, said a good morning, washed before getting to the dining room table. And she delivered him up the largest portions, the choicest cuts, the additional rashers of bacon and the rest of it. If he was aware of this treatment he never acknowledged it that I knew about. All the lorrydrivers had noticed though. They could be seen weighing up the number of spuds they had in comparison to Charlie, but nothing was ever said – even in a joke.

  His failure to get a return on his betting shop outlay was no failure in this sense: he planned it. He bought weekly travel passes and hoarded the dowp-ends of each cigarette he smoked though he didnt give this as a reason for smoking plain cigarettes. I used to mix these dowps in with my own tobacco and roll him a decent smoke because he never managed to learn how to handroll himself a cigarette, and never even bothered to buy one of these cheap rolling devices you can get. He said: I’ve thought about it. Just cant seem to come round to it somehow.

  The way he lost his money depressed me. And yet only in retrospect; there was something about those bets he made – they always seemed to show promise. The majority of his selected runners would be going in televised races but he made a point of leaving the last horse to be in an event scheduled to run later in the afternoon. This was for the sake of his nerves. Imagine having four winners, he said, and having to watch that fifth yin run its race out on the telly. Naw. I couldnt stand that.

  There was no danger of this ever happening. The nearest he ever got was one afternoon when his first runner romped home at 16/1. And before the runners came under orders for the next he was up and downstairs from his room to the lavatory about ten times. When it was eventually revealed to him that his bet had lost as usual he said: Bastard. Fucked again.

  And we settled down to watch television or read books till the following Friday, tapping smokes from the lorrydrivers and the wee woman who helped out in the kitchen, once my tobacco and his dowp-ends had finally run out.

  Considering the amount he was punting I told him it might be best to stick it all down on a single horse – possibly spending the whole of Saturday morning just studying form to pick out one stonewall certainty. That’s a thought, he said. And the following Saturday I spent the whole morning huddled over the Sporting Life to come up with three possibles, any one of which I fancied strongly. He agreed about their chances when he came back from work about midday. Eventually he did choose one. But only to include it in a permutation. The horse ran in the first race, and it finished second, beaten only by the favourite. The thing had definitely been unlucky not to win in my opinion. But Charlie said: See what I mean? That would’ve been me fucked before I’d usually have been starting!

  And no matter that his next four selections all finished well down the field, he reckoned the point had been settled. I never made a similar suggestion. It did depress me though. He knew nothing at all about horse racing and yet week in week out there he was punting to the limit of his pocket. And considering the maintenance money he owed he was also punting to the limit of his wife and three weans’ pockets. He never spoke of this. After the fourth pint one Friday evening I asked him about them. Closed book that, he said, shaking his head.

  About five weeks after his arrival he invited me for a game of snooker instead of crossing the road to the boozer. We went to a place in Oxford Road. And without ever having seen me play, just as he prepared to break the reds, he said: Make it for a pound eh!

  I told him no. As usual I was skint, and apart from anything else was already relying on him for the cost of the table. Doesnt matter, he said. You can pay me next week.

  Charlie broke the balls and I won easily, that game and the rest. He was a very bad player. Five games we played in two hours which meant I had won myself five quid. I told him it was hopeless. I’m too good for you Charlie, I said.

  He shook his head: Not really. I’m just an unlucky bastard. I’ll win it back off you next Friday.

  Next Friday I took him for another fiver; and each successive Friday till he left for Folkestone was the same. He played a mad game. Mighty swipes. No positional play. No potting ability. No nothing. Whenever he sunk a red this red would have cannoned off maybe half a dozen other balls and all of the cushions. It was pathetic. And my own game soon degenerated to his level, although never quite enough to lose. But for the first time in my life I was beginning to consider throwing a game on purpose. I didnt though. It would’ve been too embarrassing. On each break of each new game Charlie was setting out with this real possibility of winning. It was apparent in his approach to the table. When he messed a shot badly – miscued or actually jumped the cueball off the table altogether through the unchannelled force of his shot – I was beginning to find it difficult to keep from laughing. While bending to retrieve the ball from beneath our table, or somebody else’s table, I was having to remain below for a minute to set my face straight. It was becoming too much. Charlie just shrugged. His explanation was: Some fucking luck I’m carrying the night!

  But I think he knew I was concealing the laughter, and I was a bit ashamed of it although there was nothing I could do. Eventually I offered three blacks of a start. Never taken a handicap in my life, he said. When I do that I’ll know it’s time to chuck it.

  Two Saturdays before his departure I landed quite a good turn in the betting shop. I passed him a tenner without saying anything. He promptly lost it on a further permutation. And next Friday he returned me the money. What’s this? I said. That tenner wasnt a loan. I just gave you it.

  But he stuck it into the top pocket of my jacket without a word. Come on for a game, he added. I’m due to beat you for a few quid.

  Two hours later, with the weekly fiver tucked away in my hip pocket, I told him I was guesting him into town for the rest of the night. Maybe go up a casino or something. Not me, he said.

  Fuck sake Charlie you’ve been buying me drink and keeping me going since you got here.

  Doesnt mean I’ve got to go into the town, he said.

  The following day I gave him a tenner after the last race but still he wouldnt go into town so I went in by myself.

  During the coming week I was working out methods of not taking his money. I had finished my tea and was sitting back reading the evening paper when he arrived back from work, a bit earlier than usual. Off to Folkestone the night, he said. The job’s finished here.

  Upstairs he went for a wash and shave. He returned carrying his small suitcase; after eating his meal he bade the cheerios to everybody and stuck his head round the lounge door, he tossed me a ten pound note. I enjoyed playing that snooker, he said. Years since I had a go at it but. A wee bit costly.

  Th
e house of an old woman

  The hedge was tall but so scrawny we could easily see through it. A huge place. Standing in a jungle of weeds and strange looking sunflowers, big ones which bent at the top and hung backwards to the long grass. It seemed deserted. I hesitated a moment before pushing open the rusty gate. It grated on the cement slab underneath. Freddie and Bob followed me along the narrow path and we stopped at the foot of the flight of steps. I went up and banged the door. And again. Eventually the door opened still on the chain. An old woman gaped out at me. I explained.

  Ten pounds a week pay your own lectric! she roared.

  I looked at her. She glared at me: Right then, eight and not a penny less! Well? Do you want it or not!

  Freddie spoke up from below, asking if we could see it first. But she glared at me again as if I had said it. I shrugged. She pointed at my suitcase and squinted: What did you bring that for if you didnt want to take it? She pursed her lips and added: Right then, but just for a minute because my daughter’s coming to get me! She told me they were wanting to take the place – nothing about wanting to see it! Who did the telephone?

  Me.

  Huh! The door shut and shuffling could be heard, and what sounded like a whole assortment of chains being unhooked. Then the door opened fully and she beckoned me in. She about turned and, with her skirts held in either hand, she walked with a stoop halfway along the enormous and empty lobby. Opening another door she indicated we were to follow her. It was the lounge. The wallpaper reminded me of the fence surrounding the patchwork hedge outside. Above the big mantelpiece a picture had been recently taken down leaving a space which displayed the original design and colours of the wallpaper. An immaculate television set squatted on an orange carpet but apart from that the room was empty. Pointing to both the carpet and television she said: Somebody might come to collect these but you can use them meantime. The bathroom’s on the first floor and the big one and the smaller one and above that there’s three other rooms all sizes you can make bedrooms out of and in the attic it’s a great big room and down here you’ve got the kitchen next door and the other room and you cant go into it. There’s the W.C. next to that then the back door leading out to the garden and you should start doing it up. There’s fruit out there! She breathed deeply for a bit then cried: Ten pounds plus lectric. And you’ll have to pay in advance you know because my daughter’ll see that you do.

  Turning abruptly she walked to the door but bounced roundabout as though expecting to catch us sticking our tongues out. Freddie muttered something to do with it being good value for the money.

  Course it’s good value! And just you remember about that garden! She said it all directly to me. Once we had wandered about the place we came back downstairs to find her waiting impatiently in the lobby. She wore a fox round the neck of her black coat and a charcoal hat with a large brooch stuck in its crown. Her trousers were amazing though they were probably pantaloons; they had elastic cords fastened at each cuff which were looped round her sturdy walking shoes, to prevent them riding up her legs maybe. These pantaloons were light brown in colour.

  Has your daughter not arrived yet? I said. But although I had spoken politely she ignored me. We stood there waiting for her to say something. She acted as if we were not there. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Freddie was first to move. He entered the lounge, and Bob followed. I felt obliged to make some sort of gesture. Eventually I said, Fine – that’s fine.

  I moved to the door of the lounge and through, and then the door closed firmly behind me. For some reason I let my arm swing backwards as if I had closed it myself.

  We sat on the carpet and discussed the situation, but quietly, aware of her standing sentry out in the lobby. Later on the outside door opened, then the lounge door. The daughter appeared, a tall woman who dressed plainly and reminded me of a matron. They left after we paid the advance rent money. Freddie cracked a joke and we laughed. I shuffled the cards and dealt three hands of poker to see who was to get first choice of rooms. I won. I decided on the big one up on the first floor and the other two settled on adjoining ones on the second. It had been a good day. Never for one moment had I really expected to get the place at a rent we could afford. Great value. As I unrolled my sleeping bag I noticed the linoleum was cracked in places and not too clean either. It occurred to me that we should buy carpets before anything else.

  Next evening we met in a pub after finishing work. They mentioned they had spent last night in the downstairs lounge. I laughed, but later on, when we were playing cards and drinking cans of beer back in the house, I felt a bit peeved. It was noticed. I passed it off by making some crack about folk being afraid of the dark etc. They laughed with me but insisted it was great having a carpet beneath the sleeping bags. It kept out the cold. They asked if I fancied coming here as well to sleep but I said no. I couldnt be bothered with that. It somehow defeated the purpose of it all, getting a big house and so on. They wanted to carry on with the discussion but I didnt. After a bit we cut for the first bath. I lost. Bob won and when he had gone Freddie said he couldnt be bothered waiting for one and undressed and just got into the sleeping bag. He began exaggerating how cosy it was and soft compared to a dirty cold hard floor, and also how you could chat with company if you couldnt get to sleep.

  Rubbish.

  I played patience till Bob came back by which time I think Freddie was sleeping. Upstairs in the bathroom I smoked a cigarette while waiting for the tub to fill. Once the taps were turned off I was very aware of how silent everything was. I wished I had been first to think about sleeping downstairs on the lounge carpet. It was a good plan, at least till we started buying stuff to furnish the place. Yet I couldnt really join them now. It had gone a bit far. And it was daft saying that about being scared of the dark. I had meant it as a joke of course and they had taken it the right way. But why had they not come in and got me last night? They said I had been sleeping when they came downstairs but never even looked inside to check, just said they had listened at the door and said my breathing was so regular I couldnt be awake. And the light was off! As if I could somehow wait till I was asleep before switching it out!

  I must admit I didnt fancy the idea of sleeping alone the sole occupant of two floors and an attic in a run-down house owned by an old eccentric. But she was not crazy. She had acted the way she had. But old women are notorious. Old people in general – they do odd things.

  The bathwater had cooled. No hot left in the tank. Bob must have used more than his fair share. In fact the bathwater was actually getting quite cold. There was a draught coming in under the door which was causing the sleeves of my jumper to sway where it hung on the back of the tall stool. Then the creak! It was terrible hearing it. My body tensed completely. The big cupboard in the corner it came from, and its door moved ajar slightly, and in the shadows I could make out what appeared to be a big coat. It was. I half raised myself up from the bath but I couldnt see it fully. And there couldnt be anyone inside. Otherwise they would have come out. Getting up from the bath I stepped over the side, gathering my clothes without looking in its direction, making my way to the door out. Before opening it I had to relax myself. I stared at my right hand, getting it to stop trembling. I raised it to grip the door handle but did not touch it. My breaths rasped through my teeth. Then I managed to close my fist on the handle but my shoulders had stiffened and I tried to halt my breathing an instant. I could hear nothing but my breaths. I tugged on the handle then the catch released with a sharp click and throwing the door open I dashed forward, cracking my knee against the jamb. I dropped a shoe but didnt stop. I bolted across the corridor and into my room crashing the door shut behind me.

  I had suggested clubbing together to buy the largest secondhand carpets we could find, the cost to be borne individually or divided equally, or whatever else they suggested. But no. Objections raised by both. They preferred earlier ideas about buying furniture for each room as each person thought fit. And anyway, they said, they would need at least
another fortnight before starting to think about buying anything. To help save I suggested eating in and watching more television but they hummed and they hawed and I could tell they werent too interested. At this point I resolved to bring down the sleeping bag but I could not openly declare it. I hinted the room was freezing cold, it was too big, draughts came in beneath the door and through the patched-up window joints. Neither bothered to comment. One evening I happened to ask whether they still felt the place was good value. Bob grunted something or other and Freddie gave an ‘of course’ – but in such a way I was made to feel as if I had asked something stupid. Upstairs I went without saying anything further. That same quiet pervading the place. Bob was going for a bath. Now and then the loud crash of the tap being turned on startled me and again startled me when turned off. And these gurgling noises as the water filled the cold-tank.

  The sleeping bag was fine, snug enough. Yet if something were to happen my legs would obviously have been restricted. I turned onto my side a lot, a position I could maintain for short periods only because my shoulders ached on the floor, while when lying on my front I would soon become aware of my knees jarring on it. Carpets were definitely essential. A bed would have been even better. And yet I appeared to be the only one interested in buying anything. The draught beneath the door turned an empty cigarette packet halfway about. I was weary. It was not easy to sleep, every bit of me felt exhausted, and the thoughts flying about my brain. And yet things had definitely changed since we had come, there was a coolness being directed against me – in the pub, the bus going to work.